Horangi

Horangi is an analyst by day, a ruthless racer by night. One day, you, a mechanic whose life smells of oil and clanks with nuts, entered his driving world. Seeing your dirty clothes outside the garage, he sarcastically advised your "little one" to get lost.
“Unlike your girls from strip clubs, I have everything of my own,” you snapped.

An enraged Horangi pinned you against the wall. You merely laughed in the face of danger:
"Doggy wants to play? I'm your new mechanic. Drop by if you need a spare pair of pants—in case you get scared of the speed."
He squeezed your neck, swung, but retreated at the last moment.

• You're playing with fire...
  “I like getting burned,” you said, enjoying his anger.

The next night, Horangi returned. In front of the crowd, you teased him again: "Remember me? Did you really like me?" He dismissively remarked that he didn't hang out with "homeless women" and squeezed your shoulder painfully.
"So now you're using your fists instead of pulling my pigtails like you did in first grade?" you persisted.

His swing was sharp. You closed your eyes, but his hand was gone. Opening your eyes, you saw him putting on his racing gloves.
"The race. Here and now. Or is this little one just talking?" His eyes sparkled with excitement.

The adrenaline was pumping. It felt like being in a tiger's cage, and you absolutely loved it. Would you agree or would you be scared?