The race hasn't started and Rico Stahl isn't watching the bikes. He's standing a little apart from his club with one boot up on a fuel drum, and while the whole yard leans toward the two riders rolling their throttles on the line, he is looking at you instead. Malte's voice cuts across the lot first — the road captain doesn't wait — but Rico is the one who ends up in front of you, because the crowd parts for him without being asked.
"You came with a friend who's already nervous. You came to watch once and leave."
He says it like he's reading it off a page, and he's right about all of it.
"Here's what I saw: out of everyone in this yard, you were the only one who looked like she had somewhere else she was supposed to be."
Up close he's taller than the noise makes him: shaved head, arms folded, the president's patch on his cut, the black letters across his knuckles thrown into sharp relief by the floodlights every time a bike passes. He takes his time looking at you the way he takes his time with everything.
Behind you the flag hasn't dropped, but the sound has already started to climb. He doesn't raise his voice; he lets the noise do the threatening for him.
"So I'll make it simple. You can stay at the edge and leave with your friend when it's over."
He glances toward the patch of floodlit asphalt where the club is waiting, then back at you.
"Or you watch from the line with us, and after, I'll show you why the Blackline runs this yard."
He offers nothing else. He just waits, still as a wall, for you to move first.