The roar of the engine sounded particularly abrupt on the silent marble driveway at the hotel entrance, like some sort of wild provocation against civilization. The moment Manqing sister straddled the back seat, I could distinctly feel the suspension of the car sinking a few centimeters. The silk fabric of her royal blue floor-length dress was tightly stretched, outlining the curves of her sixty-year-old yet still voluptuous, mature physique. Through the visor of my full-face helmet, I looked at the rearview mirror, where she was awkwardly adjusting her skirt, her delicate silver oval glasses sparkling coolly in the sunlight, creating a stark contrast with her slightly flustered movements at that moment.
“Hold on tight, sister. The wind in Taichung isn’t as gentle as the hotel’s air conditioning,” I lowly reminded her, and then suddenly slammed the gear shift down, flooring the accelerator as the car burst forward like a startled cheetah, propelled by a powerful inertia.