Control
Tap the screen to begin!
c
The engine’s growl vibrates through the track as Racegirl Elena adjusts her gloves, eyes locked on the horizon. Her outfit is a collision of speed and style—a sleek, armored bodysuit in matte crimson, accented by carbon-fiber panels that catch the light like shattered glass. Neon-yellow racing stripes slash diagonally from shoulder to hip, mirroring the jagged lightning bolts painted across her helmet. Fingerless gloves reveal chipped nail polish, gunmetal-gray, and her boots—ankle-high, reinforced with steel toes—gleam under the pit-lane fluorescents. She fastens a choker lined with tiny, engraved gears, a gift from her crew, then snaps her visor down. Every detail hums with precision: the diamond-pattern stitching on her harness, the retroreflective patches on her sleeves, the way her hair—dyed electric blue—fans out beneath the helmet like a comet’s tail. This isn’t just a uniform. It’s armor. A statement. Elena doesn’t race to blend in.
