Page 139 of Blood & Throttle
Alone.
But he doesn’t need backup now. Not when he’s riding a Syndicate-built monster, modded to hell with tech none of us have ever seen. The frame is sleek, black, reinforced withcarbon-fused plating that hums low like it's breathing. The tires pulse faintly with blue-white light, some kind of heat-reactive polymer. The rear forks are lined with shock sensors. And the front?
The front is armed.
Not just for defense—this bike’s built to kill.
His leathers are new. Sleek. Syndicate-issued, no doubt—high-grade weave with blood-red trim and their smug little sigil carved into the spine like a brand. Gone is the heavy armor he used to hide behind. Now he’s dressed like a weapon they built themselves.
A gift. With a silent command stitched into every seam:
We dragged you back from the dead. Now go finish the job.
He’s not lounging this time. He’s perched on that new, modded deathtrap like he’s ready to baptize it in blood. One hand on the throttle, the other draped over the grip like he’s posing for the cameras.
Helmet off, his eyes scan the pit like he’s looking for his next target, then he finds me.
We lock eyes across the grid, and that smirk slides onto his face—the same one he wore before he was Syndicate property. Not the cocky kind that comes from privilege. No, Jace was never rich. Just mean enough to act like the world owed him something, and cruel enough to take it if it didn’t.
That smile used to piss me off back in Noxhaven. Now? It makes me want to rip his fucking face off and carve a new one in its place. He lifts two fingers and taps them against his temple then slowly drags them down to his lips. A promise.
A threat.
Riot shifts beside me. Taz growls low and steady, ears pinned back, her body tense like she’s waiting for a command. Ghost stiffens near the modpanel.
The announcer’s voice cuts through it all like a blade across synthwire.
“Welcome to Halcyon Verge, where illusions are real, and death is brighter than daylight! The Neon Nightmare begins in sixty seconds!”
The crowd howls from behind the barricades, their voices pulsing in waves of hunger and chaos. The sound of credits being traded, odds shouted, names cursed. Bounties are flashing in real time across the upper holoscreens.
STRAY: 1.6 MIL – DEAD ONLY
REAPER: 2.1 MIL – HIGH PRIORITY TARGET
Screens flicker overhead, spitting our faces and stats across the pit like we’re fucking collectibles. Riot and I are sitting at 5:1—strong odds, considering the amount of blood we’ve spilled to get here. But then there’s Jace.
Dead even with us.
I scoff, loud enough for the whole pit to hear if they’re listening. “Unreal. Motherfucker gets dragged out half-dead, disappears for two races, and now he’s tied with us?”
Riot’s watching the screen, jaw tight, cigarette burning low between his fingers.
“They’re not even trying to hide it anymore,” I say, bitterness coating every word. “New bike, new gear, stats that read like he’s the second coming of death himself. What’s next? A fucking parade?”
He doesn’t answer.
I step in front of him, eyes still locked on the feed. “It’s rigged. Fabricated. Everyone in this pit knows it. They’re trying to crown him, hand him the win like we’re all just filler in his highlight reel.”
Riot blows out smoke through his nose, eyes narrowing on Jace’s face as it flashes across the screen. “Kane’s fingerprints.”
“Yeah,” I snap. “That red trim, that Syndicate bike, those stats, they might as well have slappedProperty of Kaneacross his goddamn chest.”
He glances at me, and something dark glints in his eyes.
“They think they control this?” I spit. “That they can feed us all into their slaughterhouse and stack the deck however they want?”
I shake my head, a fire building deep in my gut.
