Page 24 of Blood & Throttle
The world didn’t go to hell in one big explosion. It rotted from the inside out. 2025 was just the year the cracks in thefoundation got too big to ignore. Governments crumbled, crushed under their own weight, their own greed. Cities burned, wars broke out, and the rich sat back, watching the whole thing unravel like a fucking spectator sport.
And when the last pieces of so-called civilization finally collapsed? The Syndicate was already waiting to take the reins. They didn’t just rise from the ashes, they burned what was left and built their own kingdom on the bones.
They run the streets. They run the black-market trades. They run The Gauntlet.
And us?
We’re just here for their entertainment.
Inside the warehouse, the air is hot and stale. Cots are lined up along the walls, some separated by nothing more than makeshift barriers of stacked crates or hanging tarps. The lucky ones have weapons propped up beside their bunks, a silent warning to stay the fuck away.
But not everyone sleeps out in the open.
Off to the side, half-hidden behind reinforced steel doors and marked-off corridors, are actual rooms. Not much bigger than storage closets, but in this place? It might as well be a penthouse. Those belong to the Syndicate’s favorites—their top racers, their biggest earners, the ones who’ve managed to claw their way high enough to get scraps of privilege.
It’s clear what it means. Power isn’t just earned in The Gauntlet—it’s rewarded. And right now? I’m at the bottom of the fucking food chain.
The organizer gestures to an empty cot in the farthest corner. “That’s you.”
I toss my jacket onto the mattress, rolling my shoulders, trying to shake off the stiffness from the race. The leatheris ruined, stiff with dried blood, torn at the seams, and barely holding together.
Just like me.
The guy who brought me here stops just before leaving, jerking his chin toward the community room. “Bin of donated clothes is over there. Might find something that fits.” His tone is flat, bored, like he’s done this a hundred times before. Like I’m just another name on a list that won’t be here for long.
I raise a brow. “What, no designer options?”
He snorts. “Yeah, we’re fresh out of Gucci. You want a shower kit, talk to Maggie—older broad, red bandana, runs the supply stash by the east wall.” He steps back toward the exit, barely sparing me a glance. “Not that it matters. Doubt you’ll be around long enough to need anything.”
And with that, he’s gone.
I exhale slowly, rolling my tongue against the inside of my cheek, shoving down the urge to flip him off as he disappears through the exit. Not gonna be around long enough to need supplies? Cute. I’ll be sure to haunt his ass when I prove him wrong.
Turning toward the clothes bin, I dig through the pile of discarded, grease-stained scraps. Most of it is torn, useless, or straight-up garbage. Fitting, since that’s exactly how they see me.
I pull out a white tank top, thin enough to be nearly see-through. A black lace bra, delicate but surprisingly intact. A pair of cut-off jean shorts, frayed and stained with oil. They’re a little too short for my liking, but it’s not like I have a ton of options. I also grab a pair of black leggings for later, along with some mix-matched socks that don’t even come close to forming a pair.
Not exactly designer, but I’ll manage.
Clothes in hand, I make my way toward the east wall, where I spot Maggie.
She’s exactly the type of woman I’d expect to be running the shower supplies in a place like this—mid-fifties, weathered skin, thick arms, mean eyes, and a cigarette dangling from her lips. A red bandana is tied over graying, unwashed hair, and she watches me approach like she’s already decided I’m a pain in her ass.
“First race kid, huh?” she mutters, flicking the ash off her cigarette.
I nod, glancing at the stacks of plastic bins and crates behind her, filled with whatever the racers haven’t stolen yet.
She exhales smoke and grabs a small bundle from behind the table, tossing it at me. “Here. Soap, shampoo, toothbrush, whatever. Try not to lose it. You only get one.”
I catch it, eyeing the travel-sized bottles and cheap bar of soap. “What, no loofah?”
She gives me a blank look. “You want me to smack you?”
I smirk. “I’d like to see you try.”
Maggie grunts, shaking her head, and takes a long drag of her cigarette before waving me off. “Go wash the blood off, smartass. You stink.”
I turn, stuffing the supplies into my arms, then freeze.
