Chapter 19
Nineteen
Sienna
Dynasty - MIIA
The Hollow makes the last warehouse look like a penthouse suite with complimentary mints and working plumbing.
Cracked concrete sprawls in every direction.
The floors groan like they’re one quake away from swallowing us whole, and the metal beams overhead creak like they’ve seen too many winters and too few repairs.
There’s blackout tarp stapled where skylights used to be, and the only light we get now flickers inside rusted cages like it’s afraid to commit to the job.
It smells like rust, old piss, and something festering deep in the plumbing that probably used to breathe.
Home sweet hell.
I’m cross-legged on the frigid floor, cable twisted across my thighs, a soldering tool in one hand and a half-rusted wrench in the other.
Riot’s bike looms above me like a cybernetic corpse mid-autopsy, stripped to its bones and surrounded by parts scavenged from crews who didn’t live long enough to miss them.
After the hell we’ve dragged her through in the last two races, she’s not exactly pretty.
The matte’s been scraped down to steel in half a dozen places, and the ghost-red trim looks more like blood now than paint. She rattles when she idles, growls when she breathes, and spits fire like she’s just as pissed off as the rest of us.
But under the scars? She’s still a goddamn monster.
Custom Ducati Panigale V4. Rebuilt from wreckage and spite.
Carbon fiber plating, bulletproof side panels, Kevlar-reinforced wheels.
Twin retractable blades that’ve tasted more blood than half the racers still breathing.
A short-range EMP rig snuggled beneath the chassis.
Front axle spikes that don’t just shred—they erase.
She’s fast. Mean. Smarter than she was two weeks ago.
And if she goes down, she’s taking someone with her.
“New motion rig’s online,” I mutter, double-checking the diagnostics. “Smart pulse sensors are tracking thermal changes within six feet. That’ll give us a heads-up before the spikes slice us in half.”
Bishop crouches beside me with a protein bar that looks like it was pried off a construction site. “You planning on not getting shot this time?”
I smirk without looking up. “Wasn’t planning on it last time, either.”
“Yeah, well, let’s try manifesting it harder,” he mutters. “Doc’s the only one who knows how to stitch any of us up, and well, clearly she won’t be doing that anytime soon. If you bleed again, we’re screwed. I faint at papercuts.”
I snort and nudge the sensor chip into place with the tip of the soldering tool. “You worried about me, Bishop?”
“Nah.” He shrugs. “But I like having my whole crew alive. Makes the breakfast banter less depressing.”
I glance up just in time to see the way his eyes flick toward Riot, like he’s not just talking about me.
Across the room, Riot leans against a stack of crates, arms folded, jaw clenched, watching me like he’s ready to pounce at the first sign of smoke.
He hasn’t said a word since I started rewiring the HUD panel.
Not even when Bishop offered to help. He just stands there—silent, wound tight, and twitchy in that murdery way that means someone’s getting broken if I so much as wince wrong.
And yeah, I get it.
Between Doc getting wrecked by Jace’s crew and the sniper that nicked me last race, Riot’s been locked in at full kill mode.
He’s always been protective, always had that barely-leashed violence simmering just under the surface, but now?
It’s worse. There’s this quiet desperation in the way he watches me, like if he lets me out of his sight for more than a second, I’ll disappear too.
Like he’s already mourning something that hasn’t happened yet.
The graze on my thigh’s healing, but it’s still tender when I shift. Riot pretends not to notice when I limp. But he does. Asshole notices every breath and every goddamn twitch. I swear he catalogues it like intel for war.
And maybe, for the first time in my life, I don’t hate that.
But I still want him to know I’m not his burden. I’m not his responsibility. He's not here to save me, and he sure as hell isn’t responsible for keeping everyone alive.
We survive this together. Or we don’t.
But I’m not going to let him bleed himself dry trying to play executioner and savior in one.
Even if a small, dark part of me finds comfort in the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing in this nightmare worth protecting.
Above us, Ghost is perched in the rafters like a dystopian gargoyle. Laptop on one knee, cords spilling from his backpack like tech intestines. He’s tracking movement patterns from the lower levels—snipers, Syndicate shifts, probable kill zones. I don’t ask where he got the access.
I never do.
Luca’s buried in the corner, elbows deep in the carcass of a busted drone.
He’s muttering about vibration mapping and recalibrating thermal dispersal modules, whatever the hell that means.
Most of his brain is code and caffeine. Half of what he knows, Doc taught him. The rest? He learned from not dying.
He hasn’t said much today. Which is how I know he’s worried.
We all are.
It’s been two days since we rolled into The Hollow, and Doc still hasn’t woken up.
She’s stable. Breathing. But… still.
Too still.
Maggie’s keeping her alive, doing whatever med magic she can with limited gear, shaking hands, and a look in her eye like she’s seen too much. Riot hasn’t said a word about it. Which, in Riot-language, means he’s one insult away from snapping a handler’s spine just to hear it crack.
And me?
I’ve been keeping busy. Because grief’s like a fucking parasite. If I stop moving, it sinks its teeth in.
So I solder. I build. I rig explosives into things that probably shouldn’t explode. Because forward is the only direction that doesn’t kill me.
“Toss me the signal dampener,” I say.
Bishop lobs it over without looking. “Track layout?”
“No map,” I say, slotting the dampener into place. “Dead Zone’s just a black fucking hole. No lights. No GPS. Riot’s onboard system won’t read anything underground. I’m loading backup heat scans and motion pulses. If something breathes near us, we’ll know.”
Bishop grunts. “Smart. Half the fuckers out there are going in blind.”
“And the other half?”
He shrugs. “Won’t make it out anyway.”
I don’t laugh.
The new district’s already a graveyard waiting to happen.
The Hollow used to be a mining city before it turned into a pit of ash and abandonment. Now it’s tunnels and silence and The Dead Zone eats whatever stumbles inside. The only light comes from worn LEDs strung across scaffold remnants.
Across the hangar, I spot Jace.
Because of course I do.
He’s leaned over his bike with that smug, predator look, like he already knows whose blood he’s gonna taste. And beside him? Vex. His new ride-along.
Lean. Pale. Patchwork leather and cybernetic eyes that glow faint green like a bad habit. Rumor says he’s from District Omen. Cut an entire crew to pieces while they slept and smiled through the whole thing. Now he’s Jace’s new shadow.
A ghost with teeth.
And the two of them together?
Yeah. They’re a problem.
But it’s not just them. Other racers are pairing off now. Tandem setups everywhere. Riot and I started it without trying. But now?
Now everyone’s trying to copy the kill dynamic. One rider, one shooter. One to steer, one to slaughter. Two eyes and one goddamn death machine.
But they don’t know what it takes. What it costs.
They’re copying a warship without understanding the war.
I glance back at Riot. He hasn’t moved. Still watching me like he’s daring someone to touch me.
He’ll kill them if they do.
I know that now.
I don’t doubt it anymore.
But this race? The Dead Zone?
It’s not just traps and collapsing tunnels.
It’s the moment Kane’s been waiting for.
He’s running out of patience. Every breath I take is another chance for the truth to crawl out of the shadows. Another step toward the secret he buried, and Kane doesn’t do loose ends.
The only reason I’m still breathing is because the Syndicate likes the way I bleed on camera. The second the ratings dip? They won’t lift a finger to stop Kane. Hell, they’ll probably gift-wrap my head and toss in a thank-you card just to stay on his good side.
And Riot?
Riot’ll turn this whole place into a fucking bonfire.
Ghost drops from the rafters like a ninja made of caffeine and bad decisions. He lands without a sound, flipping his hood back with a lazy shrug like gravity bores him.
“East corridor’s clear,” he says. “Handlers are setting up suppressors at the entry points. Two are armed. One’s limping.”
Bishop doesn’t even look up from where he’s stripping old wiring with his teeth. “Yeah, that one tripped.”
Ghost raises an eyebrow. “On what? Your fist?”
Bishop smirks, dark and unapologetic. “Nah. On my boot. Repeatedly.”
I snort. “You kicked a handler?”
“He got grabby with Taz,” he shrugs. “Didn’t like the look in his eyes.”
Taz perks up from her spot near Riot’s feet, ears twitching like she remembers the guy’s scent and is still considering a second round.
“Well,” I say, tightening a bolt on the sensor panel, “remind me to send him a thank-you card. Maybe with some crutches.”
Ghost snorts, pulling his tablet out of his pack. “Anyway, suppressors are live. Drones are watching but not interfering yet.”
Luca swipes his greasy fingers down his pants and says, “Flares are rigged to deploy if the sensors pick up body clusters.”
“Clusters?” I echo.
He shrugs. “Corpses. Heat signatures in clumps.”
Bishop whistles. “Damn. That's one hell of a bedtime story.”
Luca flips him off with two fingers. Ghost chuckles like it’s background noise.
I finish the calibration, stand, and stretch my back until it pops.
This crew? These sarcastic, violent, brilliant bastards?
They’re mine.
I never had that before. Never had a family that didn’t want something from me. Never had a home that didn’t come with conditions.