Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
Sienna
Gasoline - Halsey
Guess we traded blood and bone for glowsticks and god complexes.
The air in Halcyon Verge tastes like static and neon rot.
The kind of place where broken dreams go to glitch themselves to death.
I grip the wrench tighter, hands raw from hours of work under cracked lights and low murmurings.
Everything here fucking flickers. The strip.
The signs. The people. Even my fucking soul.
And after what I just watched—Riot with Jace, the handler stepping in, that gun cocked like we’re not already dancing on a landmine—it’s clear now more than ever: something’s off. This isn’t just about winning anymore. I mean, I guess it never was. Not for them at least. Not for Kane.
Jace isn’t protected because he’s dangerous.
He’s protected because someone gave him permission to be.
Riot was ready to put him in the ground.
I could see it in the way his shoulders tensed, the way he stepped in like he was going to shatter the air between them with one fucking punch.
And when he did? The handler was there in seconds.
No hesitation or warning. Just the kind of silence that says orders were already given.
The pit saw it too. The shift. The pit went ballistic. Racers shouting, handlers scrambling to pretend they had control of the room. And me? I just stood there, watching it all unravel like the world’s bloodiest soap opera.
The Gauntlet was never supposed to have rules. That’s the whole damn point. No mercy. No favorites. No protection. Just survive or don’t.
But the second Jace got Syndicate protection—when they stepped in, not to keep the race fair, but to keep him breathing—it changed everything. They weren’t protecting anyone else. Not me. Not Riot. Not the dozens of other racers who’ve eaten bullets and blades for the camera.
Just Jace.
Because when the right bastard signs the check, suddenly the game isn’t a game anymore. It’s theater. Rigged. Dirty. And deadly in all the wrong ways.
Riot didn’t need to say it. I felt it in the way he stared Jace down like he’d already written his epitaph.
And the others? They said plenty. They shouted.
Called bullshit. Because if Jace gets a leash and the rest of us are still expected to die for crowd ratings, then the Syndicate’s not just playing god.
They’re rigging the end of the world.
Jace isn’t one of us anymore. He’s a Syndicate mouthpiece wrapped in smug leather and a target on his back he’ll never see coming.
I wasn’t supposed to survive this long. With no family, crew, and no protection, I was just a girl with a fake conviction and a target on her back. I should’ve been easy to erase. Should’ve gone down in the first round with blood in my mouth and boot prints on my spine.
But I didn’t.
Because while I didn’t walk into The Gauntlet with blood on my hands, I damn sure wasn’t afraid to earn some. They thought I’d break. Instead, I bared my teeth, and Riot? He did the one thing no one saw coming. He bet against himself. Against the system. For me.
Now I’m not just a convict they need to silence, I’m a threat they can’t afford to leave breathing.
Kane knows it. He’s scrambling behind the scenes, tugging strings, shoving bodies in the way to keep the truth buried.
Because if I make it to the end? If I live long enough to speak. To find out the truth?
I’ll make sure his empire burns.
He thought I’d die fast, easy, forgettable.
Wrong motherfucker.
The stray is still here, and I’m not done yet.
So here I am. Strapped into the next kill ride. Target on my back, bounty on my head, and the man I’d die for lighting a cigarette like he’s already decided whose blood he’s bathing in next.
I wipe the sweat off my temple with the back of my hand, smearing grease into the corner of my jaw.
Doc’s absence still echoes in the quiet.
The garage doesn’t hum the same without her voice checking in, her hands passing tools with precision, her quiet reminders to eat, to sleep, to breathe.
And now she’s gone, the boys are fraying.
Riot’s colder. Ghost’s jumpier. Luca’s quieter.
Bishop’s got a new crack in his armor that even welding torches can’t burn out.
And me? I’m holding it together with duct tape and spite.
The bike’s prepped. Mostly. Riot’s been at it for hours—grinding, soldering, welding like he can fix the ache in his chest by making sure I don’t die in the next ten seconds.
Every inch of it screams protection. From the reinforced forks to the hidden grip mods.
And bolted just above the rear fork? My little demon. Still smirking. Still warning.
I glance toward Riot. He hasn’t looked at me since the handler walked Jace out of the pit, but his jaw is still tight, cigarette burning down between two fingers like he wants something to suffer for what just happened. For what’s coming.
The worst part is, we both know we don’t get to do anything about it. Not yet.
Not until that horn sounds.
Not until the lights drop and the engines scream and all the Syndicate’s cameras are rolling. Because if we’re going to take Jace out, if we’re going to send a message to Kane so loud it echoes through every gilded fucking tower he hides behind?
We’re gonna do it on the track.
Where there are no rules.
And no one left to save him.
The city glows like it’s bleeding neon.
Not in some poetic, beautiful way, more like the sky split open and someone dumped a bag of glowsticks and broken promises across it.
Halcyon Verge doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.
It pulses. Twitches. Flickers like a dying screen stuck between frames.
My stomach’s been tight since we crossed the gates, and it hasn’t loosened once.
We weave through the pits like we belong here. Riot doesn’t say a word, doesn’t need to. The whole district feels wired for destruction, and he’s already the spark.
Above us, a massive screen lights up—and there I am.
The footage cuts in sharp: me on top of Jace, gun jammed between his teeth, rage written in blood and fury across my face.
The feed glitches right before the part where the handler pulled a gun on me.
Of course it does. Can’t let the public see that the Syndicate’s idea of fair play includes aiming a weapon at an unarmed girl.
The caption below reads “SYNDICATE brOADCAST LIVE: NEON NIGHTMARE INITIATED” with the Syndicate’s sigil pulsing behind it.
I grind my teeth and press closer to Riot’s back, cheek against his spine. His scent is smoke and war. I can feel his pulse, steady and brutal. He hasn’t said a word since we left the warehouse, but he doesn’t have to.
This whole district is wired like a live grenade and Riot’s the one holding the pin.
We reach our zone and he kills the engine with a twist, before we both dismount in sync. I tug my helmet off, my braid sticking to the back of my neck, and stretch just enough to pop my shoulder back into alignment.
Riot moves to the edge of the grid, helmet in hand, jaw clenched tight.
I watch him for a beat, how his eyes catch fire every time a flare bursts over the track, reflections of violence dancing in them.
He doesn’t blink, doesn’t even flinch, just lifts the helmet and pulls it down over his head like armor.
Like he’s already bracing for war.
Screens overhead shift again—static flickers, pixels twitch—and then it’s Jace.
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 with carbon-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 mod panel.
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 slapped Property of Kane across 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.
“Fuck that. They don’t own The Gauntlet. Not the Syndicate. Not Kane. Not anyone with a title or a trigger finger.” I look back to the screen, jaw tight. “The Gauntlet belongs to us. The ones bleeding on this track. The ones fighting tooth and nail to breathe another fucking day.”
Riot’s quiet for a beat, then flicks his cigarette away and steps closer, his voice low and dangerous in my ear.
“Then let’s remind them who they’re fucking with.”
I grin, all teeth and violence.
“Oh, we will.”
“Thirty seconds!” the announcer shrieks. “Racers, lock in your kills! Viewers, place your bets! Which name gets erased tonight?”
We mount up. I slide in behind Riot, my arms locking around his waist. My chest presses to his back, steadying the burn rising in my gut. The engine hums under us, vibrating with a hungry growl.
He doesn’t turn, doesn’t have to. He knows I’m here.
I lean in close, mouth at the edge of his helmet mic.
“Don’t crash,” I whisper into the comms. “I like my face. And I really like screwing up people’s bets.”
He laughs, low and dark. “I like your face too,” he says. “Especially when those eyes are rolling back for me.”
The lights above the grid begin to drop.
Red.
Orange.
White.
I tighten my grip around him, my heart syncing to the countdown. The heat, the noise, the weight of every eye locked on us, it disappears.
All that matters now is the green.
The chaos.
And getting out alive.
Green.
We launch, and The Neon Nightmare lights up like a warzone.