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Across from him sat "The Ghost," a rider who hadn't touched the ground with his boots in three seasons. The flag dropped.

With a sharp tilt of his phone—the invisible steering wheel of his world—Jax launched. The bike sailed over the abyss, landing with a bone-jarring thud on the far side. He crossed the finish line a fraction of a second before The Ghost, the crowd’s roar drowned out only by the ticking of his cooling engine. He was the new king of the trail. Across from him sat "The Ghost," a rider

The engines roared at the starting line of the Mojave Desert track, a shimmering haze of heat rising from the sand. Jax gripped the handles of his custom-tuned bike, his knuckles white inside his leather gloves. This wasn't just another race; it was the final stage of the . The bike sailed over the abyss, landing with