Page 1 of Blood & Throttle

Prologue

Riot

Noxhaven, USA

Year 2037

Black Honey - Thrice

The scent of burnt rubber,gasoline, and blood clings to the night air, thick enough to choke on. The crowd is restless, high on violence and the promise of carnage, their cheers blending with the growl of idling engines.

I stand at the edge of the pit, cigarette burning low between my fingers, watching as another racer bleeds out on the track.

The qualifying race hasn’t even started yet. Doesn’t fucking matter.

The Gauntlet never sleeps—and by the time this night is over, half the riders here won’t wake up again.

The gunshot still cracks through the air, sharp and final, sending a splatter of red across the pavement.

The man staggers, gripping his stomach where the bullettore through him, a useless attempt to hold himself together. His bike is wrecked a few feet away, engine still hissing, the last breath of a machine that won’t ride again.

He sways once, then crumples.

Too slow. Too weak. And now, he’s nothing but a fresh stain on the asphalt.

The racer who shot him—his opponent, his executioner, his fucking reaper—lowers his gun, tucking it back into his belt like it’s just another piece of gear.

No one reacts.

No one stops him.

Two pit rats—kids too young to race, but old enough to understand the rules—step onto the track and start dragging the body toward the scrapyard. Boots scrape against oil-slick asphalt, leaving a smeared trail of blood behind.

No one calls for cleanup. No one asks questions.

Because inThe Gauntlet,you're fair game.

On or off the track.

The pit is alive with the sound of men preparing for war.

Engines snarl as racers test their bikes, revving their machines, fine-tuning every inch of their deadly rides. Wrenches clank against metal, sparks flying as mechanics tweak armor plating, reinforce axles, and modify weapons hidden in the fairings.

No one in the crowd is sitting still. The stands are packed with Syndicate elites, high-rollers, and bloodthirsty gamblers, all buzzing with restless energy. Neon strobes cut through the smog, illuminating the pit in brief flashes, casting long shadows against the rusted walls.

Cameras hover overhead, drones whirring as they capture every moment, broadcasting the race live to the world. The Gauntlet isn’t just a sport—it’s a fucking spectacle.

A high-stakes bloodbath disguised as entertainment.

Pit crews move like a well-oiled machines, sharpening blades, loading guns, rigging death traps onto bikes. It’s not just a race. It’s a fucking massacre in the making.

I take a slow drag of my cigarette, the taste of smoke mixing with gasoline and sweat. I’ve seen a hundred men die on this track. I’ve killed half of them myself. No one survives The Gauntlet without getting blood on their hands.

The next race is announced. Names. Odds. Wagers exchanged in dark corners.

I don’t give a shit.

Not until I hear the whispers.