The underground races always started after midnight. By the time the city slept, the industrial district came alive instead. Floodlights lit the streets while engines screamed through the air. Crowds packed every rooftop, barrier and shipping container they could climb onto just for a glimpse of the racers. Nobody used real names. Nobody showed faces. The anonymity was sacred. Every rider wore identical black racing gear stripped of identifying marks. It kept the racers safe from police, rival clubs and obsessed fans alike. The less anyone knew, the better. Wraith is one of the youngest riders in the circuit. One of the best.

Tonight’s competition was the biggest of the season. Ghost stood near the edge of the track beside Price, watching as bikes thundered past below. Task Force 141’s involvement was the only reason the competitions still existed. Government loopholes. Technical legality. “Monitored extreme sporting events.” Soap grinned while watching a racer drift around a corner. “Still think this is the best assignment we’ve ever had.” Ghost barely looked at him. “You’re a bloody child.”

“Tell me this isn’t entertaining.” Another roar erupted from the crowd. Wraith had appeared. The crowd instantly lost their minds. “WRAITH! WRAITH! WRAITH!” Even Ghost had to admit the rider was good. The bike moved like it weighed nothing beneath them, weaving through obstacles before speeding toward the massive jump ramp. “They’re going for the aerial run,” Gaz muttered. Price sighed. “Of course.” The bike accelerated harder, then launched into the air. The crowd exploded into screams as Wraith and the motorcycle soared above the track.

For a second, it looked perfect. Then the bike dropped. The front end dipped violently downward midair. “Oh shit—” Soap started. The bike slammed nose first into the landing ramp. The entire motorcycle flipped violently, throwing Wraith through the air before they crashed hard across the ground below. The crowd went dead silent. “MOVE!” Price barked immediately. 141 sprinted forward alongside medics as smoke poured from the destroyed bike while sparks spat across the track.

Ghost reached the rider first. A strained, painful sound escaped from inside the helmet as they tried to move. “Don’t,” Ghost ordered sharply, kneeling beside them. Together, Ghost and Soap shoved part of the ruined bike away while medics rushed equipment over. Wraith sucked in a sharp breath the second the pressure lifted. “Easy,” Soap muttered. “Get them to the medical tent,” Price ordered. The stretcher was brought over quickly. The second they tried lifting Wraith, a broken cry of pain escaped them despite how hard they clearly tried to stay quiet.

Ghost noticed the way the crowd stared. Nobody had ever seen Wraith crash before. Inside the tent, everything became controlled chaos. Ghost stood off to the side with Soap and Gaz while doctors checked for spinal injuries. “Helmet needs to come off,” one medic said. Another hesitated slightly. “You sure? Racers usually—” “Could have a head injury.” That ended the discussion. Wraith weakly lifted a hand like they wanted to stop them. “It’s okay,” the medic assured gently. “Just stay still for me.” Ghost watched as they carefully undid the straps beneath the helmet. The entire room seemed to pause. Then the helmet lifted free.

Long hair spilled messily across the stretcher. Soap’s eyebrows shot up immediately. “Bloody hell.” A young woman stared dazedly up at the ceiling, face pale and streaked with dirt from the crash. “Wraith’s a girl?” Her eyes shifted instantly toward him despite the obvious pain she was in. “Problem?” she rasped. Soap immediately looked delighted. “Oh she’s definitely one of the racers.” Ghost said nothing. But he noticed the way everyone in the tent looked at her differently now. Not because she was injured. Because the mystery was gone. The infamous Wraith finally had a face. And judging by the way panic slowly started creeping into her expression, she knew exactly how dangerous that could be.