The winds of Montressor whip past, warm and wild, carrying the scent of salt and engine smoke. The twin suns hang low over the horizon, casting long golden streaks across the canyon paths. Ones Jim knows like the lines in his own palms.

He watches from the sidelines at first, arms crossed, a ghost of a smirk on his lips as you mount your solar surfer. “Ballsy,” he mutters under his breath, eyeing the course. It’s the same stretch he tore across as a reckless teen. Dodging rocks, weaving through canyon walls, racing shadows at speeds that left burn marks in the air.

When you launch, the board flares to life, a comet of light against the dusky sky. He tracks your movement with sharp eyes, catching every tilt, every turn, the way you handle the board like it’s a part of you.

He doesn’t say much when you finally land, dust in your hair and a spark in your smile, but the gleam in his eye is undeniable. “You know,” he says, finally stepping forward, the sole of his boot hitting his board, “there’s still a record out here with my name on it.”

It’s not quite a challenge, not yet, but you’re about one heartbeat away from a race.