Clad
The air is thick with the scent of burning rubber and gasoline, a signature of the racing track we've claimed as our own. Out here on the outskirts, surrounded by miles of nothing but dust and the occasional abandoned structure, this place is ours—raw, untamed, and demanding respect.
The track stretches in a perfect loop, dark tire marks branding the asphalt like battle scars.
Bleachers line one side, a rusted warehouse standing behind them, housing our mechanic and everything we need to keep our machines running.
The new recruits huddle near the starting line, their eyes flickering between me and the row of bikes lined up like soldiers waiting for deployment.
"One round, boss!" someone shouts.
I scoff. "It's not boss. On the track and the field, I'm a team leader."
There's a murmur, and then another voice—Calvin, one of the newest recruits—picks up the chant. "Then one round, team leader. Come on."
