The bike shot forward at 120 mph. Cars whizzed past—sedans, trucks, buses. He weaved through traffic with impossible precision, his body leaning into curves that didn't exist. Each near-miss sent a jolt of electricity through his real fingers, back in the closet.
He was inside .
A rider was approaching from behind. No, not a rider. The Rider. Black leather, helmet with a cracked visor, and a license plate that read UNBLKD . On his back, a glowing number: . traffic rider unblocked 76
"New blood," a voice crackled through his helmet speakers. It wasn't a tutorial. It was a warning. "Don't look in the mirrors. Don't slow down. And whatever you do—don't crash. The Server saves everything." The bike shot forward at 120 mph