Nyxara Rising
The finish line rushed toward her, a bullet of white in the midnight gloom.
She crossed it first. Not by inches—by a chasm.
The small, exclusive crowd erupted—shouts, wild laughter, the kind of joy that only comes from seeing someone cheat death and win. Nyxara coasted to a stop, running a hand over the dash, her breathing slowing. She pulled off her helmet, shaking out her hair, savoring the moment—the power, the proof.
But the feeling that hit her next wasn’t triumph or lust or even relief.