DRIVER 88 (The Death Race Saga).

1. The Road to Blackridge

The sun baked the asphalt into molten waves as the prison transport truck rumbled across the endless desert. The vehicle was a steel-plated monster, its reinforced doors bolted shut, its tinted windows blocking out any view of the outside world. But the inmates inside knew where they were going.

They had heard the stories.

Blackridge Penitentiary.

A prison unlike any other, a hellhole buried in the desert, holding over a million of the world's worst criminals. But that wasn't the part that made Blackridge infamous. It wasn't the ruthless guards, the overcrowded blocks, or the iron rule of the gangs inside.

It was the Death Races.

Every week, prisoners were forced into high-speed, heavily armed races, where the only rule was survival. The losers? Dead. The winners? One step closer to freedom.

Inside the truck, Jaxon Cross sat in silence. His wrists were shackled, his ankles chained to the floor. He was a man carved from muscle and scars, his face unreadable.

The other prisoners stole glances at him, whispering.

"That's Jaxon Cross, man. The guy from the war."

"The soldier? What the hell's he doing here?"

"Killed his entire squad, I heard."

"Nah, he was framed. Set up."

"Bullshit. You don't land in Blackridge unless you deserve it."

Jaxon ignored them. He had stopped caring about rumors long ago.

The only thing that mattered now was survival.

The truck hit a bump, jerking the inmates in their seats. A loudspeaker crackled to life, the voice cold and merciless.

"Welcome, inmates, to your final destination. Blackridge Penitentiary. Your past does not matter. Your crimes do not matter. Your life is now worth one thing—entertainment."

Outside, the massive prison loomed in the distance. Barbed wire fences stretched for miles, patrolled by armed drones. The watchtowers stood like skeletal giants, their snipers scanning the desert. The entire facility was a fortress of steel and death.

Jaxon exhaled slowly.

He wasn't ready to die.

But he was damn sure ready to kill.

---

2. Arrival at Blackridge

The transport truck screeched to a stop, its tires grinding against the hot pavement. The doors slammed open, and the guards moved in like vultures, dragging prisoners out one by one.

Jaxon stepped down onto the dirt, the blazing sun hammering down on his skin. Around him, hundreds of new arrivals stood in a line, all of them shackled, sweating, and terrified.

A massive LED screen flickered to life above the main gates. A grainy image appeared—Warden Hawk.

A legend.

A psychopath.

A businessman.

His piercing blue eyes stared down at the prisoners through the screen, his voice smooth but deadly.

"Welcome to Blackridge, gentlemen. You have been chosen. Not for punishment—but for purpose. Society has discarded you. The world has forgotten you. But here? You will have a chance to prove your worth."

The camera panned to show a roaring stadium filled with thousands of spectators, chanting.

"The world loves blood," Hawk continued. "And you? You will give them a show."

The screen went black.

The gates to Blackridge groaned open, and the guards shoved the prisoners forward.

Jaxon took his first step into hell.

---

3. The Gauntlet of Beatings

The moment they entered the prison yard, the violence began.

Guards shoved prisoners into the arena-like courtyard, where veteran inmates waited like hungry wolves.

The rules were simple.

Newcomers had to prove themselves.

Weakness meant death.

The strong got first pick at food, weapons, and alliances.

Jaxon knew the game all too well.

A brick wall of a man stepped forward—Dane, a prison enforcer. A man who had seen hundreds of fresh fish enter the system, and broken half of them himself.

"You got two options, soldier boy," Dane sneered. "Kneel, or get broken."

Jaxon looked at him. Silent. Unmoved.

Dane's grin faltered. He raised his baton and swung.

Jaxon didn't flinch.

The impact cracked against his ribs, but he stayed upright. The other inmates watched, murmuring.

Another hit. Harder this time. Jaxon still didn't fall.

Dane's amusement turned to rage. He swung a third time—but Jaxon caught the baton in midair.

The courtyard fell silent.

Jaxon looked Dane in the eyes. Cold. Calculating. Then he squeezed—snapping the baton in half.

The crowd erupted. The guards tensed. Dane staggered back, unsure whether to attack again or run.

Jaxon? He just stood there.

Warden Hawk watched from the prison tower above, smirking.

"Put him in Block 13," Hawk muttered. "Let's see if he survives the night."

---

4. The Jungle of Block 13

Block 13 was where prisoners went to die.

The moment Jaxon stepped inside, the doors slammed shut behind him.

The air was thick with sweat, blood, and gasoline. The walls were covered in gang tags, kill counts, and messages carved in desperation.

This was a jungle.

The Butcher's Gang ran the food supply.

The Bone Dogs controlled weapons.

The Snakes handled information and betrayal.

And Jaxon was fresh meat.

A towering man covered in gang tattoos stepped forward, flanked by his crew.

"Welcome, new fish," the man growled. "You owe us tribute."

Jaxon stared at him. "No."

The man, Razor, laughed. Then he swung.

---

5. The First Kill

Jaxon moved faster than anyone expected.

He ducked under Razor's punch, grabbed his wrist, and twisted. A sickening pop echoed through the block as Razor's elbow snapped.

The gang leader screamed.

Jaxon didn't stop. A knee to the ribs. A fist to the throat. Razor collapsed, choking on his own blood.

The entire block fell silent.

From the watchtower, Warden Hawk chuckled.

"I like him," he said. "Put him in the next race."

---

6. The Birth of Driver 88

That night, Jaxon sat alone in his cell. His knuckles were bloody, his breathing steady.

A guard stopped at his door, smirking.

"Congrats, 88. You just got drafted."

Jaxon frowned. "88?"

The guard chuckled. "That's your number now. And when you hit the track tomorrow, you better pray to whatever god you believe in."

Jaxon leaned back. He didn't believe in gods. But he believed in one thing—vengeance.

Tomorrow, he raced.

And tomorrow, he killed.

---

END OF CHAPTER 1