DRIVER 88 (The Death Race Saga).

1. The Blood Pit

The morning screamed to life with the sound of sirens. The air inside Blackridge Penitentiary was electric—charged with the anticipation of death and glory.

Jaxon Cross sat in his cell in Block 13, watching as the overhead LED screen flickered to life.

A deep, mechanical voice boomed across the prison:

"Racers, report to the Blood Pit."

The Blood Pit.

The holding zone for the condemned. A pre-race slaughterhouse where inmates received their cars, their weapons, and their last rites.

Jaxon stood, rolling the tension from his shoulders. His body ached from last night's fight, but pain was just a reminder—he was still breathing.

The cell doors slammed open. Armed guards poured in, yanking prisoners from their bunks, dragging them towards the iron tunnels beneath the prison.

Jaxon moved without resistance.

He was already thinking ahead.

Who would he kill first?

Who would try to kill him?

And more importantly—who controlled this race?

Because if Jaxon was going to survive, he needed to know the game.

And then break it.

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2. The Arena of Monsters

The Blood Pit was a massive underground garage, stretching three football fields long.

Cars—armored, modified, deadly—lined the walls. Prisoners stood in iron cages, stripped to the waist, muscles gleaming with sweat, eyes filled with either fear or hunger.

These weren't men.

They were killers. Psychopaths. Cannibals. Ex-military mercs.

And every single one of them had one goal—to survive.

Jaxon stepped inside, scanning the room.

A mountain of a man sharpening a machete.

A tattooed woman assembling an explosive.

A laughing lunatic welding spikes onto his car.

"New meat!" someone jeered.

Jaxon ignored them. His eyes locked onto the main control booth, where Warden Hawk watched from above.

The warden smirked.

"Welcome to your new home, Driver 88," he announced over the speakers. "This is your trial by fire. Let's see if you deserve to live."

The cages unlocked.

All hell broke loose.

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3. The Selection Process (Kill or Be Killed)

The first rule of the Death Race was simple—you had to earn your ride.

There were ten cars available.

There were thirty racers.

And the only way to claim a seat? Take it from someone else.

The garage exploded in chaos.

Fists flew. Blades flashed. Bones cracked.

Jaxon moved like a ghost.

He sidestepped a broken bottle aimed at his throat.

He shoved a smaller racer into a spiked tire, impaling him.

He ducked under a metal pipe swing, driving his knee into another man's ribs.

But the real challenge was ahead—"The Reaper."

A six-foot-eight monster of a man who had won three Death Races in a row. His vehicle was already marked as his—a jet-black Dodge Charger reinforced with steel plates and twin-mounted machine guns.

Jaxon locked eyes with him.

The Reaper grinned. "You want this car, soldier boy?"

Jaxon clenched his fists. "I don't want it. I'm taking it."

The Reaper charged.

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4. The First Death

Jaxon sidestepped at the last second, driving his elbow into the Reaper's ribs.

The giant barely flinched.

A massive fist swung towards Jaxon's face—but Jaxon caught it, twisting the wrist, forcing the Reaper onto his knees.

The crowd of prisoners roared.

But Reaper wasn't done. He swung his other arm—a hidden knife flashing in his grip.

Jaxon barely dodged.

The blade sliced across his side, drawing blood.

Pain.

He had felt worse.

Jaxon responded with a brutal knee to Reaper's throat. The giant gagged, stumbling backward. Jaxon grabbed the knife from his grip—and in one fluid motion, drove it straight into Reaper's eye socket.

The garage fell silent.

Reaper twitched once. Twice.

Then collapsed.

Dead.

Jaxon wiped the blood from his face and turned to the Charger.

His Charger.

Warden Hawk's laughter crackled over the speakers.

"Now that… was entertaining."

The Death Race had its newest driver.

Driver 88.

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5. The Unwritten Rules of the Death Race

Jaxon slid into the driver's seat. The Charger's engine purred beneath him—a beast waiting to be unleashed.

A holographic display flickered to life on the dashboard.

"Welcome, Racer. Please select your weapon loadout."

Jaxon's options:

Front-mounted flamethrowers

Side-mounted miniguns

Rear spike traps

EMP pulse blasters

Jaxon smirked.

"Give me everything."

The countdown timer appeared on the windshield.

Five minutes until the race.

A woman's voice crackled in his earpiece.

"Driver 88, this is Control. If you want to live through this, listen up."

Jaxon frowned. "Who the hell are you?"

"Your only friend in this hellhole."

The race hadn't even started, and already, the game was shifting.

Jaxon exhaled.

The prison wanted him dead.

The Warden wanted a show.

The other racers wanted blood.

Jaxon?

He just wanted to win.

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6. The Starting Line

The race track was a mile-long stretch of carnage—a maze of twisted metal, flamethrower turrets, spiked walls, and death traps.

The prison stadium roared with thousands of spectators, their faces hidden behind neon masks.

The other nine racers lined up beside Jaxon.

Each one was a killer. A warrior. A psychopath.

The starting lights flickered from red… to yellow… to green.

The moment green hit, the engines roared to life.

Tires screeched.

Flamethrowers ignited.

Bullets flew.

Jaxon slammed the accelerator.

The Death Race had begun.

And only one would survive.

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END OF CHAPTER 2