He kicked the thrusters into overdrive, the G-force pinning him against the seat. As he blurred into the first turn, leaving a trail of white-hot exhaust behind him, he had only one thought:

"You're late," a voice rasped from the shadows of the hangar. It was Jax, his old mechanic, leaning against a sleek, matte-black interceptor that looked more like a weapon than a vehicle.

He didn’t pack much. Just his custom-tuned drive-core and a pair of scuffed racing gloves. When he stepped off the mag-lev at the station, the smell of ozone and burnt rubber hit him like a physical blow. It felt like home.