Xtreme Rules By Em Petrova [WORKING]

Jax didn't need to look up to know it was Miller. "Precision takes time, Miller. You want it fast, or you want to win?"

Jax watched him walk away, the silence of the garage rushing back in. He looked back at the engine, the chrome reflecting a flicker of the fire burning in his own chest. Miller was right about one thing: the rules were gone. And if the world wanted Xtreme, he was about to give them a masterclass in chaos. Xtreme Rules by Em Petrova

"I want both," Miller stepped into the light, his suit costing more than everything in the garage combined. "The Xtreme Rules circuit doesn't care about precision if you’re trailing smoke at the finish line. No restrictions, Jax. No safety nets. Just the drive." Jax didn't need to look up to know it was Miller

Jax finally looked up, his grip tightening on the wrench. Under Xtreme Rules, the only law was momentum. There were no flags, no pit stops, and definitely no mercy. He had spent his life building machines to survive the impossible, but this race was different. This time, the stakes weren't just a trophy or a purse—they were personal. He looked back at the engine, the chrome

Miller’s expression didn't flicker. "In this circuit, memories are as dangerous as a blown tire. Stick to the engine, kid. Leave the ghosts to the graveyard."

The air in the garage smelled of burnt rubber and high-octane gasoline—a scent that usually meant home for Jax, but tonight it felt like a warning. He wiped a smudge of grease from his forearm, his eyes fixed on the sleek, midnight-blue silhouette of the modified street racer on the lift. This wasn't just a car; it was a middle finger to the establishment. "You're late," a voice rasped from the shadows.

"The rules say anything goes," Jax said, his voice dropping an octave. "Does that include what happened to my brother?"