Nothing happens.

JAX You can’t repo what you never owned.

KESSLER Oh, it’s plugged in, son. Just not to our grid.

Then the handlebars twist on their own. The red LED flares. A low, guttural VOICE—not electronic, not human—vibrates through the frame.

But a hunt of two.

Kessler smiles. Thin. Terrifying.

Jax pedals. The bike moves wrong . Too fast. Turns too sharp. It anticipates him. He leans left, it carves right—avoiding a pothole he didn’t see.