…Niko crashes.
An awkward double thud mid-course, then the sharp scrape of a ski skittering off alone.
He gets back up.Skis out on his own, eventually.
But the way he holds himself—off-balance, unfocused, one arm limp—says it all.
Shaken.Disoriented.Done for the day.
But he'll live to tell the story.
And me?
I was so distracted—so fucking mindfucked—I forgot to root for my buddy.
And now he's down.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Get a grip, man.
Katharina is already getting messages on her phone.I can tell from the way her eyes drop, her fingers flick, her mouth tightens.
Another racer starts, an American.Jason Merit, I remember him from the training yesterday.He was making bad jokes about stupid Americans traveling to Europe to cover his anxiety.
I hear the crash before I see it; two sickening thuds, too close together
The crowd quiets instantly.Not a gradual hush,instant.As if someone pulled the plug on the sound system.
Up on the big screen, Jason's body cartwheels through the compression.One ski goes flying.The other twists under him.
And then… nothing.
He doesn't move.
Not even a twitch.
The place seems to go completely still.
No announcer.No music.No coaches barking into radios.
Just air and cold and the silence that comes when thousands of people are holding their breath at the same time.
Then we see him move.The medics around him like fussy nurses, his big body standing up and falling again.Then he manages to stand tall for a moment, on one leg only, shouting in pain.But the crowd is happy and gives him applause for standing up for survival.
He waves at them, pain visible in every feature on the big screen.
When the helicopter lifts from the valley, you can hear itbeforeyou see it; fast, low, slicing through stillness.
So, we wait, because Jason is not walking away from this.
Katharina hasn't said a word throughout it all.Her arms folded tight across her chest.Tighter than before.
My fists are clenched inside my gloves.
The crashes rattled me.
Her standing this close and still feeling miles away—
