Seventh Place

The horse’s neon hooves hammered against the glass track like gunfire. We tore above a sea of stars. The massive crowd was a blur, a rolling roar that filled my head and pulsed in my chest. I leaned low over the reins, grinning like a madman.

Behind me — more hooves. Getting closer. The other racers were catching up.

The night before, a mafioso who always bid on my winnings dropped a hand on my shoulder, his fingers like greasy sausages, his grip like iron. 

Slow and rough, he said: “Win. Like always. Do not disappoint me.” He’d meant it. His laugh was hearty, but his smile was sinister. 

I couldn’t disappoint him. That kind of disappointment gets you kneecapped. Or worse.

I kicked the horse harder. 

It jolted. Twitched. Stumbled. 

My gut clenched. Goddammit. 

The A.I. panel. The one place you’re trained never to kick on newer, more expensive models. 

“Shit,” I spat, yanking the reins. The horse veered, legs stumbling under us.

Then — air.

Everything snapped. The saddle vanished beneath me. My body launched up — weightless, for a second — before the reins yanked back like a noose. My shoulder wrenched. Fingers tore on leather.

Still holding on. Barely.

Glass whipped past underfoot. Stars spun overhead and beneath the transparent track, like I was falling through space. Metal hooves blurring past — too many, too close.

Then —

Crack.

My back slammed into the horse’s panel — hard, sharp. A white-hot flash burst behind my eyes.

Pain bloomed through my ribs, then burst again — again — my body ricocheting off its side. My breath vanished. Just gone. No air, no sound, just heat and static and the certainty —

I was going to die.

Not metaphorically. Not career-wise. My actual death, happening in real time. My brain couldn’t keep up — but my body already knew. My lungs begged. My vision tunneled. There was a taste in my mouth like copper and ozone.

Noise vanished — the crowd, the track, all of it swallowed in a rush of heartbeat and wind.

Then —

I saw myself.

A kid again. Laughing. Running. Then older — arms raised, medals glinting. All that chasing, always chasing.

And then my mother. Her face bright among stars. Looking down like an ancient goddess.

“Life’s worth is measured by passion, Francesco,” she’d said once.

I hadn’t thought about her in years.

My leg unhooked without thinking. Instinct. I twisted — ribs shrieking — and hauled myself back into the saddle. I was facing backwards now. Gasping. Drenched in sweat.

The reset button. This model had one.

I fumbled for it, jamming my thumb against the switch. The horse jolted — then steadied beneath me. My hands were shaking. My pulse was pure thunder.

I turned, slouched forward, and steered hard for the nearest pit stop.

An engineer was waiting. Without a word, she plunged her hands into the horse’s guts, wrenching wires and muttering curses. Then she pointed to a fresh model already waiting and gave my back a solid pat.

“Thanks,” I said, swinging my leg over the new horse.

I shot back onto the track.

Boos and cheers now — a discordant roar. Was the mafioso among them? Likely. But I didn’t care. The wind whipped past. Hooves thundered all around. My hands ached. My ribs screamed. My head buzzed with blood and stars.

The finish line came into view, rushing toward me.

I loosened my grip. Let my body go slack. One, two, three riders passed me.

I threw back my head. Spread my arms.

Smiled like a man waking from a dream.

Seventh place. Out of fourteen.

And somehow, I’d never felt more alive.