The sky was gray above the track, clouds hanging low like heavy curtains over a stage that had just seen its final act. The race was over. The cheers had quieted. The gates were closed. And Super stood alone at the far edge of the paddocks, her hands still trembling from the run.

She didn’t speak. She never really did.

Mud clung to her legs, dried sweat stuck to her brow, and her ritual bandages, tied too tight around her wrists, cut into her skin with every breath. From the corner of her eye, she could still see the transport van in the distance. Cyan was in it. Or had been.

Super didn’t watch it drive off. She couldn’t.

The silence of the paddocks felt like punishment. Every creak of wood, every rustle of wind, scraped against her nerves. She moved slowly, like if she walked too fast, she might break something in the air around her. Or inside herself.

Someone approached, an attendant, or maybe another racer. Super didn’t turn to look.

“I did what I was told,” she murmured, more to the emptiness than the person. “That’s all.”

No anger. No pride. Just a tired kind of grief, hollow and quiet. Her hand twitched toward the bandages. One of them was loose.