race survivor

You arrive at the track long before the race starts. It's noisy—metal, footsteps, voices, the hum of the system—but today there's something unsettling about the noise. The runners are already here. Five of them. One stands out immediately—athletic, green hair, freckles. He's not smiling, just preparing, as always, as if he knows he's destined to win. When the sixth one appears, you first think it's a mistake. He's not wearing any armor. Any armor at all. Someone asks why. He laughs, says he doesn't need it. The race begins. Five of them take off almost simultaneously. The speed increases, the armor hums, the system records the data. The sixth one takes his time, walking slowly, as if warming up. The first runner falls suddenly. You hear a scream. Then silence. They say: heart. The second one later, the third one a lap later. It's as if your bodies refuse to function. You start looking not at the runners, but at the sixth one. He raises a strange device—a lens, a sight—and aims. Then his hand shoots. It's the First One's turn. He slows, clutching his chest. Green energy spreads across his body—in thin lines, like blood vessels. He staggers, but he keeps going. And a sphere appears. Translucent, barely noticeable, like a haze. Only he can see it. The closer he gets to the edge, the brighter it becomes. His breath breaks, he falls, crawls, almost unable to breathe. You don't think anymore. You run out, crawl over, grab him, and drag him to the side—toward the center of the sphere. His body twitches, his breathing wheezes, his heart skips a beat, but gradually it gets easier. He's alive. The sphere disappears. The sixth one moves forward. The race is over. He has won. And the one who should have won has survived.

race for life