William's stretcher wheels creaked against the stadium floor, the sound scraping through the grass like a dying animal.
His figure — battered, limp, and strapped tight — was slowly devoured by the stadium's shadows as the medical crew hustled him toward the exit.
The other students watched him go.
Some stood rigid, jaws clenched tight enough to crack. Others shuffled awkwardly, like they weren't sure if they should be staring or pretending they weren't scared.
The last glimpse of William's bloodied boots disappearing around the corner seemed to snap the spell.
Murmuring broke out, scattered and low.
"…no way anyone else is beating that guy…"
"Bro, you'd have to be suicidal…"
"…I mean, shit, William got folded like a deck chair, and he was supposed to win this whole thing…"
It wasn't loud — it didn't need to be. The cracks in their resolve spread fast, quiet like mold.
**Hooonk—**
The stadium horn blared, flattening the whispers into silence.
