By the time the finish line came into view, I was no longer running.
I was… existing in some awkward state between life and death. My legs weren't legs anymore — they were two sticks of boiled pasta that someone had forgotten to drain properly. Every step squelched like they were about to give out.
But giving up? No. I was the North Star. The legend. The unshakable icon. And what kind of star quits before the finish line? A dead one. Exactly.
So I pressed on. My run had devolved into something that looked suspiciously like interpretive dance. Arms flailing, knees buckling, wheezing like a broken accordion. Somewhere behind me, I heard laughter. Somewhere else, I heard gasps. The audience couldn't tell if I was making a fool of myself or inventing a brand-new combat technique.
