It was about to collapse.

  The moment Elian realized it, he knew he was about to hit the dirt hard.

  The racetrack roared with voices, the giant screen flashing images that drew waves of boos and cheers.

  Elian felt none of it.

  He gripped the reins tight. Storm Surge's ragged breathing pounded in his ears, but he couldn't stop. His own heartbeat thudded like a drum inside his skull.

  "Currently in first place is Legendary Hero, followed by Storm Surge, with Blazing Flame close behind!" the commentator rattled off.

  The screen zoomed in on the leading horses, their muscles coiling and exploding with power, running so fast they left only blurred afterimages and flying clods of dirt.

  Elian was in second. He knew the riders behind him were desperate to cut inside, but his horse was nearly spent.

  "They're fighting for position now—can Storm Surge overtake at the final bend to seize first place?"

  The crowd clutched their betting slips, blood pounding with excitement. Whether their wagers paid off depended entirely on whether Storm Surge's jockey could survive the last corner.

  "He's closing in—just one step away—" The announcer's voice froze midair.

  "Oh no! A horse from the rear has collided. Storm Surge's jockey is thrown clear, blood splattering across the track!" the announcer shouted.

  It all unfolded in slow motion. In Elian's eyes, two horses crossed before him, the thunder of hooves and the crash of impact detonating at once.

  The crowd gasped as Elian shot forward like a bullet, slamming into the ground with bone-cracking force. Dirt erupted, and blood spread across the track like spilled paint.

  The stands erupted in cries. Among the countless spectators, one man who had sat with clenched fists all along suddenly rose, his face shadowed with a grim, oppressive fury.

  He was strikingly handsome, but his ice-blue eyes cut like a blizzard. Look closer, and beneath the rage there burned an endless, desperate concern.

  "Easy, boss. You're going to draw blood clenching your hands like that. He's not going to die," murmured the assistant beside him.

  But the man ignored him, eyes fixed on the garish stain spreading across the track.

  "Regrettably, both horses are out of the race!" The announcer's voice brimmed with shock and helplessness.

  Elian's body barely moved, but he forced his head up just in time to see Storm Surge struggle to its feet and limp toward the edge of the track.

  As the blood spread across the dirt, the frenzy of hooves faded into the distance. The roar of the crowd blurred into nothing, and Elian's consciousness slipped away.

  When he came to, Elian was being carried into the infirmary. He blinked against the dazzling lights overhead, the air thick with the sharp sting of disinfectant and ointment.

  "Mr. Lien, are you all right?" a nurse asked.

  "Other than my hand and feeling a bit dizzy, I'm fine—" Elian began, then promptly vomited all over.

  "Good heavens, you look just fine," the nurse muttered, surveying the mess. "The dizziness may be a concussion. You'll need close observation for a few days, but I strongly recommend a hospital check-up."

  Falling off a horse was hardly news for a jockey. Injuries ranged from minor to catastrophic. Elian could only thank his luck he hadn't ended up paralyzed, and with luck, wouldn't face crushing medical bills.

  Hopefully.

  He rubbed his throbbing head, just as curses rang out from the infirmary doorway.

  He knew this was inevitable.

  "I told you he should've whipped the horse harder to avoid getting hit! If he weren't so cheap, I'd never have hired that damned jockey!"

  The owner's furious voice echoed down the hall before he appeared in front of Elian, beer belly thrust forward.

  "What the hell were you even doing out there? Storm Surge is an excellent horse who should have placed first or second, and thanks to you, we got nothing!" He slammed the phone shut and barked at him.

  Elian genuinely wanted to explain to Mr. Smith that based on Storm Surge's past records, the horse usually finished mid to back of the pack. This was its first time breaking into the top three, though it had ended in a fall.

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  But watching Smith rage on, Elian smacked his lips and knew there was no room to cut in.

  Mr. Smith was his employer this time, and the owner of Storm Surge.

  He was always demanding of his jockeys, convinced his horses were the best. Coupled with his temper and inability to listen, most riders steered clear of such an unreasonable owner. But at this stage, only owners like him would still hire Elian.

  Elian lowered his voice to explain. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Smith. Given the situation, it was impossible to avoid the horse behind us. Unless I'd chosen a conservative route from the start, but then your horse would have placed no better than fifth."

  Smith wasn't buying it. His face flushed red as he landed a punch squarely on Elian.

  "You rode like absolute shit. Don't bother explaining!"

  "Sir! This is the infirmary! Stop that at once!" the nurse screamed.

  "Stop it! Can't you see he's already injured?" a fellow jockey in the next bed stood up to intervene.

  Elian spat a mouthful of blood, the raw taste of iron flooding his torn mouth.

  "You never brought out Storm Surge's real strength! If it won't run, use the whip! Hit it! Whip it to death!" Smith's spit flew with every word.

  "If I'd whipped it any harder, it would have died," Elian said, eyes rimmed red.

  Knowing when to use the crop, judging whether the horse was at its limit required precision. Beating a horse senseless from start to finish was never the way to win.

  Smith's thick hand pulled out a bill, as if to slap it against Elian, but it only fluttered down slowly.

  "You won't see a cent from me. Think of this as charity."

  None of this was the jockey's fault, and the guaranteed minimum prize money couldn't legally be cut. Elian simply picked up the bill. He didn't blame the rider who'd collided from behind. Instead, he quietly asked, "Is Storm Surge badly hurt?"

  "If something happens, you couldn't pay enough to cover it," Smith sneered, looking down on him.

  From the way Smith said it, there likely wasn't any serious injury; otherwise he'd already be waving a vet's report and demanding compensation.

  Storm Surge was a chestnut stallion. It disliked training, had no exceptional gift for speed, and often suffered from arrhythmia, yet Elian still liked him all the same.

  It liked peppermint candies, basking in the sun, and nudging for attention. Storm Surge was a gentle horse, and sending it to the slaughterhouse after an injury would be a terrible waste.

  "As long as it's fine," Elian heard himself say.

  Once he was sure Storm Surge was safe, his mind went blank. He didn't even notice when Smith left.

  He clutched the crumpled bill in his hand, dried blood smeared across Franklin's face.

  "Hey."

  The voice pulled him back.

  The man was slim, dark-skinned, and held out a bottle of water. It was Hendrix, the jockey of Blazing Flame.

  "Sorry about earlier. I shouldn't have crashed into your horse," Hendrix said, offering the bottle.

  "You should've been more careful. Horses can't protect themselves, but you can choose not to ram into them."

  Hendrix scratched his head, hearing no anger in Elian's tone, and went on.

  "Smith doesn't understand real race strategy. Don't take his words to heart. And he had no right to hit you."

  "At least the horse is safe. That's what matters."

  Elian twisted the cap off and drank greedily. He had gone without water before the race to cut weight, and it had been two days since he'd drunk properly.

  Hendrix watched the sweat-damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead and shook his head. "You care more about the horse than yourself. Honestly, you don't sound like a jockey. You sound like an equestrian competitor."

  "Bingo. That's exactly what I wanted to be." Elian smiled faintly.

  "I studied the riders before this race. I know you, Elian Lien." Hendrix wasn't surprised by his answer.

  "You were the youth champion in eventing, over and over. What are you doing at the racetrack?"

  Elian's expression faltered, then settled back into calm. The answer was complicated, yet could be summed up in one sentence.

  "I ran out of money." He gave a weary smile.

  Elian's father had been a Chinese immigrant who came to America for business. Though Elian's given name was English, his family name "Lien" had been kept.

  As a child, he had grown up wealthy. He started riding at five years old, and from the moment he first sat on a saddle, he knew equestrian sport would be his destiny.

  Then the global economy crashed. Misfortune piled on misfortune: his father died unexpectedly, and his mother soon fell gravely ill. He had felt like the tragic hero of a novel, except there was no miraculous twist waiting for him, only endless bills. He struggled through high school and eventually found work in the horse industry.

  But not in the refined world of equestrian sport. Instead, he was thrown into the grueling life of a racing jockey.

  Hendrix didn't look surprised at his story, only regretful. "I heard you were incredibly talented."

  "People used to say that... Thank you."

  "You know you could've sought a sponsor," Hendrix said.

  "In those first years, after giving up equestrian, I didn't have the energy to practice, much less think about sponsorship. By the time I finally did, the moment had already passed." He smiled wryly. "Who would invest in someone who'd wasted years and had no proof of his ability left?"

  The world was harsh, and Hendrix knew it. In racing, they faced the same problem: newcomers had no reputation, and the only horses left for them were poor quality, making victory even harder.

  "But you're a rider who truly cares about horses." Hendrix glanced at him. "You should be proud of that, whether you stay in racing or go elsewhere."

  Their conversation ended, but Elian's mind kept drifting back to the memory of flying over cross-country jumps, shining with glory. In the locker room, he changed out of his bloodstained clothes, his mood heavy.

  With a loud clang, he shut the metal locker door, slung his jacket over one shoulder, and walked into the corridor.

  By now, he was used to this life. Aside from the pain of losing his family, he had managed the shift from a wealthy boy to a working man. He had endured betrayal from friends, unfair jobs, medical bills he couldn't pay, exhaustion, being underweight, even his growing hatred of the racing world. Somehow, he had survived it all.

  But if—if there were ever a chance to return to eventing...

  He shook his head and dismissed the thought. He knew he had little right to complain. Compared with those who truly suffered, his life was still fortunate.

  A voice suddenly echoed down the hall.

  "Mr. Lien?"

  At the far end stood a man in a white shirt and black blazer, watching Elian with open curiosity.

  His hair was combed neatly back, and a pair of thick black-rimmed glasses made him look oddly familiar.

  "I am. What can I do for you?" Elian asked.

  "I'm Vance Heaton's assistant," the man said with a brief introduction.

  "Our boss admires your ability in equestrian sport. He believes it's a waste for you to remain in the racing world. Would you consider becoming a contracted rider at Heaton Stables?"

  He held out a business card.