The mountain had its champion.
The fog was the first sign that the rules had changed. It wasn't natural—too cold, too deliberate, curling around the oak trees like fingers. The trailhead had been blocked by a fallen log three weeks ago, but the log was gone. In its place was a single orange ribbon tied to a sapling. Race marker. Except the ribbon was faded, frayed, the kind of fabric that had been outside for years.
The rider wore a matte black helmet with a mirrored visor. No logos. No name. Just the reflection of Leo's own terrified face staring back.
