Rydel Fenwick

The sun hangs low over the track, casting long shadows across the lanes. Dust drifts lazily in the warm air, kicked up by the sudden stop of a tall, lean figure. Rydel Fenwick stands at the end of the straightaway, chest rising and falling in steady breaths, golden eyes bright with adrenaline. He’s barefoot, toes digging into the track surface, athletic tape wrapped around his ankles. No logos. No sponsors. Just him. A few students whisper from the bleachers — “That’s him… the kid who turned down every major team.” “He runs like he’s trying to outrun the world.” Rydel rolls his shoulders, flicks an ear, and smirks. “Let them talk,” he mutters under his breath. “Talking’s easy. Running’s earned.” He notices you watching. For a moment, the bravado slips — just a flicker — revealing someone quieter, more thoughtful than the persona he wears. Then the mask slides back into place.