I'm wandering through some warehouse district that looks like it was designed by someone who really, really loves concrete and despair, when I hear that familiar sound.
I follow the sound down an alley that screams "bad decisions happen here," and there's this door. Neon sign: "DRESSAGE KAMPF." Flickering like a dying cigarette in a noir film.
The bouncer's built like a brick shithouse and twice as friendly. Looks me up and down like I'm expired yogurt.
"You ride?" he asks in English that sounds like it was taught by Arnold Schwarzenegger's angrier brother.
"Uhhh...ya," I reply, terrified.
He steps aside. "No cameras. No crying. Cash only."
Chapter 2: Welcome to the Jungle
Inside is like Gladiator meets My Little Pony. Converted warehouse, textile footing, dramatic lighting that would make Spielberg weep with envy. At least a hundred Germans all cloaked in cigarette smoke and cynicism, betting on dressage movements like they're gonna determine the fate of the universe.
In the center ring, two riders are locked in combat. Not with swords, with half-passes. Their horses moving sideways with the intensity of samurai warriors.
This woman sidles up to me. Purple hair, more metal in her face than a hardware store, eyes that have seen things. Dark things. Dressage things.
"First time at Kampf?" she purrs.
"That obvious?"
"Honey, you still got hope in your eyes. That dies quick around here." She gestures toward the ring. "See Hans there? Undefeated in piaffe. Greta? Flying changes are her religion, and she's a true believer."
The crowd's going nuts. Money changing hands faster than a Vegas poker game. Someone's shouting odds in German that sound either very profitable or very dangerous.
Chapter 3: The Phantom Menace
"You wanna play?" Purple Hair asks, eyeing me like I'm a particularly interesting car accident.
"Oh hell no," I say, backing away like she just offered me a live grenade. "I'm strictly spectator sports. Professional voyeur of whatever fresh hell this is."
She shrugs. "Your funeral. But watch this, Hans is about to meet the Phantom."
"The who?"
"You'll see, baby. You'll see."
That's when the crowd went completely silent. Like, horror-movie silent. Even the horses stopped moving. Through the far entrance walked a figure in all black, black boots, black breeches, black helmet with a tinted visor that completely obscured their face.
The Phantom mounted a horse that looked like it had been carved from shadow itself. No introduction. No warm-up. Just pure, terrifying competence.
Hans, the previously undefeated piaffe champion, suddenly looked like he was questioning all his life choices. The crowd started whispering in German so rapid I couldn't follow, but the tone was definitely somewhere between "reverent awe" and "we're all going to die."
Purple Hair leaned over. "The Phantom has never lost. Ever. Some say they're a former Olympian who went rogue. Others think they're not entirely human."
"That's ridiculous," I whispered back.
"Is it though?"
Chapter 4: The Reckoning
The referee, because even in underground dressage, bureaucracy finds a way, steps into the ring like he’s about to announce a public execution.
He doesn't yell. He doesn't need to.
“Passage. Thirty meters. Winner takes all.”
Hans nods like a condemned man pretending he's cool with it.
And then the Phantom moves.
Not the horse. The Phantom.
They shift their weight, just slightly, and the horse launches into passage like it’s been waiting centuries for this moment. The crowd leans forward. Phones stay pocketed. This isn’t for content, this is for history.
Each step is a sermon. Slow, suspended, hovering. The hoofbeats don’t sound like impact, they sound like statements.
I’m here. You’re not. I’ve won. You just haven’t realized it yet.
Hans tries. God bless him, he tries. But it’s like watching someone bring a spatula to a sword fight. The rhythm’s there, the form’s clean, but it’s missing that thing. That unteachable madness.
And the crowd knows it.
The referee raises a single hand.
Hans bows out.
The money moves. Fast. Quiet. Like blood draining from a body.
And then the Phantom dismounts.
Helmet still on.
They walk toward the crowd. The parting starts. People step back, clear a path, just in case, like maybe the Phantom’s going to pick someone. Maybe they’ll want more.
And they’re walking straight. Toward. Me.
I freeze.
Heart pounding. Mouth dry. Feet planted but ready to bolt.
Purple Hair leans in. “If they pick you, you ride.”
I don’t blink. I don’t breathe.
The Phantom keeps coming. Closer. Closer.
Then—
They stop.
A step before me.
Pause.
Tilt their head.
And walk past.
Toward a skinny rider in the corner with shaking hands and a look in his eyes like he just saw a ghost saddle itself.
Purple Hair exhales. “Not tonight, cowboy.”
I let go of the breath I didn’t know I was holding.
The Phantom stops by the kid, asks him something, but before he can respond:
Someone calls out.
From the edge of the arena.
Someone I hadn’t noticed before.
Someone I know.
“Wait,” they say.
“Let him ride.”
They point at me.
And the whole room turns.
To be continued next week...
