The sun was barely poking its head over Piz Dado's snow-capped peak when sixteen year old prodigy Florian Hirsch and his best friend Moritz Schärer got off the ski lift.

"Looks like we're the first ones on the slope," Florian said as he strapped on his snowboard.

"Just the way you like it," Moritz replied. "No cameras, no reporters, no pressure."

Florian returned a quiet nod, his eyes fixed on the postcard worthy mountain panorama. He took a minute to soak it all in. "You really can't get this kind of silence anywhere else," he thought out loud. Every breath smelled like pine trees and came out as little clouds in the chilly morning air. Strapped in and ready to shred, he ran his hand along the smooth surface of his Nitro board, feeling the cold metal beneath his fingertips. It felt surreal to be back on the slopes. The moment the doctor had told him he was cleared to snowboard again, Florian had bought season lift tickets on the spot.

"Alright, Florian, listen up," Moritz started, "given that it's been almost a year since you last snowboarded, your hamstrings and calf muscles will need some time to get used to the movements again. I can't stress this enough, but it is crucial that you take it slow today, okay? Don't strain your leg."

"Aye aye, Doctor Schärer," Florian saluted, but his gesture went unnoticed by Moritz, who was tightening, adjusting, retightening, and readjusting his neon green helmet. This was an irritating habit of his that sometimes tempted his friend to hide that helmet from him. But that would be impossible, for Moritz never took it off.

"You look ridiculous," Florian mocked him playfully. "I get that the red jacket is part of the ski-patrol uniform but you could at least get rid of that hideous helmet."

"Safety first," Moritz replied proudly. "In crowded slopes or during dangerous weather conditions, visibility is key. These bright colors help me stand out, ensuring I can easily locate and assist anyone in need, including you. Who, by the way, should always be wearing a helmet on the slopes!"

"I'd rather die of a concussion than look like a goddamn traffic light."

"Fuck off," Moritz laughed along.

Staring at the colorful slope signs, Florian and Moritz debated where to go next. Florian pointed west, suggesting they take the black diamond. "There's a snow park on that route where I could practice my jumps."

Moritz's brows furrowed, matching his disapproving frown. "We should probably stick to blue slopes for now. You can't rush into this. Your body needs time."

"I don't have time. I gotta start practicing my jumps. Laax Open is less than a week away!" It would be his last time jumping big ramps. Even though he did not know what would happen over the course of the evening—did not know just what awaited him—he did know that.

"We've been over this, Flo. It's a miracle you're even walking again, let alone snowboarding. If you want your leg to heal properly, you need to make rational decisions. That includes sleep, nutrition, exercising..." Moritz's tone took on a more scolding edge. "Showing up to our physiotherapy sessions."

Florian rolled his eyes at him. "I skipped once!"

"Seven times, Flo. You skipped seven times. So as your doctor, and as your best friend, I have to tell you that competing at Laax Open is a bad idea."

Maybe Moritz was right. Maybe pushing himself to compete this week wasn't the smartest move. But Florian would never actually admit that to him. He knew exactly where he was meant to be. Just looking at the untouched snow, glistering in the first rays of sunshine, made him believe that it had been waiting all night just to be cut by him. And he, too, had waited long enough for this. With pain prickling his knee, he got up and pushed off.

"Hold up, Flo! You have to wear a helmet!" Moritz called after him.

Florian never wore a helmet. This was an irritating habit of his that sometimes tempted Moritz to glue one to his scalp. It's not like Florian didn't know better. He just liked the feeling of the wind whipping through his hair as he carved new paths down the slope.

When Florian spotted a small bump and eagerly steered toward it, Moritz intervened quickly. "Florian!" he cautioned behind him. "Don't do it! Your body is not ready for jumps!"

Heedless to his friend's warnings, Florian picked up speed and launch off the kicker. It didn't matter to him that he lost his balance and dove head-first into the powdered ditch. The rush of the wipeout was exhilarating! Breathless, he lay there as the adrenaline coursed through his veins.

Moritz swiftly unclipped his skis, and rushed toward him to dig his head out of the snow. "Florian!" He panted, "Are you injured? Follow my finger. Do you feel nauseous? Is your head hurting? Do you hear a loud ringing sound?"

"It's not exactly a ringing, but it sure is loud," groaned Florian.

"Can you describe the sound?"

"It's you, dumbass! I'm fine! Stop babying me!"

Moritz's worries shifted to disappointment, and after an exasperating speech of "What were you thinking?" and the typical "I told you to take it slow!" they continued down the slopes without taking any more risks.