The final came the next evening, and this time David didn't need to remind himself to be ready.
He had been thinking about it all day.
By the time the broadcast returned to the stadium, he was already sitting in front of the television, closer than before, his legs folded under him, his attention fixed. The room felt quieter than it should have been, even with the noise coming through the speakers. It wasn't really quiet. It just felt that way because of how focused he was.
His mother noticed it again, the way he didn't fidget, didn't look away, didn't treat it like background noise. She stayed in the room without saying anything, settling onto the sofa behind him, her attention slowly narrowing in the same direction.
The camera followed the finalists out, one by one, each introduction met with a surge from the crowd. The stadium was full, loud in a way that didn't dip, just rolled forward in waves. Some of the runners looked locked in, faces tight, movements controlled like they were holding something back. Others bounced lightly, trying to stay loose.
Then Bolt stepped out.
He didn't match the tension at all.
He smiled, rolled his shoulders, glanced around like he had nothing to prove. It didn't look forced. It didn't look like an act. If anything, it made everyone else look tighter by comparison.
David leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing as he watched him move.
His mother spoke quietly behind him. "He doesn't look nervous."
David shook his head. "He's not reacting to them," he said. "They're reacting to him."
She didn't answer, but she didn't dismiss it either.
The runners stepped into their lanes and moved toward the blocks. The noise dipped slightly, not silent, but contained. That familiar tension settled over the track, the kind that came right before everything snapped into motion.
"On your marks."
David felt his body tense without thinking, his fingers pressing lightly into the carpet.
"Set."
Everything held.
The gun fired.
The first steps came fast, sharp, aggressive. Bolt didn't get the cleanest start. One of the runners beside him edged ahead early, gaining a small but clear advantage.
"He's behind," his mother said quickly.
David leaned forward more, his voice tight with focus. "Just watch."
At around thirty meters, Bolt began to rise. Not abruptly, not forced. He unfolded into his stride like it was part of a rhythm he already knew.
David felt it before he fully saw it.
"There," he said under his breath.
By fifty meters, the gap had already started to close. Bolt's stride opened, each step covering more ground, his posture tall and relaxed. The others were still pushing, still trying to build speed, but he looked like he had already found it.
The commentators began to rise with the race.
"Bolt is coming through now, and he's doing it with incredible ease— look at the transition, look at the stride length!"
David's eyes widened slightly as the shift became obvious.
By sixty meters, Bolt was ahead.
By seventy, it wasn't close.
"This is unbelievable running! He is pulling away from the field in an Olympic final!"
David could feel his heart beating faster now, the calm from before replaced with something sharper, something more alive.
"He's not even straining," he said, almost in disbelief. "He's just… moving."
The others were tightening, their faces showing effort, their arms driving harder to hold pace. Bolt didn't change. His stride stayed smooth, his shoulders relaxed, his rhythm untouched.
At eighty meters, the race was already decided.
Then Bolt did something else.
He lifted out of the effort.
David leaned forward sharply, catching it immediately. "No—"
Bolt's chest rose, his stride loosened, and then he started celebrating before the line. He hit his chest once, then again, already upright, already finished in his own mind.
His mother laughed, half-shocked. "He's celebrating!"
The commentators lost all structure.
"Unbelievable! He's celebrating before the line! This is a world record performance!"
"You cannot do that at this level! He's easing down and he's still miles ahead!"
Bolt crossed the line.
The clock froze.
9.69.
For a moment, David just stared at the screen. He had known it was coming, had said it out loud, but seeing it happen like that, with that much control, still hit differently.
The replay came immediately.
"Watch this," one commentator said, his voice still filled with disbelief. "From eighty meters, he is no longer sprinting flat out. He is celebrating, and he has still broken the world record."
Another voice followed, sharper, almost incredulous. "I have never seen anything like this in an Olympic final. This isn't just winning. This is domination with room to spare."
David didn't move. His eyes tracked the replay closely, especially the final twenty meters. The easing was obvious now. The change in intent. The fact that the race had ended before the line.
His mother shook her head slowly. "That's ridiculous. He slowed down."
David nodded, but there was tension in his voice now, something closer to frustration.
"He stopped running," he said. "Not fully, but enough."
She looked at him. "He just broke the world record."
"I know," David said, more firmly this time. "And it still wasn't everything."
He pointed at the screen as the replay looped again. "His start wasn't great. He eased up early. If he runs through the line properly, that's faster."
She frowned slightly, trying to follow. "Faster than that?"
David nodded, his eyes still locked on the screen.
"Yeah. That's not his limit."
The commentators continued, trying to frame it.
"You have to ask the question now," one of them said. "If he runs through the line, if he commits fully for the entire hundred meters, how fast can he actually go?"
David let out a quiet breath, something close to a laugh, but sharper.
"Exactly."
He leaned back slightly, but his focus didn't fade. The number stayed in his head.
9.69.
And it wasn't clean.
That was the part that stayed with him.
Not the record.
Not the win.
The fact that there was more.
He looked down briefly at his legs, then back at the screen, something settling into place in his mind.
For the first time, the gap didn't feel abstract.
It felt real.
And because of that, it felt like something he could chase.