Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was supposed to be a win.

That’s what everyone said, didn’t they?

They said she had it. Said it was hers. The numbers, the splits, the form… All of it pointed in one direction.

But… if you’ve been around this game as long as I have, you start to learn a thing or two about hope.

Hope lifts them. Hope gives them wings, makes them fly. You see it in their stride. The way they lean into the wind like they were born for it… And they kinda are, if you think about it.

But hope is fickle. It doesn’t always land clean. And at the worst of times?

It sends them crashing back down.

…

It was supposed to be a win.

That’s what everyone hoped for, didn’t they?

I can still remember it: The PA’s voice surging above the cheers, distorted and electric, rattling the aluminum stands and shaking down like rain.

“—and now they’re coming into the final stretch! That’s right, folks, it’s the final stretch at Nakayama this afternoon, and just look at that speed—she’s still pulling ahead! Can you believe it!? Miracle Kingdom is giving it everything she’s got, and the other Umamusume just can’t seem to catch her!”

“300 meters remaining!”

“She’s opening up! Five lengths! Six! This might be it—this might be the record!”

“Just look at that stride! That power! That finesse! That—”

I blinked.

It’s strange how it happens… You blink at the wrong moment, and the world slips sideways. I remember hearing the announcer’s voice dip just a fraction. Like he’d lost his place on the script and had to improvise.

Silence. The abrupt, almost violent hush of stunned breaths that was once a thousand cheering voices. The speakers hissed softly, empty static filling air that was meant for applause. Someone beside me shifted uneasily. A phone buzzed somewhere behind.

Something had changed.
But it felt wrong to admit it.

The finish line shimmered in the heat, still waiting.

But I couldn’t find her.

…

It was supposed to be a win.

[07:46 JST] — THIRD-FLOOR WALK-UP, KABUKICHŌ — 16mm / GRAINED

24fps · 180° shutter · Lens 50mm · Stock: Kodak 500T (+1 push) · Handheld; tungsten warm

BANG BANG BANG.

“Hey! Itonaga! Wake the hell up! You’re two weeks behind rent and I’m tired of having to remind your ass every day!”

BANG BANG BANG BANG.

My couch creaked as I stirred, dry-mouthed and neck-cramped with one sock on and the remote dug into my back. A fly banged against the ceiling light like it wanted out more than I did.

It was supposed to be a nap.

The TV tried to shout over the traffic, piping in dialogue from some drama about a dying CEO pouring his last regrets into a whisky glass. I don’t remember changing the channel. Maybe I did. Maybe it changed itself out of pity.

My mouth felt like I’d been chewing paper towels. I ran my tongue over my teeth and tried to sit up, but the remote, buried somewhere under my ribs, made itself known. On the screen, the CEO’s final words cut to some detergent commercial, something about stubborn stains.

I groped around for my other sock and found only a lottery ticket, expired. Overhead, the fly resumed its suicide mission against the ceiling bulb, each thud a reminder that some creatures can’t be talked out of bad ideas.

BANG BANG BANG.

“Katsuaki Itonaga! You got rocks in your head? I know you’re in there!”

Her voice ricocheted through the hallway, no need for a door between us. She didn’t knock so much as try to batter her way through the wood. I scraped together enough self-respect to stand, hiked up my sagging trousers, and yanked the door open before she could put her fist through it.

She was small but somehow took up all the space. Her apron was the color of boiled spinach. A thin pencil was jammed behind her ear, waggling dangerously every time she spoke.

“You think the rules stop for you, Itonaga? The rest of us pay on time. I’m not running a shelter here.”

“It’s not even the fifteenth yet,” I said. I cleared my throat, holding onto the frame so I wouldn’t have to meet her glare head-on. “Look, I can drive up to work right now, get my pay. Then I’ll bring you your rent. That make you happy?”

“I’d be happier if you did it before I had to climb four flights to wake you up. Last time, your idea of ‘right now’ took three days. You want me to believe you’ll actually show this time?”

“I’m going, aren’t I?”

“Not dressed like that, you aren’t,” she said. “People see you in that shirt, they’ll think we take in strays.” She eyed my single sock, the trouser cuff stained from god-knows-what, and the beer-stained tee I had on since Monday. “You got five minutes. After that, I’m showing your face to the pavement.”

I grunted—my closest thing to agreement—and went back inside, letting the door swing behind me. The noise startled the fly; it divebombed into the glass again and dropped onto the stack of racing forms by the TV.

I changed shirts, found the second sock balled in the couch cushions—finally—and checked my wallet for the third time that week. Still empty except for an old race stub. Not sure what I was expecting there.

Downstairs, the parlor’s machines shrieked; a noise I grew used to far too quickly. My Fairlady Z waited in the alley, parked at the angle only someone with nothing left to prove would risk. She was dented, white paint sun-faded, but she was defiant. A relic of better years, the one thing I still cared for that didn’t ask anything in return.

I swung into the driver’s seat, keys jangling. The seatbelt lock jammed again. I let it. I sat for a second, forehead pressed to the wheel, letting the car’s old vinyl catch the last bit of morning heat.

The memory rose again uninvited: the final stretch, the silence that fell over Nakayama like a dropped flag, the announcer’s voice skipping a beat. I wasn’t sure why it came up today. I thought I finally got it out of my head. But I guess some things just stick with you, huh?

The Fairlady coughed as I turned the keys, then rumbled to life. I reversed out, clipped the curb, and pointed her toward the only job I could stomach, anything that required routine. I let the radio run, some old Bryan Adams record. Call me a sucker for Western.

Above me, my window was already dark. I left it that way.

I took the long route.

Not out of nostalgia—gods knew I’d paved over most of that—but because my usual shortcut had been blocked again by a half-finished tower wrapped in tarps.

The Fairlady sputtered, then settled into her low growl. The city slid past my window in disjointed pieces:

A billboard for parfait-flavored toothpaste.
Another one for vitamin water.
And one for a betting app featuring a cartoon Umamusume flashing a peace sign.

Two elevated lanes beside me thrummed; Umamusume commuter tracks padded in impact-foam, green LED arrows herding the pack toward Odaiba. A chestnut sprinter breezed by, stride crisp as a sewing machine, her handler drafting on a scooter the way birds tailed a storm.

At the red light on Shiba-dori, I rested an elbow on the open window, feeling heat seep off the door skin. On the crosswalk’s edge stood two Umamusume in training jackets, probably fresh from morning track.

One was tiny, a breeze could probably spin her like a pinwheel: lavender hair, polite posture. The other was taller, wore silver-gray hair iron-straight beneath a brown hat, eyes iced as though halfway through a joke no one else could hear. She leaned on a hydrant, weight on one hip, chewing something that wasn’t gum.

Her gaze landed on me after a while, her expression didn’t change.

Green light. The horns started. She lifted two fingers in a lazy salute; I let the clutch out and rolled forward, the mirror catching a final flick of her grin before they vanished behind a bus.

The Fairlady swung hard into the industrial block, tail end fishtailing just enough to scatter gravel at the construction-site gate. A crane operator tossed me a half-hearted salute. I ducked beneath a rusted scaffold, killed the engine, and sat for a moment while the last bars of “Touch The Hand” fizzled into static.

Chapter Text

[09:13 JST] — PREFAB SITE OFFICE, ŌTA — 16mm VERITÉ

24fps · ASA 400 (push +2) · Handheld; fluorescent green cast · Long takes / room tone: compressor hum

“You’re firing me?!”

My voice cracked like bad vinyl halfway through. I saw a few heads turn outside, someone’s welding arc cut short, maybe a trucker in the back lot lifting his neck. Big Nose—real name unimportant—flinched like I’d launched a nail gun at him.

“You’re not being fired, Itonaga-san,” he said, voice well-oiled with management-speak bullshit. “The company’s just… restructuring. You know how it is.”

“I don’t.” I crossed my arms, made sure the gesture cracked my elbow audibly. “Enlighten me.”

He laughed the way people do when they know they’ve already stepped in it. Rubbed the back of his neck. Didn’t meet my eyes.

“Well… Look at it this way—you were always overqualified for this gig. You don’t belong in concrete dust. You should be out there doing… what was it you used to do again? Training? That thing with the horse girls?”

I didn’t answer. I let the silence do what my résumé couldn’t.

“Itonaga-san,” he pressed on, now trying the patented empathetic nod with folded hands combo. “You’re good at what you do. Everyone here knows that. But this project’s wrapping soon, and with your… seniority—”

“Say it.”

“…What?”

“You’re talking about my age, right? My knees? Me not wanting to join the company LINE group with the funny stickers? What is it, am I too expensive? Not cheerful enough for karaoke?”

“No! Not at all! It’s about flexibility, you know… Adaptability. The new guys can run spreadsheets and move rebar at the same time. You—you’ve got experience, but maybe it’s time to… expand your skill set?”

“Expand my skill set,” I repeated, deadpan. “Should I learn pole dancing, too? Really open up my career paths?”

He made a small, choked noise and shifted behind his desk.

“It’s not a reflection on your performance,” he said quickly. “Just a matter of… alignment. You know how the industry’s moving these days.”

“Towards not paying severance?”

He winced. I counted that as a win.

Big Nose cleared his throat. “Look, we’re offering you a soft landing. A few weeks’ notice. Some part-time slots, maybe. We’ll even throw in a reference—a good one, too. Just say the word and I’ll write it myself.”

“Oh, I bet you will,” I said. “Let me guess: ‘Itonaga-san is punctual, quiet, and deeply committed to minding his own business.’”

“Exactly!” he said, perking up like I meant it. “That’s the spirit.”

I stood. Slowly. Gave the chair back its dent. “You know, I never minded the job. Lifting steel, filling out inventory, pretending I couldn’t hear the radio playing that shitty Bakushin song in the break room. It kept my hands busy. Kept me out of trouble.”

“You’ve been a valued part of this team,” he offered, already typing something behind the screen. “Really.”

“Sure.”

I didn’t slam the door on the way out, mostly because it didn’t close properly to begin with. The handle stuck halfway and I had to lift it a little before it clicked shut. Outside, the wind picked up a dust devil of styrofoam and cigarette butts.

The Fairlady waited by the fence, tilted just enough to look tired. Same as me. I lit a cigarette I didn’t want.

Fired. No—restructured. Even my failures came prepackaged now. Such is life.

I scrounged up some spare change from under the seat of the Fairlady: some 100s, a bent 50, and a button that probably belonged to a shirt I’d given up on years ago. Just enough for a lunch that didn’t come out of a foil wrapper.

It was this beef bowl joint by the overpass. Nothing fancy, but I guess it didn’t need to be.

Places like that never asked questions and always served fast. That’s all I wanted, really—some quiet company and something warm that didn’t remind me of the microwave in my apartment that still blinked 99:99.

The door chimed as I stepped in. One old man was already there, nursing a tea. Two high schoolers sat in the corner, arguing over a sticker pack, and the guy behind the counter barely glanced up as I slid onto the end stool.

“Regular beef, extra onion,” I said.

He gave a grunt that probably translated to coming up, then punched it in. I leaned forward, elbows on the counter, staring at a smudge on the sneeze guard that looked like a ghostly thumbprint. The chopsticks were the disposable kind, slightly warped from moisture. I picked out the least tragic pair.

When the bowl landed in front of me, it let off a hiss of steam, onions practically melting into the rice. One of those humble little miracles that only cost you 390 yen and a slice of your dignity. I didn’t even wait for it to cool. Just picked up the bowl, leaned in, and let the heat hit my face like one of those spa towels.

It was good. Really good.

So there I was, four bites in, still chasing that first perfect mix of sauce-soaked rice and onion slop, when my phone started buzzing. I sighed, set the bowl down, and fished the thing out of my pocket.

The screen on the clamshell flickered. That’s right. Clamshell. I’d taped the hinge back together last month with electrical tape. It still held.

Now, look—I don’t mess with those touch-screen bricks everyone’s got glued to their faces. Never saw the point. Nothing to fidget with when the conversation turns south. What am I supposed to do, type with my damn thumbs? No thanks. I’ll take a keypad any day.

I flipped it open, and the screen glowed with a number I vaguely recognized. Could’ve been a recruiter. Could’ve been a debt collector. Hell, it could’ve been my conscience finally learning to use caller ID. Hard to say. This phone’s seen more SIM cards than most people’ve had first dates.

I could’ve just gone back to the beef bowl, which was already starting to look less like sweet release and more like someone’s math homework. But something about that number scratched the back of my head.

So I did it. I pressed the green button.

“Speak.”

There was nothing for a while. Not until:

“So you are still alive.”

I knew that voice. Unfortunately.

“…Yamabe,” I muttered. “The hell are you doin’? You lose a bet or something?”

Masataka Yamabe laughed, too loud for polite company. I saw one of the high schoolers glance over like I’d just confessed to arson.

“Didn’t think this number still worked,” he said. “You swap phones more often than socks.”

“Maybe if people stopped calling me,” I said, poking at a chunk of beef, “I’d upgrade.”

“Yeah, well… Hate to be the one to ruin your peaceful little retirement, but I’ve got a bit of a situation.”

There it was. The pitch. Always a situation. Never a favor. Never a how’ve you been. I exhaled through my teeth and took another bite.

“I’m listening,” I said eventually, against my better judgment. Against every plan I had for disappearing gently into middle age with a box of race programs and a sock drawer full of unpaid speeding tickets.

Yamabe took that as permission to get smug.

“Well, let’s start things off slow…” I could hear him settling back, the way he always did when he was about to say something stupid with confidence. “How’s your training license?”

I paused, bowl halfway to my mouth. The beef slouched back into the broth with a quiet plop.

“You know damn well I don’t have one,” I said. “They didn’t exactly roll out the red carpet after Nakayama.”

“Thought so,” he said, chipper. “You’ve been blackballed longer than I’ve had a liver. But don’t worry, I’ve got a workaround.”

“Congratulations,” I muttered. “You’ve invented fraud.”

He laughed again. I wanted to reach through the line and strangle the signal.

“Relax, relax,” he said. “It’s nothing like that. I just need you to… supervise. Think of it as volunteer work. You won’t be officially listed. Just… offer some guidance. Tactical insight. Maybe yell at some kids. Your specialty.”

“No.”

“I didn’t even finish—”

“You don’t need to.” I set the bowl down. Appetite gone. “I know how this plays out, Yamabe. You’ve got some disaster case you don’t wanna deal with, so you dig up an old wreck like me and pray I’m too tired to hang up.”

“Okay, first of all, rude… But accurate.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. A dull throb had started behind my right eye, the kind that meant either a migraine or emotional responsibility was coming. In this case, it seemed like both.

“She’s not that bad,” he said quickly. “Energetic. Bit of a wildcard. But she’s got talent. Real talent. The kind that makes your teeth itch.”

“That’s not a compliment.”

“No, but it is familiar, isn’t it?”

That shut me up for a second.

The line buzzed faintly. One of the high schoolers got up to refill their water and shot me a look like I was one of the yokai.

I stared down at the bowl again. The steam had stopped rising. Cold onions now. Damn shame.

“Let’s meet up. Get you two acquainted,” Yamabe said, and his tone went soft around the edges, like he thought I wouldn’t notice.

“You don’t even have to say yes. I just… I don’t know who else to call.”

There it was. The hail-mary. The slow pitch with guilt stitched right into it. He didn’t even bother to dress it up. Just lobbed it out there and waited to see if I’d flinch.

I let it hang. He knew what he was doing. Yamabe always knew how to hit the part of me that still hadn’t completely fossilized. The part that got twitchy around the words no one else to call.

Bastard.

“You said she’s a mess,” I muttered finally. “Energetic wildcard with talent. Sounds like you’re setting me up for another ‘future headline.’”

“She’s raw,” he admitted. “Unpredictable. Doesn’t listen to anyone for longer than thirty seconds. But when she runs…”

He paused. I could hear it. That twinge. That same twitch I used to get back when a perfect cornering line hit just right. When a stride snapped into rhythm like a metronome that’d finally found its tempo.

“She reminds you of her, doesn’t she,” I said.

Yamabe didn’t answer.

I sighed through my nose and ran a thumb over the curve of my coffee-stained chopsticks like they were prayer beads. Some habits die hard. Some don’t die at all.

“Look, you know I’m not licensed anymore,” I said flatly. “I can’t sign off on anything. Can’t take her to race. Can’t even get her into the paddock. What makes you think this’ll all go smoothly?”

“You don’t gotta worry,” Yamabe said. “Like I told you—this is shadow work. Tactical insight, all unofficial. You see something, say something. Think less ‘official URA rep’ and more… Jack Black in School of Rock.”

I blinked slowly. “I thought you hated that movie?”

“Look, I’ll handle all the backend stuff,” he plowed on, unfazed. “Get the paperwork greased, make sure she’s registered under the right provisional. You? You just show up and pretend you know what you’re doing.”

“I do know what I’m doing. That’s the problem.”

“Fine, pretend you still want to. Better?” he said. “Look, if you’re that worried about exposure, I’ll even throw in a new alias. We’ll say you’re… Mr. Miyagi from Okinawa. Hell, dye your hair, grow a mustache. Don’t worry about the face—most of these kids weren’t even watching races when your girl was around. You’re practically ancient history.”

I let that sit. It wasn’t wrong. Just rude.

The bowl in front of me turned into a sad science experiment. The beef was gray now. The rice had gone gluey at the edges.

Yamabe must’ve felt the pause stretch too long, because his voice dropped a register. “Look… I get it. You want to stay off the radar. Keep your head down.”

Then came the pitch.

“But if we’re both being honest here… you need this gig. Don’t you think?”

I made a face like I’d just bit into a pickled egg with the shell still on.

I’d just been kicked off a job where my most advanced skill was not dropping steel bars on my own foot. The Fairlady needed new tires. My fridge was down to one beer and a mystery Tupperware I was too afraid to open. And I could already hear my landlady sharpening her broom handle for tomorrow’s rent speech.

And yet he knew all that. Bastard always did his homework.

I tilted the phone slightly, as if that would help me dodge the truth leaking out of it.

“What’s her name?” I asked eventually.

“Gold Ship.”

It didn’t ring a bell.

I didn’t recognize the name. Didn’t recognize the cadence, either. It didn’t seem like one of the prodigy types I kept hearing about in whispers. Not that I’d been paying attention. I’d stopped tuning into race broadcasts years ago. Still. The name didn’t light up any warning bells. No legacy bloodline that’d been dragged through twelve marketing cycles and spat out into a commercial for mineral water.

Maybe it was better that way.

“…Where are we meeting?” I asked, knowing full well I wouldn’t like the answer.

There was silence. I could practically hear Yamabe reaching for a dramatic pause, trying to deliver it with that shit-eating grin of his. Not that he ever wasted a smirk on nothing. No, Yamabe only smiled when he knew you’d cornered yourself.

“Oh, I think we both know the answer to that,” he said finally.

My face scrunched before my brain could stop it.

Of course he was right. Of course it had to be there.

The high schooler beside me muttered something about “weird old guys with flip phones” and shuffled further down the counter. Good instinct, honestly.

“See you soon,” Yamabe said, and the line clicked dead before I could change my mind or pretend I had service issues.

I stared at the phone for a long moment before flipping it shut. It made a soft, plasticky click, barely louder than my appetite dying in real time. I let out a low sigh and pulled the bowl back toward me. Took one last bite out of spite.

It was cold. Still good, though. That was the worst part.

And so… There it was.

The place I really wish I never got to see again.

Tracen Academy.

I pulled into the parking lot. Gravel crunched under the Fairlady’s bald front tires, the kind of sound that screamed “reluctant reentry into personal hell.”

Still parked at the far end was that same ridiculous cherry blossom tree. Too symmetrical to be real, too sentimental to be legal. The branches swayed like they didn’t remember a damn thing. Must be nice.

I killed the engine and just sat there. The Fairlady gave one last groan as the chassis settled. She didn’t want to be here either.

It’d been… what, over a decade? Since I first stepped onto this campus? Back when I still believed you could teach discipline into anything with legs and ambition. Before the ties got looser, the sponsors got louder, and the stakes turned into something you could choke on. Place hadn’t changed. Still pristine. Still photogenic in that magazine spread kind of way.

I opened the car door. It stuck a little. Always did. The sound it made was less of a creak and more of a sigh. Shit, even the hinges knew this was a bad idea.

A couple of girls passed me on the walkway, fresh from track. They glanced my way, then away, the kind of thing that happens when you see a relic parked somewhere it shouldn’t be.

“Is that a Fairlady?” one of them whispered.
The other shrugged. “What’s a Fairlady?”

I almost turned around. I almost got back in the car and peeled out. But I didn’t. Because Yamabe knew how to pick his battlegrounds, and Tracen—bright, cheery Tracen—was his ambush of choice.

I lit a cigarette. Immediately saw the sign: NO SMOKING ON CAMPUS in six languages.

Figures.

I held the cigarette anyway. Didn’t light it. Just needed something to do with my hands. Something that reminded me I had agency no matter how small.

On the front steps waited a figure, silhouetted perfectly against the doors like someone who’d rehearsed this exact position for maximum drama. The posture was too casual, and his wave too eager.

Yamabe.

He’d barely changed: same half-pressed gray suit, same cheap sunglasses pushed up into his head, same shit-eating grin.

“Look at you!” he called as soon as I got close enough to flinch. “Still driving that thing? Thought you’d have had it taxidermied by now.”

“Nice to see you too, Yamabe,” I grumbled. “I hear parasites survive indefinitely, so it’s no surprise you’re still around.”

He laughed, annoyingly unbothered… and deeply punchable.

“Never change, Itonaga.” He gestured for me to follow, already walking backwards like a tour guide on autopilot. “Come on. Let me give you the grand refresher tour of this beautiful little campus here.”

I stayed put for a second, cigarette still unlit in my hand. Then I sighed and caught up.

“What, you part of the school staff now?” I muttered.

“Nah, but I’ve got connections,” he said, grinning like the phrase borderline illegal was a badge of honor. “I already spoke to the director. And her secretary. Everything’s squared away. All we need now is you—well, not you you. Not Itonaga, per se.”

I narrowed my eyes. “…The hell did you do?”

He puffed up theatrically. “Ladies and gentlemen, making his grand debut: trainer of mystery, tactician of legend, and man of few paperwork violations… Kazuya Okano!!!”

I stopped walking. “Kazuya what?”

“Okano. Peaceful hill. Soothing, right? Thought it sounded gentle and reassuring. You know, the kind of name a school board won’t look up.”

I stared at him. “I’d rather throw myself off the hill.”

“Oh, come on,” he said. “It’s either that or ‘Suzuki’, and we both know how much you hate all the popular stuff.”

I didn’t ask what he’d forged to make this happen. But I also didn’t want to know. Yamabe could charm a vending machine into issuing a passport. Probably printed me a fake dental record while he was at it. Still, I followed. Through the wide corridors. Past trophy cases. Past lockers that hadn’t changed. The whole place still smelled like sun-warmed vinyl and floor polish.

“They’re in the middle of some big event right now,” Yamabe explained, waving vaguely toward a line of posted brackets near the gymnasium. “Perfect timing, really. Everything’s chaotic. No one’s going to question an extra staff member floating around. Especially one with my impeccable references.”

We passed a group of younger trainers huddled around a clipboard, their expressions tight with anxiety. A couple of Umamusume jogged past us, hair braided tight, track jackets zipped to the throat. Not a single one looked at me. Not yet.

But that would change soon. A new trainer walking around this late in the season? Rumors would spread before I finished my next cigarette. But the worst part is that I’d have to watch it happen. All of it. The ambition, the hunger, the rookie mistakes, the flare-ups. I’d have to stand there while they made the same errors I once punished out of students in morning drills.

And I’d have to pretend none of it reminded me of the one name no one spoke anymore.

Yamabe was still talking. “…They’ve got you listed as a freelance specialist. Tactical support. Think of it like consulting, but with less pay and more emotional liability.”

“I’m not talking to parents,” I said immediately.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he lied.

He turned a corner, gestured with both hands toward the field. “Anyway… here we are.”

And just like that, there it was: the central track.

Same as I remembered it. The red-and-white posts. The curve that everyone underestimated on their first run. The tower looming in the distance, casting just enough shadow to make the last stretch feel personal. There was a light breeze sweeping across the turf, bending the flags just slightly east.

And at the far end, figures moving.

My fingers curled tight around the fake name badge Yamabe had slipped me when I wasn’t paying attention. Kazuya Okano. Gentle hill. Peaceful slope.

What a joke.

“Let’s get this shit over with,” I said.

Yamabe just smiled and gestured ahead. “Oh, my friend, it’s already begun.”

Two girls stood by the railing on the far edge of the track. Both looked like they’d just finished a round of hard laps, still catching their breath but pretending otherwise.

The first one wore a black beanie tugged low over a head of dark hair. Her stance was all tension, like a pulled-back bowstring. Arms crossed, weight shifted forward, chin slightly lifted like she was waiting for someone to challenge her existence. Her eyes tracked everything; quiet, calculating, and very, very tired of whoever stood beside her.

Which brought us to that girl.

The other one I recognized immediately.

Same silver hair. Same captain’s cap. Same grin I’d seen earlier that day. Her entire body radiated the energy of someone who thought consequences were just a bedtime story.

Yamabe cupped his hands around his mouth.

“Yo! Golshi! Over here!”

The girl’s head swiveled toward us. She blinked once. Then did a little squint like she was trying to remember if she owed us money.

Then she lit up. Like, full-volume, unfiltered oh-hell-yeah energy. Like a dog recognizing its favorite mailman. She took off toward us in a dead sprint.

Actually, scratch that, she didn’t sprint.

She bounded. Like each footfall was less about propulsion and more about vertical expression. Her legs moved with cartoon physics; too long, too confident, and completely unsupervised.

And then—because of course she did—she launched herself into the air. A full-on triple-spin flying leap, complete with a high-pitched “WHEEEEEEEE!!” like she’d just cleared a ramp at a monster truck show… and she was the monster truck.

I took a step back.

She landed right in front of us in a full-blown Superman pose: one knee slammed into the turf, one fist planted, head bowed, cape-flap entirely imaginary. Dirt kicked up around her, which immediately triggered a nearby groundskeeper to start screaming some shit about “turf integrity.”

She straightened like it was nothing, grinning menacingly.

“Yo! Yamabe!” she chirped. “Who’s this guy? New boyfriend? New parole officer?”

Yamabe snorted. “Very funny. This is your new trainer. Okano-sensei.”

She blinked. Then frowned. Then tilted her head at me with exaggerated slowness, like she’d just turned into a weird mix of a horse and an owl.

“Trainer…?” she echoed, dragging the word out like she was taste-testing it. Then, she threw her head back. “Wait—for me?! How the heck did ya find another one this quick?!”

I turned my head very slowly to Yamabe, giving him the kind of look usually reserved for men who try to sell insurance at funerals.

“…Another one?”

He winced. “Yeah… Long story. Something to do with… angry crows.”

There was a pause. A very long pause.

I shook my head. “I don’t want to know.”

Gold Ship leaned in—too close and too casual—and peered up at me from beneath the nonexistent brim of her hat. Her eyes glittered with some combination of unspent energy, lack of impulse control, and spiritual malfeasance.

“So… Okano-sensei,” she said, drawing out the honorific like it physically pained her. “You any good? Or are you just here to babysit me until I explode again?”

I didn’t answer.

Yamabe cleared his throat. “Okano-sensei here is gonna help get you and your teammates’ forms tightened up for the big race. Sharpen your race senses. Tactical stuff.”

She blinked at me, her expression equal parts suspicion and amusement.

“A tactician, eh?” she asked, shifting weight from one foot to the other. “Looks more like you wandered in from a detective movie. Was half-expecting the world turn full-on black and white right about now… You sure you’re at the right track, mister?”

“Unfortunately,” I muttered.

Behind her, the other girl sighed, clearly used to everything. She pushed off the railing and started walking toward us. Her spine was straight, and her eyes were already narrowed in disappointment.

“You left again,” the girl said flatly as she passed Gold Ship.

Gold Ship gave a thumbs-up. “It was a dramatic entrance!”

“You were supposed to be doing cooldown laps.”

The other girl stopped in front of me, eyes flicking up and down like she was scanning a barcode. “You’re the new trainer.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Iton—” I caught myself. “Okano.”

She gave no sign of caring. “Good luck,” she said, tone drier than my bank account, before turning around and walking off. I wish I could’ve done the same, sister.

I looked back at Gold Ship, who was balancing a pebble on her nose.

Yamabe leaned in, voice low. “…Should I leave you to the company of your new protégé?”

I watched her for a second.

She was now doing one-legged squats while trying to keep the pebble balanced on her face, mumbling some kind of war chant under her breath. Every so often she’d shout “WOBBLE RESISTANCE: INCREASE!”

Yamabe, still beside me, smirked like a man watching his prank unfold in real time.

I didn’t return the expression. I just lit the cigarette I’d been holding since the parking lot. Took one long drag. No one stopped me this time. The groundskeeper was too busy cursing over the divot she’d cratered into the turf.

“So,” I said eventually, voice flat. “You stuck me with the horse girl version of a malfunctioning carnival ride.”

“She’s not malfunctioning,” Yamabe said, cheerful. “She’s just… lively. Bit of an outlier. Statistically improbable. Think of her as an unopened loot box.”

“Statistically, I’m throwing your ass into oncoming traffic.”

He patted my shoulder, completely unbothered. “You’ll thank me later.”

Gold Ship flared her nostrils. The pebble fell.

“Dagnabbit,” she muttered. “Almost had a new record there.”

I sighed and gave Yamabe a look. “All right. What’s the catch?”

He blinked innocently. “Catch?”

“Don’t bullshit me, Yamabe. Nobody calls me out of mothballs unless there’s something they can’t handle. You said she’s got talent, fine. But talent’s cheap. So what’s wrong with her?”

He hesitated. Just for a second. But I caught it.

“She’s got a reputation,” he admitted. “Not exactly bad, just a little… unpredictable. Makes her hard to pair with most trainers. They either try to sand her down, or she runs circles around their expectations until they quit.”

“So you figured I’d what, scowl her into submission?”

“I figured you’d recognize what she is.”

I frowned. “And what’s that?”

Yamabe’s voice dropped, quieter now.

“Another miracle waiting for hope.”

I didn’t say anything. I let the words hang there like the secondhand smoke curling from my fingers.

Gold Ship stood again, dusting off her thighs. “All right! Pebble’s bored now. So what are we doing, new guy? Hit me.”

I glanced at her. “What do you usually do this time of day?”

She grinned. “Make people uncomfortable.”

“Off to a great start, then.”

That only made her grin wider. “You’re fun.”

Yamabe cleared his throat. “I’ll let you two get acquainted. Got some calls to make. Try not to traumatize each other while I’m gone.”

“You’re leaving?” I asked, already regretting the answer.

He was already walking backwards, throwing finger guns like an insurance mascot. “You’ll be fine! You always were!”

Then he vanished around the corner, whistling something suspiciously close to Ride of the Valkyries.

I turned back to Gold Ship.

She saluted me. “So, old man! What’s first on the menu? Interrogation? Trust fall? Reverse sky diving?”

I looked at her for a long while, then reached into my pocket and pulled out a pen and a tiny spiral notebook—racing forms on one side, blank grid on the other. The same one I’d used to log splits and sector times back when I still thought data could outpace disaster.

“First,” I said, flipping to a clean page, “you’re going to run a time trial.”

She pumped her fist like I’d just handed her a bazooka.

“Hell to the yeah! …Do I get a head start?”

“No.”

“A handicap?”

“No.”

“A motivational playlist?”

“No.”

She paused, then grinned again. “You are gonna be so much fun.”

I watched her jog off to the start line… if you could call what she did “jogging.” It was more of a gallop-shuffle-pogo hybrid. Her hair bounced like it was on a different tempo than her body.

I sighed, flicked ash onto the gravel, and wrote the time in the corner of the page.

14:07.

If nothing else, it was gonna be a memorable day. Maybe even a disaster. But I’d lived through worse.

Probably.

Chapter Text

Speed isn’t rare. Not anymore.

Hell, these days it’s practically mass-produced, prepackaged with a protein shake and a six-month sponsorship deal.

What really matters is how you hold it when your lungs feel like glass and the finish line starts to drift sideways. That’s when the truth would show up.

That’s when the mask slips.

So I watched her run.

Again. And again.

And again.

And honestly?

I think Yamabe really was full of shit.

[14:15 JST] — TRACEN CENTRAL TRACK, EAST BLEACHERS — SUPER-16

24fps · 180° shutter · Lens 35mm wide; natural light · Handheld; rack-focus on stride

There was nothing special about her. Least not from what I saw that day. She ran like all the others. Form was textbook. A little too textbook, actually. Her arms moved fine. Stride opened up well. She was fast, sure, but I’d seen fast before.

For Gold Ship—she didn’t look like someone chasing anything. She just looked like someone killing time.

I jotted her first split. Twelve seconds flat over 100 meters. Not bad. Second split? Off by almost a full second. And that’s when I noticed it.

She was getting bored.

I narrowed my eyes and waited. Sure enough, third sector in, she broke rhythm entirely—mid-stride—and spun around in a full-body twist like she was moonwalking across the turf. She even shouted, “OLÉ!” for no goddamn reason. Who the hell does that? Then she dropped back into a gallop like nothing happened.

By the time she reached the final corner, she was alternating between high-knees and exaggerated goose-steps. Looked like a one-woman tribute to every track form violation ever recorded.

Yamabe stuck me with a variety show. And I, its unwilling host.

I looked down at my notepad. Then I wrote, in capital letters:
SPLIT 4: ???
DIAGNOSIS: SEND HELP

She jogged back over, grinning like she’d just found the cure to cancer.

“Sooooo? How’d I do, old man? Am I a prodigy yet? Or just stupid fast?”

“You’re stupid something, all right…”

She cupped a hand to her cheek. “Oho! What’s this? The trainer has a sense of humor?? Color me intrigued. What’s next? Am I doing hurdles blindfolded? Interdimensional sprints?”

“You’re doing it again,” I said flatly.

“Again?! Same route?” Her nose scrunched. “Laaaame. You just saw the performance of a lifetime! The turf weeps for an encore!”

I didn’t blink. “Four laps. Clean form. I want sector splits and recovery time. And this time, you don’t get to narrate your own biopic halfway through.”

She flopped backwards onto the turf like a freshly shot Shakespearean prince.

“Nooooooooo,” she groaned. “But the sun! The sun burns with the fury of a thousand chimichangas. I can already feel my soul getting flambéed by its harrowing gaze!”

I glanced at the sky.

It was cloudy.

“Four more,” I repeated. “Or I start asking you questions about your sleep cycle and dietary habits.”

She gasped. “You wouldn’t.”

I tapped my pen against the notebook.

She sighed dramatically. “Fine… But I’m adding my own sound effects. If you’re gonna push the Golshi Show into overtime, I gotta handle the dubbing myself.”

“Just get your damn laps in,” I growled.

She gave an exaggerated salute, complete with a crisp heel-click.

This time, when she lined up, her stance was different. Shoulders squared, back straight, a slight forward lean without tipping into impatience. I tapped the pen against my notebook before realizing what I was doing.

She kicked off.

The start was clean. A fluid motion instead of a lunge. There were no fake moonwalks or mid-stride pirouettes or whatever bullshit theatrics this time.

First sector flashed by. I checked the watch.

11.75 seconds.

I squinted at the dial. Interesting.

Sector two. Arms relaxed, elbows at the right angle, not that self-conscious textbook crap she’d shown earlier. She sailed past the marker.

11.63 seconds. Faster than her first split.

Her hair streamed behind her like brushed aluminum. Each stride landed precise with nothing wasted. Then the third split:

11.42 seconds. She still hadn’t faltered.

Gold Ship rounded the final corner, moving so fluidly she barely seemed to touch the ground at all. See, any trained idiot could be fast, but it was how she carried herself with that mix of ease and power that told you she had gears left unused. I’d seen it before, in the kinds of racers who made other trainers lose sleep.

Fourth split: 11.00 flat.

She crossed the finish line without a flourish this time, just a smooth deceleration, easing into a jog before coming to rest in front of me, breathing steadily and no worse for wear.

“So,” she puffed lightly, eyes sparkling despite the cloud cover. “You entertained yet?”

My mouth flattened into a line, but I couldn’t help the small nod. “So you can run.”

She puffed once, hands on her hips. “Pfft. Well, duh. That’s like… the whole point? Of course I can. You’re lucky I only used, like, two percent of my power. Any more and I’d be worried about the backwash sending you flying.”

“Shut up and walk it off,” I muttered. “If you cramp now, I’m not hauling your ass to the infirmary.”

Then the sound came, one I’d been waiting to hear ever since I stepped foot inside that place.

The bell rang. Official school hours over. Thank whatever gods still tolerated me.

Gold Ship’s ears twitched. “Ope. There’s the buzzer. The Golshi Show is officially off-air. Time to recharge the ol’ batteries.”

“Good. See you tomorrow,” I said, walking off.

“A-a-ah!”

I stopped. Not sure why. I didn’t need to.

She jogged up beside me, still lightly winded but annoyingly full of steam. “And just where do you think you’re going, old man?”

“Anywhere you’re not. We’re done for today.”

“Au contraire, mon frère.” She threw an arm around my shoulders like we were high school buddies about to skip fifth period. “I don’t think you and I are finished quite yet.”

I ducked out from under her grip. “Whatever it is, just leave me out of it. If your batteries need recharging, mine need replacing.”

“Exactly!” she chirped, now walking backwards in front of me. “And I know just the place where we can do both! Two birds with one stone. One cafeteria, two starving weirdos.”

“No.”

“Y’sure? The grub’s good.”

“Still no.”

She gasped like I’d kicked a puppy. “You’re really gonna make poor Golshi eat alone? Wither away under the cruel cafeteria lights and… gods forbid—PEOPLE?!”

“You’ll live.”

She leaned in, hands on her cheeks. “They’ve got those yakisoba sandwiches again. You know. The ones that taste like someone got nostalgic in a bad way…?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Yeah, right. That’s what they all say… right before they fall to the ancient curse of One More Bite.” She folded her arms, smug. “Besides, what else you got goin’ on? Actually, no—lemme guess: solo dinner, discount cigarettes, and staring into the middle distance until your coffee brews itself out of pure empathy?”

I stopped walking.

She grinned. “Thought so.”

I sighed, long and heavy.

“One sandwich.” I held my finger up. “Just one. Then I’m gone.”

“Yes!” she pumped her fist, then spun dramatically on her heel. “Next destination: Golshi Café!”

“It’s not your café.”

“Well, exsqueeze me, but I happen to have a loyalty card. Check it.”

She took the card out of her pocket… even though her tracksuit didn’t have any.

I gave it a long, hard look.

“…You made that with crayons.”

“And yet, they honor it.” She tucked it back into the void. “Funny how that works.”

She took off down the path in some sort of power-stride skip, as if walking like a normal person would void her warranty. I just watched her go.

The sun finally broke through the clouds. Just enough to make the gravel blink.

I really could’ve just left. Should’ve, probably.

But I didn’t.

Because something about the way she’d said “you and I” stuck to my ribs.

Damn it.

Tracen Academy’s cafeteria hadn’t changed. Still smelled like wet laminate and microwave residue. One corner, you got long communal tables lined up like military bunks. In the other, chairs crooked from generations of adolescent aggression. It was exactly the same as I remembered it.

Gold Ship plowed ahead like she owned the place. And if that “loyalty card” of hers is anything to go by—she didn’t.

“Table by the window!” she hollered, throwing a finger in the air like some war general. “We shall plot our territory here!”

She spun into the seat with a flourish, sending her tray clattering. I followed slower. Sat down. Set the lone sandwich and paper cup on the table as every one of my joints made a new noise. Theme song of my life.

She was in uniform now. I blinked.

“Were you always wearing that?”

“Nope!” she chirped, already halfway through one of those carrot steaks I never liked. “Quick-change in the hallway. You were too busy brooding to notice.”

I grunted.

She pointed a bent plastic spork at me. “Classic mistake, by the way. You never drop your guard around a performance artist. We strike while the iron is hot.”

“I’ll add it to the survival manual.”

She waggled her eyebrows and did a slow, unnecessary sip of her cafeteria juice box, eyes locked with mine like she was daring me to flinch. I stared at her tray. Couldn’t tell if the noodles were steaming or just exuding shame. One of the cherry tomatoes looked like it was trying to escape.

“So,” I said, picking at the edge of my sleeve. “Tell me what happened to the last guy.”

She kept chewing. Then swallowed.

“Last guy?”

“Trainer,” I clarified. “The one before me.”

Her expression didn’t change, but her chewing slowed. She leaned back, chair creaking, and let the spork hover midair.

“Ohhh, him.”

“Yeah. Him.”

She looked out the window for a little bit. There was nothing to see but the sports field, half trampled and fading into afternoon haze.

“Well,” she said, drawing it out like she was searching for the least legally actionable insult. “He was… nice. Polite. Bit too namaste, y’know? He had this whole wellness routine where we did guided stretches and drank morning protein smoothies with flax. He tried to get us doing group affirmations before practice. Said it’d ‘align our race chakras’ or something.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“Aaand I kinda replaced his green supplement powder with wasabi.”

“Why.”

“Science,” she said brightly. “At least, that’s what Tachyon said.”

“…Who?”

“You know—Tachyon. One of the other girls on our team?” Her voice pitched up like she was trying to throw a rope across a canyon.

“Team?” I repeated, slower.

Her whole body tensed. She froze mid-spork. “Wait. Did… Did Yamabe not tell you?”

I raised a single eyebrow at her.

“Oh. Oh no,” she muttered, voice going up an octave and an octave again. “Oh no-no-no-no-no, this is like that time I accidentally sent Mac my sleep paralysis drawing of Rudolf. Wait, maybe it’s not that bad. I mean—uh—surprise! You’re not just babysitting me, old man! You’ve got a whole batch of talented Umamusume waiting for their new tactical shepherd!”

I didn’t like where this was going.

“How. Many.”

“Uhhh,” she tapped her spork against her temple like it’d summon a number. “Five? Six? Plus me. Ish.”

“Ish.”

“Some of ‘em rotate in and out. Like guest stars. But the core cast?” She flared her arms wide. “We’re Team Astrum…! For now. Everyone else picked fancy star names but we never got around to it. We’re still workshopping that bit.”

A bread roll bailed off her tray mid-gesture. She didn’t notice.

“Anyway—don’t sweat it! Most of the team can handle themselves. Like… Sakura Bakushin O! She’s our sprinter-slash-safety hazard. Runs like a missile and shouts like one too. Every warm-up turns into an accidental demolition derby.”

“And that’s supposed to reassure me?”

“She’s got spirit!”

I squinted.

“…Go on.”

“Right, okay. So there’s Tachyon, who I mentioned earlier. Agnes Tachyon. She’s basically our entire science department. You know, does experiments and stuff… Keeps trying to make a clone of herself or whatever—you’d like her! She once built a combustion engine out of cafeteria trays. Everyone had to evacuate the gym.”

I winced. “Why would I like that?”

“You just got the vibes,” she said with all the confidence of someone making shit up mid-sentence. “Then we’ve got Biwa Hayahide. Basically a walking spreadsheet. She runs race sims for fun—not the one with the wheel and pedals. She also ate a whole banana in five seconds. Wanna know who timed it?”

“No. Anyone else?”

“Rice Shower is our sneaky one. She’s kinda timid, thinks she’s a bad omen, and just compact enough to be carried in a shopping basket. But she’s got serious legs on the track—I’m talking like, bam-bam-bam, y’know?”

I was beginning to regret this sandwich.

“And last but not least, Maruzen! …sky. Maruzensky.” she blurted, like the name had been buffering mid-sentence. “Very stylish. Car girl. Real cool. Fashion-forward. She kind of adopted me as a ‘project’ at one point and now she keeps trying to get me into toner.”

“You mean the engine kind or the skincare kind.”

“Both, actually. She says it makes me more ‘hip.’”

I slowly set my sandwich back down. Across the table, Gold Ship smiled. Big and innocent.

“So, there ya have it!” she chirped. “There’s your Tracen Academy exposition dump for the day. Hope you were taking notes!”

I just looked at her. She double finger-gunned me like that would fix the structural damage.

“And hey—silver lining? We could do a group huddle tomorrow! Team Astrum, full cast reunion. You meet everyone at once, knock it out like a speed-date. Efficient, right? Break the ice. Build morale. Maybe bring some snacks?”

“I’m bringing my last rites, that’s for damn sure.”

“Oh, don’t be like that… They’re not that bad.” She leaned forward on her elbows, voice slipping half a register. “I mean, look at it this way… you already faced the worst of it today.”

“Not sure if you mean you or the sandwich.”

“Yes.”

I ran a hand down my face. I thought about the fact that I was expected to manage a full team of Uma celebrities with no license and a forged name tag that still smelled like Yamabe’s printer ink. Outside the window, the sun finally gave up and dipped behind the gym roof. A pair of students sprinted past with someone’s hat held overhead like a trophy. No one screamed, but that was probably normal.

Gold Ship took another bite of her carrot steak. I watched her for a moment. Her shoulders were still pitched forward, still animated, still putting on the Golshi Show for whatever invisible camera crew she had following her around. But the volume had dipped. That reckless broadcast energy? It’d dimmed for a second there.

I cleared my throat, scratched the edge of my stubble.

“So… what’s this big race coming up?”

Her chewing paused. Just briefly. Then resumed like she was replaying a tape.

“The Constellation Cup,” she said around a mouthful. “It's kind of a new thing, actually. Internal circuit, academy-hosted. Six races with one runner per race, no relays. Team with the most points takes the whole match.”

I squinted. “The hell is that? Some kinda dodgeball tournament?”

She stabbed her tray with a fork. “Pretty much. Just with more running and less throwing… Probably.”

“And how long has this been a thing?”

“Since… recently, actually,” she offered, way too casual. “Some board member wanted a 'team showcase format’ or whatever. Said it promotes group cohesion and competitive flexibility. I think someone in Tracen just watched one too many karate movies.”

I grunted. “So it’s a gimmick.”

“Yeah, but a gimmick with consequences.” She held a finger up. “Wanna know the really fun part?”

“No.”

She ignored me. “It lines up perfectly with our probation period.”

“Your what now?”

“Our probation~!!” she chirped, like that wasn’t a horrifying sentence. “Team Astrum got, uh… unofficially demoted last season. Some ‘performance inconsistencies.’ You don't need the deets.”

I slowly set my sandwich down.

“So the team’s on thin ice,” I said flatly.

“Thinner than rice paper in a monsoon,” she confirmed, unbothered. “We got one shot to prove we still got it. If we win four of the six races, the band stays together. We keep our training privileges. And we keep the team name.”

“And if you don’t get four?”

She shrugged. “We get reassigned. Split up. Bye-bye Astrum, hello generic placement. Might end up in Team Dubhe.” Her face twisted. “And between you and me, I reeeeally don't wanna be there. Name sounds too goofy, even for me.”

“Sounds like a shitty deal.”

She gasped. “Language! …But also yeah. That’s why it’s all-or-nothing. We gotta lock in, old man. Otherwise?” She made an explosion sound and mimed a mushroom cloud over her head. “We can kiss the Golshi Show goodbye.”

I leaned back, let the cafeteria hum settle in.

“And they expect you all to just handle that?”

“Nope,” she said, leveling her spork like it was a sword. “They expect you to get us there.”

I stared at her.

She grinned, then flicked a grain of rice off the table. “But hey! No pressure or anything. It’s only being live-streamed across four platforms. Maybe five now. Depends if Tachyon and Shakur figure out how to hijack the drone feed.”

I scoffed. “Didn’t know they let academy races turn into pay-per-view events.”

She tilted her head. “…Pay-per-view? No—dude, it’s free. You can just watch it on the Internet.”

“Well I can’t. I don’t have an internet.”

“…What do you mean you don’t have an Internet.”

“I mean I don’t own one. The internet. Never subscribed.”

“That’s not… That’s not how that works, old man.”

“It’s not?” I frowned. “I figured it was like a water bill. You know, you pay a flat rate and they beam you emails, like dial-up or whatever. Isn’t that how that works?”

She dropped her spork. It bounced off the tray and landed with a sad, plasticky thunk—one of those rare times when she had absolutely nothing to say.

I moved on. Took a sip from my paper cup. It was lukewarm now, just like my tolerance.

“So… this Constellation thing,” I said, voice flat. “What distance we talking?”

She leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Well, it’s a six-stage setup. Soooo… One race per day, different distance each time. You got a sprint, mile, mid-distance, long-distance, dirt, and then another mid to close it out. Like a sandwich with way too much endurance in the middle.”

“Jesus, okay… And how long do you have to train?”

She popped a cherry tomato in her mouth. “Three weeks.”

I stared at her. “Three.”

She held up three fingers. “Uno, dos, tre—yep. Three.”

“And you’re not sure.”

“Well… it’s one race per day. So if you think about it…” She trailed off, clearly hoping math would finish the sentence for her. “Tachyon says time is a man-made construct. Maybe training is, too.”

“Let’s set the record straight here. You’ve got six girls—assuming they all stay upright—prepping for six wildly different events, some on surfaces half of ‘em barely train on, with zero margin for recovery or recalibration… and I’ve got three goddamn weeks to make that work.”

She tapped the table with one finger. “Again—language.”

I ignored it. “Tell me you realize how insane that is.”

She picked at a glob of sauce on her tray with the corner of her spork.

“…Look,” she said finally. “Even if you weren’t here, we were all gonna have to run it anyway.”

Her jaw tightened for half a second.

“With or without a proper trainer…”

That part didn’t seem performative. I leaned back in my chair, let the plastic groan beneath me.

“So Yamabe’s only brought me in to patch the holes,” I muttered.

“Pretty much.” She shrugged. “But hey. Could be worse. Could’ve left it all to Tachyon. She once tried to do nutrition planning with a Ouija board… It almost worked.”

She meant it as a joke. At least, I think. It’s hard to tell with how crazy my day had been so far.

I took a proper look at her this time. She was still in that uniform. Hair a little mussed. Fingertips stained orange from whatever mystery glaze coated the tray’s sad excuse for vegetables. She looked like every mess I’d ever trained… Except she had something different about her. Hard to name. Even harder to describe. But I’d reckon I’d get to that later.

For now, I got three weeks, no budget, a forged license, and a whole team I hadn’t met yet with one wildcard in front of me chewing carrot steak. But hey, what else have I got to lose?

So I reached for my notebook.

“You got your individual schedule memorized?” I asked.

“…You’re not quitting?” she asked, squinting like it offended her.

“I said get your schedule,” I repeated, flipping to a fresh page. “We’re starting tomorrow. You can clown around on your own time. But I want full splits by lunch.”

She stared at me. Then a grin cracked across her face like a sunrise with bad intentions.

“Aw, old man… you really do care.”

“I care about not being humiliated by a bunch of schoolgirls and their designer hydration plans.”

“Sure, sure,” she hummed, winking, already digging into her tray again. “But I’m logging that. That was like… half an emotional moment. We’ll build on it.”

Outside, the clouds had started to break just barely. A little strip of sun cut across the field, bright enough to bounce off the window and catch the corner of her tray.

I wrote a time in the notebook.

Then turned to a blank page.

“See ya tomorrow, old man!”

Gold Ship shouted over her shoulder as she zipped off to the Ritto dorm in one of those ridiculous electric scooters. I watched her go, trailing noise and bravado like exhaust. Those things didn’t exist back then. Back then we either walked… Or we didn’t go.

The lot was quiet now. Real quiet. Most of the staff had already cleared out, lights shuttered across the upper floors. I made my way back to the Fairlady, keys already in hand.

The moon was out in full force now. It gave the gravel lot just enough definition to make me regret the walk. I let the day catch up in my head.

Twelve hours ago, I was arguing with a prefab office manager about severance pay. Now I had a forged identity, a clipboard full of liability, and a problem child who moonwalked mid-race and somehow made it work.

Hell of a commute.

I reached the car. Stared at it a moment. But just as I held the door handle—

“So… how was school~?”

I turned slowly, half-hoping to just have a stroke right then and there. Yamabe stood off the curb, same damn grin as earlier. Hands in pockets, posture too casual like he was starring in a sitcom for men who commit tax fraud on the regular.

“You’re still here,” I muttered. “They extend your parole?”

“Me? Nah,” he shrugged. “Just came to check in. Share a little moment of male bonding under the stars.” He pointed rapidly between the two of us like he was presenting a talk show segment. “Mentor to mentor.”

“You are not a mentor.”

“Sure I am. I mentored you back into being a functional adult.”

“Tch. Asshole…”

I leaned against the driver’s side door. The metal gave a faint creak in the quarter panel. I fished out a cigarette and lit it, slow. No one left around to care. No rules left I felt like pretending to follow.

Silence settled in again, the kind that made you think maybe, just maybe, he’d leave. No such luck here.

“…So. How’s the girl?” he asked eventually.

“…You didn’t tell me she came with a whole goddamn team.”

“Right… Well…” He scratched the back of his neck, doing that fake-thoughtful crap like he was calculating the odds of me punching him. “If I told you upfront, you would’ve bolted. I needed to… ease you in. Besides, Gold Ship’s the problem child. Everyone else? Manageable. Hell, Team Astrum was practically top-tier until the last guy left.”

I didn’t question. I didn’t argue. Mostly because I was already running on fumes and nicotine by that point. The silence settled again, this time with some weight to it. I took another drag.

“…She’s not half bad,” I said. “That’s all I’ve gotta say.”

Yamabe perked up like I’d just confessed a crush. “Ooooooh, mystery man~ A strange and exotic trainer appears from the ashes… What secrets does he hold? What grudges does he bear?” He wiggled his fingers like he was casting a spell.

I shook my head, taking another drag.

Then he clapped his hands, all false cheer again. “Well, if you don’t got no other complaints… I’ll be off, then. Got a late dinner and an early crime to ignore.”

He started walking, shoes crunching gravel. Whistling something I hadn’t heard since the last time cassette tapes were relevant.

Then he stopped. Half-turned. Finger up like he was about to shout eureka.

“Oh,” he added. “Before I forget…” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope.

“Catch.”

I snagged it out of the air, mostly by instinct. Still warm from his body heat, the paper felt cheap and creased at the corners, sealed with a reused piece of tape. No label. No note. I thumbed the edge open, just enough to see the color. Yen bills. Fanned and folded tight. Tens, twenties, and a few stiff hundreds peeking out. It wasn’t enough to solve my life, but it was definitely enough to keep it limping forward for a little longer. Rent for the month. Tank of gas. Maybe a meal that didn’t come vacuum-packed for once.

Yamabe grinned like he’d just donated to a church. “A little signing bonus. Consider it… hazard pay in advance. Or hush money, if that’s more your speed.”

I stared at it for a second longer than I meant to. Didn’t ask where it came from. Didn’t really want to know. He saw me hesitate. Then he grinned.

“Don’t worry. It’s clean. Well—clean enough. Came from a side job that technically doesn’t exist. So let’s just say the provenance is… interpretive.”

I threw the envelope inside the car. No questions.

“You always knew how to time shit,” I muttered.

He gave me a mock bow. “What can I say? I’m your fairy godmother.”

Then he turned back around and started walking again, slow and whistling, like the scene had wrapped and he was heading off set. Just before he vanished behind the corner of the admin building, he tossed a final line over his shoulder.

“Don’t spend it all on imported booze, yeah? The exchange rate’s shit these days!”

I stood there a little while longer. Then I opened the car door, dropped into the driver’s seat like my bones had clocked out before I did, and started the engine. The Fairlady coughed once, then settled into her low, familiar growl. Same as me.

I didn’t turn the radio on.

The quiet was doing just fine.

Chapter Text

[08:49 JST] — THIRD-FLOOR WALK-UP, KABUKICHŌ — SUPER-16 / SHALLOW DOF

24fps · ƒ/1.8 aperture · Lens 85mm close · Rack focus; color-timed warm (nicotine amber)

The next day was my first official one back in the saddle.

Six girls, one team, one forged name tag, and a migraine waiting to happen.

I figured I’d at least try to look presentable. Y’know, really sell the idea that I’m not the guy sprinting from the taxmen like it’s the Yasuda Kinen.

So I pried open the closet, diving into the stale remains of yesterday’s Sapporo Premium. My fingertips scraped hangers for a while until I landed on it.

The shirt. The shirt.

Light pink, yellow palm trunks parading across the fabric like they’d misplaced the map to Waikiki. Why this one? Hell, why not?

Besides… she once told me that it made me look like a “Jimmy Buffett fresh out on bail.” Said it like she was pinning a medal on me.

Heh… Idiot.

So I yanked it free and slipped it on.

Because if I was going to haul six Umamusume back from the brink of disbandment, I might as well not look like a guy who fell asleep on the interstate. Everyone says you gotta look good on your first day, right?

The Z rolled into the lot a little too fast, nose dipping as I cut the wheel sharp into the same spot as yesterday. The engine gave that same tired whine it always did on deceleration. Was it belt tension? flywheel? Eh, who gives a shit. I stepped out slow. Morning light hit me full-on like a mugshot flashbulb. The sky was too clean and too blue, one of those mornings that makes hangovers feel real personal.

Then I saw it. Off to the side, parked just two spaces over.

A Lamborghini Countach. Cherry red finish. An LP400 from the looks of it. I stared.

The hell kinda pay do the staff get if they’re hauling that around campus? Last I checked, teacher salaries didn’t come with V12 Italian engineering.

The Z’s door gave a tired creak as I shut it. I gave her an apologetic pat on the roof.

“Don’t worry, girl… Least you’ve got class.”

I adjusted my shirt collar, pink fabric already sticking to the back of my neck, and started walking towards whatever fresh hell the day had lined up.

Come to think of it, I never actually did meet any of the staff yet. Yamabe didn’t count, of course. Son of a bitch could probably flirt his way past a guard dog—don’t ask how I’d know. I figured if anyone recognized me, they wouldn’t say. Been long enough, anyway. And the name badge said “Okano,” not “Itonaga.” So I kept my head low, hands shoved into my pockets. The less mingling I did, the better. That was the plan.

But plans tend to change the second you realize you know jack shit about where you’re going.

I stopped near the classrooms, trying to piece together the campus layout from what little I remembered. Same corridors. Still the same smell of damp floor wax and dreams barely clinging to their test scores. A group of Uma strolled past, bright-eyed like life hadn’t kicked ‘em in the throat yet. A couple of them gave me looks. Couldn’t tell if it was the shirt or the bags under my eyes.

I cleared my throat and flagged the nearest one down.

“Hey. You know where the room is for a, uh… Team Ashtray?”

“…What did you say?”

“Y’know,” I gestured vaguely, “Ashtray? Astro? Whatever they’re called. The one with the crazy girl.”

Her ears stiffened. Another Uma whispered something to her. They both stared, then walked faster.

…Okay. Maybe I got the name wrong.

I was about to double back towards the central track. Maybe if I retraced my steps, I could fake like I knew where I was headed. Just one long, aimless loop until something familiar showed up. So I kept walking.

And then I heard it.

“Excuse me.”

Didn’t sound like Gold Ship. Too controlled, no chaos in the tone. So I turned, fully prepared to get filed as a peeping tom.

She had a short gray bob. Steel posture. Probably student council, by the looks of her. The kind of kid who graded group projects solo and then filed a formal complaint if someone sneezed near the syllabus. She planted a hand on her hip.

“Are you Trainer Okano?” she asked, eyes narrower than my Z’s parking space back home.

“…Yeah. That’s me.”

“The president would like a word.”

I followed her down a side corridor to a wing I hadn’t stepped foot in for years. Didn’t need a sign to know where we were headed.

I remembered the one who used to run the office back then. She’d trained beside her a lot, was one of the few who could keep pace back when it actually meant something. They were practically glued together at the hip whenever they weren’t on the track. You couldn’t say one name without hearing the other in the echo.

The girl leading me hadn’t said a word the whole way. I didn’t mind. I wasn’t built for small talk either. Not anymore.

She reached the door, knocked once, then opened it without waiting.

There she was. Didn’t even need the nameplate.

You don’t forget a Symboli when you see one. Not if you’ve been around the circuit long enough. The bloodlines all run clean. They got the sharp bone structure, the gait like they’ve got a resume to protect, and that unnerving stillness when they size you up like a courtroom sketch.

She sat behind the desk, pen between her fingers, tapping against a closed file. Uniform spotless like it ironed itself out of fear.

Her gaze met mine, giving me this appraising look that said she probably already knew who I was but wondered why I smelled like cheap aftershave and Seven Stars.

“Trainer Okano…”

The girl who’d escorted me gave a short nod, then stepped aside like a chess piece resetting itself. I stepped in, letting the door click shut behind me.

“President,” I said, with just enough nod to be polite without committing to respect.

She gestured to the seat across from her. “Please. Have a seat.”

I took it. Chair was firmer than I expected. Real lumbar punishment type.

“I understand this is your first official day,” she said, folding her hands. Not a single finger out of line. “I’m Symboli Rudolf. I oversee all sanctioned trainer activity for the academy.”

Symboli Rudolf.

That explained it. Explained the controlled way she spoke, the subtle way she moved like every breath had been budgeted.

Yep. Called it. High five, brain.

She set the pen down, lining it up parallel to the folder’s edge. Her eyes stayed locked onto mine like twin sniper scopes.

“I’d like to start by apologizing,” she said, tone even, “for the rather abrupt nature of the responsibilities placed on you. I understand it’s… less than ideal.”

“Three weeks,” I said, leaning back just enough to hear the chair groan, “to get a bunch of celebrities race-ready for a team cup. Not exactly a regular Tuesday.”

She smiled. At least, I think she did?

“The Constellation Cup represents something of a new direction,” she continued. “An attempt to encourage team unity, public engagement, and, frankly, higher ratings. Unfortunately, the timing coincided with some internal turbulence.”

“Meaning Astrum getting put on thin ice,” I said, not interested in dancing around the point. Least I got the name right this time.

Her eyebrow twitched just a hair, just enough to tell me she wasn’t expecting bluntness at 9:15 in the morning.

“Indeed,” she conceded. “Team Astrum is a… special case. Its members all have great potential, but their track record has been notably inconsistent as of late. And with their recent trainer stepping away, we found ourselves without many options.”

“Stepping away, huh?” I echoed, eyebrow raised. “Interesting phrasing… You sure it wasn’t more like running away?”

She paused again, probably recalibrating her impression of me.

“The situation is somewhat complicated,” she admitted. “I believe ‘creative differences’ was the official reason given, though I’m inclined to suspect it was something involving… avians.”

“And one Gold Ship,” I guessed, deadpan.

“Correct. I take it you’ve already met?”

“Yeah. Spent half of yesterday getting my first taste of the ‘Golshi Show.’ Still trying to figure out what her deal is.”

“You learn to get used to it.” Her tone softened slightly, now less like I’d been summoned for jury duty. “I won’t pretend this assignment isn’t difficult. You’ve inherited a collection of talented but complex individuals. Each with her own… quirks.”

“Well that’s one way to put it.”

She inclined her head. “But if Yamabe-san is to be believed—and, despite appearances, he often is—you are perhaps uniquely suited to the task.”

I laughed once, dry as old newspaper. “If by ‘uniquely suited’ you mean ‘desperate to not get kicked out of his apartment,’ then yeah. You got your man.”

She regarded me silently for a moment, probably deciding whether I was genuine or just being difficult for sport.

“I have read your file,” she finally said. “So I know enough to see why Yamabe-san thought this could work.”

“Yeah?” I said. “And what’s that reason?”

“Because,” she answered, her gaze steady and clear, “you know precisely what happens when potential goes unchecked. Talent alone never wins races, Okano-sensei. Discipline does. Strategy does. And frankly—someone who refuses to sugarcoat reality does.”

“So you’re telling me I’m supposed to scare a group of entitled misfits straight?”

“Whatever your methods are,” Rudolf said calmly, “the goal is to give them something to run toward. Something they believe is worth reaching… even if it hurts.”

For the first time since I’d walked in, I saw something else in her expression, a shadow of genuine belief buried under layers of neutrality.

“You’re asking a lot for three weeks,” I said quietly.

“Yes,” she replied simply. “Because this isn’t merely about team survival. This is about whether those girls choose to believe they are worth the effort. They’ve seen enough trainers walk away.” She paused, letting the unsaid hang in the air. “Do not let yourself be one of them.”

I looked at her. Just enough for my face to shift.

Then the bell rang, echoing into the room. Rudolf glanced briefly at the wall clock then stood.

“Your team will be expecting you,” she said, holding out a thin file. “Take this. It has their training schedules. Room numbers. Dietary habits. Everything you’ll need.”

I took it. “…Any survival tips?”

She raised one delicate eyebrow, cool amusement slipping through her façade.

“Don’t underestimate them,” she advised. “Especially the one who looks least concerned.”

I just sighed and nodded.

She stepped around the desk, opening the door. “Good luck, Okano-san. For all our sakes.”

I stood, felt my joints protest quietly, and met her eyes once more before leaving.

“Thanks, president.”

She inclined her head gracefully. “Please—call me Rudolf.”

“Sure thing, Rudolf.”

Then I stepped out into the hallway, file in hand, the weight of expectation pressing against my spine. Yamabe’s still an asshole and a half, but I’ll give him this—he builds a damn good lie around the one truth that matters.

Somewhere out there, Gold Ship was probably doing the macarena on someone else’s last nerve. I remembered the school motto, which was plastered on Rudolf’s office:

“Eclipse first, the rest nowhere.”

Yeah… We’ll see about that.

Some time later, I was standing in front of a door I didn’t particularly want to open.

Team Room 3B. Technically part of the old athletics annex, wedged between a disused weight room and what I was pretty sure used to be a broom closet. Now it smelled like history someone tried to Febreze out of existence.

I’d already flipped through the file Rudolf handed me earlier. Most of it read like someone trying to make raw potential sound presentable without admitting it scared them. But the common thread? Skill.

They were all good. Shit, they were better than good.

You had Hayahide with her simulation notebooks thicker than most instruction manuals. Maruzensky with both style and speed. Tachyon, the R&D department with legs. Rice Shower, quiet but clocked killshot finishes. Bakushin O, if you could harness her without blowing the fuse box.

And Gold Ship? Well… don’t really need to explain that one, do I?

Bottom line is—the president was right. They all had it.

So why the hell were they circling the drain? Why was a team this good barely holding itself together?

Whatever happened, it didn’t start with bad times. That’s not how breakage works. It starts with something small. One trainer burns out. A meeting goes south. Trust takes a backseat. And by the time anyone notices, the rot’s already halfway to the foundations.

I shut the file. Straightened my shirt. Then pushed the door open.

Voices spilled out immediately. But one cut above the rest, theatrical and unburdened by dignity. No mistaking that one.

“—so anyway, I told her, ‘Chatter? I hardly know her!’”

The talking didn’t stop right away. But the second I stepped past the halfway mark, the exact moment my shoe squeaked against that patch of old tile like a gun cocking—

Silence.

All heads turned.

Well. All three of them, anyway.

Gold Ship was mid-pose on a folding chair, one foot tucked under her thigh like she was trying to domesticate it. Across from her sat Tachyon, nose deep in one of those fancy big Apples. And next to her was Maruzensky, legs crossed, sipping something from a branded thermos like she was between takes on a skincare commercial. They were already in their tracksuits, so that’s a start.

“Look alive, girls,” Gold Ship’s ears flickered. “The big cheese’s here.”

They all stared at me. I stared back, unimpressed.

“…I thought there were six of you?”

She gave me the smile of someone who’d just remembered she left the oven on. “Yeeeeah, about that… The rest of the squad’s out on a snack run. Should be back in a few minutes… Give or take.”

“We were out of salt,” Tachyon said, as if that explained everything. “Critical mineral depletion compromises team integrity.”

Maruzensky smiled politely. “Hayahide said it was a low-sodium emergency. Rice tagged along to help her carry things.”

I glanced at the clock on the wall. The minute hand hadn’t moved since I walked in. I already hated it.

Gold Ship stretched both arms above her head and grinned. “Hey, I offered to go too, but they said I’d scare the cashier with my good looks. Also—nice shirt, by the way.”

Maruzensky leaned forward in her seat, eyes lit up like she’d just spotted a limited-edition vinyl. “Right? It’s totally rad! ☆ Where’d you get that? Vintage thrift? Trip to the Bahamas?”

“My closet,” I muttered.

She frowned.

I stepped forward, ignoring the way the room still smelled faintly of plastic vinyl. The whiteboard on the wall had been wiped so many times it looked like a ghost was trying to claw its way out. A paper with some half-faded team slogan hung crookedly above it: ASTRUM RISES.

Someone had drawn devil horns on the ‘S’.

“All right,” I said, dragging a chair out from the wall and planting myself in it. “Let’s get the introductions out of the way.”

I let the folder fall flat on the nearest table.

“Name’s Kazuya Okano. But you don’t call me ‘Okano-san,’ or ‘Uncle Kaz,’ or any of that kawaii bullshit you think’ll win you points. Around here, you call me ‘Sensei.’ Is that understood?”

Tachyon didn’t look up from her Apple. Just raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so he’s that kind of trainer…”

“I heard that.”

Maruzensky swirled her drink. “Sensei, huh? If I knew authority came in palm trees and dad cologne, I’d have shown up earlier. ♪”

“This shirt’s probably older than you,” I muttered. “And I’m not here to entertain your fashion commentary.”

Gold Ship leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “So what are you here for, then, Sensei? Life coaching? Stretching tutorials? Or are you gonna teach us how to bench-press your emotional baggage?”

“You’d throw your backs out on the warm-up set.”

That shut her up.

I stood up and tapped the folder on the table. “Listen up. You’ve got three weeks. Three weeks to pull yourselves together and survive this Constellation Cup.”

The room stilled. Even Tachyon paused her scrolling.

“You already know this,” I continued, “but the Cup isn’t just some experimental format dreamed up by the bigwigs in a Sunday afternoon. It’s a public crucible. Six races. Six different distances. One Umamusume per race. First team to win four walks away with their name intact.”

I folded my arms together. “Anything less than four…”

I let the sentence hang.

Gold Ship let out a soft “pew” sound, like she was miming a sniper round to the dome. Maruzensky shifted in her seat. The air shifted with her.

Then Tachyon spoke. Her tone was flat, but sharper than it had any right to be.

“And do you think you can fix us in three weeks?”

She looked up from the Apple now, eyes meeting mine without any trace of deflection. “What makes you different from our last trainers?”

I glanced at the busted whiteboard, where the slogan still clung on like a dry joke.

ASTRUM RISES

Yeah. Sure it does.

“I’m not here to fix you,” I said eventually, pacing around the room. “Fixing implies you’re broken. But what you are is fragmented. Out of sync. Too many sharp edges facing the wrong direction.”

I pointed lazily at Tachyon. “Science girl. You’re running this team like it’s a lab project. Problem is, people aren’t formulas—they talk back.”

She narrowed her eyes slightly but didn’t argue.

“You.” I turned to Maruzensky. “You’ve got the skill and you can walk the talk. You just need someone with half a brain who won’t bullshit you with ‘race chakras.’”

Her lips parted, maybe to object. She didn’t.

“And you,” I said, eyes resting on Gold Ship. “You got enough raw power to scare half the circuit. But you waste it dicking around like you’ve got all the time in the world.”

She blinked. Didn’t even grin. That was new.

“You all know how to run. That’s not the issue. You just don’t know how to run together. Don’t trust each other. Don’t trust yourselves. Don’t even know if you should… And I don’t blame you.”

I circled back to the desk, tapping the file again.

“But here’s the thing,” I continued, voice low. “I don’t give a shit about whatever your last trainers said. I’m not here to stroke your egos or print inspirational slogans on your protein shakers. All right? I’m here to make sure that when you’re at the starting gate, you don’t implode before the gun goes off.”

Tachyon was quiet now. The glowing rectangle in her lap dimmed, finally forgotten. Maruzensky stilled. Gold Ship… well, she was a bit more silent than usual.

“Look, I’m not a miracle worker, all right?” I went on. “But I know how to train winners. I’ve done it before. And if you let me do it now—if you give me just enough discipline to stop you from getting yourselves killed—I’ll make damn sure Astrum doesn’t go out with a whimper.”

Silence.

I sat back down and scooped the file back up.

“Now. When the others get back, I want full attendance. Team briefing. No snacks, no circus tricks. We start conditioning drills in the afternoon. Then we test all six of you by the end of next week. Got it?”

Still silence. I didn’t need it to last.

“I said—DO YOU GOT IT?!”

They all straightened up. Tachyon jumped slightly. Maruzensky nearly dropped her thermos.

Then, in unison:

“Yes, Sensei!”

I nodded. Just once.

“…Good.”

And then, of course—because the universe has a sense of timing that could only be described as ‘Golshi-adjacent’—

The door blasted open hard enough to trigger a seismometer somewhere.

“BAKUSHIIIN!!!”

Sakura Bakushin O burst into the room, arms overloaded with plastic bags and energy bars spilling like loose ammo.

“The snack patrol has returned!” she crowed, grinning so wide her gums showed.

Behind her trudged Biwa Hayahide, carrying a bulk pack of energy drinks, two bento boxes, and what looked like a full roll of aluminum foil. Rice Shower followed like a trailing shadow, quietly holding a single convenience store bag like it had divorce paperwork inside.

Gold Ship stood, completely serious. “Snack-based reinforcements have arrived, sir.”

Bakushin O beamed at the three seated girls, then clocked me. Her smile didn’t fade. Hell, somehow it got louder.

“Oho!” she chirped. “You must be the new trainer! I’m Bakushin O—resident class rep and snack reconnaissance specialist! We brought salt and gummy bears! …And also one suspicious energy drink that might cause hallucinations.”

Somewhere in the chaos, Hayahide set the drinks down and muttered, “We’ve yet to even finish the full list…”

And just like that… Team Astrum was complete.

Gods help us all.

Lunch went by in a jiffy. Tracen’s cafeteria wasn’t winning any awards, but if you were starving and not picky, the food hit just fine. Even the spicy curry with its suspiciously uniform potato cubes had its charm when you hadn’t had a full meal since yesterday.

Now? Now we were back where it counted.

I led Astrum out to the central track. Made sure they had enough time to digest before I put them through anything serious. I sure as hell wasn’t about to become the guy who got his team on the evening news for synchronized vomiting.

They lined up without me asking. Six girls, standing in loose formation like they’d been summoned to a court martial. Hands clasped behind backs… Some better at hiding nerves than others.

Rice Shower looked like she wanted to melt into the nearest drainpipe. Hayahide’s glasses were doing that nervous-glare thing. Maruzensky adjusted her hair like it was a fashion shoot. And Gold Ship? I’ll leave that to your imagination.

I clapped the clipboard against my thigh.

“All right.”

Drew it out just long enough to put tension in their spines.

“First session. Conditioning.”

Gold Ship groaned. Tachyon audibly sighed.

I flipped open the clipboard, then started pacing in front of them. “We’re starting simple. Two laps at pace. Then sprint intervals. Then staggered endurance sets. I want to see your baselines before I even think about building custom drills.”

“Two laps?” Bakushin O lit up like I’d handed her a triple espresso. “Hah! That’s nothing!”

“Two laps at pace,” I said again. “I want control. Stride discipline. I want to see how you hold form when the adrenaline dies and the only thing left in the tank is your muscle memory.”

I stopped pacing.

“In order to be a finisher, you gotta run without showing off, without chasing the clock, without a cheer squad at the tape—what is the problem, Ms. Bakushin?”

I turned, sharp. She’d dropped into a karate stance like she was about to backfist the concept of self-restraint.

“Nothing, Sensei!” she said, instantly straightening up. “Just… hyping myself up! Posture readiness!”

“…Well stop that,” I muttered. “You’re not toddlers on a jungle gym.”

Gold Ship raised a hand, eyes sparkling. “Actually, Sensei, jungle gym toddlers have an incredible core-to-li—”

“QUIET!”

She clamped her mouth shut but smiled wider. Somewhere to the side, Rice Shower let out a tiny yelp. The kind of noise you’d expect from a cartoon mouse caught under a desk lamp.

“This ain’t P.E. class with some shithead yoga guru preaching about positive affirmations. This is conditioning. All right? This is the real world. You want your legs to listen on lap six, you start by teaching ‘em not to panic on lap two.”

Tachyon muttered, grinning, “Technically, panic response is centralized in the amyg—”

I shot her a look sharp enough to sterilize a lab bench.

She clammed up. “…dala.”

Her ears folded forward a notch. Subtle, but I clocked it. I turned, gesturing to the starting line.

“Everyone line up. Standard formation. No elbowing.”

Gold Ship put her hands up like she’d just been frisked. They settled into position, six shadows stretching ahead of them.

I gave a single nod. “Clock starts on my mark. You pace yourselves together or I pace you myself with a megaphone. You ladies ready?”

Gold Ship saluted. Maruzensky adjusted her collar. Rice clenched her fists like they were apology letters.

“And… Go!”

Shoes hit the track. Three pairs.

Let’s see what they’re made of.

Chapter Text

[16:12 JST] — TRACEN CENTRAL TRACK, EAST BLEACHERS — 16mm / KINETIC

24→48fps (overcrank) · 90° shutter · Lens 24mm wide; handheld dolly

By the time the sun got low enough, we’d burned through the sprints and into the endurance sets.

The turf was already giving off that baked‐rubber smell, with the heat coming up in slow waves. I stayed at the edge of the infield, letting my eyes run over each girl’s form. If someone was hiding a bum knee, a sore hip, or a muscle strain they thought they could work around, I wanted to catch it now. At least before it became an excuse I had to hear.

They didn’t hand me any. Which, on one hand, was good. But on the other hand?

No way in hell this crew was race-sharp in three weeks.

Didn’t mean they were bad. Hell, compared to the average stable, they were thoroughbreds among ponies. But real life doesn’t care how you look on the practice field. It only cares how you look leaning into the last bend with your lungs trying to claw their way out of your ribs. And right now? They’d forgotten how to reach for it.

And that was the part that pissed me off the most. They were good enough. Someone just stopped showing them how to prove it.

I gave the whistle a short blast. One by one, they peeled off and drifted back to the patch of shade I’d claimed earlier. Shoes crunched on the track grit. Gold Ship collapsed onto the grass. Rice Shower hovered on the perimeter, looking like she might apologize to the ground for stepping on it.

“All right,” I said, scanning them again. “You’re still breathing. Means you’ve got a chance.”

Gold Ship rolled her head my way. “Well, Sensei? How’d we do?”

“Terrible.”

She flinched. “HUH?!”

“Oh, relax,” I said. “It’s only the first day. You’ll have plenty of time to disappoint me properly.”

I heard a groan from Tachyon and something dangerously close to a snort from Maruzensky. Hayahide pushed her glasses up, probably filing the insult for future statistical analysis. Rice… well, she looked like she’d take it personally for a week.

“Everyone, line up,” I said.

They did… more or less. A couple were straight-backed, eyes forward like they were in a parade. Gold Ship stood at parade rest in the same way a cat stands at a door it’s already decided not to go through.

I let the pause hang until I could feel the fidget start in their shoulders.

“You all know the deal. There are six races in the Constellation Cup. And it just so happens that there are exactly six of you. That means nobody gets to hide behind anyone else’s performance. Way I see it, every one of you is getting shoved under the spotlight whether you like it or not.”

Gold Ship’s grin twitched wider. Rice Shower’s ears tilted back an inch.

“So before we get clever about training schedules,” I went on, “we’re going to lock down who runs what. No guesswork. No swapping last minute because somebody ‘feels more like a miler today.’ I want each of you planted in the slot you’ll be owning on race day.”

Hayahide raised a hand, fingers twitching like they weren’t entirely sold on asking. My mouth twitched too, but I gave her the floor.

“…How exactly will you be determining this, Sensei?”

I nodded once. Let the pause stretch, just enough.

“Don’t worry,” I said, grin forming. “I got a plan.”

And I did.

A beautiful and undeniably badass plan.

Fished it right outta the Z’s trunk. Still had the sticker from some defunct rental chain on the bottom. Pure analog authority. I set it down on the turf with a grunt.

Hayahide frowned. “A… stereo system?”

“…It’s called a boombox.”

Gold Ship popped up like a prairie dog. “Ooh! Does it have Bluetooth?”

My head swiveled towards her, slow as rust. “Does it have what?”

“Y’know… Wireless audio?”

“Oh, it’s wireless, all right,” I said with a smile, turning one of the dials. “No wires needed. Just a casette and a spare pack of batteries.”

She sighed, shoulders slumping.

Tachyon squinted. “I’m still not seeing how this determines our race positions…”

“Well I’m glad you asked,” I said, standing up.

I took a breath, planted my feet.

“Atten-SHUN. AIS!”

The bark cracked across the field. I didn’t expect much, but damn if they didn’t snap to line like someone flipped a switch.

Huh. Still had it.

I paced in front of them, soles dragging faint lines into the track.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen. One lap. Full circuit. Where you finish here… determines what race you get. Simple, right? Just you and the track.”

Confusion rippled across the group.

Tachyon frowned. “But… our optimal distances significantly vary. You’ll get skewed data. T-This race won’t control for—”

“QUIET!”

Their heads jerked forward. Even Gold Ship’s ears went still.

“I didn’t bring you here to squint at numbers and graphs like a bunch of nerds. You want to be sprinters or long-distance anchors? Fine by me, but you gotta prove it. Your instincts know where you belong more than a piece of paper ever will.”

I turned and jabbed a thumb at the boombox at the edge of the track.

“This is your starting line. You get one chance to prove yourself. No rules. No do-overs.”

They traded looks. Some skeptical and some wired. Rice Shower looked like she’d been sentenced to the gallows.

I dug a cassette from my pocket and slid it into place with a satisfying chunk. “Now, I could cue up some soulless pop trash… but I’ve got a better idea.”

The rollers engaged. The speakers coughed once.

Mötley Crüe blew out, ripping the quiet wide open. Kickstart My Heart.

Gold Ship’s grin bloomed like I’d just hit her personal fight‐or‐flight button.

“Everyone!” I barked over the guitars. “Running positions!”

They moved like wolves circling the same scent. Rice Shower came last, chin low. Gold Ship practically bounced in place, head bobbing to the intro like it was her personal entrance music.

I stood just behind the line.

“On my count… Run like it’s the last goddamn lap of your life.”

Tachyon shifted her weight. Maruzensky exhaled through her nose. Bakushin O was vibrating.

The guitar riff peaked. The drums blasted.

“GO!”

They were gone.

Bakushin detonated. Knees high, arms chopping. She opened five lengths before anyone else even chose a gear.

Headnote: sprinter to the marrow. Good for 1,200. Burns hot, fades fast.

Hayahide set second, no wasted swing. Maruzensky slid in behind her. Tachyon bounced between lanes, hunting an angle. Rice tucked low, eyes on ankles. Gold Ship stayed last, lolloping like she’d shown up late for a movie she’d already seen.

First bend. Bakushin still flew, but the lift in her stride started leaking air. Elbows climbed her ribs. The gap held. It trembled.

Backstretch. Hayahide pared space like a surgeon. Maruzensky matched, saving that little extra for a calendar shot. Tachyon threw a test surge, overshot the pocket, then corrected with a grimace. Rice drifted a half step out, then slid back to the rail as a cone of shadow crossed their path. Textbook dark Uma. She’d learned how to be invisible at speed.

Gold Ship? She still floated. Shoulders loose.

Far turn. Bakushin hit the metaphorical wall. Her form chopped to cubes. Feet slapped. The field ate half the gap in six strides. No point in yelling. You don’t talk a match back into wax.

Hayahide came for her like a due bill. Maruzensky eased out to the shoulder to keep daylight. Tachyon fought her hands then fixed them, then lost them again. Rice slipped through the seam Bakushin left, eyes still down. Gold Ship hadn’t really moved yet.

Then the chorus hit—guitars wide, drums like a bad heart—and something inside her posture shifted. Chin tucked. Arms dropped.

Final straight.

Hayahide broke first. Maruzensky followed with flare, but the ground fought back. Tachyon’s late math didn’t cash. Rice rose out of the rail like a rumor made true—third now, and building.

Gold Ship came off the turn dead last and started erasing people like chalk lines.

One.

Two.

Three.

She passed with no drama. The sound changed when she went by: fewer footfalls, longer air between them. She ate Maruzensky with a half step and no apology. She ran through Tachyon’s draft like it wasn’t there. Rice tried to latch; Gold Ship didn’t notice.

Fifty out, it was down to Glasses and Brown Hat.

Hayahide held the rail and raised nothing. Eyes straight. Jaw locked. She stacked steps like bricks and braced for the lean.

Gold Ship came from the hip. Big engine now, every contact clean, neck flat, face calm in a way that read as rude. She went wide, then tighter, then lined up square on Hayahide’s shadow.

Twenty.

Hayahide’s cadence ticked up a hair, first stitch of panic all day.

Ten.

Gold Ship gave me one look as she drew even. That tiny flick of an eye that said Fine, old man. Now.

She slipped half a shoulder ahead, then Hayahide matched. She refused to give the rail. She refused to float. She refused to blink.

They hit the line locked—Gold Ship half a breath in front. I kept my face neutral and wrote the order anyway.

Gold Ship. Hayahide. Rice. Maruzen. Tachyon.

Bakushin O came in last, arms rubber, cheeks flushed. She still crossed with a grin.

The tape clicked off. I flipped the notebook shut and let the silence sit on their shoulders for a hot second.

Maybe there was a chance.

tssSSS POP!

The Sapporo can hissed open. First swallow was cold enough to cut through the heat still crawling up my neck. The sky had gone that deep, burnt orange that made the floodlights look late to the party. Across from me, Hayahide narrowed one eye behind her fogged glasses.

“Did you… smuggle that in here?”

I stared back, deadpan. “Why, is it illegal?”

Her other brow joined the first, a full double-arch of judgment now. Girl could’ve taught a seminar in disapproval.

I sighed, setting the can down on the bench between us. I then flipped open my notebook and sat. Out on the field, the others were scattered; Bakushin half‐heartedly jogging in a shrinking circle, Tachyon sprawled like she was undergoing an autopsy, and Rice working through careful stretches in the far shade.

Gold Ship had flopped onto the grass like a sunbaked otter, talking a mile a minute to no one in particular. Maruzensky sat nearby, nodding. Then just for a second, she looked away.

She seemed distant. Like something brushed against an old memory. I would know. I make that same expression, too.

Hayahide clocked it. She gave them one of those brief glances that was more curious than critical. I let the moment pass. Then turned back to the page and started blocking in slots. Just gut calls for now… but they’d harden soon enough.

Without so much as a shadow on the turf for warning, Gold Ship dropped into the space beside me. She leaned forward, grinning.

“So…?”

I didn’t look up. “So… what?”

“Did I make the cut?”

“What cut?” I asked, pencil still moving. “You think this is a tryout?”

“I dunno. You tell me.” Her tail gave one lazy flick, brushing against the back of the bench.

I let the pause hang. The pencil stopped.

“Anchor leg,” I said finally. “Final race.”

A low whistle. Then she tipped back and stretched herself full‐length across the bench, one foot braced against the ground, the other dangling free.

“Heh… So I’m the final boss, huh?”

I scoffed and took another drink. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

She only smiled wider.

Footsteps crunched over the track grit. I looked up. Tachyon approached with a half-smile, the kind that made you feel like you’d just agreed to be part of an unsanctioned trial.

“Sensei,” she said, polite and direct, “may I be excused for the day? You see, I have several… experiments pending in my lab that I need to tend to.”

I arched a brow. “Pending?”

“It’s time-sensitive,” she clarified. “I’m measuring neurochemical fluctuations post-stride. Data window closes in ninety minutes.”

I gave a grunt and took another pull of the Sapporo. “All right, go. We’re done here anyway.”

Tachyon lingered. Her eyes flicked to the notebook in my other hand like it was a crusty relic on loan from a museum.

“…Is that how you’re logging all our data?”

“What, this?” I held it up like a piece of toast. “Yeah. What’s wrong with it?”

“Surely you don’t intend to track all our performance metrics for the duration of our careers… on that.”

“It’s a notebook,” I said, flat as rebar. “You write in it. It works.”

“Well, yes, but it also doesn’t process cross-sectional biometric feedback at interval timestamps.”

I turned my head slowly and narrowed my eyes, lips parting just enough to ask if she’d inhaled mercury lately.

She kept going, voice rising with that awful mix of concern and superiority. “Sensei, we live in an era of technology. We have laptops. Tablets, smartphones, data ecosystems, real-time biometric logging, remote diagnostics, Umazon Prime—” she inhaled sharply.

“You have heard of cloud storage… haven’t you?”

I stared. Long and hard.

“…Yeah.” I scoffed. “‘Course I do…”

It didn’t stop her from looking at me like I’d just tried to plug a hammer into a modem. I let the silence drag, then sighed hard enough to shift my shoulders.

“All right, fine. You win. I’ll get out there and… buy a Macintosh or something.”

“…You mean a MacBook?”

I gave her the patented old-man stare.

Gold Ship, still starfish-sprawled across the bench, sat up with a grin that could’ve powered a theme park. “Ooo! Can I come with you, Sensei Old Man?”

I blinked. “What—now? Why?”

“Because!” She pointed at herself, grinning. “You need a personal shopping consultant. I know all the best stores. We’ll get you a laptop or new phone or a data pad with a little stylus thingy… and maybe a carrying case shaped like a smiling potato!”

I turned back to Tachyon. Gave her a look that said Please tell me I’m hallucinating this conversation.

She shrugged. Scientific indifference, weaponized.

I walked with Gold Ship down the hallway to where the lot was, the boombox tucked under my arm. Beside me, her shoes squeaked every fourth pace, probably on purpose. She’d drift ahead, then loop back, orbiting me like a balloon.

Somewhere near the vending machines, a voice called out behind us.

“Sensei!”

I turned. It was Maruzensky.

“There you are! I was wondering where you went.” Her tone had that lilting Showa-era warmth, the kind that could sell you a record player you didn’t need.

“You need me for something?” I asked, keeping my face neutral.

“Well, not exactly,” she said, tilting her head. “Just figured I’d take the chance to shoot the breeze with you a bit, y’know? Break the ice. ♪”

I raised a brow.

Now that I looked closer, yeah—this girl definitely had the air of someone used to being the oldest in the room without bragging about it. Maruzensky was probably the most seasoned runner in Astrum. Carried herself like she’d seen a few cycles come and go, the type who kept the younger ones from setting the campus on fire.

I sighed through my nose. “We’re heading out. If you’ve got something to say, then say it.”

“I don’t, really!” she said. “Not everything’s a pitch, Sensei.”

I didn’t say anything, just started walking again. She fell in step beside me, her pace matching mine like she already knew the rhythm of someone my age.

“You know… Yamabe-san told me you used to train a long time ago,” Maruzensky said eventually. “Said you were… sharp. Demanding. And maybe a bit scary.”

“Guess not everything that comes out of his mouth is bullshit, then,” I muttered.

She chuckled. “Well, scary’s not always bad. Not when it comes from someone who knows what they’re doing.”

I glanced at her.

“I’ve been on a few teams,” she said. “Some better than others. But this one… this one might go somewhere. If we’ve got someone who can keep us pointed in the same direction.”

“Oh yeah?” I kept it dry. “Then why’d you stick around this long? Could’ve left whenever. The writing was on the wall.”

She took a breath that barely moved her shoulders. One corner of her mouth tipped up.

“Because I like them,” she said. “They’re a mess, but they’re my mess. They make practice feel like a day you don’t want to throw away.”

Nothing showy about that.

We soon approached the parking area. And that’s when they saw it.

The Z sat exactly where I left her. The hood still had that faint oxidized bloom. Gold Ship froze mid-step.

“Holy cannoli,” she said, placing both hands dramatically on her cheeks like she’d just seen a murder scene in a soap opera. “THAT’S what you drive around in?”

“Is there a problem?”

“Problem?!” She spun to face me, still clutching her own head. “That thing looks older than my entire bloodline! …How the heck is it still running?”

Maruzensky let out a small laugh behind her hand. “Actually… I like it.”

Gold Ship did a double take. “You what?!”

“I think it’s got character,” Maruzensky said, stepping forward like she was about to ask it about its childhood. Her eyes softened with that wistful shimmer only women who owned vinyl collections and remembered bubble-era commercials could manage.

“This is an GS30, right? Looks to be a mid-seventies. ’76, maybe? It’s got soul. Love the name, too. ‘Fairlady.’ ♪”

She said it like it was a jazz standard. I blinked.

“…You know the model?”

“You bet I do. ☆” She smiled. “My dad’s friend used to have one. He said it handled like a drunken flamenco dancer.”

“Huh.” I scratched my stubble, unsure if I’d just been complimented or what.

Gold Ship pointed accusingly at her. “Et tu, Maruzen?! You’re supposed to be the tasteful one!”

“Oh, I am, sweetie,” Maruzensky said, voice like a warm cassette tape. “That’s why I like it.”

She was still by the Fairlady, trailing one hand down the oxidized fender. “Sure, it’s definitely seen better days. But give it a polish, a tune-up… a little TLC and I bet it’ll shine again. Things don’t stop being good just ‘cause they get older, you know.”

“Didn’t peg you as the classic car type,” I muttered.

She smiled at me over her shoulder, something sly and unbothered in the curve of it. “I keep a few tricks up my sleeve… Sensei~ ♪”

Then she started walking to the edge of the lot, where that red Countach sat. I’d seen it there earlier, parked three spots down. Figured it belonged to some visiting exec with more money than taste. I mean, hell—who else shows up to a school campus with a wedge-shaped midlife crisis?

She stopped at the driver’s side. I didn’t think much of it.

Not until she slid a key out from her jacket and popped the door.

Click.

I blinked. My jaw did something I didn’t authorize. She slid into the seat. Then suddenly…

FWOOM.

The V12 fired up, the kind of sound that makes you instinctively look around for the cops even if you’re innocent. Maruzensky leaned her elbow against the open scissor door. A pair of sunglasses now sat across her face—no clue where they came from, but they looked expensive and smug. From inside the cabin, I caught the faint thrum of Mariah Carey’s “Fantasy”—the one featuring Ol’ Dirty Bastard.

“Catch you on the flip side~ ♪”

She reversed without looking, glided out like the goddamn pavement was hers. I stood there, watching taillights shrink into dusk.

Gold Ship let out a low, reverent breath. “She’s so cool…”

I took one last look at my rustbucket. I popped the trunk and set the boombox inside like I was tucking in my own kid.

“Mine’s still got better fuel economy…”

I pulled the Z over to some cramped little side street barely wide enough to qualify as drivable. Gold Ship’s idea. Said this was the best place to shop for “technology”. I yanked the handbrake and killed the engine. But the second it shut off, I realized I had absolutely no business being here.

The whole block buzzed with neon signage and oversaturated mascot billboards. Every other storefront had a cartoon animal yelling about limited-time deals, every third person was holding something that glowed. One guy even walked by with a full desktop tower strapped to his back. I stared through the windshield, trying to process the input overload. It reeked of fried oil and too many body sprays colliding in public.

“…Where the hell are we?”

“Akiba,” Gold Ship chirped, already halfway unbuckled. “You’ve never been?”

I turned slowly, face scrunching like her question had a stench to it. “No?”

“Whaaaaat? No way. This place is the best! It’s like a treasure dungeon, but all the loot gives off Wi-Fi.”

I sighed, popping the door and stepping out onto the narrow concrete. The Z groaned behind me.

“Uhh… old man?”

I turned, halfway through lighting a cigarette. Gold Ship was still in the passenger seat, one hand gripping the door handle like she was trying to disarm a bomb.

“The door’s not working.”

“You gotta pull up while you push out,” I said, waving a lazy hand. “No one’s used that door in years—it’s got a… ritual.”

She yanked again. Nothing. Then the handle gave with a crack like an old joint, and the door popped halfway before catching on the frame. She squeezed out sideways like a cat from under furniture, finally stumbling upright and brushing herself off.

“Jeepers,” she muttered. “Maybe next time I should help you find a new car instead.”

We started walking.

Somewhere up ahead, a store speaker was half-committed to pushing sound into the street. One of those tinny PAs that made everything feel like it was coming out of a soup can. Huey Lewis, of all things.

Sometimes in my bed at night…
I curse the dark and I pray for the light…

Gold Ship bobbed her head to the beat, like the sidewalk was a dance floor only she could see.

I kept walking.

First stop was a gamer’s den. You know the type, the kind of store that had every PC case glowing like a disco. Gold Ship made a beeline for this “Virtual Reality” rig before the clerk even finished greeting her. They slapped the visor on; the screen showed her view, some ocean scene that was meant to simulate tranquility or something.

She leaned in, knees bent, tail twitching. The water got dark. Something big rose up underneath. She freaked out, windmilling her arms, and nearly punched me in the face trying to sock the imaginary shark. I leaned back so far my back cracked. The song hit its chorus, warbling through blown speakers.

Walking on a thin line…

We moved to the next shop. This one was cleaner, with sales guys in matching polos. Gold Ship had somehow snagged star-shaped sunglasses, no clue where from. She pointed at these ultra-thin laptops on stands like they were alien tech. Flipped a price tag. Flipped another. Even with Yamabe’s cash, we were short by at least three zeroes. She mumbled tech specs while I just shoved my wallet deeper into my pocket.

Third store felt old. Like, dusty old. Almost felt out of place with how high tech every other store around it was. Hell, I actually recognized some of the hardware. A Commodore 64 sat in the front case, keys polished smooth from fingers that probably had grandkids by now. Couple shelves down, there was a PlayStation with half the logo sticker peeled off and what might’ve been an honest-to-gods VCR still wearing a handwritten “IT WORKS” tag.

Gold Ship was in heaven. She darted between aisles like she was casing the joint, crouching to look at Game Boys the color of old chewing gum, poking at a rack of coiled controller cords, holding up a floppy disk like she’d just found treasure in a swamp.

Then I spotted it.

An early-2000s Sony Vaio. Lid faded to hell, edges banged up, and its hinge still solid. A real latch. A drive bay with an actual button. Keyboard with proper travel you could feel. 

A real man’s gadget.

My thumb found the dented corner of the trackpad. The pad remembered me. My fingers followed before the rest of me could vote.

“Sensei…?” Gold Ship’s voice drifted in low. She was giving me that look. Brows pinched. Arms crossed. Less serious, more like she’d just watched a guy putting Asahi Super Dry in his ramen. Her tail gave one slow, incredulous sway.

I ignored her anyway, moving to the cashier.

“Tap to pay?” the guy droned at the counter, looking dead behind the eyes.

I nodded, set the cash down, and tapped it twice on the surface.

Behind me, there was a strangled sound, almost like someone trying to swallow a laugh before it escaped. 

The cashier blinked, looking at me like I’d handed him a dead raccoon. I just stared back, unmoving.

The kid sighed, pulling out a cash tray from under the counter, and started counting with the same energy you use to sweep a parking lot. Over by the door, Gold Ship was leaned against a rack of ethernet cables, one arm across her middle, other hand over her mouth, tail flicking in rhythm with the chorus.

I slid the Vaio’s box towards me, didn’t break eye contact with her. She looked one second from exploding into laughter. Somewhere nearby, the solo was spilling out of the PA now, the guitar running like it was trying to beat the sunset.

Walking on a thin line…

We were outside now, heading over to the Z. I had the box tucked under my arm like a kid walking home with his first GameCube—only difference being that the kid usually didn’t have lower back pain and a drinking problem. Beside me, Gold Ship was working her way through a rainbow cotton candy the size of her own head.

She jerked her chin at the box. “So… you happy with your new… rock?”

“It’s a laptop,” I said, flat.

“It’s a fossil,” she corrected through a muffled mouthful. “They’ll probably put it in a museum once you’re done with it.” 

She tapped her chin with one sticky finger, thinking way too hard. “Ooh—wait! Let’s give it a name. What abooooout… Bert?”

I shot her a look. “Why the hell would I name it Bert?”

She shrugged, tearing off another hunk of pink. “It just looks like a Bert. Besides, if you get mad enough, you can pound it and yell ‘Damn it, Bert!’ when it freezes.”

“I don’t talk to my electronics. And I am NOT naming it ‘Bert.’”

“You don’t get to choose,” she said, already grinning. “Bert belongs to the people.”

I shook my head slowly. Should’ve just let her get eaten by that virtual shark.

We later hit the midpoint of the block, and my pace bled off as I saw it: a wall of display TVs glaring at us from a storefront. Sixteen screens, each one pushing something different. Stock tickers, game trailers, you name it. But one feed, middle row, second from the left, snagged me like a loose nail catches your coat.

Some old race footage. The color had that slight fade from the sun having lived in it too long. The frame was the backstretch of a course I knew without a second thought. 

The Sha Tin Racecourse. Hong Kong Cup.

Not the biggest race in the world, but it might as well have been for us. First time she had ever run outside Japan. We weren’t supposed to make the trip worth it. Hell, we weren’t even supposed to keep up. But there she was making them work for it anyway.

The camera angle was from the infield, panning as the pack bent into the turn. And out in front, just a length and a half clear—

Was her.

Even through the pixel drag, she popped. That stride I’d drilled into her bones. Ears locked forward, neck stretched enough to let me know she was still holding something in reserve. Teasing them. Playing with the pack.

I didn’t realize I’d stopped until cardboard cotton candy bumped my elbow.

“Yo… Earth to old man.” Gold Ship’s voice broke through like static. “You still here?”

I blinked, pulling my eyes off the screen.

“Yeah… Just thought I saw something,” I muttered, and started walking again. The sound of vintage synths trailed us from some speaker near the store window.

Gold Ship squinted back at the TV. “Woah… Now that’s an oldie.”

I looked back. The screen shifted to the results.

We didn’t win. Hell, we barely made podium. But back then, making it that far meant something. 

Back then, they called it hope.

Chapter Text

[09:27 JST] — RED ROCKET DINER, TAITO CITY — 35mm / NOIR-PASTICHE

24fps · 180° shutter · Lens 32mm medium-wide; dolly-in on door · Color-timed cool (fluorescent green cast)

The drum rattle of Gary Numan’s intro hit me like a pool cue.

As I stepped inside, the bell over the door gave its half-hearted jingle. Place had the same black-and-white checkerboard tiles and red vinyl booths lined in chrome piping. Hell, the walls still had memorabilia that most kids today wouldn’t even recognize. A glossy Elvis print here, a Talking Heads sleeve there, and a sun-bleached Bloodsport poster with Van Damme staring down every omelet ordered under his watch. A plastic wall clock shaped like a jukebox wheezed out the seconds.

The air carried everything it ever had, from bacon grease worked into the grout to burnt coffee steeped into the counter. The smell would outlive me, the cook, and probably the building’s foundation.

Then the jukebox kicked in for real, synth lines jittering against clipped vocals, “We Take Mystery (To Bed)” bouncing off linoleum and stainless steel like gossip in an empty hall.

“Well, holy shit… Look who it is,” came the voice from behind the counter.

“Morning to you too…”

I slid onto my usual stool, the one with the cracked cushion that pinched the back of your leg if you sat wrong. The guy behind the grill looked the same as ever, hair slicked back with more fryer grease than pomade. His apron was singed in spots, spatula riding his hand.

“So… what’ll it be, Katsu?”

I squinted up at the menu board. “Got anything new?”

He leaned on the grill, one eyebrow cocked. “Since the last time you came by?” A chuckle. “Well, let’s see… We got a double-decker burger big enough to stop your heart. Folks around here been daring each other to finish it.”

“Just the regular, then,” I said. “Eggs soft. With toast and bacon. You know the drill.”

“Attaboy.” He turned back, spatula already in hand.

The sizzle of bacon filled the air. Out on the street, a delivery truck rattled past. Pino Palladino’s bass still throbbed steady from the jukebox, slick enough to make the Formica hum.

He glanced over his shoulder. “So… what’s the occasion? Last I heard, you couldn’t afford to come by this place anymore.”

“Yeah, well… Times change.”

“Oh yeah? You get a new job? Finally leave that construction firm?”

“…Something like that.”

He made a low noise, flipping the bacon. “Uh-huh. Well, whatever it is, it’s clearly not doing you any favors.”

I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You tell me,” He slid the eggs onto the plate. “When was the last time you had proper sleep? The neon sign outside’s getting more rest than you, and we’re open twenty-four seven.”

I smirked, but it didn’t stick. My coffee arrived in the thick, chipped mug I always got, the one that had outlasted half this city’s restaurants. The first sip was hot enough to wake the soft part of my brain that’d been running on fumes since… hell, I couldn’t even remember.

“It’s just a temporary thing,” I said. “Something to keep me afloat until I find a proper job.”

He barked a laugh, sharp enough to rattle the spatula against the griddle. “Don’t tell me you’re doing hitjobs now. I know you’ve still got that black belt of yours.”

“If I were doing hitjobs, I would’ve started with my last supervisor. Guy told me to ‘expand my skill set’ after showing me the exit.”

He slid my plate in front of me, eggs a little too soft, bacon on the edge of burnt. Perfect.

“So what is it this time, then? Freelance forklift driver? Unauthorized tour guide? Oh wait—don’t tell me. You finally caved and joined one of those rideshare apps.”

I stared down at the plate like it might actually explain my life back to me.

“…It’s training,” I said eventually.

His eyebrows went up. “Training?”

I nodded. “Unofficial. Friend pulled some strings.”

“…Friend, huh?” He gave me a long look over the counter. “This wouldn’t happen to be the same friend who got you out of that Costco thing, would it?”

I paused halfway through tearing open a sugar packet. “That wasn’t even my fault, all right? I mean the guy came at me, what else was I meant to do?”

He smirked. “Right, because you just happened to be standing next to the seafood section. Uh-huh, sure.”

He slid the coffee pot back onto its burner, eyes still on me. “So has this friend pulled you back into the game now, or are you just gonna pretend the past thirty years never existed?”

“Like I said—temporary,” I said. “Only thing that matters to me is that it’ll be keeping me off a park bench for another month.”

He stopped mid-wipe on the counter, gave me a look that softened just enough to pass for sympathy. Then he sighed.

“Look, Katsu… I don’t know what kind of ass pit you’ve fallen into, but working with Yamabe’s the last thing you wanna do.”

“Believe me, I know.” I nudged the toast crust with my fork.

His frown stayed put. He nodded once, slow.

“…All right. Your life, your call. Just… remember something.”

I glanced up.

“You’re not the same guy you were before Nakayama, all right?” he said quietly. “Don’t go pretending otherwise.”

The coffee suddenly tasted a lot less hot. I looked back down at the plate, watching the yolk creep over to the bacon.

The bell over the door gave another jingle. Draft came in with it, cold enough to graze the back of my neck. Boots on tile. Someone moving with that kind of self-importance that makes a place smaller. I didn’t bother turning around.

“He-heyyy, there’s my man,” came the voice I’d been hoping to dodge for at least another seven years.

A knuckle hit my shoulder, more punch than greeting. Yamabe slid onto the stool beside me like we’d coordinated the whole thing. Same cheap cologne, same blinding smile.

“Look at us, huh? Back in the game…”

He said it like I’d asked for this. Like it wasn’t the same man who’d called me out of a half-decent breakfast to walk me straight back into the mess I’d been avoiding for over a decade. I kept my eyes on the plate. The yolk had gone full casualty, bleeding into the toast until both looked ruined. Appetite slipped right out the door with the last of the steam.

Numan kept on from the jukebox, synth sharp enough to scratch at the tiles.

♪ There is no longer any normal to be.
You’re my assassin, but you can’t see the crime. ♪

Felt about right.

We didn’t talk on the drive. Tokyo slid past the windshield in strips.

Yamabe had tossed me his keys, because of course he did. His ride was this black early-’90s Chaser, lacquered in enough Meguiar’s Ultimate Polish to blind pedestrians. The cabin smelled like an air freshener that claimed “ocean” but really just meant stale cologne and old receipts. I swung us into the lot and lined her up neat. My door had that old-Toyota heft as I got out, shutting with a padded thud.

Tokyo Racecourse sat ahead in its Sunday best even on a weekday. We cut across the forecourt. Posters flapped on wire stands of upcoming meets and a mascot with an expression that made you worry for its home life. A groundskeeper rolled past with a bin of sand for patch jobs. The hall smelled like copier heat and cheap tea. At a bulletin board, a cluster of junior staff argued about font size. Nobody looked up. Good. I didn’t need an audience.

We took a right, then another, past doors with placards:

LICENSING / STABLE ASSIGN / MEDIA

At the end was a sliding glass window with a bell that’d lost all its enthusiasm. Plastic holders stuffed with forms bent under their own weight.

“So what exactly are we doing here?” I asked, even though I already didn’t like the answer.

“Registration,” Yamabe said, chipper. “One Trainer Okano. One Team Astrum.”

“You mean I wasn’t even official yet?”

He waved a hand. “It’s for the race, dummy. Hello? Constellation Cup? You think wonderboys like you get pre-registered automatically?”

I gave him a look.

He sighed. “Look, just follow my lead, all right? This’ll all be over before you can wrap your hands around another beer.”

We reached the desk. The bell there looked like it had been hit with more elbows than fingers. Yamabe gave it a single, polite tap. The woman behind the glass looked up. Mid-forties, thick eyeliner, nametag said Masuda. Her voice had that sticky-sweet tone.

“Can I help you?”

Yamabe turned on the charm like a guy running for prime minister. “Lovely afternoon, Masuda-chan. Name’s Yamabe. URA liaison for Tokyo Tracen Academy. I’m here to register my client for the Constellation Cup. You remember them, right? Team Astrum?”

Her eyes moved to me. Real slow. I could see the mental math ticking over, especially for the fact that I wasn’t even pretending to look enthusiastic while wearing my Def Leppard tour shirt. I didn’t bother breaking the silence.

“…Sure,” she said. “Let me get the paperwork. One sec.”

She vanished through the back door, heels squeaking against the linoleum. Yamabe leaned casually on the counter.

“All right,” he said, patting down his pockets like he was checking for a stolen identity. “When she comes back, I want you to use blue ink. Black gets chewed up easily on the scanner.”

I side-eyed him. “Every damn office in Japan wants black.”

“Yeah, and every damn office in Japan isn’t laundering your paperwork through seven layers of plausible deniability.”

I frowned. “Since when did you start barking orders at me?”

“Since the fate of your living conditions started resting in the hands of yours truly.”

He pulled out a pen. Bright blue. Sparkly plastic barrel. Tiny fake flower glued to the cap. Wobbled when he moved. I’d seen more dignified accessories on a kindergarten attendance sheet.

“The hell is this?” I asked.

“Complimentary merch. From a delivery company in Saitama… Cute, right?”

“It’s got a googly eye.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not a damn bookstore. Just take it.”

I took the pen like I was picking up roadkill, twirling it between my fingers.

“Also,” he said, undeterred, “don’t do the murder face when you get your ID photo taken. Smile. Use your eyes. Friendly and approachable.”

“My eyes retired ten years ago.”

“Then just… fake it or something. ‘Okano’ is a people person. ‘Love thy neighbor’ and all.”

“And ‘Okano’ is going to shove this pen up your ass if you don’t stop talking—”

“Excuse me…”

We both turned. Masuda was back, forms in hand and a smile that could qualify for hazard pay. Her gaze flicked from the flower pen to the two of us like she’d just walked in on a hostage negotiation.

“Here are the papers…”

I’m not gonna walk you through the whole bureaucratic ballet. You’ve seen one registration, you’ve seen ‘em all. Stamp here, sign there, then smile like you’re not currently committing forgery. I followed Yamabe through it without a word. Couple of minutes later, and there I was, holding my new official trainer ID, laminated and cursed with a photo that made me look like I’d just been booked for public indecency. The idiot beside me had already unwrapped some kind of sandwich monstrosity. Thing was the size of a brick, half a baguette stuffed with mystery meat and enough sauce to re-varnish a boat.

“Told you you should’ve smiled,” he said around a mouthful. “Could’ve been charming. Now you just look like you’re about to do ten years in the joint.”

I slipped the ID back into my pocket. “Yeah, well, charm’s extra. You gonna be footing the bill?”

He scoffed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Please. You’re lucky I didn’t pick the photo myself.”

We were halfway back to the parking lot when I heard a sound; deep and low like distant thunder in a steel drum. It wasn’t sharp enough for construction or clean enough for a parade. But it was familiar.

I stopped walking and turned to Yamabe.

“…You didn’t tell me there was a race today.”

Yamabe gave a shrug like he’d misplaced a sock. “Didn’t think you’d care.”

Then his phone buzzed. He didn’t even look at the screen before stepping away, already grinning like someone just offered him blackmail material at a discount.

“Oh—hang on. Lemme take this. Probably Hayakawa. You go scope the scene. Do some field research or whatever.”

He ducked around the corner, phone already to his ear, voice climbing into that salesman register of his. All he left behind was the stench of that mystery sandwich.

I turned towards the sound, even if I didn’t have any reason to. I had the keys, could’ve walked back to the Chaser, really. But instead, I drifted down the corridor until the walls peeled open into daylight.

The stands weren’t full, but they had enough of a crowd to buzz. Parents with bored kids. Handicappers with folded newspapers. And down on the turf, motion.

Seven racers.

They thundered past the mid-stretch like they were being chased by the cops. Turf kicked skyward in bursts. Hooves drummed in tight syncopation, loud enough to rattle the bolts in your knees if you stood too close. Out front, two had separated from the pack. The one on the inside ran like a brochure. Textbook stride and clean lines. Polished… and somehow completely forgettable.

But the girl beside her? That was no metronome.

I could barely make her out: Orange bob with a long braid swinging behind like a tail on a kite. Big round glasses bounced on her nose with every step. Her mouth was tight. No wasted motion. Her eyes locked forward like there was nothing else in the world but the line and the girl stupid enough to try and hold it from her. I didn’t even realize I’d leaned forward until my hand hit the rail. The PA kicked in, sharp enough to ride the bones.

“Around the far turn they go. Kanjo Stella still showing the way, half a length in front. Ikuno Dictus right at her shoulder, the rest three lengths adrift. Four hundred to run—”

The inside girl held that brochure line. The orange bob to her hip didn’t even bother with her. She lengthened… And soared ahead.

“Three hundred to go! Kanjo Stella clinging on. But here comes Ikuno Dictus! Ikuno Dictus with a burst, sweeping to the front!”

The sound hit in layers—hooves, a rolling sheet of it; the crowd finding its voice in the cheap seats first; paper programs snapping open. I heard a kid yelling high and raw. And for a stupid second, it pulled at the same place in my chest as old parade drums.

“Two hundred out! Ikuno Dictus strikes the lead, she’s pulling away! Two lengths, three, five—Kanjo Stella under pressure, the rest is nowhere near!”

She kept spilling speed into the turf. The neat girl on the rail shrank by the stride.

“Final hundred. Ikuno Dictus absolutely clearing! She’s widening with every bound! Six lengths, seven lengths! Ikuno Dictus storming home to take the Epsom Cup in dominant fashion!”

Wire.

The board flashed.

The noise erupted into one of those stadium shivers that moves through plastic seats and bad knees. Down on the track, the orange bob eased, chest heaving, mouth a tight line that might’ve been a smile if you were generous.

I realized my hand was still on the rail, like I’d leaned into the turn with her. The PA wrapped it in a bow.

“And it’s official! Number five—Ikuno Dictus—your winner, with a commanding eight-length margin! Number seven, Kanjo Stella, in second. What a performance!”

Eight lengths. Just like that.

Behind me came a voice, too calm for the noise around it.

“Pretty good, huh?”

I turned.

Guy beside me didn’t look like much at first glance. Was probably a hair older than me, charcoal trench coat hung loose over a lean frame. His hair was slicked back and graying. He didn’t look at me. Just kept his eyes on the track.

“That’s the second time she’s cleared eight,” he said. “First was in March. Kyoto.”

My eyes narrowed. He kept talking like I’d agreed to this conversation.

“Most girls’d flare up in the last hundred. Pull left. Maybe start watching the crowd. But her? Doesn’t even blink. Once she’s locked in, you could put a bomb under the grandstand and she’d still hit her marks.”

He finally turned to me.

“That’s what I train for.”

I knew his type before he opened his mouth. I knew it even before the badge clipped low on his coat caught the light: URA certified, senior division.

“You’re not staff,” I said.

He smiled.

“I’m management,” he said. “Trainer, technically. Team Pollux.”

Name didn’t ring any bells—wasn’t the first time. He extended a hand.

“Ryoichi Kuroi.”

I didn’t take it. Least not right away. Then I gave him the barest shake, more out of protocol than goodwill.

“Okano.”

“…You were watching her,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“What’d you see?”

I watched the girl on the track step through the cool-down zone. Her team greeted her at the edge of the turf. Not a speck of chaos. Not a single voice above the others. They moved like clockwork. She barely nodded in return.

“She’s fast,” I said.

Kuroi tilted his head like that was the wrong answer. Then, his tone went softer, almost fond.

“…You know, she came to me convinced she’d never get there. Thought her ceiling was already set. Said she wanted someone who wouldn’t let her settle.”

I kept quiet.

“She asked me to break those limits… And that’s exactly what I’ve done.”

Still, I kept quiet.

Kuroi didn’t seem to mind. He just looked back towards the track, then adjusted his cuff.

“I’ll be seeing you at the Cup, Okano-san,” Kuroi said, like we were old friends with knives behind our backs. “Let’s see if your girls can put up a fight by then.”

He turned without waiting for a reply. Just walked off like he’d signed a contract I hadn’t agreed to.

I never told him I was a trainer, nor that I had a team. Hell, I never even said two full sentences. I watched him go, trench coat slicing clean through the crowd. People made room for him without realizing it. And then he was gone. Swallowed up by heat shimmer and idle noise and a half-empty stadium. I turned back to the track. And that’s when I saw her again.

The girl stood at the end of the turf, just before the tunnel swallowed her. Her teammates had already gone ahead, but she was looking straight at me. Looking like she’d heard every word of my riveting conversation with her trainer. Her glasses caught the light, citrine eyes just visible through the glare. But they weren’t cold. That’s what got me.

And then she was gone. Turned without fanfare and vanished into the tunnel’s mouth. I stood there a while longer. Didn’t know why. Didn’t like that I didn’t know why. The PA’d moved on to sponsor reads. Somebody behind me unwrapped a meat bun. Far off, a new set of hoofbeats started warming up.

But I stayed… just for a while longer. Eyes stuck to the spot where the girl once stood.

“All right, everyone gather up.”

We’d just wrapped drills for the day, sun sliding low enough to turn the track into orange glass. Half the girls looked ready to collapse onto the turf instead of the benches. Still, they filed in.

I stood there, arms crossed, feeling every year in my knees. “Now. I think it’s about time I brought the news.”

Bakushin leaned forward, Tachyon perked up like she’d just been promised a new lab rat, even Rice paused mid-stretch.

“After some… thinking,” I said, letting the pause sit like a cinder block, “I’ve finally decided on who’s running where for the Cup. You guys excited?”

Hand shot up. Silver hair, rosewood eyes, grin already locked and loaded.

“No, Gold Ship, you’re not running all six races.”

She pouted so hard I thought her face might slide off. “But I had all my themes planned! I even made a whole playlist out of the cassettes I took from your car last night.”

“You did what?”

Bakushin O slapped both palms on her knees, vibrating like a firecracker. “Come on, Sensei! Give it to us! Who’s gonna be going first?”

She leaned sideways towards Rice Shower. “It’s me. It’s totally gonna be me.”

I pulled out the notebook, pages half-wrinkled from sweat and cigarette ash. Ran a thumb down the columns I’d scrawled. “Let’s get the most obvious out of the way. For the twelve hundred meters: Bakushin O, that’s you.”

She shot upright. “YESSSSSS!”

“Try not to dislocate a hip celebrating,” I said, flipping the page. “Next up: Mile race, sixteen hundred. Maruzensky, you’ve got the form for it so it’s all you.”

She gave a little hair toss, smile sliding on like lipstick. “Naturally.”

“Two thousand mid-distance—Tachyon.”

She nodded. “Perfect. I’ve been dying to test a new hypothesis about centrifugal leg torque.”

“…Sure,” I muttered. “Next up: Long-distance, three thousand—Rice Shower.”

She froze. Eyes wide, knuckles white on the hem of her jacket. “…Me?”

“Yeah. You. You’ve got the lungs for it. And unless anyone here’s hiding a spare marathoner in their dorm closet, it’s your slot.”

Rice swallowed, then nodded, tiny but firm.

“Dirt race—fourteen hundred. Hayahide.”

She pushed her glasses up, already halfway through crunching the numbers in her head. “Well… I wouldn’t say it’s exactly my area of expertise… But I’m not beyond adapting.”

A murmur rolled through the circle, tired but keyed up now that most of the slots were filled. Only one name left. I let the silence hang long enough for Gold Ship to start bouncing on her heels like a kid about to crack a piñata.

“That leaves the anchor,” I said finally. “Final race. Twenty-four hundred meters.”

Her hand shot up again, high enough to scrape the evening. “Ooooh, Sensei, pick me! Pick me!”

I squinted my eyes. “You’re the only one left. And I already told you yesterday.”

The cheer that exploded out of her throat probably woke pigeons in three wards. She flung both arms skyward, spinning once in place before striking a pose that looked suspiciously like she was drawing power from the sunset.

“Hell yeah! The big finish! The main event! Standing in lane six, weighing in at none-of-your-business pounds, the red cyclone herself… Golshi enters the ring!”

I shook my head, snapped the notebook shut, and tucked it back into my pocket.

“So there you have it. That’s the lineup. We got less than three weeks to prepare. And remember; four wins minimum or you can kiss this team goodbye.”

I looked over the lot of them: Bakushin still buzzing, Maruzensky all composure, Tachyon strangely calm, Rice trying to square her shoulders, Hayahide pressing invisible numbers into her thigh, and Gold Ship practically vibrating out of her sneakers.

“We’ll start with specialized training tomorrow,” I said. “Time ain’t on our side, so we gotta work quick. That means you gotta move quick. Am I understood?”

A chorus: “Yes, Sensei!”

“Good. Dismissed.”

They scattered, some jogging off like they hadn’t just been run ragged, others dragging their feet like I’d stapled bricks to their ankles. Sunset had dropped into full-on rust by then, but I didn’t head out with them.

So there I was, still at the team room, staring at the outside lights and the glow of my laptop. Everyone else had cleared out after drills, but I wasn’t in any rush to head back to my shithole of an apartment. At least here I had four walls that didn’t smell like mold and pachinko smoke.

That’s when the knock came.

“Oh, Senseiiiiii,” came the sing-song. “Ya got a minute?”

“Go away.”

Naturally, the door opened anyway.

And there she was, with a grin like a cartoon bandit and a plastic bag swinging at her side.

“Heyyy, look at you,” she said, plopping down across from me. “All cooped up in here like a graveyard salaryman. Feels like only two days ago when you wanted to leave the moment you laid eyes on me.”

“That’s because it was two days ago,” I muttered. “Look, do you have a reason for barging in, or is this constant meddling of yours just for sport?”

She set the bag down, plastic crinkling. “Believeth me, if it was a sport, I probably wouldn’t be here racing.”

I scoffed.

“But also…” she went on, leaning forward. “There is a reason. Something I forgot to tell you about. About the Cup.”

I sighed, looking away from the laptop’s glow. “What is it now?”

“‘Bout who we’re up against. Don’t worry, they’re not, like, serial killers or anything… But considering how they do in the track, they might as well be.”

“Yeah,” I said, voice low. “Met one of them earlier today. Team Pollux. And their trainer.” I leaned back, eyes narrowing at the ceiling like I could still see his stupid trench coat. “Real sunshine-and-rainbows type.”

“Kuroi?”

I nodded once.

She grinned like she’d just solved a crossword with a crayon. “I dunno much about him. All I know is he came to Tracen outta nowhere. Just like you.”

Before I could tell her I was nothing like him, she was already rustling through that plastic bag. Out came a can of Lemon-Dou, condensation already fogging the sides. She set it on the table like she’d just pulled a rabbit out of a hat.

I raised a brow.

“What?” she said, all mock offense. “It’s the least alcohol-looking alcoholic drink I could sneak in. You’re lucky I was a super spy in a past life.”

I shook my head, but cracked it anyway. Took a pull. Gold Ship leaned back, rocking the chair on two legs like she had zero regard for head trauma. “Anyway… Kuroi. Word on the street is, he’s famous for squeezing every last drop outta his girls. And not in the fun juice-box way either. More like—ehhh—factory line. I’m talking like, real robotic, you feel?”

“I saw it firsthand. Girl named Ikuno Dictus. Eight lengths ahead in the Epsom.”

She smirked. “Pretty cool, isn’t she? She’s kinda the brains of Pollux. Ice-cold. Like… If you asked her what two plus two was right before a race, she’d give you four point zero zero and a twelve-page PowerPoint. Honestly? Bit of a control freak.”

I took another sip. “Who else do they have?”

She tipped her chair forward. “Been a while since I last peeked, so memory’s hazy… I know Narita Taishin’s one of them, too. She used to be real tight with Hayahide, actually… But I guess they must’ve had a falling out or something.”

“What happened?”

“Beats me.” She shrugged, lips twisting. “Hayahide doesn’t really like bringing it up, so I don’t pry.”

“Great… Let’s just hope she doesn’t freeze up mid-race, then.”

I kept my eyes on the laptop. Not because I was doing work, but because one of the five antivirus programs I accidentally installed had just informed me that its trial had expired. Again. The pop-ups wouldn’t go away. I clicked the corner three times before giving up. The Astrum spreadsheet flickered behind it, filled with split times I wasn’t really reading.

That’s when I noticed she’d gone quiet. Too quiet for Golshi. No seat-squeaking dramatics. No new theory about how toast could be used as a metaphor for racing or whatever.

I jerked my chin towards her, voice low.

“…Why do you do it?”

Her eyes flicked up, caught off guard, a flicker of something sharper beneath the bangs. “Wha?”

“This,” I said, waving a hand at the practice field outside, the whole machine grinding out another generation. “Running. Racing. The whole circus. What’s your reason?”

She blinked at me slowly. Then leaned back again, only this time the chair legs stayed planted.

“Huh… Nobody’s ever really asked me that before.”

The silence stretched. She squinted at the light fixture above.

“Guess it’s ‘cause… I just don’t know how not to,” she said at last. Her nose scrunched immediately after, like she was allergic to her own honesty.

Not the answer I expected. Didn’t feel like the one she expected either.

“Dumb reason, huh?” She chuckled, already climbing back to safe territory. “Bet you figured I had some profound philosophy hiding under all this irresistible charm.”

“Long as it’s honest,” I said.

That pulled her back to me. She stared a second longer than usual, grin slipping into something smaller, quieter. For once, her eyes didn’t dart around like she was waiting for a punchline. They stayed put. On me.

Then it was gone. Just like that. Replaced with her usual shit-eating smirk.

“Whew!” she said, throwing her arms up in mock relief. “Almost lost me there. You gotta warn me before going full mountain ascetic, Sensei Old Man. I almost blew up a brain cell trying to keep up.”

I shook my head and went back to the laptop. The click of my keys filled the space until I realized she wasn’t reaching for another joke. She was watching the screen, lips pursed like she was weighing whether to say something else.

Finally, she leaned in, elbows braced on the table.

“Hey… You ever think maybe that’s your answer too?”

I looked at her.

“What?”

“You don’t know how not to,” she said. “That’s why you’re here… It’s not just about being broke, is it?”

I didn’t answer. The pop-ups were gone. And the cursor blinked on my half-finished spreadsheet, throwing its little pulse across her reflection in the screen. Smartass had a way of hitting the bullseye while juggling flaming knives.

“…I’ll tell you once you win that Cup,” I said finally, eyes still on the rows of numbers.

She chuckled, sharp and amused. “Ain’t that mysterious… Old man’s got conditions now.”

“Damn right I do.” My fingers kept tapping, notes scrolling down the column. “That’s the deal. You run. You win. And maybe then I’ll bother explaining myself.”

She tilted her head, grin settling into something almost steady. “Then I guess I oughta try…”

The chair legs squealed as she pushed upright, bag rustling at her side.

“Welp. I better go skedaddle before the curfew police arrives. Don’t stay up too late, Sensei!”

The door clicked shut, and the room settled around me. I dragged the notebook back and saw that my Lemon-Dou had left a wet ring on the cover. I thumbed the edge, tried to wipe it with my shirt. It didn’t go anywhere.

My eyes drifted to the laptop. The document I’d been tinkering with was still open. Training program, week one. A bunch of placeholder cells and half-assed intervals. Just the kind of thing you put together just to look busy. The blinking cursor waited.

Then I heard it. Not the usual line, not the one that got repeated like an old scar story.

“You’re not the same guy you were before Nakayama.”

No, what stuck this time was the other thing.

“I know you’ve still got that black belt of yours.”

That’s when it hit.

I wiped the spreadsheet clean. Cleared every cell. Started again.

For years, I’d told myself that the past me was gone. Buried. Packed up with the trophies and the gi and whatever else I didn’t want to explain.

But maybe he was wrong.

Maybe I hadn’t changed at all.

The next morning, I opened the door to the Astrum room without knocking.

The girls looked up mid-stretch, all six of them pausing like I’d walked in naked. I had my aviators on, a boombox under one arm, my old bomber jacket zipped halfway like I’d just walked off a goddamn aircraft carrier.

And in the other hand?

Dojo mats. Rolled and scuffed from years of storage.

“Playtime’s over, ladies.”

Gold Ship’s face lit up like it was her birthday and someone had just handed her a steel chair. The rest of them? Confused as hell.

“It’s time we train for real.”

Chapter Text

The track was anything but lively at this time of day.

Three girls moved as one, stride length matching. Their arms sliced the air in practically identical rhythm.

Manhattan Cafe, King Halo, Narita Taishin.

There was no sound but the march of soles on the ground.

The floodlights hummed like insects pressed to glass. Their cones laid tight white lanes across the turf, every line looked ironed. Whistles didn’t carry out here; Ryoichi Kuroi didn’t use one anyway. He stood at the rail with a clipboard and a stopwatch, eyes moving like a surveyor’s level.

As the runners looped past, he raised a closed fist. They stopped mid-breath, falling into line.

“Again,” he said. No inflection. Just command.

They set off once more.

This time, Taishin faltered. Just enough that her right arm lagged a bit behind her stride. Not visible to anyone else. But Kuroi saw.

He started walking up to her as they finished. Calm, unhurried steps until he was at her shoulder.

“Again,” he told her.

Taishin’s chest heaved. “Hold on, Sensei… I-I just need a minute.”

Kuroi didn’t raise his voice.

“Did I say you could stop?”

The air shifted. She blinked at him.

“You came to me because you said I was the only one who didn’t look down on you,” Kuroi went on. “That I was only one who saw what you could become. Who you could become.”

He paused, gaze unwavering. One curt nod.

“Well, that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

Taishin’s throat worked. No words came. Then—

“Again.”

She nodded.

“…Yes, Sensei.”

Then launched back into motion, legs trembling but disciplined. From the benches, Ikuno Dictus sat rigid, hands folded over a towel in her lap. Watching Taishin without judgment nor comfort. Her gaze was so fixed that she didn’t notice the shadow beside her until a voice broke it.

“Hey.”

Ikuno turned. Sirius Symboli stood there, not winded, sweat darkening her collar. Expression flat, but eyes intent.

“I’m gonna do another lap. Come join me.”

Ikuno hesitated, fingers curling tighter around the edge of the bench. Taishin’s ragged stride drew her gaze, the sound of her footfalls uneven against the others.

“…Of course,” Ikuno murmured at last. “Just give me a moment.”

Sirius stood there for a moment, following Ikuno’s gaze.

“Don’t waste your time worrying about Kuroi.” Her voice cut through.

Ikuno turned toward her. Sirius didn’t blink.

“He’s not barking orders because he wants control,” she said, quiet but sharp. “He already has it. What he’s doing now is seeing who thinks they can push back… and who breaks first.”

Ikuno frowned. “…And are you fine with that?”

Sirius’ mouth curled, small and confident. “Fine with it? Please. He doesn’t tell me what to do. He draws a line, and I decide whether I cross it.”

The words didn’t sound like bravado. They landed heavy, yet dangerously sure of themselves.

Ikuno rose, brushed the creases from her track pants, and gave the sky one last glance.

“Very well,” she said quietly. “One more lap.”

Sirius nodded once.

[10:43 JST] — TRACEN ACADEMY GYMNASIUM, KATSUAKI ITONAGA — ARRICAM LT / 35mm

24fps · ƒ/2.0 aperture · Lens 35mm medium-wide · Locked-off tripod; natural light, neutral grade

“Listen up, everyone,” I said. The chatter died instantly. They lined up, eyes forward.

“The Constellation Cup’s less than three weeks away. Now I know that might sound like a lot of time to you, but given the state this team’s in, we might as well be mailing the trophy to the other side already.”

I held up a thick paperback, the cover laminated and curling at the edges. Big letters across the front: URA-Affiliated Conditioning and Coaching Techniques, Rev. Ed. One of those industry-standard manuals loaded with graphs and bullshit in equal measure.

“This,” I said, raising it overhead, “is how every other trainer out there thinks you’re supposed to win.”

Then I turned and pitched it clean into the open garbage bin by the wall.

The thud echoed a little too long. Couple jaws slackened. Even Hayahide blinked like I’d just tipped a cow.

“You’re not here because you’re the best. You’re here because if anyone can become the best, it’s you.” I pointed at the dojo mats I’d hauled out earlier, scuffed and still reeking faintly of bleach.

“See these? We’re not gonna be wasting daylight on the same half-assed drills you’ve been coasting through. If we want even a chance in hell at that Cup, then we do things my way. No shortcuts, no bullshit. That clear?”

“Yes, Sensei!” they barked back, uneven but loud enough.

I gave a small nod. My chin flicked up. “All right, everyone pair off.”

The formation loosened into clusters. Bakushin O zipped straight to Maruzensky like a magnet. Tachyon drifted over to Hayahide—the nerd corner.

And then, of course, came the circus act.

“Riceeeey!” Gold Ship’s voice could’ve been mistaken for a fire alarm. “C’mon, you an’ me! Let’s go!”

Rice blinked, retreat already on her face. “M-Me? Why…?”

“Why not? You and I, we’ll be the duo of doom!”

“I… I don’t want you to be doomed…”

I strolled over. They noticed me halfway through their little back-and-forth. Rice’s posture locked up, Golshi grinned like she’d just been caught with fireworks behind her back.

“Is there a problem here?” I asked, flat as gravel.

Rice looked up. “Do I… have to pair up with someone?”

“What’s the matter, you scared of her funny hat?”

Her eyes flicked sideways. Gold Ship had already wandered into orbit, pretending to square up with her own shadow. Rice didn’t answer, just twisted her fingers together.

I shifted my weight, raised my voice so the whole room got an earful.

“In the real world, you don’t get to pick and choose who your Bracket Buddies are. They could be strangers, could be someone who hates your guts. They could even be your best friend.” My eyes slid over to Hayahide. “Doesn’t matter. When that gate opens, all of that crap’s thrown out the window. And the only people you’re surrounded with are your enemies.”

I snapped my fingers and pointed at the mat. “Tachyon. Hayahide. Shoes off. On the mat.”

Gold Ship whispered loud, “Ohhh my gods… It’s a nerd-off.”

The two stepped forward. Hayahide bent stiffly to untie her sneakers. Tachyon looked like she’d walked into a software update she didn’t want.

I motioned them into position. “Face me. Bow.”

They did. Unevenly.

“Face each other. Bow.”

Another awkward bob.

“Fighting stance.”

They hesitated. Then, up came the fists, textbook wrong. Tachyon’s elbows splayed like a busted mannequin. Hayahide clenched too tight, like she was trying to hold a sneeze with her spine.

Tachyon squinted at me. “…What exactly are we doing, Sensei?”

“What does it look like? You’re gonna fight.”

Hayahide blinked. “…You mean spar.”

“No. Fight.”

They looked at each other for a second.

“You wanna win the Constellation Cup?” I asked. “Then you better learn how to get hit. Because out there, when you’re boxed in on the final corner and someone clips you, it ain’t the form charts that save you. It’s whether or not you panic… Whoever knocks each other down first wins. All right? Simple as that.”

“And the rules?” Hayahide asked.

“There aren’t any,” I said. I slipped the whistle between my teeth, two fingers hooked on the cord.

“Now begin!”

The shrill blast cut the air.

“Wonderful,” Hayahide muttered from the mat. “I always did want to die unregulated—”

“HYAAAAA—!”

Tachyon let out a kiai that sounded more like a dying kettle. She lunged, clumsy but committed, and the two of them toppled over in a tangle of limbs and squeaks. I dragged a palm down my face.

Behind me came the unmistakable clatter of plastic. Gold Ship already flipping the lid of my boombox. A cassette snapped in, dial rolled, and with a crunchy hiss the first chords of Def Leppard – Tear It Down came ripping through the room.

So that was that. The day had officially begun.

Sweat spattered the mats like a busted faucet. Tachyon hurled herself forward again, arms everywhere, Hayahide meeting her with the lethargy of a sedated housecat. Neither landed anything worth writing home about, but they kept colliding.

“You’ve got experience punching a gym bag,” I barked.

Tachyon squealed, half-laugh, half-war cry, as Hayahide tried to pin her with textbook leverage.

“Now I want you to take that experience and direct it at someone.”

Next pair. Maruzensky ducked a swing too late. Bakushin O darted behind her, grinning like a hyena, and by some miracle of physics managed to German suplex her right into the mat. Both girls hit with a scream that rattled the nearby bleachers.

Next pair. Gold Ship hopped in front of Rice like she was auditioning for Enter the Dragon, hands chopping the air as she charged. Rice squeaked and bolted off the mat entirely. I sighed and rubbed my eyes.

We were down by the docks now. I had them balancing on a sun-rotted two-by-four above stacks of discarded mattresses. Got the tide stink and gulls for ambiance.

“You gotta learn how to maintain that balance,” I shouted. “Else you risk losing it in the final stretch.”

Tachyon’s arms windmilled like she was trying to power a ceiling fan. “I-I’m really struggling to see the importance of—”

“QUIET!”

She pinwheeled harder, shoes squeaking against damp wood, before gravity yanked her clean off. Bakushin O doubled over laughing… right before gravity clipped her too. Both disappeared in a puff of mattress dust.

Push-ups came next. On knuckles. Hayahide’s glasses fogged so bad she looked like a broken tea kettle. Maruzensky face-planted halfway down.

“C’mon, grandma,” I barked. “Use those knuckles!”

Then I looked right. Gold Ship was cranking out reps, except every time her chest hit the floor, she dipped her head and sipped from a cup of boba tea wedged under her. Worse, she had a manga propped open beside it, flipping the page with her free hand every time she pushed back up. I just let her be.

Back at Tracen, I had them power-walking the empty bleachers, a snake of sweat-soaked tracksuits winding up and down the steps.

“Let’s go, let’s go! Keep it moving, ladies!”

Students down on the turf stopped their drills to watch. One of ‘em was Air Groove, the president’s shadow. Couldn’t tell if that look meant respect or horror. Didn’t matter to me either way.

Back at the gymnasium, I set the mats back down. Gold Ship and Rice. Round two.

Golshi barreled forward, but Rice was ready. With determination plastered on her face, she braced and slid under her like a kid escaping dodgeball. She popped up behind, swept the leg, and down went Golshi; hat first.

My eyebrows crept up. Maybe she wasn’t all nerves.

“Not bad, kid.” I nodded. Rice looked like she’d been tasered. Her whole face did a reboot.

Back at the docks, the same rotten two-by-four. No more cartoon wipeouts this time. Maruzensky clenched her arms out like a tightrope walker, tongue poking out in sheer concentration. Tachyon whispered formulas under her breath like they were magic spells. Hell, even Bakushin O managed to hold a crouch.

Somewhere off to the side came a loud yell. I turned.

Gold Ship had “borrowed” a fishing rod and was now wrestling with a tuna half her size, shouting about destiny while Rice tried to decide whether to help or evacuate. I let my arms flop straight out at my sides.

A new week hit. The dojo mats were slick with sweat and wood splinters. Astrum lined up, trying their best to look like they knew kata. Hayahide’s stance stayed rooted. Rice’s movements were jerky, but she didn’t topple. Even Tachyon managed not to collapse halfway through. Gold Ship, somehow, was doing her own half-karate, half-interpretive dance routine. And still landed every stomp without falling.

“Doesn’t matter if the enemy is neck and neck or ten lengths behind,” I said. “The fight ain’t over ‘til you cross that finish line.”

Then came the board breaking. Bakushin O whooped loud enough to rattle the windows, smashed hers clean in two.

“Yeah, that’s it!”

Maruzensky followed, an elegant chop with a flourish. Even Rice managed to crack hers with a little squeak of triumph.

“Good! Keep going!”

The dojo doors slid open.

A guy in sweats and sandals stood there, veins bulging in his forehead. “What the—hey! You can’t be here! You’re trespassing!”

I froze.

“Oh, shit…”

I clapped my hands. “All right, time to go, ladies. Let’s move it! C’mon!”

Boards scattered, mats half-rolled, water bottles abandoned. The whole squad bolted past me in a chaotic stampede. Gold Ship cackled like a cartoon villain, Bakushin O flew out screaming “RETREAT!”, Tachyon grabbed Hayahide by the sleeve so she wouldn’t trip. I snagged my boombox under one arm and sprinted for the exit.

We’d escaped to the park. Barely. The cicadas were still at it from the trees. Light cut sideways through the branches in that last golden stretch of sun before it decided it was sayonara. The girls fanned out on the path, walking in a loose formation. Some kicked stones. Others dragged their feet like inmates headed back to lock-up.

Gold Ship reappeared from the hedges, a half-eaten Melona popsicle hanging from her mouth.

“Any badges following us?” I asked.

She gave a thumbs-up, popsicle still between her teeth. “Nope! Coast is clear, Sergeant Baelz.”

Wasn’t gonna bother asking where she got that name from.

Hayahide sighed. “You know, I’m almost certain the school board won’t find our curriculum particularly… regulation compliant. You do realize you could be sued for this.”

“Relax,” I said, waving it off. “I had Yamabe prep a cover story in case anyone starts sniffing. Trust me, he’s good at making up bullshit.”

She just shook her head.

That’s when we heard it; quick footfalls over gravel.

“Uh—excuse me!” came a voice, reedy and catching on every syllable. I turned just enough to get a look. Some short guy. Late-twenties, maybe. Track jacket zipped up too tight.

I leaned towards Gold Ship and muttered, “Thought you said no tails.”

She shrugged, then finished the popsicle in one bite.

The guy finally caught up, huffing. “Do you… have a moment? I’d like to speak with you, if that’s okay.”

I tilted my head, perfectly serious. “Sorry, pilates class is that way.”

“…Huh?”

I pointed a thumb over to the south entrance. “Couple blocks down. Second floor. They do early sessions on Tuesdays.”

The poor guy blinked, then shook his head like he’d rebooted. “…Oh—no! Sorry! Where are my manners… I’m Ayumi Someya. One of the trainers over at Tracen.”

Gold Ship gasped. “That’s them,” she stage-whispered. “Team Dooby. The guys with the funny name.”

I kept my eyes on him. Guy looked like someone who alphabetized his spice rack and called his parents weekly.

“You get lost,” I asked, “or just making the rounds?”

He chuckled nervously, fingers scratching the back of his neck. “Oh, no no no, nothing like that. I was just wrapping up with my team. We usually finish drills around the north park entrance, but I didn’t expect to see another trainer out here.” His eyes darted across the girls. “Do you, uh… go out here often, too?”

I tilted my head towards Gold Ship. She blinked at me, cheeks full of the last of her popsicle.

“…Yeah,” I said finally. “Sure.”

Someya brightened up. “Well then! Since luck has us both here, I thought—why not seize the opportunity?”

My voice went flat. “Opportunity for what?”

“I… think it’d be better if I just showed you.”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. I took it. Paper was stiff, proper Tracen letterhead. Someone had gone full ceremony for this. I cracked it open, scanned the contents. My brow went up.

“You’re challenging us?”

“A scrimmage,” he declared. “My team against… well, your team. Friendly, of course. Nothing official. Just a chance to see where everyone stands before the Constellation Cup.”

Behind me, Bakushin O gasped like he’d just proposed marriage. “A duel?!”

“Not a duel,” he corrected quickly. “A regulated, mutually beneficial—”

Gold Ship cut him off with a fist slicing the air. “Duel accepted!”

Rice squeaked. “W-Wait, already? Shouldn’t we… discuss this?”

I kept my eyes on Someya. He was still standing there, chin high, but his hands kept flexing at his sides. He was trying to look like a general, but I saw the grad student underneath—the guy who still asked for extra dressing packets at the cafeteria.

“There’s nothing to discuss,” I said, flat as asphalt.

The girls caught the drift quick. Their chatter died down, lips pressed thin, eyes on their shoes. Even Gold Ship’s popsicle stick stopped wagging in her teeth.

I flicked my chin up. “…You’re on, pipsqueak.”

That snapped them back up. Bakushin O whooped like I’d just handed her front-row tickets to her favorite stageplay. Maruzensky tilted her head, all glamor and second thoughts.

“Are you sure?” she asked, voice quieter, like she wanted me to leave an out.

“Hell yeah, I’m sure. I didn’t drag us through the docks and break into a dojo just to watch you all jog in circles.”

The air paused. Someya blinked. A lot.

“W-wait, you broke into a—”

“Doesn’t matter.” I cut him off. “Point is, we’ll take you up on that offer. Just name a time and place.”

The poor guy froze for a second, then puffed his chest up. “Tomorrow afternoon… Tracen oval. After regular drills… Two versus two.”

I gave a small shrug. “Fine by me.”

Behind me, Bakushin O punched the air. “Astrum’s first duel! Under Okano-sensei, that is!”

“Scrimmage,” Someya corrected.

Gold Ship leaned in, eyes sparkling. “Duelllllll…”

“So,” I said, rolling the envelope in my hand. “Two on two, huh? Who’re you gonna be sending out?”

Someya opened his mouth, then froze like his brain had suddenly needed to buffer. That’s when another voice came in, soft enough to pass for polite but with that edge of theater I never liked.

“Trainer-san…”

She stepped out of the tree line like the woods had parted for her. Skin pale as the moon. Orange-brown hair, white streak down the middle like someone dragged a paintbrush straight through. And blood-red eyes—rarely meant anything good.

She stopped just behind Someya, hands folded neat at her waist. Looked harmless if you didn’t know better.

“…If it pleases you,” she said, tilting her head slightly, “I’ll run.”

Someya twitched, ears going pink. “Ah… Still-san. You don’t have to… I can get the others—”

“No, really. I’d love to show them the fruits of our labor.” A smile, perfect and steady, like she’d practiced it in the mirror.

Astrum shifted as one. Rice went rigid, her breath stuttering loud enough for me to catch. Hayahide’s glasses slid further down her nose, like even they didn’t want to be in her line of sight. Maruzensky’s brow lifted, subtle but telling.

And then “Still” turned that smile on us.

“You must be Team Astrum,” she said. The words rolled off her tongue like honey poured over a knife. “I’ve heard a great many things about you. Especially regarding your new trainer.”

Her eyes landed on me, and for a second I could swear she wasn’t looking at me at all. Even Gold Ship was silent. Gold Ship. The girl’s smile didn’t budge. That polite, eerie calm never does. You meet people like her probably once or twice in life. I felt the air between us shift, cicadas fallen silent like they were nervous too.

Someya cleared his throat. “Well, there you have it! One half already volunteered. Tomorrow should be, ah… very enlightening.”

“Still” inclined her head, not looking at him… or anyone really. Just resting those red eyes on us.

“We look foward to seeing you all race,” she said.

Rice made a sound, something between a hiccup and a gasp, and I could see her shoulders ratchet up tight. I rolled the envelope in my palm, the paper creasing under my fingers.

“Fine. Tomorrow it is. Two on two.”

Still’s lips curved just the tiniest bit higher.

Someya exhaled, deep. “Excellent. We’ll… We’ll see you then.”

He gave a half-bow, tugged at his zipper like it was strangling him, and finally turned back the way he came. Still lingered a second longer, eyes tracing over Astrum one by one like she was picking out souvenirs. Then she pivoted smoothly and followed after him without a sound.

The path stayed quiet even after they disappeared. Just gravel crunching in memory and the cicadas winding down for the night.

“…Who the hell was that?” Gold Ship finally broke the silence.

Hayahide adjusted her glasses, arms folding across her chest.

“Still in Love.”

I turned my head her way. “What, you crushing on her?”

“No. Her name. That’s her name.”

The others shifted uneasily at the sound of it. Even Bakushin O stayed muted. Rice chewed her lip raw, eyes pinned to the dirt.

Maruzensky placed a hand below her chin. “She’s the it-girl coming out of spring,” she said, voice smooth. “Won the Oka Sho, then swept the Oaks. Whole media machine had her pegged as the next big thing.”

She gave a small shrug. “But somewhere along the line? Poof. Total Houdini act.”

Hayahide nodded. “Her team claims she’s skipping the rest of the season intentionally. All in preparation for the final leg of the Tiara.”

Maruzensky smirked. “Saving up all her chips for one big swing. Smart.”

I let out a low breath. “So that makes us… what? The appetizers?”

Her smirk widened. “Well,” she said, glancing up at me, “now that we’ve got you around, Sensei… we might just level up to the main course. ♪”

Bakushin O let out a little “YEAH!” under her breath, Rice looked like she was trying to melt into the dirt, and even Gold Ship gave a sharp wolf-whistle just to ruin the moment, popsicle stick dangling forgotten from her mouth.

I kept my eyes on the path they’d taken long after it went empty. Whether I knew it or not, we were in it now, knee-deep and nowhere to hide.

Scrimmage my ass.

When we rolled up to the oval, half the damn academy was already camped out like it was a fireworks festival. Students on the rail, trainers elbow-to-elbow, even a few staff pretending they just “happened” to be passing by. And it wasn’t even evening yet. Sun was still high enough to melt asphalt, though I guess Japan summers never did anyone favors.

I’d made my picks. Rice and Tachyon. The assassin and the walking hypothesis. God help me.

“It seems word must have gotten out somehow,” Tachyon muttered, tugging at her collar. Sweat had her bangs pasted to her forehead. “Can’t say I’m entirely surprised.”

“Yeah, you can say that again,” I said, scanning the crowd.

No sign of Kuroi. No Ikuno either. Just students, some faculty, and a buzz of curiosity. Gold Ship was eating it up. She strutted to the rail like she was running for prom queen, blowing kisses at the onlookers, flexing like she was about to headline WrestleUMAnia.

“Ladiesssss and gentlemen!” she bellowed, arms spread wide. “Your feature presentation! Ricey the Terrible and her lovely assistant… Doctoooooorrrr Tachyonnnnnn!”

Tachyon’s face went crimson. She wheeled on her. “Hold on—I’m the assistant?!”

Rice tugged at her sleeves, eyes wide. “W-Wait… why am I terrible?”

“Because it fits!” Golshi declared. “Every legend needs a fearsome moniker! You’ll thank me when the newspapers call you ‘The Tiny Terror.’”

Rice’s hands shot up to her face. “P-Please don’t let them call me that—”

“All right, knock it off,” I said. “Golshi, get out there and mingle with the crowd or something. This isn’t even your race.”

She blew out her cheeks, arms folding across her chest. “Hmph. You people don’t recognize a marketing genius when you see one.” Then, just as fast, her eyes lit again. She leapt the guardrail into the student section, vanishing into a sea of uniforms.

Rice and Tachyon both stared after her like she’d just survived a typhoon. Then Someya finally showed. Plum-colored shirt, looking like he’d just wandered in from a PTA meeting. He looked relaxed, like the crowd didn’t exist. And behind him, floating like a ghost through the mob, came her.

Still in Love.

Tachyon scanned her like she was running her through a lab trial, chin tilted high, smug as hell.

I jerked my jaw at Someya. “You organize this whole mess?”

“What, the crowd?” He gave a nervous little laugh, one hand going up to scratch at the side of his neck. “Not at all. I guess news just travels fast around here.”

Sure. And I’m a morning person.

“Yeah, whatever… So who’s your plus two?” I asked.

That’s when a voice cut in, sharp and unbothered.

“Right here.”

The crowd shifted again. Another Umamusume stepped forward, short hazelnut hair, chin set like stone. She wasn’t tall or flashy, but her presence snapped the noise flat for a second.

Someya let out a breath that almost looked like relief. “This here is Jungle Pocket.”

“‘Sup.” She cracked her knuckles and grinned at Astrum like she’d just been handed a fight she’d been begging for.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Jungle Baguette,” Tachyon piped up, voice smug enough to curdle milk. “I didn’t realize you’d sunk to running with this kind of outfit.”

“The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

I cocked a brow. “You two know each other or something?”

“Or something…” Jungle Pocket’s grin sharpened, teeth catching the sun. Her eyes locked onto Tachyon like an AIM-9.

She stepped forward. The grin stayed plastered, but her shoulders had that coiled-spring look.

“You know what, Doc McStuffins,” she said. “I’m actually real glad you volunteered. Been dying to see if that new theory of yours holds up when the other side’s actually good at what they do.”

Tachyon tilted her head. “Fair enough. Though I must warn you… You might not like the results.”

Great. Perfect. Just what we needed. Two egos in heat.

Rice stood off to the side, shrinking into her own shadow, eyes darting between them. Still in Love hadn’t moved or even blinked, just stood there behind Someya with that porcelain smile.

Someya clapped his hands once, too sharp. “All right, then! There you have it! Two on two. Remember, I want a clean race from everyone, okay?”

Pocket didn’t look away from Tachyon. “Clean as you want, boss. But I’ll still drag her into the dirt.”

Tachyon’s smirk twitched higher. “Then allow me to collect the data firsthand.”

“All right that’s enough,” I barked. “You two—get ready. You’re up.”

I gave the bleachers a once over. Whole crowd was leaning forward now, like the heat itself had bent ‘em. And there was Gold Ship, naturally. She’d gone full vendor mode, box slung around her neck like some 1950s ballpark idiot.

“Fish sticks! Get your fish sticks here!” she hollered, waving one dangerously close to a faculty member’s eye. “Locally sourced! Edible only for today!”

Whatever this was supposed to be—scrimmage, exhibition, handshake event—it sure as hell wasn’t gonna feel like one.

Chapter Text

You ever ask yourself what it actually takes to get back in the ring?

I’m not talkin’ about inspiration, or closure, or any of that bullshit they peddle in daytime dramas.

I mean the real stuff. The ugly stuff. Like rent. Or a name you haven’t heard in years showing up with a smile and a problem you’re too tired to walk away from.

That’s the question, right?

How far gone do you have to be before you start pretending again?

[15:41 JST] — TRACEN CENTRAL TRACK — 16mm / KODAK 500T

24→48fps (overcrank) · 90° shutter · Lens 24mm wide; handheld dolly · Push-processed +1 stop for contrast

So there I was. Washed-out jeans hanging off me, a Gibson Les Paul T-shirt—despite the fact I couldn’t strum a chord to save my life—and a denim jacket that smelled faintly of cigarette ash. Not exactly the uniform of a man about to command attention. And yet here I was, about to be responsible for two girls squaring off in front of what had to be a hundred sets of eyes, maybe more.

Didn’t matter that I’d stood in front of bigger crowds. This? This was just kids and faculty with their carrot steaks. Still, the noise had a certain charge to it. A kind of hunger.

And for the first time in years, I felt it crawl back under my skin. It hit me hard, sudden as a gut punch.

I really was back in it now, wasn’t I?

The oval stretched out in front of me. Rice Shower was tugging at her sleeves, eyes darting everywhere but the track. Agnes Tachyon was pacing tight circles, like her brain was already six laps ahead of her legs. Jungle Pocket stood across from them, grin wide as a knife. And behind her… Still in Love, eerie calm, watching.

My voice came out rougher than I meant. “Rice. Tachyon.” I crooked two fingers. They shuffled over, one stiff, one twitchy.

I leaned on the railing, the paint flaking under my palm. “All right, here’s the deal. This is a relay race. Tachyon and Pocket first, then you and Still. One lap each. The gap your partner gives you is the gap you’ll inherit. So the bigger your lead, the easier the handoff. You got it?”

Tachyon gave a little scoff, rolling her shoulders. “As a colleague of mine once said: ‘This ain’t my first rodeo.’”

I blinked at her. “…Who the hell were you colleagues with? Cowboys?”

She only smirked. “Or something…”

Rice tugged her sleeves tighter. “S-Sensei… Is there any specific way you want us to run?”

“Yeah,” I said, jerking my chin at Pocket and Still.

“Whatever kicks their asses harder. Now get out there.”

The bleachers popped, Astrum yelling themselves hoarse.

“Knock ‘em dead, girls! ♪” Maruzensky’s voice carried over the crowd, rich and clean.

Bakushin O was pounding the rail, chanting nonsense that sounded like a broken Bee Gees record. Hayahide had her nose in a notebook, jotting splits before the gun even fired. And of course, Gold Ship, still working the stands with her fish-stick hustle. She’d even roped in some other Umamusume. Ashen hair, diamond headband… girl was vacuuming up fish sticks like she hadn’t eaten since the Edo period.

I dragged a glance over to Someya. You ask me, the kid looked… different. Straighter spine, eyes brighter. Maybe it was just the sun glare, but I swear the bastard had soaked up twelve metric shittons of confidence the second his girls stepped onto that turf.

The buzz in the crowd shifted. It wasn’t chatter anymore, it was that low hum that meant people were ready to see blood. Pocket bounced on her toes, grinning across at Tachyon like she’d already picked out where to bury her. Still in Love stood behind her, hands folded neat.

Tachyon cracked her neck and grinned right back. Rice swallowed, shoulders drawing in tight.

It’s showtime.

[15:49 JST] — TRACEN CENTRAL TRACK, STARTING LINE — PANAVISION MILLENNIUM DXL2 / IMAX 1.90:1

48fps · ƒ/2.8 aperture · Primo 70 50mm · Steadicam + aerial drone hybrid

The starter raised the gun. A hush clamped down across the bleachers.

The racers locked in: Jungle Pocket all coiled tension, a grin twitching at the corner of her mouth; Tachyon beside her, breathing steady but eyes jittering like her thoughts were running diagnostics. Rice and Still stood at the exchange zone, watching. Neither blinked.

The gun went off.

BANG!

And Pocket detonated.

Her first step launched like she’d been fired from a howitzer. Her shoes clawed for traction, shoulder-line tilted forward. Two strides, and she had the outside lane. Four, and she’d carved a half-length gap. Six, and she was gone.

From the bleachers came the unmistakable voice of none other than Gold Ship.

“And they’re OFF like bad sushi in the summertime! Tachyon lookin’ like she stole a JAXA shuttle for propulsion but Pocket Rocket’s got that HUSTLE! Who gave her legs permission?!”

Tachyon didn’t chase the lead. She did something arguably meaner: claiming the inside. One foot angled inward like she was anchoring into the planet itself. Okano had drilled that motion into her until she could feel torque in her molars.

The centrifugal pull hit her hard in the first corner. Momentum clawed at her hips, begged her to swing wide and let the body follow the motion. But she’d been trained for this. She bit down, let the torque surge through her, and stayed pressed to the rail.

On the benches, Hayahide adjusted her glasses.

“She’s actually banking it properly,” she murmured. “Not letting the slope dump her. Torque compensation’s clean. Breathing is controlled… Maybe a half-second margin improvement from last week?”

“Do you just hear math?” Bakushin O asked.

“Sometimes.”

Up in the bleachers, the murmurs started. Old hands folded arms. Juniors squinted over clipboards. Someone said Okano’s name. Someone else said it louder.

On the field, he stood still. One hand resting on his chin, thumb grazing the curve of his jaw.

Then came the backstretch. An uphill incline. Just a touch, but enough to punish bad pacing. And Pocket pushed. She hit the apex of the incline with a snap of acceleration—faster than expected, but not clean. The force that drove her ahead also ate at her stride length.

Tachyon lagged three lengths back. Still on the rail. Still holding.

“She’s not even matching the burst,” Maruzensky said. “She’s letting her burn it early.”

“That’s because she can,” Hayahide replied.

Final corner.

The gap was wide now. Five lengths, maybe more. Pocket still had it. Her face was taut, but her heels started dragging a fraction. Just a fraction.

Then two.

And suddenly, that corner felt longer than before.

Gold Ship’s voice blared again: “Uh-oh! Look’s like Baguette’s gettin’ a little toasty over there! Somebody check the oven!”

Final stretch.

That was when the real race started.

That was when Tachyon surged.

Then came a calibrated ignition of every muscle Okano had reconditioned to fire at full capacity after the body wanted to quit. Her feet landed where they were supposed to. Her knees lifted in rhythm. Every breath came with ruthless precision. Two lengths closed like a zipper.

Pocket heard her coming.

She tried to rally. Tried to kick with whatever was left in her tank. But her gait gave it away. She’d spent too much in the climb. Students leaned forward. Faculty stood.

“This is it!” Gold Ship screamed, somewhere deep in the sound system. “GENIUS VERSUS GUTS! PHYSICS VERSUS FISTS! PLACE YOUR BETS—AAAAAND WHO WANTS A FISH STICK?!”

And then—

Tachyon passed her. Two lengths clean. The line came up fast, but it didn’t matter. Her momentum held.

She crossed without any theatrics. The crowd roared.

“AND THAT’S THE EXCHANGE!!” Gold Ship screamed, barely comprehensible. “TA-CHY-ON WITH A SPLIT FASTER THAN MY TRAINER’S TAX RETURNS!!”

Cheers scattered in pockets, but the faculty and staff were already whispering.

“Okano-sensei.”

Not mockery, but recognition. Awe.

Tachyon’s gaze flicked toward Okano. He hadn’t moved from the rail—his hand still at his chin—but his eyes burned sharper now, locked on her.

Rice broke forward, legs hammering, five lengths in pocket before Still in Love even launched.

Plenty of space. More than enough, in fact.

And Tachyon? She merely smiled. Neither smug nor loud. Just the quiet kind of smile that said:

I told you it wasn’t my first rodeo.

“BUT HOLD ON TO YOUR TAILS, LADIES AND GERMS,” Gold Ship crowed, “BECAUSE THIS RACE HAS ONLY JUST STARTED!”

Rice Shower was already gone.

By the time Still in Love took the baton from Jungle Pocket, Rice was already into the curve.

Still barely reacted. She simply began to move. Her limbs folded as if each stride was part of some silent choreography only she understood.

Then came the backstretch. Rice held the rail, nothing faltered. Her cadence stayed perfect, breath feathered in and out like a lullaby. The gap hadn’t closed. On the mic, Gold Ship’s voice turned smug.

“OHHHHH YEAH, THAT’S A CLEAN ESCAPE FROM THE TINY TERROR! Still in Love’s got the moves, folks, but she’s practically Still stuck in the rearview!”

Somewhere, the student council president gave a chuckle.

Maruzensky leaned back, smiling. “Guess this one’s ours, huh?”

Even Hayahide allowed herself a nod.

But Okano didn’t join in. He glanced toward the opposing bench.

Someya stood still as ever. Too calm.

Okano’s jaw flexed.

Final stretch.

Four hundred meters to go. The home post stood straight ahead, blazing white under a strip of sun.

Rice surged again, just as she’d been taught. A perfectly timed release. Her form adjusted with textbook beauty: stride lengthened, chest forward, center of mass aligned.

“HERE WE GO, FOLKS! We’re in the final stretch now! Rice Shower’s got enough daylight to start a farm! Better call ahead to the finish line and ask if they’ve got room for a capital W! Ring ring riiing!”

The crowd chuckled. It felt safe to laugh. The distance said as much.

Then it happened.

A blink. An imperceptible passage of time.

And then…

The air changed.

The sound of the crowd flattened, muffled like Rice had slipped underwater. The cheers melted into white noise. Her feet hit the track but the ground felt different. The sun above dimmed by degrees. But not for anyone else.

Only her.

The finish line sat ahead, radiant and unshaken. But the space behind her… It wasn’t empty.

Something was there.

…

Don’t look back.

Her body screamed for her to check. Her instincts, honed and sharpened by hours of track drills, screamed run faster.

But her mind… her mind whispered of all the old fairy tales. The ones where the brave girl glanced over her shoulder just once and lost everything. Salt pillars. swallowed wives. stories with endings sharp enough to bleed on.

Don’t look back.

Her breathing hitched.

This wasn’t fear of being caught. This was the certainty that if she turned her head, something would be there.

Not Still in Love. Not a racer. Not an Umamusume.

But something else.

Rice’s posture faltered for a step. Just one. Her chest lifted.

But the pressure grew heavier.

…

Don’t look back.

Up in the booth, Gold Ship had turned away to make some loud aside to Oguri Cap when the latter pointed toward the track.

“Look!”

Gold Ship followed the gesture.

Her whole body locked. The grin vanished. She lunged back to the mic, nearly knocking it off the stand.

“Wait wait wait—what the… RICE! DON’T—!”

Her voice cracked, shrill now.

“RICEY. RICE. LOOK AHEAD. JUST KEEP LOOKING AHEAD, OKAY?!”

Rice gritted her teeth. Still in Love didn’t make a sound. But the thrum of her footfalls grew anyway. Pure, yawning, unholy proximity.

A new mantra carved itself into Rice’s ribs with each step:

Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Don’t look back.

She clung to her form with every fiber of her being. Every instruction Okano had ever barked at her collapsed into the singular urge:

Survive.

Final meters.

Twenty.

Ten.

DON’T LOOK BACK.

And she didn’t.

She crossed the line.

Still in Love thundered past her a breath later, too late to win—barely. But not too late to be there.

The crowd erupted in cheers, screaming. Waves of sound rushed back into Rice’s tall ears all at once like she’d broken through a surface she didn’t know she was drowning under.

Gold Ship slammed the mic down, breathless.

“AND RICE SHOWER TAKES IT BY A HEAD! BY A HEAD, LADIES AND GENTLEGERMS!!”

Rice didn’t hear her. She collapsed to her knees two strides past the finish, fingers digging like she had to make sure she was still herself.

Still in Love jogged to a halt. She turned her head—finally—and looked at Rice with eyes that betrayed nothing.

Not fury, nor loss, but as though she had caught a glimpse of the same thing, too.

Then she spoke. Her breath was unbroken, as if the sprint had never happened.

“That was… quite an enjoyable race. My trainer was right to worry about you.”

Rice felt her chest tighten.

Still in Love’s gaze lingered on her just a fraction too long, eyes glassy and unreadable. The distance in them made it impossible to tell if she was impressed, or simply measuring how much of Rice belonged to her fear now.

Then came the footsteps, the shouting, the laughter.

Team Astrum.

They spilled onto the turf like a wave: Maruzensky first, arms thrown wide; Bakushin O at full tilt, voice three octaves higher than usual. They converged in a chaotic knot and swallowed Rice and Tachyon whole in a celebratory bear hug.

“He—hey! Not too close!” Tachyon protested, wriggling with theatrical indignation. “And don’t touch my ears!”

No one listened. Maruzensky’s perfume clouded the air, Bakushin O was shouting, Hayahide somehow managed to squeeze in while scribbling notes, and Gold Ship had both arms locked around Rice’s middle like she was trying to suplex her.

Off to the side, Okano stood just outside the swell, expression unreadable in the way old statues watch parades go by.

He glanced across the field. Someya met his gaze from the opposing bench. The younger man gave a faint nod, almost a bow, then turned and walked away.

The turf shook with laughter, clapping, voices tripping over each other. Rice’s lungs still burned, but the pressure that had stalked her down the stretch began to loosen under the crush of her teammates.

Still in Love watched for a moment longer. Then, with the same unhurried grace, she followed in her trainer’s steps, breath still steady.

As if she wasn’t the one on the turf at all.

So anyway, I brought the girls over to the starting line and—

Wait, what do you mean you already know what happens in the race?

No, hold on, I was just getting to the—

…Okay. You know what? Fine. You wanna skip the fireworks and cut straight to the aftermath? Be my guest.

Let’s jump ahead.

[10:08 JST] — TRACEN ACADEMY, TEAM ROOM 3B, KATSUAKI ITONAGA — ARRICAM LT / 35mm

24fps · ƒ/2.0 aperture · Lens 40mm standard · Shoulder-mounted; slight green push

The air was still amped up with leftover adrenaline from the morning drills. Someone’s sports drink had leaked on the floor, and the air-con unit was working overtime.

As for Bakushin O?

Well, she was already at full volume.

“GUYS!” she howled, arms flailing like she was directing airport traffic. “YOU TWO ACTUALLY BROUGHT ASTRUM BACK ON THE MAP!”

Rice Shower flushed beet red. “I-I-it was nothing, really—”

“Oh, don’t sell yourself short, sweetie,” Maruzensky cooed from the corner, legs tucked neatly beneath her. “You were brilliant out there. Both of you. ♪”

I leaned back in the chair near the door, one leg crossed over the other, Sapporo bottle dangling loose from my fingers. “What’d I say, huh? Kick their asses however way you want, and that’s exactly what you did.”

Tachyon, towel around her neck like a cape, gave a casual shrug. “Though, Rice is technically correct,” she said, voice dry. “It was, in fact, nothing. I’d anticipated a more rigorous duel of tactics. But alas, my opponent operated on what appeared to be spaghetti code.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get cocky,” I muttered. “We did exactly what Someya wanted us to do. And now they’re gonna take that loss and turn it into homework. You guys may have won the bout, but you bet your ass they’ll be swinging back even harder. Pollux won’t be the only team to look out for now.”

Hayahide gave a solemn nod. “Sensei is correct. Opponents adapt. We may have had the element of surprise yesterday, what with our… unorthodox training methods… But we may not be so fortunate come the Cup.”

She tapped through her phone, lips pressed tight. “I already counted eight different clips of the race uploaded on Umastagram. By dinner, we’ll be slowed, zoomed, and frame-analyzed.”

“Wait—you mean people can just steal our footage?!” Bakushin O yelped, springing upright. “As Class Representative, I simply cannot allow this! Maruzen-san, help me place a patent on it! Quick!”

Maruzensky lifted her chin, smiling as if the stage lights had just found her. “I don’t think that’s legally possible. But, if you really want some viral traction…”

She struck a pose, one hand raised like she was holding a microphone. “We could debut a signature disco choreography! Sequins, synchronized finger guns—now that’s a hit with the youth! ☆”

The room went dead quiet. Every face pointed at her.

She cracked one eye open. “…What? Too much?”

I caught Rice out the corner of my eye. She was trying—shoulders up, eyes flicking from face to face—but something about the rhythm was off. Something was eating at her.

“Hey.” I flicked my chin at her. “You all right?”

Rice startled like I’d shined a flashlight straight in her face. “Y-yes! I’m fine!”

She threw the words out too fast, shoulders snapping stiff. The kind of fine that meant not fine at all. Her hands twisted in her lap, tugging the edge of her towel like she was wringing water out of it.

“By the way…” Tachyon piped up. “Where is Gold Ship? I haven’t seen her all morning.”

“She mentioned she’d be running late in the group chat,” Hayahide replied, barely looking up from her screen.

I blinked. “What group chat?”

Bakushin O let out a noise like a kettle exploding. “OH CRUD—I totally forgot to add Sensei in!”

I straightened in my chair. “Add me? Wait, you guys had one this entire time? Why didn’t you say anything?”

Hayahide adjusted her glasses. “Well, given your borderline… Amish approach to technology, we figured you wouldn’t have wanted to join.”

“Amish,” I said, nodding like I was chewing glass. “I’ve got a flip phone, not a churn. Hell—I own a microwave for gods’ sake!”

Tachyon raised a finger. “Actually, I believe the last message from Gold Ship was—quote—‘Gotta make a pit stop first. Tell the old man not to poop his pants.’ Followed by three wilted rose emojis and a GIF of a spinning cow, oddly enough.”

I drained the rest of the Sapporo. “OK, so here’s what’s gonna go down. You’re all getting the day off. All right? You two did good yesterday,” I said, eyes cutting to Rice and Tachyon. “But grinding yourselves into tomato paste won’t do anyone any favors. So relax for a bit. We’ll hit the track again tomorrow. That clear?”

An uneven chorus came back: “Yes, Sensei!”

“Good. Dismissed.”

I pushed out of the chair, knees cracking like bad popcorn. That got a wince out of Maruzensky and a pointed look from Hayahide that said she was probably mentally logging my joint health.

The squad started filing out with the usual post-practice shuffle. Rice lingered a second too long, still fiddling with that towel, but she followed the others soon enough.

I called after them. “Oh—and someone add me to that damn group chat!”

Bakushin O spun on her heel, beaming. “Yes, Sensei!”

The door swung shut, leaving just the hum of the AC and the stink of sports drink in the air. I grabbed the empty Sapporo can, crushed it flat, and set it on the desk like a paperweight.

Now all that’s left is to find the circus act. Where the hell did she wander off to this time?

Somehow, I found her in another team room. Don’t ask me why. Maybe she tunneled in like a raccoon, maybe she sweet-talked a janitor. Hell, for all I know she’s been a double agent this whole time. Wouldn’t even surprise me. She’d probably tell you that herself.

As for me, well, I was about to find out.

“…What the hell is this?”

Gold Ship was hunched over a folding table like she was building a bomb. Wax paper everywhere. Two empty protein tubs rolling like spent shells. And one rice cooker steaming in the corner.

“Shh,” she whispered, glancing around like we were gonna be ambushed. “Don’t speak so loud. You’ll disturb the nutrients. Stevia-to-flour ratio’s tricky, but… I think I finally cracked it.”

I didn’t bother lowering my voice. “The hell are you—”

“Shhh! Here. Look.”

I stepped in closer. The air smelled like burnt coconut oil and asscheeks. Against my better judgment, I leaned over her shoulder.

“…Brownies?”

“Not just any brownies, old man.” She held up a perfectly squared piece like it was sacred scripture. “Keto brownies.”

I squinted at it. Looked more like a lump of mulch than dessert. “What brownies?”

Her voice went flat. “…Do you seriously not know what ketogenic means?”

“That a disease or something?”

She blinked. Rapid-fire. Like I’d spoken a sentence in wingdings.

“…It’s a diet. Low carb, high fat. You know; almond flour, erythritol, metabolic fuel shift? I don’t actually know what any of those words mean—are you catching any of this?”

“…Why? Why are you doing this?”

“Why?” She shrugged, still grinning. “Why does anyone do anything? For fun. For science. Seriously, you should try it sometime.”

Before I could answer, the door slammed open so hard the walls rattled.

In walked trouble; lavender hair, eyes sharp enough to slice diamond. If looks could kill, she would’ve been charged for double homicide.

“Gold Ship.”

Golshi looked up, smile bright as daylight. “Ahhh, my dear Maccers!”

The girl advanced one step at a time, like she was narrating her own true-crime special. “Did you or did you not dispose of the Belgian chocolate brownies I acquired yesterday? The ones imported, hand-selected, and queued for over four hours—solely to regulate my glucose levels before my next race?”

Golshi raised a finger. “Define ‘dispose’—”

“No. Do not define ‘dispose.’”

I was already backing up over to the wall. No way in hell was I catching that crossfire.

She snatched one of the keto bricks off the tray. Sniffed it. Her nose wrinkled like she’d inhaled asbestos. “And you thought you could replace them… with this? These… These protein-sawdust abominations?!”

“Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you try it!” Golshi said, all sunshine and insanity. “When that number on the scale drops, you’re practically gonna be kissing my feet for saving your life!”

The girl’s eye twitched. “When I want dietary intervention, I will consult a physician. Not a… culinary terrorist with a rice cooker!”

The air snapped tight enough to hum. Even the rice cooker seemed to think better of it and shut the hell up.

That’s when the door creaked again. Another poor soul wandered in; a mess of hair under a gray beanie. She had a Ziploc bag clutched in one hand, squares of something brown sweating through the plastic.

“Yo, Golshi,” she drawled, tone straight out of Baking Bad. “Got that next batch ready for ya.”

The purple girl’s pupils dilated to murder-size. Golshi’s smile flattened to dust. She went flat, voice as dry as chalk dust.

“Dude. Read the freaking room.”

Beanie girl squinted, finally clocking the lavender storm cloud on one side, the tray of keto mulch on the other, and me trying to blend into the wallpaper. Her gaze snagged on me, and recognition lit like a bad light bulb.

“Hold up… I know you… You’re that trainer who got saddled with her, right? Damn. Can’t believe you’re still here.”

“Yeah… I can’t believe it either…”

Somehow, we both walked out of that powder keg with our heads still attached. Don’t ask me how. Divine intervention, probably. Or maybe the girl, who I later found out was Mejiro McQueen, just didn’t feel like committing murder on school property that day. Either way, we were headed back to Astrum’s room like nothing had happened.

We were halfway down the hall when my flip phone started buzzing in my pocket. Queensrÿche blared out with Queen of the Reich. The kind of ringtone that makes kids glance over to check if that song was UmaTok material.

Of course, caller ID said Yamabe. Because who else would it be.

I thumbed it open. “What the hell do you want?”

“Awww, missed you too, dear,” came his chipper voice. “Listen, tiiiiny little situation here. Nothing major. Just… could use a certain someone to swing by and pick me up. As in, right now.”

I stopped dead in the hall. “What did you do this time?”

“Why do you always gotta interrogate me? Look, don’t worry, all right? C’mon, I’ll even buy you a drink after.”

I sighed through my nose, already regretting life choices stretching back decades. “…Fine.”

“Perfect! I’ll shoot you the address. Bring mints. And maybe some aspirin.”

The line cut. No chance to argue.

“Who was that?” Golshi piped up, leaning sideways into my space like a nosy little sister. “A secret lover, perhaps?”

I snapped the phone shut. “At this point? Might as well be.”

We hit the main corridor, footsteps echoing off the linoleum. Exit doors were just ahead when I spotted her across the hall, past Golshi’s shoulder.

Ikuno Dictus.

She was standing across the corridor, back straight, eyes moving over the posters like she was memorizing every line for a court case. Calm and composed in that same way she looked on the track when she’d carved that insane lead the other day. Watching her now, it wasn’t hard to see why someone like Kuroi would’ve scouted her.

I dug the Fairlady’s keys out of my pocket, weighed ‘em once in my palm, then held them out to Gold Ship.

“Here. Go start her up for me—she likes to warm up a little before a drive. There’s something I gotta do first.”

Her eyes went wide as ramen bowls. “Woah. For real? You’re letting me touch the sacred relic?!”

“Don’t make me regret this,” I muttered.

She grinned slow, like she’d just been handed nuclear launch codes. “Roger, roger!”

And then she bolted, keys jingling, hat nearly flying off as she made a beeline for the lot.

That was when I pulled up to her, trying my absolute best not to look like a creep loitering around in a school corridor. Not so easy when you’re dressed like me, unfortunately. She was still studying the posters, eyes raking the print like she planned on litigating the font choice. I needed an in. Something that didn’t sound like I’d been standing there too long.

“…Saw your race the other day,” I said, casual as I could manage.

She turned. Calm face, but her brows pinched like she wasn’t sure why the hell I was talking to her.

“Hell of a breakaway,” I added. “You opened daylight like it was nothin’.”

Her eyes pinched in at the corners. Not friendly, per se. More like gears grinding behind glass. Maybe literally—I mean she did have glasses.

“Thank you,” she said finally. Her tone was leveled to the millimeter. “Your runners performed well yesterday, too.”

“You were watching?”

“I saw it on Umatube.” She didn’t blink. “It just reached its twenty-thousandth view an hour ago.”

I blinked. Weird thing to keep track of. Weird thing to care about.

“And in case you were wondering,” she added, voice still flat, “metrics do matter. If a race is remembered, it exists. If it is not, it vanishes.”

That line didn’t sound all that proud. Not sure if she believed what she was saying, or just reciting page three of the Team Pollux handbook. The hallway buzzed with distant announcements, muffled footsteps.

“You always talk like that?” I asked. “Or did Kuroi teach you how to?”

Her eyes narrowed, just slightly.

“I’m… not sure I follow.”

And there it was. The tell. That sliver of hesitation.

“Eh, don’t worry about it,” I said, brushing it off. “Just some… old man ramblings.”

For a second there, I thought that’d be the end of it… But then she surprised me.

“…Do you mind if I ask you something?” she said.

I stared at her for a second, then flicked my chin up. “Go on.”

“As a trainer…” She hesitated. That alone caught me. “Do you believe in freedom on the track? Or only in execution?”

That one sat me back a bit. I watched her carefully. Her face didn’t twitch, her posture never shifted. But that question… It wasn’t about racing. Least I don’t think so.

“Well, that depends,” I said. “You talking about the girl, or the result?”

Her gaze faltered for just a second.

“…I don’t know yet.”

I gave a slow nod, like that was answer enough. In a way, it was.

She didn’t follow it up. Didn’t backpedal, didn’t change the subject. She just stood there, breathing steady.

“Listen,” I said finally, jerking my chin to the exit. “I gotta make a drive. All right? Tell your trainer I said hi, I guess.”

“He… doesn’t usually take greetings.”

“Then tell him anyway. It’ll make his day weird.”

The corner of her mouth twitched—maybe a frown, maybe the start of something else. Hard to tell with kids like her.

I started towards the doors, the linoleum humming under my shoes. Behind me, I heard her voice again, softer now.

“…For what it’s worth,” she said, “I hope your team lasts.”

I paused, hand on the push bar. Gave a nod and pushed through into the sun.

Heat slapped me square in the face, thick enough to slow-cook the back of my neck. The blacktop shimmered, all grease-glare and baked rubber stink, like somebody had slipped the whole parking lot under a broiler.

And there sat the Fairlady with its same crooked stance and chipped pride. Except this time, the windows were vibrating.

Not rattling, mind you—like, actually vibrating. Bassline deep enough to make the antenna jiggle.

♪ So I left my gate an’ went out for a walk ♪
        ♪ How does it feel when you’ve got no food? ♪

I came closer and saw it: Gold Ship in the driver’s seat, my aviators sliding off her nose, both hands bouncing the wheel in perfect time like she thought she was headlining a Reggae Soundclash.

I stopped dead. Blinked once.

“…What are you doing.”

She shot a finger-gun through the glass, already singing the next line like she was the background singer.

“Give me di music, make mi jump an’ prance!”

♪ It are go dun ♪

“Give mi di music, make mi rockin’ at di dance!”

I stared. Actually stared. Honestly, at that point I was half convinced the universe was telling me my expiration date was today. Right here. Just go out in a blaze of secondhand embarrassment.

“All right, move your ass,” I said, gripping the door handle.

“Mi kyan move. Mi ridin’ di riddim, seen?” she said, still bouncing like she was wired into the national grid.

“What the hell are you sa— Get out!”

That finally got her. She slid over with a theatrical sigh, sunglasses still crooked.

I yanked the door open, got in, and slammed it shut hard enough to make the Blaupunkt shake. The whole dash trembled under that ancient cassette deck, but I didn’t turn it off. Didn’t have the will to.

Instead, I shifted into first and pulled out of Tracen like a man escorting plutonium off of school property.

And the song kept on playing.

♪ Pass di Dutchie ‘pon di left hand side… ♪

Chapter Text

The office was the color of burnt lacquer and old coffee stains. Brown light slanted in through blinds with flawless symmetry, washing everything in a nicotine warmth. On the desk, paper stacks leaned like drunken towers, propped up by an ashtray that hadn’t been emptied since Tuesday. Somewhere under it all, a radio croaked out Elvis.

Masataka Yamabe hummed along anyway, mangling every other word in a thick, cheerful mumble.

“[Numba fordy-sebun… say to numba treee,]” he crooned, tapping his pen on an invoice like it was a snare head. “[You da cutest jailboa I ever seeee.]”

With a grunt of satisfaction at his own performance, he shoved off from his chair, wheels squeaking, and coasted across the room to bump against another desk. Paper stacks shivered from the impact.

“[Come on-a do da Jail House Lock wit’ meee, let’s lock…]”

He was mid-spin of the chair, hair flopping over his brow, when the shadows at the doorway thickened. The edges of the warm, brown light were swallowed, bent inward around the silhouette. Yamabe didn’t clock it. He was still scribbling his trademark illegible scrawl across the margin when he called out, bright as ever:

“Yo, what’s good, brother-man?”

The voice that answered was stripped of humor.

“Has he understood the arrangement?”

Yamabe froze half a beat, then smiled over his shoulder. “Mmmmm, not yet. He’ll come around. Y’know how it is—still ‘warmin’ up’ to the girls and all.”

“…The longer this drags, the harder it gets to clean up.”

Yamabe’s pen stopped moving.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

He reached across the desk and thumbed the radio lower. The absence of music pressed in thick, the brown light of the room suddenly suffocating in its closeness. When he spoke again, the banter had gone out of him.

“You know, you and that little posse of yours have been pretty hands-off this whole operation. And now… What? Suddenly you just decided you wanna steer the ship? Little late for stage directions, don’t you think?”

The figure stepped forward once. That was enough.

Yamabe’s crooked smile snapped back into place, brittle at the edges. “Okay…” he muttered. “Clearly somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

The wobble in his voice gave him away. His eyes, darting and wet in the lamplight, told the rest—he was scared out of his skin.

“The boss gave you the wheel, Yamabe. But don’t mistake that for freedom.”

Yamabe swallowed hard, throat bobbing. He kept his hands visible on the desk, palms open, pen rolling off the edge. The figure straightened, turned, and left without another word.

For a moment, only the ceiling fan’s hum held the room together. Yamabe sat frozen, staring at the paperwork like it might shuffle itself into an exit. Then the radio he hadn’t fully killed crackled back to life.

“…And remember, folks—sometimes you can’t just dance your way out of trouble, no matter how loud you crank the band. I’ve learned that the hard way.”

He let out a laugh that didn’t sound like his, thin and wrong.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Ain’t that the truth.”

He reached for his cigarettes, lighter paused halfway to his thumb.

“…Comin’ up next—keep it close, keep it quiet. Tatsuro Yamashita with ‘Soubou.’ Don’t touch that dial.”

[12:06 JST] — ENEOS STATION, ROUTE 20 NEAR FUCHŪ — ARRI SR3 / 16mm

24fps · ƒ/4.0 aperture · Lens 50mm standard · Shoulder rig; natural overexposure, color-timed cool (sun-bleached cyan)

The sun was brutal that noon, laying itself across the blacktop like a hot skillet. I had the nozzle in the Z’s side, pump ticking away. No telling what kind of never ending story Yamabe was cooking this time, so I figured I’d top her off. Gas in the tank meant fewer excuses to get stranded.

Golshi came bouncing out of the konbini like she’d just robbed the place, arms cinched around a pile of plastic bags. Chips crinkled, soda cans rattled. Looked less like groceries and more like she’d wrestled the snack aisle into submission.

“How’s this?” she asked, grinning like a kid showing off a Halloween haul. “Should be more than enough for Astrum, right?”

I leaned on the pump, watching the numbers crawl. “You sure none of them got any peanut allergies or whatever?”

“Not that I know of.” She shrugged, nearly dropping a bottle of Ramune. “But hey, wouldn’t it be hilarious if Rice was actually allergic to rice?”

I gave her a look. “Yeah. Comedy gold. EpiPens for everyone…”

We were back on the road in no time, Fairlady humming low as she ate up the expressway. Yamabe’s text glowed on my flip phone screen, all cheerful arrows pointing to Yokohama Chinatown of all places. About fifty minutes from Fuchu. Maybe less if the Z was still the monster she used to be. These days, I was lucky if she didn’t cough up a bolt after third gear.

“Hey, so uhh… Does she always smell this much like gas inside?” Golshi asked, cracking her window halfway. “Or are they selling one of those scented trees with ‘left the stove on’ flavor now?”

“Relax. She’s not gonna blow. Just a full tank settling in.”

“You sure? ‘Cause I’m not totally opposed. I’ve always wanted my death to be visually iconic. Then at the funeral, I can totally pull off one of those ‘If you’re watching this, I’m already dead’ monologues.”

“You’re not dying in my car. This isn’t some cult classic where the sidekick explodes halfway through.”

She perked up at that. “Sidekick? Hold on—you mean I’m Robin to your Batman? Or like, Short Round to Indy?”

“More like the dork I should’ve left at the gas station,” I muttered.

She smiled, tossed a chip into her mouth, and nearly choked on the crumbs.

I peeled off the expressway. The drive went silent again, thank gods, but she spoke again.

“So… Yamabe… What’s his deal?”

“What do you mean, what’s his deal?”

“You two clearly got some history together,” she said, pointing at me with a half-squashed Pocky stick. “C’mon, old man, gimme the lore drop. This is like… the perfect time for it.”

I kept my eyes on the road. Chinatown was still fifteen klicks off, maybe more with traffic. Plenty of time to regret opening my mouth.

“…We met way back when I was still a rookie trainer,” I said finally. “I’d just gotten my license. Yamabe already had his for, what, three years? Guy thought he was hot shit ‘cause he was filling out paperwork.”

I adjusted the wheel, eyes still on the road.

“We came up outta Okinawa, you see. And out there?” I scoffed lightly. “We didn’t have any fancy racecourses and all that crap. Place where the closest thing we had to proper track training was festival races. You know, big drums pounding, lanterns swinging… Whole damn village came out just to watch the kids run in circles.”

Golshi leaned forward like I’d just uncorked a ghost story. “For real? You two are Okinawan?”

I couldn’t stop the corner of my mouth tugging up. “Hell yeah. Wasn’t glamorous, but it was a blast. You’d line ‘em up at sunset, on dirt softer than a baby’s ass, and the crowd would yell loud enough that you couldn’t even hear the starter’s whistle. Sometimes the finish line was just two ropes tied between beer crates. Winners got a wreath of paper flowers and bragging rights till next year.”

She chuckled, leaning her cheek against the seatbelt. “Man, and now look at you. Tracen’s up and coming hotshot. Guess everybody’s gotta start somewhere.”

“Yeah, well… Honestly?” I said, watching the road. “Yamabe back then saved both our asses more times than I can count. Without him… we probably wouldn’t have gotten any of the local girls to start racing over in the mainland.”

Her eyes widened. “No way.”

“Way,” I said, and the laugh came out before I could stop it. “You gotta remember, kid—this was the eighties. Okinawa was still shaking off the dust from the occupation. We had jukeboxes full of American hits and a whole lotta folks trying to figure out what the hell Japanese identity meant down there. But the track? That was ours. Didn’t matter who you were—if you could run, you ran. And those girls were on fire.”

“And you’re telling me Yamabe was the one who got them their ticket to stardom?”

“Yeah, don’t give him too much credit,” I said, easing the wheel just enough to catch the curve. “Anyway, first trainee I brought to the mainland. Girl named Namura Fresno. You’d swear she was gonna trip herself halfway through the backstretch. But goddamn if she didn’t run like her heart was on fire.”

I caught myself smiling before I even realized it. Couldn’t help but remember it all. Her goofy warm-up hops, the way her hair would get in her eyes. All of it.

“We drove all the way to Niigata for her first graded race. Me, her, and Yamabe. Stuffed into the Z back when it still had decent back seats. Took us all day.”

Golshi leaned in slightly, nose scrunched. “‘Z’…? Wait, this car? This exact car?!”

“Same one,” I said, knocking the steering wheel with a palm. “Then we hit Niigata Nisai. She got stage fright. Crowd was too big. Started shaking so bad I thought she’d rattle herself apart before the starting gate. I told her if she threw up, make sure she didn’t do it on her shoes, ‘cause the camera guys would never let her live it down. That cracked her up enough to forget she was scared.”

Golshi let out a short, wheezy laugh. The kind that sounded like a chip tried to make a break for it halfway up her throat.

“So then I watched her on the final stretch,” I went on, the words finding their own pace now. “Last two hundred meters. Neck and neck with some other runner. And then…”

I let it hang. Not to be dramatic. Just that the road curved up ahead.

Golshi waited. Bobbing her head side to side.

“…Well? What happened? Did she win?”

I turned the wheel left.

“…No. She was dead last. Eighth place.”

She blinked. “That’s it? Eighth?”

“That’s it,” I said. “Kid came out the gate like her legs were made of pool noodles. Spent the whole race playing catch-up. By the last hundred meters, she was already gassed. Then after the race, she just came back to the green room. And you know what she said?”

Golshi turned her head, eyes a little wide now.

“‘I didn’t throw up.’”

There was a pause, just long enough for the engine to settle into a smoother growl, before Golshi let out this snort of a laugh.

“Man, would I love to meet her.” She leaned back in the seat like the story knocked something loose in her.

“Eh, she’s been outta the game a long while now. Probably runs a bakeshop somewhere back in Okinawa.”

Golshi sighed like she meant it. “You know what? That kinda rules.”

She smiled at the windshield, not saying much for once. That was rare. And I let it stay quiet, as short as that lasted.

Fiddling through the passenger door pocket, Golshi dug past old receipts and half-melted mints until her hand closed on a plastic case. She yanked it free with the kind of grin you only see on kids who’ve just pulled gum off the bottom of a desk.

“Oh-ho-ho, jackpot.” She waved the cassette like a magician revealing the queen of spades. “Vintage treasure. What’s this one?”

Before I could stop her, she slid it into the deck. The machine clunked once, chewed for a bit, then filled the cabin with that syrupy swell of synth and drum.

I didn’t even have to look. I knew it. Hell, anyone my age knew it.

Golshi squinted. “Wait, hold on—is this… Starship? Dude, this is, like, actual wedding montage stuff.”

She drummed her knees to the beat, cackling. “This actually yours, old man? Please say yes. I need this image in my life.”

I shook my head once, eyes glued to the asphalt peeling by.

“It’s Yamabe’s…”

Her eyebrow shot up. “Yeah, okay…”

We’d managed to stay quiet. But then the chorus hit, loud and unashamed. And before I could stop it, out came the mutter, half under my breath, half dragged there by muscle memory.

“[—and we can build this dream together, standin’ strong forever…]”

Golshi gave me a look. Just enough of a side-glance to needle me without breaking character. Then, because she can’t leave a bruise without pressing it twice, she started mumbling along too.

“[…And if this world runs out of lovers, we’ll still have each other—]”

Her voice was flat, off-key, like she was deliberately trying to sandpaper the melody. But sure enough, by the time the chorus swung back around, the two of us were muttering it in sync. A pair of idiots with no business harmonizing, carrying it all the way down the expressway while the towers of Yokohama pushed up out of the haze. 

The cassette whirred on—nothing could stop it now…

It was a little past noon by the time we arrived. Sun high, streets boiling with tourists. I crawled the car forward on idle, clutch barely kissed. Could hear the valves clicking, that low metallic chatter only I knew how to read. We moseyed through the crowd until I spotted the side alley Yamabe’d texted. A squat brick building with a roll-up door half rusted shut. Didn’t look like much, which meant it was probably exactly right.

“Here we are. Perfect spot for a family picnic,” I muttered, easing in. “All right, where is this guy…”

Golshi had her face pressed halfway out the window. “Weird place for a meetup. You sure we’re not about to get shanked? ‘Cause I did not bring my last rites.”

“Eh, you’ll manage,” I said. “I taught you some karate basics, didn’t I? Plus with your ridiculous farm-animal strength, it’d be a walk in the park.”

Her grin sharpened. “Well, if I do get to bash some skulls in, then I’d say this trip would be doubly worth it.”

Before I could answer, the back door to a dim stairwell clattered open. Out stepped Yamabe. Cheap suit, hair slicked like he’d bathed in vending machine coffee. Son of a bitch had his arms spread wide like he was greeting a stadium crowd instead of two people in a Nissan choking on its own fumes.

He strutted right up to the driver’s side, leaned down, and gave me that classic shit-eating grin. “Well, look at that. You actually pulled through.”

I didn’t bother returning it. “Only doing this because I gave the team the day off.”

“Ah.” He pointed past me, grin fading. “Well that explains her, then.”

“Annyeonghaseyo!” Golshi chirped, firing off a wave so enthusiastic it almost smacked me in the cheek.
(TL Note: “Annyeonghaseyo” means “hello” in Korean.)

Look, don’t ask me why. I don’t know either.

Yamabe’s eyebrow twitched. “…Right. So, uh… You gonna let her slide up, or—”

“Hell no. You’re taking the back seat.”

“Back seat?” he said, giving the Fairlady’s profile a once-over. “Your ride ain’t exactly a Hiace, brother. I’ll be folded in half like a damn futon.”

“Look, either you get in, or I leave you to the mercy of public transport,” I said, popping the seat latch with a shove.

A little wrestling match later, he’d wormed his way into the Z’s back seat. Dust puffed up around him, probably older than Maruzensky herself. He sneezed, adjusted his tie, and muttered something about worker’s comp.

Golshi leaned back over the seat, grinning like she’d just adopted a stray dog. “Comfy back there?”

From the rear came a strangled laugh, pitched higher than I’d ever heard out of him. “Right, yeah, real funny, ha-ha, woohoo… You two jokers done? Because my spine’s negotiating with my lungs right now.”

I kept my eyes on the mirrors, hand firm on the shifter. The Z coughed once in protest, then settled back into a low, uneven grumble, like she didn’t approve of the passenger either.

“The hell are you doing all the way out here anyway?” I asked, easing the clutch into second. “Where’s your car?”

“Eh, I took a train. Gotta make my JR Pass worth something before it expires.”

“Here. Catch,” Golshi said, and lobbed a pack of mints at his head. It bounced off his tie and fell into his lap.

“Thanks,” he muttered, already shaking one loose like it was painkillers.

I shifted up, letting the Z nose through the narrow street. “So that’s it? You dragged me across prefectures to carpool and complain about public transit?”

“No,” Yamabe said, leaning forward between the seats. “I didn’t just get you to play chauffeur for nothing.”

“Oh yeah?”

“That little race you and that Dubhe guy cooked up yesterday? Word’s spreading faster than discount yakisoba. And if you ask me…” His grin sharpened, teeth flashing in the rearview. “The timing couldn’t have been more perfect.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, let’s just say there’s a certain official event coming up… One you’re not gonna want to miss.”

“A URA Keynote?!” Bakushin O shrieked, voice ricocheting off the blinds.

Sure enough, few days later, I was back in Astrum’s team room, arms crossed, back aching. I practically watched the panic unfurl like someone’d set off a firecracker in a birdcage.

A keynote. Like they were launching a new tech gadget instead of a race.

“Yeah,” I said, leaning against the window frame, one sneaker braced against the ledge. “From what Yamabe said, the board’s decided to put more eyes on this thing. Whether our little scrimmage stirred that up or not is anyone’s guess. But either way—the spectacle just got bigger.”

“So it’s official,” Hayahide muttered. “The Constellation Cup isn’t just internal anymore. It’s being recognized. If the Keynote is truly about the Cup, then it means the URA is positioning this event as more than probationary for us. We’ll be treated as precedent… A trial balloon for future inter-team tournaments.”

“Cool your jets,” I said. “All right? Nothing’s confirmed yet. Only way we find out for sure is by showing up. Event’s scheduled for this weekend. Expect all your little friends to be there—Pollux, Dubhe, maybe a few other teams sniffing around for a piece.”

Tachyon lit up from her sprawl on the beanbag chair, eyes gleaming. “How serendipitous. That many Umamusume in one location? Think of the potential data! Why, if I can just bribe the caterers to—”

“No experiments,” I said.

“But… I already ordered the infrared—”

“Still no.”

She slumped with a theatrical sigh, arms flopping sideways like a marionette whose strings had just been cut.

“…Does this mean we’re going to be interviewed?” Rice asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes—no. Maybe… I don’t know.”

That got a few stares.

“What I do know,” I went on, peeling away from the window, “is that from here on out, we’re gonna need someone to be our public face. The one who recites the speeches, smiles for the cameras, answers the softball questions. And for that…” I looked over the lot of them, slow enough to make it sting. “We need someone with charisma. With charm. With the kinda polish that’ll rock those URA’s shareholders’ panties clean off.”

Golshi let out a high-pitched snort and immediately slapped both hands over her mouth.

“Sorry—sorry!” she wheezed. “It was the phrasing, I swear!”

I ignored her. “So. Who wants to volunteer?”

The room turned into a church. Silence, a couple coughs, everyone pretending the floorboards had suddenly become fascinating.

Tachyon’s hand shot up. “Perhaps I could—”

“No. Put your hand down.”

Her lip jutted out in an exaggerated pout, arms folding with enough drama to squeak the beanbag under her.

The silence hung just a second too long. I was about to crack another joke just to break it when—

“I volunteer.”

Every head in the room snapped to the lockers.

Bakushin O stood there like she’d been waiting for her cue since birth. She stepped forward, fists planted on her hips, chin tilted just high enough to catch the ceiling light like she was born for a podium. You could practically hear the background music swelling behind her.

“I, Sakura Bakushin O, will represent Team Astrum before the URA and the public!” Her voice carried like a school announcement, ricocheting off every scuffed wall.

“I will smile with conviction! I will articulate our values clearly and with bakushin speed! And I will not—” she stabbed a finger at me like I was a hostile witness “—not be derailed by tricky questions, snack trays, or flash photography!”

Golshi had both fists pressed under her eyes, wiping away fake tears like she was watching a war hero march off to the front.

“So… inspiring,” she whispered hoarsely, then blew her nose into a chip bag.

Hayahide nodded once, solemn. “That’s our sprinter, all right.”

Even Rice looked a little starstruck.

I rubbed my temple, stared at Bakushin O, then at the rest of them. Not a shred of doubt anywhere.

“…Fine,” I muttered. “You’re up. Don’t make me regret this.”

Bakushin O straightened even taller, if that was possible, and saluted like she was pledging her soul to the cause. “Yes, Sensei! I will carry our banner with honor and supreme velocity!”

I shook my head. But gods help me, I actually believed her.

The room broke into chatter again, everyone buzzing off her confidence like she’d handed out batteries.

Well… everyone except Hayahide.

She just sat there, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Shoulders stiff, jaw set too tight. Looked less like she was planning the next practice run and more like she was already rehearsing whatever storm she thought was coming.

Nobody else clocked it. But I did.

By the time the day actually rolled around, I was staring down the cracked mirror above my dresser, wondering who the hell I thought I was fooling.

The tie didn’t match.

Didn’t matter. This wasn’t about looking good. It was about not looking like the local crack dealer on payday.

The mirror threw back enough of me to wince at. The suit was a charcoal gray piece I hadn’t touched in years. Shoulder seams rode too high, pants pinched at the thighs and sagged everywhere else. It was like the thing couldn’t remember what body it was tailored for.

I slicked my hair back with a dab of something I dug out of a tin at the back of the drawer. Lid had rust freckles and smelled like expired lemons. Didn’t make me look sharp, just greasier.

Then the laptop pinged.

I padded over in my socks and tapped the space bar.

= Astrum Rulez! (Only cool cats allowed inside) =

[ 22:15 | Trainer Okano: Rocky III movie download ]

[ 22:15 | Trainer Okano: Bloodsport watch online ]

[ 22:20 | Trainer Okano: How does this thing work? ]

[ 22:26 | Gold Ship: this isn't google, old man ]

—New Unread Messages—

[ 18:42 | Maruzensky: Anyone down to ride with me to the hotel? I can get us there in a flash! 💖💫🚗 ]

[ 18:42 | Sakura Bakushin O: YES MARUZEN-SAN! I would be honored to accompany you! I also hope to rehearse my keynote speech during the drive! Please alert me if it becomes too powerful! ]

[ 18:42 | Agnes Tachyon: oh no ]

[ 18:42 | Gold Ship: record it. if she passes out mid-sentence i'm posting it to umatube ]

[ 18:43 | Rice Shower: Please don't… What if it goes viral… ]

Biwa Hayahide is typing...

That’s when the knock came.

I adjusted the half-buttoned collar, sighed once through my nose, and opened the door. Golshi stood in the hall with her grin dialed up.

“Thought I told you to wait in the car,” I muttered.

“And miss out on a tour of your legendary bachelor pad?” she scoffed. “No way, José.”

I stepped aside with a grunt. “All right. Whatever. I’m about to leave anyway.”

She strolled in like it was a motel she’d already rated one star, eyes darting over the peeling wallpaper and the stack of VHS tapes by the TV.

“So, uh… Doesn’t Tracen give trainers their own rooms?” Golshi asked, looking around like she expected to find hard drugs under the futon. “Why are you still living in this dump?”

“‘Cause it’s my dump.”

“Touching,” she said, and collapsed onto the couch. A puff of dust shot up like stage fog. She didn’t notice. Pulled a Rubik’s Cube out of nowhere and started turning it like she was defusing a bomb wired to a karaoke machine.

I turned back to the cracked mirror and started the slow, stubborn process of tying my tie. Fingers clumsy, knot already cockeyed.

“Hey,” I called over my shoulder. “You talked with Hayahide and Rice lately?”

“Nope.” Click-clack. The cube spun like a rattlesnake tail. “Why?”

“Nothing,” I said. The knot cinched awkwardly under my fingers, off-center. I pulled it loose and started again. “Just… looked like something’s been bothering them. I mean, they’ve been doing fine on training, but… I don’t know. You think they’re scared of public places or somethin’?”

Golshi snorted. “Rice Shower, sure. But Hayahide? Nah. She’s a data goblin, not a cave goblin. But…” Her voice thinned a little as she twisted another line into place. “She’s not usually that uptight, if that’s what you wanna hear.”

“So something is bothering her, then.”

“Hey. If I was any good at reading people, I’d have applied for Tracen’s guidance counselor gig. But I didn’t. So boo-womp.” She flicked one side of the cube until it spun like a roulette wheel.

“Still,” I said, grabbing my jacket off the chair. “She’s one of those types who keeps the world from catching fire. If she’s spooked, then I wanna know why.”

Golshi finally looked up, the cube half-solved in her lap. “Then maybe ask her yourself then, genius. Worked wonders in all the after-school specials.”

I sighed, shrugged into the jacket. She wasn’t wrong. Just didn’t mean I liked hearing it.

“C’mon,” I said. “We’re gonna be late.”

She bounced off the couch, cube vanishing back into wherever abyss it came from. “Finally! Time to strut the catwalk, Sensei Old Man.”

I dug my car keys out of the dish by the door and gave a single nod, more to myself than her. Then I locked up behind us.

We clomped down the flights of stairs until we hit ground level. The Fairlady sat under a busted karaoke sign, red kanji blinking half-dead in the rain-slick glass. The neon bled across her hood in a smorgasbord of colors. Looked less like headlights and more like a police siren on LSD.

“What’s up, old man?” a voice crowed.

He stepped out from the shadows, leather jacket creaking, grin a little too wide. Behind him idled a beat-to-hell Crown sedan, two more guys inside, half-lit by dashboard glow.

“Nice car you got there.”

I stopped, eyes narrowing. “Thanks.”

“Yeah… except you’re kinda blockin’ the way here.”

I followed his line. Sure enough, the Fairlady was parked tight against the curb, just enough that they’d have to squeeze past. Not impossible. Just inconvenient.

“And?” I said flatly.

The grin tightened. “‘And?’” He chuckled, head tilting. “You’re blocking the way.”

“Then go around.” I shifted the keys in my palm, voice flat. “Ain’t that hard. Well… Unless you’re too scared to drive past the precinct across the street with how shitfaced you and your buddies are.”

Golshi’s eyes popped wide. She slapped a hand over her mouth, grin leaking through her fingers like carbonation through a bad seal.

The man’s voice dropped, all gravel now. “What’d you say?”

I stepped closer, enough that the neon caught the scar behind his ear.

“You heard me… Go. Around.”

That’s when he jerked his chin, and the sedan’s doors opened. His boys climbed out, one cracking his knuckles, the other twirling a cigarette like it was a baton.

“You really wanna do this, old timer?” the guy in front of me asked.

I could’ve left it. Could’ve let it roll off. But some nights, you just want to prove a point.

“…Yeah.”

I struck first.

He folded over, and his boys jumped like they’d been waiting for the bell.

The one on the left lunged. Wild fists, all beer courage. I caught the arm high, outside block snapping it off course, then buried a straight oi-zuki on his ass.

The other swung sloppy, big haymaker meant to scare. I stepped into sansen dachi without thinking, braced and struck low into his ankle. He yelped, stumbled sideways, and that’s when my fist came down in a hammer arc, cracking him across the cheekbone. He went sprawling, cigarette skittering into the gutter.

First guy recovered enough to grab me from behind, arms locking across my ribs. His buddy charged again. I shot a kick high and sharp, caught him on the side of the head. He reeled, legs spaghetti. I dropped low, threw myself forward, and the chokehold turned into a suplex as his own weight carried him over my back. He hit the concrete flat, groaning like a refrigerator tipping over.

Second guy thought he still wanted a piece. I caught the strike on my forearm, twisted his wrist until he yelped, then snapped two short punches to his temple.

His knees wobbled. I finished with a yama-zuki, both fists driving in opposite lines, a cross-body shock that rattled him clean down.

Silence after. Only noise was the Crown’s engine idling, headlights buzzing against the Fairlady’s paint. Three bodies on the pavement, groaning and clutching whatever I’d just wrecked.

I straightened, breathing hard through my nose. My knuckles stung, thigh humming with that old ache I hadn’t felt since the track days. I spat to the side, wiped the back of my hand across my mouth.

“That all you got, ladies?”

Behind me, Golshi let out a whistle like she was ringside at a pro wrestling match. Then came the clapping, hands over her head like she was saluting the damn flag.

“What the hell! That was sick!” she cackled, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Ten outta ten! Flawless victory! Now do it again—let’s go find some more thugs! I wanna dropkick someone!”

I gave her a look, breathing still steadying out.

“Get in the car.”

Chapter Text

[19:07 JST] — CRYSTAL LOTUS TOKYO, ROPPONGI — PANAVISION XL2 / 35mm

24fps · ƒ/2.8 aperture · Lens 50mm standard · Steadicam weave through crowd; tungsten-balanced, overexposed flash pops

The hotel lobby looked like someone had tried to fit a racetrack into a chandelier.

Reporters stacked elbow to elbow, cameras flashing like they were afraid the electricity might cut out if they didn’t use it all at once. Tracen uniforms dotted the crowd in clusters. A few other schools mixed in, their crests stitched loud on their lapels, sizing each other up with the subtlety of alley cats.

Golshi was already gawking, her hat bobbing above the crowd like a buoy in rough water.

“Sensei! Look at all this free merch!” She plucked a pamphlet from a passing intern like she was shoplifting air.

“Keep walking,” I muttered. “We’re not here to hoard swag.”

We drifted through the lobby, the marble floor polished enough to trip a man with his own reflection. No sign of Astrum yet. Or Pollux. Or Dubhe. Just the hum of too much ambition in one room.

Recognition didn’t bother me one bit. I mean, I doubt anybody was actively looking for a washed-up trainer who hadn’t been on a program sheet in decades. I could’ve shouted my own name and the press would’ve tripped over themselves to get a better angle on a third-rate miler instead.

That’s when Yamabe slid into frame like a bad commercial break, grin wide enough to sell beat-up Daihatsus off the back of a farmhouse.

“Holy hell, Sensei,” he said, eyes doing a full up-and-down. “That suit is not doing you any favors. Looks like you mugged a mid-level accountant on his way to karaoke.”

“Yeah, shut up,” I muttered, jaw tight. “You’re lucky I even showed.”

Golshi piped up before he could jab again. “Old man’s right, Yama-chan. Poor guy had to fight off, like, three mobsters just to get here. You shoulda seen him—he was on fire, like a dragon!”

Yamabe blinked. “Wh-what? Mobsters?”

“Don’t listen to her. Just a bunch of drunk assholes.” I waved him off like I was batting away a fly. “Where’s everyone else?”

“Present and accounted for!”

The voice hit like a baton snap, cutting clean through the press chatter and clinking glasses.

I turned, and sure enough, Bakushin O stood at the head of the entryway like she’d just burst through a fog machine. The overhead chandeliers caught every inch of her signature racewear: sleeveless pink-and-white with gold buttons marching down her chest. Whole thing made her look like someone had crossbred a parade commander with a pop idol and told her world peace depended on nailing this public appearance.

“Maruzen-san let me practice my opening remarks in the car and said I radiated star energy!” she beamed, pupils still dilated from the praise. “She even assigned me an entrance song! Ever heard of Whitney Houston, Sensei?”

I had… Didn’t mean I wanted them knowing that.

“Oh, don’t mention it, ♪” Maruzensky purred, gliding in just behind her. She smiled at me over the rim of her sunglasses. “I figured the least I could do was give our queen her shining moment.”

She peeled them off and winked. “And you clean up nice, Sensei. Almost didn’t recognize you without the smell of Sapporo. ♪”

I grunted. The rest of Astrum drifted in behind them like a weather front.

Tachyon already had her phone out, thumb scrolling like she was mid-crisis management. Rice trailed two steps behind, shoulders drawn. Hayahide brought up the rear, eyes scanning every corner like she was triangulating exit routes. Five kids with nothing in common except the uniforms… And the fact they were mine to wrangle.

“All right, now that the whole gang’s here,” Yamabe said, slipping a folded sheet into my palm like a dealer passing cards. “Here are your seat assignments. Up balcony, back left. Good sightlines, not too flashy. Trust me, the optics guys’ll eat it up.”

I skimmed it. It was mostly just bureaucratic crap that meant nothing to anyone outside the URA. Up in the balcony, then. Far enough to be seen but not close enough to matter. Fine by me.

“Make sure you head there soon,” Yamabe added, lowering his voice. “Nothing says ‘bush league’ like showing up late to your own announcement.”

Bakushin O snapped to attention, saluting so hard her ponytail nearly smacked Tachyon in the face. “Don’t worry, sir! Team Astrum will arrive with unmatched photogenic zeal!”

I just folded the paper into my pocket.

“Let’s move out.”

We started over to the grand staircase, Astrum falling in step behind me. The marble steps rose wide and shallow, meant for sweeping entrances and photo ops. Halfway up, I caught sight of Pollux’s kids cutting across the crowd below. Narita Taishin looked like she wanted to fight the chandelier. Sirius Symboli scanned the crowd like a bouncer. And at the rear, King Halo smiled wide for the cameras.

We later hit the balcony and filed into our seats. From up here, the auditorium stretched out like a pit before a stage. Reporters buzzed in the aisles. The podium at the front stood empty, two URA banners hanging behind it. The air had that charged quiet, like the collective intake of a crowd waiting for the opening idol concert.

Across the way, I clocked Dubhe. Someya, Still in Love, Jungle Pocket, and a couple whos I couldn’t name yet. Someya spotted us quick with a soft smile and polite little wave. I didn’t return it.

Then the lights dimmed. A hush rippled. The URA announcer stepped up to the podium, smile rehearsed within an inch of its life.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, voice echoing through the hall, “thank you for joining us for this special announcement.”

Golshi leaned over to me, breath hot with mischief. “Five hundred yen says she flubs it in the next ten seconds.”

I didn’t answer. My eyes were already on the stage.

The announcer carried on, words rolling out with all the warmth of a press release. “As you may know, the URA has long stood as the pinnacle of Umamusume competition. But as our world evolves, so too must the ways in which we foster talent and showcase the next generation.”

I felt Astrum shift beside me: Hayahide straightening in her seat, Rice folding tighter in on herself. Tachyon tilted her head like she’d just spotted a new experiment running across the floor.

“And so,” the announcer continued, “we are proud to reveal a new initiative. A sanctioned inter-team competition designed to encourage unity and strategy. A sort of… proving ground for the future.”

The screen behind her flared alive: Constellation Cup, big white lettering across a starfield graphic. Flashbulbs detonated. The announcer spread her arms like she’d just revealed the cure for cancer.

“The Constellation Cup will debut officially this week, with its first race set for tomorrow. Matches will be staged at Tokyo Racecourse—one race every other day—giving each clash its own spotlight. It will feature selected teams from across the academy system—teams whose performance will set the tone for future tournaments and help shape the very future of our sport.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. The applause came easy, like people were clapping because the program told them to. Me, I just sat there, jaw tight. Whether we trained enough or not, tomorrow was the day.

Down below, Pollux sat stone-faced, Sirius looking like she could snap a camera tripod in half if someone angled it wrong. Dubhe leaned together, Someya’s calm face flickering with something I couldn’t quite pin.

The announcer didn’t pause long. She’d been rehearsed within an inch of her life.

“This is more than just a competition. This is a platform. A stage where the brightest and boldest will redefine what racing means to them. Where data meets instinct, and legacy meets innovation.”

I felt my teeth grind. Words like “platform” and “innovation” had a real stink to them. The kinda language you’d hear in shareholder decks and dystopian subway ads. The kind that turned flesh and bone into nothing but bullet points.

“Six races, across multiple distances and conditions,” she pressed on, a clicker in her hand now. The screen behind her shifted: sprint, mile, mid—you know the drill. Animated silhouettes of Umamusume slid across the track diagrams.

“Victory will require more than raw speed. It will demand adaptability. Teams must balance their rosters, cultivate versatility, and above all… perform together.”

The word perform echoed, sharp and hollow. But the announcer’s smile never faltered.

“In an era where individual glory has long defined our sport, the Constellation Cup seeks to pioneer a new frontier: interconnected excellence. After all, why are we all here, if not to witness the fastest systems?”

Systems, huh?

The crowd murmured again; half awe, half confusion. Golshi leaned over to me, voice pitched low.

“You hearing this? This sounds less like a race and more like a sci-fi movie trailer.”

She wasn’t wrong. I already felt like I’d wandered onto a Blade Runner set. If only I looked half as good as Harrison Ford, though…

Onstage, the announcer gestured to the banners with a sweep of her hand. “And so we invite you all to this inaugural experiment. Welcome to progress. Welcome to the future. Welcome… to a new era.”

Could’ve sworn I heard someone drop that exact phrasing before already.

Applause hit like static, uneven and eager, reporters clapping as if the sound might buy them an exclusive. Pollux stayed composed. Dubhe whispered among themselves. I looked over to Astrum.

Tachyon’s mouth hung open like a power outage in a haunted mansion. She wasn’t even pretending to stay awake. Rice stared at her, probably debating whether to jab her with a stick or just let entropy take its course. Maruzensky, to her credit, looked like she’d walked out of a gala and straight into a TED Talk; one leg crossed, polite nodding.

And Gold Ship…

Had upgraded.

The Rubik’s cube in her lap had ballooned into some cursed monstrosity. Seventeen squares wide, the colors bled together in fractal agony. She spun it with one finger like a roulette wheel possessed by abstract math.

I opened my mouth to say something, anything, but then—

“And now,” said the announcer, her voice clipped and crystalline, “we shall move on to what our own participants have to say.”

That line was rehearsed, but the room still shifted. Chairs straightened. Camera gimbals reset. The lens of the event pivoted.

“Starting us off strong,” she continued, “representing Team Astrum from Tokyo Tracen Academy… Sakura Bakushin O.”

And there she was, stepping out onto the stage like she’d been shot from a cannon full of patriotism.

She bowed once, sharply, then took the mic with both hands like she was about to sing the national anthem. The crowd didn’t know what to expect. You could feel the collective posture shift—reporters bracing for fluff, other team reps bracing for shade. I watched from the balcony, leaning forward slightly, just enough for my knees to remind me that suits weren’t made for comfort.

Bakushin O took one breath. Then she lit the damn room on fire.

“Good evening, honored guests, fellow racers, members of the press, and all you groovy cats out there!”

Every head turned. A couple chuckles rippled through the lower rows. I sighed through my nose.

Yeah… that’s got Maruzensky written all over it…

“I… am Sakura Bakushin O. Team Astrum’s lead sprinter and designated morale cannon!”

I heard Golshi whisper “morale cannon?” like she was about to take notes.

Bakushin O didn’t stop to breathe. “We stand before you here tonight… Not just as competitors, but as contributors to something tubular! Something out-of-this-world!” She thrust one arm out over to the graphic still twinkling behind her, as if she could reach into the screen and hurl a star at someone.

Oh boy… Here we go…

I had to hand it to her, though. The delivery was so clean it looped back around to being genuine.

“We of Team Astrum are ready to run with all our might. With our hearts, our brains, our radical team spirit, and yes—our deeply underappreciated sense of theatrical timing!”

A photographer dropped his lens cap. Hayahide hadn’t moved. She stared ahead, stone-faced.

“Though we may not be the most famous team! But what we do have is grit! We have drive! We have tenacity! We have… Gold Ship!”

“THAT’S ME!”

Golshi raised both hands.

Bakushin O gave a proud nod, letting the last laugh simmer down. Then her tone dipped steadier now, like a drumroll losing speed before the drop.

“But most important of all,” she said, voice resonant now, “we have people who believe in second chances.”

Okay. That one I didn’t expect.

She paused just for half a breath, but it was enough. The ballroom stilled again.

“As some of you may know,” she continued, “Team Astrum was once celebrated. Not long ago, this team was seen as the next big thing. A banner for change. For possibility. We believed—no, they believed—that we could set a new precedent for Umamusume everywhere. That teamwork didn’t have to look the same to be strong.”

I could see it happening even from the balcony. Her fists weren’t clenched anymore. Her shoulders relaxed just enough to be real.

“But things don’t always go according to plan,” she said, looking briefly down at the podium like she was bracing herself. “We lost our way. We lost members. We lost trainers. And for a while… The world looked at us like we were a warning instead of a promise.”

There it was.

Even Golshi’d gone quiet now. She just sat there watching like someone seeing their best friend walk a tightrope without a net.

Bakushin O looked back up, and there was no sparkle in her eyes now, just focus.

“But we came back,” she said. “Not because it was easy. Not because anyone cleared the way. But because someone took a chance on us.”

I felt five sets of shoulders shift beside me. Small movements. Inhaled breaths. The unspoken acknowledgment of who she meant. She went on.

“We have a new trainer now. Someone who may not look like much—” (I heard Golshi snort and choke on it) “—but someone who sees us for who we are.”

I felt that one like gravel under a tire.

“We have each other. And that’s enough. It has to be.” She looked out across the crowd, voice softening further. “For the Cup… For the future… And for anyone who’s ever been told they were too late, too weird, too complicated, too much.”

She raised her head high again.

“If this new era truly is about innovation, then let us innovate. If it is about strategy, let us strategize… But if it’s about heart, about what it means to race together… then let us show you.”

Silence.

I caught a flash in the crowd: Kuroi, arms crossed, still as a loaded trap. Sirius Symboli sat back in her chair, unreadable. Narita Taishin tapped her heel like she was trying not to explode. And Dubhe… Someya’s smile was gone now. Still in Love had her hands folded on her lap like she was praying.

“And with that,” Bakushin O said, lifting her head, “Team Astrum is ready to run. With all of us. For all of you.”

She stepped back.

For a hot second, the air just held.

Then Maruzensky brought her hands together once. Then a second clap followed, coaxing the silence into motion.

Tachyon joined next, palms smacking a tad too fast. Rice followed her with a quiet, steady patter, shoulders curled but eyes shining. Golshi didn’t even bother with hands. She whooped so loud it rattled the ceiling, then cupped her mouth and did it again.

And suddenly, it wasn’t just them.

The sound rushed outwards and picked up, columns of applause spilling over each other until it swept the room like rain on a tin roof.

Not one of them saw it that day. But me? I was smiling.

That was when I saw it, barely there. Ikuno Dictus, tucked in with Pollux, bringing her hands together once, then again. Nothing her team would’ve noticed if they weren’t looking for it. But somehow I did.

“Wow,” the announcer said, blinking twice like she hadn’t expected a sprinter to hit harder than her own cue cards. “What an amazing speech by Team Astrum!”

The applause still rolled across the hall. Cameras snapped like cicadas in July. Bakushin O stood steady through all of it, chest rising and falling with the rhythm of someone who’d just sprinted a hundred meters without moving an inch.

She handed the mic back with both hands, bowed again, and walked offstage with eyes bright.

The announcer’s voice picked back up, a little steadier this time, trying to pretend the applause hadn’t just knocked her off her axis. “Thank you, Sakura Bakushin O. A powerful reminder of what this Cup represents.”

She waited until the slide behind her changed. “Next, we welcome a new contender to the spotlight. A team whose reputation has been slowly but steadily rising through the ranks. Representing Toguchi Tech Academy… Team Chimera.”

That name didn’t pull the same gravity. Just a polite ripple of attention, like someone had announced the soup course. Even Golshi went back to fiddling with her cube.

“Chimera?” she repeated. “Like the weird lion-snake-goat thingymajig?”

Tachyon perked up instantly. “Actually, the original myth includes a fire-breathing—”

“Quiet.” I cut her off with a whisper.

Below, the lights dimmed again. A short figure stepped onto the stage, alone. The mic barely reached her mouth. She didn’t adjust it.

“Hello…”

Yep. That was it.

The room held its breath, waiting to see if “Hello” was the glitch or the opener. Cameras hung in midair, shutters cocked but not firing. Perfect time to zone out, I figured. Let the new blood have their awkward moment. I leaned back just slightly, enough for the chair to groan, and let my eyes drift across the hall.

Pollux still sat frozen in formation: Sirius up front, back straight. She wasn’t going up just yet. Too composed. Still in her racewear. Probably saving her thunder for the close.

Then my gaze drifted left, and I clocked it.

One was missing. Narita Taishin.

Not in her seat. Not standing. Not anywhere in the block. The smallest one in the crew, and now gone.

I frowned and panned to Dubhe.

Pocket had slouched halfway into her chair, one knee up, arms folded like she was waiting for a bus that hadn’t shown in thirty minutes. Her mouth hung just open enough to suggest light snoring. Not the most reliable source.

Then back to my row.

I counted the heads. One, two, three—

Where the hell was Hayahide?

“…Hey,” I muttered to Maruzensky, nodding at the empty seat beside her. “You see Glasses take off?”

She tilted her head, voice low. “She said she had to use the bathroom.”

Yeah, right. Bathroom. At the exact moment Chimera took the stage and Pollux had one missing too? That excuse smelled worse than the locker rooms after sprint drills.

And I didn’t need to connect many dots, either. Because Golshi had already tossed me one a few days back, all smug with the gossip:

“…Narita Taishin’s one of them, too. She used to be real tight with Hayahide, actually… But I guess they must’ve had a falling out or something.”

Coincidence? Maybe.

But I’d bet my last beer it wasn’t.

I pushed up, the seat flipping shut behind me with a soft clack. Golshi looked up like she’d caught a whiff of trouble.

“Where you going?” she asked, already squinting.

“…Bathroom.”

I left before she could respond, slipping out into the aisle without looking back.

“Jeez,” she muttered behind me, twisting halfway in her seat. “Anyone else having bladder problems, too?”

Out here, the hotel felt like stepping inside a fishbowl. Everything wrapped in that carpet-thick quiet hotels do so damn well, plus lighting designed by someone who’d never seen actual daylight. The kind of place where time stops mattering and you forget which day it is.

I walked deeper into the maze. The hallway ran ahead like a fever dream; fake wood paneling, sconces bolted every ten feet, conference rooms tagged with names pulled from a tropical vacation brochure. “Hibiscus A.” “Orchid West.” Probably had a “Coconut Palm Executive Suite” tucked away somewhere too.

Empty as a church on Monday.

My footsteps bounced off the walls. Each step echoed back twice—once from ahead, once from behind—like the building was having a conversation with itself.

The banquet hall was half-lit, staff already wheeling in trays of salmon they’d try to rebrand as “seasonal entrées.” The smell of hotel butter and under-seasoned greens leaked into the air. One guy in a vest glanced up. I nodded. He didn’t care.

So I kept walking.

And walking. And walking.

Then I picked up voices.

The sound drifted from somewhere past the fitness center, around the corner where an exit sign threw its red glow across the wall like a warning.

The doors were propped open, glass fogged but spilling a wash of aquamarine onto the tile. Outside, the pool lay quiet under moonlight, city lights winking from beyond the fence. Water shimmered, blue folding into silver.

I pressed myself against the wall and eased forward just enough to see through the gap.

There they were.

Taishin and Hayahide, standing at the pool’s deep end. The underwater lights painted them in that ghostly aqua, all sharp edges and soft shadows. There was nobody else around, just them and whatever they’d come here to say when they thought the world wasn’t watching.

I hugged the edge of the doorframe. Shoulders square. Close enough to read posture. Too far to catch full detail. But tone travels.

And this wasn’t casual. Not by a long shot.

So I did what any healthy, fully adjusted adult would do in my shoes.

I eavesdropped.

“…You gonna keep shadowing me every time I leave a room now?”

Taishin’s voice came to me first, sharp and trying too hard to sound casual.

“I just wanted to talk.” Hayahide’s tone was quieter. But the way her hands twisted at her sides said otherwise.

“You always ‘just want to talk.’ …But it’s never just that, is it?”

The pool lights threw ripples across their faces, blue and silver patterns breaking and reforming with every shift of water.

“…I saw your last run,” Hayahide said finally, voice low but sure. “That late kick wasn’t natural. You forced it.”

Taishin scoffed, head snapping to the side. “Tch. What, you reviewing my splits now? Didn’t realize I was your responsibility.”

“You’re not.” Hayahide’s answer came quick. “But someone should be.”

Taishin made a noise halfway between a grunt and a laugh. Then she turned on her heel.

“This was a mistake…”

But Hayahide stepped forward, words following like a hook.

“You’re running like you’ve got a debt to pay. Like pain is the only way to make up for everything.”

That froze Taishin mid-step. Shoulders locked. Back tight. But she didn’t turn.

“You’ve changed,” Hayahide went on, softer now. “You don’t even engage with me anymore. You just… leave.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I’m tired of fighting people who think they know what’s best for me.” Taishin’s voice was low, rougher now.

“And you think Kuroi does?”

That got her. Taishin wheeled around, eyes sharp enough to cut glass.

“He treats me like I belong. You treat me like I broke something.”

“That’s not true… And you know that.”

Taishin’s face pinched. From where I was standing, I could practically feel the room close in on them.

“Taishin…” Hayahide’s voice faltered, then steadied. “How long are you going to keep taking the blame for it?”

That was the match. She went from contained to combustion in a heartbeat.

“And what makes you think I am, huh?!” Her shout sent ripples across the pool. “What, just because I’m with a trainer you don’t approve of? Or—Or just because you think I’m safer on your terms than my own? Is that it?”

Hayahide flinched, faint but visible.

Taishin’s voice folded in, almost drowned by the pool’s soft churn. “Someone has to carry it… What happened to her… Someone has to…”

Then whatever held her down snapped. “And if not me… then who the hell else?!”

The silence that followed was anything but clean. And standing in that doorway, I knew I was listening to something rawer than a strategy dispute.

And that’s when he came.

“Is there a problem here?”

The voice cut across the pool like a blade dipped in ice water. Taishin straightened like someone had yanked a cord in her spine.

Kuroi.

He stepped into view with that slimy stride of his, the kinda shit that suggested the whole scene was already under his control. The fountain behind him cycled to some mood-lighting red, washing him in a glow that looked more nightclub than anything. Cheesy as hell. But the effect landed. The atmosphere went nuclear.

Taishin pivoted just enough to half-face Hayahide, eyes blazing with a glare sharp enough to cut diamond. Hayahide, though, she didn’t move.

“…No, Sensei,” Taishin said, clipped and small. “There’s no problem…”

And then she walked. Stride sharp. Away from the water. From Kuroi. Away from Hayahide.

“Wait—!” Hayahide’s voice cracked as she took a half step forward. But Taishin didn’t stop.

Kuroi lingered just long enough to block the path between them, his presence unhurried. He turned his head, looking at Hayahide with a face I just couldn’t read.

“You know,” he said quietly, with a softness that might’ve been sympathy, “for what it’s worth… She didn’t deserve to go out like that.”

And then he followed after Taishin, coat shifting with his stride, not waiting for an answer.

Hayahide stayed where she was, like she was made of stone. Shoulders locked. The pool light rippled across her face, catching just enough to make it look like she was crying… or trying not to. Her mouth twitched, words half-formed, stuck somewhere they’d been caught months ago. Maybe longer.

Finally, under her breath, one single word slipped out, warped by the echo off the water.

“Ticket…”

Whatever that word meant to her… it sounded heavier than anything she’d said all month. I stayed against the doorframe, listening to the water lap at the tiles.

And for a second, I wasn’t looking at her. I was back in my own head, hearing another name said the same way. Different girl, different time. Same weight. Same silence after.

So I kept still. Doorframe digging into my shoulder. Pretending I wasn’t there. Because if I opened my mouth, I knew damn well whatever would come out wouldn’t help either of us…

When I pushed the auditorium door open, the sound hit full force again. Lights bright, banners still hanging… I slipped back into my seat, suit collar digging at my neck like punishment.

Golshi didn’t miss a beat. She leaned over, grinning.

“You have no idea what just happened, old man. Somebody actually did a backflip on the podium. Like, mid-sentence. Whole crowd went nuts.”

I didn’t feel like reacting. Or saying anything. My head was still at the pool. At the way she didn’t move.

“…Cool,” I muttered.

Golshi squinted at me, the usual chaos dialed down to a low buzz. “You all right, dude? You look even grumpier than usual. And that’s saying something.”

“Not in the mood, kid.”

She didn’t push after that. Just leaned back and pulled out her Rubik’s Cube. She seemed to know the difference by now—between cranky and haunted.

The applause was still riding high from whoever went before. Maruzensky was still politely clapping. Tachyon was mouthing notes to herself.

Then the announcer cleared her throat again. The house lights tilted.

“And finally,” she said, voice firming up like she knew what kind of atmosphere this one carried. “For our final speaker for the evening… Representing Team Pollux from Tokyo Tracen Academy… Sirius Symboli.”

The room changed. Temperature dropped ten degrees, I swear.

Sirius came out of the wings moving like she owned the mortgage on the whole building. Her racewear looked like it could cut glass, pressed so sharp you’d need safety goggles to stare at the creases.

Then she took the podium. Didn’t adjust the mic. Didn’t look at her notes. Just stared straight ahead and began.

“There’s no second place in life.”

That was it. That was her hello.

“You either win”—she let it hang, long enough to press into everyone’s faces—“or you get stepped on. Doesn’t matter if you’ve got heart. Doesn’t matter if you’ve got dreams. Life doesn’t play fair. It’ll hand you injuries, bad breaks, people walking out on you… but none of that cares if you’ve got a race tomorrow. And if you’re not ready to meet it head-on, you’re already done.”

She didn’t blink. Didn’t soften.

“That’s why we train different. Every drill, every sprint, every breath—it’s about being unbreakable. Because weakness is the one thing life doesn’t forgive. You don’t survive by hoping. You survive by crushing every obstacle and anyone in your way.”

A reporter in the second row lowered his camera real slow.

“Second place?” She said it like a diagnosis. “That’s first loser with a participation ribbon. Third? That’s the name nobody remembers. You want people to clap for your effort, go run a school play. Out here, there’s only one truth.”

She leaned into the mic, her voice like iron striking iron.

“There’s no room for mercy on that track. No fear. No weakness. You want a hug, call your mother. You want sympathy? Find a therapist. And if you even think to step onto the same track as us?”

She paused. Let the silence stretch until it hurt.

“Don’t expect to walk off the same as you were.”

She stepped back from the podium, turned, and walked offstage like she’d just dropped a verdict.

The applause didn’t come right away, almost like it had to think about it first. But when it did arrive, it was split. Some polite. Some reluctant. A few diehards clapping like they were afraid she’d beat the shit out of them if they didn’t. Most of the reporters just stared, like they couldn’t decide whether they’d heard a speech or a warning.

Astrum sat frozen.

Bakushin O had her hands locked in her lap, shoulders drawn up. Tachyon blinked slowly, like she’d just been told gravity was fake. Rice looked… small. Smaller. Like she’d just remembered why she hated stages.

And Hayahide? She was back in her seat. No reaction. Not even a twitch.

Golshi let out a breath through her teeth. “Yikes,” she whispered. “That was like getting hit by a truck made of Carolina Reapers.”

“Yeah…”

But my eyes weren’t on Astrum anymore. They were on Pollux.

Taishin hadn’t applauded. She sat stiff, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the stage even after Sirius was gone. Ikuno, though, she did clap. Perfectly timed, perfectly measured, like a metronome clicking off beats no one else could hear. But her expression was brittle. The kind of face you wear when you’re trying to convince yourself you believe in the sermon being preached.

Two teammates. Same doctrine. One swallowing it whole, the other choking it down.

And that told me more about Pollux than the speech ever could. Because Sirius didn’t just speak for herself up there…

She spoke for the cage Kuroi had built.

Chapter Text

[20:09 JST] — CRYSTAL LOTUS TOKYO, ROPPONGI — ARRIFLEX 416 / SUPER-16

24fps · ƒ/2.8 aperture · Lens 25mm wide · Handheld shoulder; high-ISO grain · Rack focus to foreground

The banquet was nothing to write home about.

And trust me when I say that. I’ve done enough dine-and-dash raids at hotel buffets to qualify as a field expert. This one? Mid-tier at best.

Steam trays lined the wall like suspects in a lineup. Dry chicken breasts glistened under heat lamps, with pasta and a sushi platter that looked like it’d been rolled during a fire drill. You could smell the butter trying too hard, that fake “hotel parsley” scent they sprinkle to trick you into thinking anyone gave a shit.

Golshi definitely didn’t. She was already double-fisting skewers of steak kebabs.

“You gotta try these, old man! They’re crunchy in a way meat shouldn’t even be!”

“Eat enough of those and you’ll glow in the dark.”

All I did was grab a black coffee from the urn and park myself by one of those high tables with the wobbly legs. From there, I could watch the whole floor: Pollux holding court near the stage, Dubhe huddled at a corner table, and Astrum milling about like kids at a school dance.

Hayahide hovered near the salad bar, glasses catching the light. Rice hadn’t touched a plate, just stood off to the side twisting her hands like the lettuce might bite her.

I was halfway through convincing myself the coffee was hot enough when I caught voices; bright and way too caffeinated for the hour.

“…BRUH she cooked. Like, ACTUALLY cooked. Mic on, vibes were just funny haha… Then BAM! Immediately started aura farming! I was like ‘deadass ain’t no way this is the same Bakushin O who once fell into a bush mid-sprint!’”

Whoever that was, it sounded like she was speaking a whole different language. Is that really how kids talk these days?

Then a second voice answered; easier to understand than the other girl, but still just as chipper.

“Right?! She had so much conviction. I swear, even the waiters could feel it.”

“No but fr, oomf is a whole ahh vibe. Like, morale cannon?? I’m straight up stealing that.”

“And the trainer! She mentioned him in a way that felt so sincere. Almost protective, even.”

“On GOSH girl! ☆ Who IS he? Like, actually—trainer lore drop when?? Unc was looksmaxxing up in that balcony. Astrum was HELLA mid last season, and now they’re suddenly main-charactering with speeches and mysterious sensei?? Bro’s either an ex-final boss or he’s speedrunning relevance any%.”

“Well, whoever he is, Bakushin O trusts him. You could practically see it in her eyes.”

I heard a snap of fingers.

“There it is. Certified wholesome Palmer take. ♡ But also? If Astrum does no diff the Cup with Mr. Mystery Trainer at the wheel? I’m gonna need a whole ahh docuseries. Drop that on UmaFlix rn.”

I nursed my coffee, pretending I wasn’t listening. But the words had already settled in.

“Ex-final boss.” “Second chances.”

Yeah. Real funny. If only they knew what kind of boss I used to be.

I must’ve been brooding a little too hard, because the next thing I knew, Maruzensky slid into my periphery like a stealth bomber dipped in perfume.

“You do know our table’s over there. Right, Sensei?”

I glanced where she nodded. Sure enough, there was the chaos cluster: Bakushin O halfway through a post-speech karaoke encore with a breadstick for a mic, Gold Ship trying to skewer a gyoza from across the table with a toothpick in her mouth, and Tachyon dumping half the sugar reserve of the greater Tokyo area into a cup.

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Just didn’t wanna kill the mood is all.”

That got me a soft chuckle. She leaned one elbow on my table like she’d been invited (she hadn’t) and gave me that smile of hers. The kind that looked easygoing on the surface but had real emotional radar behind it.

“What’s wrong? I thought Bakushin O’s speech was pretty rad,” she said, voice feather-light. “Then again… I did help her polish it up, so I might be a little biased.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just…” I rolled a shoulder, let it sag. “I dunno…”

She didn’t flinch at the dodge. Just gave me that look, the one she probably practiced in a mirror back in ‘88—soft eyes, knowing smile, the whole nine.

“You know… Big part of being a trainer is learning to be there for your trainees,” she said, voice pitched low enough the nearby chatter couldn’t swallow it. “Not just physically. But emotionally, too. You gotta be there when it matters.”

Then she leaned in a touch closer, the perfume trailing with her like a hook. “But… did you know that goes both ways… Sensei?”

I huffed out through my nose. “What, you saying I need a shrink?”

She chuckled. “I’m saying… You don’t have to sit over here with your cold coffee while everyone else is making memories.” She nodded at Astrum’s table.

Bakushin O had the breadstick mic in one hand, a chicken wing in the other. Golshi was clapping like a deranged metronome. Rice was smiling in a way that made it look like she forgot she was supposed to be anxious. Even Tachyon, sugar-drunk by this point, looked more alive than me.

“They’ve already decided you’re a part of this,” Maruzensky went on, her voice smoothing. “Only question is if you’ll let yourself be.”

I stared at the dregs in my cup. Lukewarm swill, bitter edge. Fitting.

“Don’t give me that look,” she added, nudging my arm. “You’re not invisible, you know. People see you… I see you.”

“Congratulations. You found Waldo.”

That got a soft laugh out of her, low and genuine. “You ever get tired of being the ghost at your own banquet, Sensei?”

“Every damn day,” I muttered.

“Then maybe stop haunting the corners.” She gave my sleeve a little tug. “Come over to the table. Or better yet—”

The dance floor lights snapped alive, cutting her sentence in half. Color washed across the parquet, mirrored tiles flaring like somebody had dropped a disco ball straight out of 1984.

And then the speakers hummed to life.

The opening notes of “Foolish Heart” filled the ballroom like spilled honey. Maruzensky’s smile shifted into something I couldn’t read.

“Well,” she said, eyes finding mine, “guess we’re doing this the old-fashioned way. ♪”

My mouth was already twitching upward. Couldn’t help it. “You’re shitting me.”

The floor lights washed purple, then bled into blue, soft as neon spilled over water. The hotel’s chandelier caught it and scattered the glow down onto a crowd already moving. Reporters loosened their ties, staff suddenly remembered they had feet. Even some Umamusume were shaking off the evening’s starch with loose shoulders and careless grins.

Maruzensky was already in it, sliding past me with a sway in her hips. She threw a glance back over her shoulder. “Well? You coming, or are you just gonna keep draining the coffee supply?”

I sighed through my nose and followed.

On the floor, Steve Perry’s voice climbed, rich enough to make the whole room feel like a late-night dive bar. Maruzensky slipped into the rhythm without thinking, arms loose at her sides, head tilted just enough to catch the melody. She didn’t reach for me or push me. Just left space in the circle like she knew I’d either step up or spend the rest of the night regretting it.

Well, I did step up. It was awkward as shit at first, with my knees reminding me I wasn’t twenty-five anymore. But muscle memory kicked in eventually. Nothing fancy. Just enough to not embarrass myself.

I watched her for a second. The way her curls shimmered in the overheads, the easy roll of her shoulders. Then she glanced over, something playful dancing behind the casual mask.

“Look at you, ♪” she said, voice warm against my ear as the Rhodes swelled around us. “Someone’s been holding out on me.”

“Yeah, well,” I muttered, “don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation to keep.”

She laughed, real enough that it hooked something under my ribs. For the first time in longer than I cared to count, I wasn’t just tolerating the crowd. I was actually in it.

♪ Foolish heart, hear me calling / Stop before you start falling ♪

Astrum had already stormed the floor. Bakushin O was everywhere at once, windmilling arms like she was directing traffic on the Shutoko. Rice stood stiff at first, then caved when Bakushin O yanked her in. Even Hayahide, of all people, tapped a foot.

Tachyon latched onto a shadow at the edge of the crowd. Manhattan Cafe I think was her name. Tachyon tugged, chattered something rapid-fire, and before Cafe could object, she was out there too. Awkward. But there.

The sight alone got half the room buzzing; two worlds colliding under disco lights. Tachyon bobbing, Cafe gliding beside her like she’d sleepwalked into a dream. Across the room, the rest of Pollux had their eyes on them. Couldn’t tell if the looks meant judgment or jealousy. Maybe both.

And then there was Gold Ship.

She’d snared one Mejiro McQueen from the sidelines, dragging her in with both hands like she was reeling in a marlin. McQueen’s eyes said hostage negotiation, Golshi’s grin said county-fair bull ride. One tug and the dignified long-distance queen was yanked into a spin.

I let out a breath. Didn’t realize I’d been holding anything in.

Then I set my eyes back to the woman in front of me.

Maruzensky caught sight and shook her head, laughing. “She’s gonna pull a muscle if she keeps that up.”

“Who?”

“Either of them.”

♪ Foolish heart, heed my warning / You've been wrong before / Don't be wrong anymore ♪

We moved with Perry’s voice, purple light cutting shadows across her cheekbones, blue glow in her curls. For once, I didn’t fight the rhythm. And for once, I didn’t feel invisible.

The song hit that smooth transition with Perry’s voice climbing towards the chorus. I shifted closer. Not by much, just enough to close some of the space between us without making it obvious. She noticed. Didn’t pull back. Just let the moment hang there.

“You sure you haven’t done this in a while?” she asked, quiet now, but close.

“Been a minute… Think the last time, the music came off a Walkman.”

“So… Not that rusty, then.”

“Well, the Walkman did hit shelves back in nineteen-seventy—”

“Shhh.” She lifted a finger, hovering just shy of my lips. “Don’t ruin the moment.”

Perry’s voice soared. Golshi whooped something unintelligible. Someone’s attempt at a dip went sideways.

And I kept moving.

Didn’t need to impress anyone. Didn’t need to prove anything. Just had to be there. Had to not be invisible.

And I wasn’t.

The night ended faster than I expected. Next thing I knew, we were back in the hotel lobby under downlights bright enough to sterilize. And hey, credit where it’s due. The URA might be a bloated bureaucracy, but they sure know how to burn a banquet budget.

Astrum had gathered around one of the faux-marble planters, half-winding down, half still buzzing. Maruzensky stood near the concierge desk, probably threatening the valet if they so much as breathed near her car’s paint. I still wasn’t convinced she didn’t have a GPS chip embedded in the body panels.

Gold Ship was orbiting me again, looping tight circles and hyping me up like I was some kind of prizefighter returning from retirement.

“Okay but seriously, did you see the old man out there?!” she muttered to Tachyon like I wasn’t five feet away. “I couldn’t tell if his dancing’s better than his fighting. Maybe both? Maybe he’s, like, the Disco Mr. Miyagi?”

Tachyon nodded, amused. “He did have a certain rhythmic inertia. Remarkably well-preserved, considering his… fossilization.”

“Someone say fossils?”

I turned, already bracing. It was Yamabe, of course.

Golshi lit up. “Old man #2! Where’ve you been?”

“Had a little business,” he said smoothly, brushing lint off a lapel he definitely hadn’t ironed. “Things to tie up, calls to make. You know me—always working the angles.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Uh-huh…”

“Anyway. Katsu.” He tilted his chin at me. “You up for the unofficial afterparty?”

“Afterparty?”

“Yeah. You, me, and a bar that doesn’t just serve stale coffee if you know what I mean.” Yamabe nudged me with an elbow sharp enough to bruise. “Figured I still owe you that drink for giving me a lift the other day.”

“Ooo, ooo! Sensei!” Bakushin O perked up. “Can we go too? I’ve never been to an afterparty! Do they have karaoke? Is there a snack table? Should I change first?!?!”

“All right, cool it,” I said, raising a hand before she broke into a sprint. “First off—some of you aren’t even legal enough to drink, and the rest of you need a foot soak and eight hours of sleep. Besides, your Cup race is tomorrow. I want your form clean.”

“Sensei is right,” Tachyon chimed in. “As the first race, you are essentially the de facto tone-setter for Astrum’s entire bracket. You alone carry the narrative burden.”

Bakushin O blinked. “I do?”

“Yes. So go soak your feet in some magnesium sulfate and dream only of maximum velocity!”

Then, like fate had cued her entrance, a red Countach pulled up to the valet circle with all the subtlety of a runway flare.

Maruzensky tossed a wave over her shoulder as she sauntered over to the driver’s side. The valet held out the keys with both hands, visibly sweating. Smart kid. Knew not to smudge the paint.

“All right, homies,” Maruzensky sang. “Who’s itching for a free ride to the dorms? ♪”

“You know what?” Goldshi clapped her hands, already halfway to the door. “Why the heck not. I call shotgun!”

“Hey,” I barked, pointing after her. “I’m serious. No afterparties.”

“Don’t worry, Sensei,” Maruzen sang back, sliding behind the wheel like it was a runway strut. “We’re not delinquents.”

I just watched as the doors shut.

The V12 snarled like a fashion-forward demon. And then they were gone, taillights disappearing into the night, echoing laughter trailing like vapor behind them.

The rest of the girls had already scattered, shoes clicking as they made their way over to the station. One or two waved. Hayahide nodded. Rice gave me a little bow.

“See you tomorrow, Sensei!” someone called, too far off to ID.

And just like that, the lobby got quiet. Bright. But quiet.

And there I was. Surrounded by fake marble and real fatigue. No more distractions. No more girls needing wrangled.

Which left me with the last person I wanted to be with.

“So…” Yamabe said, sidling up beside me with that salesman smirk he probably learned from a casino mirror. “About that drink I owe ya.”

We were back at the Red Rocket Diner. You remember the one, right? Grease in the air vents, chrome trim. At this late in the hour, the neon OPEN sign flipped to BAR, and suddenly the same counter that served pancakes at seven in the morning was pouring whiskey sours at midnight. The jukebox croaked out “Summer Of ‘69”. Been a while since I heard that one.

“Karii,” we both muttered, glasses clinking. All these years stuck in Tokyo, you’d think we’d have switched to kanpai by now. But I guess some things just don’t scrub off.

I wasn’t feeling particularly celebratory yet, but I sure as hell wasn’t drinking house bourbon. If Yamabe was footing the tab, I was ordering the top shelf—petty victories are still victories.

“Mmm.” Yamabe smacked his lips. “That’s the stuff. Nothing like diner-bar whiskey, huh? You can really taste the regret.”

I shifted my chair an inch so my back wasn’t to the door. Habit I never kicked. Places like this drew the kind of people who didn’t always bother with doors.

“You’re awful quiet tonight,” Yamabe said after his second sip, studying me over the rim of his glass.

“Didn’t realize this was a talk show.”

He chuckled, too pleased with himself. “C’mon, man. Don’t play the ghost with me. You didn’t grumble at the buffet. You didn’t even light a joint during the keynote. In the business world, we call that progress.” He wagged a finger. “And hey, don’t think I didn’t hear about that little dance you had with Maruzensky.”

I gave him the look. The one that usually made interns scuttle. He leaned into it, unbothered.

“Relax,” he said, swirling his glass. “Tracen’s never been all that strict about Trainer and Umamusume relationships. Not unless it makes headlines.”

Yeah. Like that was the problem.

“Look,” Yamabe said, and his tone softened just a hair. “Katsu. What I’m trying to say is… You, you’re gettin’ your groove back. And if you ask me, I think that’s something worth celebrating.”

I took a slow sip. Let it burn. Then set the glass down a little too hard.

“You know what I think?” I said, not really asking. “I think you don’t get to be proud of dragging me outta the dirt when you’re the one who poured the gravel in the first place.”

“…C’mon,” he said, weak chuckle attached. “You were already halfway to fossil status when I found you. I just gave you something to do besides collect dust.”

Outside, a motorcycle tore past the lot.

“…You remember Namura Fresno?” I said finally.

That got him. His eyes lifted.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Yeah, of course I do. That girl had knees like a damn ostritch.”

“She still calls… Not often. Just birthdays. Sends a card sometimes. Says the bakeshop’s doing well.”

Yamabe let out a breath that didn’t go anywhere.

I went on. “You still remember that drive? All the way to Niigata. You had that shitty cassette of Starship on loop ‘cause the radio was busted.”

“That wasn’t my tape,” he said quickly.

“Bullshit. You knew all the words.”

He laughed, but it didn’t last.

“Yeah… I remember her crying before the race,” he said. “Tried to hide it, but her shoulders gave her away.”

“She thought the crowd was gonna eat her alive…”

“And you told her not to puke on her shoes.” He shook his head, a smirk curling the corner of his mouth.

We sat in it a while. Just the soft crackle of tired speakers and the clink of ice giving up in our glasses. Somewhere behind the counter, the fry station let out a hiss.

“You ever think,” I said, words slow, “that if we’d stopped with Fresno, we’d both still be clean?”

Yamabe didn’t move an inch. But his jaw clicked once.

“Maybe,” he said. “But we didn’t.”

He swirled his drink. Let it settle.

“And look where that got us.”

Jesus. Talk about a mood killer.

I set my glass down too hard. The ice jumped.

“All right,” I muttered, standing. “You know what? Screw this.”

“Where the hell are you going?”

I was slapping the jukebox. Fist open, flat palm, right on the scuffed chrome corner. The screen flickered, then I punched in a code.

“You said this was the afterparty,” I said, not looking back. “Well let’s make it one.”

The speakers groaned to life. Then came the song. Loud, unapologetic, and completely unserious.

♪ We built this city ♪

Yamabe held up a finger. “No. No. Absolutely not. I will not be caught dead wallowing to goddamn Starship—”

“You’re welcome.”

♪ We built this city on rock and roll ♪

I snapped my fingers at our friend behind the counter. He nodded, already reaching under the bar. Knew the look. Whiskey for me. Shochu for Yamabe. Then a pair of highballs. Then a shot each. For the dead. For the almost-dead. For whatever the hell we were.

On the TV in the corner, some retro sports compilation had gone deep into the vault. Grainy tape rolling. Washed-out greens bleeding into static. Crowd noise that sounded like it’d been funneled through a tin can.

“…and they’re off here at the Hanshin J. F.! Miracle Kingdom breaks smooth out of the gate, keeping steady on the inside rail—just a length behind the leaders—”

Yamabe’s head tilted towards the screen, glass already halfway to his mouth.

Another pour. Another clink.

“…rounding the final corner, it’s still anybody’s race. But here she comes! Miracle Kingdom finds her line, surging past the field. Listen to that crowd roar! This Umamusume is the real deal, folks—”

The footage jumped. Tape lines warped. Next race.

“…nearing the end here at the Oka Sho. The crowd here is on their feet as Miracle Kingdom explodes down the stretch! Not a challenger in sight. She’ll take it by five lengths, maybe more!”

Another round landed.

“…here at the Yushun Himba, it’s déjà vu! Miracle Kingdom dominating again, pulling clear in the final stretch. No one’s catching her today. This is her season, ladies and gentlemen. We’re watching history in motion—”

The bar felt smaller with every replay. Like the walls leaned closer with each call. Then we drank again. Another round.

The room got fuzzier. The lighting turned softer. Gold Ship would’ve called it “cinematic.” I called it “shit’s catching up.” Yamabe pulled a coaster over to him and started sketching on the back with a pen. Lanes. Angles. Race stuff. Didn’t even realize he was doing it.

“You know we blew it, right?” he muttered, not looking up.

“Which time?”

“Pick one.”

I downed another.

By the fifth, he was practically singing like he didn’t care who heard. I joined in. Not well, but loud.

At some point we clinked glasses again. Might’ve even meant it that time.

And maybe it didn’t fix anything. But for a few minutes, we weren’t ghosts. Just two tired bastards in a booth at Red Rocket, drinking to all the almosts that never made it to always.

By this point, I didn’t even know what time it was. Could’ve been nine. Could’ve been three. Even now, I couldn’t tell you. That’s how you know we were really in it back then.

I slammed my glass down, rattling the ashtray. “‘Nother round!”

The guy behind the counter just stared at us, shaking his head like a disappointed uncle. “Jesus, you two. At this rate, I doubt even Yamabe could cover the bill.”

“Then let him do the dishes for a week straight,” I said, words half-slurred. “I don’t give a shit. He’s got soft hands anyway.”

“Hey, shut the hell up,” Yamabe barked. “You want a repeat of the Costco incident?”

“I should be askin’ you that. ‘Cause of you, they gave me a goddamn lifetime ban. You got any idea how long that is?”

“It means ‘til you die, dumbass,” he said, dead serious. Then he cracked up again, shoulders shaking, almost spilling his shochu down the front of his shirt.

The bartender slid another pair of drinks onto the counter. I lost track if we’d ordered them or if the guy just wanted to see how far two idiots could fall before gravity quit.

I raised mine, hand wobbling, and we clinked so hard the glasses nearly cracked. Downed it in one pull.

Silence hung after, the jukebox coughing up the tail end of some forgotten Eagles track.

That’s when I said it.

“So tell me, Yamabe.” My voice came out rough in the way drunk voices get when the room finally slows. “Why’d you drag me here? Really.”

He blinked at me. Tried to answer. Lost the thread. Then leaned back and exhaled low, like he’d been dreading for that shoe to drop all night.

“I…” Yamabe started, then stalled out. His fingers drummed once against the base of his glass.

“I found a new job for you.”

My smile froze halfway up. “What?”

“It’s real legit,” he rushed out. “None of that fake-name, Kazuya-Okano cloak-and-dagger crap. I’m talking actual full-time. Benefits. Paperwork that isn’t photocopied in a back alley.”

I didn’t say anything. My smile dropped.

“…Why?”

“Why? Wh-What do you mean why?” He forced a chuckle, but it sounded hollow. “C’mon, man. Y-you seriously weren’t planning to stick around after the Cup, right?”

I kept my eyes on the bar. The scratches in the countertop looked like someone had tried to carve a message and given up halfway.

He waited. My silence must’ve felt too long, ‘cause his smile died too.

“…What’s wrong?” His voice turned defensive. “What, don’t tell me that damn problem child actually got through to you. Y-y-you were just pretending to like them, right? Play the part, give ‘em a little structure, scare ‘em straight…”

He leaned forward, his face caught in the jaundiced neon glow.

“Right?”

I turned my head slowly. Just enough that he could see the look I gave him.

“So what,” I said, voice low, “you want me to just walk? Leave them hanging? Stick ‘em with some new trainer who’s gonna treat ‘em like shit until they break again?”

He laughed, but it cracked midway through. “I’ll find someone. Come on, I always do. Probably even one with actual credentials this time. Y’know, a clean sheet. Someone who knows how to smile during press events.”

The silence between us thickened like gum in a shoe tread.

“C’mon, Katsu,” he muttered. “You knew this was never built to last. It was duct tape from the start. I just gave you a way back in that wouldn’t draw blood.”

I tilted my glass. Watched the liquor coat the inside, lazy and slow.

“You also said this was just ‘volunteer work.’” My voice had dropped to something flatter now. “Or was that a lie, too?”

Yamabe’s jaw tightened. For once, he didn’t have a snappy answer in his back pocket. Just sat there, chewing air.

“Look,” he finally said. “All I’m asking is you to step down. All right? That’s it. Doesn’t mean you can’t see ‘em again. Hell, send them a card, grab lunch with them. Be Uncle Kaz if you want.” He chuckled weakly. “Think about it.”

I stared at my drink. My hand was steady, but everything else wasn’t.

He shifted forward, elbows to the bar. Tried to smile again.

“And look at it this way,” he added, voice lowering. “If you do walk away… It’ll be my head on the block instead of yours.”

He left it there. Hanging. Like a thread he thought I wouldn’t tug.

But I did.

“…The hell are you trying to say.”

Yamabe blinked.

That—that—was the look. Like the script had skipped ahead and he wasn’t ready for the next scene.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. Nothing.

“What did you do?”

He squirmed. “I—I didn’t—”

My hand came down on the counter.

“What did you do.”

“I made a deal!” he barked, too fast. “There. All right? I said it!”

“…What?”

“I thought—I thought I was doing you a favor. All right? I didn’t think it’d get this deep.”

My stare didn’t move.

“What. Favor.”

His shoulders sagged. Voice barely above the hum of the jukebox.

“I got you back in,” he muttered. “That’s the favor.”

I kept watching him. Long enough that he started looking away.

He went on. “Look, you know damn well the URA wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole, not after what happened with Miki. B-But even a sleazeball like me couldn’t pull something off that easily. So I-I… I leaned on some people. You know, the kind that don’t show up in daylight… The kind who can get a dead man hired again.”

I felt it then. That pit opening in my gut.

“They forged your registry, not me,” Yamabe said. “That time we went to Tokyo Racecourse? The one with the flower-pen and all? That was just window dressing. The real records—the coaching history, the database entries—those got rewritten later, by people who knew where to poke.”

His voice dropped lower. “Whole setup was airtight, long as nobody looked too close. But that kind of favor…” He exhaled like it might kill him. “It doesn’t come free.”

Then he paused. That was the worst part. He actually paused.

“They wanted insurance,” he said finally. “Said if I was gonna ask for something that big, they needed to know you wouldn’t cause problems. So I told them… I told them it was temporary. That you’d coach for a month, keep your head down, then disappear again. I promised them you wouldn’t stick around long enough to matter.”

He finally looked at me, voice barely above a whisper. “I thought you’d hate it, Katsu. I thought you’d do the bare minimum and bail. I-I never thought—”

“That I’d give a shit,” I finished.

“Yeah.” He chuckled. “And now… If you don’t walk away clean, they’re gonna collect. That was the deal.”

I stared at him. All of it clicked now. The “favor.” The sudden clearance. The job that felt too easy, too straightforward even for him. He hadn’t just pulled strings. He’d yanked a goddamn noose.

He swallowed. Didn’t say anything more.

So it was my turn.

The punch landed square. A dull, meaty crack. His stool went over like a kicked shopping cart.

“Woah!” the guy at the counter barked, ducking instinctively. “Take it outside, at least!”

“Why?” I snarled, standing over Yamabe. “Why the hell would you do that?!”

He stayed down, propped on one elbow, the other hand clamped to his jaw. A line of red pooled at the corner of his lip.

“You think I had a choice?!” he shot back, eyes wild now, no charm left.

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” I spat. “You could’ve done anything else. You’ve got a whole shitlist of clean trainers who’d kill for a decent team. So why’d you have to drag me back in?!”

“Because they wouldn’t have stayed together without you! That’s why.”

I froze.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, voice lowering. “Yeah… Surprise… You weren’t Plan B. You were the damn glue. Even if they hated you, even if you hated yourself—at least it would keep them in orbit. You think some academy golden boy would’ve handled Gold Ship? Or Tachyon? Or Rice Shower? They’d have scattered in a week. Hell, Fresno would’ve quit on day one without you.”

He clenched his fists. “So yeah… I made the deal. And I tied your name to theirs because it was the only way I knew how!”

I stared, pulse hammering in my temples, fists tight enough to shake.

“But you don’t get it,” he went on. “You think this is all on me? You stayed. You gave a shit when you swore to yourself you never would. So don’t act like I forced your hand.”

I let that silence stretch just enough to make him sweat.

“You know what, asshole?” I said, voice dragging gravel. “You’re right. I did stay… And I’m gonna keep staying. Whether you or your little gang of pansy-ass crime boys want me to or not.”

I turned on my heel and made for the door.

“H-Hey!” Yamabe scrambled up, stool legs screeching across tile. “Katsu—don’t do this!”

The bell over the diner door shrieked as I pushed through, the night air hitting me like a slap. Grease from the kitchen clung to my suit. The Z was parked crooked under the flickering neon, looking meaner than usual.

Footsteps followed anyway.

“Katsu, listen!” Yamabe’s voice cracked, too loud for midnight. “You don’t wanna mess with these guys!”

I spun around. “One more step and I’ll make sure you don’t get up this time.”

He froze. Blood still painted the corner of his mouth. “No—just listen to me, all right? You can ignore my bullshit, fine. Call me every name you’ve got. But these guys are ruthless, man. You really think they’ll just let you walk after all this?”

“Yeah? And whose fault is that?”

He swallowed. For once, all that silver tongue of his came up dry.

I stepped closer to the driver’s door, words dropping flat. “I never wanna see your face again… Ever. You got that?”

Didn’t wait for his answer. Slammed the Z’s door so hard the whole chassis shook. Engine caught on the first twist.

My teeth ground tight as I jammed her into gear. Tires chirped against the pavement, revs screaming high enough to rattle the windows. The red neon letters of the diner smeared across the windshield, then disappeared in the rearview as the Z tore down the road.

I didn’t check if he was still standing there. Didn’t care.

Chapter Text

The brass hit first.

Drums followed in lockstep, rolling out across Tokyo Racecourse as if the turf itself had a heartbeat. From the infield, green Unimogs crawled over the turf, ferrying last-minute equipment. Crews in orange vests rushed to and fro, flags snapping in the summer wind. Cameras panned wide, catching the shimmer of banners and the restless sway of nearly eighty thousand spectators stacked across the grandstand and pouring into the infield.

A voice rose above the fanfare, sonorous and clear, amplified across the grounds and into living rooms across the city.

“Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed competitors, and viewers across the network… On behalf of the Umamusume Racing Association, it is our honor to welcome you to the inaugural Constellation Cup. What began as a mere concept has now taken root, thanks to the dedication of our teams and the passion of our fans. Let today’s events serve as proof of that spirit. Twelve teams. Twelve lanes. Six races to decide it all.”

The crowd roaded out a tidal swell of claps and whistles. On the big screens, the program title burned bright in blue and gold: CONSTELLATION CUP. Beneath it, the words Sprint Event – 1,200m flashed bold.

“—And we are live at Tokyo Racecourse!” Osamu Jinnai boomed, voice rising over the roar of the crowd.

The broadcast cut to the commentary desk overlooking the home stretch, where he sat with his headset tilted rakishly against the sunlight.

“Folks, you couldn’t have asked for better weather on a day like this. Clear skies, a gorgeous summer afternoon… Though I’ll tell you, it’s already feeling a little toasty up here.”

Misato Akasaka smiled faintly beside him, adjusting her notes. “That’s right, Jinnai. And it’s only going to get hotter once we get underway. The first event of the Constellation Cup is the twelve-hundred meter sprint. Twelve lanes, twelve teams, and every single point matters.”

“Exactly,” Jinnai agreed, leaning forward with his usual grin. “Now, this might not be a G1 race, but just look at this crowd! Remember, folks—points are awarded on placement, so don’t be too bummed out if your favorite comes in second or third. Consistency is king across all six races.”

Akasaka tapped her pen against the program sheet. “Still, there’s no question where the spotlight falls today. King Halo of Team Pollux and Curren Chan of Team Dubhe. Both are in peak form, both have reputations on the line. Every eye in this venue will be fixed on them.”

“True, true,” Jinnai said, chuckling. “But as you all know… this Cup’s got more than just two stars in the sky.”

The camera feed cycled through the paddock.

“Take a look here,” Jinnai continued. “Team Astrum’s very own Sakura Bakushin O. Sitting as the third favorite to beat. But don’t let that fool you. Her and her team’s story has been a huge rollercoaster. Earlier this year, Astrum was hanging by a thread. Most thought it was the end of the road. But now? With their new trainer pulling the strings? They’ve practically clawed their way back into contention.”

Akasaka nodded. “Their revival has been nothing short of remarkable, Jinnai. They’re sharper, hungrier, and perhaps more united than anyone could have predicted. And that edge may be exactly what carries Sakura Bakushin O through the first leg of this Cup.”

“But she ain’t the only one to put up a fight—because watch out!” Jinnai cut in, his voice lifting with energy as the camera tracked across to another set of colors. “Team Merope’s got Biko Pegasus! If she catches a clean break in the first hundred meters, this race flips on its head. She’s fearless, and sometimes reckless—but always entertaining.”

“Exactly. Pollux and Dubhe may have the headlines, but this is twelve lanes deep,” Akasaka said smoothly. “Every point counts. Every placement matters. And with the kind of talent we’re seeing today, the sprint could potentially set the tone for the entire rest of the Cup.”

Jinnai spread his arms, as if addressing the stadium itself. “So I hope you packed your speed goggles, folks!”

His voice dropped half a register.

“It’s time to race.”

Astrum, minus Bakushin O, clustered near the grandstand rail. The crowd behind them surged and dipped like a restless tide, chatter carrying from section to section.

Maruzensky appeared from the concession stalls, balancing a paper bag in one arm like she was walking a runway instead of stadium concrete. The faint smell of chocolate drifted out as she peeled it open.

“Voilà,” she announced, “a gnarly little offering from yours truly. Éclairs! ♪”

Her smile flashed wide, but her brows twitched as she glanced around the circle.

“Hey,” she said, frowning. “Where’s Sensei?”

“Eh, fuhgeddaboudim.” Gold Ship had already snatched one, cream smearing the corner of her mouth. “Guy’s basically indestructible. I’ll take more than a couple of beers to lay him out.”

Biwa Hayahide pushed her glasses up with a sigh. “I’d still have preferred he didn’t drink at all. Trainers are supposed to model stability, not cirrhosis.”

Agnes Tachyon smirked like she’d been waiting for the setup. “Now, now, don’t underestimate biology, dear Hayahide. Our esteemed Sensei wasn’t merely ‘drinking.’ He was abducted last night by Yamabe-kun to a so-called afterparty. Which, as you all should know, carries obvious implications.”

Rice Shower clutched her hands together, eyes wide. “Wh-What does it imply?”

Tachyon leaned closer, voice conspiratorial. “That he was piss drunk and dangerously hungover.”

Rice recoiled as if the words themselves might stain her uniform.

Maruzensky let a smile slip back into place. “Hungover or not, he wouldn’t miss Bakushin O’s event. I’m confident in that much.”

Gold Ship chomped another bite of éclair, grinning with cream on her lip. “Well, yeah, you would say that—seeing as you two were tearing it up on the dance floor last night.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean, Golshi? ♪” Her voice rose just a notch too sharp, smile a little too bright.

Hayahide sighed, pressing her knuckles into her temple. “If you’re all quite finished turning this into a serialized gossip column, maybe it’s time we acknowledge the more pressing issue: Our trainer is still missing. And the sprint starts in fifteen minutes.”

“Relax,” Tachyon drawled, leaning back against the rail like she had all the time in the world. “Our Sensei may be decrepit and pathologically allergic to smartphones, but he does possess one redeeming quality: a warped yet reliable sense of timing. He’ll crawl in before the bell.”

Rice twisted her fingers together, her voice small. “But… What if he doesn’t?”

Silence tugged at the circle for a beat.

“You sure about that?”

The voice cut through the crowd noise, sharp enough to make them all turn at once.

[13:46 JST] — TOKYO RACECOURSE, FUCHŪ — ARRIFLEX 435 / 35mm

24fps · ƒ/2.4 aperture · Lens 40mm handheld · Shoulder rig in crowd; daylight balanced, slight overexposure on highlights

I cut through the crowd until Astrum came into view, clustered against the rail. My shirt and jeans combo wasn’t doing me any favors—looked like I’d gotten lost on my way to a Hard Rock Café and decided to haunt the racetrack instead. A couple of folks gave me side-eyes.

Tachyon clocked me first. She tipped her chin, smirk sharp as glass. “Well, look who clawed his way back from the dead. We didn’t think you were going to show, Sensei.”

“Yeah, well,” I muttered, stuffing my hands deeper in my pockets, “takes more than a couple of beers to put me in the ground.”

Golshi’s eyes lit like she’d just seen proof of Santa Claus. “That’s what I said!”

I flicked my chin at Maruzen. “You guys staked out our spots?”

“Right here, Sensei,” she said, patting the rail. “Front row seats to all the action. Prime real estate.”

Rice peeked up at me from behind her fringe. “The sprint starts in fifteen minutes. If you’d like, um… Maybe you could give Bakushin O a pep talk before she lines up?”

I let the words hang a second. Behind us, the crowd surged again, noise rising and falling. See, pep talks weren’t really my department. Half the time, they’d just sound more like threats.

“It’s good practice,” Maruzensky added, curls bouncing as she tilted her head.

I exhaled through my nose. To tell you the truth, I was half-hoping she wouldn’t need me, half-afraid of saying the wrong thing—or worse, saying the right thing and making her expect it every time.

Still, that’s the job. You don’t get to choose when they look to you.

“Save me an éclair.”

I knocked twice. Just enough to announce myself without sounding like I was trying to sell her insurance. The nameplate beside the door gleamed under the hallway lights: Sakura Bakushin O. Funny how official everything felt when they let you have your own prep room.

“Hey,” I called. “You alive in there?”

“…Sensei? Is that you?”

“No, it’s the Boogeyman. Open up.”

The latch clicked, and the door swung a crack. Bakushin O peeked through like she was checking for assassins. When she finally let me in, she looked the same as always; high ponytail a little too tight and eyes burning hot enough to light a campfire. Still had on the same racewear as last night. Either she had a closet full of duplicates, or the girl hadn’t stopped vibrating long enough to change.

She bounced once on her toes, spring-loaded as ever, ponytail snapping like a whip.

“How do you do, Sensei? Are you prepared to witness greatness?”

I leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “That depends. You planning to run, or just audition for a soda commercial?”

“Running, of course! Though I would certainly not refuse sponsorships should they be offered.”

She was grinning, but underneath the bluster she was wound tight. I could see it in the way her hands never quite stopped moving; tugging at her gloves, brushing invisible dust off her shorts.

“You know,” I said, dropping my voice a notch, “this isn’t just about being the fastest set of legs on the turf. It’s a twelve-hundred, yeah. But remember you’ve got eleven other maniacs out there, and half of them will gut you alive if you burn too early.”

“Of course, Sensei!” she shot back, chin lifted, teeth flashing. “After all, who am I if not the world’s fastest Class Representative?”

I let the silence stretch. Her bravado bounced off the walls, but it didn’t quite fill the cracks.

“Hey, listen…” My voice edged lower. “About that speech last night.”

Her ponytail stilled mid-bounce. “Hm?”

I opened my mouth, but the words sat heavy. Took me a second before I could shove them out.

“…You really mean all that?” My head flicked up, eyes searching hers. “That thing about second chances?”

For the first time since I walked in, she blinked like I’d knocked the wind out of her. The grin faltered, just a fraction.

Her head tilted. “Well… Yes. Naturally. Why else would I shout it to a whole presentation hall?”

“People say a lot of things in front of a crowd,” I said. “Easier to believe when there’s applause waiting for you at the end.”

Her shoulders pulled in tighter, but the fire in her eyes didn’t dim. “But I wasn’t just performing, Sensei… I meant it.” She squared herself, almost defiant. “Second chances matter. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? Why you are here.”

That one landed. Clean. Too clean.

I chuckled, the sound dry in my own throat. “Careful. Keep talking like that and people’ll think you’ve figured me out.”

She shook her head, the smile she gave me smaller than usual but stubborn enough to hold its ground.

“I won’t pretend I do. But…” Her voice dropped half a notch, softer than I’d ever heard it. “I do know you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t care.”

That one cut sharper than anything she’d said on stage. I shifted against the wall.

She leaned forward, eyes burning hotter. “Which means I’ll just have to make this the fastest second chance anyone’s ever seen. For you, Sensei. For Team Astrum. For Bakushinnn!!”

The room felt too small for her voice. I exhaled, heavy, but not without a trace of pride. Then I reached out and clapped her on the shoulder, just enough to anchor her buzzing energy.

“All right, kid,” I muttered, voice rough with something I refused to name.

“Go kick their asses.”

Her grin flared, bright enough to blind.

One race out of six, let’s see what these ladies can do.

[14:02 JST] — TOKYO RACECOURSE, FUCHŪ — PANAVISION MILLENNIUM DXL2 / IMAX 1.90:1

48fps · ƒ/4.0 aperture · Lens 75mm telephoto · Multi-cam array: rail dolly + aerial sweep
Soundtrack: "Loverboy — Working for the Weekend"

CLACK!

The gates kicked wide like a shotgun blast, twelve sprinters detonating down the Tokyo turf.

“And there go the gates!” Jinnai roared, half out of his chair. “Twelve rockets down the chute!”

“A brilliant break across the board,” Akasaka cut in, her voice bright and sharp. “Curren Chan wasting no time! Right behind her, Sakura Bakushin O, stalking in third… Is she holding back?”

The grandstand shook, eighty thousand voices colliding into one rolling roar.

“King Halo content to sit at the rear for now,” Jinnai observed, pointing toward the trailing cluster. “That’s Pollux’s style for ya, folks.”

“The pressure’s coming from behind. Sakura Bakushin O’s stride is looking tighter than we’ve seen all season!”

The pack swept through halfway. Curren Chan still led, her red ribbon flashing like a banner in the wind. Bakushin O glided a length back, eyes locked dead ahead. Behind them, King Halo coiled, heels striking turf with perfect economy.

“Three hundred left!” Jinnai’s voice cracked with heat. “Curren Chan digging in. Sakura Bakushin O right on her tail!”

“Watch the outside!” Akasaka shouted. “Here comes King Halo launching that signature Pollux surge!”

The crowd rose as one, a living wave. King Halo stormed forward, eating ground, her form textbook-perfect. Curren Chan’s stride began to wobble.

“But Bakushin O’s not done yet!” Jinnai bellowed. “She’s shifting into high gear now. Just look at that kick!”

Bakushin O’s legs blurred. Every ounce of stored energy uncorked at once.

“She slingshots past Curren Chan! Past King Halo—!” Akasaka gasped.

The rail shook with fans hammering fists against it, the sound like thunder made of steel.

“Fifty meters! Bakushin O grits her teeth—King Halo closing—who’s got it?!”

The line screamed up to meet them—

“BAKUSHIN O TAKES IT!” Akasaka’s voice cracked raw as the photo flashed. “Astrum lands the first blow of the Constellation Cup!”

The scoreboard blazed: Astrum 10, Pollux 8.

The Astrum section erupted, their roar crashing over the rails. Gold Ship nearly toppled Maruzensky in her enthusiasm, Rice’s voice broke in a squeak of joy, and even Hayahide let herself clap as well.

By the rail, Okano thrust a fist skyward, his jaw tight but his eyes blazing. “Let’s go!”

“She came, she saw, she conquered,” Jinnai said breathlessly. “Now how’s that for a first race?”

The camera swept the grandstand, banners snapping in the summer wind, the chants rolling like surf.

One race down. The Cup had only just begun.

The next day, Okano had Maruzensky to himself. No chaos, just trainer and runner.

“Again,” he barked from the rail.

She tore across Tracen’s oval in split after split, her form crisp enough to slice air. Against Bakushin O she still had another gear, matching the sprinter’s manic pace with polished efficiency. She was primed, and they both knew it.

The sunset framed them in silhouette, the tide lapping at their shadows. A Fairlady Z and a Lamborghini Countach were parked at the edge of the beach, their chrome catching fire from the dying light. Two relics facing the waves, just like the people who drove them.

Maruzensky mirrored Okano’s movements as he took her through kata: Tensho, Shisochin, Seiyunchin. Slow, deliberate, breath anchored in each stance. The horizon burned orange, framing them as shadows in the last light of day.

She laughed when her kick skimmed too high. He only reset his footing. By the end, both of them lowered into a bow—two dark shapes folding toward each other as the sea dragged the sun under.

Then came the mile.

“AND THEY’RE OFF!” Akasaka’s voice cracked like a whip. “Maruzensky with an explosive break! She wants the front and she’s claiming it early!”

“I was told she was a terror behind the wheel, but folks, don’t be fooled—she’s just as lethal with her own legs!” Jinnai bellowed, leaning over the desk.

Maruzensky surged ahead, curls bouncing, stride wide and hungry. The pack scrambled behind her, Ikuno Dictus of Team Pollux settling into second, eyes cool and calculating.

The grandstand roared, chants rolling down the lanes like surf.

“Ma-ru-zen! Ma-ru-zen!”

“She’s kicking again!” Jinnai shouted, nearly falling out of his chair. “She’s got another gear! Ikuno Dictus is throwing everything at her, but Maruzensky just keeps flying!”

The finish line blazed up ahead, the crowd on their feet.

“She’s not stopping!” Akasaka cried. “Maruzensky, she’s—!”

She stormed across five lengths in front. The stands exploded.

“AND THAT MAKES TWO FOR ASTRUM!” Jinnai roared, pounding the desk. “Folks, this team is single-handedly turning this Cup upside down!”

The scoreboard lit: Astrum 20, Pollux 16.

On the rail, Astrum’s cheers rattled like firecrackers. Gold Ship yodelled loud enough to drown a section, Rice was teary-eyed from sheer relief, and Maruzensky blew a kiss toward the stands.

Tachyon’s day began with splinters.

An old mu ren zhuang stood outside Tracen’s gym; the Wing Chun dummy weathered with decades of punishment. She circled it like a surgeon prepping for an operation, then drove in. Palm, elbow, pivot. Each strike clipped wood with a neat crack. Recoil, resistance—all of it getting filed away behind those manic red eyes.

Palm, elbow, step, pivot. She learned fast—reading angles, mapping reactions, logging everything in that wild brain of hers. Okano leaned against the wall, chewing Kasugai nuts straight from the bag.

“Not bad,” he said around a mouthful. “Now try surviving her.”

The bushes at the edge of the gym rustled. Gold Ship slid out, brandishing two broom handles.

The first swing came low, then high, then sideways without warning. Tachyon deflected each strike, sliding into counters. Sweat dotted her brow, but the grin only sharpened as she kept pace with the cryptid that had chosen her for prey.

By evening, Okano rewarded Tachyon the only way he knew how: his favorite beef bowl joint by the overpass. At first, she poked at her serving like it was an unfamiliar lab manual…

But then she took a bite.

By the time she ordered her sixth bowl, Okano just leaned back, wallet lighter, muttering about “bottomless pits.”

Then came the medium.

Akasaka’s voice cut sharp over the speakers. “Agnes Tachyon right on the jump, charging forward with that long stride!”

“Not giving an inch to Pollux’s Manhattan Cafe,” Jinnai added, voice booming with relish. “Just look at that duel up front!”

Tachyon edged ahead, then checked herself, pulling back just enough to let Cafe’s shadow linger beside her shoulder. Behind them, Jungle Pocket of Dubhe, who’d promised fireworks, was already sliding back, her reckless style failing to stick in a measured race.

The final turn approached. Cafe lengthened, drifting into that uncanny rhythm of hers, the phantom surge Pollux had built her to master. For a moment she seemed untouchable, gliding into the lead.

But Tachyon’s eyes lit like she’d just solved an equation. She detonated.

“She’s launching!” Akasaka’s voice cracked. “Agnes Tachyon tearing down the stretch with a final burst—!”

“Manhattan Cafe can’t respond!” Jinnai thundered, practically pounding the desk. “She’s getting buried under that acceleration! Tachyon’s got her number!”

The line came up to meet them. Tachyon blasted through first, clear by a length.

“AND ASTRUM TAKES IT AGAIN!” Jinnai roared. “Three races, three wins—these girls are burning the track alive!”

Akasaka caught her breath, shaking her head with awe. “From the lab to the battlefield, she proves it again. Astrum’s not just surviving here—they’re practically commanding the Cup.”

The tally rolled over. Astrum: 30, Pollux: 24.

Okano’s eyes drifted up to the glass of the grandstand boxes. Kuroi stood there, still as a cutout, only his lips twitching between a smirk and a curse.

That night, Astrum crammed into a karaoke booth, their victory howls rattling the thin walls. Gold Ship nearly blew the speakers; Maruzensky kept trying to turn every chorus into a power ballad. Okano never touched the mic, but he drained half the beer tower by himself, unmoved by the scrolling song list.

His flip phone buzzed on the table, screen cracked but bright. Masataka Yamabe—six missed calls.

He snapped it shut without a glance.

Three races gone. One more win, and Astrum would stay whole.

[13:17 JST] — TOKYO RACECOURSE LOCKER ROOM, KATSUAKI ITONAGA — ARRICAM ST / 35mm

24fps · ƒ/1.9 aperture · Lens 85mm close-up · Tripod static; tungsten fluorescents, muted grade

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Come in!”

I eased the door open. Hayahide was already in full racewear, standing in front of the mirror like she was about to interrogate herself. Her hair puffed out in that ridiculous cloud, not a strand flattened. Seriously, I’ll never understand how she manages to cut through the wind like that. Must be like racing with a sofa cushion taped to your head.

Training yesterday went smooth enough. Too smooth, maybe. Quiet, like we were both pretending there wasn’t anything worth talking about. But today, though, there was no pretending. This was the dirt race. Not exactly her bread and butter. But hey, somebody had to step up.

“Here.” I lobbed a bottle her way. She snatched it one-handed without even looking. “Some guy outside was handing these out for free.”

She looked down at the label for a solid second.

“Prime Hydration…? Strawberry Banana?”

I tilted my head. “Yeah. You like bananas, right?”

Her face did a thing like I’d just handed her a live cobra. She set it down gently on the table. So much for goodwill, I guess.

“So… You nervous?” I asked. “I mean… This is the fourth race. If you win this, the whole band stays together.”

She didn’t even flick her eyes my way. “No. I’m not particularly on edge… You, on the other hand…”

“Yeah, right. Me?” I scoffed, folding my arms across my chest. “Come on. Guy like me doesn’t get nervous.”

That finally got her to turn. One brow arched, sharp enough to shave with.

“…This is about the other day, isn’t it? By the hotel pool. I know you were eavesdropping.”

“…What? How?” I barked out a laugh. “Come on, I slipped out of there like a damn ninja.”

“You nearly knocked over a vase on the way out,” she said, bone-dry.

I blinked, replaying it in my head. She had me dead to rights.

Her mouth tugged the slightest fraction upward, then flattened again.

“Look, I’m sorry,” I said, voice dropping lower. “All right? Didn’t mean to pry. Just… didn’t wanna be that guy, standing around pretending I didn’t hear.”

“It’s fine,” she said simply, nodding once. “No harm done. Though, I am curious…”

I stayed quiet.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

The question landed heavier than I liked. I rubbed the back of my neck, watching a bead of sweat slide down that stupid can.

“Because sometimes… saying the wrong thing screws a person up worse than staying quiet.” My voice came out rougher than I meant. “And you… You looked like you had enough voices in your head already.”

That made her pause. She looked down, arms crossing over her chest. The puff of her hair trembled faintly with the breath she let out.

“You assume a lot about me, Sensei.”

“Yeah, well,” I muttered. “Let’s just say I know what it’s like to be in your shoes.”

Silence stretched. The PA outside crackled, an announcer running through the Cup standings so far, the crowd’s reaction bleeding faintly through the walls.

And then the knock came on the door, muffled but firm. “Biwa Hayahide! You’re almost up!”

She drew in one last breath, then squared her shoulders.

I flicked my chin up. “Go on, now. Dirt’s waiting for ya.”

“And now… coming up to gate number seven, and our number two favorite for today—Biwa Hayahide!”

The crowd swelled like a wave breaking, noise pouring over the railings as her name rolled across the loudspeakers. I shoved my way back into Astrum’s huddle, shoulder to shoulder with strangers.

“There you are,” Maruzensky said, sliding me a glance. “Well? You give her the talk?”

I shrugged. “Ehh… Kinda.”

On the turf, Hayahide reached her mark. Even from this distance you could see the little details: the way her jaw locked; the faint twitch in her fingers before she balled them into fists. Calm mask, chaos underneath. She stepped in the stall like she was walking into an exam she couldn’t afford to fail.

“So who do you think is Pollux’s runner?” Maruzensky asked, hand shading her eyes from the sun.

“Honestly?” Golshi leaned halfway over the rail, grinning like a kid about to see fireworks. “I hope it’s Sirius. Girl’s got a lot of bark—but it would be pretty nice to see if she actually bites, y’know?”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” I said. “Their roster’s just a bunch of turf princesses. Could be anyone they’re throwing in.”

Then Akasaka’s voice crackled from the loudspeakers.

“And last but not least,” she boomed, dragging the pause until the whole grandstand leaned forward. “Entering gate number six… and our number three favorite for this afternoon…”

The screen cut to a close-up. A lean frame, wavy brown hair, pink jacket, deadly scowl.

That was when I froze.

“…Narita Taishin!”

The grandstand detonated into an unholy mix of cheers and surprise that rattled up from the concrete.

“WHAT?!” Gold Ship shrieked beside me, half an éclair sliding out of her hand. “Taishin’s running dirt?!”

“Impossible…” Rice whispered, both hands pressed tight against her mouth.

Tachyon leaned back with maddening calm, resting a hand against her chin. “Well, that is quite the revelation. I daresay things have gotten interesting.”

She wasn’t wrong. I did my reps on every runner in Pollux. Gal like Taishin wasn’t built for this distance, let alone dirt. Her lungs were more geared for fury over longer ground. So what in the hell was Kuroi thinking, throwing her in here?

My eyes climbed towards the grandstand boxes, and there he was. Kuroi. Standing easy with that stupid curl at the corner of his mouth. Son of a bitch knew exactly what he’d done.

Then the casters chimed in, their voices tumbling over the roar of the crowd.

“Do my eyes deceive me?!” Jinnai bellowed. “Or am I looking at two-thirds of BNW about to battle it out over dirt right now?”

“That’s right, Jinnai,” Akasaka answered smoothly. “Biwa Hayahide for Team Astrum, Narita Taishin for Team Pollux. Both competing outside their natural aptitudes. This could potentially be the most anticipated showdown of the Cup so far.”

Down on the turf, Hayahide stole a look at the next stall over. Her mask cracked just long enough for me to see her eyes go wide, mouth slack. She sealed it back up quick. Taishin didn’t so much as blink. She stalked into her gate, shoulders squared. That wasn’t focus, either. That was raw, coiled anger, packed in tight enough to catch fire.

Around me, the peanut gallery went to work.

“Can you believe it? Those two are back on the track together.”
“Yeah, but… didn’t there used to be three of ‘em?”

The words stung worse because they weren’t wrong.

We weren’t the only one clocking it, either. Over in lane five, Dubhe’s number-one favorite—Smart Falcon—was eyeing the pair of them, too. The look on her face said it all: Where’s the rest of BNW?

The cameras cut tight to the gates. Taishin stood taut in her stall, fury radiating off her in waves. Beside her, Hayahide’s posture was textbook perfect… except for the tiny twitch in her jaw, the fractional stutter in her fingers as they gripped and unclenched.

I watched Hayahide. On the surface, unshaken. But underneath, I could practically hear the gears grinding in her skull. The dirt wasn’t the problem. She and Taishin were running against their past, with eighty thousand people demanding they resurrect it.

All twelve gates snapped open like rifle bolts.

CLACK!

“And they’re off!”

Jinnai’s voice cracked through the thunder. “A fantastic start from all runners! Smart Falcon with the perfect break, gunning for the front!”

Falcon snapped down the rail with her head low. The dirt kicked up in her wake, spraying the pack.

“Biwa Hayahide is keeping herself measured in the middle group,” Akasaka called. “Not pressing too hard, not lagging either. Classic pace chase positioning.”

Hayahide ran tight, chin tucked, strides clean.

But behind them, dead last…

“And look at this, folks!” Jinnai bellowed. “Narita Taishin dead last at the opening furlong. Exactly the kind of unorthodox running style we’ve seen her gamble with countless times on turf. But on dirt? This is madness!”

The crowd roared back in disbelief, a wave of voices clashing with the commentary.

“It’s unbelievable,” Akasaka muttered. “The raw pace of dirt races is unforgiving so there’s no room to toy around. If she stays back here too long…”

Taishin looked like a typhoon chained to the rear, shoulders thrumming with bottled violence. Every step kicked up grit like sparks on asphalt.

First corner. Falcon carved the rail, already a length ahead. Hayahide tracked in fifth, seemingly calm. The pack jostled around her, bunch of no-names scraping for relevance, but she held her line.

“Half a furlong in, and Hayahide is perfectly settled mid-pack,” Akasaka narrated. “Conserving for later. That’s what Astrum will be counting on.”

“Meanwhile, Taishin is still glued to the rear!” Jinnai howled. “Folks, this is either the craziest bluff of the Constellation Cup, or a total implosion in the making!”

Golshi shouted through a mouthful of pastry, “COME ON—KICK THEIR ASSES, HAYAHIDE!”

Backstretch. Falcon hammered on. Two lengths clear now, dirt slinging high from her cleats. The rest scrambled to keep tempo.

Then—Taishin moved.

“She’s accelerating!” Akasaka snapped. “Narita Taishin is making her move already from the rear!”

The stadium detonated. Taishin cut through the pack. Ten lengths erased in the blink of an eye. Her stride lengthened into a furious whipcrack rhythm. She wasn’t running…

“She’s flying—!” Jinnai screamed. “She’s cutting past runners like nothing!”

And there it was.

Hayahide and Taishin, shoulder to shoulder, dirt flaring under their strides. B and N, dragged together on the one surface neither belonged to. The sound from the grandstand swelled past words, closer to an animal howl than cheering.

“Look at this!” Jinnai was nearly shrieking. “Biwa Hayahide and Narita Taishin—neck and neck as we hit the last corner! The history between these two is thicker than the dust cloud they’re kicking up right now!”

Final turn looming. Smart Falcon still out front, but you could see the cracks spidering through her form. Her head bobbed, her stride grew ragged. She’d burned too hot, too early. One more furlong and she’d be well-done steak.

This was Hayahide’s cue. Any second now she should’ve been coiling and firing—legs lengthening, breath hardening, surging into that last drive, anything.

Except she wasn’t. Her rhythm stayed measured. Restrained. Like she was holding herself in neutral while the engine screamed for gear.

Something was wrong.

“She’s biding her time,” Akasaka said at first, calm but tight. “She’s waiting for the perfect opening—”

But the words soured in my ears.

No, no… That wasn’t patience.

The crowd didn’t notice yet. They were too busy howling at Taishin’s meteoric charge, the sight of her tearing through Umamusume like she had a personal vendetta against every last one.

But I noticed.

“She’s not starting her spurt…”

The words slid out of me before I could stop them, rasping low. My throat felt like it had closed around glass.

Maruzen turned, and our eyes hooked. Her face carried the same pinched color, the same thin line of a mouth. I didn’t need to explain—she’d already seen it too.

Then I said it again. Heavier this time, because saying it made it real.

“She’s not starting her spurt.”

Chapter Text

“And what makes you think I am, huh?! What, just because I’m with a trainer you don’t approve of? Or—Or just because you think I’m safer on your terms than my own?”

The words ricocheted through Biwa Hayahide’s skull, Narita Taishin’s voice raw with fury.

“Someone has to carry it… What happened to her… Someone has to…”

Five hundred meters stretched ahead like an eternity. Hayahide’s legs possessed the power—muscle fibers twitching with stored lightning, lungs cycling oxygen in perfect rhythm—but her body refused the command to unleash.

Beside her, Taishin’s stride began to fracture.

The same telltale signs Hayahide had catalogued, searching for the moment everything went wrong. Taishin’s left shoulder dipped fractionally lower. Her breathing shifted from controlled rhythm to desperate gulps. The fury that had carried her through the pack now consumed her reserves.

Hayahide’s analytical mind mapped the trajectory: another two hundred meters at this pace and Taishin’s form would collapse entirely. The crowd’s roar would turn to silence. Another promising career reduced to medical reports and what-could-have-beens.

Her instincts screamed to drive. Her legs twitched with the surge, the spurt coiled like a blade begging for release.

But if she answered it, she would force Taishin to answer, too. And Taishin would break herself trying.

So she strangled the impulse.

The hesitation lasted three strides. In racing terms, a geological age.

Taishin pulled clear. First a length, then two, her damaged stride finding one final gear fueled by pure desperation.

The choice had been made.

“And Narita Taishin wins with a two-length margin!” Akasaka’s voice cracked through the stadium speakers like thunder. “Biwa Hayahide settling for second!”

The crowd erupted in disbelief and celebration, eighty thousand voices merging into a single roar that seemed to shake the grandstand’s concrete bones.

Hayahide crossed the finish line with her head high. To the cameras and commentators, she looked composed. But only she could feel the earthquake trembling through her chest.

“That’s it! Pollux takes their first pole position victory!” Jinnai buzzed. “Could this be it, ladies and gentlemen? Could this be their turn to shine?”

The scoreboard lit in brutal clarity:

Astrum – 38. Pollux – 34

As the other runners streamed past the finish, Hayahide slowed to a walk, dirt caking her legs and racewear. The crowd’s celebration felt distant from here.

Taishin wasn’t basking in it. She stood just ahead, jaw set, one leg quivering with the tremor of overextension. Slowly, her head turned. Even across the gap, Hayahide felt the weight of her stare, as if Taishin knew full well she’d been held back, robbed of a clean win.

Hayahide’s hands trembled. Somewhere in the grandstand, Kuroi smiled his wolf’s smile, satisfied with the wreckage he’d engineered.

And somewhere far from here, an Umamusume sat before a television screen, watching her two former friends burn themselves down in a race no one could truly win.

[17:08 JST] — TEAM ROOM 3B, TRACEN ACADEMY, FUCHŪ — SUPER-16 / HANDHELD

24fps · ƒ/2.2 aperture · Lens 25mm wide · Shoulder-mounted, natural overheads; grain pushed in post

“We just ate our first loss.”

I had Astrum crammed into the team room like sardines in a can. Hayahide had already changed back into her uniform, her hair still carrying the damp fingerprints where she’d scrubbed the race off her face with cold water.

“Now I know the scoreboard doesn’t look like it,” I said, “but don’t get all cozy. You all know our little rule—four wins or bust. Doesn’t matter how many points you pile up at the end.”

I let my eyes drag across them one by one. Rice hugging her knees in the chair, Golshi rocking like she was trying to wiggle loose of gravity. Tachyon scribbled god-knows-what on the back of a napkin, while the rest were all sat straight.

“We’ve got two races left. Two chances to slam this thing shut.”

My gaze landed square on Rice and Golshi.

“But don’t you two think for one second that the cushion’s big enough to nap on. The pressure’s on now. You grab that weight and run like hell. Got me?”

“Yes, Sensei!” they barked in a ragged chorus.

“Good.” I gave a short nod. “Now clear out. Get some rest. Training starts early tomorrow.”

They filed out, some faster than others. Rice shuffled like she was carrying a stack of dishes. Golshi nearly ate the doorframe with her own shoes. I let them go. Then I flicked my chin at Hayahide.

“Not you. We need to talk.”

The door clicked shut behind the others. The silence that followed had teeth. I turned to face her, and she was standing there like someone waiting for the executioner to check his list.

“What happened out there?” I kept my voice small.

She blinked at me, then dropped her eyes to the floor.

“…I saw her form, Sensei.” The words came out thin. “If I kept up the challenge… she would’ve…” She stopped there, jaw working.

Then she looked up, eyes meeting mine dead-on.

“I’m sorry… Truly.”

I nodded slowly.

“Well. You know what that cost us.”

“I know.” Her voice got smaller. “I know we needed that win, Sensei. I know the team needed to—”

“Forget the team for a second.” I pushed off the wall, moved closer.

“You saw a girl about to break herself in half, and you chose not to let that happen on your watch. I’m gettin’ that right?”

“…Yes.”

“And… you think I should be mad at you for that?”

She blinked. “Are you not?”

I let out a long breath, fists pressing against my hips. “Look. Back at the start of all this, I ran my mouth about what happens once the gate opens, that everyone’s your enemy and all that tough-guy crap.” My jaw tightened. “And as much as I hate eating my own sermons… Truth is, half of that was just me trying to sound badass. This? This is different. You made a call to keep someone in one piece.”

Her brows knit tight, confusion flickering.

“What you did out there…” I shook my head. “That wasn’t losing. All right? That was being… human.”

“…Well, you’re not exactly human, but…” I scoffed, rubbing at the corner of my jaw. “Whatever, you get the point.”

Her mouth tugged into the faintest smile.

“But you wanna know what really pisses me off?” My voice came out rough, like gravel in the gears. “It’s that piece of shit Kuroi, putting that girl on the track just to screw with you.”

She blinked, the faint smile slipping.

I shrugged. “Now I’m not saying it doesn’t sting. I mean, it does, but… What you did out there? That’s the kind of choice that lets you sleep at night.”

I let the words hang, my stare going someplace past the wall, back into darker days.

“You did right,” I said, quieter. “We can win another way. We don’t have to play his game.”

Hayahide’s eyes flashed wet, but she held steady, gave a sharp nod that looked like it cost her something to keep.

“Now get out of here,” I said. “Go get some rest. You did good today.”

“…Yes, Sensei.”

She dipped her head—stiff little bow—then slid out the door, footsteps fading down the hall. I stayed there a while longer, listening, waiting for the silence to fill in.

Kuroi’s shadow was all over that race. He’d pulled the strings, and Hayahide had twisted herself in knots trying not to snap one.

Sooner or later, he and I were gonna stop circling.

I opened the door, caught a glimpse of Hayahide’s back vanishing down the corridor.

“…You can come out now,” I muttered.

The potted plant by the filing cabinet shuddered, and out popped Golshi, brushing leaves off her hair like she’d just tunneled through a hedge maze.

“You really think Kuroi set this whole thing up?” she asked, her usual singsong cranked down something serious.

“Only one way to find out,” I said, already walking.

Naturally, I found him at the oval. Figures. The man lived out here like a crow on a telephone wire, watching everything from above and picking at what fell apart underneath. The sun was already bleeding down into the dirt, flattening the shadows across the track. Didn’t stop him or his pet soldier Sirius though.

She was flat on her palms when I got close, cranking out pushups like gravity owed taxes. Kuroi clocked us right away. Didn’t even flinch, just let his hands hang behind his back like he’d been expecting this part of the play all along.

“Sirius.” His voice carried easy, no need to raise it. “That’s enough. Take a lap.”

Sirius pushed off the ground in one smooth motion, gave me and Golshi a glare sharp enough to skin knuckles, and then jogged off along the track. No wasted movement.

Kuroi’s mouth curled. “What brings you here, Trainer Okano?”

“You can cut the shit.” I kept my voice flat. “I know you stuck Taishin on that race for a reason.”

“Well, of course I did.” He spoke like it was the most natural thing in the world. “She had a weakness—that weakness being dirt—and it’s my job as her trainer to… remove those weaknesses.”

“Yeah?” My jaw tightened. “That include working her till she falls apart? Setting her up against one of her friends?”

His smile didn’t move, but his eyes sharpened.

“I think you’re mistaken. Taishin isn’t feeble… At least not anymore. She carries what happened to Winning Ticket, and she carries it well. Better than Hayahide ever did.”

My blood went hot. “Don’t you even—”

He raised one lazy hand. “It’s not my fault she couldn’t leave her baggage behind on the track.”

I tilted my head, lips pressed tight, fighting the urge to just kick his shit in right then and there.

Bastard didn’t even blink. “I heard about your little probation agreement with the school. You score one more win, Astrum survives. But if not, then…” He clicked his tongue, sharp as a firing pin.

Golshi’s eyes narrowed, all play burned out of her face.

He kept on, voice smooth as glass. “The thing is, Okano-san—everyone has their flaws. Take Sirius, for example.”

The sound of her footsteps circled the oval, steady like a metronome.

“She’s cocky and disrespectful,” he said. “But when combined with her strengths, that arrogance becomes conviction. A weapon. She could be one of the most terrifying runners in the Twinkle Series.”

I just stared at him. Long enough that most men would’ve coughed and looked away. He didn’t.

“Your merry band has spirit, I’ll give you that,” he went on. “But flaws don’t disappear just because you want them to. Unless you teach them to cut out the rot, it’ll eat them alive. You saw it for yourself, didn’t you?”

That last line landed heavy. He didn’t need to say Hayahide’s name.

As if on cue, Sirius came pounding back down the stretch, sweat slicking her jawline. She slowed just enough to throw us a glare.

“Beat it, you two. Can’t you see we’re still training?”

I blew out through my nose, slow, ground down the urge to bark back.

“Fine,” I muttered, shaking my head. “We’re gone.”

Golshi didn’t move. She squared her shoulders, eyes narrowing on Kuroi.

“You know what? Maybe we should just report your stupid ass. The way you treat your girls? You’d fry for it if anyone upstairs saw.”

Kuroi’s lips twitched into something like a smile, almost fatherly.

“On what grounds?” he asked, voice smooth. “Training them too well? Demanding discipline? Tell me, Gold Ship—what exactly do you think would the school put in the file?”

She opened her mouth, then stopped.

Dead silent, stretching long enough for his smile to deepen.

Finally she flicked her chin up, turned away, and fell in beside me.

Behind us, Kuroi’s voice carried across the track, calm as ever.

“Good luck at the next race.”

I didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. But in my chest, something ugly was twisting tighter, coil by coil.

We were by the Fairlady now. Me and Golshi hadn’t said a word on the walk back. Dirt on our shoes, Kuroi’s voice still echoing in the skull.

“So, now what?” She leaned her shoulder against the quarter panel like the car was hers. “We confronted the big bad, got our intel, and all he did was confirm he’s a Saturday morning cartoon villain.”

I almost fished for a cigarette but stuffed my hand in my pocket instead.

“I don’t know, kid. We just gotta keep going…”

The silence came down heavy, pressing in harder than the air.

“Look,” I said finally. “I gotta level with you here. If Rice doesn’t pull off this next race, then you’re gonna have to carry this whole thing on your own. Can you do that for me?”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “Huh? What makes you think she won’t win?”

“That’s not what I said.” My tone was sharper than I meant to. “I’m just being realistic here. You plan backup so you don’t get blindsided. That’s how reality works.”

That’s when she straightened up, no smirk left.

“No… You don’t trust her. That’s what you’re saying.”

I turned on her. “The hell are you talking about?”

“You think she’s too fragile, too soft. You think she’ll crumble.” Golshi’s voice didn’t rise, but it had an edge I hadn’t heard before. “Look, I know Ricey. And I trust her. All right? She’s stronger than you give her credit for.”

“Oh, don’t play dumb. You were right there in the stands, calling that scrimmage. You saw her damn near fall apart before the line.”

“And she still won,” she shot back. “She pushed through it.”

I let out a low breath, but she didn’t stop.

“You know, you keep acting like one close call means she’s a goner. It doesn’t. It means she’s still fighting.”

“Well in case you forgot, you’re all two races away from either sticking together or hauling your asses out that gate.” I jabbed a finger at the exit. “This isn’t about feelings, all right? It’s about survival.”

Her eyes flickered, and for once she wasn’t playing. “Yeah? Well I heard what you told Hayahide, old man. About how choosing to be human was the right call, about how your whole ‘everyone’s your enemy’ thing was just you trying to sound badass.” Her voice got sharper. “So what happened to that guy, huh? Because right now you’re doing the exact same thing you admitted was bullshit.”

I felt my jaw tighten. “That was different.”

“How?” She stepped closer, not backing down. “Hayahide trusted her gut when it mattered. She saw someone about to break and she didn’t let it happen. And you praised her for it. But now Ricey needs you to trust her, and you’re already writing her off before she even gets to the gate.”

“I’m just being realistic—”

“No. You’re being scared.” The words came out flat. “You’re acting like the world’s already falling apart. From what I’m seeing? You’re the one who’s cracking here, not her.”

That one landed square in the teeth. I felt the bite of it, but didn’t answer.

The air between us went still.

She broke it with a long exhale, shoulders rolling like she was shrugging off a weight she didn’t wanna take.

“Whatever. I’m going home.”

She shook her head, footsteps scuffing the ground as she headed to the dorms. Didn’t look back.

I stood there, keys cold in my hand, before sliding into the driver’s seat. Engine turned over rough. Kuroi’s smug little seed had done its work, the son of a bitch.

“Folks, we’re in the heat of it now. Coming up to the fifth and penultimate leg of the Constellation Cup: the long race!”

From the PA, Jinnai’s voice rang out across Tokyo Racecourse, bouncing them off steel beams and concrete until it felt like the whole place was holding its breath.

“But before we get on with our next event, why don’t we take a little look at the board, shall we?”

A ripple went through the crowd as the screen flickered and then locked into place. Heads turned in unison. Mine included.

CURRENT STANDINGS

#	Team	Points
1	Astrum	38
2	Pollux	34
3	Dubhe	20
4	Beowulf	14
5	Merope	12
6	Grabacr	10
7	Sceptrum	8
8	Thiassi	6
9	Chimera	4
T10	Fenrir	4
T10	Varuna	4
12	Remora	2

Astrum still held the top, but Pollux was right behind, close enough to bite our asses. Around me, students leaned in, whispering hard while their brains did the math.

“Hey. Still in Love’s running this one, right?”
“Yeah, and against Rice Shower? You think we’ll get a repeat of that scrimmage that went viral?”

The chatter rippled outward, excitement laced with doubt. My girls didn’t add to it. Astrum sat taut and quiet. Even Golshi had her mouth shut, her eyes fixed straight ahead.

“And now,” Akasaka wound up, “for our number-one favorite, and the star attraction of this leg—Sirius Symboli!”

The tunnel lights flared, and Sirius stepped out. The crowd detonated, noise hitting like a hammer to the chest. Flags waved, camera flashes popped.

“Now listen to that reception!” Jinnai boomed over the din. “This girl’s been a wrecking ball these past few months, and now she’s ready to tear them all a new one today!”

Sirius jogged onto the turf, expression flat as stone. ut you could feel the coiled presence, the way her stride didn’t waste an inch. The crowd was eating it up.

I rubbed at my eyes and caught myself. Maybe the booze was still echoing in my veins, because I didn’t even notice Still in Love slip through the tunnel until she was already to the gates. Girl moved like she’d been poured instead of walking. Hell, if she wanted to, she could ghost right through a crowd without leaving a ripple.

And then the noise shifted, some of it dipping into curiosity. Heads turned back towards the tunnel.

Because here she came.

Rice Shower stepped out, small frame swallowed by the thunder of the place. The crowd’s cheer dulled to a hum, mixed with murmurs.

To them, she was a question mark. The omen.

“And here comes Rice Shower,” Akasaka announced, tone lifting. “Second favorite from Astrum. She’s got skills, but she might just need the run of her life to bring down some of these giants.”

I crooked two fingers and beckoned her in. Rice shuffled over, eyes big, shoulders tight.

“Hey,” I said, keeping it low so it cut under the noise. “Remember what we drilled. All right? Eyes forward. Nobody out there but you. If they try to bait you, you let it slide. You run your race, not theirs. Got it?”

She gave one quick nod. “Yes, Sensei. I’ll do my best.”

Then she dipped into a deep bow, the kind you’d see at a dojo right before someone got their ribs rattled. Except this mat stretched a couple thousand meters, and the bruises came in different shapes.

I gave her a short bow back. Felt stupid in front of everyone else, but respect’s respect.

“All right,” I muttered. “Now get out there.”

Rice turned towards the gate, small frame swallowed by the stadium’s noise. I stood there, jaw set, and felt Golshi’s eyes drilling into me. She didn’t say a word. Probably replaying our little spat from the other day, wondering if all that fire had been worth it.

I didn’t look back at her. My eyes stayed on Rice, that tiny figure walking into a storm bigger than she had any right to face.

[14:01 JST] — TOKYO RACECOURSE, FUCHŪ — PANAVISION MILLENNIUM DXL2 / IMAX 1.90:1

48fps · ƒ/3.5 aperture · Lens 65mm mid-tele · Dual coverage: rail dolly + overhead wirecam

The racecourse froze, a held breath over eighty thousand lungs. Even the flags along the grandstand stilled for a moment as if waiting.

Okano leaned forward from the rail. Kuroi sat motionless in the grandstand, arms folded like a judge.

And then—

CLACK!

“And they’re off!” Akasaka’s voice rang sharp. “A clean break from the field!”

“Sirius Symboli wastes no time, charging straight to the front!” Jinnai thundered, practically rattling his headset. “The enforcer of Pollux showing why she’s the favorite!”

“Right on her shoulder, it’s Still in Love from Dubhe,” Akasaka added, breath tight with awe.

“And holding just behind, ladies and gents: Rice Shower of Astrum!” Jinnai roared, voice surging with the crowd. “She tucks into fifth, watching and waiting. Plenty of legroom here folks.”

The field thundered past the first corner, hooves shaking the ground. Sirius led like a machine, expression flat as a wall. Still in Love stalked her like a shadow, step for step.

“But watch the body language here,” Akasaka warned, her voice quick and tight. “Sirius Symboli is dictating the pace. If she ratchets it any higher, it’s going to turn into a war of attrition.”

“And Rice Shower! I mean just look at her—” Jinnai cut in, his voice cracking with heat. “Oh, she’s taking last race’s loss real personal now!”

“COME ON, RICE!” Bakushin O’s voice boomed across the stretch, loud enough to cut through the hurricane of hooves. “BAKUSHIN TOWARDS THE FINISH!!!”

Rice pressed her breath into rhythm—stride, stride, stride—holding steady into the corner, into the backstretch.

Eyes forward. Nobody out there but you.

But the track pinched ahead. Two runners swung wide: Daitaku Helios and Mejiro Palmer. Another edged in. Rice’s line shrank, the turf closing like a trap.

“Uh oh, folks!” Jinnai barked, excitement jumping an octave. “We’ve got congestion mid-pack! Looks like a traffic jam on the Tokyo expressway! Can our runners punch through or find a detour?”

Rice’s pulse hammered. The rail was sealed. The outside blocked. Her chest tightened.

Then came movement.

“What’s this?!” Akasaka’s voice cut sharp. “Still in Love drops back mid-race?! She’s sliding out of second—out of Sirius Symboli’s crosshairs! I’ve never seen this before!”

Okano’s mutter drifted from the rail.

“What the hell…?”

From the corner of her vision, Rice caught the pale figure glide past, expression serene as a mask. Her lungs burned. Every instinct screamed to swing wide. But she remembered Sensei’s words, low and gravel-rough in her ear:

Eyes forward. You run your race, not theirs.

The thunder rolled on.

Ahead, Palmer and Helios ran shoulder-to-shoulder, bodies a barricade across the lane. The wall hardened with every second. The outside line was gone, the rail sealed, the pack crushing in. Rice’s chest tightened.

“Rice Shower’s boxed!” Akasaka’s voice rose sharp. “Pinned mid-pack with nowhere to go!”

“That’s Tokyo traffic for ya, folks!” Jinnai barked, desk rattling under his fist. “She’s gonna need a miracle here or it’s curtains!”

Her stride stuttered. For a heartbeat, the doubt nearly swallowed her whole.

And then—memory struck.

Gold Ship’s kiai, wild and unhinged, echoing off Tracen’s walls. Rice ducking low, rolling under her on the mat. That impossible sparring session where she’d slipped under the chaos instead of running from it.

Her breath steadied. Eyes forward.

The wall ahead loomed. Rice dropped her shoulders. Shortened her frame.

One beat, two—

Then she slid.

“BUT WAIT!” Akasaka’s headset rattled as she shot up. “Rice Shower knifes down the rail! She’s threading the needle!”

“She’s forcing daylight where there ain’t even any!” Jinnai cried. “She just slipped under Daitaku Helios! Mejiro Palmer! This is unbelievable!”

The crowd detonated. Gasps and shouts cracked like fireworks.

Out the other side. Clean air.

And ahead—Sirius Symboli, still pounding relentless at the front.

Rice’s lungs tore for air, legs screaming.

But now there was room. Room to run her race.

“Final corner!” Jinnai roared. “Sirius Symboli still leads, but Rice Shower’s charging from the pocket! Astrum’s omen is loose!”

The grandstand heaved like a living sea.

“LET’S GO, RICEY!” Gold Ship bellowed from the rail, cupped hands turning her cheer into a cannon blast. “BRING IT HOME!”

Rice’s legs answered on their own. Her strides lengthened, eyes locked on Sirius’s back. But the pack was swelling. Palmer and Helios clung wide, refusing to give ground. Inari One’s colors flashed just off her shoulder, teeth grit as she tried to wedge in. Even the outsiders—Beowulf’s runner, Thiassi’s desperate stayer—fought tooth and nail.

The roar of eighty thousand blurred with the thunder of hooves. Rice forced herself forward. Sirius loomed just ahead.

She could see daylight. She could taste it.

“Six hundred to go!” Akasaka’s voice rang, breathless. “Rice Shower is closing in on Sirius Symboli—but the pack refuses to die! Look at that cluster behind her!”

Everything was lining up. Sensei’s words. Her rhythm. The space ahead unfolding like a green carpet rolled just for her.

No misstep, no second-guessing.

This was how it was supposed to feel.

And then—

The world fractured.

The turf went dark beneath her feet. The sky inverted into a screaming black canvas streaked with threads of light.

Sirius’s figure warped, trailing afterimages like shards of glass in a broken mirror. The crowd’s roar stretched into a single, metallic hum, as if the whole stadium had been shoved underwater.

Rice blinked, but the vision clung to her eyes. Her own hands flickered at the edge, jerking in stuttered frames. Her breath caught wrong in her chest.

Time hadn’t stopped. But it might as well have.

The final 600 hung open before her.

The racecourse dissolved into a cathedral of silence. The roar of the crowd receded to a ghostly echo, stretched thin like voices heard through stone walls.

And from the corner of that inverted world…

A shape unfurled.

The crimson specter materialized from the phantom mists of mid-pack like some unholy resurrection, her white veil streaming behind her.

Still in Love’s countenance had transformed into something sinister. Her lips curved in a rictus of unholy delight, pulled taut across teeth that gleamed with predatory sharpness. Those once-serene eyes now burned with the fervor of fresh-spilt blood.

Her signature racewear seemed to pulse with malevolent life. The very fabric appeared to writhe about her form as she drew alongside Rice. And then, seeping through the spaces between those beats like poison through cracked stone…

…came the voice.

Come play with me, little one. Let us dance as in the storybooks you so cherish. The ones where little girls wander into dark forests and never return unchanged.

The PA system’s clarion call distorted into hollow echoes. Only her heartbeat remained clear.

The voice coiled through Rice’s consciousness like smoke through a crypt.

Do you not recall the fairy tales that once brought you such comfort? The stories of maidens who found their true nature in darkness? How they discovered that the monsters were not their enemies, but their truest selves?

Rice’s limbs grew leaden. The specter beside her seemed to grow larger, more terrible, her veil now resembling nothing so much as a burial shroud. Those bloodshot eyes held Rice’s gaze with hypnotic malice, promising pleasures that would damn the soul.

“No…”

Rice whispered through gritted teeth, her voice barely audible above the phantom wind that had begun to howl through her mind.

“You’re not real. This isn’t real.”

But the apparition only laughed; a sound like crystal goblets shattering in a cathedral’s silence.

Oh, but I am more real than your precious dreams, o sweet child. More real than all your pretty picture books with their lies about happy endings.

Rice fought to break free. To reclaim her stride, her breath, her very soul from the crimson wraith that sought to claim them. Yet with each passing moment, she felt herself sinking deeper.

Can you feel it, little one? The walls closing in? Not of other runners, no—these are walls of hunger, of inevitable consumption.

“Get away,” she gasped, her strength ebbing like water through a sieve. “Stay… Stay away from me…”

Come to us, o sweet child. Let us show you what lies beyond the finish line.

ⱠɆ₮ Ʉ₴ ₩Ɽł₮Ɇ ɎØɄ ₳ ₴₮ØⱤɎ ₩ØⱤ₮Ⱨ ₮ɆⱠⱠł₦₲.

“STAY AWAY FROM ME!!!”

The scream erupted with such force that it shattered the realm like glass. Reality crashed back upon her with brutal finality.

But the world that returned was not the one she had left.

“…AND STILL IN LOVE TAKES FIRST PLACE!”

Akasaka’s voice cracked into the microphone, nearly drowned out by the stadium’s eruption. “TEAM DUBHE SECURES THEIR VERY FIRST POLE!”

The scoreboard locked into place, its numbers indifferent to heartbreak.

Dubhe: +10. Pollux: +8. Astrum: —

Zero.

Rice had finished ninth.

Just one rung too low to scrape even a single point.

“And what a shocker it is we’re seeing here, folks!” Jinnai’s voice thundered over the PA. “Team Astrum! The leaders of this Cup up until now! Shut out completely in the long race! Not a single point on the board. Who could’ve seen that coming?!”

The grandstand buzzed with disbelieving chatter. Hands clapped, but only for the victors. Around Astrum’s section, silence spread like frost. Even Gold Ship’s mouth hung open, words lost. Hayahide’s knuckles pressed against her program booklet. Maruzensky’s smile had drained away, leaving only a brittle stillness as her eyes stayed locked on the turf.

Up in the grandstand, Kuroi leaned back, the faintest curl pulling at his lips; less joy than inevitability fulfilled.

And in the Dubhe box, Someya inclined his head ever so slightly, his expression serene, almost reverent. To him, it was not just a victory—it was proof.

On the turf, Rice staggered just past the finish line and stopped dead. Her chest heaved in ragged bursts, like a drowning girl trying to break surface again and again. Her eyes darted wildly, pupils blown, as though that inverted cathedral still clung to her eyes. Runners streamed past, yet she remained stranded in some private wreckage.

Still in Love jogged down from the cool-down stretch, her face startlingly soft in contrast to the eerie phantom Rice had just seen. She acknowledged the crowd with a polite nod, then turned toward Rice. For the briefest moment, her expression cracked, almost mourning. As if she alone had glimpsed what Rice had stumbled through.

Confetti machines hissed, white and silver drifting down like snow. Against it, Still’s hand lifted slowly, palm open.

“…Are you okay?”

Her voice was careful, low enough to vanish in the din.

Rice flinched back.

“Leave me alone!”

Her hand snapped up, swatting Still’s gesture aside. She spun and bolted for the tunnels, shoulders hunched, the confetti chasing her like ash.

The cameras didn’t follow. But Okano saw. From his place at the rail, his gaze clung to the empty space where Rice had been. His jaw set, unreadable.

Then he noticed Gold Ship staring at him. Her eyes held none of her usual wild glint, only a blunt, simmering hate. Hate that he’d been right about Rice, about fragility. About reality.

He didn’t flinch. Just pushed off the railing, sliding into the aisle.

“Excuse me,” he muttered, cutting through spectators who jolted at his tone. “Comin’ through. Move!”

The crowd parted, grumbling. He kept walking, shoulders stiff, his figure swallowed by the shadowed concourse.

[14:09 JST] — TOKYO RACECOURSE LOCKER ROOM, KATSUAKI ITONAGA — ARRICAM ST / 35mm

24fps · ƒ/2.0 aperture · Lens 50mm medium · Tripod static; tungsten fluorescents, muted neutral grade

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I stood at the door to her room, knuckles still humming from it. Didn’t matter that I had no script for this. Poor kid had just cracked apart out there, and whatever mess waited inside, I figured it was better than her being alone.

“Rice Shower?” My voice felt like it was scraping against the frame. “Rice? You in there?”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Nothing.

I tried the knob. Unlocked.

Inside, the room smelled like floor wax and the faint ghost of instant coffee. Every chair sat neat around the table, untouched and empty. Not even a scuff in the dust where her shoes might’ve dragged.

“Shit…”

Maruzen came up quick behind me, heels biting the linoleum. Her usual glamour was gone.

“Hey, what’s happening? Where is she?”

“She’s not here.” My eyes combed corners like I expected to find her balled up in a goddamn closet with her tail peeking out.

Maruzen’s frown deepened, the kind that didn’t etch wrinkles but still left dents in your gut.

“No… Did she run away?”

I let my arms hang heavy, palms smacking my sides.

Maruzen already had her smartphone out—one of those glass bricks I hated—her thumb jackhammering the screen.

“Let me see if I can call her up. Give me a sec.”

The thing chirped and buzzed like a toy from hell. The sound of ringing filled the tiles before the line cut dead.

“No answer. Straight to voicemail.” Maruzen’s voice had that brittle edge, like glass about to chip. “That’s not good.”

“Goddamn it!” My shoe caught the leg of the table, sent it rattling against the floor. I dragged in a long breath through my teeth and swept the room again, half-expecting the kid to tumble out of a filing cabinet with that sorry look glued to her face.

“…What the hell do we do now?”

Maruzen lowered the phone.

“Hey…” Her voice had that softened lilt. “Let’s just take a deep breath, all right? Getting louder won’t Houdini her out of the walls.”

She touched my sleeve lightly, then let go before I could shrug it off. “We can head back to the academy. She might’ve gone home to her dorm… It’s where I would run, if it were me.”

I grunted. Didn’t believe it, but I didn’t exactly have any better planned.

“All right… Yeah. Let’s check there first.”

We stepped out into the corridor. The crowd noise from the track still leaked in from somewhere far off, muffled and distant.

Chapter Text

[16:37 JST] — TRACEN ACADEMY, MIHO DORMITORIES FRONT ENTRANCE — ARRIFLEX 435 ES / SUPER-35

24fps · ƒ/2.0 aperture · Lens 32mm wide · Handheld shoulder rig; sodium-vapor spill, high-contrast grade

“What do you mean we can’t get in?”

We barely made it to the front doors before we hit a wall. I’d driven the Fairlady harder than I’ve had in a long while, so much so that the brake rotors were glowing.

Didn’t matter, though—the doorway was already occupied. Taiki Shuttle had it blocked, one hand braced against the frame, the other wagging in a friendly little wave. She looked more like someone welcoming us to a barbecue than cutting us off.

“Well now, I hate to be the cactus blockin’ your trail,” she said, voice warm and loping. Then her grin tilted. “But you know how it is, folks. Trainers don’t cross this line unless the Umaboss herself waves you in.”

“Come on,” Maruzen said, trying for smooth but coming out thin. “Can’t you give him a little exception? One of his trainees just gave him the slip. And we haven’t been able to find her since.”

Taiki’s smile faltered, ears twitching. “Slip, you say? Who’s the runaway?”

“Rice Shower,” I said. “Bolted after the Constellation Cup leg. Can’t even reach her phone.”

The change in her was instant. Her back went stiff, tail giving a hard swish that smacked the jamb. The drawl dropped clean out of her voice.

“Rice?! For real?!” She scrubbed a hand over her face, ears pinning flat as she shook her head. “Noooo… That can’t be good. I saw her not too long ago, lugging a bag that was bigger’n she is. Didn’t look like no overnight luggage, neither.”

A cold pinprick started in my gut. “Any chance you know where she’d go?”

She shrugged. “Can’t say I do. Girl like her could be anywhere with that load… But what in blazes made her light out all of a sudden? Being out on your own like that… It might get real lonely.” Her ears sagged. “What happened to her?”

“It’s… a long story.” I rubbed the back of my neck, felt sweat tacky there.

Her mouth tightened, shoulders hitching. For a second, she looked ready to break right there in the doorway, then forced it all down, jaw set hard.

“Sorry, mister… Truth is, I don’t rightly know where she’s headed.”

I exhaled hard through my nose, already turning back—until…

“But,” she added, voice low now, “I do know someone who might. Gal’s tied to Rice tighter than a cinch knot. If anybody knows her whereabouts, it’ll be her.”

My head came up.

“…Who is it?”

We came out onto the deck of the academy’s indoor pool. Humid as a boiler room, bright lights glaring off the surface so hard it stung the eyes. Dozens of girls were already in motion, slicing clean through lanes, clambering up ladders, and hammering out push-ups at the edge with dripping tails. The whole place was a machine in full crank.

Taiki pointed towards the far end. “There she is.”

Me and Maruzen both looked.

Balanced on the high platform, hands loose at her sides, an Umamusume stood. Not an ounce of hesitation in her frame. Her gaze stayed locked ahead like the water twenty feet below wasn’t water at all. She didn’t fidget. Hell, she didn’t even look alive until the whistle blew.

Then just like that—she folded into motion.

One stride, arms tucked, and she vanished into the air, cutting clean through the lights before spearing the pool below without so much as a splash.

Taiki’s smile came back easy. “That’s Mihono Bourbon. If anyone knows where Rice ran off to… it’s gotta be her.”

By the time Bourbon hauled herself out of the pool, water was still running off her like someone had tipped a bucket straight over her head. Her face was set in a mask harder than concrete. If there was breath behind it, I sure as hell couldn’t tell.

“…Is there something you need?” Her voice was flat, like someone reading off an instruction manual.

Taiki nodded towards me. “This here’s Trainer Okano. He’s here to ask you a few questions.”

Jesus. The way she said it, I half-expected a police badge to materialize in my hand.

I cleared my throat. “Look, I’m sorry to bother you. But I’ll make this quick, all right?” My tone came out rougher than I meant. “You familiar with a girl called Rice Shower?”

Something flickered behind her eyes. Not much, just a shift. She gave a small nod.

“Yes,” Bourbon said. “I know her.”

Maruzen edged in. Her voice dipped into something almost maternal. “She disappeared after her race today—we think she’s gone off by herself. Taiki said you and her were close. Maybe you can tell us where she might’ve gone?”

That hit. Bourbon blinked, lashes still dripping like a shutter snapping over a lens.

“…Why did she run away?”

“She cracked on the track,” I said. “Ninth place. Didn’t even make the board.”

Bourbon’s jaw ticked like a relay switch. Her hands curled tight enough that her nails bit into her palms.

“I told her something like that would happen,” she said. The words released like lines read off a terminal. “But she said she could handle it.”

Maruzen’s brows knit. “What do you mean? You warned her?”

She opened her mouth, but the words never came.

“Bourbon.”

The name cut through the pool hall like a cleaver. We turned.

A man strode in from the locker entrance; slick goatee, fedora shadowing half his face, and blacked-out shades swallowing the rest. You could’ve told me he collected debts for some mainland family and I would’ve believed you.

“What’s going on here?” His voice was calm, but carried that weighty timbre that said he never needed to repeat himself.

Bourbon straightened on instinct.

“Master,” she said, voice low and steady. “Requesting permission to conclude today’s regimen.”

The guy, who I’d assumed was her trainer, didn’t rush to answer. He stood there, the fedora shadow cutting his features so the only thing visible was the line of his mouth.

“That’s not like you,” he said. “Asking me to end early.”

Bourbon didn’t flinch. Her words came out steady.

“I know.”

The silence stretched, thick as the humid air in the hall. When he finally moved, it was only a small nod.

“…All right,” he said. “You’re done. Go change.”

“Understood. Thank you, Master.” She dipped her head in a clean bow, the motion precise as everything else about her.

He then turned, giving me the briefest glance as he passed. Then he carried on towards the exit, steps unhurried.

I found myself watching him longer than I meant to, until the door shut soft behind him and the sound of the waves and splashing filled back in.

“So you’re saying she knew she’d race against Still in Love?”

We were by the Three Goddesses fountain now. Bourbon had changed into her uniform, crisp enough to cut, not a single wrinkle left from the pool. Maruzensky sat on the bench, legs crossed.

Bourbon sat beside her, posture ramrod straight. “She told me the night before the first leg. Said it was only a matter of time. That she could feel it.”

I narrowed my brows. “Feel it? What, she got like a gut reaction or something?”

Bourbon gave the barest nod. “Rice has always trusted her instincts. She said that it was inevitable she’d face Still in Love.”

Maruzen’s voice softened. “And that scared her?”

“No.” Bourbon’s tone didn’t waver, but her fingers flexed against her skirt. “It wasn’t fear. It was unease. She said Still unsettled her ever since the practice scrimmage. The way she moved. The way she looked at her afterward. Rice said it felt like standing in shadow, even when the sun was out.”

That hit something raw in my gut.

“And she just told you all this?” I asked.

“Yes.” Bourbon’s eyes finally shifted to me. “She said she wanted to confront it herself. To prove she could look into that shadow and not break.”

Maruzen’s shoulders sank, a weary exhale slipping past her lips. “So she walked into that race knowing it might crack her…”

“She believed she had to, as stubborn as that may sound.” Bourbon’s voice had the firmness of an oath.

The water splashed lazily by the fountain.

“…And when she did break?” I said, voice rough. “When that… shadow ate her whole?”

Bourbon’s jaw twitched. “She didn’t tell me what she’d do if she lost. Only that she couldn’t live with herself unless she tried.”

That sat like lead in my chest. Maruzen didn’t speak either. The silence went on long enough that the fountain’s trickle became a steady roar in my ears.

Maruzen leaned in, her voice softer. “Do you know where she’d go now? If she’s carrying that weight alone?”

Bourbon’s eyes lowered for the first time, lashes shadowing her expression. For a while, she looked more like a girl than a machine.

“There is one place. Whenever she was feeling down, or if she wanted to be alone, she’d go there to reset. It’s quiet and out of the way. I never followed, but… I did find her there once.”

My shoulders went rigid. “Where?”

She reached into her pocket and came out with a square of paper, folded to hell and back.

I took it and unfolded it slowly. Some kind of map. Lines drawn in red marker, smudged from damp fingers. North out of Tracen, up past the arterial, hooked left into Saitama. No street names. Just a few landmarks sketched in. Highways, mountain lines, and a dot labled “Here ♡”.

“An old stable,” Bourbon said. “It’s been abandoned for years now.”

The paper felt heavy between my fingers. Maruzen leaned in. “Would she go there often?”

Bourbon’s jaw shifted once, barely. “Only when she needed to breathe. Or when she thought no one else could see her.”

That put a nail through me. I folded the map again, slower this time, slipped it into my jacket pocket like contraband.

“All right,” I said. My voice came out low. “Then that’s where we’ll go.”

The fountain kept bubbling. Maruzen rose with a little sway, brushing her skirt flat with the edge of her hand. She glanced at Bourbon, smile softening.

“Rice is lucky to have you, you know. A friend who listens that close… Not everyone gets that.”

For the first time, Bourbon’s shoulders shifted like the words had actually landed. She gave the smallest nod before schooling her frame straight again.

“Thanks for helping us out,” I said to her, meeting her stare for a second. “You can go now.”

She gave no reply, just that precise bow, movement as clean as a stopwatch tick. Then she turned on her heel and disappeared towards the dorms. Not a sound out of her but the faint squeak of damp shoes on the paving stones.

I let her go and shifted my eyes to Maruzen. “Hey… Don’t worry about Rice. I can take it from here. All right? You should head back home.”

“If you say so.” She smoothed a strand of hair around her ear, then let out a quick laugh that didn’t quite hit the mark. “Honestly… I was starting to get a bit carsick on the drive here, anyway.”

I blinked. “You?”

“Yeah?” She chuckled, cheeks colored faintly. “You drive like a maniac. And I don’t do too well riding shotgun. But don’t worry, I’ll live.”

That cracked a corner of my mouth. “Right. Well, maybe one day I’ll ride shotgun in your car, then. Just… not in shitty circumstances like this, you know?”

Her smile came easier this time, but she held it on me like she wanted me to notice.

“Yeah… I’d like that.”

I felt something catch in my throat, so I settled for a nod and a crooked smile that probably read more awkward than I meant it to.

“See you tomorrow.” She pivoted, shoulders loose again like she’d finally set down a load she’d been holding since the track. I watched her vanish under the archway, swallowed by light and chatter.

The courtyard emptied out, just me, the fountain, and that folded scrap of paper burning a hole in my pocket. I pulled it free, stared at those smeared red lines under the lamplight. North out of Tracen. Hook left into Saitama. An abandoned stable. The thought of her dragging baggage bigger than she was up there alone—yeah, that twisted me up worse than the drive had twisted Maruzen’s stomach.

All right, Rice. Wherever the hell you ran off to—let’s hope you didn’t do anything stupid.

Took me an hour and a half, give or take. And more than a few confused looks from gas station clerks who probably thought I was casing their registers. But to tell you the truth, I just didn’t wanna get there too fast. Funny how you can be chasing a runaway and still keep your foot light on the pedal.

By the time the Fairlady rattled onto the backroads, it felt like I’d sweated the city clean out of me. Tokyo might as well have been a fever dream. Out here, it was nothing but busted guardrails and the sound of the cassette chewing itself to death.

And yeah, I had time to think. Too much time, even. Every mile marker was a reminder of the choices that stacked up and put me behind this wheel. Could’ve said no to Yamabe when he first called. Could’ve stayed in that prefab office—actually, never mind, screw that. Hell, I could’ve walked away all those years ago, told the whole machine to suck it. But no. I kept stepping forward, like an idiot who doesn’t know when the cliff edge’s coming.

And now here I was, chasing down a kid barely big enough to carry her own shadow, like somehow I was the guy who had answers.

The Fairlady finally crunched to a stop on gravel that hadn’t seen regular use since before Y2K. Headlights carved long shadows over tangled brush and fence posts leaning like drunks at closing time. The engine ticked as it cooled, each pop of metal carrying across the silence.

Good ol’ Moon was out in full force tonight, way too clean for a place this forgotten. The last notes of “Kayleigh” warbled out of the cassette, muffled and a touch warped. Then the player fell into silence.

I killed the lights, stepped out, and there it was.

I mean, shit. The stable looked every bit as washed-up as I felt on a bad morning. The roof sagged, the boards weathered into a depressing shade. Even a couple windows spiderwebbed with cracks. The weeds had claimed half the siding, strangling the gutters like crazy.

Still, it stood. Defiant in its own ruined way. Hell, compared to me, it was practically thriving. At least it wasn’t filled with deteriorating kidneys.

I reached across the Fairlady’s passenger seat and grabbed the little peace offering I’d brought along—paper bag crinkling, insides clinking as I lifted it free. Nothing fancy, but maybe enough to say “I didn’t come empty-handed.”

Door thunked shut behind me. Sound carried weird out here, echoing across nothing like I’d just announced myself to every raccoon, ghost, or runaway kid within a mile.

I squared my shoulders, bag in hand, and started over to the stable. Past the back entryway, the ground opened up into a rough oval track of sorts, maybe sixty paces wide, carved out long ago for drills. It’s no Hanshin, but if you squinted, you could still see the lines where hooves had chewed it down to clay. Kids probably ran themselves ragged here once, chasing a future that never showed up.

And at the far end, against the night, was a tent pitched on uneven ground, the nylon sides sagging. Just beside it, a campfire, low and mean, throwing out a tired orange glow.

Bingo.

Flames licked at what looked like scraps of old lumber. Smoke rose slow, got lost quick in the dark.

I kept walking, crunching over gravel that hadn’t been touched in years. The sound was loud enough to announce me whether I wanted to or not. The fire spat a few sparks, shadows bending across the tent wall.

Then—zip. The flap pulled open.

And there she was.

Rice stepped out, small frame silhouetted against the fire. One hand clutched the zipper, the other hung limp at her side. She wasn’t in uniform anymore, just sweatpants and a loose hoodie, sleeves swallowing her hands. The hood shadowed most of her face, but even from a dozen steps out I could see how tired her eyes looked—one of them, at least.

Her lips parted, but nothing came. She just stared, shoulders pinched, the flicker of the fire painting her small frame in trembling light.

“You picked a hell of a place to vanish to.” I took another step closer.

Her hood shifted just a fraction, eye catching the fire’s edge.

“…How did you know I’d be here?”

“Got help from a friend of yours,” I said. “You’re not as invisible as you think.”

She frowned, eyes stuck on the dirt, as if the ground was the only thing that wouldn’t judge her. Then, without another word, she folded down onto a half-rotted log by the fire.

I took my time coming over. Sat down at the other end of the log, close enough the heat touched me, far enough she wouldn’t feel crowded. The smoke was sharp, old wood doesn’t exactly burn clean.

The paper bag crackled in my hands as I fished out the olive branch.

A six-pack of Sapporo.

I set it down in the middle of the log.

Rice stared at it like I’d just plunked a pistol on the table in an interrogation room, eyes wide and unblinking.

I sighed, picked the pack back up, slid it to my side.

“Sorry… Old habits.”

Her shoulders eased a bit, probably wasn’t sure if she should laugh or run. I popped one anyway, hiss of the tab sharp in the night, and took a long swallow. Too cold, too bitter, exactly what I needed.

I let the can hang between my knees and glanced her way. “Y’know, most folks would kill for a fire this steady. Wood’s all wrong, too green, too damp. But somehow you got it going. Either that means you’re resourceful, or just stubborn enough to make the impossible work.”

She stayed locked on the flames, arms curled around her knees, chin buried. Silence as thick as the smoke.

I leaned back on the log, rubbed at my jaw. “My old man taught me how to build a fire. Okinawa, back in the seventies. Place was all rain and salt air, nothing ever dried right. We’d be camping in the mangroves, him showing me how to strip bark, split kindling fine enough to catch. Said if you can make a fire in weather that wants to drown it, you can basically make it anywhere.”

The crackle of the fire was the only reply. Her gaze didn’t shift, but her shoulders rose and fell a little sharper, like she’d caught the edge of the memory.

I took another swallow, let the bitterness sit heavy on my tongue. “Haven’t thought about that in years. Funny the things that stick with you.”

Still nothing. Just the pop of resin in the flames and the faint squeak of her sneakers in the dirt. I sat there nursing that Sapporo, waiting for her to say something. Anything.

Nope. Dead air.

So I tried the direct route.

“Look, kid. What happened out there… it was rough. I get it. But you can’t just—”

“It’s over.”

Her voice came out flat, like she’d already made peace with drowning and was just waiting for the water to finish the job.

I frowned. “What’s over?”

“Astrum.” She pulled her knees up, arms wrapped tight around them. The firelight caught the edge of her face, showed me exactly how hollow her eyes had gone. “We needed that win. I was supposed to get that win. And I… I couldn’t even—”

Her voice cracked. She buried her face against her knees.

“It’s my fault,” she said, muffled now. “When they disband the team, it’ll be because of me. Because I wasn’t strong enough. Because I messed up and I shouldn’t have messed up and now Gold Ship has to carry all of us on her back in the final race and we’re all going to—”

“Rice—”

“They’re going to lose everything because of me.” Her shoulders started shaking. “Bakushin O and Tachyon and Hayahide and everyone, they’re all going to get split up and reassigned and it’s my fault, it’s all my fault—”

“Hey, c’mon. That’s not—”

“I ruined it!” The words tore out of her. “I had one job and I ruined it and now the team’s as good as gone and I— I can’t—”

She dissolved into her knees, shoulders hunched so tight I thought her spine might snap.

I sat there, beer warming in my hand, and realized I had absolutely no idea what the hell to say. This wasn’t a drill I could bark corrections at. Wasn’t a form issue I could fix with reps. This was a kid who’d just watched herself fall apart in front of eighty thousand people and decided she’d torched everything worth saving on the way down.

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Took another pull from the Sapporo like maybe the answer was hiding at the bottom of the can.

It wasn’t.

The fire kept crackling. Rice kept shaking. And I kept sitting there like a mannequin in a Judas Priest tee, completely useless.

Then my eyes drifted up.

The moon hung there, fat and luminous, washing the whole valley in cold milk-white. Just the clouds and that big dumb rock doing what it always did; showing up night after night whether anyone asked it to or not.

Something clicked.

I set the beer down. Leaned back on the log, let my weight settle.

“You ever hear the one about the knight from a faraway land?”

Rice’s head lifted just enough that I could see one eye peeking over her knees.

“What?”

“The knight,” I said again, slower. “From a faraway land. It’s an old story. Figured you might’ve heard it, given your whole… fairy tale thing.”

She blinked. Her grip on her knees loosened a fraction. “I… No. I don’t think so.”

“Huh.” I scratched the stubble on my jaw, like I was trying to dredge up the details. “Well, anyway, it goes something like this…”

I shifted on the log, elbows propped on my knees, staring into the fire like the words were written in the coals.

“Once upon a time—yeah, I know, real original opening—there was this… knight. Came from nowhere, really. Little village tucked so far off the map that most folks forget it existed. But she was strong. Beautiful. Had this… fire in her. This hunger. Wanted to prove she could be something more than just another name in the dirt.”

Rice’s breathing had evened out. Still quiet, but listening now.

“So she finds herself a master. Some snarky hotshot who hangs around at taverns too much, but he knew his way around a sword. Or, well… whatever knights used back then. Axes? Hammers? Lances, maybe. Let’s say lances.”

I caught the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Not a smile, but close enough to count.

“Anyway,” I continued, “this knight, she starts training. And I mean really training. Dawn till dusk, every damn day. This master’s got her running drills in the mud, sparring against dummies twice her size, doing footwork until her legs give out. And she does it all with a smile. Never complains. Not once. Because she’s got this dream, right? She’s gonna slay dragons. Save villages. Be the kinda hero that people sing songs about.”

The fire popped. I let the silence sit for a sec, then kept going.

“And she does. She gets damn good at it. Starts taking down monsters that’ve been terrorizing the countryside for years. Orcs, bandits, warlords, those weird squid guys that show up in those old Toho films—you name it. And every time, she comes back with her armor dented to hell, but she’s standing. Always standing. Then the villagers, they start calling her a legend. A miracle. The master… Well, he doesn’t say much, but you can tell he’s proud. Probably doesn’t know how to show it, but it’s there.”

I paused, took a breath. The next part sat heavier in my chest.

“Then one day, word comes down about the mainland castle. Big job. The kind of fight that separates the real heroes from the ones playing dress-up. There’s this… thing, likes to fly up there every year. Some kind of mighty dragon that’s been shitting on everything around it. No one’s been able to take it down. But the knight? She’s ready. She’s been ready her whole life.”

Rice’s eyes were locked on me now, wide and unblinking.

“But the thing was… She’d been coming down with something. Wasn’t herself. Her master could see it. Hell, she could see it. Told him maybe they should send someone else. Let her sit this one out, heal up, come back stronger.”

My jaw worked for a second before I could get the next part out.

“But the ruler of the land… He didn’t want to hear it. Said she was the only one who could do it. That the kingdom needed her. And the master…”

I stopped. The words sat in my throat like broken glass.

Rice was staring at me now, eyes wide and wet in the firelight.

“The choice was his,” I said, voice dropping to gravel. “At the end of the day, the master could’ve said no. Could’ve pulled her out, taken the heat, told the whole kingdom to eat shit. But he didn’t. He let her go into that battle.”

The fire crackled. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called out, low and mournful.

“So she rides out. She gets to the castle. The fight starts. And at first, it’s going exactly how it’s supposed to. She’s landing strikes, dodging fireballs, reading the dragon’s movements like she’s got a third eye. The crowd’s watching from the walls, cheering her on. The master’s there too. A bit antsy, but he’s not too worried. Because he thinks she’s got this.”

I stopped. The fire hissed low.

“Then something goes wrong.”

Rice’s breath hitched.

“No one knows what, exactly. Maybe the dragon was faster than anyone thought. Maybe the ground gave out under her. Maybe she just… pushed too hard, too fast, and her body couldn’t keep up. But she goes down. Right there in the middle of the courtyard, in front of everyone… And she doesn’t get back up.”

The words hung there, ugly and final.

“The master sees it happen with his own eyes. He doesn’t believe it at first. He can’t. In his eyes, knights like her don’t just… fall. They’re supposed to win. That’s the whole point of the story, right? The hero slays the dragon, saves the kingdom, rides off into the sunset… That’s how it’s supposed to go, right?”

I exhaled hard, felt the smoke sting my eyes.

“But she didn’t. She fell. And the master… he blames himself. Maybe if he’d just said no that day. Maybe if he’d just called it all off. Maybe if he’d just—”

I stopped. Swallowed.

“Anyway… That’s where the story ends. Knight falls at Nakayama Castle. Her master spends the rest of his days wondering if it was his fault. Real uplifting stuff, huh?”

Rice stared at me, eyes glassy in the firelight. Her voice came out small.

“That’s… really sad.”

“Yeah.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “Probably not the best campfire story. Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to bring the mood down even further.”

She shook her head slowly. “No… it’s okay. It was still a good story. I liked it. She… She must have saved a lot of people, didn’t she? She left something behind.”

Something cracked in my chest. I looked at her, and saw a kid trying so damn hard to find meaning in tragedy that it hurt to watch.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “I guess she did…”

I looked up at the moon for a long moment. Then back at her.

“But you know what, though?” I said. “Maybe that’s not really the end.”

Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Stories are only over when we say they are,” I continued, voice steadier now. “That knight—she’s gone. That part’s done… And there’s no changing it. But the master? He’s still out there somewhere. Still breathing. Still got his hands and his brain and all the scars that came with learning how to do this job.”

I leaned forward again, meeting her eyes across the fire.

“And maybe the point isn’t that he failed once. Maybe the point is that he’s got a chance to do it different this time. To take everything that went wrong and… turn it into something that goes right. Not for her—she’s past needing that… But for the next knight who walks into his life carrying too much shit behind her back and not enough armor.”

Rice’s lips parted, her breath catching.

“You cracked out there today,” I said, voice low but firm. “No shame in that. That shadow you talked about with Bourbon—that’s real as all hell. I’m not gonna sit here and tell you it wasn’t. But here’s the thing, kid. The master in that story spent years thinking the only thing he was good for was carrying guilt. He figured… that all that was left was the slow fade into the shitter… But then this wild, unpredictable pain-in-the-ass knight showed up years later and reminded him that maybe… just maybe… there’s still a fight worth fighting.”

I reached into my jacket and pulled out the crumpled map Bourbon had given me, held it up in the firelight.

“You came out here to disappear,” I said. “To let that shadow swallow you whole because it felt easier than getting back up… And I get it. I’ve been there. Shit, I lived there for years.”

I folded the map back up and tucked it away.

“But I’m telling you right now, Rice. That story doesn’t end with you gone. It doesn’t end with you wasting away until you finally kick the bucket. It ends with you looking that shadow dead in the eyes and saying, ‘Screw you, buddy. You can go kiss my ass.’”

Her lips twitched, a wet little hiccup of a laugh breaking through the snot and tears. She dragged a sleeve across her face.

“And if you can’t say it yet?” I added, voice softer now. “Then I’ll say it for you… Every single day… Until you believe it yourself.”

Her shoulders trembled, caught somewhere between collapse and release. For a heartbeat, I thought she’d fold back into herself, vanish behind that hood.

But no.

Instead, she launched into me.

Hit me with a hug so sudden I almost spilled the Sapporo still dangling from my hand. Thin arms clamped around my ribs like a vice, face pressed into my chest.

She shook, hard. And I just sat there, stiff as a fencepost for a second, before I let the free arm curl around her back.

The fire snapped, throwing sparks into the dark. I kept my arm around her, felt her tremors fade bit by bit, like a storm running out of thunder. My other hand set the beer can down in the dirt, still half-full.

She just clung, bawling into me while the campfire burned itself down to embers and the old stable loomed over us with its sagging roof.

And me? I just held on. Let her cry herself empty.

Because for the first time in a long stretch of years, I didn’t feel like I’d made the wrong choice. I didn’t feel like the universe was waiting to rub my nose in another mistake.

Shit, maybe for once I’d actually hit the mark.

Chapter Text

[22:21 JST] — TRACEN ACADEMY, MIHO DORMS OUTER DRIVEWAY — ARRIFLEX 435 ES / SUPER-35

24fps · ƒ/1.4 aperture · Lens 50mm normal · Handheld interior; sodium-vapor spill, cassette audio diegetic

Another hour and a half on backroads, and the Fairlady finally rolled under the floodlights of the Miho dorms. Gravel popped under the tires, headlights catching the clean white siding. Place looked too bright, too orderly, after where we’d just come from.

On the deck, a couple girls were breaking curfew in pajamas and trading whispers. They glanced our way when the Z pulled in, probably wondering why the hell a trainer was ferrying their teammate back in the middle of the night. Let ‘em wonder.

Cassette deck was crooning “When Love Breaks Down.” Prefab Sprout, warbly but still hitting right. I caught Rice’s head tilt. It was subtle, but she was keeping rhythm with the chorus. Kid’s got taste.

I yanked the handbrake, let the engine idle. Then I turned to her.

“…You feelin’ better now?”

She blinked at me, that wary rabbit-look softened into something steadier.

“I… Yes. Much better.”

I searched her expression a second longer, then gave a slow nod.

“Good.” I leaned back against the seat, felt the upholstery bite through my jacket. “Now I need to hear it straight. Can I count on you to show up at Golshi’s race?”

Her eyes firmed up. She gave a quick nod. “I’ll cheer for her as loud as I can. I promise.”

“Not just cheer.” My voice came out rough. “You gotta show your face. Let the rest of Astrum see you’re still in it. You don’t gotta win today, or tomorrow. But you gotta stand there with ‘em. You leave again, and that’s when we really lose. All right?”

For a second, I thought she’d fold back into herself. But instead she squared her shoulders, small frame taut in the glow of the dorm lights.

“I understand.” She managed a small, shaky smile. “I’ll be there. With everyone.”

That put something in my chest I hadn’t felt in years, something that almost resembled relief. I let out a breath and reached across to pop the passenger-side latch.

The door creaked open. A gust of night air slipped in, carrying the smell of clipped hedges. Rice gathered her little duffel that looked heavier than it had any business being and slid out, sneakers crunching soft on the gravel.

She lingered there, one hand on the strap, the other fiddling at her sleeve. For a second, it looked like she might say something more. Instead she gave me a quick, awkward bow, hoodie falling forward to hide her face.

“Goodnight, Sensei.”

Then she turned and headed up the walkway. Shoulders squared, steps small but certain. I watched her until the dorm doors swallowed her whole.

The Fairlady idled for a moment longer, cassette deck clicking over into silence. I sat there with the empty beer taste still in my mouth and the ghost of her hug still hanging on my shirt. Gave me some time to think.

Yeah. Maybe she wasn’t fixed. Maybe she wasn’t even halfway. But she’d walked back through those doors instead of disappearing into the dark. Instead of staying in the woods and potentially having to fend off a bear attack. And to me, that counted for something.

My phone buzzed against the console. Rattled loud enough to compete with the engine’s idle.

I dug it out, flipped it open. Yamabe. Of course. Hell, half my missed-calls list was just his name stacking up like parking tickets.

I let the call ring a little longer, thumb hovering, then clicked over to messages. My outbox sat there like a graveyard with half a dozen texts sent to Gold Ship:

[19:32]
Where are you? Call me when you get this.

[20:01]
Hey, come on. Don’t be a baby.

Not a single reply. Just me shouting into an empty hallway.

The phone buzzed again, Yamabe’s name still plastered across the sickly screen. I snapped it shut and tossed it onto the passenger seat. Straight to voicemail. He could yell into the void for once.

I eased the Fairlady into gear, tires crunching over gravel, floodlights shrinking in the rearview until all that was left was the road and the dark pressing in from both sides.

The brakes whistled as the Z nosed against the curb outside the pachinko joint, lot buzzing with neon glow and the low thrum of machines still chewing yen at one in the morning. I yanked the handbrake, killed the engine.

Kabukicho never did know what “late” meant. Place still hummed loud enough to deafen, drunk salarymen weaving between hostess barks and thumping bass lines from basement clubs. Neon on every surface was bright enough to hide the rot if you didn’t look too close.

I shoved the door open, stretched my back, ready to haul my ass back to the dump I called home. That’s when the phone started buzzing again. Still Yamabe.

I stared at the glow, jaw tightening. He’d been hammering my line all night. I thumbed the hinge, contemplating just flipping it open, answering it, and telling him to go fu—

“Katsuaki Itonaga…”

That wasn’t his voice.

I froze, head turning.

Three of them. Standing just outside the glow of the pachinko sign, shadows carving their faces into angles. One in a black suit, hands loose at his sides, hair slicked back. The other two had that street-corner thug look; scuffed jackets, sneakers that’d seen too many alleys. One of them was twirling a baseball bat against his shoulder like he was warming up for extra innings.

Not random drunks, though. These guys were organized.

“So we finally come face to face,” the slick one said. “The man himself. The legend in the flesh.”

I let the Fairlady’s door click shut behind me, hands empty, stance loose.

“Have we met?” I asked.

“No, we haven’t. Don’t worry,” he said, smile showing too many teeth. “You ain’t gone senile just yet. But we do have a mutual friend.”

I glanced at the phone still in my hand. Screen dark now. Dead weight.

“You know,” the leader stepped forward, polished shoes cutting across the wet pavement, “you got some real balls on you, old timer. A lesser man would’ve ran for the hills the second he heard he was leashed to people like us. But you? Shit. You’re actually fighting back.”

I tilted my chin, let my eyes drift over the other two. One palming the bat like he couldn’t wait to show off his swing.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, flat.

“Sure you don’t.” He chuckled low in his throat, then circled a half-step, putting my car at my back. “Problem is, Itonaga-san… we do.”

I shifted my weight, narrowed my eyes.

“What do you want?”

He stopped pacing, glanced over his shoulder at the pachinko glow, then back at me.

“What do I want?” He spread his arms. “What does anybody want in this god-forsaken city? Money, cars, power? But you,” he jabbed a finger into the space between us, “you went and made it personal. See, your little racing gig? Doesn’t mean jack in the grand scheme of things. But the fact you’re trying to claw out from under us… Now that’s a problem.”

I stayed put. Kept my weight on my back heel, let my spine settle into the kind of alignment I hadn’t needed in years. Old reflex. Muscle memory from when Okinawa street corners taught me how to read a room before it went loud.

The suit kept circling. His dress loafers clicked against the pavement, polished enough to catch the pink neon bleeding off the pachinko sign.

“You know, a bunch of my old pals used to be real into the racing scene,” he said, voice dropping into something that might’ve passed for nostalgia if his eyes weren’t dead.

“See, back in the day, real money moved through those tracks. Underground stuff, side bets, you name it. There were even talks about expanding. Getting official… But it never came through. And you know why? Because these guys, they cared about these girls. Saw them as more than just assets on a balance sheet. They respected the sport. Didn’t want to taint it.”

His smile stretched wider, thinner.

“You, Itonaga-san… You got a lot in common with them.”

My jaw tightened. I didn’t bite.

He watched me for another second, reading the angles in my face like he was trying to find a crack. Then he sighed, theatrical, and shook his head.

“But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Respect only gets you so far when the money dries up. And honor?” He laughed, short and ugly. “Honor doesn’t pay for shit.”

I kept my stance loose, weight steady. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re really here for.”

The smile dropped off his face like someone flipped a switch. No warning. Just gone. He stopped pacing, planted his feet, and the air around us seemed to pull tighter.

“Fine.” His voice quickened, stripped of all that fake charm. “Fine. You want me to get straight to the point? Fine.”

He jabbed a finger at me, slow and deliberate, like he was marking a target.

“You… did something that greatly upset this little business venture I have going on. Something that cost me and my very well-respected partners a bit of… credibility. And in my line of work, Itonaga-san, credibility isn’t just reputation. It’s currency. Put it simply, it’s the only thing that keeps people from thinking they can screw with you.”

He studied me like I was a used car he was deciding whether to total.

“See, when Yamabe-san came to us with your name, we thought, ‘Hey, here’s an opportunity. Low-risk, high-reward. Get the old legend back on his feet, let him do his thing and… everybody walks away clean.’ Simple arrangement. No?”

He took another step closer. Close enough now that I could smell the expensive cologne.

“But then you had to go and get attached,” he said, voice dropping into something colder. “Started thinking you could just… stay. Like this was some kind of wholesome redemption arc. Like you earned the right to decide how this ends.”

My face twitched, tiny muscle under the eye.

He went on, tone smooth as glass. “But, see, the beauty of life is that… Sometimes, things you expect to happen, well, they just don’t happen. Beat a man within an inch of his life, he walks away like nothing the next day. Sign a deal with a trusted partner, then their client decides to tear. It. Up. Makes you wonder if anything really sticks anymore.”

He tilted his chin at me. “Thing about us… Itonaga-san? We don’t really like being embarrassed like that.”

I let the silence stretch. Neon buzzed overhead, a few notes of pachinko music bleeding out the joint’s doors. Then I said it flat.

“…So, that’s it, then? You gonna ice me?”

“Ice you?” He barked a laugh, loud enough to make the thugs behind him shift their weight. “What is this, a mafia movie? No! Of course not. That’s the best part. We’re not here to collect. We’re here to release you!”

That stopped me. I blinked slow. “What?”

“Yeah. I know, right?” He spread his arms wide like some TV preacher. “Contract’s done. You and Yamabe? Free men. Free as a bird—chirp, chirp. Walk away, go back to your little clubhouse of pony girls… Do whatever the hell you want! No strings attached.”

“…What’s the catch?”

“No catch.” He shrugged, still smiling. “What, did you think this was The Sopranos? That we was gonna have you running errands for us left and right, doing favors every other week? C’mon, man.” He laughed, bright and loud, slapping my arm. “We’re not that dramatic.”

The other two chuckled on cue, dutiful as trained dogs.

The suit’s grin held steady, eyes locked on mine.

Then his face shifted just a flicker.

“…You have watched The Sopranos… right?”

The question landed soft. Almost innocent.

I felt my throat tighten.

“…No.”

The street went quiet. Even the pachinko machines seemed to pause, neon buzz fading into something thinner. The suit’s smile didn’t move, but something behind it did—something mechanical clicking into a different gear.

He looked away. Rubbed his jaw slow, fingers dragging across stubble. His tongue clicked against his teeth.

“…No,” he repeated, softer now. Nodding rapidly.

Then he turned back to me, and his voice dropped an octave.

“You’re telling me…” He took a step closer. “…that a piece of shit has-been like you… who’s been stuck in an eighties time warp half his miserable life… has never once seen The Sopranos?”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t tell if he wanted me to.

He stared at me for a second, then laughed low, almost disbelieving—

CRACK!
The fist came fast. Jawbone screamed. Vision whited out. The taste of copper flooded my mouth.

I staggered back, shoulder slamming into the Fairlady’s door.

“You think we’re a fucking joke, huh?!” His voice exploded, all fake friendliness incinerated. “Is that it?! You think you can just disrespect us and walk away like it doesn’t mean anything?! GET UP!”

The world tilted. Neon bled into streaks, colors smearing like oil on wet pavement.

Bat Boy stepped in, winding up.

I swept his ankle. Hard. He went down, bat clattering.

Fists up. Knuckles raw.

The suit rolled his shoulders, loosening his neck.

“Wow! Look at you go.” He grinned, teeth catching the red glow from the pachinko sign. “All those years in limbo, figured you’d be a vegetable by now.”

Third guy charged. No patience. An overhead right.

I blocked high. Forearms collided. A rattle up my bones.

Drove my fist into his gut. A kiai tore out of me, sharp. The sound bounced off storefronts. He folded, gasping on his knees.

I set my eyes on the suit. He cracked his knuckles. Still smiling.

“All right, then.” He loosened his tie. One hand. A fluid roll.  “Come on, pretty boy. Show us those moves.”

I shot a straight right. He deflected. Palm to wrist.

Threw another. He countered, elbow cutting across my guard.

I pivoted. Threw a reverse roundhouse. He ducked under, weight shifting easy.

Next punch, he grabbed my wrist mid-flight. Twisted. Torqued my arm sideways.

CRACK!
His knuckles split my lip. Blood, hot and thick.

I stumbled back. Hip into the Fairlady’s fender. Metal groaned.

He came in. Fist cocked.

I jerked left. His punch sailed past my ear—

SMASH!
Glass exploded inward, shards scattering across the driver’s side window, across the seats.

I kicked him. Boot to the ribs. Hard enough to make him grunt and stumble back three steps.

But I didn’t see the third guy get back up.

His arm locked around my throat from behind. Squeezed. Forearm crushing my windpipe.

I clawed at it. Nails digging into fabric and skin. Couldn’t get out. Couldn’t breathe. My vision started tunneling, edges going soft and dark.

The suit walked back over and straightened his jacket, rolled his shoulders like he was warming up for the real work. Blood was on his knuckles. Mine or his, couldn’t tell anymore.

He looked at me like I was a dog that bit him once and was about to learn better.

“Hold him steady…”

The arm tightened, bicep like a steel bar across my throat. I gagged, tried to drive my elbow back into whoever had me. Couldn’t get the angle. Couldn’t get leverage. Just flailed uselessly.

Suit wound up slow. Deliberate. Let me see it coming. Wanted me to know what was about to happen.

One. His fist caved my stomach. All the air left in a sick wheeze.

Two. Ribs cracked. A sickening shift inside. White-hot pain.

Three. My temple. The world flashed white, then gray. Sounds muffled, distant.

My knees buckled. The arm let go and I dropped. Hit the pavement hard. Hands and knees on cold asphalt. Coughing. Retching. Tasting copper and bile, spit hanging in strings from my split lip.

Boot hit my ribs. Right where he’d punched. Flipped me onto my back like I weighed nothing.

I stared up at the sky. Neon signs blurred together. Red and blue and yellow, all bleeding into black at the edges. Pachinko music still playing somewhere. Cheerful little jingle.

The suit crouched beside me. Grabbed my jaw. Fingers digging into the hinge where it hurt worst. Forced me to look at him. His face swam in and out of focus.

“You don’t get to disrespect us and walk away clean,” he said. Quiet now. Almost gentle. Like he was explaining something simple to a child. “Some food for thought for next time, eh? Well—assuming there will be one.”

He gave my head a pat. Shoved it back.

Then he stood. Adjusted his cuffs, smoothed his jacket, wiped my blood off his knuckles with a handkerchief he pulled from his breast pocket. Folded it carefully then put it back.

Bat Boy grabbed the bat off the ground. Poor bastard never even got to use it. Third guy spat near my head. Glob of saliva landed inches from my face.

The suit looked down at me one last time.

“Consider your contract closed.”

He turned. Started walking. The other two fell in step behind him. Footsteps echoing off concrete and glass.

Then he stopped. Glanced back over his shoulder.

“Oh, and by the way… you might not want to clock in at work tomorrow.” He said it casual, like he was giving weather advice. “Heard they’re on the lookout for a potential fraud case. Something about… forged credentials. Unlicensed training.”

He kept walking. “Shame, really. Just when you were getting back on your feet!”

I just lay there. Every breath hurt. Each inhale felt like broken glass grinding between my ribs.

The Fairlady’s busted window reflected the pachinko sign’s glow. Red light pulsing slow. On and off. On and off. Shattered glass glittered on the driver’s seat like scattered stars.

A couple walked by on the far sidewalk. Saw me. Kept walking. Heads down. Not their problem.

The neon buzzed. The music played. The city kept moving.

And I closed my eyes.

Didn’t get up for a long time.

[23:44 JST] — TRACEN ACADEMY, MIHO DORMITORIES, GOLD SHIP — SUPER-16 / SHALLOW DOF

24fps · ƒ/1.4 aperture · Lens 50mm portrait · Locked-off tripod; rain-lit window, soft tungsten, subtle practicals

Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter.

The rain started out small. Beads ticking against the dorm window like someone drumming their fingers just to get under her skin.

Gold Ship sat on the edge of her bed, hair still damp from a too-late shower, pajamas clinging at the seams. Normally she’d have crashed hours ago, sprawled sideways with the blankets tangled, snoring loud enough for complaints from rooms left and right.

But not tonight.

Somewhere below, a stray cat hunched beneath the dorm’s entrance awning, tail flicking each time the rain thickened. Even the strays knew when to take cover.

She turned and glanced at her roommate, Just A Way. Out cold. Curled on her side. She slept like a baby, and Gold Ship envied it. She envied how easy it was for some people to just shut the world off.

Her fingers dug into the mattress edge. That argument with Okano had clawed deeper than she wanted to admit. And it got her thinking: What if all the noise, all the clowning around, all the smirks and bad jokes were just… padding? A mask that worked until it didn’t. She’d always laughed burdens off, made it lighter by pretending it wasn’t there. But now? With Rice gone under, with Astrum’s fate resting in her hands… the mask didn’t feel as funny anymore.

Thunder rolled faint over the horizon. The rain picked up, tapping harder, faster.

She thought of the last race, the one that was hers. The final anchor leg. The whole Cup balanced on it. Here, reality didn’t care about jokes. Reality wanted results.

Gold Ship leaned forward, forehead pressed against her knees. Jokes had always been easier than silence. But right now, silence was winning.

She lay back, staring at the ceiling, eyes wide. Just A Way snored softly beside her. The cat below shifted, shook its wet fur, and stayed put.

Gold Ship pulled the blanket over her chest, heart still kicking restless. The next days would come fast. Too fast. And if she couldn’t laugh through it this time… she’d have to find another way to stand.

Her phone buzzed against the desk, screen glow cutting a pale stripe across the room. Gold Ship rolled onto her side and reached for it.

She squinted at it, lips twisting. Normally she was the one spamming strangers with dumb midnight calls. Nice change of pace.

非通知
(Number Withheld)

She thumbed it on.

“‘Sup.”

“Golshi?” The voice came ragged and urgent. “Oh, thank god you answered! I thought you’d be out cold like everyone else!”

Her brow furrowed. “Yamabe? What the hell? Why’re you calling me up this late?”

“No time. Listen,” he hissed too fast. “Do you know where Okano-sensei’s gone? Bastard’s been dodging all my calls.”

She sat up, blanket sliding to her lap. “Eh, beats me… We’re not exactly braiding friendship bracelets right now. Last thing I heard, he drove out to the sticks to look for Rice.”

Rain rattled steady against the window, a sound like bones in a cup.

“Shit… Okay.” The word cracked sharp. A shuffle of background noise followed. “Okay, listen. I need a favor. You gotta go over and check his place. Make sure he’s all right.”

“Wait, what? Why me? Can’t you just go knock on his door yourself?”

“I can’t. It’s… complicated. I can’t show up there right now. Please, Golshi.” His voice dropped low, almost pleading. “If something’s happened to him, you’re the only one who can get there before it’s too late.”

Her stomach knotted. The rain outside was a steady hiss now, filling the silence between them. For the first time in a long while, she didn’t have a joke ready.

She swung her legs off the bed, bare feet pressing to the cool dorm floor.

“…If this is some kind of prank, Yamabe, I swear I’ll come over there and dropki—”

“It’s not,” he cut in. “I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t serious. Just… Please. Go.”

The line crackled, faint distortion swallowing whatever else he might’ve said. Then it clicked dead.

Gold Ship stared at the screen, the “Call Ended” text blinking back at her. She let out a sharp breath through her nose.

“Damn it, old man. Just what have you gotten yourself into?”

She yanked on her jacket over the pajamas, shoved her phone into the pocket, and spared one last glance at Just A Way still curled, safe in a world untouched by whatever this was.

Down below, the cat was gone from the awning. Only rain claimed the night now.

Gold Ship eased the door shut behind her, careful not to wake anyone.

Back inside, on the desk, her brown hat sat where she’d left it. The same hat she dragged everywhere. The joke crown, the shield she hid behind when the pressure got too sharp.

She’d forgotten it in the rush, or maybe chosen not to reach for it.

Either way, it stayed there, watching the room in her absence while she stepped into the hall bare-headed.

A quick taxi ride later, and she found herself at Kabukicho.

The rain was no longer a patter but a full drumming, soaking through shoes the second you left cover. She stood under the red neon gate, umbrella tilted against the wind, its clear vinyl smeared with water and streetlight.

A name tag flapped against one rib: T.M. Opera O. She’d stolen the umbrella months ago and never gave it back. Typical.

Kabukicho was alive even in the storm. Host boys in wet suits called half-heartedly to passing girls, their cigarettes sputtering in the downpour. A couple of drunk salarymen lurched arm-in-arm, ties undone, shoes slapping water into each other’s pants cuffs. The pachinko parlors still hummed, glass doors flashing with cartoon mascots. But the warmth never reached the street. Out here it was all puddles, steam from storm drains, and the sour reek of spilled beer mixing with petrichor.

Gold Ship hugged her jacket closer. She wasn’t a stranger to noise or chaos, but this felt different, like the whole district had conspired to spit her out. Every corner looked like it could swallow someone, and she couldn’t stop thinking of Yamabe’s voice cracking down the line.

She crossed toward the narrower backstreets. Itonaga’s place was tucked above a pachinko joint, a hole-in-the-wall building that looked older than half the bars surrounding it. She kept her eyes down, sneakers splashing through shallow rivers forming along the gutters.

Then she saw it.

The Fairlady.

It was parked sideways like always, stubborn against the curb. A familiar silhouette even under the rain. For a second, she felt a rush of relief, as though the car itself was proof the old man was still around.

But as she got closer, umbrella bowing against the wind, the sound grew clearer.

Clink, clink.

The driver’s-side window was gone. Shattered. Jagged edges caught the neon glow, glass scattered across the seat like frost. Water poured in unchecked, pooling dark in the upholstery, fed by a thin stream falling from the drainage pipe above. Each drop hit a shard of glass on the door’s frame.

Clink, clink.

Gold Ship froze. The umbrella tilted forward, shielding her only halfway. She lowered it, breath fogging the wet night air.

“What the…”

Clink, clink.

Her hand pressed against the cold metal of the door. She glanced up, toward the darkened stairwell that led to his apartment.

“…Sensei Old Man?”

The front door croaked under her push. It wasn’t locked. Wasn’t even closed. Just hanging on its hinges like the room had given up keeping the world out.

“Hey… Yamabe called. Said I should check if you’re alive or—”

Her words stopped cold.

The TV was nothing but static, hissing its own storm into the room. Beer cans littered the floor in crooked constellations, ashtrays spilling over. The sour air clung to the walls.

And there he was. Sprawled half on the carpet, half against the couch, eyes unfocused, jaw purpled with fresh bruises.

“Old man!”

His head lolled toward her voice. He blinked once, slow. Then a lopsided grin cracked his swollen lip.

“Oh, hey… Make yourself at home.” The words dragged out of him, slurred, pink-faced but with a smile.

Gold Ship’s chest tightened. She crouched fast, hands gripping his shoulder. “Wh-what happened? Do I gotta call an ambulance?”

“I blew it, kid…” His voice rasped against the static. “I blew it…”

“Blew what? Hey, no—don’t do this. Come on, you idiot.” She wedged herself under his arm, hauling him up. He sagged against her, heavier than she’d expected. Not just in body, but in everything he carried. Even with her strength, the weight pressed down, beer and blood sharp in her nose.

She half-dragged, half-lifted him toward the sofa. Her sneakers slipped against cans that skittered underfoot. His breath sawed against her collarbone, hot and uneven, hand twitching against her shoulder.

And then, out of nowhere, he started muttering.

“[Let ‘em say we’re crazy…]” His voice was raw and tuneless, words slurred like they’d been sitting in his chest for years. “[…Don’t care ‘bout that…]”

She blinked. Starship. Of all songs. That one dumb drive weeks ago when he’d pretended he wasn’t singing. She’d joined in just to annoy him. And now here he was, bleeding and broken, dragging the same lyrics out.

Her throat knotted. She didn’t want to, but the silence around his broken voice felt unbearable. So she muttered back, low and shaky.

“[Put your hand in my hand… don’t ever look back…]”

He gave a weak chuckle against her shoulder, still half-slumped on her. “[…Let the world around us… fall apart…]”

Her eyes burned. She wasn’t laughing, but it came out like a laugh anyway. “[…we can make it if we’re heart to heart…]”

By the time she wrestled him onto the couch, they were both barely upright—him from blood and drink, her from effort—and the last line tumbled out of them together, ragged, off-key, almost a whisper:

“[…Nothing’s gonna stop us now…]”

He slumped into the cushions, head tilting back, eyes glassy. She stood over him, chest heaving, feeling that stupid lyric lodge somewhere under her ribs, right where it hurt the most.

Gold Ship stood over him, chest heaving. For once she had no joke ready. Just the sound of rain against the window and the faint static still bleeding from the TV.

“You’re gonna be all right,” she muttered, the words wobbling. “You’re gonna be all right…”

She pulled the blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over him. His hand twitched once, then went still, fingers curling like they were trying to hold onto something not there.

Gold Ship knelt by the couch, arms folded on the cushion near his head. She studied the old man’s face; the split lip, the purpled jaw, and the lines that cut deeper than bruises.

“I’m sorry, kid… I blew it…”

His voice scraped out rough. His swollen jaw barely moved, each syllable sounding like it hurt to climb out of his mouth.

“Come on… Stop saying that.” She sniffled hard, blinked fast. “What do you mean you blew it?”

Slowly, his hand fumbled against his pocket. Fingers shook as he drew something out, a small rectangle glinting under the TV’s static glow. He pressed it into her palm without looking.

A VHS cassette. One corner cracked, case stained dark with beer that had dried into sticky streaks. The label was half-gone, ink smeared, only a few illegible strokes left.

Ar- m- K- e-n

Gold Ship stared at it, then back at him. Her throat tightened. She turned the tape over in her hands, the plastic cold against her skin. Then she stood, knees stiff, and crossed the room.

The VCR blinked its dull red clock at her. She knelt, popped the cassette open with a click, and slid it inside. The machine whirred, grinding like it hadn’t been used in years.

Gold Ship lowered herself to the floor, sweeping aside cans that clattered. She sat cross-legged, elbows braced against her knees, staring into the haze of static. Behind her, Itonaga’s breathing wheezed shallow under the blanket.

For a moment, nothing but hiss. Then the tape caught. The screen jumped, color bleeding into shaky lines.

“—and now they’re coming into the final stretch! That’s right, folks, it’s the final stretch at Nakayama this afternoon, and just look at that speed—she’s still pulling ahead! Can you believe it!?”

The commentary rattled out warped, but the excitement was unmistakable.

Gold Ship blinked hard. The image struggled into focus. Umamusume, bright racewear blurring, the crowd a sea of color behind them. A single runner in front, dark hair streaming, legs eating up the turf with impossible rhythm.

Her chest lifted without meaning to. Whoever she was, she was beautiful. Untouchable.

“Three hundred meters remaining!” The tape juddered, colors separating before snapping back. The lead held, fierce and alive, the camera swinging to keep pace. “She’s opening up! Five lengths! Six! This might be it—this might be the record!”

Gold Ship leaned forward. She could almost feel the earth shaking through the screen, the thunder of hooves vibrating in her chest. The voice of the announcer rose, cracked with disbelief.

“She’s still in front! Just look at that stride! That power! That finesse! That—”

The lead girl’s stride broke.

One stumble, sudden and violent. Legs tanged wrong. Body pitched forward. The screen lurched as the camera scrambled to follow, cutting into a blur of turf and limbs.

Gold Ship’s breath hitched sharp in her throat.

Silence.

A thousand cheers strangled mid-cry, leaving only the thready feedback of the PA system.

On screen, the camera scrambled, jerked hard and overshot, catching only fragments. A streak of blue silks vanishing into the turf. Medical staff vaulting the rail.

Gold Ship’s hands curled into fists against her knees. She felt the plastic teeth of the VHS remote digging into her palm, though she didn’t remember grabbing it.

The feed cut wide again. And there, small against the enormity of the track, was the fallen girl, hair spilling across the grass. Officials were already swarming, their reflective vests blurring the image further.

The tape jittered, colors bleeding at the edges, but Gold Ship couldn’t look away. Couldn’t even blink.

Behind her, the couch springs groaned. Itonaga’s breathing sawed through the room. The sound of a man trying to stay upright underwater.

“…Her name was Miracle Kingdom.”

Gold Ship twisted halfway, eyes wide. The old man’s face sagged against the couch cushion, lips split and trembling, but his gaze clung stubbornly to the screen.

“She wanted to be the best.” His voice scraped out, barely louder than the rain. He sniffed once, hard, the sound wet and broken. “To show the world that it didn’t matter where you came from.”

Gold Ship’s hands went numb around her knees. Her fingernails pressed divots into her palms.

“I still remember her face. Right before.” He swallowed, painful and slow. His eyes stayed fixed somewhere past the TV. “She looked back at me in the… in the paddock. And she smiled.”

His breath hitched. A sound caught halfway between a laugh and total collapse.

“She smiled…”

The words cracked open. Split clean down the middle, leaking everything he’d kept locked behind his teeth for decades.

Gold Ship stood. Her legs felt disconnected, like they belonged to someone else. She crossed the short space between the floor and the couch—three steps that felt like wading through deep water—and lowered herself onto the cushion beside him. Close enough that the blanket’s edge brushed her thigh. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his bruised, battered body.

She didn’t look at the TV. She looked at him.

At the way his jaw trembled despite how hard he clenched it. At the tear that slipped free and traced the edge of that purple bruise, disappearing into the stubble along his chin. At the hand that gripped the blanket so tight his knuckles had gone bone-white.

“The night before the race…” His voice broke apart again, reformed into something thinner, more fragile. He sniffed, hard. “She told me she was gonna give her best, no matter how she felt.”

He coughed. The sound rattled deep in his chest, and when he spoke again his voice was barely there at all.

“She apologized for doubting herself…”

The VCR clicked. The tape finished rewinding. The television screen went blue, casting them both in cold electric light.

Gold Ship’s vision blurred.

She blinked, and the wetness spilled over. One tear, then two, hot against her cheeks. She tried to breathe through it, but her chest wouldn’t cooperate. Her throat locked up, and the sob came out anyway—small, choked, a sound she didn’t recognize as her own.

“I’m so sorry…”

Her voice was barely a whisper. She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes, trying to stop it, but the tears kept coming. They soaked into her sleeves, dripped off her jaw onto her lap. Her shoulders shook.

Itonaga turned his head, slow and deliberate, like it took every ounce of strength he had left. His eyes—glassy, red-rimmed, wrecked—found hers.

“I couldn’t save her,” he said finally. The words came out flat, stripped of everything but the truth. “And I can’t save you guys either.”

For a moment, they just sat there, side by side on a sagging couch in a decrepit apartment above a pachinko parlor, while the rain kept falling and the world kept turning and everything that mattered felt impossibly far away.

Then, without thinking, Gold Ship leaned into him. Her forehead pressed against his shoulder, her whole body curling inward like she could make herself smaller, quieter, less. Her tears soaked into the blanket, into his shirt, into the fabric of something neither of them could name.

Itonaga didn’t pull away. He didn’t say it was okay. He didn’t tell her to stop crying.

He just sat there, one hand still gripping the blanket, the other hanging loose at his side. His breathing evened out, just a little. Not calm. Just tired. So, so tired.

Gold Ship didn’t have words. Didn’t have a joke or a deflection or a smartass comment to throw at him. All she had was this ache in her chest that felt too big for her ribs, this grief that wasn’t even hers but somehow was, because he’d given it to her, pressed it into her palm along with that cracked VHS tape.

The rain kept its rhythm against the window. The empty cans caught its reflection in fractured pieces. And in the blue light of perpetual static, two people sat side by side, crying for a girl who’d wanted to prove where you came from didn’t matter.

Who’d fallen proving it did.

Puddles riddled the ground around Tracen, last night’s storm leaving the paths slick and shining. The air hung heavy, low clouds pressing everything flat and grey. Even the usual chatter of morning drills seemed muted, the clatter of hooves swallowed by the damp.

Inside 3B, the air was heavier still. The usual buzz—Gold Ship’s antics, Tachyon’s scattershot theories—it was all gone. Chairs sat too still, the walls too white. It was less a team room and more like a wake with no body present.

“So… he’s not coming back?” Hayahide asked at last. She didn’t look at anyone. Her gaze was fixed on the untouched notebook open in front of her, pencil resting dead-straight along the binding.

“I don’t know…” Gold Ship muttered. She leaned against the whiteboard, hands stuffed in the pockets of the hoodie over her uniform. No hat today. The bare crown of her head looked wrong, like part of her armor had been left behind. Her voice was low, carrying none of its usual jagged edges.

“Well, I suppose this goes without saying, but…” Tachyon’s voice sliced into the silence, flat and deliberate. “Whether Astrum persists or not depends entirely on tomorrow’s race.” She pushed the words out with precision, but the edge of brittleness clung. “And I’m sure he knows that already.”

Bakushin O’s foot tapped against the floor in restless bursts. She’d been quiet too long, and when she finally spoke, it came out like she was trying to convince herself more than anyone else.

“Then… Then he’ll be back. Right? Sensei has never missed one of our races. Not once!” She bit her lip. “He wouldn’t just… leave. Not now.”

Rice sat hunched over, gaze fixed on the floor tiles. She hadn’t said a word since they’d filed into the room.

Hayahide finally set her pencil down, but she still didn’t look up. “Even if he does come back… What shape will he be in?”

Gold Ship let her head tip back against the whiteboard. “Look, it doesn’t matter. All right? Tomorrow’s still coming whether he crawls in or not.” The words were sharp, but the usual grin wasn’t there to blunt them. Her voice just sounded tired.

Tachyon’s gaze flicked across the room, quick and restless. “A collapse isn’t acceptable. Pollux will register it. Dubhe will, too. You’ve all seen what they are capable of with that kind of knowledge.”

Rice flinched at that, shrinking in further, but didn’t speak.

Bakushin O slammed both palms against her knees, standing so fast her chair legs screeched. “Then we won’t collapse! We just have to win! Right, guys? Simple!” Her voice cracked on the last word, bravado buckling. “Simple…”

Hayahide finally looked up. “You’re the one running tomorrow, Golshi. If Sensei doesn’t show…” She let the rest hang, no one needed it said.

Gold Ship pushed her hands deeper into her jacket pockets, shoulders rising and falling slow.

“Yeah. I know.”

The room went quiet again. Outside, hooves clipped faintly against wet pavement, but it sounded distant, like the whole campus had been wrapped in cotton.

Tachyon drummed her fingers once against the tabletop, sharp little ticks that should’ve sounded impatient, but instead only underlined how restless she was.

Bakushin O’s leg had started bouncing. Faster. Louder. She pressed her palms down hard against her thighs to stop it, but her voice came out thin.

“Guys… We’re… we’re still a team. Right? Even if he’s not here?”

Rice lifted her head just slightly.

Hayahide folded her hands over her notebook. “We can finish this Cup. We can win tomorrow. But… If Sensei doesn’t come back.. If this is… truly it… Then Astrum won’t survive past tomorrow. You know it. I know it.”

No one argued.

Rice’s shoulders curled tighter. Her voice came out thin and brittle. “We’ve come so far…”

The door eased open with a soft creak.

Every head in the room turned at once, the silence breaking with the quick scrape of chairs. For half a second, they all held the same hope; waiting for the familiar uneven footsteps, the scuffed sneakers, the growl of their missing trainer.

But it wasn’t him.

Maruzensky stepped inside, and the sight of her hit almost as hard. The usual gloss and sparkle, that wine-aunt confidence she wore like perfume—it was gone. Her hair hung flat, raindrops still clinging to the ends. No flourish in her stride, no pose in her posture.

“Where’ve you been?” Gold Ship asked. The words were more demand than question, sharper than she meant them to be.

Maruzensky didn’t answer. Her lips pressed into a fine line. Instead, she pulled the door wider, and the figure behind her filled the frame.

Symboli Rudolf.

The president stepped inside with a calm that carried its own weight. The air shifted as if the walls themselves straightened to attention. Her expression was composed, but serious in a way that left no room for jokes, no room for the thin bravado that usually papered over Astrum’s cracks.

“Team Astrum,” Rudolf said, voice deep and steady. “I need you all to come with me.”

Bakushin O half-rose from her chair, eyes wide. “What? Why?”

“There’s been a recent development concerning your trainer, Okano-sensei,” Rudolf said, her tone carefully neutral. “Serious questions have been raised about his background. His qualifications.”

The room went cold.

“The school board has convened an emergency session to address these matters… Attendance is not optional.”

Hayahide’s voice broke the silence. “Wait, his qualifications? What exactly does that—”

“The details will be presented at the hearing.” Rudolf inclined her head, her expression giving nothing away. “What I can tell you is this: Okano-sensei will also be in attendance. And that this hearing will determine whether Astrum continues as a sanctioned team. But, perhaps more than that…”

For just a fraction of a second, her eyes lingered on Gold Ship.

“…it will determine what kind of team you choose to be.”

The room went still. No one moved. No one breathed.

Gold Ship stood frozen against the whiteboard, hands buried deep in her hoodie pockets. Her expression didn’t change. Her face stayed blank, locked in place, but something behind her eyes dimmed. Like a light someone had forgotten to turn off finally burning out.

Her fingers curled tighter in her pockets, nails biting into her palms.

Gold Ship had nothing to say.

Chapter Text

「まもなく、ドアが開きます。お客様にはお降りの際は、足元に十分ご注意ください。また、ドアの閉まる際は、お怪我のないようご注意願います。」
The doors will now be opening. Please watch your step when exiting the train. Please also be careful to avoid injury when the doors are closing.

The moonlight bleached the city's rooftops to the color of bone. Beneath it, the station sign pulsed with a low-voltage hum, its yellow dot-matrix kanji sliding right to left in a relentless crawl:

〈東京方面〉 JR東海道線 只今到着 ２２：３０発 品川 （当駅）
JR Tōkaidō Line, Now Arriving, Departs 22:30, Shinagawa (This Station)

A hydraulic hiss sighed along the length of the train as doors parted in unison. The nightly exhalation of passengers began as a shuffle of worn-out shoes and quiet sighs. Salarymen adjusted their briefcases, and students' faces were washed in the glow of their phones.

Yamabe followed at the tail end, hands in his pockets, shoulders angled forward like he was walking into wind.

He crossed the turnstile and moved through the station’s tiled corridor. The PA voice looped overhead, polite and hollow.

「ドアが閉まります。ご注意ください。」
The doors are now closing. Please stand clear.

The parking lot sat at ground level, lamps buzzing overhead in uneven intervals. His black Chaser occupied a spot near the back fence, the black paint job showing its age under the sodium lights.

He was three meters from the driver’s door when the headlights caught him in two sharp bursts, there and gone.

Yamabe stopped, turned his head toward the source.

A sedan idled thirty meters away, black paint swallowing the ambient light. No license plate visible from that far. Engine off. He’d seen that car before.

He changed direction.

The passenger door wasn’t locked. He pulled it open and lowered himself onto the seat, movements controlled. The man behind the wheel kept his eyes forward, jaw set, both hands resting on the curve of the steering wheel. Another man sat in front in the passenger side. His face filled the rearview mirror, eyes tracking Yamabe’s entry with the disinterest of someone watching traffic.

Yamabe settled his hands palm-down on his thighs. A cardboard air freshener hung from the mirror: a faded illustration of a pine tree.

The man in the passenger seat tilted his head a fraction, eyes still locked on Yamabe through the glass.

“Got something to tell me?”

Outside, cicadas sawed through the humidity, their rhythm mechanical and relentless. Yamabe’s jaw shifted. His tongue pressed against the back of his teeth.

“…He’s staying,” Yamabe said. He swallowed, feeling the muscles in his throat flex and reset.

The man in the passenger seat didn’t move. Just stared through the rear-view mirror like Yamabe had spoken in a foreign language.

“He’s staying,” he repeated.

Yamabe kept his hands on his thighs. Didn’t shift. Didn’t fidget.

“Yeah…”

The passenger pivoted fully now, one arm stretched along the back of the seat. His shirt collar was unbuttoned, exposing a strip of pale skin and the edge of something dark beneath—ink, maybe. Old work. His face carried the kind of blankness that came from years of hearing excuses.

“You wanna… run that by me again?” he asked. “Because I could’ve sworn we had a very simple arrangement.”

Yamabe kept his hands flat on his thighs. Felt the fabric bunch under his palms.

“He didn’t plan this,” Yamabe said. “He’s just—”

“Oh, he didn’t plan it.” The man’s voice pitched up, mockingly light. “Well, that just makes it all better, doesn’t it? He didn’t plan to screw us, he just accidentally decided to stay and rebuild his entire life on our dime.” He leaned forward, forearm pressing into the seat back.

“Let me ask you something, Yamabe-san. And I want you to think very carefully before you answer. Because this is one of those moments where the wrong words can really ruin the rest of your week.” He paused. Let the silence stretch.

“…Did you set us up?”

Yamabe’s spine went rigid.

“No…”

The man tilted his head. “No?”

“No. I didn’t set you up. I wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t you?” The man’s lip curled. “See, because from where I’m sitting, this whole thing looks a lot like a con. Old friend needs help, you come to us with this sob story about a disgraced trainer who just needs one more shot. Then we front the capital, we take the risk, we smooth over the credentials. And what do we get? A guy who decides halfway through that actually, never mind. He’s fine now!”

Yamabe’s throat tightened.

The man kept going, words coming faster now. “And you know what the worst part is? You’re the one who vouched for him. You’re the one who promised us he’d fold the second he needed to walk. So either you’re a big fat liar, Yamabe-san, or just a massive idiot. And honestly? I’m not sure which one pisses me off more.”

“I didn’t lie,” Yamabe said. His voice came out harder now, an edge creeping in. “I told you what I knew. What I thought would happen. He wasn’t supposed to—” He stopped. Exhaled through his nose. “He wasn’t supposed to care again.”

The man stared at him. Then he barked a laugh, sharp and humorless.

“Oh, that’s beautiful. That’s poetry. You sold us a broken man and forgot to mention he might remember how to feel things.”

Yamabe’s hands curled into fists on his thighs. He forced them flat again.

“I didn’t forget anything,” he said. “Look, I’ve known him since we were kids. All right? I’ve seen him at his worst. After the Arima Kinen, he was gone. He wasn’t training, he wasn’t talking. Hell, he wasn’t living. I thought if I could just get him back on a track, back with someone who needed him, he’d do the job and move on. I thought—”

He swallowed. His throat felt like sandpaper.

“Look… I can fix this,” he said.

The man leaned back, studying him. Eyes narrowed.

“Fix it, huh? How?”

“I’ll… I’ll talk to him.”

“Really, now?” The man’s tone flattened into something dead. “You think talking’s gonna work? You think your buddy’s gonna have a change of heart because you asked nicely?” He shook his head. “No. No, I don’t think so. You see, people like Itonaga? They don’t respond to reason… They respond to consequences.”

Yamabe’s stomach dropped.

“What does that mean?”

The man only smiled.

The driver started the engine. The sedan rumbled to life, vibrations running through the seats.

Then the passenger reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. Yamabe’s shoulders tensed, spine straightening by a centimeter.

But the man just pulled out a key fob. Chrome and plastic, scratched Toyota logo. The little plastic Doraemon charm hanging off the ring caught the streetlight, bright blue against the dark interior. He tossed them into Yamabe’s lap. They landed with a dull clink, cold against his thigh.

“Here you go,” he said. “I was always more of a Nissan guy anyway.”

Yamabe’s fingers closed around the metal. Cold. The Doraemon charm pressed into his palm.

“…Don’t hurt him.”

The words came out before he could stop them. Quiet. Almost pleading.

The driver laughed, humorless. The passenger just smiled.

“Well… That’s not really up to you anymore, is it?”

He settled into the seat, posture loose, unconcerned. Conversation over.

Yamabe sat frozen a moment longer, keys still clenched, the night pressing close enough to hear his own pulse. Then he pushed the door open. The hinge squealed faintly. Warm air hit his face, thick with the smell of rain-soaked dust.

The driver dropped the car into reverse. Tires crunched over the gravel edge of the lot. The headlights swung wide, briefly washing Yamabe in their glare before sliding past him and fading toward the exit.

Silence returned in fragments; the low hum of vending machines by the station wall, a lone train horn in the distance, the persistent chirr of insects reclaiming the hour. Yamabe looked down at the keys again, Doraemon swaying.

The station’s PA droned overhead, announcing the next arrival. Cicadas kept sawing. The parking lot stayed empty except for his Chaser, waiting in its spot by the fence.

He flexed his hand once, then slipped the fob into his pocket.

[09:26 JST] — TRACEN ACADEMY, ADMINISTRATION WING — ALEXA MINI LF / DIGITAL

25fps · ƒ/4.0 aperture · Lens 40mm normal · Static two-camera setup; tungsten fluorescents, desaturated neutral grade

The conference room smelled like old carpet and instant tea nobody wanted to drink. Two folding tables had been shoved together into something vaguely rectangular, the kind of setup that announced we didn’t plan for this louder than a bullhorn.

Board Director Sanada scratched at a coffee stain on his folder with the edge of his thumbnail. The stain didn’t budge. He kept scratching anyway.

“…So that’s it? We’re just letting them replace the cafeteria curry?” Hirose said, leaning back in her chair until it squeaked. “Do you people have any idea what kind of revolt we’re inviting? I mean, half the student body practically lives off of that stuff.”

Iwami tapped his pen against the table. Four beats, pause, another four beats.

“It’s called menu modernization,” he said. “The nutrition board wants a cleaner image. Which means more variety, and more vegetables. The word they used was approachable… Whatever that means.”

“Approachable?” Hirose repeated. “It’s a cafeteria, not a dating app. What’s next, we start sorting food by their sexual preferences?”

Mamiya, seated at the far end, adjusted his glasses with two fingers and spoke without looking up from his notes. “If we’re really discussing priorities, I would say student parking deserves our attention far more than curry does. The overflow lot has been at capacity since May, and we’ve had at least three minor collisions.”

Sanada finally gave up on the stain and flipped the folder open. “I’m sorry—three?”

“Four, if you count the one with the delivery van,” Mamiya said.

Sanada sighed. “Either way, we all need to come into an agreement by the end of the week. Akikawa-san wanted us to finalize everything before summer camp.”

He glanced at an empty chair, then checked his watch. “Speaking of which, where the hell is she?”

“She’s… stuck in traffic,” Mamiya offered.

“For forty minutes?”

“Her secretary’s watching over the school. She can be late.”

“She can also do her job.”

Iwami set his pen down with a sharp click. “Look, if she’s not here within the next minute, then we should just move forward regardless.”

Sanada let out a short, incredulous laugh. “That’s ballsy. You wanna be the one to tell her we started without her?”

Iwami didn’t even blink. “At least I actually finish what I start… Can’t imagine your wife saying the same about you.”

The room imploded. Every face puckered up. Hirose’s mouth fell open with a sharp inhale that came out somewhere between a gasp and a laugh.

Then the door opened.

Symboli Rudolf stepped inside first, her posture straight enough to make the folding chairs look like thrones by comparison. Her expression gave nothing away, but the air in the room changed the moment she entered.

Behind her came Team Astrum, single file, moving with the kind of silence that only happened when people were trying not to make things worse.

Gold Ship entered last, eyes tracking the room. She didn’t sit. None of them did.

Sanada froze mid-reach for his teacup. Mamiya straightened in his chair for the first time all morning.

Rudolf didn’t wait for an invitation. She walked to the center of the room, stopped three paces from the table.

“Good morning,” she said. Her voice didn’t rise.

Sanada recovered first. “President Rudolf. This is—we weren’t expecting—”

“I’m aware.” Rudolf’s gaze moved across the board members one by one. “You were expecting Trainer Okano and his team. Well, you have the team. The trainer will arrive shortly.”

Hirose glanced at Iwami. Iwami looked at Mamiya. Mamiya looked at the empty chair where Akikawa should have been.

Hirose cleared her throat. “President, this is a closed disciplinary review. If you’re here in an advisory capacity, we’ll need to—”

“I’m here as a witness,” Rudolf said. “And as a representative of the student council’s interests in this matter. Team Astrum operates within Tracen’s jurisdiction. What happens in this room affects institutional credibility.”

She said it the way someone might say the sky is blue.

Sanada set his pen down again, slower this time. “Fine. You can stay. But we need the trainer present before we proceed.”

“He’ll be here.”

The doors parted.

Out stepped Okano. The suit he wore looked slept in, collar wilted. The bruise along his jaw had faded from purple to a sickly yellow-green.

Rudolf’s expression didn’t break, but her eyes tracked the uneven hitch in his gait. Behind her, Astrum stiffened. Hayahide’s fingers clenched around the hem of her skirt; Rice’s eyes darted to the floor.

Gold Ship didn’t move. Her jaw worked once.

Sanada spoke first, because someone had to.

“Trainer Okano. You, uh… You understand why you’ve been called here?”

Okano’s eyes swept the room. The board. Rudolf. His team. Then the empty chair before the table.

“Yeah,” he said at last, voice roughened at the edges.

Sanada frowned, then gestured toward the line of chairs in front.

“All right, then… Everyone, please take your seats.”

The shuffle of movement followed, metal legs scraping linoleum, fabric sighing. Astrum sat shoulder to shoulder too close. Okano stayed standing until Rudolf gave him a small, imperceptible nod. Only then did he sit—back stiff, eyes lowered.

Rudolf, already seated, reached for a leather portfolio resting by her elbow. The snap of its clasp cut cleanly through the ambient noise. She drew out a thin file marked in kanji and block lettering:

岡野 和也
Okano, Kazuya

The paper inside was sun-yellowed and faintly warped by humidity. It looked as though it had spent years forgotten in storage. She placed it deliberately on the table before her.

Sanada cleared his throat. “Let’s bring this to order, then. The Tracen Academy Board of Directors is convened to address serious concerns regarding the trainer operating under the name Kazuya Okano.”

He glanced at the others—Hirose, Iwami, Mamiya—before continuing. “It’s been brought to our attention that the individual in question may not, in fact, be licensed or registered with any current or former regional association. Furthermore, the documents submitted to Tracen upon his appointment appear to have been falsified.”

Hirose leaned forward, flipping through the thin folder in front of her. “To be precise, the certification number listed on your file doesn’t exist in the Japan Umamusume Racing Registry. The signature on your licensing form doesn’t match any known URA record. And the address tied to your emergency contact leads to an abandoned post office in Saitama.”

Her eyes lifted. “Would you care to explain that, Okano-san?”

His gaze didn’t move from the table.

“Guess someone forgot to update their system.”

That earned a dry, humorless snort from Iwami. “Cute. But this isn’t a joke. You’re accused of falsifying identification, forging official training credentials, and operating in violation of both academy and URA regulatory codes. From this angle? That’s fraud, plain and simple.”

Rice flinched. Bakushin O’s hand twitched toward her but stopped halfway.

Mamiya adjusted his glasses, scanning his notes. “We’ve also received an anonymous tip indicating a prior industry ban. If true, that would place this institution in direct violation of URA compliance protocols.” He looked up, expression neutral. “Do you deny that allegation?”

Okano didn’t answer. The silence stretched until it felt like a no.

Sanada sighed, rubbing at his temple. “All right, look… No one wants this to turn into a witch hunt. But the fact is, Tracen’s credibility is at stake. And if the press finds out we’ve been fielding an unlicensed trainer—”

“Then they’ll eat us alive,” Hirose finished for him. “And every other team under our umbrella goes under review.”

Rudolf finally spoke. Her voice was calm, but there was steel in it. “Before you continue, Sanada-san, I’d like to remind this board that the matter involves students as well. Whatever disciplinary actions you pursue will directly affect their futures. Proceed carefully.”

That earned her a few stiff nods, none of them comfortable.

Okano didn’t lift his eyes. His knuckles rested against the tabletop, skin drawn tight over bone.

The room stayed quiet. No one wanted to go first.

Mamiya tried. “Trainer Okano—if that’s your real name—may I remind you that these are serious allegations. Do you have any comment for the record?”

Nothing. Just the faint squeak of Iwami’s pen rolling in his hand.

Rudolf’s gaze didn’t move. Her hands were folded on the table, but every inch of her posture was coiled restraint.

“Trainer Okano,” Iwami said, voice thinning with impatience. “You’ve heard the charges. If you want any chance of this board considering leniency, now’s the time to speak.”

Still, he didn’t.

Gold Ship’s heel tapped once beneath her chair. Tachyon’s stare was a laser, willing him to move, to do something. But he stayed still.

When Sanada finally spoke again, it was softer, almost weary. “All right. Let the record show the accused has declined to respond.”

He might’ve said more, but Rudolf’s chair shifted before the words could settle.

“All due respect, Sanada-san,” she said, “you’re attempting to render judgment without context. You’re treating this as if it concerns a single individual. But it doesn’t. It concerns an entire team—and by extension, this institution’s integrity.”

Sanada looked up, pen frozen midair. “President Rudolf, may I remind you that you’re only here as a witness. You don’t have the floor.”

“I’m well aware,” she said evenly. “But if this board wishes to reach a fair conclusion, you will need testimony from those directly affected.” Her gaze moved down the line of Umamusume beside her.

Hirose exhaled through her nose. “This isn’t a courtroom, President.”

“It’s close enough,” Rudolf replied. “You have charges, evidence, a defendant, and the futures of six students on the line. I’d call that justification enough to listen.”

Iwami leaned back, crossing his arms. “And you’d call yourself what, exactly? Judge? Defense attorney?”

“Someone who believes in due process.”

Silence stretched. Sanada rubbed at the bridge of his nose, already picturing the paperwork this would cause. But no one argued.

Finally, Mamiya adjusted his glasses. “It’s unconventional… but procedurally permissible if entered as supplemental testimony.”

“Fine,” Sanada said. “If it gets us to the bottom of this faster, then I guess we’ll hear them out.”

Rudolf inclined her head once in thanks, then turned to the team. “We’ll begin with Sakura Bakushin O.”

Bakushin O blinked, hand snapping to her chest.

“M-Me?”

“Please step forward,” Rudolf said.

Bakushin O rose so quickly her chair nearly toppled. She caught it mid-fall, cheeks burning, and shuffled toward the center of the room where Rudolf had been standing.

Sanada gestured awkwardly toward the empty stretch in front of the board. “Uh… All right, Miss Bakushin O, please state your full name for the record.”

“Sakura Bakushin O!” she said, too loud. The echo came back at her like a slap. “I mean, uh—yes! That’s me.”

Hirose tapped her pen against the table. “And your position?”

“I’m… one of the school’s class representatives! And esteemed member of the Sakura Clan,” she said. Her voice wobbled but didn’t break. “And… I also ran the sprint bracket in the Constellation Cup.”

“All right.” Sanada gave her the kindest look he could manage under the circumstances. “And how long have you been under the supervision of—” he checked the folder, “—Trainer Okano?”

“About a month now… more or less. Same as everyone else.”

“And in that time,” Sanada said, his tone knife-clean, “did you ever suspect he wasn’t who he said he was?”

She froze.

“I… No.” She swallowed hard. “Should I have known?”

Her reflection trembled in the tile, mouth still moving after the sound had died. She straightened, hands still wringing together in front of her.

“I mean, Sensei—uh, Trainer Okano… he never talked about himself much. But he was there. Every morning, before drills, before us sometimes. Either watching us or typing on his old laptop. I just thought,” she faltered, searching the ceiling for the word, “that’s what serious trainers often did.”

Hirose leaned back in her chair, pen spinning between her fingers. “So he never gave off any red flags? Any signs of ulterior motives? Malicious intent?”

Her head shook quickly. “No, ma’am.”

The pen stopped spinning. Bakushin O stood there like she’d been unplugged, every ounce of energy drained out of her.

“All right. Sit down,” Sanada said.

She did, so fast her chair squeaked against the tile. Gold Ship’s knee bounced once, then stopped when Rudolf’s gaze slid her way.

Sanada glanced down the list in front of him, then up again. “Next up… I’d like to call on Maruzensky.”

The woman in question rose. Her hair, still damp at the ends, caught the sterile light as she made her way to the center. She smiled faintly, less for them and more to remind herself she still could.

“Please state your full name for the record,” Mamiya said without looking up, pen already moving.

“Maruzensky,” she replied. “Runner, Team Astrum.”

“Thank you,” Sanada said, gesturing for her to continue. “Now. How would you describe your relationship with Trainer Okano?”

She let the question hang, eyes drifting to the far corner where Okano sat. For a second, the flicker of a grin almost surfaced. Almost.

“Professional,” she said finally. “At least, that’s how it started. He didn’t charm or flatter us… Heck, he didn’t even pretend to like us half the time… But the thing about people like him? They’re the type who waits until they’ve figured out which one of us needed a push and which one needed a word.”

“Okay…” Sanada arched a brow. “And where do you fall under?”

“Neither.” Maruzensky’s smile tilted. “He was less of a trainer and more a… sidekick. He scratches my back, I scratch his. Figuratively, of course.”

A few of the board members exchanged looks. Hirose’s brow lifted in faint disbelief.

“That’s a curious dynamic to describe between a mentor and a student…” she muttered.

“Would you say he’s ever crossed a line?” Mamiya asked, tone steady but clinical. “Verbally? Physically?”

Maruzensky shook her head. “Nope. Never. He knows exactly where the line is, and he doesn’t need to cross it to make his point.”

Iwami smirked, pen poised. “And what point would that be?”

“That potential doesn’t mean a damn thing if it falls by the wayside,” she said, crisp and unshaken. “Excuse my language, directors.”

Rudolf’s mouth curved a millimeter.

Hirose folded her hands. “And you never suspected he wasn’t who he said he was?”

Maruzensky tilted her head, the lights sliding through her hair. “Oh, I suspected plenty… I just didn’t care.”

Hirose blinked.

She went on. “See, I’ve been around the block long enough to know when someone’s not telling the whole story. But I also know when someone’s hiding loads of baggage underneath… And whatever name he gave you, it didn’t change what he did for us… For me. He didn’t promise the moon or feed me ‘chakra-boosting smoothies’ with a pep talk on top. He just showed up one day and kept going at it.”

She turned toward the table, gaze fixed on Okano with nothing but a faint crease at the corner of her mouth.

Her eyes softened. “I’ve had a lot of trainers. But none of them ever looked at me like a person first.”

Okano’s head shifted slightly. Whatever response he might’ve had never made it past his throat.

“That’ll be all,” she said, voice steady, and stepped back toward her seat.

Sanada scribbled something that might’ve been thanks but sounded more like a sigh. “All right. Thank you, Miss Maruzensky…”

She smoothed her skirt as she sat, the old composure returning like a well-worn coat.

The board members conferred in low tones, papers rustling. Rudolf stayed still, expression unreadable.

Sanada straightened his papers with a tap. “Next witness: Agnes Tachyon.”

She rose without hesitation, stepping forward with that same clipped precision she brought to lab work.

Sanada gestured toward the empty space before the table. “Please state your full name for the record.”

“Agnes Tachyon. Runner for Team Astrum.”

Her tone was clean. Every syllable slotted into place like it had been rehearsed.

Mamiya looked up from his notes. “You’re the team’s strategist as well, aren’t you?”

“One of the two,” she replied. “Our trainer encouraged us to develop autonomy in tactical modeling. I just happen to excel at it.”

“Encouraged?” Hirose echoed, arching an eyebrow. “That’s a generous word, considering the man in question might not even be a legal trainer.”

Tachyon’s gaze flicked toward her. “Legal standing doesn’t preclude efficacy. The two are not mutually exclusive.”

Iwami’s pen stopped mid-tap. Hirose’s mouth twitched.

Sanada sighed. “Miss Tachyon, allow me to keep this simple. Did Trainer Okano ever instruct you in ways that you felt were… inappropriate? Perhaps unsafe?”

“Only in the sense that he demanded we be honest with ourselves,” she said. “Most find that uncomfortable, I would say.”

“That’s not quite what I meant…”

“I know.”

Iwami leaned forward, elbows on the table. “So you’re saying that this man, who lied his way into a faculty position and concealed his identity, was a positive influence?”

Tachyon tilted her head. “Define positive.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“If you mean ‘pleasant’? No. He’s strict, dismissive, and his methods are questionable at best… But if you mean effective, then yes. He restructured our program in under a month. He identified weaknesses our previous trainers either couldn’t pinpoint or ignored entirely.”

Her voice had started to harden now, more clipped than controlled.

Mamiya scribbled something in his notes. “You seem to be implying prior oversight was insufficient.”

“Oh. I’m stating it,” Tachyon said. “We were… directionless. Fragmented. And Trainer Okano—whatever his name truly is—recognized that. He didn’t tell us what to be. He simply forced us to look at what we already were… Even if he isn’t fully aware of what he’s looking at.”

Rudolf’s expression didn’t change, but a faint crease appeared near her temple.

Sanada tried to smooth the edge back into formality. “And you believe this approach of his benefited you and the rest of the team?”

“Yes,” Tachyon said flatly. “I analyze outcomes. The data is unambiguous.”

Iwami clicked his pen. “Then maybe you can quantify this: what happens when a man like that vanishes…? What happens when the person you’re defending disappears, and you’ve already built your whole method around him?”

The shift in Tachyon’s face was small, but real. The lights seemed immensely brighter now, bleaching the edges of the room until every surface looked white.

“Th—that’s irrelevant to the case,” she said. “You’re asking me to speculate on hypothetical future behavior when the question before this board is whether his past conduct warrants disciplinary action. Those are separate variables.”

Iwami didn’t blink. “Are they?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” she snapped. “His capability as a trainer and his legal standing are two distinct issues. You’re conflating them to—”

“To what?” Iwami leaned forward, elbows on the table. “To point out that you’re defending a man you can’t predict? That you’re asking this institution to gamble its reputation on a damn ghost?”

“Enough.”

Rudolf’s voice didn’t need to be loud. The single word dropped into the room like a stone into still water.

Iwami straightened slightly, but his expression didn’t soften. Rudolf’s gaze stayed on him, calm and unyielding.

“You’ve made your point, Iwami-san” she said evenly. “Miss Tachyon is a student, not a defendant.”

Iwami’s jaw worked once, but he didn’t argue. He only leaned back in his chair.

Rudolf turned to Tachyon, her tone gentler now but no less firm. “You may sit down.”

Tachyon stood frozen for a beat longer, chest rising and falling too quickly. Then sheturned on her heel. The click of her shoes against the tile was louder than it should’ve been. She dropped into her seat, staring straight ahead.

The room settled back into uncomfortable silence. Mamiya’s pen scratched faintly; Iwami had stopped tapping his. For a brief moment, it felt like the hearing might actually hold its breath.

Then Sanada looked down his papers again. “Next… I’d like to call Biwa Hayahide.”

A chair creaked. Hayahide rose without hesitation. Her movements were clinical, like she’d already rehearsed the route from her seat to the center of the room. She adjusted her glasses once, then folded her hands in front of her.

“Biwa Hayahide,” she said, her tone even, “Team Astrum. Mid-distance division. Though I ran the Constellation Cup’s dirt leg.”

Sanada nodded, grateful for her calm. “That’s right. You switched divisions for that match. Moved from turf to dirt, something we were told you’d never trained for. Why?”

“It was our trainer’s decision,” she said. “And no one else in Astrum could have prepared for it, especially given the timeframe.”

Hirose leaned forward, elbows on the table. “And you never objected to this decision?”

“I pride myself on being logical,” Hayahide replied. “I saw a practical problem—Astrum having no suitable dirt runners—and sought to provide a solution.”

“That solution being you,” Hirose said.

“Yes.”

“And did it ever occur to you how potentially reckless that decision is?”

Hayahide adjusted her glasses again. “Recklessness implies negligence. What we did was adaptation. Dirt and turf aren’t different worlds, but simply different equations. I only needed to understand the variables.”

“Variables,” Iwami echoed, his mouth twisting. “You sound like Miss Tachyon.”

Tachyon’s glare flicked up, knife-sharp, but Iwami didn’t bother looking her way. He leaned back in his chair, pen twirling between his fingers.

“All right,” he said, voice light but edged, “let’s cut the pretense. You followed a man who lied about who he was. You obeyed every call he made, no questions asked, and you gambled your team’s shot in a major event on his word. Does that sound like logic to you?”

Hayahide’s gaze didn’t waver. “Logic only applies to what you can quantify. But there are variables you can’t put in a spreadsheet. After all, sometimes the thing that keeps you from breaking isn’t rational. Sometimes it’s trust.”

Iwami tilted his head, almost entertained. “Trust, huh? Well forgive me if I don’t mistake sentiment for strategy.”

Her jaw tightened. “It wasn’t sentiment.”

“Oh no?” He straightened, voice sharpening. “Then tell me something, Miss Hayahide—what happened to BNW?”

The name hit the table like a dropped blade.

Rice’s breath caught audibly in the hush that followed. Rudolf’s jaw shifted. Her lips parted before the thought fully formed.

“Excuse me but this line of questioning is not pertinent to—”

“It’s okay.”

Hayahide’s voice cut through with finality.

The room went still with the kind of quiet that came when someone had just stepped off a ledge. Rudolf’s gaze snapped to Iwami, sharp enough to draw blood.

“You are out of line,” she muttered.

Iwami’s mouth curved. “And you are welcome to file that in triplicate.”

He didn’t spare her another glance.

“You were a part of that. Weren’t you, Miss Hayahide? BNW. The golden rival trio. Three prodigies, one dream… But something happened.” He leaned forward now, elbows resting on the folder before him. “And now the whole thing’s gone up in smoke.”

Hayahide’s fingers pressed together at the knuckles.

“The media opted to keep it under wraps from the public. From most of the students here… But what really went down?” Iwami’s voice had lost its theatrical edge now.

Her throat worked once. She looked at the table, then at Iwami.

“You really want to know what happened to BNW?” she said. “Fine… I’ll tell you.”

She paused, just long enough for the board to register that she wasn’t being coerced.

She was choosing this.

“Kyoto happened.”

No preamble, no cushioning.

“It was the Shimbun Hai. Late spring, light headwind down the backstretch. Two thousand two hundred meters on firm turf. Ticket drew an inside post. She settled fourth through the first turn, exactly where she wanted to be. And coming out of the far bend, she made her move. Went three-wide to avoid traffic and accelerated into the gap. For the longest time, it looked textbook… But then her stride shortened.”

Hayahide’s gaze had drifted somewhere past the board, past the walls, tracking a memory no one else could see.

“She went down in the final furlong. She couldn’t get up.”

Mamiya’s pen hovered. Hirose’s expression shifted, something like recognition pulling at the corners of her mouth.

“Was it really career-ending?” Sanada asked.

“Yes.”

Maruzensky went still. A faint grimace caught the corner of her mouth.

“We were all there. Narita Taishin and I. We watched it happen from the sidelines.” Hayahide’s jaw moved, teeth grinding behind closed lips. “Ticket had been complaining about soreness the week before, but said it was manageable… And we believed her. Not because she was right. But because we wanted to. Because if Ticket couldn’t run, then what did that mean for the rest of us?”

Her voice caught on the last word, a hitch so small it might’ve been a breath.

“Taishin blamed herself… She said she should’ve noticed, should’ve pushed harder for Ticket to sit out. While I blamed myself for the opposite. For noticing and saying nothing. And so we tore into each other for weeks after. Every conversation became an accusation. Every silence became proof that we’d failed her…”

Rice’s gaze stayed fixed on the floor.

“Taishin later transferred to a new team,” Hayahide said. “And I stopped racing the way I used to. Every time I approached a turn, I’d start calculating injury vectors instead of optimal lines. I turned myself into a database because numbers don’t collapse like we do. And then my times got worse. My form reports read like I was racing with weights strapped to my legs.”

She looked up. “I was still fast enough to place, but I’d stopped being a racer. Instead I became someone who studied racing from inside a race.”

“And Winning Ticket?” Iwami asked.

“…She withdrew from Tracen shortly after Kyoto. Didn’t tell anyone she was leaving. She just stopped appearing in classes, stopped returning messages. From what I heard, she’d simply gone back to her family.”

The air in the room had thickened, sentences landing heavier now that everyone understood what they were carrying.

Iwami unfolded his hands, let them rest flat on the table. His voice had lost its theatrical edge entirely. “Did Trainer Okano know about any of this?”

“He knew enough.”

“How?”

“He recognized it.” Hayahide’s fingers pressed harder against each other. “During the Constellation Cup, Taishin was there in dirt race alongside me. We both pushed ourselves to our limits… But as we came into the final stretch, I could see her form starting to fracture. Her shoulders were climbing, her stride shortening by centimeters with each step.”

She could still picture it, Taishin’s face half-lost in the kicked-up dirt, jaw locked so tight it looked wired shut.

“I had the kick to pass her. The gap was there. But I knew that if I’d pushed, Taishin would’ve tried to match it. And I knew… I knew that she’d destroy herself if she did… So I held back. I let her take the win. Cost us a race we desperately needed.”

Sanada leaned forward slightly, confusion creasing his forehead. “You’re saying you threw the race.”

“I prevented an injury.” Her voice flattened back into its clinical register. “There’s a difference.”

“Not to a scoreboard,” Iwami said.

“No. But to a trainer who understands what it means to watch someone break.” Hayahide turned her head, finally looking directly at Okano.

“After that race, Sensei pulled me aside as everyone left. I expected him to be furious—I’d just tanked our standing, after all.” Her voice wavered, slipping back into the memory. “And for what? Because I couldn’t stomach letting history repeat itself in front of me?”

Her voice softened.

“Except… he wasn’t angry at all. He told me what I did wasn’t losing… but being human. That I did what I had to do.”

Hirose’s expression had shifted into something unreadable.

“I won’t pretend that that conversation magically fixed me,” Hayahide continued. “But it was perhaps the first time anyone had acknowledged what I was going through. He didn’t try to talk me out of the guilt or tell me Ticket’s injury wasn’t my fault… He gave me permission to trust my instincts again without pretending the fear didn’t exist.”

She hesitated, eyes flicking briefly to her side. “It’s like Tachyon said earlier—he never told us what to be. He just held up a mirror and made us look. Half the time, I’m not even sure he knew what he was seeing… But somehow, that made it easier. Because it meant that he was just trying to understand us.”

Iwami’s gaze drifted toward Okano, stayed there for three long seconds, then returned to Hayahide.

“You said he recognized it—your pain,” Iwami said slowly. “That suggests he’s experienced something similar.”

Hayahide met his stare without flinching. “I don’t know what happened to him, as he’s never told me. But you don’t speak that clearly about grief unless you’ve lived in its walls long enough.”

The room had gone so quiet that the faint hum of the ventilation system became audible.

“So when you ask if he knew about BNW… the answer is that he didn’t need to know the details. He saw what I’d become because of it. And he cared enough to make sure I didn’t stay that way.”

Iwami exhaled through his nose, a sound halfway between acknowledgment and resignation. His fingers drummed once against the table, then went still.

Rudolf’s posture had straightened, her gaze fixed on Hayahide with an expression that might have been respect, or something closer to vindication.

Sanada cleared his throat softly. “Thank you, Miss Hayahide. That’s… more than sufficient.”

Hayahide inclined her head, a fractional nod, then turned and walked back to her seat.

The board had already begun to confer in low, papery whispers. Mamiya leaned toward Iwami, voice pitched just above breath. Sanada skimmed his notes again. Hirose massaged the bridge of her nose.

Across the table, Rudolf hadn’t moved. Her eyes stayed on Okano, steady and unreadable, then shifted to the line of girls behind him—six faces drawn tight, waiting for a verdict none of them could influence.

Iwami spoke first, voice calm. “Okay—I think we’ve heard all we needed to hear. Safe to say we’ve gathered enough testimony to proceed straight to deliberation.”

“Are you certain?” Rudolf asked, her tone level but carrying a hint of surprise. “We’ve still yet to hear from the rest of Astrum. There are still testimonies to consider.”

Sanada looked up. “With respect, President, we’re not here to take statements from every single member here. I think we’ve taken up too much of their time already.”

“I agree,” Hirose said, tone clipped. “Between four statements and the accused’s silence, further testimony would only be redundant.”

Rudolf’s gaze drifted to the row of students. Bakushin O’s hands folded too tightly, Tachyon’s posture brittle with restraint, Gold Ship’s expression fixed somewhere between defiance and dread. Okano meanwhile sat motionless beside them, head bowed as if bracing for impact.

She made her decision.

Sanada straightened, ready to close the file. “All right… I believe the board has reached a consensus—sans Akikawa-san, unfortunately. If there are no further objections—”

“Wait.”

The word came soft but absolute.

Rudolf rose, the legs of her chair barely whispering against the floor.

“Is something wrong, President?” Sanada asked, wary.

“Before you draw any conclusions,” she said, “there’s one more thing I’d like this board to review.”

She reached for the portfolio by her elbow, the same one she’d placed there earlier. The clasp snapped open again, and she drew out the folder.

岡野 和也
Okano, Kazuya

The paper edges were crisp, new… at least on the outside.

Rudolf crossed the room with unhurried precision. She placed the folder in front of Sanada, her hand still resting lightly on its cover.

“I’d like you to go over his file once more,” she said evenly. “See if there’s anything you may have missed.”

Sanada blinked. “Trainer Okano’s file…? W-with all due respect, President, this is all irrelevant. We’ve already confirmed these documents were falsified.”

Rudolf’s mouth curved, barely a movement.

“Check again.” She nodded.

Iwami sighed. He grabbed the folder and flipped it open, half-expecting a bureaucratic rerun.

But the first sheet stopped him cold.

The paper was old—edges yellowed, the texture soft with decades of aging.

His eyes flicked to the name typed across the top line.

And Iwami’s voice came out quieter than it had been all morning.

“Katsuaki… Itonaga?”