The Mejiro ballroom sparkled like a jewel box in motion — laughter, the glide of gowns, and the clinking of fine glass filled the air. Yet amid all this refined elegance, there was, inevitably, a storm brewing.
That storm had a name.
"Heh… heh… perfect opportunity…" Gold Ship whispered to herself as she crouched beneath the grand refreshment table, her mischievous grin illuminated faintly by the glow of the crystal punch bowl above her head. With exaggerated stealth, she produced a tiny flask, raising it high like a relic of doom.
"Oh no," Mischa muttered from across the room the instant he spotted her, his thick accent almost groaning the words out. "Za gremlin is at it again."
Sure enough, Gold Ship climbed halfway onto the table, preparing to tip her flask into the ruby-red punch. Her tongue stuck out in concentration.
"Now the party will really start—"
Clink!
The flask slipped from her fingers, bouncing harmlessly off the side of the bowl and tumbling into the tablecloth where it rolled… straight into the waiting palm of Mischa.
"Nyet." He pocketed it with the patience of a saint, grabbing Gold Ship by the collar as she flailed in indignation.
"Oi! You're ruining my masterpiece!" she yelped, arms flapping like a caught bird. "Do you know how boring noble parties get without chaos?!"
"You already are enough chaos… plus the bossman would actually be mad this time if I just let you" Mischa sighed, depositing her firmly back onto the ground. But the sparkle in her golden eyes wasn't gone — oh no, it had simply redirected.
Minutes later, a ripple of confusion spread across the ballroom. Nobles seated for the banquet found themselves in utterly mismatched groups — dignified grandees squashed between giddy younger debutantes, rival families forced elbow-to-elbow, a famously humorless baron seated beside Mayano Top Gun, who was in the middle of trying to explain how to pull off a "cool fighter pilot entrance."
Gold Ship had struck again.
"Perfect…" she muttered from behind a pillar, stifling a cackle.
Meanwhile, Mischa had his hands full with another ticking disaster.
"Ohoho!" Mayano Top Gun declared, puffing her chest in her flashy uniform. She stood toe-to-toe with Symboli Rudolf herself, finger pointing dramatically. "General! I challenge you — to an elegance contest!"
Rudolf blinked. Slowly. "…An elegance contest?"
"Yes! Who can stand the tallest, stride the proudest, and sparkle the brightest before the crowd!" Mayano struck a pose, one leg out, cape fluttering, which really was just Akuma's coat she stole, eyes blazing with childish determination.
Before Rudolf could even part her lips, Mischa practically lunged forward, scooping Mayano up under one arm like luggage. "Nyet! No duel with za Emperor! We leave, now."
"Hey! Put me down! I had the perfect speech prepared!" Mayano kicked her legs, her voice echoing across the ballroom as Mischa dragged her away like a father hauling his unruly daughter out of a candy shop.
Rudolf merely shook her head, though the faintest trace of amusement tugged at her lips.
At the same time, Special Week had found herself chatting eagerly with Opera, who was resplendent in her flowing crimson gown, dramatic movements punctuating every word.
"Your stride, your presence — ah, they call to me!" Opera declared, grasping Week's hands suddenly. "You were born not only to race, but to perform! Imagine it, Special Week: the stage, the lights, the curtain rising — and you, standing there as the heroine of my next act!"
"Ehh?!" Week squeaked, ears flicking back in panic. "M-me, acting?! B-but I can barely practice lines, I always mess them up—"
Opera leaned in closer, her violet eyes shining with intensity. "That is what makes you authentic! The world will love you for your sincerity!"
Week flapped her hands helplessly, her face flushed with both embarrassment and dread. "But I just wanted to talk about races!"
"Races are but one stage!" Opera spread her arms wide, as though addressing the entire ballroom. "The world itself is your audience, Special Week!"
Before Week could faint on the spot, McQueen appeared, gliding in like a lifeline cloaked in lavender silk. "Opera," she said smoothly, slipping between them, "surely you wouldn't monopolize my stablemate all evening?"
Opera paused, then chuckled grandly, bowing her head. "Ah, Mejiro McQueen, a rival worthy of her own curtain call! Very well — I shall allow her to bask in your company instead… for now." With a final flourish, she swept away dramatically, leaving Week to collapse against McQueen's shoulder with a sigh of relief.
McQueen, hiding her amusement, gently patted her back. "You attract trouble as much as Gold Ship, it seems."
"Uuuu…" Week groaned. "I just wanted to talk about training…"
McQueen smiled softly, a rare tenderness flashing in her eyes. "Don't worry. I'll shield you from any more of the troublemakers tonight."
The two shared a small laugh — quieter, warmer than the cacophony around them.
Amid the swirl of music and nobles, Lucien's smooth laugh cut through, calm yet sharp, like the swish of a rapier blade. He approached Akuma with glass in hand, Rudolf and Opera nearby as if standing guard.
"Bonsoir, mon rival," Lucien greeted with his trademark politeness, his golden hair shimmering under the chandeliers. "It seems your return has drawn as much attention as the racing itself."
Akuma smirked faintly, not bothering to lift his glass. "Attention's cheap. What matters is results."
Lucien's smile didn't falter, but his eyes narrowed just slightly — the only betrayal of his competitive spirit. "Ah, yes… results. Though if I recall, my team has already carved its name into history. Symboli Rudolf, Tokai Teio, and of course, Nice Nature — each already legends or well on their way." He motioned gracefully toward them.
"Legends, sure," Akuma replied with a shrug, "but the story isn't over yet. McQueen's just starting to shine, Special Week's fire burns hotter than anyone, and Tachyon—" He glanced at the scientist lingering nearby with her faintly amused smirk. "—her potential hasn't even been fully tapped. You might be holding the crown, Lucien, but I'll be the one wearing it soon enough."
Lucien chuckled, sipping his wine. "Such bravado. Tell me, Akuma, do you intend to train them, or merely cheerlead their spirits?"
Akuma leaned forward slightly, grin widening. "Says the guy who hides behind Rudolf's shadow whenever he needs gravitas. Tell me, Lucien, do you train them, or just polish their trophies?"
A small crowd began to gather, whispering, unsure if the two were exchanging compliments or preparing for a fight.
Lucien raised his brow elegantly, voice honeyed but firm. "Face it, mon ami — your team is impressive, but mine has already proved itself."
"Then wait," Akuma countered, folding his arms with smug satisfaction. "Because when my beloved family runs… that's when you'll see proof."
For a moment, silence lingered between them. Then, Lucien's lips curved into a smile, Akuma's grin mirroring his — two wolves circling, teeth hidden but gleaming.
And just like that, they both chuckled — the tension dissolving into something almost childish, the kind of rivalry too deeply rooted to be broken by simple words.