The room was silent.
Too silent.
McQueen sat stiffly in her chair, her hands folded neatly on her lap, her gaze fixed on the floor. Not once did she look at him. Not once since the argument.
Akuma leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes closed. He wasn't asleep. He wasn't even resting. His mind was spinning too much for that. His chest felt heavy with every tick of the clock, every breath that echoed too loudly in the waiting room.
Special Week, ever the optimist, tried. She bounced lightly on her heels, her voice higher than usual as she hummed a little tune. When the tune didn't ease the tension, she tried small chatter—weather, the track conditions, how the crowd outside was so lively. None of it worked.
The atmosphere between Akuma and McQueen was like a taut rope ready to snap.
But Akuma's eyes weren't on her.
They drifted instead to the other side of the room, where another group was gathered.
Lucien.
Of course.
The Frenchman's smirk was impossible to miss, like he was born to taunt without saying a word. He leaned casually against the wall, scarf tied perfectly, posture flawless, eyes gleaming like he already knew the ending to today's race.
When their gazes met, Lucien raised a hand and waved like they were old school friends spotting each other across the street. Carefree. Infuriating.
Teio was at his side, bouncing with nervous excitement, throwing both arms up when she noticed Akuma watching. "Akuma-sensei!" she called brightly before McQueen's icy glare cut her off.
And then… her.
Machan.
Her chestnut hair was tied neatly, her red dress crisp, but her smile—Akuma knew it was fake. A mask. He'd seen her true smile once, long ago, and what she wore now wasn't it. She lifted a hand in a timid wave, her lips curving upward, but her eyes… her eyes were clouded, heavy, the fire inside dimmed almost to embers.
Akuma's heart clenched.
He looked away, jaw tightening.
Beside him, McQueen finally raised her head. She had seen it too. Machan's mask. The pain. And instead of pity, McQueen's eyes hardened. Determination flared there, sharp as ice. She would not allow Akuma to see only despair today. She would not allow Machan's false smile to be the one that defined this race.
She would win.
For him.
Akuma exhaled slowly, dragging himself from his thoughts. He stepped forward, stopping in front of McQueen and Special Week. They both looked up at him.
His hand moved—gently, surprisingly soft for someone with his expression—and pressed against their foreheads.
"You two…" his voice was low, strained, but steady. "Run with all you've got. Run because you can."
He forced a smile—small, tired, but real. A smile for them alone. Then he stepped back, thumb raised in wordless encouragement, before turning to leave with the other trainers.
The door clicked behind him.
Lucien, naturally, matched his pace in the hall. Arm snaking around his shoulders as if no years of bitterness had passed.
"Mon ami!" Lucien's voice was silk and honey, filled with theatrical joy. "It warms my heart to see you once more in the thick of it. Ah, how I missed this—the tension, the anticipation, the scent of dreams about to clash, eh?"
Akuma didn't answer. His eyes stayed forward, jaw set tight.
Lucien chuckled, leaning in closer. "Teio is très excitée. She told me this morning she cannot wait to defeat your McQueen on the stage she adores. Imagine, to win here, with you watching… ah, what a gift she wants to give me."
Still silence.
"And Machan…" Lucien's tone softened, though it was no comfort. "She begged me to let her run today. Do you know why? Because she heard you would be here. She wanted you to see her shine again, to remind you that she has not forgotten the fire you gave her. Mon ami, this is for you!"
Akuma's hand twitched, his nails digging into his palm. He said nothing.
By the time they reached the stands, Lucien was still smiling. Always smiling.
Adalbert and Mischa were already there, waving casually. Lucien returned it with a flourish, while Akuma only offered a curt nod before seating himself beside Oguri Cap. She was silent as ever, a plate of snacks balanced neatly on her lap, eating slowly, her expression unreadable. Tachyon sat on the other side, crimson eyes flicking curiously between the two men.
Lucien leaned back, smirk wide as he glanced at Oguri. "Hoho… I did not know you poached the ghost, mon ami," he teased. "Tell me, will she devour the track as she devours the food, hm?"
Akuma's glare cut into him, sharp and unblinking.
Lucien lifted both hands in mock surrender, chuckling. "Non, non, no anger. I am only teasing." His eyes slid back toward the course, his voice dropping to a whisper just loud enough for Akuma to hear. "But truly… Machan's suffering ends today."
The words made Akuma's blood run cold. He didn't answer—not yet. But his frown deepened, the muscle in his jaw twitching.
And then—
The announcer's voice thundered to life over the speakers, echoing across Nakayama.
"Ladies and gentlemen—welcome to the Satsuki Sho!"
The roar of the crowd surged in response, a tidal wave of voices and cheers shaking the very stands. The spring sun blazed overhead, the fresh green of the turf glowing as if painted for this day alone.
Akuma's hands tightened on the railing.
Lucien's smirk only grew wider.
And below, in the paddock, McQueen, Teio, Special Week, and Machan stepped forward toward the starting gates—each carrying a story, each carrying a dream.
The gates clanged open.
The race began.