Logan still remembered it, clear as if it had happened yesterday. The memory never dulled. Playing on repeat in his sleep, ambushing him even with open eyes. The day one choice shattered everything.
The office had been dimly lit, the overhead amber bulbs casting the room in a sickly glow. Papers and folders lay strewn across the tile, soaked and spattered in blood. Crimson streaked the walls in jagged lines, dotted with fragments of bone and clumps of hair, like some grotesque mural.
Logan's breath had come ragged, chest heaving, eyes wild with adrenaline. His teeth ground together as he stood over the body. Face pulped beyond recognition, blood pooling outward in a spreading stain. In his hand, the crystal pyramid-shaped trophy dripped red, its steel base studded with broken teeth. Sweat rolled down his neck, cutting tracks through the blood smeared across his skin. His shirt and trousers were soaked through, dyed scarlet.
He remembered the lead-up with perfect clarity. The door slamming open. The shouting, the accusations, his own fury boiling over. His fists gripping that bastard's collar. The sneering reply. Cocky, remorseless, and that smirk. That cruel, untouchable smirk, knowing he was protected by the people at the top. And then, in one violent instant, whatever restraint Logan had within him shattered like glass.
The sound of bone crunching still echoed in his ears.
It wasn't until the scream tore through the haze that reality crashed down. Logan's head snapped toward the door. A woman stood there, pale as death, her hand clamped over her mouth. She stared at him, eyes wide with horror, then turned and fled.
The weight of the trophy suddenly dragged at his arm. His grip slackened, the blood-slicked award slipping from his hand and thudding into the gore-stained floor.
That was the day. Twelve years ago. The day everything ended.
****
The warm, familiar scent of roasted beans hung in the air like perfume, mingling with the hiss of steam and the frothing swirl of milk from the steel spout. Conversations hummed low around the room, uma and human voices blending into a gentle chorus. Rococo—the little café tucked in the heart of Kuramae—had built its reputation on more than coffee. Locals swore by it, URA enthusiasts flocked in hopes of glimpsing their favorite umas, and Tracen students made it their haunt for unwinding, gossip, or catching up on homework. Most famous among its regulars was Manhattan Café herself, whose fondness for Rococo's brews had become the stuff of quiet legend.
The café was spacious yet intimate, large enough to breathe but small enough to feel personal. About twenty tables filled the floor, framed by tall glass walls that invited in the morning light. Warm wooden panels lined the interior, softened by beige tiles underfoot, while shelves and corners held trinkets and ornaments. Remnants of another era carefully preserved. Paintings hung between them, subtle strokes of color adding life to the space.
Most striking of all was the wall of fame: framed photographs of legendary umas, each one marked with an autograph. Symboli Rudolf, Maruzensky, Air Groove, and many more stared proudly from their places of honor. Over two dozen in all, spanning the early days of the URA to its modern champions, a silent gallery that gave the café its quiet reverence.
Behind the counter, Saburo worked with practiced ease. His long gray hair was tied into a high ponytail, a Donnavan-style beard framing a face lined by years but still sharp at the edges. The turquoise Hawaiian shirt stretched over his broad, weathered frame, palm trees and uma cleats dancing across the fabric, sand-colored slacks and polished loafers completing his eccentric uniform. A green apron hung loose over it all, spotted faintly with coffee stains, lived-in but well cared for.
He tipped the steaming jug with steady hands, coaxing a leaf from the milk across the dark surface of a wide cup. Satisfied, he set the saucer down on the polished wooden counter, rang the brass bell with a flick of his wrist, and raised his voice.
"Order up!"
A young salaryman in a pressed suit stepped forward, bowing slightly as he collected his drink. Saburo answered with a two-fingered salute and a quick wink, the corner of his mouth tugging into a grin before he turned back to his machine.
The morning rush pressed harder than usual, though nothing Saburo hadn't seen before. The working crowd filed in for their daily fix, lining up for coffee and the comfort of pastries to steel themselves against endless hours at a desk. For many, he knew, this cup would be the only real meal of their day. Saburo only shook his head at the thought. Young lives drained away under fluorescent lights, fingers hammering plastic keys, buried in paper while bosses perched above them offering nothing but criticism and empty authority.
The grinder roared to life. Beans crushed into a familiar grit. Saburo filled the portafilter, tamped it flat, and locked it into the machine with the ease of long habit. The steam hissed, a sound he'd long since folded into his own rhythm.
He had never been built for that kind of grind. Not the office grind, not even the predictable march of an ordinary life. His path had never been straight nor narrow, and his body still carried the proof of it, scars etched deep into flesh and memory alike. For a moment, his gaze drifted to the framed photograph by the register: his wife, their children, the grandchildren smiling in the sunlight. A warmth stirred in his chest, and he let himself smile back.
It was a life he shouldn't have had. Not if he'd stayed on the path behind him. A life won only because he'd found the courage, all those years ago, to turn away.
The bell above the door chimed, and Saburo glanced up. "Morning, good—" The greeting caught in his throat. Logan stepped in, hands buried in his coat pockets, fresh bruises shadowing his face.
"Shit," Saburo muttered, folding his arms, eyes narrowing. "Nishi and his boys worked you over, huh?"
Logan slid onto one of the bar stools at the counter, lifting his gaze. His dark eyes met Saburo's without flinching. "Yeah," he said flatly. A pause. "So did I."
Saburo exhaled, shaking his head. "You know they won't quit, right?" He reached for a porcelain mug, filled it with black coffee, and set it down in front of Logan. Steam curled upward in thin wisps. "Nishi might only have two brain cells to his name, but he's persistent. Always has been."
Logan's hand wrapped around the mug, the silence stretching.
Saburo leaned in across the counter. "Can't say I blame them, though. Not when they know who you are." His gaze fixed hard on Logan. "Youngest national trainer in the States. Dozens of Triple Crown winners under your belt, titles from every major circuit worth a damn. Over a thousand wins, shelves full of trophies, awards, magazine spreads."
He rubbed the back of his neck, almost sheepish. "They called you the Hand of God. Every uma you trained turned into a champion. Even the URA wanted you. Tracen fought tooth and nail to bring you in. But you kept turning them down."
Logan said nothing. His eyes drifted to the coffee, black and still as tar. He lifted the mug slowly, his silence stretching until it broke on a low murmur.
"That was a lifetime ago," he said, taking a sip. The bitterness lingered on his tongue, but it wasn't the coffee. "I've made peace with the past." His gaze stayed fixed on the cup. "And I'm never going back."
Saburo's gaze softened. "It's never too late, you know. Whatever happened, you're still a licensed trainer. Suspension's long expired." He pressed his palms flat against the counter, leaning forward. "I've been inside, more than once. I was young, reckless, and I paid my debts. But let's get one thing straight: you're nothing like me."
Logan's eyes lifted, dark and guarded.
"I did terrible things," Saburo went on. "For money. For fame. For power." His words steadied. "But you? You did what you had to do. To protect the only person that mattered. The world can call you cold blooded, whatever it wants. But as a father—" his words roughened, "as a grandfather, I'd say bravo any day. And judging by the sentence you walked away with, I'd say the jury agreed."
"Saburo." Logan's tone was sharp, final. "I appreciate everything you've done for me. More than I'll ever say." His expression hardened, steel behind the words. "But stay out of my personal affairs."
Saburo straightened, folding his arms with a weary shake of the head. "I'd call you stubborn, but we both know I'd be wasting breath." His eyes softened again. "I'm not prying. I'm just asking you to try. Not for yourself… for her."
Logan took another long pull of coffee, set the mug down, and rose from the stool. "It's been twelve years," he said flatly. "She won't even remember me." He turned his back on Saburo as he started toward the door at the back of the counter. "And I'm content watching from afar."
"So that's it?" Saburo arched a brow. "Drifting like a ghost, pickling yourself in convenience store sake, betting on back-alley races? That's not a life, Logan."
Logan paused mid-step. "…It is for me." His hand closed on the polished brass of the back door. "I'm turning in."
"She came looking for you again."
Logan froze.
Saburo's voice carried low across the café. "Your blonde uma student from the States. Turned a few heads when she walked in, people whispering. What's the ten-time Crown winner doing here? Just saying. You can't dodge her forever."
Logan's eyes narrowed, his shoulders stiff. For a moment, the mask slipped, regret flickered in his gaze, the faintest tremor in his breath. Then it was gone. He pulled the door open and stepped through, shutting it firmly behind him.
The old man exhaled, only to notice a young man in glasses still staring at the door, finger raised in disbelief.
"Master," the boy stammered. "That was… Logan Deschain, wasn't it?"
Saburo's face went solemn. "Sorry, kid. You must have him confused with someone else."
****
The whitewashed halls of Moonstride Medical Center, Japan's premier hospital for umas, had become a second home to Dahlia. The place was sterile to its bones: alabaster walls stretching endlessly, polished tiles reflecting the rhythm of shoes and loafers tapping by, the steady chorus of beeps and voices from the overhead speakers calling out names of patients and staff. The air carried the sharp tang of disinfectant, medicine, and cold metal. A smell so constant it clung like a second skin.
Dahlia sat slouched in one of the waiting chairs along the wall, her tail flicking idly, ears twitching at every sound. Her dark eyes drifted over the figures that passed by. Umas in hospital gowns, some hobbling with casts and crutches, others with arms in slings, still others trailing IV stands like reluctant companions.
Her fingers twiddled in her lap, restless. The leather of her black jacket creaked as she shifted, stretched tight over a yellow shirt and black jeans. Her boots caught the pale fluorescent light, their shine too stark for a place so drained of color.
Then the chatter of children reached her, soft and bright. She looked up. Young umas with wide eyes and easy smiles, even here, even now. For a moment, her gaze softened. Their laughter tugged at something inside her, pulling loose a memory of the early days, when Scarlet had first been wheeled through these same halls.
She could still see her sister's pale face, the tight grip of her fingers around Dahlia's hand. The way Scarlet tried to hide her fear with a brave smile, whispering that this was just a 'setback.' Doctors spoke of rehabilitation, of treatments, of possibilities that now sounded like false hope dressed in white coats. Dahlia had clung to every word, desperate to believe them.
The days bled into weeks, then seasons, and with each turn the promises and silver linings wore thin. Hope gave way to the slow, grinding weight of reality. Dahlia watched it happen in real time. The light dimming in Scarlet's eyes with every grim diagnosis, every new revelation that chipped away at what she had left. It was like watching her sister die in pieces, her body alive but her spirit breaking inch by inch.
Their father's outbursts only deepened the wounds, his rage filling the sterile halls until it drove away what little comfort remained. One by one, the doctors began to vanish. Some bowing out of fear, others with weary resignation, until all that was left was silence, despair, and the echo of promises that would never be kept.
Now, sitting in the same corridor years later, that memory hurt more than it comforted. The laughter of the children no longer lifted her, it only stung. A cruel reminder of what Scarlet had lost, and what Dahlia had never been able to give back.
The office door creaked open, drawing Dahlia's attention. A nurse stepped out, wheeling Scarlet into the hallway. Dahlia rose quickly from her seat.
"Miss Dahlia," the nurse said gently, though there was a tired weight in her kind eyes. "Doctor Grace would like a word with you."
"Oh." Dahlia blinked, then nodded, her chest tightening.
The nurse glanced down at Scarlet. Her eyes, dull as glass, stared forward without a flicker, her body still in the chair. "I'll take her to the gardens for a while. You can find us when you're finished."
Dahlia crouched beside her sister, forcing a small smile. She brushed Scarlet's hair back and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "I'll see you soon, sis."
There was no response. Only silence.
Dahlia's gaze lingered a moment longer before she straightened. The nurse wheeled Scarlet down the corridor, their figures fading into the pale light at the end of the hall.
Alone again, Dahlia drew a slow breath, steeling herself, and stepped into the office.
The office was small, white, and sterile, its walls lined with shelves stacked neatly with medical supplies. Certificates and awards framed in polished wood hung alongside photographs of smiling family members, their warmth at odds with the chill of the room.
Behind the desk sat an uma whose presence immediately drew the eye. Her long, straight hair shimmered with the soft hue of cherry blossom pink, a white flame-shaped mark standing stark on her forehead. Golden amber eyes peered out from behind square glasses, sharp yet dulled by fatigue, the bags beneath them betraying long hours. Her pink ears twitched idly, her tail flicking once as she adjusted her coat over a black shirt and slacks.
Dahlia knew her by reputation alone: Doctor Shingetsu Grace. A former Triple Tiara winner who had stunned the racing world when she abandoned the Twinkle Series at her peak to pursue medicine. Years later, she had become one of Japan's foremost specialists in uma care. A legend in both worlds.
Grace's fingers tapped softly against the keyboard. Her gaze fixed on the glowing screen. After a moment, she stopped, closing the laptop halfway before turning toward the girl across the desk.
"Ah, Dahlia," she said, gesturing to the chair opposite her. "Please, sit."
Dahlia slipped into the seat, her leather jacket creaking as she settled. Grace studied her a moment, one brow rising.
"You alright?" the doctor asked. "You look like you haven't had a proper night's sleep in weeks."
"I'm fine," Dahlia replied quickly. "What's this about? Is something wrong with Scarlet?"
Grace shifted in her chair, squaring herself toward her. She clasped her hands, fingers steepling beneath her chin, and gave Dahlia a measured look.
"Her evaluations came back clean. Physically, she's stable," she said. Then her tone dipped. "But psychologically? That's another story. Tell me, when was the last time she spoke to you?"
Dahlia's eyes widened, then dropped to the desk between them. "Honestly… I can't remember. But she's doing fine otherwise. I mean, she can move around, eat, dress herself, sleep—"
"Dahlia," Grace interrupted, firm but not unkind. "You know that's not what I meant."
Dahlia faltered, lips pressing together.
Grace pushed up her glasses, her expression softening but not relenting. "This isn't the first case like Scarlet's I've handled. She's showing clear signs of disassociation, indifference. It's only a matter of time before she slips further… until she gives up entirely."
Dahlia opened her mouth to argue, but Grace raised a hand.
"And before you say it—yes, I know what it means for an uma to lose her legs. To be told she'll never run again." Grace's words lowered, steady and precise. "It's like clipping a bird's wings. But Scarlet isn't a bird. She's more than that." She leaned forward, eyes holding Dahlia's. "She needs help. Real help. Beyond my expertise. I can recommend colleagues. Specialists in uma psychology."
Dahlia recoiled, disbelief flashing across her face. "Psychology?" Her voice sharpened. "Doctor, Scarlet isn't crazy. She doesn't need a shrink!"
Grace didn't flinch. Her amber eyes hardened behind the lenses of her glasses.
"This goes beyond the childish labels of 'crazy' or 'insane,'" Grace said. "The mind is more fragile than bone, more complicated than flesh. You can splint a leg or stitch a wound, but when the mind fractures, if it's left untended, the person ceases to exist long before their body does."
Dahlia stiffened, but Grace pressed on.
"As I said, I've seen this pattern far too many times to count. Some worse than Scarlet's. And it always plays the same way: an uma loses what defines her, and piece by piece she unravels. First the silence. Then the apathy. Then, one day she simply stops fighting." Grace's gaze hardened. "And when that happens. When she finally shuts off, you won't like what you'll find."
"I've had families who thought they were prepared, who thought love alone would be enough. And then the day comes, and all that's left are their screams in the hallway." She adjusted her glasses. "Those cries don't fade, Dahlia. They stay with you, just as they'll stay with me until the day I die."
Her words sliced through the sterile air, leaving no refuge for comfort. A chill coursed down Dahlia's spine, the weight of the implication settling like ice in her bone.
"You can keep telling yourself she's fine but routine isn't life. It's the outline of a life hollowing out. Left unchecked, this is how people vanish." Grace leaned back in her chair. "So yes, Scarlet needs help. A shrink, a therapist, a specialist. Call it whatever you want. Without it, all you'll be left with is the memory of who she was. And you won't get her back."
Dahlia's jaw locked so tight it ached, her fingers digging crescents into the armrests. She forced her head up. "What about that procedure? The one you mentioned months ago?"
Grace let out a long, weary breath, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose before gesturing sharply with her hand. "Dahlia, we've been over this. It's experimental. Most of the techniques are still in early trials. We're talking months, possibly years before clinical approval." She cut in again, her tone unflinching. "And even if it reached that point, the cost would be staggering. Six, maybe seven figures. More than most could dream of affording."
The words barely left her lips before Dahlia's hands slammed against the desk, rattling pens and paper. She shot to her feet, eyes burning. "I don't care!" The cry cracked in her throat. "I want Scarlet to have that procedure. I'll find the money, I'll work myself to the bone, I'll sell what little I have. Whatever it takes!"
Grace only raised her palms in a quiet appeal. "Dahlia, listen. I understand what you're—"
"No, you don't!" Dahlia broke, her head bowing as tears spilled onto the desk in sharp drops. "Nobody does." Her shoulders shook. "Scarlet had everything. She had a future… she was going to be a champion, a star."
A sob tore free before she could stop it. "It should have been me. I should be the one in that chair, not her!" Her teeth sank into her lip until the copper sting of blood filled her mouth. "And the worst part? Everyone knows it." Her words shook. "I've seen the comments online. I've heard the whispers when they think I can't. The media, the neighbors, the fans…" Her ears splayed flat. Arms wrapped tight around herself, as though trying to hold together what little was left. Her eyes burned. "Even my own damned father."
There was a silence between them filled only by the soft ticking of the white clock on the wall. Grace lifted herself off the chair, rounded the table. Dahlia turned to face her but before she could react, she felt the doctor's arms wrap around her in a soft embrace. She tensed before easing into her.
"I know it feels impossible right now," Grace said evenly. "Like the world is pressing down on you, like you're being crushed under a weight you didn't choose. But don't fool yourself into believing you don't matter."
Her gaze locked onto Dahlia's, sharp yet steady. "Terrible things happen. Fate doesn't sift through lives and decide who deserves triumph or tragedy. It isn't fair, and it isn't logical. We chase reasons, we imagine trades, we ask why them and not us. But none of it changes the truth. What's done is done. We can't change the past. The only thing we can do is stand firm, and stand for those who can't."
Dahlia's head dipped, tears streaking down her cheeks, her shoulders trembling.
"I'm not telling you to abandon the procedure," Grace went on, her tone softening as she let Dahlia go and took a step back. "But we take this one step at a time. Let's focus on what we can do for Scarlet now, not on what we can't yet reach. Do you understand?"
Dahlia's lips pressed into a thin line as she gave a small nod, lifting her sleeve to wipe the wet streaks from her cheeks. She drew in a breath that shuddered on the way out. "Okay…"
Grace shifted her weight, one hand resting on her hip. "Good. I'll speak with my colleagues, see if they can slot Scarlet in for a session in the coming weeks."
Dahlia's fingers curled into fists against her thighs, her jaw tightening until it hurt. She despised this feeling. Helpless, cornered, as though every path forward was barricaded by a world determined to remind her of her powerlessness. First her own dreams shattered, and now Scarlet's future left hanging on treatments she couldn't afford, and therapies that might never come soon enough.
And yet… beneath her fury, a shard of truth from Grace's words remained lodged in her chest. For now, they had to fight the battles they could fight. Scarlet needed her present, not her rage at the impossible. It would be a long road. Merciless, uneven, but Dahlia resolved, with every last ounce of strength she had, to walk it beside her sister.
****
The sun dipped low beyond the horizon, bleeding fire across the evening sky as the first timid stars emerged against the darkening blue. Adachi's streets stretched ahead of them, worn but stubbornly alive. Battered asphalt, crooked signs, and narrow alleys filled with bicycles and the shuffle of tired feet. The smell of exhaust and dust clung to the air, sharp and unrelenting. To Dahlia, it was a far cry from Akasaka, the home they once knew, and the weight of that fall pressed heavy in her chest as she guided Scarlet's wheelchair over the cracks in the pavement.
There had been a time, not so long ago, when their lives looked almost charmed. Even before their mother passed, their father had stood tall at Tracen, one of the academy's most respected trainers, a man whose name carried weight and reputation. Their mother had been his crowning proof, a former champion who laughed about how their story could have been pulled straight from the pages of a manga: the trainer and his brightest pupil falling in love, building a family, raising daughters with every expectation of a future that shone.
They were never wealthy, not extravagantly, but comfortable, secure, with dreams that felt reachable. Back then, Dahlia's decision to work deliveries had been her own choice, a way to escape the stifling walls while her father and Scarlet chased the roar of the turf.
Dahlia's jaw tightened as she brushed her fingers through Scarlet's scarlet strands, guiding her around a corner. After his disappearance, the debts came fast, the collectors faster. The bank took their luxuries, then their home, the last proof of a family that had once been whole. What was left of their survival came not from him, not from the man who should have stood by them, but from the mercy of strangers. Dahlia would never forgive him for that. Abandoning them when they needed him most, leaving his daughters to claw their way through the wreckage he'd helped create.
"Hey," Dahlia leaned closer, her tail flicking as she kept the chair rolling down the cracked road. "I've been thinking. How about we take a trip to Yamagata? You always loved the flowers there, remember? All those colors, like the world painted itself just for you."
Silence. Scarlet sat unmoving, her gaze fixed ahead, glassy and distant.
Dahlia forced a shrug. "I can still picture it. The way your ears perked when the petals started falling. Mom would sing to us under those trees, strumming that old guitar. She had that smile… even when times were rough, she always wore it. Like nothing could break her." Her words thinned, wavering at the edges. "Every time I came home after another loss, she'd make honey syrup for me, said it'd sweeten the sting. I can still remember the smell of her hair. Always said it smelled of the summer sun."
The memory caught in her throat, her attempted smile faltering. Scarlet gave no answer. No movement, no flicker of life in her expression. Only the quiet weight of absence pressing back.
"Yeah," Dahlia exhaled, the sound flat as they reached the apartment complex. Its concrete walls were faded and blotched with age, cracks spiderwebbing across the pillars and tiles like scars left too long unattended. She gave a hollow chuckle, shaking her head. "Good talk, sis."
****
"So, you're telling me that anyone." Dahlia waved the honey soda in her hand, her ears pricked and tail flicking with disbelief. "Anyone can just sign up as a racer in the MRA?"
Daichi nearly jumped, his gaze darting toward a pair of customers lingering by the shelves. "Shhh! Are you trying to get us both thrown in jail?" he hissed, pressing a finger to his lips before leaning across the counter. "And if you must know, yeah. New racers pop up every day. But just like the URA, most don't last. Only here… it's not bad grades or broken bones that cut you out. These races eat people alive."
His expression hardened. "And the worst part? They feed on the carnage. Full-on collisions, bodies skidding across asphalt, crashes that leave bones sticking out where they shouldn't. The bigger the bail, the bloodier the fall, the more spectacular the wipeout, the more views it racks up. They'll cheer louder for a wreck than the umas at the Arima Kinen."
Dahlia rolled her eyes, her gaze flicking to the clock on the wall ticking past eight as she leaned against the counter, her black guitar case propped at her side. She dragged from the straw of her soda. "Yeah, yeah, I get the risk part. But what about the payout? I'm guessing the girls don't run for free. They get their cut of the pool, right?"
Daichi blinked, then balked. "Obviously, but wait." His eyes widened. "You're not actually thinking of—"
"N-No!" Dahlia's ears shot up, tail twitching. She looked away too quickly. "I mean… I've thought about it."
"Dahlia," Daichi muttered, scanning her with disbelief. A salaryman shuffled up with a pack of chips. He scanned it, watched the man tap his card, offered a mechanical smile and wave, then returned his gaze to her, harder now. "You don't want any part of this. Trust me."
Dahlia scoffed. "I'm an adult, Daichi. I don't need you babysitting me—"
"You don't get it," Daichi snapped. "This isn't some happy little jog in frilly skirts and heels where the worst you risk is pulling a muscle before stepping onstage for the cute song-and-dance routine."
"Really?" Dahlia shot back, eyes narrowing. "Because from what I've seen, those girls out there don't look that different. Swap sequins for leather and neon for black, and it's the same thing."
Daichi leaned across the counter. "That's not the point. Out there, it's carnage. Those girls make the Japan Cup look like recess. URA races have rules, refs, medics ready to scoop you up if you go down." He sliced the air with his hand. "On the street? Rules aren't rules. They're guidelines at best, suggestions at worst. Nobody cares. Crashes, pileups, cops itching to drag you off in cuffs, traffic that doesn't stop just because you're fast—" He bit back the rest, jaw locking tight.
His eyes met hers, dark and unflinching. "It's not racing, Dahlia. It's survival. And I'm not about to watch you become just another name in a betting pool's obituary feed."
Dahlia's eyes went wide, then narrowed into slits. The plastic bottle caved with a violent crunch in her hand, liquid spilling over her knuckles. "If someone handed you a shot at everything you ever wanted, wouldn't you take it?" she snarled, leaning across the counter, her dark eyes blazing. "That's what you said, wasn't it?"
"Dahlia—" Daichi's stammered, trying to reach her. "That's not what I meant—"
"And wasn't it you who said you'd give anything to run like me?" Dahlia snapped through clenched teeth. "You said you didn't care if you wound up as roadkill so long as you felt like you were doing something that mattered. So why's it different when it comes to me?"
"That's not the same!" Daichi protested. "Nobody would blink if I turned up in a morgue. You… you've got Scarlet. You've got someone who actually needs you."
"Oh, right. So what does that make me, huh? Chopped liver?" Dahlia's eyes burned into him. "Did it ever cross your mind that maybe I would care?" Her hand shot toward the poster of Narita Brian, frozen mid-sprint with a carrot bar in hand. "Sides, you think I don't wake up every damn day wishing it was me on that wall? You think I kill myself running on three hours of sleep, pushing until my bones scream, just to scrape together enough for stale convenience-store dinners because I like it?"
"Wait…" Daichi's brow shot up as his face went slack. "Wh–what did you just say?"
She shook her head sharply. "Just… forget it." Snatching up the guitar case, slinging it so fast the strap nearly tore. "I've got work."
She stormed toward the door, her boots striking hard against the tile, tail lashing behind her like a whip. The glass doors rattled as they slid open, and before Daichi could even breathe another word, she vanished into the night.
Daichi stood frozen for a beat, then dragged a hand down his face with a groan. "Awesome. Piss off the only girl who doesn't think you're an absolute creep. Great job, Daichi. Ten outta ten."
A voice rasped from nearby. "Relax. If she likes you, she'll come back."
Startled, Daichi turned toward the source: an elderly woman in a faded kimono, shuffling past with a sly smile before disappearing into the aisles.
Daichi laughed weakly, scratching his head. "Yeah. Big if."