The squeak of Saburo's spray bottle, followed by the hiss of soap across the counter, melted into the chatter and clink of cups in the packed café. He scrubbed the wood until it gleamed, leaning back with a grunt of approval. A quick glance around told him business was good. Tables crowded, humans and umas filling every seat, a lively hum rolling beneath the glow of the hanging lamps. Not bad for a Friday night.
But the satisfaction drained from his face when his eyes landed on Logan. The man sat slouched at the bar, coffee in one hand, tablet in the other, the light of the screen reflecting off the bruises still fading on his jaw.
On the display: replays of the previous night's race. Umas tearing through the Shutoko at blistering speeds, weaving between traffic like meteors dodging a storm of bullets. Boots hammered asphalt with thunderous force, drones trailing them like vultures, while lines of chat exploded in a frenzied blur beneath the feed. Logan's finger swiped across the screen, pulling up stats and profiles, his gaze locked, unblinking.
Saburo shook his head. "For a man who swore he was done, you look pretty damn invested."
"There's a difference between watching and training," Logan said, eyes never leaving the screen. He sipped his coffee. "And last I checked, spectating isn't a crime."
"It is when you're neck-deep in the MRA," Saburo shot back, tossing the rag into the sink. "You forget the cops are hauling in anyone caught with that cursed app installed? Doesn't matter if you're running or betting. They'll string you up the same."
Logan finally lowered the tablet just enough to take another sip. "Given how much downtime Japanese cops have, I'd say it's about time they earn their keep. Compared to back home, they've got it easy."
Saburo leaned in, elbows planted on the counter, a sly smirk tugging at his beard. "You wanna know what I think?"
Logan finally lifted his eyes from the tablet, meeting the older man's gaze with a measured calm.
"I think you're full of it," Saburo said. "You can sit there all you like, pretending the track's behind you, but I can see it plain as day. That fire's still in you. If umas were born to run, you were born to lead them." His smirk sharpened into a grin. "And don't tell me you're not waiting for it. That one spark. The one who'll turn that buried flame into a bonfire and drag the old Logan Deschain back into the light."
Logan gave him a flat look, lifted his mug, and took a slow sip. He set it down before returning his gaze to the tablet. "Right."
"Oh, don't play dumb," Saburo pressed, straightening with a chuckle. "I've seen you watching her." He crossed his arms. "Midnight Queen, wasn't it? You've had your eye on her for weeks. Girl's been tearing it up—Osaka, Kyoto, Hiroshima, Yokohama. She's leaving a trail of victories behind her. And you? You've been following every step."
Logan didn't look up, his finger dragging across the screen as if Saburo's words were no more than background noise.
"I'm no street-race junkie, but I've seen the videos," Saburo went on. "That girl can move. And the way she slides those corners? Hell, even the best in the Twinkle Series would eat dirt trying to copy her. She's got something raw, something dangerous, and you're the kind of man who could turn that spark into wildfire."
"Not interested," Logan said. He took another slow pull from his coffee before setting the mug back down. "Besides, a runner like her? She's not out there alone. She's got a trainer. A navigator. Probably good ones too." He finally glanced up, meeting Saburo's eyes with a tired edge. "And if I stepped into the MRA, then all the ass-beatings Nishitani and his clowns dished out would be meaningless, because it'd mean I chose to crawl into that pit."
He leaned in slightly. "You walked away from your past, Saburo. I respected that. So don't ask me to do what you wouldn't."
Saburo let out a long breath, shaking his head. "It's not the same, Logan. And you know it."
"Yeah, sure." Logan's eyes fell back to the tablet, clearly finished with the conversation.
But Saburo wasn't. "You know what, cut the crap. You've been practically glued to those damned replays, dissecting every step, every drift."
Logan's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
"You gave that whole spiel about not wanting the pit," Saburo pressed. "But you've already got one foot back in it. Every stat you read, every run you watch. Hell, the way your eyes light up when that Queen girl hits the corner. Face it, you're practically itching for it. You're just too damned scared to admit it."
For the first time, the man's gaze flickered.
Saburo's gaze hardened. "So don't you preach to me about walking away. At least I had the spine to own what I was."
The air between them hung taut, heavy as wet rope.
****
The bell above the door jingled as both Saburo and Logan turned, their gazes catching the figure stepping inside, a black-haired uma with a guitar case slung across her back.
Logan's gaze sharpened. Recognition flickered. It was the girl from the convenience store. He studied her the way a craftsman studies raw material. Her stride steady, the natural balance in her posture, the strength hidden beneath the casual layers of leather jacket, t-shirt, and jeans. Even her tail's restless flick betrayed coiled energy. She was fit, built for speed, the kind of body honed for the track. Every movement whispered of extensive training and discipline once burned into her muscles. And yet here she was, reduced to deliveries and odd gigs. The question dug deeper than he cared to admit: Why the hell wasn't she racing under Tracen's banners?
"Dahlia!" Saburo's called, warm and welcoming as he waved her over. "Glad you could finally make it."
"Sorry, Master," Dahlia replied, her ears flicking down, tail twitching low. "The trains were packed. I came as fast as I could." She dipped her head slightly, almost apologetic. "Hope I didn't keep everyone waiting."
"No, no," Saburo waved off the thought with an easy gesture toward the small stage tucked in the corner. A mic stand, tangled wires, and a pair of weathered speakers waited there like old companions. "Go on, get yourself set up. It's a full house tonight, and they're eager for you."
Dahlia slowed mid-step, her gaze catching on the man at the counter. Black shirt tucked into torn dark jeans, polished loafers despite the scuffs of wear. His eyes were locked on her, weighing her in silence. Instinctively, she bit her lip and shifted back a pace, though she couldn't stop herself from staring in return. Something about his face tugged at her memory, nagging, as if she should know him, but the name refused to surface.
Saburo caught the moment and broke it with a grin. He clapped a hand on Logan's shoulder. "Dahlia, meet Logan. Friend of mine." He gave Logan a pointed pat. "Don't let the grouchy face fool you. He's tolerable once you poke past the shell."
"Oh." Dahlia blinked, giving an awkward little wave. "Nice to meet you, Mister Logan."
"Pleasure," Logan replied, curt and flat, already half-turned back toward his coffee as he settled his tablet onto the counter.
Dahlia hovered for a beat, tail flicking in discomfort, before blurting, "Well… I'll just… go set up." She zipped off toward the stage without another glance.
Saburo dragged a hand down his face, glaring at Logan. "Seriously. Would it kill you to fake being human for five seconds?"
"That girl… who is she?" Logan asked at last. His gaze fixed on the stage where Dahlia crouched over her guitar case, untangling wires with steady, practiced hands.
Saburo arched a brow, surprised to hear genuine interest from him. "Her?" He glanced toward the stage. "Name's Black Dahlia."
Logan's mouth twitched in a scoff. "Like the murder?"
"Yeah," Saburo said flatly. "Tasteless comparison, but considering where you're from, I'm not shocked it's the first thing that came to mind." He leaned back against the counter with a sigh, eyes lingering on the girl. "She's had it rough. More than most. Comes by here some nights to play a set or two. I make sure she walks out with more than she'd scrape together hauling takeout across Tokyo."
"Don't you find it strange?" Logan's gaze stayed fixed on her as she pulled a battered black-and-white Strat from its case. The guitar had seen better days. Dings across the body, paint scuffed to hell, the logo worn to a ghost. None of that seemed to matter to her hands, steady and careful as she set it up.
"I've seen my share of girls who thought they had what it takes to hit the nationals," Logan said. "Most don't even crack the top ten. But her?" He tipped his chin toward Dahlia. "She's got the frame, the posture, the balance. No doubt the speed too. So tell me, why the hell's an uma like her running for scraps when she should be breathing down Tracen's neck in the big leagues?"
Saburo folded his arms, expression tight. "From what she told me. She flunked her debut. Bad."
Logan let out a scoff, dismissive. "Plenty of girls flub their debuts. I've trained more than a few who face-planted their first race and went on to be champions. Debut doesn't mean a damned thing. It's just the first taste of turf, nothing more."
"That, and she never cracked the top three in any of the ungraded races after," Saburo went on. "You know how it is. Stay at the bottom long enough, and every door slams shut. After a while, she just… stopped trying." His tone lowered, his expression dimming. "Probably around the time her sister, Scarlet Rose hit the big leagues."
Logan's eyes snapped wide, his whole frame tightening. "Wait. Her sister's Scarlet Rose?" He stabbed a finger toward Dahlia. "The Scarlet Rose?"
The name hung in the air, heavy.
"I've read about her," he went on, his words tumbling out fast, almost incredulous. "Four G1 titles in her debut year alone—four. She tore through the Oka Sho, the Japan Oaks, like it was nothing. Hell, people were already whispering she'd be the youngest ever to claim the Triple Tiara."
Saburo's brow rose at his reaction. "Yeah. The same. And if you've heard the name, you've heard about the accident."
Logan went still, his gaze cutting back to the girl on stage.
Meanwhile, Dahlia slung the worn guitar over her shoulder, settling onto the stool. She tapped the mic, testing the crackle, then strummed a slow chord that hung in the air.
"A damned shame, really." Saburo shook his head, eyes narrowing. "Their old man wasn't just some hack, he was one of Japan's top trainers. Built Scarlet up like she was his lottery ticket, poured everything into her, and when fate knocked the pieces off the board, he folded. Crawled straight into the bottle, racked up debts, and when it got too ugly, he slithered off and left his girls to rot. Just another slippery coward who cut and ran."
His gaze hardened, leveling on Logan. "That's what Dahlia got saddled with. A wreck of a man who left her nothing but ruins to dig through. And now she's the one breaking herself just to keep them both above water."
Logan's gaze dropped, shadows tightening his face as his mind slipped toward the ghosts clawing at the edges of his thoughts.
"I know that look," Saburo said. "So let me stop you right there. Don't you dare lump yourself with that bastard. He chickened out because he was weak. You…" his gaze steadied, unwavering, "…you did what you did out of love. Out of duty. That's what a real man does, even when it costs him everything."
He leaned a little closer, dropping his tone. "Your daughter may have grown up without you at her side, but don't fool yourself into thinking she was abandoned. Your in-laws made damned sure she was cared for, and that mattered. That saved her. That's the difference."
Saburo exhaled, his expression softening for just a moment. "Would've been better with you there, no doubt. But at least she had someone steady to hold her up when you couldn't."
Logan gave a hollow scoff, dragging his hands through his hair like he could tear the weight loose. "Yeah."
Then the soft hum of the mic broke across the café. Dahlia sat on the stage with her guitar, forcing a small smile. "Evening, everyone. Hope you're all having a good night."
She strummed the opening chords, her voice light but worn thin at the edges. A tiredness no one else seemed to notice, though Logan did.
"This one's… special," she said after a breath. "It's the song my mother used to sing to me and my sister."
The chords came first. Her tired fingers pressing against strings, summoning warmth despite their weariness. Then her voice rose. Soft. Fragile. Piercing.
Logan's body went rigid, the air catching in his throat like a stone lodged deep in his chest. His hand froze around the mug, knuckles whitening as the first notes sank into him. It was her song. The one that had played the night he first took her hand across a smoke-lit bar, the one she insisted on walking down the aisle to, the one that carried her to rest when he buried her.
For a heartbeat, he wasn't in Rococo anymore. He was back on a sunlit patio, the scent of summer grass heavy in the air, his wife singing with the same unshakable radiance while his daughter wriggled in his arms, laughing, clapping.
A tremor ran through his fingers. His jaw clenched so tight it ached. He dragged a hand over his mouth, trying to steady himself, but it only made the knot in his chest tighten. His shoulders shook with a breath that refused to come, and before he knew it, his other hand had curled into a white-knuckled fist on the counter.
He turned away, head bowed, trying to smother the rush clawing at his throat. To everyone else, it was just music. To him, it was a blade twisting in old wounds. Each note peeling back the years he'd buried, until all that was left was the raw ache of a life that had been stolen from him.
Saburo watched in silence, a heaviness settling behind his eyes. The corners of his mouth tugged down as he exhaled, shoulders rising in a weary shrug before he shook his head. Around him, the café moved to Dahlia's rhythm. Patrons swayed gently, smiles soft, some even humming along, oblivious to the weight woven into her voice. Saburo alone carried that solemn look, knowing the song wasn't just music, but memory, grief, and defiance wrapped into every note.
****
"I hope you liked that," Dahlia said into the mic, a flushed smile pulling at her lips. "I'll be back after a short break. Feel free to leave a tip in the case. Scans work too."
She leaned her guitar against the stool, tail flicking as she smoothed down her jacket. Logan, half-buried in his third mug of coffee, watched her only in fragments. Just long enough to catch the flicker of her tired smile, before burying himself in his tablet again. Lines of stats scrolled beneath his fingertip, racer names and placements from the last month, his gaze sharp and clinical.
Dahlia hopped off the stage, exchanged a few words with Saburo. Logan could tell they were aimed his way. He felt their glances like a weight at the back of his neck, but he ignored them, eyes fixed on meaningless headlines he'd swapped to the instant she approached. By the time she crossed the floor and pulled a stool up beside him, his screen displayed the bland sterility of the evening news. The switch was so practiced it might as well have been instinct.
Dahlia hesitated, elbow propped on the counter, ears twitching, tail restless. "So… Master said you were a trainer?"
Logan's hand tightened around his mug. A pause, long enough to feel deliberate, then: "Once."
Her gaze lingered on him, waiting, hoping for more. When none came, she tried again. "You… have a family?"
He didn't look at her. "Once," he said again.
Dahlia's gaze fell, her ears drooping as she searched for words, then lifted her head again, hesitant. "How long have you been—"
"Is there a reason you're talking to me, kid?" Logan cut her off, his eyes snapping to hers, edged with irritation.
She flinched, shoulders pulling in. For a heartbeat, silence hung between them. Logan caught the look on her face and his own expression faltered. The hardness in his gaze dulled, shame flickering through the cracks. He turned back to his cup, staring into the black surface as if it might swallow him whole.
"Sorry," he muttered, quieter now. "Didn't mean to bite your head off." He exhaled slowly, almost a growl. "Look… you seem like a good kid. But I'm not in the mood for conversation."
Dahlia hesitated, then gave a small nod before slipping off the stool. Behind the counter, Saburo caught the exchange from the corner of his eye, his glare aimed squarely at Logan. She had just turned when Logan called to her.
"Hey."
She glanced back. The man reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a folded wad of bills, and peeled off a ten-thousand-yen note. He laid it flat on the counter, smoothing it with two fingers. "You've got a hell of a voice. Maybe think about making it more than a hobby. World's always hungry for new talent."
Her ears twitched, eyes widening at the sight of the note. She reached for it, hesitant at first, then took it gingerly. A faint smile tugged at her lips. "Thanks."
Logan only gave a small nod, already turning back to his coffee as she tucked the note away and headed toward the stage. He drained the last of his mug, setting it down with a muted thud.
A fresh cup slid into its place. Logan looked up to find Saburo smirking, cloth slung over his shoulder. "See? That wasn't so hard."
Logan let out a low scoff, reaching for the cup. "Piss off."
Saburo chuckled under his breath, carrying away the empty mug as Logan thumbed his tablet back to life, the glow of the racing app reflected in his dark, tired eyes.
****
The sky split with thunder, white veins of lightning carving through the black clouds as rain hammered Tokyo in an unrelenting downpour. Dahlia shoved her way through the apartment door, dripping from head to toe, hair and tail plastered against her body as water pooled at her feet. She kicked off her boots with a muttered curse, shaking her head hard enough to send droplets scattering across the entryway. Her fingers combed through the soaked strands, wringing them out as if she were twisting a rag.
"Figures. Always when I'm without a damned umbrella," she grumbled, flicking the rain from her fingertips before wiping them against her jeans. She flipped on the lights and unstrapped the guitar case before leaning it carefully against the wall. "Scarlet, I'm home."
Only the hum of the fluorescent lights answered her. The living room sat empty, shadows broken by the pale glow overhead and the storm pressing against the windows. Another crack of thunder rattled the glass panes and shivered through the worn floor beneath her feet. Dahlia glanced at her watch—midnight. Of course Scarlet would be asleep by now.
She dragged a hand down her face, her long hair clinging to her fingers, tail twitching irritably behind her. The thought of hot water and steam filled her mind, the promise of washing the cold and the storm from her skin. A bath couldn't come soon enough.
At Scarlet's door, Dahlia slowed, her hand hovering over the knob. She hesitated, shoulders rising with a sharp breath. What the hell, she thought. Might as well check in on her. Her fingers curled around the cold metal and turned. The door creaked open, light from the hallway spilling across the room. She stepped inside on careful feet.
The space mirrored her own. Old, musky, the floorboards creaking under every step, wallpaper yellowed and peeling with age. A wardrobe stood crooked in the corner, a desk buried under scattered notebooks, shelves lined with light novels that leaned precariously together, and a scatter of plushies shaped like famous umas. Dahlia let out a quiet chuckle, remembering how Scarlet used to obsess over those books, especially the ones with boys in love with one another. She never understood the appeal herself, but Scarlet had clung to them, building a collection that once filled half a wall. Another thing the move had stripped away.
Her smile softened, brief and bittersweet, as her gaze drifted to the bed by the window. For a moment, she pictured Scarlet curled beneath the sheets, the faint rise and fall of her breathing steady in the quiet.
The smile vanished. The bed was pristine, untouched.
"Scarlet?" she muttered, flicking the switch. The room filled with sterile light. Still no one. Her chest tightened. The chair. The damned chair was gone.
Her voice sharpened, louder now, pitched with alarm. "Scarlet?"
She spun on her heel, bolting for the bathroom. The light flared as she slapped the switch. Empty. She darted into her own room. Nothing. Her pulse spiked, breath ragged as she tore back into the living room, the kitchen, each corner laid bare beneath the harsh glow of the bulbs.
"Scarlet!" her cry cracked against the walls, desperation mounting. But there was no answer. No trace.
She then bolted for the entryway. Boots half-pulled on, she nearly tripped as she tore the front door open, stumbling into corridor three floors up. Panic clawed its way into her throat as her eyes scanned the shadows. She shouted into the storm.
"Scarlet!"
The creak of a door made Dahlia whirl around. An elderly woman in a faded blue kimono shuffled into the hall, her gray hair tied back, eyes still heavy with sleep. "Goodness, child… what's with all the shouting?" she murmured, blinking herself awake. "Dahlia? What's wrong?"
"Miss Shimizu," Dahlia rushed to her. "It's Scarlet, she's gone! She's not in her room, she's not anywhere!"
"Gone?" Shimizu frowned, her fingers brushing her chin as if trying to catch a memory. "Oh… yes. I saw her near the lifts about an hour ago. The rain hadn't started then, so I thought she was only stepping out for air." Her face drained of color. "If I had known she hadn't come back…"
Dahlia's stomach dropped. "Scarlet would never—" the words snagged in her throat, panic crashing in. Her mind spun wild. Her sister out in the storm, helpless and lost. Her sister hurt, swallowed by the very city that had already taken too much from them. Every horrible possibility stabbed through her chest until it was hard to breathe. She clenched her fists, forcing herself to move. "Shit. Thank you, Miss Shimizu!"
She bolted toward the elevators, boots hammering the floor.
"Dahlia, wait!" Shimizu called after her. But the girl was already gone, swallowed by the dim corridor and the storm outside.
****
Dahlia tore through the rain-slick streets, the storm lashing at her from every side. Amber streetlamps cast weak halos through the downpour, their glow swallowed in bursts of lightning that split the clouds above. Each crack of thunder rattled her chest, each gust of wind and sheet of rain hammered her body, but she didn't slow. Her eyes snapped frantically from alley to alley, corners to crosswalks, searching for any trace of her sister.
With every turn came the same dread. That she would find Scarlet broken, crumpled, lifeless. The thought coiled like barbed wire in her gut, squeezing tighter with each step. Grace's warning replayed in her mind, merciless, like the whisper of the damned: sooner or later, she'll stop trying, and when she does…
"No," Dahlia hissed, breath sharp between her teeth as her boots splashed through puddles, water soaking up her legs. "Not her. Not tonight."
She screamed into the storm, raw and ragged. "Scarlet!"
Thunder roared in answer, shaking the ground beneath her feet. Her lungs burned, her heart hammered, but she kept running, praying to gods she'd long stopped believing in that her sister hadn't taken that step into the dark.
She was halfway past the empty playground when her eyes caught movement. Dahlia's boots scraped hard against the asphalt as she froze.
There, in the center of the soaked gravel, sat Scarlet. Her thin white dress clung to her frame, rain plastering her hair against her face as streams of water ran down her shoulders, her lap, the sides of her wheelchair. Her head tilted back, crimson eyes catching the lightning above like shards of glass, lips parted in a trembling smile.
"Scarlet…" Dahlia's breath hitched, a heavy sigh of relief tumbling out as her hand pressed to her chest. She stepped forward.
"Free…" The word fell from Scarlet's lips, faint but clear. Dahlia's heart lurched.
Scarlet's smile widened. "Free…" she repeated, trembling with something between joy and madness.
Her arms braced against the wheelchair, shaking violently as she pushed herself up. Dahlia's eyes widened, disbelief burning in her chest as Scarlet's bare feet touched the mud. For one heartbeat she stood, arms raised, reaching into the storm as if daring the lightning to strike her down.
Then her knees buckled. Scarlet collapsed face-first into the earth, the wet soil splashing up to stain her dress, smearing across her skin.
"Scarlet!" Dahlia's scream tore out of her throat as she dove to her side, hauling her sister into her arms. Mud streaked across Scarlet's face, mixing with rainwater. Dahlia's hands shook as she wiped her clean. "Scarlet, look at me. Scarlet, are you okay?"
Scarlet's trembling gaze lifted to her sister, lips quivering. "Dahlia… why?" she cracked, tears spilling to mingle with the rain. "Why can't I walk, Dahlia?"
"Scarlet…" Dahlia's throat burned, her own tears breaking loose.
"Why me?" Scarlet choked, fists knotting in Dahlia's jacket, desperate, shaking. "Why?" she screamed again, the word a knife twisting in Dahlia's chest. The memory of that cursed night clawed its way up, choking her silent.
"I want my legs back, Dahlia." Scarlet's sobs grew harsher, words raw and jagged. "I want to run again. I want to go back to Tracen. I want to see my friends. I want to feel the grass, the dirt, the wind—" Her words crumbled into a sob.
"Scarlet, please…" Dahlia's arms closed around her, pulling her tight as if she could shield her from the truth.
"I want my legs back!" Scarlet screamed, eyes squeezed shut, nails digging into Dahlia's jacket as if holding on could undo fate itself. "I want them back!"
The heavens answered with thunder, lightning ripping the sky open, rain hammering them both into the mud as Dahlia clung to her sister, powerless against the storm inside and out.
****
Daichi stepped out onto the rain-slicked pavement, shivering as he pulled his jacket tighter. His shift had ended and the storm had eased to a drizzle, the air heavy with damp concrete and the metallic tang of wet rails. He popped open his umbrella, the patter of raindrops tapping soft against the tarp. Turning to leave, he nearly leapt out of his skin. Dahlia was standing there, soaked through, hair plastered to her face, her tail heavy with water.
"Holy hell!" Daichi staggered back, heart racing. "You trying to kill me? Thought I was about to drop dead right here."
But there was no smirk, no jab, no banter. Her eyes were swollen, streaked red, rainwater mingling with the fresh tracks of tears. Daichi's chest tightened.
"Hey," he said carefully. "You okay? What hap—"
"Where do they meet?" Dahlia cut him off.
Daichi blinked, thrown. "...What?"
"The MRA." She stepped forward, dripping, her presence like a blade pressing to his throat. "Where. And when. You've got the app. You know where they gather. Tell me."
Daichi's gut dropped. He shook his head hard. "Dahlia, no. I already told you. This is a bad idea. I'm not dragging you into—"
"Daichi!" she screamed. The sheer force made him flinch. But when his eyes snapped back to hers, what he saw wasn't fury. It was anguish. She was trembling, breaking apart in front of him.
Before he could react, she stepped forward and collapsed into him, arms locking around his neck, clinging as if he were the last thing tethering her to the earth. His umbrella slipped from his grip, clattering to the ground as the drizzle dampened his hair and shoulders.
"I can't…" Her body shook against his chest. "I can't do this anymore. I've lost everyone. Mom, dad, and I can't…" She sucked in a ragged breath. "I can't lose Scarlet too."
Daichi froze. His arms hovered, shaking with indecision before he finally pulled her close, his throat tight. His mind screamed at him to say no. To tell her it wasn't worth it, that she was marching toward a grave, but the words wouldn't come. Not when she was trembling against him, not when her tears felt hot even through the cold rain.
"I need this, Daichi," Dahlia whispered. "No matter what it takes. If there's even a chance I can save her, I have to try."
Daichi shut his eyes, his jaw clenching until it ached. He wanted to tell her she was insane. He wanted to beg her to stop before she tore herself apart. But looking at her now, shattered and begging, he knew he couldn't deny her.
Finally, he muttered.
"...Alright."