Red stood there for a moment, the weight of his gun settling fully into his palms, the steel still warm, the sharp tang of gunpowder and heated metal clinging to the air and burning faintly at the back of his throat. Before him, Pixie Knight's sobs echoed softly as the other girls carried her toward the infirmary, her arm slung over their shoulders, tears streaking helplessly down her face. Hidehito's gaze remained steady and cutting, silent but far from passive.
For Red, the entire scene felt distant, as though he were watching it through thick glass. A numbness crept upward from his boots to his chest, settling cold along his jaw and cheeks. He barely registered the governor's voice at first, only the rhythm of it, sharp and indignant, until the words began to take shape.
"T-this is an outrage!" Omura sputtered, color rising in his face. "This is blatant insubordination! The audacity of that—that gaijin!" He slashed the air with his hand, turning sharply toward Chief Ando. "I demand you relieve her of duty. No, forget that. I demand she be fired immediately! I will not have—"
The metallic click of a magazine being released cut him off mid-sentence.
Both Omura and Chief Ando froze, their attention snapping to Red.
Red looked down casually at the magazine in his hand, inspecting the rounds still seated inside as though they were nothing more than loose change. The numbness that had gripped him began to melt, replaced by something hotter, something far less patient.
"Ya know," he said slowly, "I'm all for respectin' authority. I recognize ya two sit real high up the ladder, nice and comfy."
He racked the slide, ejecting a round into the air. It spun once beneath the gym lights before he caught it cleanly in his palm.
"But don't get it twisted," he continued, his eyes narrowing as he held the bullet up between his fingers. "Ya ain't gonna stand there and talk trash about my partner like she's some kinda loose cannon ya can just sweep aside."
He pressed the round back into the magazine with his thumb, then slid it back into the grip before securing the weapon and returning it to its holster.
"Ya don't know half of what she's been through," Red said, and this time there was no sarcasm in him, no lazy grin to soften the edges. "Hell, ya don't know half of what we've been through."
His teeth showed slightly as his jaw tightened.
"And I'd reckon ya two've been behind desks so long you couldn't tell the difference between the weight of a loaded piece and an empty one," he went on. "Ya sign papers. Ya make calls. Ya shuffle bodies around on charts like it's all just a damned game."
His gaze dragged slowly over Omura, assessing, unimpressed.
"And you," Red added bluntly, "look like the kinda suit who hasn't seen his tiny little prick since he was ten, let alone seen what actually happens when things go sideways at three in the mornin'."
Omura's mouth opened and closed, small, breathless sounds escaping him as though he were struggling to find footing in a conversation he no longer controlled. Chief Ando's glare sharpened into something cold and warning, but Red met it without blinking, his own stare steady, making it clear that whatever line had just been crossed, he had no intention of stepping back over it.
Meanwhile, Hidehito's copper eyes followed the girls as they hurried toward the nearby hallway, their footsteps uneven, Pixie's sobs fading down the corridor. He let out a slow breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, as though staving off a headache that had been building long before this morning.
"It would seem practice will have to wait," he said, the disappointment in him measured rather than dramatic. His gaze shifted to Chief Ando and Governor Omura, and whatever respect protocol demanded did little to soften the disdain that showed through. "If you will excuse me, I have my students—" He paused, a soft chuckle escaped him. "Sorry, force of habit. Trainees to tend to."
He inclined his head just enough to remain civil, then looked to Red.
"If you need me, Detective, I will be in the infirmary."
Without waiting for a response, he turned and followed the girls out. All but three umas cast one final look over their shoulders.
The first turned with open defiance etched across her features, the sharp white streak slicing through her black bangs drawing the eye like a blade against ink. Pale fabric wrapped snugly around the base of her ears, accentuating their rigid set, while a crimson ornament dangled from the knot of her short ponytail, swaying with restrained agitation. Her gaze settled upon the officials with a severity that felt almost tangible, as though the air itself had thinned beneath it, and a quiet scoff slipped from her lips before she pivoted away, boots striking the polished floor with clipped certainty as she disappeared down the corridor without a backward glance.
The second remained a fraction longer, her composure outwardly calm. Long oaken-brown hair fell in smooth layers down her back, catching the overhead lights with a muted sheen as she shifted her weight. Perched at a jaunty angle within those flowing strands sat a miniature top hat, more flourish than function, its narrow brim encircled by an emerald-green ribbon that glimmered beneath the gymnasium lights. The accessory lent her an air of theatrical poise, though the stillness in her eyes suggested calculation rather than whimsy.
The third uma straightened at last, the severity in her gaze sharpened by a faint undercurrent of distaste that she did not bother to conceal. Her long black hair flowed down her back in rigid, angular layers, each section spiking outward, giving her silhouette the austere outline of a darkened fir beneath winter lights. Perched upon her head sat a peaked cap reminiscent of law enforcement issue, its brim casting a narrow shadow across her brow. A silver emblem shaped like an uma cleat gleamed at its center, polished to a mirror sheen, while her ears pierced cleanly through the top of the cap, curving inward with restrained tension.
For a brief moment she remained still, as though weighing something unspoken in the air between them. Then, without another word, both umas turned on their heels with measured control before slipping through the doors, the heavy panels sighing shut behind them as the hum of the corridor swallowed their retreating footsteps.
Silence settled across the gym, broken only by the faint hum of overhead lights.
Chief Ando cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses, reclaiming what authority he could. "Now, see here, Detective—"
"With all due respect, Chief," Red interrupted, though the phrase carried no sincerity, "how about ya shut yer damn pie hole."
The words landed heavy.
"I… I beg your pardon?" Chief Ando managed at last, the words stumbling over one another as he straightened instinctively, as though posture alone might restore the authority that had just been stripped from him.
His fingers hovered near the bridge of his glasses before settling there, adjusting them with a small, precise motion that did little to conceal the faint tremor in his hand.
"Ya heard me," he went on, baring his teeth slightly. "Yer the Superintendent. That means ya job ain't just lookin' good in front of a camera. It's protectin' the city and the people runnin' through it. Me and Lightning laid out exactly what the stakes were. Ya nodded along. Ya agreed. Then the second Porky here starts squealin', ya fold."
"P-P-Porky?" Omura sputtered, face flushing.
"Ba-de-ba-e-ba-deep," Red shot back, wagging a finger lazily in Omura's direction as if swatting away an insect. "Yeah, Porky. And before ya start tossin' around that clueless gaijin line like I don't know a damn thing about what's goin' on, lemme save ya the breath."
His eyes narrowed. "I might not be from around here, but I ain't stupid. I know an election year when I see one. I know the smell of a headline when it's cookin'. Ya want a big, flashy operation ya can stamp yer name on and wave around like ya single-handedly scrubbed the streets clean."
His lip curled faintly. "Ya want cameras. Ya want applause. Ya want voters believin' ya took down the bad guys and saved the day." He tilted his head slightly, unimpressed. "But don't think I've got the brains of a retarded hamster and pretend this is about order or the law."
He took a slow step forward.
"Ya wanna polish up your image, that's yer business." His gaze sharpened. "But ya don't get to throw them girls into traffic so ya can pad yer numbers."
Omura and Ando both took an involuntary step back as Red closed the distance just enough to make the message unmistakable.
"Ya don't get to gamble with their lives for yer ambition," he said. "Not on my watch."
"Detective," Omura said, though it came out more as a sneer than a title, his face flushing a deep, mottled purple as the veins along his temples strained and his waxed mustache bristled with every sharp breath. "You and your partner have clearly forgotten your place. I am the Governor of Tokyo. An elected official of this city, and within its limits, my word carries the force of law."
He lifted a trembling finger, the gesture meant to command, though it shook under its own weight. "For this disrespect, for this insolence, I will see the both of you stripped of your authority and thrown into a—"
"Oh, and by the way, Pork Chop," Red cut in calmly, the interruption so measured it only made the governor's unfinished threat hang heavier in the air. "Ya remember what Lightning said before she walked out? About the last wise guy who tried somethin' like this?"
Omura's expression faltered.
"Forget Google," Red went on, a thin, humorless grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as his eyes stayed locked on Omura. "I'll do ya both a favor and spell it out myself. Save yer the trouble of diggin' through headlines and half-baked reports."
He folded his arms loosely across his chest, posture casual enough to look almost bored, though the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.
"Five, maybe six years back," he went on, tilting his head as if sifting through memory. "We was still fresh. Badges new, reputations just gettin' started. Down in Rio, helpin' the local P.D. set up a task force to deal with their own little version of this circus."
His gaze swept slowly between Omura and Ando.
"Mayor at the time, Marcos. Big smile. Bigger ego. Wanted a quick win. Wanted headlines. Wanted to show the city he was the tough guy cleanin' up the streets." Red's jaw tightened slightly. "Like ya, we told him it was too soon. Told him the girls weren't ready. Told him ya don't throw champions onto asphalt and call it a day."
He leaned in just enough to make the distance uncomfortable.
"'Course, damned beaner didn't listen."
Silence stretched.
"When Lightning started pushin' back, callin' out how rushed and reckless the whole thing was, he didn't argue policy," Red continued. "He shut her down and put us on the first plane out like we was the problem."
He shook his head faintly.
"Ten girls. All decorated. Used to clean tracks, proper lanes, crowds cheerin' their names under stadium lights." His jaw tightened. "They knew turf. They knew dirt. They didn't know asphalt soaked in oil and blood."
His eyes hardened.
"Dead. Every single one of 'em. Within the first month."
The words landed flat and final.
"What happened to them…" Red let the words hang for a moment, the edge in his posture easing just slightly as he exhaled. "I didn't even get the full files till a year later. By then it was all cleaned up on paper, neat little summaries and sealed reports."
"But when I finally saw what was in there…" He gave a small, humorless shake of his head. "Holy hell."
He straightened again, the edge in his words sharpening.
"But that ain't the end of it," Red went on. "Champions got fans. And ya know it, I know it, fans? They ain't exactly stable when it comes to their idols."
He jabbed a finger lightly in Chief Ando's direction.
"Ya get the reports, don't ya? Every damn week. Fans screamin' at each other over who's the fastest, who's the prettiest, who got robbed at the finish line. Whole crowds losin' their minds over glowsticks and finish times. Fights in the stands. Riots in the streets. Cops gotta drag 'em off 'cause somebody said the wrong name too loud."
He gave a humorless chuckle.
"And that's over braggin' rights."
His expression hardened.
"But ya send their champions out there to get chewed up so some suit can wank his prick before a whole damned nation?" He leaned forward slightly, words lowering but growing sharper. "Oh, nah. That's crossing a line. That ain't fandom no more. That's vengeance."
His stare locked onto Omura.
"And lemme tell ya somethin', those people? They don't take too kindly to slimeballs who toss their heroes into traffic just so they can polish up a campaign speech. Catch my drift, Porky?"
Omura swallowed hard in response.
"Within a week, ol' Marcos disappeared," Red said, his tone flattening as the humor drained out of it. "Just vanished, and six years later, they're still findin' pieces of him."
The air in the room seemed to thin.
"Now here's the part where ya won't find on the web. Local P.D. figured out how and where it went down," he continued. "Abandoned slaughterhouse out on the outskirts. Miles from anybody who might hear a thing. Autopsy's sealed tighter than a drum, but people talk. And what they say?" He gave a slow shake of his head. "They say he was alive the whole damn time."
"Place was loaded with hacksaws. Bolt cutters. Pliers. Hammers. And they found syringes too. Little ones. Filled with adrenaline." He let that sit for a moment. "Just enough to keep him awake."
A humorless scoff left him.
"Sumbitch probably screamed for days while they took him apart piece by piece," Red gave a faint shrug, his words steady, almost conversational, which somehow made it worse. "Gotta hand it to the fans. They'll argue about damned near everythin', but when it comes to hatin' a bonafide piece of shit? Suddenly they're united like a damn choir."
He shifted his weight, folding his arms across his chest. "They'll put all that division aside real quick. And when they take somethin' personal?" His jaw tightened slightly. "They get real creative."
A thin smirk ghosted across his face.
"Now don't get me wrong," Red went on, rolling his shoulders slightly. "Lightning would've hunted 'em down all the same and slapped cuffs on every last one of 'em. That's who she is. She's got convictions. She believes in the badge. Always has. Always by the book, even when the book don't make it easy."
"But me?" he added, tilting his head with a crooked, unapologetic look. "I probably would've bought 'em drinks." A beat passed. "Top shelf."
The color drained from Omura's face so quickly it was almost startling, the flush of anger replaced by a pale sheen of unease. Chief Ando, for his part, had gone unnaturally still, a bead of sweat tracing a slow path down his cheek despite the steady hum of the air-conditioning.
"And speakin' of Lightning, she never did forgive herself for what happened to those girls." Red's expression turned solemn. "Not once. And every funeral that came after just stacked more weight on top of what she was already carryin'."
He drew a slow breath. "There ain't been a single day on this job where we didn't think it should've been us instead of them. We signed up for this life. We brought them into it. And somehow we're still walkin' around, breathin', while they're six feet under."
In an instant, whatever trace of calm that had lingered on Red's face vanished, replaced by something hard.
"So, don't ya stand there, and start talkin' high and mighty to me about disrespect," he continued, "Ya ain't got the standing. Ya ain't got the moral authority. And most of all?" His eyes narrowed. "Ya sure as hell ain't got the balls."
His teeth showed slightly as he leaned forward.
"See, Light's the diplomatic one," Red said as he squared his shoulders and let the weight of the room settle around him. "She believes in sittin' down, workin' angles, findin' compromises that let everyone walk away thinkin' they kept their dignity intact."
He pressed a hand to his own chest.
"Me? I'm from Brooklyn. We don't deal in half measures, and we sure as hell don't sit around hopin' somebody grows a conscience. Where I come from, if ya wanna be heard, ya grab somebody by the nuts and you twist it until they understand exactly what you're sayin', because that's the only language some folk'll ever learn."
His gaze settled on both men.
"Now ya two slant-eyed gooks better listen, and ya listen real good, because I'm not in the habit of repeatin' myself when the stakes are this high. If ya try anything, anything at all, whether it's some slick move behind our backs or a quiet little order slipped through channels you think we won't catch." A beat. "If ya use that badge to push those girls into the street before we give the word, then yer gonna find out real quick just how loud I can make this."
He shifted his stare to Chief Ando first, then to Omura.
"I will drag yer names through every paper, every news feed, every late-night panel not just in this country but across the whole damn world, and I will make damn sure every reporter gets the unfiltered version. I'll flood every message board, every social platform, and every influencer worth a dime will be talkin' about ya long after the wind's gone outta your sails."
His jaw tightened slightly as he continued. "And if it comes to it, I'll stand in front of the National Diet and swear to every last word of it under oath, because I'm not bluffin', and I'm not worried about who it offends."
He let the threat hang in the air without rushing to fill the silence, allowing it to settle over them like something heavy and inescapable.
Omura tilted his head slightly, eyes widening while his jaw slackened in disbelief. "A-Are you threatening me, Detective?" The question slipped out thin at first, almost incredulous, before his spine stiffened and his tone sharpened. "Are you actually threatening me? ME?"
Red let out a coarse snort, sweeping a hand lazily through the air between them as if the very idea amused him. "Nah," he said. "I'm educatin' ya." He tapped a finger against his own temple. "Big difference."
He leaned forward, shoulders loose but his eyes locked hard on Omura's. "Matter fact, Pork Chop. I'm preparin' ya. See, there's a whole lotta things you still ain't considerin', and I'd hate for ya to learn 'em the hard way."
His lips curled faintly, not into a smile but something colder.
"'Cause once I'm done rebukin' Satan and raisin' Hell and high water, re-election's gonna be the least of yer problems," he continued. "Hell, forget ever seein' your name on a ballot again, because once this gets out, you won't be shakin' hands at ribbon cuttin's, you'll be duckin' cameras and prayin' the microphones don't catch up."
His gaze shifted slowly to Chief Ando, the edge in it sharpening.
"And ya can forget that corner office, forget that polished little plaque on the door, and ya can sure as hell forget that sweet retirement package you've been countin' on once they drag yer ass outta headquarters with a dishonorable discharge stamped across ya record."
Red took a measured breath before continuing, his tone no longer loud, but far more dangerous for its restraint. "And when the sun goes down on this city, it'll make the Strider Scandal back in the States look like just another Tuesday, the kinda story folks skim over before turnin' the page."
His eyes went cold. "And if it ain't prison browns ya end up wearin', then the only other uniform yer be fit for is one with a mop in your hand, cleanin' up after people who still got a shred of credibility left."
A faint, humorless curl touched his lip.
"That is," he added quietly, "if the fans don't grind ya into hot dogs grill yer asses first."
For a long moment, neither man spoke. They simply stood there, rigid and pale, the air between them heavy with everything Red had just laid bare. Red let the silence stretch just long enough to make it uncomfortable before a crooked grin tugged at his mouth. He raised two fingers in a lazy salute.
"Now, if you'll excuse me," he said, "I gotta go find my partner. And maybe pour myself somethin' strong enough to rinse this whole damn exchange outta my head."
He straightened at last, the tension easing from his shoulders not because it had lessened, but because he had said what needed saying, and he began turning toward the doors as though the conversation had already expired.
"And while I'm at it," he added, glancing back just enough for them to know he wasn't finished, "maybe I'll do a little detective work of my own and start sniffin' around, because I've been in this game long enough to know that whenever somebody sittin' up top starts pushin' real hard for a real stupid move, there's usually a hook buried somewhere under the bait."
He gave a small roll of his shoulders.
"Funny how that works, right? Like there's always a little tit-for-tat happenin' behind closed doors, some quiet exchange nobody wants written down. But hey," he said with a faint shrug, "maybe that's just me bein' paranoid."
He resumed walking toward the exit, the echo of his footsteps carrying across the gym.
"Like we say back home," he called over his shoulder, clicking his tongue softly, "smell ya later."
****
Omura's eyes tracked Red's retreating figure until the doors shut with a final, resonant thud, and only then did the mask slip from his face, the polite veneer dissolving into a tight, venomous sneer. His hands curled into fists at his sides, the skin over his knuckles blanching as his nails dug into his palms.
"I had believed," he muttered through clenched teeth, "that bringing in the illustrious Wild Lightning and her partner, the celebrated faces of C.H.A.S.E., would be an asset to my campaign. A symbol of decisive leadership. Strength. Reform." His jaw flexed. "Instead, it would seem I have grossly underestimated just how insufferable those two would become."
Chief Ando adjusted his glasses calmly, though the tightness along his jaw betrayed his own irritation.
"Governor, I would strongly advise that you calm yourself," he replied evenly.
"And you!" Omura snapped, turning on him so abruptly that the movement nearly tore the seam of his composure. His glare sharpened into something venomous, the kind meant to wound rather than warn. "You assured me they were contained. That your hands were on the leash. Weren't those your exact words?"
His lip curled in open contempt.
"And yet here we stand. In my own city. In my own facility. Subjected to mockery and threats like common rabble." His words trembled, not with fear, but with injured pride. "Never in my career. Never in my life, have I been so openly disrespected, so brazenly insulted, so thoroughly humiliated, and all because you were incapable of keeping your subordinates in line!"
He took a sharp breath, nostrils flaring as his face flushed a mottled red.
"You have always been a worthless, petty excuse for an officer!" he spat, the contempt in his words no longer restrained by formality or rank. "And it would appear that your promotion to a larger office has done nothing but give you a wider desk behind which to further hide your incompetence."
His jaw tightened, the restraint he had carried for years slipping just enough to show the depth of his disgust.
"A gross mistake on my part," he added coldly, "One I have no intention of repeating."
Chief Ando did not move. His expression remained carved from stone, jaw set, eyes steady behind the lenses of his glasses, giving nothing away despite the fury directed at him.
"Regardless, the boy is correct about one thing," Omura continued bitterly. "We are two months away from the start of an election year, and I am already trailing in the polls. I have far too much invested in this initiative to have it undermined by a pair of gaijins who presume to dictate how I should govern Tokyo."
"Perhaps reconsideration is warranted," Chief Ando said. "Personal feelings aside, they have raised legitimate concerns. If anything were to happen to those girls under our watch, the fallout would not simply be political, it would be catastrophic. Chairwoman Akikawa and Sonozaki have made it abundantly clear that they would hold us personally accountable."
Omura scoffed. "I care nothing for the overreaching complaints of the lesser sex who have grown far too comfortable mistaking proximity to influence for authority," he said coldly. "Society has grown lax. Undisciplined. Women in positions of power presuming to challenge men openly." His teeth showed faintly. "It is a decay I intend to correct when I ascend to higher office."
"Leave Akikawa and Sonozaki to me." Omura waved a hand as though brushing aside an inconvenience. "For all the influence Tracen and the URA have managed to accumulate in sporting circles, they remain spectators when it comes to governance, and I will not have policy dictated by institutions that confuse public admiration with political authority."
"I will manage the press. I will manage public perception." His eyes narrowed at Chief Ando. "You, on the other hand, will rein in those two. They are already thorns at my side. I will not allow them to become daggers."
He raised a finger. "Do I make myself clear?"
Chief Ando drew in a measured breath and let it out slowly, as though forcing the moment back into order through sheer discipline. "I will bring this under control," he said at last, though his eyes had sharpened into something far less accommodating. "You have my word."
Omura studied him for a beat, his mustache twitching faintly as disdain settled across his features. "You had better," he replied coolly, casting Ando one final, appraising look. "Or you may wish to begin contemplating alternative employment." His lip curled faintly. "Perhaps, as the boy so vividly suggested, something involving a mop."
With that, he turned and strode toward the exit.
Chief Ando watched him go, his expression tightening as the door shut once more. His eyes narrowed slightly, the faintest scoff escaping him.
"Worthless swine," Chief Ando murmured under his breath, his gaze lingering on the doors long after Omura had vanished beyond them, the faint echo of his departure still hanging in the gym's vast space. "Just another deplorable, self-indulgent little pig who mistakes bluster for authority."
His hand rose to adjust his glasses once more, the familiar gesture precise and controlled, though it did little to conceal the cold calculation settling behind his eyes.
"But no matter," he continued quietly, the calm in his tone far more dangerous than anger would have been. "You are not the only one with ambitions, Omura, nor are you the only one convinced you hold a winning hand."
He turned his gaze toward the far wall, where the fresh bullet holes marred the polished surface, faint wisps of smoke still curling beneath the fluorescent lights, and for a brief moment his expression became unreadable, as though he were studying not the damage, but the implications.
"For when the table calls," he said softly, almost to himself, "and the cards are finally laid down for all to see, we'll see who prevails."
A thin breath slipped past his lips.
"And who folds."
****
The heavy wooden door creaked inward as Dahlia pushed it open, the brass hinges whining in protest as though disturbed from a long, reluctant sleep. She stepped inside slowly, her dark eyes sweeping across the vast space before her while the air carried the early breath of autumn drifting through the narrow gaps of the open windows, mingling with the faint trace of gasoline and exhaust that clung stubbornly to the building. Beneath it all lingered an artificial scent of pine bark, sharp and almost mountainous, as if someone had tried to mask the grit of the city with the memory of forests.
The floorboards answered her arrival with a low, hollow creak beneath the thick rubber soles of her boots as she stepped into the landing. Tall windows framed in aged wood allowed strips of morning light to bleed through the shutters, casting long, slanted shadows across lacquered chestnut floors that gleamed despite their wear.
Logan had not returned after leaving with his former trainee and her partner, and Light and Daichi had excused themselves shortly after, Light for an errand and Daichi for his shift at the store. Saburo had invited Dahlia upstairs to wait in Logan's apartment so long as she promised not to touch anything. The building had grown busier as the day unfolded, and Dahlia felt a quiet guilt at occupying space that was not hers, yet she had agreed all the same.
The apartment was larger than she expected, nearly as expansive as her own, though arranged as a single, uninterrupted studio that consumed the entire floor. The red-bricked walls were left exposed, fine dust settling along their edges, while black track lighting cast a muted amber glow over a worn leather sofa and furniture constructed from rough timber, reclaimed crates, and solid black piping. A foosball table stood near the landing, its rods stiff and its surface dulled by a thin layer of dust that suggested long neglect. There was something unmistakably American about the place, less polished than the spaces she was used to, more functional than ornamental.
She descended the three steps onto the main floor. To her right sat a king-sized bed, neatly made beneath a gray comforter with pillows aligned precisely, a flannel rug laid carefully at its foot. Ahead rested the leather couch facing a broad wooden coffee table and a large LED screen mounted against the brick wall, its dark surface also lined with dust, as untouched as the foosball table behind her.
Her steps carried her toward the kitchen area where cabinets, a stainless sink, induction cooker, and refrigerator were arranged with quiet efficiency beside a small dining table meant for two. Everything was immaculate. Nothing out of place. No clutter, no stray objects, no sign of disorder.
Then something caught her eye.
Her gaze lifted, and her breath stilled.
Mounted against the red brick were shelves upon shelves of trophies, ribbons, plaques, and framed accolades. Dozens of them. In the center hung photographs encased in thick black frames: a younger Logan shaking hands, accepting awards, standing beneath banners. Newspaper clippings preserved behind glass told stories she had only heard whispered. On the floor stood three towering trophies, two rising to her waist and one nearly to her shoulder, their polished surfaces reflecting the amber light.
But it was the largest frame at the center that held her still.
Logan stood in it, younger, unguarded, flanked by fifteen umas whose smiles ranged from proud to exuberant. Some carried themselves with quiet confidence, others with the simple joy of having reached a summit few ever touched. Dahlia did not recognize their faces individually, yet she knew their name without needing it spoken.
The Godly Fifteen.
The greatest racers the URA had ever seen.
All of them trained by Logan.
But as she turned to the left, something else caught her attention, and the subtle twitch of her ears was followed by a single flick of her tail as her brow arched in mild curiosity before widening into unmistakable surprise.
In the far corner of the apartment, bathed in the amber spill of a solitary spotlight, stood a guitar.
Not just any guitar.
A Gibson Les Paul.
The sight of it drew an audible gasp from her before she could stop herself. She had heard of them, of course, and more specifically of what they cost. It did not belong in a dusty corner of a bachelor's loft. It belonged on a stage.
She stepped toward it slowly, boots soft against the wood, her hand extending almost reverently before she hesitated and pulled it back at the last second. Like the television and the foosball table, it was layered in neglect, dust clinging to the polished surface, the once-bright strings dulled and lifeless.
Yet even in disuse, it held presence.
Her gaze lifted from the instrument, and that was when she noticed the wall beside it.
Framed against the red brick were gold and platinum records, mounted carefully against blue velvet and encased in heavy gilded frames. Beneath each rested a plaque etched with titles and dates, alongside album covers featuring a much younger Logan, guitar slung low against his body.
There were six in total.
Her eyes widened further as disbelief settled in.
"What the…" The words slipped out under her breath as her expression twisted from curiosity into confusion. "This can't be real."
She stepped sideways, her gaze tracking along another shelf lined with awards. Silver statuettes shaped like stars and microphones gleamed faintly beneath the track lights. The engraved plates read Best Song. Best Album. Best Performing Trainer.
"You're kidding me," she murmured, stepping closer as her attention shifted toward a record player set neatly beneath the television. Beside it sat a tidy stack of vinyl sleeves. She reached for one, carefully sliding it free.
There he was. A younger Logan stared out from the album cover, denim jacket, worn jeans, boots planted against a wall beneath a night sky, the same guitar hanging low at his side. The pose was confident, effortless, the kind of image meant to sell arenas.
Dahlia blinked, then stifled a laugh that escaped despite her attempt to contain it.
"This has to be a joke," she muttered, shaking her head slightly as she studied the cover. "You… a singer? That's—"
She didn't finish the sentence, because the evidence surrounding her refused to be dismissed as coincidence or exaggeration. The gold records were real. The plaques were real. The album covers were real. And the younger version of Logan staring back at her from glossy print did not look like a man dabbling in a hobby.
Her gaze drifted to the record player, then back to the vinyl sleeve in her hand as though silently weighing whether she was about to trespass into something personal. After a brief, almost guilty shrug of her shoulders, she slid the record from its case with careful fingers and placed it gently onto the turntable.
She pressed the power button, watching as the platter began to rotate in a smooth, steady circle. She then lifted the needle and lowered it into the groove before turning the volume knob just enough to fill the room.
A soft guitar riff spilled from the speakers, warm and unpolished, followed by a voice that rose through the loft. Raw, textured, and unmistakably his.
[BGM: Wild Hearts – Keith Urban]
Dahlia's eyes widened, disbelief flashing across her face as the tempo began to build, the rhythm swelling into something energetic and alive. The sound did not belong to the quiet, restrained man she had come to know. It carried a pulse, a confidence, a hunger.
A slow smile curved across her lips before she could stop it.
Her head began to bob to the beat, ears twitching in time with the rhythm as she turned in a small circle beneath the amber lights. One step became two, her boots tapping against the wooden floor as her arms lifted instinctively, shoulders swaying as she let herself move with the music.
The loft that moments ago had felt still and dust-laden suddenly felt different, alive with echoes of a past she had never imagined, and for the first time since stepping inside, Dahlia laughed, not in disbelief, but in delight.
Her tail whipped behind her as she spun lightly on her heel, arms lifted with the music, when she suddenly froze mid-motion, fingers still suspended in the air as her eyes caught something she had somehow overlooked when she first entered.
On the wall beside the kitchen, arranged with quiet intention, were framed photographs.
Some were in color, rich and warm. Others were monochrome, soft with memory. And in each of them was Logan.
But he was not alone.
Beside him stood an uma Dahlia did not recognize, her presence luminous even in stillness. In one photograph she wore a wedding dress of fine white lace that trailed elegantly behind her, the fabric delicate and flowing as she stood at the altar steps with Logan in a tailored tuxedo, his hand at her waist as they leaned into one another, lips meeting in a kiss that was unguarded and wholly sincere.
In others, they were captured in fragments of ordinary happiness. Walking barefoot along a beach at sunset, the sky painted gold behind them. Sitting close together in a car on a long road trip, wind catching strands of her dark hair. Standing before the Eiffel Tower, arms wrapped around each other as though the world itself had narrowed to the space between them. On a cruise ship with looming icebergs in the background, her laughter frozen in time. Dahlia let out a quiet chuckle at one particular image of Logan looking pale and visibly miserable as the woman dragged him by the arm toward a towering wooden roller coaster labeled The Beast.
But then her gaze settled on something that stilled her entirely.
There was a photograph of the same woman seated on a bed, cradling a newborn uma in her arms. Her amber eyes were softened by a tenderness that could not be staged, and Logan stood beside her, looking down at both mother and child with the same unfiltered love written plainly across his face.
Something tightened inside Dahlia's chest.
An ache.
Not sharp. Not violent. But deep and unfamiliar, like a chord struck somewhere she had not realized was strung.
Her eyes moved slowly to the final frame, bordered in black. The same woman sat alone in that photograph, her black hair streaked in yellow, her smile gentle and warm, the kindness in her eyes unmistakable. Beside the image, in elegant cursive script, were the words:
In Loving Memory of Kadokawa Hornet.
"Kadokawa…" Dahlia whispered, her eyes widening as recognition dawned. "Kadokawa Hornet?"
She knew that name. Two-time undefeated Triple Crown Champion from the States. One of the Fifteen. A legend in both America and Japan. A star who had transcended racing itself.
And she had been Logan's wife.
Dahlia's gaze drifted back to the photograph of the baby, and realization struck with quiet force.
They had a daughter.
The pieces aligned in her mind all at once, the fragments of Logan's silence, the walls he carried, the grief that seemed woven into him. But just as the thought fully formed, the music screeched to an abrupt halt with the harsh scratch of a needle dragged across vinyl.
The room fell silent save for the soft, continuous rotation of the turntable.
Dahlia spun around.
Logan stood beside the record player, one hand resting near the tonearm, his dark eyes narrowed and his expression carved into something hard.
She straightened instantly, hands flying behind her back as though she had been caught rifling through forbidden treasure, her tail flicking anxiously and her ears twitching.
"Um…" she began, her gaze darting briefly toward the floor before returning to him. "I can explain."