Special Week's heart was hammering with excitement as she bounded up the sloped road.
The sun was shining, the morning breeze was cool, and her thoughts were practically singing in rhythm with her steps.
"This is it! The big leagues! The start of my dream! Tracen Academy, here I come!"
Her tail was swishing back and forth like a metronome on overdrive, and her ears were perked so high they could have caught radio waves. She hugged her bag tighter and broke into a light jog.
"Mom, I'm gonna do it! I'm gonna be the best racer in Japan!"
The little hill crested, and she finally got her first look at the academy.
Her jog slowed. Her tail stilled. Her ears drooped.
"...Oh."
What stretched before her was… not what the flyers promised.
Sure, it wasn't terrible—the grass was neatly cut, some of the broken windows had been replaced, and a fiew of the walls looked patched up—but the paint still peeled in patches, the gate was an ancient thing of rust and squeaky hinges, and there was a distinct lack of that prestigious, sparkling atmosphere she had imagined.
Standing at the gate, working on one of the hinges with a wrench, was a tall, dark-haired man.
Special Week blinked.
Okay, maybe this is just the front?
Yeah, the inside must be gorgeous. That's how they get you. The rustic, charming gate, then BAM—modern, sleek facilities inside. Totally a style choice.
She took a deep breath, puffed out her chest, and walked forward with all the confidence she could muster.
The man didn't even glance at her as she stopped in front of the gate.
"Um, excuse me, sir? Could you tell me where the headmaster's office is?"
A brief pause. He finally glanced at her—sharp eyes, calm expression—then went right back to adjusting the hinge.
"You're looking at him," he said flatly.
Special Week froze mid-step.
Her brain took a moment to process the sentence.
"...Wait. You? You're the headmaster?" she asked, eyes widening.
"Mm." A single nod.
Her jaw dropped before she quickly shut it, straightening her back in a poor attempt to look composed. "R-right! Sorry, I just… didn't expect… uh… nevermind! I'm Special Week!" She saluted—yes, actually saluted. "I'm here to join Tracen Academy! Please accept me as a student!"
The man—Akuma—finally set the wrench down and stood up, towering over her. His expression didn't change, but there was a slight twitch of an eyebrow.
"…This isn't Tracen."
Silence.
Special Week's tail stiffened. "...Eh?"
"This," he gestured around at the gates, "is Ashigawa Academy."
There was another pause.
Her ears slowly folded back, her tail started wagging in anxious little flicks. "Wha—wait—but—my train ticket said—"
"Then the train ticket was wrong," Akuma said, crossing his arms. "Or you read it wrong."
She opened her mouth to argue, but a sudden flash of memory hit—Gold Ship at the station, waving a little too enthusiastically as she "gave directions."
Her eye twitched. "…I've been sabotaged."
Akuma stopped tightening the gate hinge and gave her a longer, more deliberate look. His gaze wasn't dismissive this time—it was analytical, running from the way she carried herself to the faint definition in her calves and thighs. His eyes narrowed slightly, as if confirming something to himself.
"…Mind if I check something?" he asked suddenly.
Special Week blinked, caught off guard. "Uh… check what?"
"Your leg muscles."
Her face instantly flushed a faint pink. "M-my legs?!"
"It's not weird," Akuma said plainly. "I'm a trainer. I can tell a lot about a runner from their legs."
Special Week hesitated, glancing toward the gate as if wondering whether she should bolt. But there was something steady and professional in his tone—no nonsense, no teasing. Slowly, she nodded. "…Alright, I guess."
Akuma crouched down beside her, one hand gently lifting her left leg just enough to press his thumb against the muscle lines of her calf, then trailing up toward her thigh. His touch was firm but clinical, methodical.
"Hm… good density… natural elasticity…" He moved to the other leg. "Balanced, too. You're not favoring one side. Not bad at all."
Special Week's embarrassment melted into curiosity. "…Is that… good?"
"Very good," Akuma replied, glancing up at her with the faintest smile. "You're a natural. With the right training, you could be something special—" he paused, realizing the unintentional pun, "—an amazing Uma, even by Tracen standards."
Her eyes widened at the unexpected praise. "…Really?"
Akuma huffed through his nose, standing up and brushing off his hands. He stepped back, looking her over one last time. Then, a small smirk formed on his face.
"Before you go," he began, voice carrying a challenge, "how about you warm up here?"
Special Week tilted her head. "Warm up?"
"We just finished fixing our race track," Akuma explained, jerking his thumb toward the direction of the grounds. "Was about to have a practice run with some of our trainees."
The thought made her ears perk. "…A race?"
"Call it a 'test drive.'" His smirk grew a touch more mischievous. "You've got an hour before the next train. And if you miss it, I'll drive you to the station myself—if you really want to leave."
Special Week looked toward the gate, then back at Akuma. Her hands tightened on her bag straps. The sensible thing would be to thank him and catch her train… but her heart was already racing in a different way.
"…Alright," she said, her voice brimming with growing excitement. "Let's do it!"
Akuma gave a small nod of approval before turning toward the academy grounds. "Good. Let's see what you can really do…."
"Special Week!"
"Alright, let's see how special you are."
As she followed, Special Week's earlier frustration melted into anticipation.
She didn't know why… but something told her this "wrong" academy might just be the start of something very right.