A knock came at the door before it opened, revealing the aged and wrinkled face of Detective Nishimura, a manila folder clutched in his hand. His eyes widened for a moment, looking between Lightning and Red sprawled over his table, hands mid-flail like a toddler. They froze, their eyes meeting as if they'd just been caught red-handed in the middle of something questionable.
Nishimura cleared his throat. "Is… this a bad time?" he asked, gesturing with a point of his finger. "Cause I can come back later."
Red immediately straightened, brushing the wrinkles from his shirt. "Nah, nah, you're good. Captain Lightning an' me, we was just discussin'…" He flicked a glance at Lightning, who only smirked. "Strategies."
"Right," Nishimura said, handing the folder over to Lightning. "Anyway, here's the intel you wanted. Gathered a list of umas who'd fit the bill for your new squad. They're all retired, so you won't have to worry about cutting their careers short."
"Thanks." Lightning opened the folder, flipping past several profiles with photographs. She pursed her lips and gave a nod. "Quite the girls, and quite the record." She closed it. "Hope it wasn't too much trouble."
"Don't worry about it, Chairwoman Akikawa and I go way back," Nishimura replied. "Rudolf herself had a hand in putting that list together." He shrugged. "Though she wasn't particularly thrilled to do so, given the risks we'd be putting these girls in."
"Damn, what I wouldn't give ta snag a photo wit' da Emperor herself," Red grinned, jerking a thumb at the framed photographs hung at the end of the office. "Would look real good up on dat wall'a mine."
Nishimura fixed Red with a flat stare. "Not to mention, I had a long and awkward conversation with her about your little 'incident' with El Condor Pasa." The words made Red flinch, while Lightning pinched the bridge of her nose. "I had to spin it as you being a clueless gaijin still finding his footing. You're lucky she was incredibly understanding, or you'd already be on the first plane home."
"Oh, c'mon, I said I was sorry!" Red shot back, wincing. "I know who El is, but how da hell was I supposed ta know she never takes it off? I even gave a formal apology an' everything!"
Nishimura sighed, shaking his head. "Not every uma in a mask is tied to the MRA, especially not in broad daylight."
Red flinched again, teeth grinding. "Yeah, yeah, rub it in why don't ya…"
"Like I said, dumbass." Lightning groaned, rolling her eyes as she shook her head. "Anyway, I get where Rudolf's coming from, but she's got my word these girls won't be hitting the streets unprepared. I learned the hard way turf and asphalt are two very different beasts, just like the MRA and URA are two different worlds entirely."
"I've no doubt they'll be in good hands," Nishimura said with a faint, genuine smile. "That being said, there is one condition the Chairwoman asked of me." He tilted his head slightly. "She'd like you to come by Tracen sometime soon and give a talk to the girls. I can tell you right now, they'd be over the moon to hear from a member of the legendary Godly Fifteen."
Lightning let out a quiet laugh, her eyes softening as she shook her head. "Haven't heard that name in a long time." She smiled. The expression touched with nostalgia. "Tell Chairwoman Akikawa I'm honored. I'll stop by once I've got this team put together and running steady."
"Of course," Nishimura replied with a slow breath. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to head over to Fuchu Prison." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Apparently Suzuki Hiroshi had another attempt on his life. Third time in the past six months."
"Hiroshi?" Lightning raised an eyebrow. "The one tied to the Scarlet Rose incident?"
"The very same," Nishimura admitted. "Every time they think he's safe enough for general population, someone tries to finish him off. What happened was a tragedy, but plenty out there don't see it that way. Scarlet was the darling of Tracen before the incident, and some wounds don't heal."
"Christ," Red muttered, arms folding tight. "I get idol worship, sure, but gimme a break. It was an accident. Guy's already doin' his time, rottin' behind bars, an' people still want his head on a plate? Rut me sideways an' call me Sally."
"That's the ugly side of the racing world, Red." Lightning shrugged. "Even back home, people take their obsessions too far, and it doesn't always end with a jail sentence or a shrink's couch. I read the case files. The whole thing was plastered across every headline, even made it to the States. Honestly, the press turned it into a circus."
"Tell me about it." Nishimura let out a sharp exhale. "I had reporters camping outside my door for weeks. I never agreed with the public lynching they tried to give him, but in the end, public opinion won out." He scratched the back of his neck. "I try to check in on him… and on his kids. After everything, I can't help but feel somewhat responsible."
"Hey, don't do dat ta yourself," Red said, shaking his head. "Ain't your fault. Ain't nobody's fault. Sometimes bad things happen ta good people, an' when it does, folks go lookin' for someone ta blame. Sucks, but dat's just how it is, and this time, it landed on dat poor bastard."
"Speakin' of his kids…" Lightning asked.
"Yeah." Nishimura slid his hands into the pockets of his trench coat. "Four of them. Oldest is fifteen, youngest just four. Their mother passed a few years back. They were never well off to begin with, and Hiroshi's a dropout. Made ends meet as a handyman, picking up whatever odd jobs he could."
He gave a faint shrug. "After he went inside, the kids were split up and put into foster care across Japan. Their identities are sealed for protection, but I know the eldest is going to school here in Tokyo."
"Damn," Red muttered. "Different country, different language, but it's da same damn story. Same stink, same misery."
Lightning stayed quiet for a long moment, her face set hard before she finally spoke. "Scarlet Rose... I read in her files that her father was her trainer. Big name, big game. Then, after the accident, he went sideways and vanished." She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly. "But she had a sister, didn't she?"
"Right. Black Dahlia, an uma like her," Nishimura confirmed. "But she didn't have the talent to break into the big leagues. Managed a few small wins, but most of her runs never made the top three." He exhaled slowly. "Poor kid's been left holding the pieces of everything after her world collapsed."
"Hhm," Lightning muttered in thought as her ears twitched. Red caught the look and raised an eyebrow.
"Anyways, I best get going," Nishimura said. "Gotta track down my, how do you put it, my own 'dumbass' rookie of a partner I've been stuck babysitting. Boy's got heart, but he's a loose cannon, nothing a few years on the beat can't fix." He chuckled as he adjusted his coat. "But I'm not too torn up about it. Couple more years and I'm cashing out. Already tasting the sand in Honolulu."
"Oh, now you talkin' my language." Red leaned back with a wistful grin. "What I wouldn't give ta be sittin' on a beach right now, sippin' on some fruity drink wit' a little umbrella stickin' outta it."
"Pull your head out of your ass," Lightning said, jerking her chin. "We'll see you around, Nishi."
The old detective gave a lazy salute before backing out and heading down the hall. Lightning turned on Red, who was still half-gone in his little island fantasy.
"Come on." She smacked his shoulder hard, snapping him out of it. He winced, rubbing at the spot with a pout as she held up the folder. "We've got a team to put together, and you're driving." She stepped out of the office without waiting.
"Really?" Red muttered, snatching his jacket and slipping it on as he followed. "Can't we at least grab lunch first? An' I ain't talkin' no bowl'a rice. I'm talkin' somethin' grilled, big-ass plate'a fries on da side. If I gotta choke down one more damned rice ball, you're gonna have ta Baker Act me, 'cause I'm tellin' ya, I'll lose my freakin' mind."
"Don't think that's even a thing in Tokyo, champ," Lightning shot back over her shoulder. "But I'd take great pleasure in knocking you out with a nightstick."
"You're knicked in da head, ya know dat?" Red said, lips curling into a sulk.
"I'd have to be," Lightning smirked, "to have you for a partner."
****
The academy bell chimed, its echo carrying across the campus as the sun sank low on the horizon, painting the sky in deep shades of orange and crimson. The glow spilled over the sky-blue rooftops and red-brick walls, windows flashing gold in the fading light. The grounds buzzed with life, umas in their trademark indigo and white uniforms streamed along the walkways, voices mingling in a chorus of chatter and laughter. Some gossiped about weekend plans, others groaned over unfinished homework, a handful were already getting scolded for antics by passing faculty, while a few slipped away in hopes of dodging evening practice.
A curl of smoke drifted lazily into the air from the cigarette clenched between Logan's teeth. He leaned against the rough bark of a tree near the gates, half-shrouded in shadow, his hands tucked deep into his jacket pockets. His gaze swept the tide of students moving toward the dormitories, watching the steady rhythm of uniform after uniform.
Then he stilled. His eyes locked onto one girl in particular. She wasn't taller or shorter than the rest, dressed in the same uniform as her peers, but something about her stood out. A brown school bag was slung over her shoulder, a tiny keychain shaped like a fluffy bumblebee dangling from the strap. Black hair streaked with dark yellow highlights framed her face, and her crimson eyes shone as she laughed with the friends walking beside her. Logan drew a slow breath, the cigarette burning low, smoke slipping out through the small gaps in his teeth.
"Can I trouble you for a light?" a voice asked from behind him.
Without looking, Logan slid a hand from his pocket, flicked the lighter open, and struck the wheel. The flame flared to life, catching the end of the cigarette beside him. Smoke drifted past as he snapped the lighter shut and tucked it away again.
"Long day, Hana?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder. She stood there in a fitted gray business suit, a pair of red earrings catching the light. Her long black hair was pulled into a high ponytail, dark ember eyes peering at him from behind half-framed glasses. "Funny. Don't recall ever seeing you smoke."
"Please." Hana waved the cigarette dismissively. "Just because I keep it out of sight doesn't make me a saint." She nudged her glasses higher up her nose, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. "Which is more than I can say for you, senpai."
Logan chuckled, flicking ash from his cigarette. "Touché. Still, I'll give credit where it's due. Rigil's been on fire lately. You've got a good eye for talent."
Hana drew a long drag before exhaling a slow plume of smoke. "Yeah, but they were already sharp tools when I found them. Training them is the easy part." She folded her arms. "Turning coal into diamonds, though, that's your specialty, not mine."
"I'm flattered," Logan replied with a dry smile. "But trust me, it wasn't a choice. It was either swim with the sharks or sink. And I wasn't about to let my girls go under with me."
Hana stepped closer, standing beside him as her gaze followed the girl he had been watching.
"How is she?" Logan asked.
A faint, proud smile touched Hana's lips. "Every bit as talented as her mother. She's already shone in her debut. Six ungraded races, three G3s, two G2s, all within the past year. And she's only just begun." Her eyes lingered as the girl disappeared past the gates to the dormitories. "Hachimitsu Melody. That name will carry weight. I've no doubt she'll rise to the very top of her generation."
Logan nodded slowly. "Well, she's got one hell of a trainer." He turned to her with a faint grin.
Hana flushed, looking away quickly as she took another drag. "I… well. I try," she murmured. Her gaze softened too, still on the dorms. "You know… it's not too late to go say hi."
Logan shook his head, the motion heavy. "You know me, Hana. You know what I am, what I've done." His eyes drifted back toward the gates, where the last of the girls were filing through. "If the school ever found out… if her friends knew her old man's a—" He stopped, a sharp breath leaving him like a knife slipping between his ribs. "A girl like her doesn't need a shadow like me draggin' her down. It's better this way."
Hana's expression softened. "You know, I once asked Melody about her parents. She was still a child when she came to Tokyo to live with her grandmother. She told me she doesn't remember much. Only that her mother passed, and her father… had to go away." Her gaze slid to Logan. "If it eases your conscience any, she doesn't hate you."
"That's because she doesn't know," Logan murmured. "Her family and I made sure of it. The deal was simple. They'd erase me from her life, and in return, I'd stay gone."
Hana frowned, incredulous. "That's harsh. I can't imagine her family being so heartless as to—"
"It wasn't their call." Logan cut her off. "It was mine."
Hana nearly dropped her cigarette, her eyes widening. "Wait, you chose this?" Her jaw slackened. "Why, senpai? Why would you do that?"
"Because, like I said, it's better this way." Logan took the last drag from his cigarette, then flicked it to the pavement and ground it beneath his boot. A thin veil of smoke slipped from his lips as he spoke. "Don't get me wrong, Hana. I love Melody. Always have, always will. But I made a promise to Bee, that I'd protect her. Even if that meant protecting her from me."
Hana's shoulders sagged, a solemn look etched across her features. "Senpai… I know you believe this is the right thing, but keeping her at a distance will break you as much as it breaks her."
Logan said nothing, his gaze fixed once more on the gates. The sun dipped lower, the amber glow of streetlamps flickering to life along the path.
"She's growing up," Hana said softly. "Soon, she'll be running in the biggest races of the Twinkle Series. And when her name starts spreading, when the spotlight falls on her, don't you think people will start connecting the dots?" She gestured faintly with her cigarette. "How long before Melody herself starts digging into her past, asking the questions no one wants to answer? One way or another, the truth's going to find her."
"Well," Logan said with a long exhale. "I guess we'll cross that bridge when it comes." He slipped his free hand into his jacket pocket, his shoulders sinking. "But for now, I'd appreciate it if you kept this between us."
Hana nodded her head gently, drawing one last drag before flicking the cigarette aside and grinding it under the heel of her shoe. "You and I go way back. Bee was one of my closest friends." A soft smile tugged at her lips, faint but sincere. "Because of that, Melody's like family to me. You can count on me to take care of her."
Logan's mouth curved into the faintest smile. "See you around, Hana." With that, he turned and began down the sidewalk, his figure slowly fading toward the end of the street.
Hana's eyes lingered on him, a whisper slipping out with the smoke that still clung to the air. "Take care of yourself… senpai."
At the dorm gates, Melody waved her friends off before pausing, her gaze drifting. She caught sight of her trainer speaking with a man she didn't recognize. A man already walking away into the growing night. Her brow furrowed as she clutched her school bag closer, her tail flicking once before she turned, heading toward her own dormitory.
****
A curtain of rain poured over the city, draping the streets in another long, wet night. Neon signs bled their colors across the slick pavement, reflections stretching like fractured veins along the asphalt as dark as the sky above. Logan cut through the back alleys, hood pulled low, his coat catching the shimmer of electric light as droplets pattered in rhythm with the faint hum of buzzing halogens. From beyond the walls came the muffled echoes of off-key karaoke, drunken laughter, and the heartbeat of the city, dull but inescapable.
Tokyo was a different world from the gilded streets of Los Angeles and the manicured shine of Strider Academy. In another life, he couldn't walk half a block without being mobbed by fans or hounded by reporters. Politicians lined up to shake his hand, gangsters offered envelopes to grease his palms, and celebrities fought for the honor of having him on speed dial. For a kid out of Kentucky, an orphan shuffled through the system, convinced he'd spend his life working counters, slinging coffee in a green apron and black cap, it had been nothing short of surreal.
He stopped as the door of a bar burst open, spilling light and noise into the narrow alley. Two men staggered out, their ties knotted drunkenly around their foreheads, voices slurred into an unfamiliar Japanese song as they leaned on each other and stumbled deeper into the night. Logan shook his head. The sight was too familiar. Back in Louisville, he'd seen men just like them, drunk on cheap beer while screaming at the track for their favorite umas. He'd been the one sweeping floors, hauling trash, taking pocket change just to scrape by.
Everything had changed the night he crossed paths with a trainer whose name once carried weight like scripture. That meeting set him on the road to Strider, to fame, to being crowned the youngest National Trainer in the States, to the legend they once called the Hand of God. And yet, that same path had led to ruin. The name he had once worshipped, the man he had once loved, now lingered on his tongue like ash. Roark.
The crash jolted Logan's attention upward. It wasn't the screech of metal from a car wreck but the raw thud of something heavy smashing against refuse. His gaze sharpened as he moved toward the sound, slipping out of the alley just in time to hear steel scrape across asphalt, followed by a sharp cry and the clatter of a body rolling into a stack of boxes.
He emerged into a wide, desolate parking lot, washed in rain and shadow. That's when he saw her.
Dahlia.
She pushed herself up from the mess, brushing grime from her torn leather jacket with a grimace. She rolled her neck until it cracked, kneading her shoulder as if pain were nothing new, and trudged back toward a crude starting line marked in sloppy white spray paint. A makeshift course had been drawn across the pavement, the evidence scattered in half-empty cans lying at her feet.
Logan's eyes narrowed as she crouched low at the line, drawing in a steady breath. Her boots. if they could be called that, caught his eye. They weren't the flashy customs of a pro, not even solid street gear, but the standard-issue red-and-white trainers given to rookies at the academy. Torn, scuffed, laces frayed to threads, they looked half a size too small. And yet she set her stance firm, as though they were the only thing holding her to the earth.
With a burst of motion, Dahlia launched forward. Rain seemed to still around her as her legs carried her at blistering speed, her raw power undeniable. Logan watched closely, noting her stride, the strength in her frame. No shortage of talent.
But as she closed on the turn, she dug in her heels, angling her body, trying to mimic the MRA girls she must have studied, trying to drift the corner like a veteran. She nearly made it halfway before her ankle caught, the shoes giving way. With a pained cry she went sprawling, tumbling hard into a pile of trash bags. They split open on impact, spilling refuse across the slick pavement.
Logan exhaled slowly, unsurprised. He'd expected her to wipe out from the very start. He then headed toward the entrance of the lot, ready to leave the scene behind. But just as his foot crossed the threshold, he stopped.
Saburo's words came back to him first, heavy with near desperation. Then Daichi's, spoken in that cramped convenience store, about Dahlia's circumstances. Her sister, her struggle, how she was barely keeping her head above water. His thoughts slipped further back, to the moment she'd stepped in against My Fair Lady, challenging her to a race just to give some poor girl a fighting chance in a world that'd no sooner claim her body and soul.
The realization settled over him with a chill, seeping into his skin like rain through worn denim. Her loss wasn't just defeat. It carried consequences heavier than she was willing to face. Pinks weren't a metaphor here. For street racers, losing a car meant losing metal and gears, a setback that time, money, and grit could fix.
But when the stakes were your own body, there was no replacing what you lost. Logan knew better than most, it was just another word for slavery. Cruel, despicable, and yet an unspoken truth that clung to the underworld like rot. Girls like Light were considered fortunate; they had value that could be bargained with. But those who didn't? They were forced to earn their keep in ways far darker, and far more degrading.
His eyes slipped shut as rain tapped steadily against his hood, each drop a quiet echo of the past pressing down on him. The ache that followed was sharp, familiar. The kind that carried the weight of memory and the sting of longing. He saw her then, as clear as if she were standing before him. Bee, that fierce, untamable spark of an uma who'd stormed into his life and refused to ever leave his heart. She was more wild thing than woman. Loud, brash, stubborn to the bone, and cursed like a trucker on his fifth whiskey.
She never took orders, never bowed to anyone, and she sure as hell didn't know when to quit. Back at Strider, they'd called her a rebel without a cause, a failure in the making. But to him, that fire, unruly and raw, was everything. It was the same blaze he saw now in Dahlia, that same reckless defiance that refused to die even when the world tried to stamp it out.
The thought twisted in his chest, tight and suffocating. He groaned under his breath, dragging a hand across the back of his neck before pushing his hood back, letting the rain wash over his face.
He turned back toward the lot, muttering under his breath.
"Goddammit."
****
Dahlia cried out as she smashed into another stack of boxes, the pile collapsing beneath her. She groaned, rubbing the back of her neck before pulling free a battered Special Week plush wedged under her. Its seams were ripped, stuffing spilling out. With a roll of her eyes, she tossed it aside, frustration boiling over. She'd lost count of how many times she'd crashed at that same corner. No matter how many attempts, no matter how closely she mimicked the movements she'd seen from My Fair Lady or Midnight Queen, she always ended up sprawled in the dirt.
She'd tried everything, sanding the soles of her cleats, even oiling them, both disasters. Still, nothing worked. The final meet was fast approaching, and if she couldn't master something as fundamental as drifting, she didn't stand a chance. She knew she had the raw speed, the stamina, the strength. But Lady had her crushed on the turns.
Her jaw clenched. Quitting wasn't an option. Not when Light's freedom was at stake. She could endure pain, humiliation, even defeat, but she couldn't bear to leave that girl shackled under Lady's control.
It was then she noticed him, someone standing just ahead, the shadow of his figure cutting through the rain. Her eyes widened as recognition hit.
"A little late to be dumpster diving, don't you think?" Logan said, his dark gaze fixed on her. "And even then… you're doing it wrong."
"Oh, and I suppose you're the foremost expert in dumpster diving now?" Dahlia muttered as she picked herself up, brushing dirt from her jacket and swiping grime off her jeans.
"You could say that," Logan replied flatly. "Once upon a time." His gaze shifted toward the crude spray-painted course. "Caught your little race back in the garage."
Dahlia's eyes widened for a moment, then narrowed as her expression hardened. "Yeah? Must've been a real show for you. I'm sure everyone's getting their laughs in. Truth is, it wasn't half as bad as my debut." She brushed past him, heading back toward the starting line.
"Well, you've got the moves, I'll give you that." Logan kept his hands buried in his pockets. "Your form's solid, your pace is clean. Whoever trained you nailed the fundamentals down to a T."
Dahlia stopped, her eyes flicking to the painted line before she let out a dry scoff. "Yeah," she exhaled, almost to herself.
Logan closed the distance between them. "I'm just curious what made you—"
"You know, for a guy who made it perfectly clear back at the café that he wanted to be left alone, you're being awfully chatty," Dahlia cut in, her gaze sharp. "Unless you're finally in the mood for small talk."
Logan's lips pressed thin. He gave a slight shrug, then kicked at the ground with his boot. "Look. This isn't turf or dirt. It's asphalt. You wanna chase the streets like those MRA girls, here's some advice, everything you learned about racing? Toss it in a bag and drown it in the bay."
Dahlia huffed a short, amused laugh. "So now you're not just a dumpster-diving expert, you're a street racing guru too?"
"I've been around." Logan tilted his head slightly. "Street racing ain't anything like the academy track. Forget rules and order. The pitch is perfect by design. Out here?" He gestured to the cracked, uneven tarmac under their feet. "Out here, you might as well be running on sandpaper. One bad bump, one wrong slip, and you're not limping off, you're waking up in a hospital bed, or not at all."
He stepped closer, his eyes fixed on her. "You've got speed. You've got the skills. But if you want to hang with the best, you're goanna have to learn what the likes of Tracen'll never teach you—drifting."
Dahlia gestured at the wreckage of smashed boxes and garbage strewn across the lot. "In case you haven't noticed, I haven't exactly cracked that one yet."
"That's because you're treating it like a slip-and-slide," Logan said. "You can't just throw yourself into it and hope. You gotta pitch the weight, break it loose, and drive the line through the shift. Push too hard, and you're eating pavement or swimming in trash bags."
Dahlia raised a brow. "That makes absolutely no sense."
"It's not supposed to." Logan smirked faintly. "Truth is, drifting isn't just mechanics. It's feel."
Dahlia rolled her eyes. "Seriously?"
"Dead serious," Logan said, his tone even. "But that's only half of it. You can memorize the rules, practice the technique, study all the theory you want, but real mastery? That comes from you. From the way you move, the way you read the road. No one else can teach you that." He paused, his gaze steady on her. "Same way no two umas run alike. Everyone's stride is their own."
His gaze dropped to her worn, scuffed boots. "And before we even start talking technique, you're goanna need the right gear." He tilted his head toward her feet, making Dahlia follow his eyes. "Those boots… they're not yours, are they?"
Dahlia looked away, shoulders tightening as she shrugged. "They… they were my sister's. I wrecked my only pair in the last race."
Logan gave a slow nod. "Figured as much. Either way, they're not built for this. Standard cleats are made for the track. Controlled surfaces, clean runs. Out here's a different world. You want to pull off even half the tricks Lady can, you'll need cleats made for asphalt."
Dahlia arched a brow. "Specialized cleats? What are you talking about?"
"Think of it like cars," Logan said. "Different tires for different terrain. Dirt tires if you're off-road. Racing slicks if you're on the track. Snow tires, rain tires. You get the picture." His gaze sharpened. "You want to drift on streets like these, you'll need cleats built for the road. Otherwise, every corner's just another crash waiting to happen."
He swept his hand toward the wreckage around them, the split garbage bags, the busted boxes, the stench of failure hanging in the damp air. "Case in point."
Dahlia shot him a half-lidded stare. "And you know where I can get some?"
"I might." Logan kept his hands tucked in his jean pockets. "But I'll be straight with you, they ain't cheap. You're not goanna find them on a shelf at the corner store. They've gotta be custom, and there's only a handful of people in Tokyo who can make 'em."
Her gaze sank to the ground, ears drooping. Logan caught it and let out a quiet breath. "Look, I'll hit up an old friend. He might have some hand-me-downs lying around. They're not perfect, but they'll give you a fighting chance to get the technique down."
Dahlia's ears perked at that, her lips twitching into an eager smile, only for it to slip into suspicion. "Hang on… what's the catch?"
"Catch?" Logan raised a brow.
"Please." Dahlia squared her shoulders. "I've been around long enough to know nobody gives things away for free. Even favors. And yeah, maybe I'm an uma, but I'm not about to bend over and lift my tail just to get a pair of boots."
Logan rolled his eyes and let out a sharp breath. "First off, gross. You're what, sixteen? I'm old enough to be your dad." He rubbed the back of his neck and continued flatly, "Second, I ain't looking for that kind of thing, and even if I were some kinda sick creep, you sure as hell wouldn't be my type." He turned away, tugging his hood over his head as he started walking. "I'll drop 'em off here tomorrow. After that, it's on you."
"Hey." Dahlia's voice made him stop. He looked back over his shoulder. "Why are you helping me?"
For a moment, Logan said nothing. Then, softly, "Honestly? I don't know." His gaze softened in the rain. "But I know the old man wouldn't stop hounding me if I didn't at least try."
"Wait… the Master?" Dahlia asked, confusion crossing her face.
Logan's tone grew heavier. "But between you and me, you'd be better off crawling to Lady and apologizing. The way you are now, you don't stand a chance. A bruised ego's better than a life in chains. Believe me."
Dahlia's eyes hardened. "Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence."
"I wasn't being sarcastic," Logan replied flatly. "I'm being realistic. You've got more to lose than you're willing to admit." He pulled his hood up over his head. "And by the way, you should get that looked at."
"What?" Dahlia asked, her expression caught somewhere between confusion and irritation.
Logan's eyes flicked down toward her side. "You're favoring your left. Flinching every step. I've seen injuries like that more times than I care to count, and after the stunt you pulled back at the garage?" He shook his head. "If you're lucky, it's just a bruised rib or two. If not, could be a crack or a fracture. Either way, get some ice on it. And if it gets worse, see a doctor."
He didn't wait for her reply. Turning away, he stepped out of the lot, the sound of his boots echoing against the wet asphalt until he rounded the corner and vanished into the night.
Dahlia stood motionless, rain dripping steadily around her, pooling in shallow puddles, tapping softly against the sagging cardboard boxes. Logan's words echoed in her head, cutting deeper than she wanted to admit, dragging old memories back to the surface. Memories she'd fought hard to bury.
She moved back toward the starting line, her hand pressing against the tender bruise spreading from her chest down across her abdomen. The skin was already purpling, every touch sending a sharp sting through her ribs. Dahlia gritted her teeth, a quiet hiss escaping as she flinched.
Her father had once brimmed with hope, drilling her with morning runs, evening circuits, strict diets, and endless exercises meant to sharpen her into the champion he was certain she would become. For a while, she believed him. She believed in herself. But as her chances at the top slipped away, so too did his encouragement. Praise turned to sighs, then to criticism, then to biting remarks that left her raw.
It hadn't taken long for Dahlia to realize his love came with conditions, and when Scarlet stepped onto the scene. Bright, brilliant Scarlet, who achieved everything Dahlia had only dreamed of, her place in the family shifted. No longer the example, but the warning. Her father held her up not as a source of pride but as a cautionary tale, a reminder of what failure looked like. Scarlet was showered in praise, while Dahlia became the punchline, the black sheep to point at over dinner.
That was when she started slipping out, taking late-night delivery runs, anything to avoid the table where his voice made food taste like ash. Anything to avoid hearing her sister's name raised high while hers was dragged through the dirt.
Her jaw clenched, teeth grinding together. Logan's words still clung to her, echoing the same verdict her father had once spat at her: worthless… disappointment… shameful… weak… a waste.
Her eyes darkened, defiance surging in her chest. Dropping low at the starting line, she braced herself, rain dripping from her hair, her muscles coiled. Then she launched forward again, fire raging in her chest, the storm above answering with thunder as she tore down the crude course once more.