The hours had wound down, and the little café had settled into its nightly quiet. The last of the patrons, humans and umas alike, packed their bags, the sound of scraping chairs and soft goodbyes fading into the hum of the street outside.
Behind the counter, Saburo hummed to himself as he wiped down the espresso machine, polishing the chrome until it caught the glow of the hanging lights. The hiss of steam had long died away, leaving only the faint clink of metal as he disassembled the parts for their nightly cleaning. Empty tea bags, sugar tubes, and used filters cluttered the counter, remnants of another long, well-worn day.
He tossed the rag over his shoulder, let out a deep sigh, and turned around, only to pause when his eyes landed on Logan. The man was still sitting in his usuals spot, tablet propped up next to his mug, the dull light reflecting off his tired face. He didn't even look up as race footage flickered across the screen, the MRA logo glowing faintly in the dimly lit café.
Saburo raised an eyebrow. He folded his arms as he leaned against the counter.
"Take a picture, old man," Logan muttered, still watching the replay. "It'll last longer."
"Oh, har har. Real funny." Saburo let out a short laugh and propped his elbows on the counter. "Just didn't think I'd see you stickin' around this late. Don't you usually head out to your little street meets by now?"
Logan finally looked up, one corner of his mouth curling in that half-smirk he wore like armor. "Aw, what's the matter? Finally got tired of staring at my pretty face all day?" He gestured loosely with his fingers. "Or lemme guess, you're in desperate need of a little… alone time."
Saburo snorted, shaking his head as a smirk tugged at his lips. "Right. Those days are long behind me." He leaned his elbows on the counter. "And I'd dare say the same for you."
"Yeah, sure," Logan muttered, grabbing a few peanuts from the small white bowl beside his coffee and popping them into his mouth. He chewed, shrugged. "If you really gotta know, I'm waiting for someone."
"Oooh, a date?" Saburo grinned wide now, eyes glinting. "I take it back, looks like the ol' Hand of God's still got some kick left in him."
"Pull your head outta the gutter," Logan groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "It ain't like that."
Saburo chuckled under his breath, the sound mingling with the faint hum of the coffee machine cooling down. "Sure, sure," he said. "That's what they all say before trouble walks through the door."
Logan's smirk faltered, his gaze drifting toward the door. For a fleeting second, even Saburo could tell the joke had fallen away. Logan raised his wrist, eyes flicking to the watch face just as the hands aligned at midnight.
Right on cue, the café door swung open. The bell above it chimed softly, its sound cutting through the stillness as Dahlia stepped inside. Her jet-black hair was slightly damp from the night air, her expression a mix of nerves and resolve.
"And right on time," Logan murmured, packing up his tablet and setting it flat on the counter. He shot Saburo a knowing grin. "Told you."
Saburo could only stare, wide-eyed and stunned, his rag hanging forgotten over his shoulder. Dahlia gave a small, awkward wave in his direction.
Logan pushed off the stool and crossed the floor to meet her. "You ready?"
Dahlia drew in a breath, then let it out slow. "Ready as I'll ever be."
Logan glanced back toward the counter. "Mind if I borrow some wheels?"
It took Saburo a few beats to catch up, his expression blank before he blinked and reached beneath the counter. He fished out a ring of keys and tossed them over. Logan caught them in one hand, the metal jingling softly.
"Don't wait up," Logan said, turning for the door.
"Logan," Saburo called after him.
He stopped, half-turned, eyes meeting the old man's.
"You back?" Saburo asked quietly.
A slow grin spread across Logan's face, the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes. "We'll see, old man."
He pushed the door open, ushering Dahlia out into the quiet street. The bell above chimed softly, the sound hanging in the air long after the door swung shut. For a moment, the café stood still. The near empty tables, dim lights, the faint smell of roasted beans lingering in the air.
Saburo reached up and pulled the rag from his shoulder, exhaling as the silence settled around him. A grin tugged faintly at his lips, shaking his head in disbelief. His throat tightened, eyes glinting as he pressed a hand over his mouth.
"Yeah… he's back, Bee," he murmured, rough with pride. His gaze drifted toward the ceiling, as though speaking to a ghost. "By God… he's so back."
****
The old white Civic rumbled through the edge of the city, its engine grumbling like an old man's cough. The skyline had long since thinned. Towers giving way to squat shophouses and half-lit apartment blocks, then to the hollow shells of factories that time had forgotten. The road ahead glowed faintly under a broken row of amber lamps, their light barely cutting through the thick curtain of night.
Dahlia sat quietly, her gaze tracing the ghostly reflections along the car window. Every so often she glanced at Logan, the sharp lines of his face lit in passing flashes, the ember of his cigarette flaring and fading with each drag. He hadn't said a word the entire drive. One arm rested against the open window, the cool air curling through the car, carrying the scent of burnt tobacco and faint traces of exhaust.
A whisper of unease crawled up her spine. Her ears twitched, and a voice in the back of her head screamed for her to undo her seatbelt, leap out, and run. For all she knew, he could've been leading her out here to disappear, one more uma gone missing, one more story no one would tell.
The city lights finally fell away behind them, swallowed by the dark. The Civic turned down a narrow road and rolled to a stop before a tall, rusted gate. The headlights washed over the steel for a fleeting second before Logan cut the engine. The world fell silent. The crunch of gravel under tires echoed like thunder in the still air.
He unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out. "We're here," he said, shutting the door behind him. "Get your tail out."
Dahlia frowned but followed, crossing around the front of the car. "You mind telling me what we're doing out here in the middle of nowhere?"
"Shh." Logan flicked the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his boot.
Then, light.
A deep hum rolled through the air as towering floodlights blinked on one by one, bathing the area in blinding white. Dahlia threw up a hand, blinking until the glare softened into shape, and what took form before her stole the breath from her chest.
A race circuit stretched across the clearing, its sleek asphalt curling through hills and drops, outlined by rows of battered tires. Rusted railings, chipped paint, and broken spectator stands gave it the look of something ancient. A monument to speed left to decay. Yet beneath the dust and ruin, the ghost of life remained.
The groan of hinges drew her attention to the side gate. An older man stepped through, pushing it open with effort. His hair was grey and thinning, his face lined with age and wear, but what stood out was the pristine white racing jumpsuit he wore. Streaked with bands of red, blue, and yellow. Gloves and boots scuffed from years of use. A navy bandana tied around his head.
"Fujisawa," Logan greeted, breaking into a grin as he crossed the distance to shake his hand. "Damn, you've aged a hundred years since I last saw you."
Fujisawa laughed, a deep, genuine sound that cracked through the night. "I could say the same for you," he replied, resting his hands on his hips. His smile dimmed. "It's been a long time since I've seen you… and Bee."
Logan's grin faded, his gaze turning toward the old circuit. "Guess the little business venture didn't go the way you hoped."
Fujisawa's shoulders sagged. "I wish I could tell you otherwise." He stared out at the worn track, the faint wind stirring the flags that still clung to rusted poles. "I was young, foolish. Thought dreams alone could keep a fire alive." He gave a small, humorless chuckle. "Turns out the real world doesn't give a damn about dreams."
Fujisawa looked back at Logan, his expression soft but edged with the quiet weight of memory. "Parents gave me a year," he said. "One year to make something of my dream. To build the greatest go-kart circuit in Japan. If I failed, I was supposed to go home, settle down, and take over the family business." He exhaled, the sound heavy, hollow. "I think you can guess how that turned out."
He shook his head, a wistful smile flickering across his worn face. "Truth is, I only wish I'd had your strength. Your stubborn will to keep chasing what mattered, even when the world told you to quit."
Logan gave a low, bitter chuckle. "Look at me, Fuji. You really think this is what strength looks like? I ain't exactly the poster boy for dreams."
"Maybe not," Fuji replied, his brown eyes softening. "But you're still here. That counts for something."
His gaze shifted to Dahlia, appraising her with quiet curiosity. "And you must be Dahlia."
Dahlia straightened instinctively, ears twitching as she dipped her head in a polite bow. "It's a pleasure, Mister Fujisawa."
"Likewise," he said warmly, before turning back to Logan with a knowing smile. "When you reached out about my old track, I half expected you were planning some kind of midlife career change." His grin widened as his eyes flicked to Dahlia. "Now that I see her, I'm guessing this means the Hand of God is back?"
Logan let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Keep dreaming, pal. It's a one-time thing." He clapped Fuji on the shoulder. "Come on, we're burning through the midnight oil, and I'm running outta time to whip her into shape."
He started down toward the track, his boots crunching over the gravel. Dahlia followed, glancing around the forgotten circuit with growing awe.
Behind them, Fuji chuckled softly. "You know," Logan called over his shoulder, "what's with the getup, anyway?"
"Any excuse to dust off the old gear is good enough for me," Fuji said with a grin. "Frankly, I'm just amazed the missus hadn't thrown it out yet."
****
Dahlia knelt at the starting line, the faded white paint beneath her fingers flaking like old scars. The tarmac stretched out ahead. Cracked, weathered, its surface dulled by years of rain and neglect. The faint scent of rubber still clung to the air, though the tires that once left their marks had long since rotted away.
The night was heavy, still. The halogen floodlights hummed overhead, casting long shadows across the forgotten circuit and drawing a sheen of sweat down her brow. She tightened the laces of her scuffed boots, rose to her feet, and rolled her shoulders. Her black track pants and jacket clung close to her frame as she twisted side to side, loosening her muscles. Her tail flicked once, her ears twitching at the faint buzz of electricity from the lamps.
Logan's footsteps crunched softly over the cracked asphalt as he approached, the gleam of a cracked stopwatch catching in his hand. "Remember what I told you," he said. "Pitch it hard, break it loose, and drive the line through the shift."
Dahlia leveled him a look, unimpressed. "You can say that a thousand times, and it still won't make any sense."
Logan grinned faintly and gestured out toward the dark horizon where the jagged outline of the mountains loomed against the night sky. "Where I'm from, some of the best racers in the world started out in the middle of nowhere. No fancy circuits, no crowds, just dirt, danger, and a lot of guts." He tilted his head. Half lost in memory. "And they weren't exactly the law-abiding type. This was back during Prohibition…"
Dahlia blinked, her brow furrowing. Logan sighed.
"Think of it like this. Everyone decided booze was the reason their lives sucked, so the government banned it."
Dahlia raised a brow. "That… doesn't sound very smart."
"Yeah, no kidding. I had to sit through that whole lesson back in middle school." He shook his head, waving the thought off. "Anyway, back then, to keep the cops off their tail, bootleggers would run their shine—"
"Shine?"
"Moonshine," Logan clarified. "Illegal booze. Try to keep up, kid." He pointed toward the distant mountains. "They'd barrel down those dark, twisty roads with no headlights, just instincts. One wrong move, and they'd be scrap metal. The ones who made it? They got good. Real good. A few of them went on to become legends once racing went legit."
Dahlia's eyes drifted to the long stretch of track ahead. The air felt thicker now, heavier.
"And that's just the ones behind the wheel," Logan said, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You really think umas like Man o' War, Citation, and Seabiscuit just popped outta nowhere? You think they were born clean?" He gave a short laugh. "Hell no. They ran shine for the mob long before anyone ever called them champions."
He angled his head toward the track, eyes glinting under the halogen glow. "Who trained them? Nobody. Life did. The road did. Back then, you didn't get good playing by the rules. You got good learning how to survive breaking them. Every legend starts in the dark before the world decides to call them heroes."
Logan stepped closer. "The point is, there's no textbook for this. No A, B, C." He tapped the stopwatch against her shoulder. "You don't learn the streets. You feel it. The first racers and drifters didn't have lessons. They had fear, instinct, and the road." He met her eyes. "So don't think. Just feel it."
Dahlia met his eyes, then gave a short nod.
Logan stepped back, retreating into the shadow cast by the old shed where Fujisawa stood beside him. The older man cracked a walnut between his fingers, popped it into his mouth, and chewed slowly. Logan flicked open his lighter, the flame catching briefly before he brought it to the cigarette between his lips. The tip flared orange in the dark as he drew in a breath, exhaling a ribbon of smoke that curled lazily into the night.
Out on the track, Dahlia crouched low, muscles tightening beneath her jacket, tail flicking once as her eyes narrowed on the stretch ahead.
"Ready," Logan said, thumb hovering over the stopwatch. "Go!"
The sound of cleats striking pavement tore through the air. Dahlia shot forward, legs pumping as the track came alive beneath her. The rough asphalt scraped against her soles, each step echoing off the steel barriers.
Fujisawa exhaled, eyes tracking her movements. "She's gonna crash," he muttered, popping another walnut into his mouth.
"No, no, give her a second…" Logan squinted through the haze of smoke, watching her approach the corner. "Yup… yup. She's gonna crash."
Dahlia dug in as she hit the turn, cleats skidding against the tarmac with the harsh squeal of burning rubber. Her balance faltered. She twisted, lost her footing, and went tumbling shoulder-first into the wall of tires with a dull whump.
For a heartbeat, the only sound was the faint rattle of loose rubber rolling across the track. Then a groan.
"Looks like you'll be here till sunrise," Fujisawa said, a grin breaking through the lines on his face. "On the bright side, she hasn't clocked you one yet, not like Bee used to."
Logan huffed a laugh, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth as he watched Dahlia make her way back to the line.
"Yeah," he said, a faint, crooked smile tugging at his mouth, almost fond despite himself. "Could've gone my whole damn life without that reminder. Loved her, sure. But I swear, God took every ounce of hate and rage in the world, crammed it into five feet of wildfire made flesh, and then unleashed her on me."
Fujisawa chuckled, tossing another walnut into his mouth as a grin creased his weathered face.
"Unleashed her on every sorry sap who thought he could tame her," he said, shaking his head. "They all tried, and every single one of them ran screaming for the hills." He pointed a finger at Logan, still smiling. "But you? You're the dumbass who actually went and married her."
"So I did." Logan smirked, flicking the ash from his cigarette, the ember briefly flaring in the dark. Raising the stopwatch, thumb poised over the button, he muttered, "Again."
****
Two days had passed since the alleyway incident, and the doctor had called him lucky. A few bruises, maybe a cracked rib or two. Nothing broken, nothing fatal. His store manager had been surprisingly understanding, giving him a few days off to rest. From what Daichi had gathered from his coworkers, it wasn't the first time an attendant had been jumped by a pack of delinquents. The manager was probably just grateful he hadn't quit outright, not with the staff already running thin. Even more grateful, perhaps, that Daichi hadn't gone to the police.
But that silence wasn't for the store's sake. He'd kept his mouth shut to keep the cops from sniffing around Logan, or digging into what the hell he and Light had been doing there at that hour. Daichi tugged his hood up, tucking one hand into the pocket of his gray sweatshirt while the other clutched a small cloth bag filled with groceries. Just the basics. Rice, noodles, tea. A break from the usual marked out convenience-store bentos and cold rice balls he'd bring home at the end of every shift.
Bandages wrapped around his arms and ribs, one cutting across his cheek where the bruise had begun to fade from deep purple to yellow. His steps were slow, measured, the soles of his sneakers scuffing the quiet sidewalk as he made his way home in the light of the setting sun.
Home, a one-room apartment tucked in the city's forgotten corner. Peeling paint, yellowed tatami mats, a flickering ceiling light that hadn't been fashionable since the eighties. The air always smelled faintly of dust and instant coffee. It was small, tired, and lonely. But it was his.
He didn't waste energy blaming fate or luck. His life was his own doing. He'd chosen this, to turn his back on the shape society expected him to take, and society, in turn, had done the same. He'd made peace with it, in a detached sort of way. Day by day, paycheck by paycheck, he let life carry him like a leaf on a current he'd long since stopped resisting.
He sighed, rubbing the back of his head. Between calming his uncle down, who'd threatened to hunt the punks himself, and staving off the landlord for one more week while he scraped together enough for rent, Daichi could barely keep his thoughts straight. This was what was left for him. A cycle of patchwork days and quiet nights, where nothing really changed and nothing ever waited for him at home. Some part of him still wondered, every now and then, if it was worth waking up again. Just to keep realizing there wasn't much left to wake up for.
Lost in thought, Daichi barely registered the world around him until he collided with someone. The impact jolted him back to reality. Both stumbled, but he caught his balance first, clutching his grocery bag before it hit the ground.
"Ah, sorry," he said quickly, tugging his hood down. "I didn't see you there, are you—"
The words died in his throat as his gaze lifted.
Before him stood an uma girl in a crisp, white and navy-blue sailor uniform. The kind worn by middle-schoolers. Her short bangs framed a face both familiar and faintly bruised, a strip of white bandage marking her cheek. She clutched the black leather strap of her schoolbag, eyes wide.
"No, please, I should be the one—" she started, but stopped short as their eyes met.
For a long, breathless moment, neither spoke.
"Light?" Daichi murmured, almost disbelieving. "Oh… wow. I didn't think I'd—" He caught himself, fumbling for words as his eyes darted to the mark on her face. "Uh… how're—"
"Daichi," she interrupted softly, studying him. "Hey… I'm glad you're…" Her words trailed off, and she looked aside, the silence between them stretching taut.
He rubbed the back of his neck, awkwardly clearing his throat. "So, uh… you headed home from school?"
"Yeah." Her ears drooped, tail swaying faintly behind her. "What about you? Headed to work?"
Daichi chuckled, embarrassed but genuine. "Nah. Got the next two days off." He shrugged. "Boss figured I could use it after… well, everything that happened."
Light's gaze dropped to the cracked pavement. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "For what happened that night. If I hadn't—"
"Hey," Daichi said. "Don't. You were in trouble, and I helped. That's it." He smiled faintly, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Well… sorta helped. Got my ass kicked, but still counts for something." A soft laugh escaped her despite herself, and he smiled wider. "Don't blame yourself," he added. "I made the choice. Not the first time I've done something stupid… and probably not the last."
Daichi gritted his teeth, rolling his shoulder until it popped. "Doesn't change the fact I'm probably gonna be sore for the next couple weeks," he said with a weak chuckle. Then his gaze softened as it drifted to Light. "What about you?"
Light hesitated, her ears drooping slightly, tail flicking behind her in a nervous rhythm. "Oh, it's nothing," she said. "Lady gets a little rough sometimes, but she never leaves me with anything serious. She might think I'm a screw-up…" She forced a small laugh that didn't quite reach her eyes. "But she still needs me."
Daichi blinked, his brow knitting. "That's… kinda depressing when you put it like that." He scratched the back of his neck, trying to lighten the air that had settled between them. "Tell you what," he said, managing a smile. "I've got nowhere to be, so how about I walk you home? I could use the company, and looks like you could too."
Light's ears twitched up at that, surprise flickering across her face before softening into something warmer. "Oh, I wouldn't want to trouble you," she started, but then paused, looking down for a beat before lifting her gaze again. A small, genuine smile tugged at her lips. "Actually… why not?"
She adjusted the strap of her bag over her shoulder and fell into step beside him, their footsteps echoing together down the quiet street.
Daichi slipped his hand back into the pocket of his hoodie, eyes fixed on the path ahead. "I hope you don't mind me asking," he began carefully. "With… everything that's happened." He hesitated, grinding his teeth, weighing his next words. "With your dad and all. How're you holding up? You got any family looking out for you?"
Light's ears drooped at the mention, her gaze falling to the cracked pavement beneath her shoes. The silence stretched, and Daichi's stomach dropped.
"Oh, hell, sorry," he blurted out, waving his free hand. "You don't have to tell me or anything. I didn't mean to bring up… y'know…"
Light shook her head, cutting him off with a small, tired smile. "It's fine," she said quietly. "I'm technically in foster care right now. A friend of my dad's took me in. He and his wife travel a lot for work, though. They're gone for months at a time." She exhaled softly. "I talk to them every day, and they make sure I've got enough for food and groceries."
Her tail flicked once, a nervous habit she didn't seem to notice. "I keep the MRA thing from them, obviously. No point worrying them more than they already are."
Daichi nodded slowly, eyes softening.
"As for my siblings," she continued, glancing down again. "They've all been sent to different families across Japan. I check in when I can, but it's hard. Especially with the younger ones." She gave a small laugh. More air than sound. "I'm the only uma in the family. The rest are human. Guess that makes me the odd one out."
Her smile wavered, and Daichi couldn't help but mirror it. A mix of sympathy and admiration tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"You know," he said gently, "I don't think odd's the word I'd use."
Light felt a faint blush creep across her cheeks. She reached up, absently twirling a strand of her fringe around her finger as she glanced at him. "What about you?" she asked softly.
"Me?" Daichi let out a short laugh, one that sounded wearier than amused. "Nothing special. Just your typical loser-of-the-year story. Got kicked out, spent a while on the streets, then got dragged back in by an estranged relative who took pity on me." He shrugged. "Now I'm working a dead-end job for minimum wage, trying not to think too hard about it."
He gave her a crooked grin, trying to lighten the moment. "Only difference between me and everyone else is that I didn't get blindsided by a white truck and sent to some magical world to start over."
Light blinked, tilting her head. "...What?"
"Isekai," Daichi said, gesturing vaguely. "Y'know, the whole 'hero gets hit by a truck, wakes up in another world' thing." He sighed, shaking his head. "Never mind. Guess that just makes me the sad and pathetic kind of main character."
Light smiled faintly, her tail swaying behind her. "And those aren't the words I'd use for you, Daichi."
He glanced at her, surprised.
"Someone pathetic doesn't throw themselves into a fight they can't win just to protect someone else," she said gently. "Someone like that doesn't give up. Even when they're already on the ground." Her eyes softened. "I'd call someone like that brave."
Daichi looked away, scratching the back of his neck, his grin fading into something smaller. "You really shouldn't set the bar that low, you know."
Light's laugh was soft, but genuine this time. "Maybe not," she said. "But you'd be surprised how few people ever reach it." She hesitated before speaking again. "H-have you… spoken to Dahlia recently?"
Daichi's expression sobered. "Not since that night at the car park." He exhaled softly. "She hasn't been by the store, and she's not answering my messages." His words grew quieter. "Can't say I blame her. It's a lot to take in."
Light nodded, her gaze distant. "I don't blame her either." Her tail swished once, slow and restless. "It's cruel, really. Feels like fate's got a sick sense of humor. Tangling people together just to pull them apart again. Everything happens by chance, and yet…"
Daichi started to nod, then stopped mid-step. His eyes flicked to the window of a nearby ramen shop, catching something that froze him in place. Without warning, he grabbed Light's shoulder and pulled her a step back.
"Daichi, what are you—"
He pressed a finger to his lips, motioning her to stay quiet. Then, tilting his head toward the glass, he pointed.
Light frowned, hesitated, then peeked past him. Her breath caught.
Through the window, beneath the soft orange glow of hanging lanterns, stood an uma with a mop of wild blonde hair and a grin full of jagged, shark-like teeth. She wore a waitress uniform. Apron, tray, the works. Moving between tables with surprising ease as she laughed and traded jokes with customers slurping steaming bowls of ramen.
Light's eyes widened, disbelief flickering across her face. "Lady?" The name left her lips in a whisper, half-shock, half-wonder.
"There's no mistaking it," Daichi murmured, still peering through the glass. "It's her, alright." His brow furrowed as he took in the warm chatter of the restaurant, the hum of conversation, the sound of clinking bowls. "Waitressing, though? Never figured that's what she'd be doing when she's not wrecking people in the MRA."
Light turned to him, one eyebrow raised. "And what exactly did you expect?"
Daichi shrugged, his grin returning, lopsided and sly. "I don't know. Shakedowns, daylight robbery, maybe a little extortion on the side?"
Light rolled her eyes but couldn't quite hide her smirk. "You have such a way with faith in people."
"Hey," he said, holding up his hands defensively, "you've been on her bad side more than once. Tell me I'm wrong."
"Well…" Light swallowed, biting her bottom lip as her ears twitched.
Through the glass, Lady exchanged a few words with the man behind the counter. She laughed, gave a small wave, then untied her apron and folded it neatly before slipping behind the counter to stash it away. A moment later, she slung a worn satchel over her shoulder and headed for the door.
Daichi's pulse kicked up. "Oh, shit," he whispered.
The door creaked open, and both he and Light instinctively turned around as Lady stepped out. Her boots clicked softly against the pavement as she stepped outside, the faint scent of broth and grilled pork trailing after her. Without a word, she started down the quiet street, the restaurant's glow fading behind her.
Daichi peeked over his shoulder, watching her retreating figure. Then, without thinking, he turned around and started after her.
Light caught his arm before he could take another step. "Hey! Where do you think you're going?"
Daichi glanced back. "Oh, come on. Don't tell me you're not even a little curious where she hangs up her gear."
Light's brows knit together. "That's wrong, Daichi. And more than a little creepy."
"Relax," he said, pulling his arm gently free. "The more we find out about Lady, the better shot Dahlia's got. We keep our distance, stay out of sight. She'll never even know we're there."
Light hesitated, tail flicking once behind her. "You're seriously suggesting we follow her?"
Daichi's grin widened just slightly. "No," he said, already taking a quiet step forward. "I'm saying we observe her. Big difference."
Light sighed, muttering under her breath as she trailed after him. "This is such a bad idea…"
They set off after Lady, keeping a careful distance as the last traces of daylight bled from the sky. The city shifted around them. The soft blue of dusk giving way to the deep amber glow of the streetlights that lined the narrow road. Their footsteps fell quiet against the pavement, the rhythmic click of Lady's boots echoing just far enough ahead to remind them how close they were. The hum of neon signs flickered to life overhead as the night settled in, wrapping the city in its muted, golden haze.
****
Dahlia braced herself a split second before impact. Too late. She crashed hard into the wall of tires, the sound echoing across the abandoned circuit. Rubber thudded, dust rose, and the scorched streaks of her cleats carved fresh marks into the worn tarmac. The air was thick with the smell of burned rubber and sweat, swirling under the amber glow of the halogen lamps that baked the night in their unrelenting heat.
Logan exhaled sharply, pressing the button on his stopwatch with a sharp click. "Again," he called out, resting a hand against his side.
On the sidelines, Fujisawa sat on a rusted barrel, a bag of pistachios cradled in his lap. He cracked one open with a smirk, watching the replay on his tablet. "Hate to say it, but it looks like you've really got your work cut out for you," he said. "Either that, or the great Hand of God has lost his touch."
"She can do it," Logan said flatly. His gaze never left Dahlia. "Try again."
Dahlia groaned, pushing herself upright, her breath ragged. She kicked one of the tires in frustration, sending it tumbling down the track with a dull, hollow bounce. "God, every damned time!" she shouted, raking her fingers through her sweat-matted hair. "What the hell are we even doing here?!"
Fujisawa chuckled, snapping another shell open between his fingers. "Oh, there it is," he said, grinning. "Was wondering how long it'd take before she cracked. Good luck, Logan."
Logan rolled his eyes, drawing the last drag from his cigarette before flicking it aside. The ember hissed out against the ground as he stepped onto the track, boots crunching over the grit. He closed the distance between them until her pacing slowed.
"Hey," he said. "Didn't you hear me? I said try again."
Dahlia spun toward him, eyes blazing. "What's the point?! We've been at this for two nights straight, and I'm not getting any better than before you showed up!"
The words hung in the air, sharp as the scent of burnt rubber and smoke between them.
"So... what?" Logan said, lifting an eyebrow. "You wanna call it a night? Pack it in? Head home with your tail between your legs?"
Dahlia's voice cracked under the weight of exhaustion. "No—yes—I don't know!" she cried, her hands trembling at her sides. "I want to, but I can't!" Her glare locked onto him, hot and wet with frustration. "And you! You're not helping. You're not even trying to help!"
Logan stepped closer, finger pointed squarely at her. "Hey!" His tone cut through the night. "You got yourself into this mess, not me. I wasn't the one picking fights you couldn't win, thinking you'd suddenly sprout wings and fly your way out before the bell rang."
He jabbed a finger toward the ground. "This ain't some goddamn movie, sweetheart. You don't get a miracle 'cause the script says you deserve one. You dug this hole. I'm throwing you a rope, but you ain't climbing out unless you want to."
"Don't you think I know that?!" Dahlia's words came back hard, breaking at the edges. "I am trying!" She took a step forward, her breathing uneven, words tumbling faster now. "I give it everything I've got, every single time, but no matter how hard I run…"
She faltered. The anger drained, replaced by something heavier. The image of her father flashed in her mind. His words, his judgment, his disappointment.
Her shoulders trembled. "They're always faster," she whispered. "Stronger. Better." The words cracked, each one heavier than the last. Tears welled and shimmered in the glare of the floodlights. "And I'm always the one left behind."
She drew in a shuddered breath, her gaze lifting to him. "Even now, when I look at you, all I see is him," she said. "With that same damned look in his eyes. Like he's ashamed I ever called him father."
Her ears fell back. "I hate my dad," she said. "I hate that he left us. I hate that all he ever did was tell me I wasn't good enough…" Her throat tightened. "And most of all…" Tears slipped down her cheeks, catching in the light. "I hate that he's right."
The anger in Logan's face eased. "Dahlia," he said, leaning forward slightly. "Look at me."
Her eyes lifted to meet his, dark against dark.
"I ain't your old man," Logan said. "The only reason I'm here is because I see something in you that nobody else can. Not even you." He straightened, letting out a slow breath that fogged faintly in the cool air. "You wanna know why you keep messing up the turns? It's 'cause you keep fighting it."
Dahlia blinked, confusion cutting through the tears.
"You ease into the corners just fine. Clean entry, solid footing. But the moment your balance slips, you panic. You fight to stay in control." Logan pointed toward the curve of the track. "That's where you lose it every time. And I get it."
"You want control," Logan said. "You crave it, you need it. Because that's what you've been doing your entire life. Holding on so damn tight you're afraid that if you let go, even for a second, everything you care about will just slip through your fingers." He looked down briefly, exhaling before lifting his eyes to meet hers again. "And that's okay. It's okay to be scared. It's okay to worry. What's not okay is letting that fear run your life. Letting it hold you back."
"But—" Dahlia started to speak but Logan cut her off.
"But nothing." Logan cut in. "You've been letting that stuck up jerk get in your head. Telling you day in and day out that you're nothing but a bitter screw-up, and worse, you believed him. Well, guess what? He's wrong. You ain't the loser here." He nodded once, firm. "He is. Because you're still here. Still standing. Still fighting, and that counts for something."
Dahlia's eyes widened slightly, her breath catching.
Logan spread his arms, his expression hardening again. "Life's rough, kid. No sugarcoating it. Bad things happen to good people all the time, and sometimes you can do everything right. Play by the book, give it your all, and still lose. That ain't weakness. That's just how the world works." He gestured toward the track, the floodlights washing the worn asphalt in pale gold. "But out here? None of that matters. It's just you and the road. No noise, no ghosts, no past. Just how far you're willing to go before you break."
"And sure, your dad taught you how to run," Logan continued, a faint smile ghosting across his face. "But he couldn't teach you why. That's something you gotta to figure out for yourself." He scuffed his boot against the asphalt. "You've been running your whole life for someone else."
He met her gaze again, steady and sure. "And I think, it's about damned time you start running for you."
A long pause.
Then, his tone hardened. Not cold, but commanding. "Now," he said, nodding toward the line. "You think you've got one more run in you?"
Dahlia wiped her eyes with the back of her arm, the streaks of tears vanishing beneath a determined grin. Logan caught the look, nodded once, and tilted his head toward the track. Together, they walked back to the starting line.
He returned to his usual spot by the shed, thumb already poised over the stopwatch. Dahlia crouched low, every muscle coiled tight, eyes fixed dead ahead. Fujisawa sat on his rusted barrel, pistachio bag in hand, watching with more focus this time than before.
"Remember, Dahlia, stop fighting it," Logan called out. "Cut loose, let go, and ride it all the way through."
Dahlia shot him a glance over her shoulder, a quick flicker of determination behind her dark eyes. She gave a sharp nod, the tension in her frame coiling into focus before she turned back to face the stretch of road ahead. The night air felt thick around them as she lowered into her stance once more.
"Ready," Logan said. "Go!"
The sound of her boots slammed against the tarmac, echoing across the circuit. She tore down the straightaway, the rhythm of her stride sharp and clean. Logan's gaze followed her every step, stopwatch ticking upward in his hand.
As she neared the corner, both he and Fujisawa leaned forward. Dahlia dropped her center of gravity, sliding into the turn. Her cleats scraped the asphalt, a shriek of friction and smoke rising around her.
But this time, she didn't fight it.
Her body moved with the momentum, every motion fluid and instinctive. The curve carried her, her form gliding in one seamless line through the turn. For a heartbeat, the whole world seemed to slow. Logan's eyes widened. Fujisawa's pistachios slipped from his fingers, scattering across the ground.
Dahlia cleared the corner, stumbled two steps forward, then steadied herself, chest heaving. "I… I did it," she breathed, eyes wide in disbelief. Then, bursting with joy, she jumped, pumping a fist into the air. "I did it!"
"Awesome," Logan barked, "so why the hell did you stop?!"
She froze mid-cheer.
"You're in a race, not on a victory lap! Get your tail moving!"
"Oh, right!" Dahlia yelped, breaking back into a sprint.
"Haul ass! We're not here sightseeing!" Logan shouted after her.
Fujisawa chuckled, shaking his head as he bent to scoop up his fallen pistachios. "Well, I'll be damned," he said with a grin. "Looks like there's still some fire left in the legend after all."
He popped another pistachio into his mouth, still smiling as the night filled with the rhythmic beat of Dahlia's steps against the track. Logan watched in silence, the stopwatch still ticking in his hand. The corners of his mouth twitched upward. Not quite a smile, but close enough to count. He looked at the stopwatch once more, his reflection faint in the cracked glass. For the first time in years, the number staring back at him didn't just feel like time, it felt like a second chance.