"I'm pretty damned sure the old man told you to keep your hands to yourself," Logan said as he shut off the record player, the spin of the turntable slowing gradually until the soft mechanical hum died away. He gave a faint shrug, though there was little amusement in it. "Then again, knowing him, he probably figured you'd start poking around the second you were left alone."
"I didn't—" Dahlia began instinctively, then caught herself mid-denial as her hand rose to rub the back of her head. Her ears twitched, and a faint blush warmed her cheeks. "Okay, maybe I did. But it's not Master's fault. He didn't—"
Logan's gaze swept across the apartment, lingering briefly on the shelves, the photographs, the guitar in the corner. A deep breath left him, and even from where she stood, Dahlia caught the faint, stale trace of tobacco clinging to it.
He slipped the green cargo jacket from his shoulders and crossed the room to one of the wooden pillars, hanging it neatly on a silver hook before turning toward the kitchen area. Dahlia watched him in silence as he moved, his motions unhurried.
"I've got some of that Ramune pop stuff in the fridge," he said casually as he reached for the handle and pulled the door open. White fluorescent light washed over him, a rush of cold air curling outward into the warmer loft. "Could probably use something myself."
He reached inside and pulled out a blue Codd-neck bottle along with a bottle of Budweiser, then shut the fridge with a firm thud. Crossing back toward her, he tossed the Ramune in her direction without warning.
Dahlia's eyes widened as she caught it, the glass cool and damp against her palms.
A sharp hiss cut through the quiet as Logan twisted the cap off his beer and took a long pull from it. Dahlia glanced down at her own bottle, then back at him, one brow arching slightly.
"You're… not mad?" she asked, tilting her head.
Logan leaned back against the leather sofa, folding his arms loosely across the black-and-red flannel he wore. The tension in him hadn't vanished, but it had settled into something quieter.
"Figured it was gonna come out sooner or later," he said, gesturing lightly with the neck of the beer bottle in her direction. "Given our little arrangement, it was only a matter of time." He took another sip before adding, almost to himself, "Pretty sure Saburo knew that too. We're already in too deep for me to be keeping shit from you like it's classified."
"Well… when you put it that way," Dahlia said at last, her gaze pulling away from him and drifting back toward the framed records mounted against the brick wall, then to the Gibson resting beneath its lonely spotlight, then to the record player. "So, all of that is real? The albums, the awards… and—"
She turned back to him slowly, gesturing in a wide arc as though encompassing the entire loft.
"Country?" she added, a grin tugging at her mouth. "No offence, but I kinda pegged you for a rock kinda guy."
Logan raised one eyebrow and gave her a flat look that carried just enough amusement to soften it.
"I was born in Kentucky, kid," he said, lifting the bottle to his lips. "Country's not a career choice. It's a birthright." He took a swallow before adding, "And yeah, those are legit. Like it or not, I was a star for a while."
"No kidding," Dahlia breathed, her eyes widening as her jaw nearly slackened. "But how did you even manage that? Between training, traveling, competing, performing…" She pointed toward the shelves. "And those awards. I've never even seen half of those categories before."
Logan chuckled quietly.
"First thing you need to understand," he said, shifting his attention fully toward her now, "is that Strider. Hell, every uma academy in the States doesn't operate like Tracen does. Over here, trainers are trainers. They focus on race tactics, conditioning, form analysis, strategy. The music and dance stuff gets handled by separate instructors."
He lifted the bottle slightly as he continued.
"In Strider, that separation doesn't exist. If you're a trainer, you're expected to be as musically capable as the girls you train. In fact, the umas pick their trainers in a showcase format. Big stage. Spotlight. Trainers perform. The girls sit in swivel chairs and turn if they like what they see. Think of it like The Voice."
Dahlia blinked.
"The… what?"
Logan rolled his eyes with theatrical exasperation.
"You Japs seriously need to diversify your media intake," he muttered. "Point is, every trainer at Strider is basically a coach first and a performer second. You have to sing. You have to dance. You have to command a crowd. And you still have to know how to shape a champion."
He leaned further back against the sofa, arms folding loosely.
"As a trainer, getting your license is the easy part," Logan began, though the moment he caught the look Dahlia gave him. Head tilted, unimpressed, clearly not buying it.
His expression shifted and he let out a resigned breath.
"Alright, it was easy for me," he amended, rubbing the back of his neck. "But that's not really the point, because you don't apply to Strider the way you apply to Tracen. You audition for it."
He gestured loosely with the bottle in his hand as if painting the scene in the air between them.
"I'm talking full production. Panel judges. Celebrity guests. A live audience packed into the hall. Lights hot enough to blind you. Cameras everywhere. And every year, only a handful of candidates get accepted. You're not just being evaluated on race theory and conditioning plans, you're being judged on stage presence, pitch control, choreography, charisma, the whole damn package."
A faint, self-aware smirk touched his mouth.
"Truth be told, I wasn't exactly born with a golden mic in my hand. I wasn't some natural virtuoso who could command a stadium with a wink. I scraped through by the skin of my teeth. What helped was the narrative. Strider loves a headline, and the idea of a so-called child prodigy trainer coming up through the ranks made for good press."
Dahlia let out a soft laugh, the sound warmer than teasing.
"I mean, some of Tracen's trainers had musical talent," she said, her tone turning reflective for a moment. "At least my dad did." Her grin returned, lighter now. "But I can't imagine most of them standing under spotlights with backup dancers. Half of them would probably faint before the first chorus."
Logan huffed under his breath.
"Yeah, well, that's the difference," he replied. "In Strider, you're not just building a racers, you're building a brand. Fans don't just show up for their favorite champion. They show up for the trainer too. They buy the albums, they stream the singles, they watch the interviews. If the girl shines but her trainer can't keep up on stage, it creates a gap. And the audience notices."
He tilted his head slightly, his gaze settling somewhere between the records and the photographs on the wall.
"When that gap shows, ratings dip. Sponsors get nervous. Management starts asking quiet questions. And once those questions start…"
His expression steadied, the faint humor fading into something far more matter-of-fact.
"You get replaced. Trainers included."
Dahlia absorbed that, her brows drawing together.
"That's… harsh. Even by Tracen standards."
"Well," Logan replied, lifting the bottle again and rolling it lightly between his fingers before taking another measured sip, "that's showbiz, kid. Nobody owes you longevity. Nobody hands you relevance out of kindness. You earn it every damn day, and the moment you start thinking you've made it, that's usually when the floor gives out beneath you."
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, though there was no arrogance in it, only memory.
"Why do you think I push as hard as I do? I'm not about to be the weak link in the chain when my girls are killing themselves to be great. If they're running until their lungs burn and their legs give out, the least I can do is make sure I'm sharp enough to carry my end."
"Huh," slipped from Dahlia's lips as she drifted closer to the shelves, her eyes tracing the polished metal and engraved plates. "And those? What are they exactly?"
"Those," Logan said, gesturing with the neck of the bottle toward the row of trophies and polished plaques, "are Stellas. Awards made specifically for trainers and their umas. Think of them as the Grammys of our world, only meaner."
He shifted his weight slightly.
"Sure, we still qualify for regular Grammys, don't get me wrong. Plenty of trainers have taken home those little golden gramophones over the years. But inside the circle, inside the industry, you're not considered big time until you've held a Stella in your hands. That's when the other trainers start looking at you differently."
Dahlia's eyes widened as she counted again, slower this time.
"But… you have twelve."
Logan waved his palm lazily from side to side as if brushing off the weight of the number.
"Had some good years. Had some bad ones too. It balances out," he said, though the hint of pride in his words was impossible to miss. "There was a stretch where I'd sit with the girls after practice, tossing lyrics around like spare change. They'd tell me if a hook hit right or if it was going to land flat. I'll admit it, more often than not, they were right. Nothing humbles you faster than a room full of umas staring at you like you just wrote garbage."
A quiet breath left him, slower now.
"Guess I do miss it sometimes. The crowds. The heat of the lights. The wright of the guitar in your hands. The way the stage vibrates under your boots when everyone's singing back at you, knowing every word by heart like it belongs to them."
Dahlia's gaze drifted toward the corner, settling on the dust-covered guitar beneath the amber spotlight.
"That same one?" she asked softly.
Logan followed her eyes, and whatever faint humor lingered in him faded into something quieter.
"Yeah," he said, and the single word carried far more than it should have. "It was a gift. From my wife. I never played a show without it after that. Didn't matter how big the venue was or how small the crowd, that guitar was always there."
His eyes lingered on it for a moment longer before he looked away.
"Now it just sits there," he continued, "like me. Something that used to matter to a whole lot of people, and now mostly collects dust."
He stared ahead for a long moment before lifting the bottle slightly, gesturing toward the wall of photographs with its neck. Dahlia followed the motion instinctively.
"I told you once I had a family," he said, his gaze resting on the largest frame. "Her name was Kadokawa Hornet. One of the last girls I ever trained before—"
He stopped himself there, the unfinished word dissolving into the air as he took another swallow from his beer. A low chuckle escaped him, though it carried more memory than humor.
"You know," he went on, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "back in Strider, it wasn't exactly uncommon. Umas getting hitched to their trainers. It was almost a running joke. Half the staff would take bets on who'd crack first."
His dark eyes drifted back to Dahlia, studying her for a brief moment before something faintly amused flickered there.
"Kind of like your parents," he said, not unkindly, but with the dry familiarity of someone who had seen that pattern before.
He shook his head slowly, the smile lingering.
"You wouldn't believe the number of lectures they'd roll out every year," he went on, lifting the bottle slightly as if to punctuate the memory. "Seminars, pamphlets, stern talks about boundaries and professionalism. They'd gather the umas in one hall and the trainers in another, and for hours it'd be the same refrain: don't get involved, don't cross lines, don't blur the roles. Especially not romantically. And God forbid anything physical."
A low chuckle escaped him.
"Of course, nobody really listens. Not when you're spending every day side by side, bleeding for the same goal, sharing wins and losses like they're oxygen. People think they can legislate emotion, but that's not how it works."
A restrained smile touched Dahlia's lips.
"Just so you know," she said softly, "my mom was a huge fan of hers."
Logan's eyes shifted back to her.
"She was fresh into Tracen at the time," Dahlia continued, her gaze lowering briefly as though she could see the memory playing out. "She told me she camped outside the stadium for three days just to get tickets. Hornet was the reason she started running seriously in the first place. Said she made it her mission to become a two-time Triple Crown winner just like her."
She let out a small breath.
"She never did manage it," Dahlia admitted quietly, "but she never forgot who lit that fire."
Logan paused, the weight of coincidence settling between them as he tapped his pinkie lightly against the neck of the glass bottle, the soft clink cutting through the quiet.
"That's… one hell of a coincidence," he repeated, more to himself than to her.
"After Hornet retired," he began, though the word carried an edge of hesitation, as though it concealed more than it revealed. "I won't get into the details of why. That's her story, not mine to parade around. But once she officially withdrew from the Twinkle Series, she went back to Japan with her mother."
A faint smile touched his face, softer now.
"I still had my contract with Strider, full time, so I stayed in the States most of the year, but I came back whenever I could. She didn't want to stay tied to racing after that. Didn't want to live in the shadow of tracks and trophies."
He shifted his weight against the sofa.
"She went into music instead. Not the spotlight-chasing kind. She performed sometimes, sure, but what she really loved was writing. Producing. Building songs from nothing." He gave a quiet chuckle. "A few of the hits the Tracen girls belt out like they're gospel? Those started as scratch demos in our living room."
Dahlia's eyes widened, clearly about to ask something, but Logan cut her off with a flat look.
"And before you ask," he added dryly, "no, it wasn't Umapyoi."
He lifted the bottle again and took a longer swallow this time, as though fortifying himself against the mere memory of it.
"Thank God," he muttered, lowering it with a faint grimace. "If there's a song capable of driving a man's remaining brain cells to stage a mass exodus, it's that one. And if I'd had to listen to it on repeat in my own home, I'm fairly certain I would've thrown myself out the nearest window just to make it stop."
Dahlia chuckled and nodded, her attention drifting back to the memorial frame at the bottom of the display. "What was she like?" she asked, turning her eyes back to him.
Logan let out a short snort that almost turned into a laugh, and Dahlia blinked in surprise.
"What?" she asked, unable to stop the small chuckle that followed.
"Painful," he replied, a faint, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "She was… well, to put it mildly, she was a wild heart. A loose cannon. A bundle of rage wound so tight it hummed. Always looking for a fight. Always looking for a reason to put knuckle to bone."
Dahlia's expression grew still, attentive.
"They called her crazy," Logan continued. "Called her insane. Called her every damn name they could think of. There wasn't a week that went by without some headline about her putting a trainer or a teammate in the hospital."
"God," Dahlia muttered, her lip curling as she stepped over to stand beside him. She leaned back against the sofa, shoulder nearly brushing his, her tail flicking once while her ears twitched in faint disbelief. She unwrapped the Ramune bottle and pressed the marble down with a firm pop, the sharp fizz of carbonation slicing through the quiet before she took a careful sip.
"She sounds like a nightmare."
Logan chuckled under his breath.
"Tell me about it," he replied, tilting his head slightly as his gaze lingered on Hornet's smiling face frozen in the photograph. "The administration was practically on their knees begging me to take her on. Said I was their last shot. Their last hope."
Dahlia glanced at him sidelong.
"No offense," she began carefully, lifting her bottle in a small, apologetic gesture, "but why didn't Strider just…" She rotated her hand vaguely. "You know. Cut her loose?"
"None taken," Logan answered easily. "And don't worry, even Bee—"
"Bee?" Dahlia interrupted, one eyebrow arching.
"Right," Logan said, catching himself. "Bee was her nickname. Something her mom used to call her when she was little. She didn't let just anyone use it. If she told you to call her Bee, it meant you were in close. Real close."
He gave a faint nod, the memory softening his expression.
"As for why they didn't cut her loose," Logan said, shifting his weight slightly as he took another measured drink from the bottle, "it's because Bee wasn't just any uma who wandered in off the street with raw speed and attitude. Most of my girls back then were rough gems, talent buried under layers of impulse and some bad decisions. Bee, on the other hand, walked in already sharpened."
He lowered the bottle and continued.
"She came from a military family. Her father was a Colonel in the Marines. Met her mother while stationed in Okinawa, brought her back to the States, and raised her on bases and rules and discipline. From the time she was old enough to stand straight, she was in military school. Structured life. Structured thinking. Hell, she made it into West Point."
Dahlia tilted her head slightly, unfamiliar with the name, and Logan caught the confusion.
"Prestigious military academy," he clarified. "Let's just say it's not somewhere you accidentally stumble into. It's the kind of place that stamps your future in stone."
He took another swallow before continuing.
"She represented them in one of their intercollegiate competitions, and that's where someone from Strider spotted her. Timing, politics, ambition, all the right pieces lined up. One thing led to another, and she transferred out with glowing recommendations from the military."
He swayed his head faintly.
"You see where this is going."
Dahlia nodded slowly.
"So, she wasn't just some promising runner," she said. "She was a military poster child. A rising star. Kicking her out would've looked terrible."
"Bingo," Logan replied, shrugging lightly. "Public image alone made her untouchable. Strider couldn't afford to mishandle someone with that kind of background."
His expression darkened slightly.
"What they didn't realize," he continued, "was that Bee despised the military. And I don't mean teenage rebellion. I mean something deeper. Even calling it hate feels like giving it too much mercy."
He looked back toward her photograph.
"When she finally stepped out from under that system, when the threat of court-martial and all that rigid discipline was off the table, she didn't ease into freedom." He let out a quiet breath. "She went absolutely ballistic."
"Anyway, me ever the bright-eyed dumbass said yes," he continued with a shrug. "Our first meeting went exactly how you'd imagine. Me sitting there with an ice pack and a wad of tissues shoved up my nose." A short laugh escaped him. "I still remember that first punch like it happened yesterday."
Dahlia had to press her lips together to keep from laughing outright, but the corners of her mouth still betrayed her. Logan caught it immediately and smirked faintly.
"You can laugh," he said, shaking his head, "but it hurt like hell, and she absolutely knew how to throw a punch."
He took another drink and let the memory roll forward.
"That was the beginning of what you'd politely call a turbulent relationship," he went on. "The first few weeks? We fought constantly. She wanted nothing to do with me. Nothing to do with the team. Truth be told, she barely wanted to be there at all. And the other girls? They didn't exactly roll out the welcome mat."
His gaze flicked briefly toward the photographs of the Fifteen.
"They downright hated her. Didn't even try to hide it. Especially Lightning."
Dahlia's ears twitched at the name as she took a sip from her bottle.
"Lightning and Bee used to butt heads so hard I was surprised the walls didn't crack," Logan continued. "There were more than a few times I thought they were actually going to come to blows if I hadn't stepped in and physically held one of them back."
He gave a small, almost fond exhale. "Lightning's heart was always in the right place, though. She couldn't stand seeing someone disrespect her trainer. Took it personal."
His smile faded into something quieter.
"I'd be lying if I said there weren't days I thought about giving up on Bee. Days when it felt like I was throwing good time after bad. But I didn't. I held on." A softer smile tugged at his lips. "And wouldn't you know it, eventually she started letting me in. That was after I lost count of how many times she knocked me on my ass."
Dahlia laughed openly at that.
"The truth is," Logan said, his tone lowering as the humor drained away, "behind all that anger, behind all that rage and defiance, there was just a scared little girl. A girl who wanted someone, anyone, to see her for who she actually was, not the soldier her father kept trying to hammer her into."
His expression tightened, the warmth in it cooling.
"And her dad… Boy, he was a piece of work. If you think your father was bad, take that and multiply it by a hundred. One of those career military types who strap on a uniform and let it swallow everything else about them. Discipline over empathy. Obedience over understanding. That was the kind of man he was, and that before he—"
Logan cut himself off mid-sentence, though he tried to mask it by taking a measured breath, and Dahlia caught the hesitation in the way his grip tightened ever so slightly around the neck of the bottle before he forced himself to continue.
"Well, long story short," he said, though the words carried far more history than they implied, "we found a way through it. Past the anger. Past the shouting. Past the weeks where I wasn't sure whether I was training her or simply surviving her."
A faint smile pulled at his lips, not nostalgic, but earned.
"And when she finally stopped fighting the whole damned world long enough to focus on the track, she blazed. She went from being the rebellious headline the press loved to mock into the name entire stadiums chanted from Alaska down to New York City. Undefeated. Two-time Classic Triple Crown Champion. The States fell in love with her."
The smile softened as his gaze drifted toward the photographs.
"And somewhere along the way," he admitted quietly, "so did I."
Dahlia's expression warmed at the confession, the simplicity of it carrying more weight than any embellishment could have added.
"Then she came to Tokyo," Logan continued, his gaze settling somewhere beyond the room as though he could still see the city as it was back then, "and like I told you before, I found every excuse I could to be here. Every off-season window, every gap between contracts, every stretch of downtime I could carve out, I spent it on a plane."
He shifted his weight slightly, the memory softening his features.
"Her mom remarried not long after we settled in. It was good for her." He allowed himself a faint smile. "Bee's career kept climbing, and mine wasn't exactly slowing down either. Between training and the music work she'd started to lean into, we were busy in all the right ways."
"I'd have to admit," he said quietly, "those were the happiest days of my life."
He gestured subtly toward the wedding photograph mounted among the others.
"A year later, we stood on those altar steps," Logan said, the memory pulling a quiet warmth across his face as he glanced toward the framed photograph of the ceremony. "It wasn't some over-the-top spectacle, just family, close friends, and a church that barely held everyone who insisted on being there."
He let out a low chuckle at the recollection.
"The old man cried like a damned baby," he went on, shaking his head in disbelief that still felt fresh. "I'm not talking dignified tears either. I mean full-on wailing from the back pews like someone had announced the end of the world. You could hear him over the organ."
He smirked faintly.
"His own daughter had to smack him on the arm to get him to settle down because he kept blowing his nose loud enough to echo through the chapel."
Dahlia snorted at the image, the sound slipping out before she could stop it, and for a brief moment the heaviness in the room gave way to something lighter.
His gaze shifted to the image of Hornet cradling their newborn daughter, and something in him steadied and ached at the same time.
"And a year after that, we had her. Our daughter."
Dahlia took another sip of her Ramune, the fizz sharp against her tongue, though her attention was no longer on the drink. She studied him more carefully now, watching the way his shoulders carried memory like weight, and despite herself she felt a heaviness settle in her chest as she gathered the courage to ask the question that had been hovering between them.
"What happened to her?" she asked gently. Then, clarifying, "To Hornet, I mean. The articles were… vague."
Logan's gaze shifted to her, and for a moment she could see that he had already known what she was going to ask. The room seemed to quiet in response, the distant hum of the city fading into something far away. A long silence settled between them before he closed his eyes briefly and reopened them, as though steadying himself against something that had never fully stopped hurting.
"Cancer," he said at last, the word carrying weight, as if speaking it aloud still scraped against something raw. "It was aggressive. By the time they found it, it had already spread. We tried everything. Specialists. Experimental treatments. Second and third opinions."
His fingers tightened subtly around the empty bottle in his hand.
"She fought," he continued. "God, she fought. For months she held on longer than anyone thought she would. She kept smiling. Kept telling me not to look at her like she was already gone."
He swallowed once before going on.
"I tried to stay strong. For her. For our daughter. I told myself I could handle it if I just didn't let it show. But every day she got a little weaker. A little smaller."
He paused again, and when he spoke next, his tone had dropped lower.
"Then, one day, she asked me to take her to the lighthouse in Chiba," he said quietly. "It was where I proposed. Where she said yes."
Dahlia could see the strain in him now, the way he was holding himself together by habit more than ease.
"So, I took her," he finished, not elaborating further, because the weight of what that meant already filled the space between them.
****
The ocean breeze carried salt thick enough to taste, sharp and briny on the back of his tongue, mingling with the faint sweetness of early spring drifting from the trees that lined the forest path. Seagulls wheeled overhead, their cries cutting through the sky as waves rolled and broke somewhere far below, the rhythm distant and subdued against the cliffside.
Logan climbed steadily, each step heavier than the last, the dirt path resisting the polished soles of his loafers as if trying to hold him back. His gray shirt clung faintly to his back beneath the suit jacket, slacks pressed, immaculate as ever, though the strain in his muscles was real and unrelenting. His jaw was set, the lines of his face drawn tight, but he carried the weight in his arms without complaint.
Hornet rested there against his chest, light now, far too light. Her skin had gone pale, almost translucent beneath the fading daylight, a black and yellow beanie pulled snug over her bald head with her ears poking through small cut openings, bare and fragile like the rest of her. A white gown draped over her frame, loose and gentle, and though her body seemed diminished by illness, her lips still held that stubborn, familiar curve.
It had been a long walk from Ohara Station, longer than he would ever admit, and when he finally reached the flat landing overlooking the city and the endless stretch of ocean beyond, he paused, breath controlled, heart anything but.
He glanced down at her.
"Hey, hon," he said softly. "We're here."
Her eyelids fluttered before opening slowly, steel-gray irises finding the horizon first, then the water, then the sky. A faint smile touched her mouth.
"Heh… never thought I'd see this damned view again," she murmured. She shifted her gaze back to him, smirking faintly. "You remember how much of a wreck you were the first time? Thought you were about to drop dead before you even got the ring out. Swear to God, I thought you were havin' a stroke."
Logan huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
"Would you believe me if I told you I nearly pissed myself?"
She laughed, but it caught in her chest, the sound breaking halfway through as her breath hitched. Still, she recovered enough to roll her eyes at him.
"That's cute," she muttered. "The so-called Hand of God takin' on the whole damned racing world without blinkin', but turns into a full-blown chicken shit when it's time to propose."
Her fingers tightened weakly in the fabric of his shirt.
"Still," she added more softly, "it was sweet."
She rested her cheek against his chest again, listening to his heartbeat as if memorizing it.
"Never thought a girl like me would get that," she continued. "Love. A home. A family. I figured I'd burn out loud and fast, leave a crater, and that'd be the end of it."
Logan's mouth curved despite himself.
"Consider yourself lucky we even managed a family at all," he replied, adjusting his hold on her carefully. "Given how many times you nailed me in the gonads. Pretty sure I lost future children at least twice."
She gave him a flat look that somehow still held heat.
"If I wasn't feelin' like absolute hell," she said evenly, "I'd clock you right now."
He leaned his forehead gently against hers.
"Yeah," he murmured. "I know."
He stepped toward the white bench carved from hardened concrete, the very same one that had stood witness to promises made beneath a younger sky. Carefully, he bent forward and lowered her onto it, easing her down as though the slightest miscalculation might shatter her. She let out a faint groan at the movement before settling, drawing in a shallow breath as she adjusted against the cool surface.
Logan moved around and took his place beside her, the ocean stretching endlessly before them, darkening by degrees as the sun sank lower. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The waves rolled in and broke against the rocks below, steady and indifferent, filling the quiet between them. He reached for her hand, their fingers threading together as naturally as they always had, and she leaned her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes to feel the breeze across her face.
The sky bled gold and amber, streaks of light cutting through the horizon while their shadows stretched long across the ground. Logan kept his posture straight, but inside, something was splintering. Emotion pressed against his chest with relentless force, a rising tide he was trying, with everything he had, to keep contained.
"We've come a long way, haven't we?" Hornet murmured, her eyes shimmering as the light caught them. A soft, almost incredulous smile touched her lips. "You know… I never apologized for that first day. When we met." She turned her head slightly, that familiar mischievous glint returning for a heartbeat.
"Oh, I remember," Logan replied, letting out a quiet laugh. "Couldn't chew solid food for a week because of you. And Lightning was two seconds from throwing hands every time you opened your mouth."
Hornet's laugh came easier this time, though still fragile. "Back then I would've dared her to try," she admitted, her gaze drifting toward the horizon. "And I would've fought back. Hard."
Her expression softened, the bravado giving way to something far more honest.
"Now I look back and realize what a massive piece of work I was," she said quietly. "I could've slipped straight through the cracks. Could've ended up running with the wrong crowd, my face plastered on a wanted poster instead of a sports page." She pressed her cheek lightly into his shoulder. "And that would've been it. All because I was too stubborn, too angry to see straight."
Her fingers tightened around his.
"But you didn't quit on me," she continued. "Even when I gave you every reason to. You stayed. You kept showing up. You kept believing I was more than the mess everyone else saw."
Logan turned his head toward her, feigning shock.
"Well I'll be damned," he said lightly. "The great Kadokawa Hornet, offering an apology. Somebody write this down." He lifted a hand and pinched his own cheek theatrically. "Make sure I ain't dreaming."
She shot him a glare.
"I can't kick you in the nuts right now, but don't think for a second I won't settle for biting you instead," she muttered, narrowing her eyes at him even as the faintest ghost of a smile tugged at her mouth. "Come on, I'm actually trying to be serious here, and that's hard enough without you cracking jokes like a smartass every five seconds."
"Alright, alright," Logan replied, lifting his free hand in surrender, though the smile on his face wavered at the edges. "Geez, I'm just pulling your tail, hon."
The words were easy. Holding himself together was not.
"And of course I didn't." Logan leaned forward and pressed a slow, careful kiss to her forehead, lingering there as though he could anchor her to him by touch alone. "I made you a promise, didn't I?" he murmured.
Hornet's smile softened, fragile but steady, as the sun dipped lower. Her fingers tightened around his hand with surprising strength for someone who looked as though the wind itself might carry her away.
"Then make me one more," she said, drawing his full attention back to her. "Promise me, Logan. Promise me you'll keep running. That no matter what happens, you won't stop moving forward. Even if I'm not there beside you."
The words struck him harder than any punch she had ever thrown. Something inside his chest splintered, the fissure widening, the weight behind his ribs threatening to collapse everything he had left.
"Life's full of wins and losses," Hornet continued. "No matter how hard we fall, we get up. We keep running. You taught me that. You taught all of us that." Her grip tightened again, as if she were trying to hold him in place through sheer will. "So, promise me you'll live by it. This isn't the end of your race. It isn't the end of your story. And no matter what happens, you live. You run. You fight. For you. For me. For our daughter. Promise me."
"Bee… I…" His throat closed around the words.
"Promise me," she insisted, firmer this time, though her breath wavered.
A long, suspended moment passed between them, filled only with the hush of the sea and the distant cry of gulls returning to roost. Logan swallowed hard, then nodded once.
"I promise."
Relief softened her features, and she nuzzled closer against his shoulder, drawing comfort from the warmth of him. "You better," she whispered faintly. "Because if you don't…"
The sky deepened into indigo, the first stars piercing through the darkening veil as the city lights flickered to life below. Behind them, the lighthouse awakened, its beam cutting clean arcs through the gathering night. The last embers of red and gold slipped beneath the horizon, surrendering the world to dusk.
"If you don't," Hornet breathed, her eyes drifting closed as though sleep had finally claimed her, "when you get to the other side… I'm gonna kick your ass. I mean it."
Logan let out a shaky laugh, brushing his thumb across her knuckles. "Yeah? Well, then, I'm not exactly looking forward to—"
The words died in his throat.
Her hand had gone slack in his.
Her ears lay still against her head.
"Bee?" The name escaped him before he realized he had spoken.
Cold flooded his veins.
"Bee?" His voice cracked this time, splintered and raw.
He turned toward her fully, pulling her into his arms, cradling her against his chest as though he could will warmth back into her. He rocked her gently, desperately.
"Bee… don't…"
The dam gave way.
Grief tore through him, violent and unrelenting, a cry ripping from his throat that seemed to fracture the quiet night. He held her as he screamed into the dark, the sound carried out over the sea, swallowed by the wind and the distant city below.
That was the night the world lost a legend.
And the night he lost his everything.
****
A long silence settled over the apartment, pressing in from all sides as though even the air had grown heavier with what had just been laid bare. Dahlia stood where she was, fingers curled around the cold glass of her Ramune bottle, yet it felt far heavier than it had any right to, her grip unsteady despite the chill seeping into her skin. Her dark eyes remained fixed on Logan, who stood there with an expression so carefully blank it was almost unnerving, as if he had long ago learned how to smooth every fracture in his face until nothing could be read unless he allowed it.
She tried to imagine the weight of it, the slow erosion of loss layered upon loss, how grief had hollowed him out and then hardened the edges that remained, shaping him into the man before her now, a man who carried pain like an old scar beneath his clothes and never once asked anyone to see it.
It struck her then with quiet force that the world had not taken from him gently or fairly, but methodically, almost cruelly, stripping away his wife, then the life he had built, then the legacy he had poured himself into, one piece at a time. And somewhere in the middle of that realization, something shifted within her, an understanding she had not been ready to name until now.
Maybe that was why he had taken an interest in her at all.
Maybe he had seen in her the same fracture lines, the same stubborn refusal to break completely despite the damage, and perhaps, in some unspoken way, they were two people the world had tried and failed to discard, standing at the edge of something uncertain and hoping there was still a road ahead worth walking.
Logan drew in a slow breath that seemed to scrape against his ribs before he exhaled. "Yeah," he said, lifting the empty beer bottle and giving it a slight shake, "I could use another." He pushed off the sofa with unhurried movements and made his way toward the kitchen, shoulders set, words carrying back over his shoulder. "How about you?"
Dahlia's ears twitched, snapping her out of her thoughts, and she shook her head gently. "I'm good," she replied, as she watched him disappear into the white glow of the open refrigerator light.
Her ears gave a small twitch, her tail flicking once behind her as her gaze dipped to the floor, gathering the right words before she lifted her eyes to him again. "Where is she now?" she asked, and this time there was no idle curiosity in it, only something softer, more careful. "Your daughter?"
The shift in him was subtle but undeniable, like a door closing somewhere deep inside. Whatever faint warmth had lingered there dimmed, replaced by something more restrained, more guarded. He reached for another beer, the refrigerator door shutting with a muted thud before the sharp pop of the cap cut through the quiet. He took a long pull, not hurried, not careless, but measured, as though he were buying himself a few seconds before committing to the answer. The bottle came to rest against the marble of the kitchen island with a dull clink.
"She's here," he said finally, his tone even, though something beneath it felt tightly wound. "In Tokyo."
He raised the bottle to his lips for another slow swallow before lowering it again, shifting his weight back until the cool marble of the kitchen counter pressed firmly through the thin fabric of his shirt. One forearm came to rest along the edge, anchoring him there, while the other hand hung at his side with the bottle suspended loosely from his fingers.
The posture might have passed for relaxed at a glance, but the faint tightening along his knuckles and the rigid set of his shoulders told a different story, revealing just how little of him was truly at ease beneath the surface.
"After Bee passed, I went back to the States to settle everything, the house, the contracts, the mess that comes when someone that big leaves a hole behind. I figured I'd walk away from it all after that, maybe take Tracen up on their offer since they'd been knocking on my door for years. I wanted to be there for her. Thought that if I just changed the scenery, changed the pace, maybe I could build something stable again."
A faint, humorless scoff slipped out. "Well, life had other plans."
He rolled the bottle once against his thigh before continuing. "When I went away, she stayed here with her grandparents. Bee's folks. Doesn't matter that both her parents are American, she was born here, so she qualifies for the Japanese Twinkle Series without any issue. And right now…" His gaze drifted briefly toward the wall of photographs before returning to Dahlia. "Right now, she's a student at Tracen."
He hesitated again, and this time it was not calculated or dramatic, because he understood exactly what the name would stir once it was spoken aloud.
"But I should warn you," he said at last, lifting his eyes to meet hers, something unreadable moving behind them, "you're not going to believe who she is."
"Oh?" Dahlia's smile returned, lighter now, curiosity threading through it despite the heaviness of everything that had come before. "Guess the apple didn't fall far from the tree, huh?" She leaned forward slightly, nudging the moment along. "So, what, is she famous? Go on. Try me."
Logan let out a slow breath, the kind that felt like stepping off a ledge.
"Her name is Melody," he said evenly. "Hachimitsu Melody."
The effect was immediate.
Dahlia's eyes widened, the reaction not performed but instinctive, as though the name had struck her physically. A visible chill traced down her spine, and her fingers tightened around the glass bottle hard enough that it nearly slipped from her grasp as the pieces fell into place.
"Hachimitsu… Melody?" she repeated, and whatever lightness had lingered in her words drained away, replaced by something fragile and stunned. "T-that's Scarlet's old roommate… back at Tracen. She used to talk about her all the time. About how they were inseparable. Best friends, but rivals too. About how driven she is, how she wakes up before sunrise just to run extra laps. They made a promise to each other that they'd both stand at the top one day. That they'd be champions together."
Dahlia's fingers tightened around the bottle as the implications settled, her thoughts racing ahead faster than she could contain them. "You're telling me that she's—"
The words died in her throat as she looked at him fully, the realization settling deeper, heavier, reshaping what she thought she knew.
Logan gave a quiet, pained chuckle, one edged with irony rather than humor.
"Yeah," he said softly, without pride, without self-pity, simply stating it as fact. "I had the exact same reaction when I found out."
His gaze drifted back to the photographs lining the wall, to the frozen moments of a life that had once moved forward without hesitation.
"Bee always did say life's got a sick sense of humor," he murmured. His thumb traced absently along the rim of the bottle as his gaze lingered somewhere far beyond the apartment walls. "Hell, I'd probably laugh at the irony of it all if it didn't come wrapped in so much goddamned tragedy."