The halfway mark vanished beneath their boots.
And then—everything broke open.
The pace spiked.
The pack fractured.
The Satsuki Sho was no longer twelve runners—it was three blades drawn against each other, with Machan's battered shield still holding back the chaos of the rest.
Special Week.
Mejiro McQueen.
Tokai Teio.
Their strides tore at the turf, the air warping around them with sheer velocity. The roar of the crowd blurred into a wall of noise—no longer words, no longer chants, just raw pressure crushing down on every breath, every heartbeat.
McQueen's lungs burned. Her legs screamed.
She didn't care.
Her eyes were locked forward.
On the white line at the far horizon.
On the finish.
She could not lose.
Not here. Not now.
Not when Akuma's eyes had lingered on Machan with that same wounded softness. Not when she had seen him flinch at Lucien's mocking smile.
Not when he had once told her—long ago, when she had still been unrefined, untested, trembling—that she was enough.
She would carry him.
She would carry all of them.
That was her duty.
Her stride lengthened. The dirt trembled beneath the force of her legs. Every muscle in her body strained against its limit, and she forced them harder still.
Special Week was beside her, panting, her face twisted in effort but burning with a stubborn joy. Even here, even now, she smiled through the pain—eyes shining with the sheer exhilaration of running.
And behind—then beside—then suddenly at her shoulder—Tokai Teio.
McQueen's teeth ground. She surged forward, trying to hold. Teio's breathing was ragged, her body straining, but her grin—her wild, irrepressible grin—was still there.
Teio wasn't running from duty.
She wasn't running from chains.
She was running because she loved it.
The final corner.
The crowd's roar cracked into shrieks, into thunderclaps of sound. Flags snapped in the wind. The turf itself seemed to quiver under the weight of three dreams colliding.
McQueen leaned low, cutting the bend sharp, her boots pounding an impossible rhythm against the ground. She pushed every ounce of her weight into forward momentum, lungs screaming, vision tunneling.
Teio matched her.
Special Week slipped half a length back, boxed out by their duel, but her eyes never faltered.
The straight opened.
The finish line gleamed far ahead.
Everything inside McQueen broke loose. She roared—not a word, not even a sound meant for the world, just a raw, tearing cry from her lungs—as she launched herself forward.
She was not going to lose.
She could not lose.
Every step was agony. Her thighs felt carved from molten lead, her chest burned like fire eating through her ribs. Her arms swung heavy, her shoulders numb. She could barely hear the crowd over the hammering of her heart.
Teio drew closer.
McQueen snarled, forcing more, forcing harder. She clawed for every fraction of distance, for every breathless inch. She wasn't running for herself anymore. Not for dreams. Not for glory.
She was running for Akuma.
For his burden.
For his smile.
And that was the mistake.
Her stride faltered—not visibly, not to the crowd, not even to Special Week—but within her own body, she felt it. A half-beat of hesitation. A fraction of weight misaligned.
Teio felt it too.
Her eyes widened.
Her grin sharpened.
And then—she surged.
It wasn't gradual. It wasn't even natural. It was an explosion, a firecracker snapping in her chest, propelling her forward with reckless abandon. Her steps were wild, her form fraying at the edges, but her will—her joy—her freedom—pulled her like wings.
She slipped past McQueen.
First a shoulder. Then a head. Then a full stride.
The crowd lost its voice in the sheer pitch of the scream that followed.
"TEIO TAKES THE LEAD!" the announcer shrieked, his voice cracking as Teio's body stretched forward, flying across the turf like the track itself had been built for her alone.
McQueen tried to answer.
She clawed forward, every ounce of her body begging, demanding—move.
But her steps were heavier now. Weighted.
She wasn't running with joy.
She was running under chains.
And those chains held.
Special Week closed again, trying desperately to match them both, her legs a blur, her arms pumping like pistons. But the duel ahead had already broken free.
Teio's voice ripped from her throat, a wild, exultant laugh as she tore down the final stretch.
"HAH! HAAA!"
Every stride was ecstasy. Every breath was fire. She didn't care if her body shattered at the line—this was running. This was life.
McQueen was right behind her. Her teeth grit, her eyes blurred with tears she didn't even feel falling. The world around her dissolved, the finish line tunneling in, closer, closer, and yet still out of reach.
She wasn't enough.
Not like this.
Not today.
Teio crossed the line first.
The sound that followed was indescribable. An eruption. A storm detonating. The stadium shook, the crowd a living earthquake of disbelief, of joy, of shock.
Teio stumbled as she slowed, her chest heaving, her smile wide and delirious. She raised her fists, triumphant, as the sea of voices screamed her name.
"TEIO! TEIO!! TEIOOO!"
McQueen crossed just behind.
And broke.
The moment she slowed, the moment her body realized it was done, her knees buckled. She dropped, catching herself with trembling hands, her chest heaving, tears spilling freely down her face.
She had lost.
Not just to Teio.
But to herself.
Special Week slid up behind her, breathless but smiling, her hand immediately on McQueen's shoulder. "Hey—hey, it's okay! You were amazing! You were—"
McQueen shook her head, violently, her sobs tearing through her throat. The words caught, raw and broken. "No… no… I…"
Her hands clenched into the dirt. The finish line was right there, but it felt like an entire world away. She could still see Akuma in the corner of her memory, smiling that gentle smile that he rarely showed.
The tears kept coming. She couldn't stop them. Couldn't control them. They carved down her cheeks, staining the dirt below.
Special Week knelt beside her, arms wrapping around her tightly, whispering desperately, "It's okay, McQueen, it's okay—you were incredible. You… you made him proud. I know it."
But the words didn't reach.
McQueen's body shook with sobs, her chest aching more from heartbreak than exhaustion. She couldn't lift her head. She couldn't stop herself from crying. The noise of the crowd, Teio's triumphant laughter, the announcer's screams—all of it drowned in the sound of her own failure pounding in her ears.
And then—
The roar of the crowd shifted.
A new sound cut through.
The heavy slam of boots against the turf.
McQueen's eyes widened, tears blurring her vision as she looked up just enough to see a shadow leap the barrier.
Akuma.
He was running toward them, his coat trailing behind him, his face unreadable through her haze of grief. The trainers shouted after him, the officials called in panic—but none of it mattered.
He didn't stop.
He reached them.
Dropped to his knees in the dirt beside them.
And pulled both McQueen and Special Week into his arms.
His embrace was heavy, desperate, trembling—not the touch of a coach or a strategist, but of a man who loved them more than the world itself. His head bowed low between them, his breath shaking.
McQueen's sobs broke harder. She clung to his coat, her fists weak against his back, the sound of her grief muffled against his chest.
She could feel it—his heartbeat, heavy and raw. She could hear the whisper, low, cracked, barely audible through the roar of the crowd:
"Good job. I'm sorry… I'm so sorry."
And for the first time since the gate opened, since the chains had pulled her down, McQueen's tears came not from failure, but from being held.