The name struck Dahlia like a shard of ice, piercing through skin and sinew before anchoring deep within her bones. For a heartbeat, she stood rooted to the spot, unable to move, to breathe, to think. The world seemed to close in around her. The rain beating a relentless rhythm against the cracked asphalt, its sound merging with the faint hum of the city beyond, until all that remained was the hollow echo of memory clawing its way back into the light.
Flashes of that night returned. The strobe of red and blue lights washing over twisted steel and shattered glass. The overturned truck, its headlights still burning through the haze, the acrid scent of gasoline heavy in the air. Crates torn open, fruit and vegetables scattered across the wet road, crushed beneath boots and tires until they were nothing but pulp. And then the voices. Murmurs from the crowd, the sharp commands of officers, the distant cry of sirens, and above them all, the sound that never left her. Her sister's screams.
Scarlet's fingers had clutched desperately at Dahlia's jacket as she sobbed into her chest, the sound raw enough to flay the soul. That feeling, the helplessness of laying there as her world collapsed around her, had dug its claws into her and never let go. Even when the ambulance doors slammed shut, even when the weeks turned to months and hope curdled into despair, that moment lingered. Etched into every quiet hour spent beside her sister's hospital bed, praying for something that would never come.
Then came her father. The man who had once believed in Scarlet so fiercely, who had spent years shaping her into the racer he dreamed she would become, became someone else entirely. His voice, once filled with pride, soured into scorn. His praise twisted into insults. The smell of cheap whiskey clung to him like a curse as he lashed out, shouting words that hit harder than any blow. It should have been you. He said it over and over again until the words lost all sound and became a truth she carried like a brand.
For years, she had told herself she was stronger than him, that his hatred couldn't touch her. She built walls of stone and learned not to flinch, not to feel. But when he walked out the door, those walls finally cracked. Everything she had endured, every sacrifice she made, had amounted to nothing. Her family, her future, her faith in the world, it had all been taken from her in one cruel, unrelenting spiral.
And now, standing in the cold rain with her clothes plastered to her skin, staring at the trembling girl before her, Dahlia felt every wound reopen. The grief, the rage, the hollow ache of everything she had lost came rushing back like floodwater breaching a dam. Her fingers trembled, her jaw clenched until it hurt, and when she finally lifted her gaze, her eyes had hardened into something dark and unrecognizable.
All of it. Every scar, every broken piece of her life, led back to one name.
Suzuki Hiroshi.
And the girl standing before her was his daughter.
Daichi's eyes lingered on Dahlia, his stomach tightening with unease. The silence between the three of them carried a weight that pressed on his chest, thick and suffocating. He could see it. The stillness in her, the slow, simmering darkness gathering behind her eyes like a storm waiting to break. His pulse quickened as his gaze flicked between her and Light, a creeping dread whispering that if something didn't give soon, Dahlia's fury might spill over and swallow everything whole.
Light's words broke through the rain, fragile but steady enough to hold meaning. "When my father was imprisoned," she began, "my siblings and I were split apart. Scattered." Her breath hitched as she wiped at her tears, though the rain washed them away as fast as they fell. "I was taken in by a family here in Tokyo. I don't even know where my brothers and sisters are now. For all I know, they could be anywhere."
Her hands tightened around the hem of her soaked skirt. "I joined the MRA because I thought it'd be a way out. I thought if I raced hard enough, made enough money, I could find them again. Bring them home. Make things right She drew a shuddering breath. "But nothing went how I imagined. I thought I could control it, that I could handle whatever came with it. I was wrong."
She lifted her head then, rain streaking her face, eyes locking with Dahlia's. "You won't want to hear this, but… my father, he's a good man. He was all we had after Mom died, and he worked himself to the bone just to keep us fed, to keep us together." She looked down. "I know what happened was an accident, but I also know what it cost you. And I'm sorry, Dahlia. I'm sorry for your sister, for everything."
Her gaze rose again, pleading now. "Daichi's right. You don't have to do this. Talk to them, call off the race before it's too late. You don't have to prove anything. Not for me." She swallowed hard. "I'm not worth it."
Dahlia drew a long, steady breath, her eyes closing for a heartbeat before she opened them again. "Both of you need to get to a hospital," she said quietly. "Get patched up." She stepped past them, her boots splashing through shallow puddles as she moved toward the exit.
"Dahlia, wait!" Daichi called after her, his hand half-raised.
"Don't!" She snapped back, sudden and sharp. The sound alone made both Daichi and Light flinch. Rain clung to her lashes, slid down her cheeks, but she didn't wipe it away. Her chest heaved with the weight of everything she wasn't saying. "I… just need to be alone," she murmured.
Her hands slipped into her pockets as she turned away again, the rain striking her jacket in steady rhythm. Her black tail lashed once behind her before settling, trailing as she disappeared down the slick street.
"Dahlia…" Light whispered.
Daichi placed a hand on her shoulder and gave a small shake of his head. Neither spoke again. They could only watch as Dahlia's figure dissolved into the rain, swallowed by the amber haze of the streetlights until there was nothing left but the sound of the storm.
****
The first light of dawn filtered through the stained glass, casting fractured hues of rose, amber, and gold across the alabaster walls of the old church. The soft flicker of candles painted the pews in trembling warmth, their flames whispering against the still air. The scent of wax and incense hung faintly in the air. At the front, beneath the shadowed arch, the marble altar gleamed pale in the morning light, the figure of Christ nailed to the cross above it.
Logan sat alone in the middle pew. His elbows rested on his knees, hands clasped tight as if in prayer, though there was nothing devout in his stillness. His knuckles were split and raw, faint trails of dried blood etched into the creases of his skin. Tiny white fragments. Teeth, perhaps, had been pulled from the wounds, now lying scattered near his boots like the remains of something he wished he could forget. His gaze stayed fixed on the crucifix ahead, the expression on his face neither reverent nor defiant. Just hollow, tired, and heavy with a quiet kind of sorrow.
"A bit early for Sunday mass, isn't it?"
The voice came from the aisle. Logan turned his head slightly to see an older man standing there, Japanese, mid-fifties perhaps, with neatly combed gray hair and a face lined by years of gentle patience and hard truths. His black cassock hung clean and pressed, though his sleeves were rolled to his elbows, the gesture casual but grounded. A white rosary worn around his neck, dangled down to his chest. His brown eyes, thoughtful and sharp, lingered on Logan with the faintest hint of a smile.
"Father Hasegawa," Logan greeted softly, offering a small nod.
Hasegawa returned it and motioned toward the space next to him. "Mind if I sit?"
Logan said nothing, only gave the smallest shrug before turning his eyes back toward the figure on the cross. The priest eased down beside him, the wooden pew creaking under their weight. For a long moment, neither spoke. Hasegawa's gaze drifted briefly to Logan's hands. The bruised knuckles, the dried blood, the faint tremor of exhaustion still lingering in his fingers.
He adjusted his glasses, his tone mild but knowing. "Rough night?"
Logan paused, then let out a slow, ragged exhale. "Yeah," he said quietly. "You could say that."
Hasegawa folded his hands in his lap. "It's been some time since your last confession," he said, eyes sweeping across the vacant pews before settling back on Logan. "Longer still since you last came for mass."
The priest let the silence breathe. "My assistant mentioned you've been here since last night. Now, in my experience…" he said, "a broken man only seeks God when the weight he's carrying grows too heavy to bear alone, or when he starts seeing the shadow of the man he swore he'd never be again." His gaze sharpened. "So tell me, Logan… which man are you today?"
Logan's eyes flickered downward, tracing the pattern of the marble floor as he let the words settle. For a long moment, the only sound was the faint pop of candle wicks burning low. Then he spoke. "Back home, Bee and I used to go to mass every Sunday," he began. "Never missed a single one. Not once." His lip twitched faintly. "I wasn't much of a believer. Hated it, actually. The early mornings, the stiff collars, the fake smiles from people pretending they weren't rotten underneath."
He paused, the ghost of memory tugging at the edge of his expression. "But Bee… she was different. Temper like a live wire, mouth sharper than a broken bottle, but her faith? Unshakeable. Never bent, never wavered. No matter what life threw at her." He drew a breath, slow and weary. "I used to think she was crazy for it. But every Sunday, there I was. Sitting next to her, half asleep, half annoyed… because I loved her enough to try."
Hasegawa said nothing, only folded his hands and listened, the soft light from the stained glass catching faintly on his glasses. Logan's gaze had drifted back toward the crucifix, its shadow stretching long across the floor as if to meet him halfway.
"Then she got sick," Logan said quietly. "At first, I told myself it was nothing. That it'll pass, and she'll get right back up as she always did. But every day I watched her fade, little by little, and no matter how much I prayed… no matter how tight I held to faith, she kept slipping away." His jaw tensed, his breath uneven. "I asked God why. Why punish the ones who gave everything to Him? Why her? For the longest time, I was scared. For Bee. For Melody. For what was left of me when she was gone."
He leaned forward slightly, his hands tightening until the knuckles went white. "I begged for something. Anything. A miracle. A sign. Divine intervention, hell, even a cruel joke I could understand." His throat worked as he swallowed hard. "But nothing ever came. And when she finally passed… when I had to put her in the ground with my own hands, it felt like the world ended right there with her."
He exhaled sharply, the sound thick with bitterness. "All those years I spent building this perfect little world. A home, a family, a life that I thought meant something, but it was all a goddamn lie." His words cracked, raw and low. "The people I trusted most… they were monsters wearing smiles, and I was too blind, too damned naïve to see it."
His head bowed, eyes closing as if the weight of memory itself were pressing him down. "And in that anger," he said, "I crossed a line I can't ever uncross."
Logan fell silent for a long moment, his words hanging heavy in the candlelit stillness. When he finally spoke again, his voice was rough.
"I failed them," he said. "Every one of those girls who trusted me… and my own daughter most of all." His gaze dropped to his open hand, the faint tremor in his fingers betraying the weight behind his words. "Ten goddamned years behind bars, and I told myself I belonged there. That I was exactly what they said I was. A monster no better than the man I put in the ground."
He turned his hand over slowly, staring at the dried blood caught in the lines of his palm, as though it would never wash clean. "I thought I deserved it. Deserved to be locked away, forgotten, cursed for what I'd done. That maybe the world was right to cast me out… to take everything from me. That being away from Melody was the punishment I'd earned."
His fingers curled tight into a fist, trembling as the words caught in his throat. "And last night…" He drew a harsh breath, the memory flashing behind his eyes. "Last night proved it. Twelve years, and nothing's changed. I'm still that same unhinged bastard. The killer who sees red the moment the rage comes back. Still mad at the world… mad at myself." His jaw tightened. "And for one ugly, fleeting moment… I wanted to burn it all down. Just to feel something again."
Hasegawa drew a slow breath, his eyes tracing the figure of Christ hanging above the altar before turning back to Logan. "Tell me, Logan," he began, "what does forgiveness mean to you?"
Logan lifted his gaze, meeting the old priest's eyes but saying nothing.
"Most people," Hasegawa continued, "think forgiveness is weakness. An act of surrender rather than strength. It's easy to forgive the small things. Forgetting a birthday, missing a meeting, saying the wrong thing in a moment of frustration. We tell ourselves we're only human and we move on."
He clasped his hands, the faint creak of his rosary breaking the silence. "But what happens when the sin cuts too deep? When it's not a mistake, but an act so terrible it shatters lives? Tell me, could a mother forgive the man who took her child? Could she find that kind of grace in her heart?"
Logan sat still, his expression neutral, though the muscle in his jaw twitched.
"Some would say no, and they'd be right to," Hasegawa said, his tone lowering. "Because vengeance feels clean. It feels fair. An eye for an eye, the old law says. But as the saying goes, an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind. Vengeance in itself can give you satisfaction, but never peace."
He shifted his gaze back to Logan, his eyes steady and kind. "You've been living like a man punishing himself, believing that if you suffer long enough, you might one day balance the scales. But penance isn't about pain, Logan. It's about change. And whether you'll admit it or not, a part of you still wants forgiveness. Not from God, not from the world… from yourself."
Logan opened his mouth, but the words faltered before they could form. He turned away. Eyes fixed once more on the crucifix.
Hasegawa's tone softened. "You can't ask forgiveness from the Lord if you're unwilling to forgive yourself first. You've been a prisoner of your own guilt for so long you've forgotten what it means to be free. The truth is, no man is defined by the sins he's committed, but by the choices he makes after. That's what redemption truly means. Not erasing the past, but walking forward despite it."
He turned fully toward Logan now, the faintest warmth breaking through the solemnity of his face. "And though I cannot condone what you've done, I can tell you this, you've already taken your first step back toward the light."
Logan gave a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head. "And what makes you think that, Father?"
Hasegawa smiled, the lines around his eyes deepening with quiet grace. "Because, my child," he said, gesturing to the pews around them, "you're here. And a man running from God doesn't seek shelter in His house."
Logan's breath hitched faintly, his eyes widening at the priest's words before falling once more to the floor. "You think too highly of me, Father," he muttered.
Hasegawa gave a small, knowing smile. "Perhaps," he said gently, smoothing his sleeves as he rose to his feet. "Or perhaps it's time you stopped running. From your past, from your guilt… and from the man you were meant to be."
The sound of hinges creaking broke the silence as the heavy oak doors at the end of the church swung open. A shaft of morning light poured through, spilling across the crimson carpet that ran the length of the aisle. The soft echo of footsteps followed, measured, uncertain.
An uma stepped inside, her black hair streaked with bands of yellow that caught the sunlight like threads of gold. A black track jacket hung over a dark shirt. Thigh-high socks disappeared into worn leather boots, and the faint jingle of her silver ear piercings chimed as her ears twitched. Her gaze drifted around the quiet nave before settling on the priest.
"Um… am I a little early, Father?" she asked softly.
"Melody," Hasegawa said, stepping into the aisle with a smile that reached his eyes.
The name hit Logan like a gunshot. His breath stilled, every muscle in his body locking as he turned, slowly, almost fearfully toward the sound of that voice.
"No, no," the priest continued warmly. "You're right on time. It usually gets busy in about an hour." He gestured toward the empty space beside Logan. "Please, take a seat."
Melody hesitated, her fingers fidgeting as she made her way forward. Hasegawa gave Logan a look. Half knowing, half mischievous, that made his expression tighten.
"This is Mister Logan," the priest said, turning back to Melody. "Why don't you keep him company while I tend to the preparations?"
"O-okay," Melody replied quietly, her tail flicking once as she slipped into the pew beside him.
As she sat, Father Hasegawa offered Logan one last wink before turning toward the altar. Logan glared after him, jaw tightening, but the priest only chuckled under his breath as he disappeared toward the sacristy, leaving the two of them in the hushed stillness of the morning light.
****
"So… um…" Melody fidgeted with her thumbs, her ears twitching as she sat a little too straight beside him. "Nice to meet you, Mister Logan." Her crimson eyes lifted toward him, a shy smile tugging at her lips. "I'm Hachimitsu Melody."
"Yeah," Logan muttered, forcing out a breath. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes fixed stubbornly ahead. "I've heard about you. Been, uh… following your record for a while now."
Her ears perked, surprise flickering across her face. "Oh?" she said, blinking. "That's… unexpected. I haven't even made it to the G1 circuits yet. Still working my way up. But it's nice to know someone's been paying attention."
She tilted her head slightly, her gaze tracing him from his worn boots up to his jacket, then his face. Something about him tugged at the back of her memory. A familiarity she couldn't quite name.
"People have been saying you're one to watch," Logan replied quietly. A faint, almost reluctant smile touched his face. "I've seen you run. You've got real form. Good instincts, clean technique. Your trainer must've drilled you hard."
Melody's smile warmed, pride flickering briefly in her eyes. "Hana sensei does. She doesn't really go easy on anyone." She paused mid-laugh, her brow furrowing as realization dawned. "Wait… that's it. I knew I'd seen you somewhere before."
Logan's muscles went rigid, the faintest sheen of sweat forming along his temple.
"You were with Trainer that day, weren't you?" she asked, leaning forward, curiosity replacing her nervousness.
For a heartbeat, Logan froze. The world around him seemed to narrow to her words, his pulse heavy in his ears. He managed a shallow breath before answering. "Yeah," he said slowly. "We go… way back."
Melody's expression softened, tail swishing once behind her. "Oh? So you were a trainer too?"
Logan gave a short, humorless laugh and looked away. "Something like that."
Melody nodded softly, leaning back against the pew as her gaze drifted upward to the vaulted ceiling. The morning light spilling through the stained-glass windows caught in her crimson eyes, filling them with a muted, wistful glow. "Well, so was my dad," she said quietly. "I don't remember him much, just fragments, really. Little flashes. But Grandma says he trained my mom."
A small smile crept onto her face as she leaned forward, her tone brightening. "They were a team. A real power duo. Grandma used to tell me stories about how they'd win races together, how they'd fight and make up, but always pushed each other to be better."
Melody gave a quiet laugh, a small spark of warmth flickering through the somber air. "Mom had a temper," she said. "Apparently she was always pissed off at something. Teachers, trainers, even other umas who so much as glanced at her the wrong way. She once broke a guy's nose for calling her short." She grinned faintly, shaking her head. "No one wanted to train her after that. The Academy was even considering expelling her."
Her expression softened, the humor giving way to something gentler. "But then she met my dad. Grandma said it was rough at first. She hated him. Said he was prissy, snobby, and a bit of a pushover. Thought he could 'fix' her." Melody smiled at the memory she never truly lived, one that had been told and retold so many times it felt like her own. "But he never gave up on her. No matter how bad it got, he just kept showing up. I guess that's what changed her."
"And my mom… she went on to become a two-time Triple Crown winner." She looked at him, pride warming her words. "I don't know if you've heard of her… Kadokawa Hornet."
Logan's breath caught in his throat. The name struck him like an echo from a dream. For a fleeting second, the woman's face came to him in memory. Her laughter, her strength, the fierce gleam in her eyes. And now, sitting before him, their daughter wore the same smile. The resemblance twisted like a knife in his chest. His faint smile faltered, eyes shadowed. "Yeah," he murmured. "I've heard of her."
Melody nodded, the glow fading from her expression as she looked down at her hands. "Like my dad, I don't remember much about her either. She passed when I was five." Her words grew smaller. "Grandma said Dad did something bad… that he had to go away for a while." She took a shaky breath. "But he never came back. Every time I ask, Grandma would just change the subject. Even the school won't tell me anything."
Logan's jaw tightened. He turned his head slightly, eyes on the floor. "I'm sorry," he said. "For all of it."
Melody shook her head gently, offering him a faint, almost reassuring smile. "Don't be," she said. "It wasn't all that bad. Grandma and Grandpa took care of me. They've always been there. Sure, I wish I had my parents around like everyone else, but… I've learned to make peace with what I have."
Logan gave a small nod, his gaze drifting back to the figure of Christ above the altar. "So," he said quietly, "what brings you here? Praying the rain lets up so you can get back on the track?"
Melody chuckled softly. "Among other things." Her smile lingered for a moment, then slowly faded. "But lately… I come here for someone else." She folded her hands in her lap. "A friend of mine. We were roommates at Tracen. Honestly, she was more than that. My rival, my push to be better." Her tone grew fragile, a tremor threading through it. "Then something happened."
Logan turned his head slightly toward her, brow furrowing.
"It was two years ago," Melody continued. "We'd just finished karaoke. It was pouring that night. I wanted to stop by the convenience store near the dorms. She said she'd go on ahead." She swallowed hard, eyes glistening as she shook her head. "That was the last time I heard her speak."
A stillness settled between them, heavy and cold. Then Logan spoke. "Wait… your friend. Was it Scarlet Rose?"
The color drained from Melody's face, but she nodded. "Yeah," she murmured. "Given how much it made the news, I'm not surprised you know her name."
Logan's gaze drifted upward again, to the pale figure nailed to the cross, his expression hardening as something sharp flickered behind his eyes. His jaw clenched.
Melody went on. "I've tried visiting her since the accident," she said, her fingers tightening around each other. "But…" She faltered, her throat tightening as she shook her head. "She just… she wasn't the same. The way she looked at me, or didn't. It was like… like she didn't even recognize me anymore."
Her gaze dropped to the floor. Crimson eyes clouded with guilt. "I used to talk to her all the time, you know? About racing, dreams, stupid things. But when I saw her there, in that chair, she just stared right through me. Didn't say a word." Her words trembled. "It's like everything that made her… her, was gone."
She drew a breath, steady but quivering at the edges. "And then her dad, he got fired from the Academy not long after. From what I heard, he just packed up and left. Left her and her sister to fend for themselves." Her body wavered as she forced the next words out. "And her sister… she's trying to hold everything together, but you can see it's killing her inside."
Melody's hands slipped into her lap, fingers trembling. "I wish there was something I could do for them," she said softly. "For both of them."
Logan remained still for a long moment, the silence between them broken only by the faint crackle of candle flames. Then, slowly, he rose from the pew, straightening his jacket. The motion drew Melody's attention. Her ears twitched, eyes wide with quiet surprise as he stepped out into the aisle.
"Sorry," he said. "But I've got to go. Got a lot to think about… and somewhere I need to be."
Melody blinked, sitting up a little. "Oh… alright," she murmured, nodding softly. "Well, it was really nice talking to you, Mister Logan."
Logan turned to her, meeting her gaze. For a moment, his expression softened, the hard edges easing into something almost human, almost tender. "And just so you know," he said, "Bee would've been real proud of you. Your dad too."
Then he turned away, slipping one hand into his pocket as he stepped toward the exit. He then pushed open the heavy church doors. Sunlight poured in, casting his shadow long across the marble floor before he disappeared through it, the doors closing behind him with a quiet thud.
Melody sat frozen, staring at the space where he'd stood. Her mind spun, heart catching in her chest as a single realization struck her. "Wait…" she whispered. Her eyes widened, breath hitching. "Bee… how did he know Mom's nickname?"
She turned sharply toward the door, but it was too late, the church had fallen still again, the only trace of him the fading echo of footsteps and the faint scent of the morning carried in on the breeze.
****
The storm had finally passed, leaving behind a city rinsed but not cleansed. Raindrops still trickled from the rusted rooftops, streaming down drainpipes to join the grey runoff that gurgled through the gutters, dragging the grime of Tokyo's streets into the sewers below. Morning light seeped through scattered clouds as the city woke. Trains rattled to life, sidewalks filled with commuters and chatter, and shopkeepers rolled up their shutters, greeting the new day with familiar bows and calls. The smell of wet asphalt mingled with the aroma of fresh bread, roasted coffee, and the crisp sweetness of fruit from market stalls.
Dahlia moved through it all, head low, hands buried in the pockets of her worn jacket. Her tail flicked idly behind her, the motion tired rather than restless. The bruises that marked her skin had deepened to purple, the scrapes along her arms and knees hidden beneath fresh bandages. Every step she took seemed heavier than the last.
Her thoughts churned like stormwater. Daichi's warning, Light's confession, the weight of every secret that had unraveled in the span of a night. Her mind drifted to the first time she met Logan, the disheveled, hollow-eyed man who'd shown up at Saburo's café, looking less like a customer and more like a ghost who hadn't realized he was dead. She remembered the quietness about him, the kind that came from years of punishment rather than peace. If it hadn't been for Saburo's kindness, she was certain Logan would have been sleeping under bridges with the other forgotten souls of the city.
To now know that he was Logan Deschain, the Hand of God, the trainer of legends, felt unreal. The revelation had shaken her in a way she couldn't quite name. And to learn that his student, Wild Lightning, was here in Tokyo, leading a task force that hunted umas like her… Dahlia couldn't decide if that was fate or cruelty.
She stopped outside a café window, catching sight of her reflection in the glass. The face staring back looked older somehow. Drawn, exhausted, with dark circles shadowing her eyes and her lips pressed thin. She barely recognized herself. Two weeks of bruises, sleepless nights, and constant dread had carved the girl she once was into something harder, sharper.
And then there was Light. Dahlia's chest tightened, her reflection blurring in the glass as her thoughts darkened. The daughter of him. Of the man who had destroyed Scarlet's life and shattered what was left of their family. Her fingers curled into fists inside her pockets.
A part of her wanted to hate the girl. To let rage swallow whatever pity remained. To believe that the blood of Suzuki Hiroshi was a stain that could never wash clean. She had fought, bled, and risked everything for Light, never knowing the truth. And now, standing beneath the soft light of morning, Dahlia wasn't sure which hurt more. The betrayal, or the cruel reminder that the past was never really done with her.
Shame then washed over her like a tidal wave, sudden and cold, folding her in on itself. Dahlia closed her eyes and shook her head until the sting behind them blurred. She could feel each bruise and scar as if they were hymns of her failures. For a moment she let herself hate… hate Light, hate the man who'd broken her sister's life, hate the cruel geometry of a world that put people in the wrong place at the wrong time, but the anger soured quickly into something rawer. Pity, and then steadier, colder clarity.
This wasn't Light's doing. It had been an accident, a collision of fate and misfortune, not a sin committed with malice. Scarlet had been where she shouldn't. Hiroshi had been a man stretched beyond the limit. Light had watched her family unravel, torn from the life she knew and thrust into the dark to survive. She'd thrown herself into the MRA because it was, horrible as it sounded, a way to keep her family from falling further apart. That thought hit Dahlia in the chest like a physical blow. Light had been surviving the same ruin Dahlia had learned to wear like armor.
The realization didn't soften Dahlia. If anything, it hardened her. She felt the old, familiar iron in her veins. The same defiant thing that had carried her through scraped knees, angry trainers' words, and the years of being treated as nothing. She had always fought. Against a father who measured her worth in losses and temper, against a system that shelved the hopeful and celebrated the golden few, against the hollow hands of fate that had smashed her sister's life into pieces. She had watched the world laugh at their ruin and thought, once, that she would always be the one left to stare up at it.
No more. The thought flared and became a plan. She would stop standing at the edge, watching other people push her around. She would stop waiting for mercy from a world that had none to spare. This time she would take it back. Not with childish revenge, but with everything she had. Grit, speed, teeth. She would make the world kneel, and she would keep it there.
Dahlia drew a breath so deep it filled her lungs with rain-washed air and exhaled with the slow calm of someone who would not be moved. She lifted her head, and the city's grey light carved lines across her face. Then she saw him. Logan, cigarette smoldering between his teeth, standing like a silhouette against the morning bustle. His shadow pooled across the pavement, and for the first time in days the motion in her chest stilled.
Their eyes met. For a moment, life, ruin, and past sins all seemed to pause.
"We need to talk," she said, the words low but iron-true.
Logan blew a soft cloud of smoke and answered, simply, "Yeah."