The Shelby GT-500 thundered down the highway, its guttural roar filling the night like a living creature unchained. The speedometer climbed deep into the red as the crimson beast devoured the asphalt, tail lights blurring into ribbons of light behind it. Red kept one hand steady on the wheel, the other gripping a half-finished Subway sandwich still wrapped in plastic. He took a bite, the crunch of lettuce mixing with the tang of mustard and mayo. For all his complaints about fast food, a little taste of home was worth the grease.
The dashboard clock glowed past two in the morning. The road was nearly empty, save for the occasional headlight sweeping by. He swallowed the last of the sandwich, balled the wrapper, and tossed it aside before taking a long pull from his soda. The fizz of cola stung pleasantly at the back of his throat as the Shelby shot into a tunnel, the world around him igniting in white-gold light.
His mind, however, was elsewhere, on Lightning, and the wild chase the two of them had been running across Japan. One name after another, a trail of former champions and retired legends, some eager, others jaded, each with their own ghosts. They'd also been looking for a trainer. Someone worthy of leading what Lightning had in mind, but the search was running thin.
He downshifted, the engine snarling like it resented restraint. Lightning had refused to move on from her first choice, but they were already halfway down the list. Red didn't know much about Japan's trainers, but the next name stood out even to him. Impressive records, fierce reputation, the kind of man who didn't just train racers, but built them.
Red pressed the accelerator harder. The tunnel lights streaked past in a blur as the Shelby's roar deepened, its echo chasing him into the night. As he exited the tunnel, his eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror and froze. A pair of headlights cut through the dark, growing fast. He blinked once, then again, leaning forward as the glare filled the glass.
"What the hell…" he muttered. The beams dipped, and that's when he saw it clearly. The sleek, jet-black frame glinting like obsidian under the streetlights, the engine screaming down the stretch behind him.
"A GT-R, huh?" Red's lip curled into a grin. "Sweet-lookin' ride. I'll give ya that."
The car closed in, eating distance until it was a breath from the Shelby's bumper. Red glanced at the speedometer. A hundred klicks and climbing. "Alright, pal, what's ya deal?"
The GT-R's headlights blinked twice. A taunt.
Red's brow furrowed. "Oh, ya did not just flash me, jackass." The grin returned, sharper this time. He tilted his head, eyes locking on the reflection along with a growl of amusement. "Alright then…"
He downshifted. "Let's dance."
[BGM - Night of Fire - N.I.K.O]
The Shelby's engine screamed as Red slammed the accelerator, the rear tires spitting smoke before gripping hard and launching the car forward. The beast surged ahead, tearing through the night, its roar echoing down the empty stretch of highway. Behind him, the GT-R answered with its own feral growl, closing the gap in seconds.
Both machines ripped through the lanes at breakneck speed, headlights carving streaks of white across the dark. The wind howled against the windows. The world outside blurred into streaks of color and light. Red's face tightened against the pull of the G-force, eyes locked ahead, the road illuminated in long, fleeting flashes.
He flicked a glance at the mirror, the GT-R was still there, glued to his tail.
"Persistent little bastard, ain't ya?" he muttered, cutting the wheel and slipping between two sedans. Horns blared as the Shelby sliced through, the GT-R threading the same needle a heartbeat later. The rush of air and thunder of engines swallowed everything else.
Red's smirk crept wider. "C'mon, bub, that all ya got?" His hands shifted quick, smooth, years of muscle memory guiding him as he worked the clutch and throttle. The Shelby roared again, surging forward.
"You wanted this…" he growled, eyes glinting in the mirror. "Then come and get it!"
The Shelby screamed down the highway, its engine howling like a vicious beast while the GT-R clung to its tail, never losing an inch. Red gritted his teeth, shifting gears and darting between lanes, blocking every angle the bastard tried to take. The rearview mirror glared back with blinding headlights. The other car glued so close it was practically breathing down his neck.
A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face, cutting through the heat. "No freakin' way," he muttered under his breath.
The GT-R wasn't just fast, it was keeping up. Every move he made, it mirrored. Every shift, every weave, perfectly matched. The Shelby's speedometer crept up, flirting with two, and still that damned car was right there, lurking in his mirror like a ghost.
His jaw tightened as his eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. The GT-R's windshield was tinted dark, too dark to see the driver, but something about the way it moved told him everything he needed to know. Whoever was behind that wheel wasn't just good, they were trained. Precise. Dangerous.
"Whoever ya are," Red growled, "Ya got some serious stones."
Red's eyes widened as the highway curved sharply to the left. He gritted his teeth, shifted down, and slammed his foot on the clutch. His hand yanked the e-brake once before alternating between brake and accelerator, feeling the Shelby buck beneath him. The tires screamed against the asphalt, smoke trailing in furious plumes as the rear kicked out. The whole car twisted into a smooth, controlled drift, every muscle in his arm locked tight as he fought to keep the beast steady through the curve.
"Heh, how'd ya like that—"
His words froze. The GT-R was gone.
"What the—"
A thunderous roar came from his right. Red snapped his head to the side just in time to see the black GT-R sliding in perfect tandem beside him, both machines gliding through the curve, a hair's breadth apart. The rear of the GT-R nearly kissed the guardrail, sparks flashing as it held steady. For a heartbeat, the two cars were side by side, twin blurs of steel and fury carving the asphalt. Then the road straightened.
The GT-R surged forward, exhaust spitting fire as it rocketed ahead, blowing past the Shelby with brutal precision. Red's eyes flicked to the speedometer. Two eighty and climbing. Before the GT-R veered left, disappearing down the ramp and into the night.
The Shelby slowed, its engine's roar fading into a deep growl before Red eased it to the shoulder. His breaths came heavy and quick, sweat dripping down his face. He stared into the rearview mirror, his own reflection staring back, wide-eyed and alive. His heart thundered against his ribs.
For the first time in years, someone had outdriven him.
His lips curled into a wild grin. "Heh… guess comin' here wasn't such a bad idea afta all."
****
Dahlia walked along the sunlit sidewalk, the Sunday morning heat glinting off the black-and-white stripes of her tracksuit. Sweat still clung to her skin as she wiped her brow with a towel and slung it over her shoulder. She lifted her water bottle, took a long pull, then exhaled with a small, satisfied sigh. Another round of roadwork done, another step forward. Her muscles ached, but it was a good ache. The kind that reminded her she was alive, improving, growing stronger. For the first time in years, she actually felt good in her own body. More than once, she'd caught herself standing before the mirror, tracing the new tone in her frame, the lean strength beginning to return to her.
Her father's training had never made her feel that way. Back then, it had been rigid, impersonal. Every uma shoved through the same routine, no nuance, no attention to individuality. A one-size-fits-all manual, copied and reused until the ink faded. Dahlia had only recently begun to see how flawed that approach truly was. No wonder so many of his trainees had burned out, broken down, or simply quit. They weren't weak. They were just misled.
She slowed her pace as the street around her buzzed with the hum of life. The hiss of bus doors, the murmur of passing voices, the rhythmic shuffle of feet. She breathed it in, letting the noise fade behind her thoughts. Her tail swayed lightly as she walked, but her expression hardened.
She wouldn't call her father a fraud outright, but negligence? Complacency? Those fit like a glove. Somewhere along the line, he'd stopped teaching. He'd gotten comfortable, safe in his position, content to watch others fail where he should've guided them. And she'd been one of those discarded, pushed aside when she didn't fit his mold. The memory made her jaw clench.
Logan's training, by contrast, was something else. Every exercise, every regimen, every meal plan felt like it had been crafted for her alone. The man lived up to the title people whispered about him. The deeper she sank into his methods, the clearer the difference became. His work wasn't mechanical, it was instinctive. Driven by passion and understanding.
And as the days passed, that comparison tore deeper. Each new insight, each new result peeled another layer from the admiration she once had for her father. Maybe he'd lost his edge long ago. Maybe he'd never moved on from her mother. Or maybe he was just a man who'd forgotten what it meant to care.
Whatever the truth, she could see him clearly now. The illusion had broken.
And now, the fire in her chest burned hotter than it ever had. She would no longer live beneath the weight of his disappointment. No longer flinch at his words or bow to his judgment. His insults meant nothing now. Empty sounds from a man who had long since proven himself hollow. A washed-up charlatan whose praise or scorn carried no meaning.
Dahlia's gaze hardened. Her stride steady as her ears flicked. Be it through the MRA or the URA, in the shadows or beneath the lights, she didn't care where her path led, only that it would be hers. If the world owed her anything, it was that single, perfect moment. The day she would stand at the summit, victories stacked at her feet, and force him to look up at what she'd become. And when that day came, she would savor every breath of it.
Dahlia felt the faint buzz of her phone against her hip. She slipped a hand into her pocket, pulled it out, and unlocked the screen with a swipe. A single message blinked at the top of her messenger app—Daichi's name.
Can we talk? You're not gonna believe what me and Light found out.
Her brow furrowed, a quiet sigh slipping past her lips. She had been dodging both of them for days, ignoring their calls, letting messages pile up unread. Part of her just wasn't ready. Not after what had happened that night in the abandoned lot. The thought still twisted in her chest.
She stared at the screen for a long moment, thumb hovering over the reply box before she finally exhaled and typed:
Sure. There's a playground near my place. I'll see you there.
The message sent with a soft chime. Dahlia slipped the phone back into her pocket, her pace steady as she walked on beneath the morning sun.
****
Daichi paced across the dirt, his sneakers scuffing shallow grooves into the ground as he rubbed the back of his neck. His stomach was twisted in knots. The playground around them was alive with the hum of ordinary life. A few kids, both human and uma, chasing one another through the sand, laughter echoing through the air. Some clambered up the metal steps of the slides, others dangled from monkey bars while their parents chatted on the benches, swapping gossip between sips of coffee.
His gaze drifted to Light. She sat quietly on one of the swings, her head bowed, fingers wrapped around the metal chains. Her ears drooped, tail swaying in small, slow arcs.
"Hey," Daichi said. Light looked up, her soft hazel eyes meeting his. "Everything's gonna be fine. I know Dahlia, she's…" He trailed off, searching for the right words. "She's not the kind to hold grudges. That night, she was just caught off guard. Hell, I was too."
Light smiled faintly, though it was a fragile thing. "I want to believe that, really." Her gaze dropped to the dirt again. "But even if she yelled at me, hit me, called me every name under the sun, I wouldn't blame her." She exhaled shakily. "She lost her sister. Her father. Her family. Her life… everything she ever knew."
Daichi shook his head, stepping closer. "Don't do that," he said firmly. "Don't make it sound like she's the only one who lost something that day. You did too." His tone softened, but his eyes stayed steady. "Yeah, Scarlet's dreams were crushed. Yeah, Dahlia's had to rebuild from nothing. But what happened to you and your siblings? That's not any less tragic."
He crouched down in front of her, meeting her at eye level. "Look, I get it. More than you think. When enough bad things happen, you start to believe you deserve them. You start thinking you're worthless. That your pain's just part of the balance so someone else can have it better." He let out a humorless laugh. "You stop hoping. You start expecting the worst, and after a while, you just… accept it."
His shoulders sagged slightly. "Look at me. Washed-up loser with a stained futon, a busted kettle, and a minibar I found in a dumpster." He smiled weakly, shaking his head. "You think this was my dream growing up? Hell no. But it's what I've got. And somehow, I'm still here."
Light's lips curved into a small smile. Her cheeks tinged pink. "You know," she said softly, "for a loser, you're surprisingly good at cheering people up."
Daichi's own cheeks flushed as he turned aside, scratching the back of his neck. "Heh… yeah, well, I try. Guess it takes someone who's hit rock bottom to know how to pull someone else off the floor." He glanced back at her with a faint grin. "And trust me, I've been down there more times than I can count."
Light tilted her head, her expression curious. "You know, now I'm wondering. What did you dream of being when you were little?"
"Ah, jeez…" Daichi rubbed his face. "You're gonna laugh."
"I won't," Light said with a gentle smile. "I promise."
He sighed, rubbing his palms together before blurting it out. "Alright, fine. When I was a kid, I wanted to be… a Kamen Rider."
For a moment, Light just blinked. Once. Twice. Then her lips trembled as she tried to hold it in, her cheeks puffing before a stifled laugh escaped her.
Daichi groaned, though a grin tugged at his mouth. "See? I told you it was stupid."
"No, no, it's not!" Light said quickly, waving her hands. "It's actually… kinda sweet. Honest, even. You don't hear dreams like that much anymore."
He chuckled, shaking his head. "Well, I didn't mean Kamen Rider Kamen Rider. I meant, like, the actor who plays them. But turns out I'm about as athletic as a sack of bricks, and my acting's worse."
Light giggled, the sound soft and bright in the morning air. "Somehow, I can actually picture that."
"Yeah?" Daichi smirked. "Guess even heroes need comic relief."
Light's hazel eyes flicked to the side, then froze. Her expression went slack. Daichi noticed instantly and turned. Dahlia stood behind him, her shadow stretching across the dirt. Her gaze was steady, unreadable, her dark eyes fixed on the two of them.
Daichi scrambled to his feet, brushing imaginary dust from his jeans. "Dahlia," he said, forcing a smile. "Uh, wow, you got here quick."
"I wasn't far when you texted." Her tone was flat. Her gaze shifted to Light, who shrank back slightly, fingers tightening on the swing's chains. Dahlia's hand rested on her hip. "So," she said, "you gonna tell me what you found out?"
Daichi took a breath and exhaled slowly. "Yeah, in a sec." He tried for a lighter tone. "But first… how are you? Been keeping busy?" His thumbs fidgeted as his hands came together. "I've been trying to reach you. We both have." He glanced at Light.
"I guess you can say that," Dahlia replied. She folded her arms. "Logan's been training me. Just got back from a run."
Daichi blinked. "Wait, Logan? As in Logan Deschain? The Hand of God, that Logan Deschain?"
"Yes, yes, and yes," Dahlia said curtly. "Same old routine. Drills, conditioning, roadwork. Race is on Tuesday, so we've been hitting the circuit hard."
"Wow, I… didn't realize…" Daichi started, scratching his neck.
"What do you have for me, Daichi?" Dahlia cut in, sharp enough to slice the air. Both Daichi and Light stiffened.
He swallowed, lifting a hand in surrender. "Alright, alright. It started two days ago…"
****
Dahlia settled onto the swing beside Light, elbows braced on her knees, ears twitching as she listened. Daichi talked without stopping. Lady's past, the debts, the suits with their thin smiles and worse agendas, the way the MRA kept squeezing until there was nothing left to give. Light kept her gaze on a patch of dirt between her boots, fingers worrying the chain; the children's laughter threaded around them, bright and ordinary, while a cool autumn wind carried the smell of leaves across the park.
"So it's real. Even when Logan told me, I thought he was full of it," Dahlia said finally, more to herself than anyone else, incredulous. She let out a short, bitter laugh. "All those bedtime stories about the Umagoya. Mom used to scare me and Scarlet with them, so we'd eat our carrots and brush our teeth." A short, bitter laugh escaped her. "I always thought it was just a way to frighten kids into behaving, some warped ghost story. Turns out it wasn't a story at all." She shook her head as if to dislodge the disbelief.
"Yeah," Daichi said, running a hand through his hair. "But Ema didn't spin tales. Lady's got scars for proof, and the way she spoke." He folded his arms and looked at them both, searching for the right bluntness. "God, it wasn't stories. It was memory."
Dahlia lifted her head, her tone steady but her eyes sharp. "So now that Lady's neck-deep in debt, it's either her daughter…" She turned toward Light, her gaze unwavering. "…or you."
Light's ears drooped slightly, her expression tightening with quiet acceptance. "Yeah," she said softly, the word heavy as a confession.
"Look, I know you don't want to hear this. You might even deck me for saying it," Daichi said, pausing as if choosing each word. "But Tsubaki… she's really sick. Everything Lady's been dragging herself through. The races, the debts, all of it. It's for that kid." He shrugged helplessly. "Made me think of you and Scarlet. Fighting for something that keeps you going."
Dahlia tilted her head. The name landed like a stone. She wanted to snap back, to argue, but the truth settled into the space between them, and she felt it fit. Daichi was right.
Daichi leaned forward, hands clasped together. "I don't want you thinking this is sympathy for the enemy," he said. "I called you here, so you know what you'd be stepping into. Lady isn't a monster for wanting to save her kid, and she sure as hell won't be reasonable if she's backed into a corner. She won't go down without putting up everything she has to protect what she loves."
"But I'm not blind to your side of this either," Daichi went on. "If you lose, I've got no doubt what comes next. You and Light, shipped straight off to the Umagoya. Not because Lady's cruel."
Both Dahlia and Light fixed Daichi with the same flat, unimpressed stare.
"Alright, fine, she's a psycho," he admitted, holding up his hands before letting them fall back to his sides. "But like I said, she's a psycho with her back against the wall." His jaw tightened, fists curling. "And that's what scares the hell outta me. We've only scraped the surface of what the MRA's really into. The racing, the gambling, those are just the bright lights they hide behind."
He shook his head. "God knows what else they've got their hands in. Drugs, trafficking, arms dealing, racketeering. Feels less like a race now, and more like a damn nightmare we've all walked into."
"There's… something I've been thinking about," Light said quietly. The chains of her swing rattled as she shifted, staring down at the dirt. "I—I know how to end this. How to make it all go away. Dahlia doesn't have to race, and Lady can pay off her debt." Her hands gripped the chains tight. "I'll turn myself over to the Collectors."
The air froze. Dahlia and Daichi stared, eyes wide.
"Wait, what the hell are you talking about?" Daichi's words cracked, panic edging every word. "You heard what Lady said. You know what happens to umas who end up in the Umagoya! This isn't some damn charity gig, it's—"
"I know!" Light snapped as tears welled in her eyes. "I know exactly what's waiting for me there!" She bowed her head, her ears drooping low. "But compared to Tsubaki…" She turned toward Dahlia. "Compared to Scarlet… my life means nothing." She tried to smile through the trembling. "I can't run. I can't race. I can't even place in the top ten. Umas are born to run, but not me. I guess I'm broken."
"Light…" Daichi whispered, but she kept going.
"Tsubaki never asked to be sick. Lady didn't ask for any of this. And you." Her eyes locked on Dahlia, raw and shimmering, "You didn't ask for your sister to end up that way. None of you did. But I can choose this. If my life can mean something. If it can save someone else's, then maybe that's enough." She then whispered. "And if it means spending the rest of it in an Umagoya… then so be it."
Dahlia shot to her feet so fast the swing beside Light rattled against its frame. She took a single step to the side, shadow falling over the smaller girl. Light looked up, startled, her mouth parting to speak, then the crack of a slap rang out, echoing through the playground like a gunshot.
Daichi froze, his breath catching in his throat. Light sat there in stunned silence, cheek stinging red where Dahlia's hand had struck.
"You're damn right I never asked for this," Dahlia said, her body trembling with fury. "Lady didn't ask for it. Her daughter sure as hell didn't." She leaned closer. "My sister Scarlet. The champion, the rising star, the one everyone called the next big thing… she didn't ask for it either." Her fists clenched tight at her sides. "But you think that means I'll just stand here and watch you throw yourself into a cage? That I'll be fine watching you sell your freedom, your life, because you think it makes you useful?"
"How dare you." Her words cracked, raw and furious. "Don't you ever talk about yourself like that again."
"B-but…" Light's voice shook as she tried to speak.
"When I found out about your father. About the man behind the wheel that night, I won't lie." Dahlia's jaw tightened. "I was angry. No… I was furious. Do you have any idea what that's like? Waking up to your sister screaming in the middle of the night? Watching her break a little more each day, knowing there's nothing you can do to fix it?"
Light's gaze faltered, her shoulders trembling.
"For months," Dahlia continued, "I held Scarlet while she sobbed and shook in her sleep. Trapped in dreams where she was still running." She swallowed hard. Eyes distant. "Only to wake up and remember she never would again."
Her hands balled into fists. "I wanted to kill him, Light. I wanted to wrap my hands around Hiroshi's throat and make him feel even a fraction of the pain he caused her. I used to lie awake at night, thinking about it. Every way I could do it. I didn't care if it landed me in a cell. I didn't care if it ruined me. Because like you, I thought my life was worthless anyway. And the idea of making him pay… it gave that worth back, even if it was twisted."
The playground felt silent. Even the laughter of children faded into the distance.
"But then," Dahlia went on quietly, "I learned the truth. About him. About you. About your brothers and sisters. I learned what really happened, and all that hatred… turned into pity. And guilt." She met Light's eyes. "I hated him. But I hated myself more. For turning him into a monster in my head when he was just a man trying to keep his family alive."
She drew in a slow breath and exhaled. "We can't change the past, Light. What's done is done. But I'll be damned if I let you throw your life away because you think it'll fix what's already broken. You turning yourself in won't bring Scarlet back to the track, and it won't wash away what Lady's been through."
Dahlia didn't give Light a chance to answer. She dropped to her knees and folded herself around her, arms locked tight, forehead resting against her. For a long moment, the world thinned to a muted hum and only their breathing filled the space between them.
"You don't fix a wound by throwing yourself on the knife," Dahlia said. "When you told me everything that night, I realized something. I never hated you. You were as trapped by that night as Scarlet and I were."
She pulled back slightly, enough to meet Light's eyes. A faint, weary smile softened her features.
"I didn't challenge Lady to a rematch because my ego was bruised," Dahlia said quietly. "Maybe at first, yeah, it was. Just a stupid girl trying to prove something. To herself, and to her dad. To the man who spent his whole life telling her she'd never be enough. I thought winning would be my way of shoving it in his face, proving once and for all that he was wrong about me."
She drew in a slow breath, shaking her head. "But now I get it. It was never about me. Or him." Her eyes glimmered as she looked at Light. "I did it because I couldn't stand seeing you trapped like that. I couldn't help my sister, but I was strong enough to fight for you, and even knowing who you are now, I'd still do it again."
Her hand found Light's cheek, steady and sure. "So don't you worry about me. I'm running that race, and I'm going to win."
Light's tears came fast, spilling down her cheeks as a trembling sob broke loose from her chest. Her hands clutched at Dahlia's jacket, holding on as if she might fall apart otherwise. Dahlia said nothing. She simply drew her closer, one arm firm around her shoulders, the other brushing gently through her hair.
"It's alright," she murmured softly.
Light buried her face against her neck, crying until her voice gave out. Dahlia just held her, patient and quiet, the weight of everything between them melting into the now mid-day air. A few steps away, Daichi stood with his hands on his hips, watching the scene in silence. His eyes lifted toward the pale blue sky overhead. He let out a long breath, slow and quiet.
****
The precinct thrummed with life even on a Sunday, the weekday rhythms refusing to let go. Shoes squeaked against linoleum, officers and detectives threaded between cluttered desks, and the fluorescent lights hummed their steady, indifferent song above. Printers coughed out reports, phones rang in a thin, incessant chorus, and piles of paperwork towered on every surface as teams picked through evidence and leads.
Lightning moved through it all in her uniform and gear, a composed figure amid the controlled chaos, a manila folder open in one gloved hand. Photographs and clipped profiles of umas and trainers were pinned to the pages. She scanned them with a practiced coolness, sapphire eyes narrowing as she checked names and credentials. Her team was nearly assembled, just the final pieces to slot into place, and she could feel the edge of readiness sharpening beneath her calm.
Every day brought more headlines. Illegal MRA races splashed across screens and front pages, outraged op-eds and alarmed talk shows amplifying the public's fury. Political hopefuls eager for a platform stoked the outrage into protest, and broadcast feeds on the wall showed marching crowds with placards calling for action. Lightning let the images pass over her without surprise. She'd seen the pattern before in other cities, other jurisdictions. Moral panic chasing headlines, politicians promising quick fixes.
Still, the urgency was real. The MRA's reach was spreading, and the pressure to respond wasn't just public. It was personal. She closed the folder with a measured motion, feeling the weight of responsibility in her hands. This wasn't theatre. It was a job that demanded discipline, patience, and grit, and she intended to see it through.
Lightning pushed open the door with her shoulder, the crisp sound of her boots echoing through the bustling department. The usual stiff rises and bows, along with quick salutes followed her down the aisle of cubicles. Her division always felt a touch louder than the rest of the precinct. From personnel racing down corridors, mountains of paper and whiteboards littered with case maps and red string. The MRA's shadow hung heavy over everything, and it showed in the tension behind every conversation.
She rounded the corner and stopped at a familiar open door, tapping her knuckles lightly on the wooden frame just below the gold nameplate that read Detective Red Harlow.
"Hey, Red, got a minute?" she asked, stepping inside just in time to catch him scrambling. Papers flying, his hand sweeping a few glossy black-and-white photographs into a stack. She caught a glimpse of one before he hid it. A grainy traffic cam still of a jet-black car streaking through an intersection.
"Jesus, Lightning!" Red barked. "Would it kill ya to wait like a normal person?"
Lightning raised a brow, tail swishing lazily. "If you wanted privacy, maybe lock the door next time." Her smirk widened. "Unless you like people watching. If that's the case, hey, I don't kink-shame."
Red groaned, running a hand through his dark hair. "Har, har. Real funny. Wrap it up and take it down to Vegas, why don'tcha. I'll have ya know I'm workin'… real important case stuff."
"Yeah, sure you are," Lightning said, stepping closer and holding up a manila folder. "Save your excuses for later. I got someone I want you to meet. He's the new head trainer for C.H.A.S.E."
Red leaned back in his chair, flipping open the folder and scanning through the pages with a low whistle. "Shit," he muttered, "this guy's got one helluva track record. Gotta hand it to him. He's the real deal." He closed the folder and looked up, one brow raised. "That said, ya really ain't puttin' you-know-who on the payroll? C'mon, I know ya, Lightning. Ya ain't the type to give up easy."
Lightning folded her arms. "I've tried," she said quietly. "More times than I can count since the last time we spoke." Her sapphire eyes drifted downward. "And the last thing I want is to drive him further away, not after everything that's happened." She paused, lifting her gaze again. "I still believe in him. He's still every bit the legend they say he is. Maybe in time he'll realize where he belongs. Leading the fight against the ones who took everything from him."
Red sighed, setting the folder down. "Look," he said, getting up and rounding his desk, coming to stand beside her. "I get it. Ya admire the guy. Hell, so do I." His voice dropped lower. "And I don't blame him for what he did. That bastard got what was comin' to him. But let's not kid ourselves. It wasn't some setup."
"Red, you know where I stand on this." Lightning cut in. "There's more to what happened that day. There has to be. Logan would never—"
"Lightning," Red interrupted, his tone gentling. "We've gone over this a hundred times." He exhaled, leaning his shoulder against the steel cabinet as he folded his arms. "The guy just buried his wife. Comes home and finds out the two sons of bitches he called family were pimpin' out umas for cash. Ya tell me that wouldn't make a man crash out?" He shook his head slowly. "I would've done worse."
He rubbed the back of his neck, the weight of the memory sitting heavy on his shoulders. "None of us even knew the MRA was a thing, let alone bein' joined at the hip with Roark and Strider. He snapped. Crime of passion, plain and simple." His gaze drifted to her. "And after that… yeah, I can't fault him for walkin' away. Some ghosts don't wanna be dragged back into the light. They bite when ya try."
Lightning stood there for a long moment, the silence between them thick. Then her jaw tightened, and she turned toward the door. "He's at the training facility," she said, steady but cold beneath the surface. "Let's not keep him waiting."
Before Red could even open his mouth, she was already halfway out the door, her boots clicking sharply against the tile. He straightened, hand lifting as if to stop her, but the words never came. Instead, he let out a slow breath and muttered under his breath, "Yes, ma'am."
Grabbing his coat from the back of the chair, Red followed her out, the faint creak of the door closing behind him.
****
The training center beside the precinct stood as one of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department's proudest accomplishments. A sprawling, steel-and-glass monolith easily twice the size of an average school gymnasium, complete with a full gym, an Olympic-sized pool, and a multi-terrain racetrack of turf, dirt, and asphalt. Lightning remembered the day she first stepped inside its doors, the air still sharp with the scent of new paint and polished steel. Six months, that was all it took to build. Whether born from obligation or desperation, she didn't care. It had been her one demand before she agreed to lend her expertise.
The facility itself was a reluctant concession by a government finally forced to confront what it had long denied. For years, they had turned a blind eye to the MRA's growing influence, burying the truth beneath polite statements and empty promises. Even as Seoul and Manila established their own C.H.A.S.E. divisions, Japan had clung to the illusion of control, insisting the MRA could be contained like the illegal street racers of decades past.
They learned quickly how wrong they were.
The MRA wasn't just a criminal syndicate. It was a hydra, a sprawling organism with roots deep in the underworld and veins running through society itself. Even the yakuza, once feared as Japan's shadow government, seemed tame in comparison. Lightning's expression darkened as she walked the pristine corridors and up the metal staircase, her boots echoing faintly in the sterile air.
Every time someone tried to strike back, the MRA struck harder. Sometimes it was quiet. Leaked accounts, ruined reputations, families torn apart by humiliation. Other times it was brutal. Dead officers left in alleys, judges' families slaughtered in their homes, politicians executed in broad daylight.
Lightning and Red had survived more of those "messages" than they cared to count. Years of gunfire and blood had hardened them both, forged a simple rule between them: if the MRA wanted to play rough, they'd play rougher. And every assassin sent their way came back to their masters in pieces, small, messy reminders that some prey bites back.
The partners stopped outside the reinforced door. Lightning shot Red a brief glance before grasping the handle and turning it open.
The spectators' booth was spacious, more like an executive lounge than a control room. Two leather couches flanking a polished coffee table, sleek cabinets lining the far wall, and a kitchen island gleaming under the warm light. The far wall was a seamless pane of glass, giving a commanding view of the gym below, where a dozen umas sprinted through drills, their boots thudding in rhythm against the polished track.
By the window stood a man. His light violet hair, streaked with gray, was neatly swept to the side. Deep lines carved across his face, the kind earned through years of discipline and sleepless nights. Dark copper eyes followed the movement of the girls below with quiet scrutiny. He was dressed immaculately in a tailored black three-piece suit, an aqua shirt, and a golden tie, one hand resting in his pocket.
When he heard them enter, he turned. His expression was calm. Stoic, composed, yet with a weight that spoke of someone who'd long stopped being impressed by titles or introductions.
"Apologies for the interruption," Lightning said, offering a short, respectful bow. "I wanted to introduce my partner. He's been running point with me in C.H.A.S.E. for nearly a decade."
She stepped aside, motioning toward the man beside her.
Red's gaze met the stranger's, his posture tightening slightly.
"Red," Lightning said, "meet Hidehito Nase. Head trainer of the Tokyo Division of C.H.A.S.E."