The light to the stairwell snapped on with the dull click of a switch, followed by the heavy, uneven thud of footsteps descending the wooden stairs. The aged timber groaned beneath each step, beams flexing against rusted nails driven deep into the foundation decades ago, the entire structure protesting the hour and the weight of time. A few boards sagged more than they should, and Saburo filed it away in the back of his mind with a weary sigh, another mental note added to a growing list of repairs that would have to wait until the month's books were closed. That, in turn, meant another unpleasant conversation with his financial advisor, one he was in no hurry to endure.
He reached the bottom of the staircase and pushed open the door to the café, now dark and hushed, the lively hum of daytime long gone. A yawn pulled free from his chest as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, pale streetlight spilling in through the tall front windows and washing the room in muted silver. Tables stood in neat rows, chairs overturned and stacked with practiced care, shadows stretching long across the floor.
He scratched at his cheek absently, fingernails rasping against coarse beard like sandpaper, before drawing in a slow breath. The scent of ground coffee and lingering steam still clung to the air, stubborn and familiar, seeping into the walls and counters as though the soul of the place refused to sleep. On the microwave above the prep station, red diodes blinked the time back at him.
Four in the morning.
That was when he noticed it.
A shape in the darkness behind the counter, hunched and unmoving, head pillowed on folded arms. Saburo frowned faintly and shuffled closer, reaching up to flick the switch overhead. The amber lights mounted along the blackened steel track snapped to life, bathing the counter in warm glow and revealing Logan fast asleep, chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm, utterly spent.
Saburo's expression softened at once, a fond, tired smile tugging at his lips. He had seen Logan like this more times than he could count, especially back in the days when he still trained at Strider, pulling marathon nights fueled by caffeine and stubborn obsession. Logan would pore over statistics until numbers blurred together, replay footage frame by frame, dissect rivals with ruthless precision, mapping strengths and weaknesses until dawn crept in through the windows.
Uma training, to him, had always been equal parts science and art, and he pursued both with a devotion that often drove him to the edge of sanity. It was why Saburo bristled whenever skeptics dismissed the Hand of God as nothing more than a lucky myth, as if his legacy had been handed to him by chance instead of carved out through sacrifice.
He rested his hands on his hips, shaking his head, before stepping behind the counter, eyes lingering on Logan as the man muttered something unintelligible in his sleep.
"God help me," Saburo murmured under his breath. "What am I going to do with you?"
Then he paused.
His gaze dropped to the tablet lying beside Logan's arm, its screen dark. Saburo hesitated, glanced back at the sleeping man, then reached for the device and tapped it awake. The display flared to life, and what greeted him made his eyes widen.
It was the MRA app, unmistakable, but splashed across the main page in bold, impossible letters was the headline that stole the breath from his chest.
NIGHTINGALE WINS!
"Dahlia…?" he breathed, scrolling quickly, eyes darting over the article until the truth settled in, heavy and undeniable.
There it was in black and white. The Hand of God named as her trainer, confirmation that Logan Deschain was no longer a ghost, but very much alive and operating in Tokyo. Saburo slowly lifted his gaze back to Logan, studying the man slumped over his counter, worn thin and sleeping like the dead.
"Well, I'll be damned," he said softly. "So that's what you two've been up to."
He paused, eyes drifting back to the tablet in his hands.
"Shit," Saburo muttered under his breath.
He lifted a hand and ran his fingers through his long, greying hair, exhaling slowly as the weight of it all settled in. His gaze flicked toward the café door, half-expecting to see camera flashes already bursting through the glass, reporters and vultures circling for their pound of flesh. When nothing stirred, he let out a quiet, breathy chuckle and leaned back, resting his hip against the counter.
"It's funny," he said softly, shaking his head. "I can't even count how many times I've had this talk with you." His eyes lingered on Logan's sleeping form. "Kept tellin' you to jump back in. Didn't matter if it was the URA or the MRA. Hell, any track at all." He smiled faintly. "But you never listened. Two whole years, tryin' to outrun destiny."
Saburo let out a low laugh.
"Looks like you didn't run fast enough," he murmured. "Or maybe… you were never really runnin' in the first place."
Logan shifted, a half-formed murmur slipping from him in his sleep.
Saburo's gaze returned to the tablet, settling on Dahlia's photo. Black and silver silks, polished boots, a look in her eyes that spoke of fire barely contained. A small, knowing smile tugged at his lips.
"When I first met the girl," he said quietly, "when I met Dahlia… she was barely hangin' on." He tilted his head. "Sure, she put on a brave face, but I've been around long enough to recognize someone standing on the edge." He shrugged. "And honestly? I don't blame her."
He glanced back at Logan.
"Then you walked into her life… and she into yours." His smile deepened, tinged with something like wonder. "And look at you both now." He drew in a slow breath. "Hard to believe this is where you ended up."
His words softened. "Just like with Bee."
Another murmur escaped Logan, barely audible.
Saburo inhaled, then exhaled sharply, his expression settling into something solemn, but warm.
"I'm glad," he said simply.
He pushed off the counter and gently set the tablet beside Logan, careful not to wake him.
"I'm glad you're finally back, kid," he continued, quieter now. "But you'd best brace yourself. There's a whole lot of ugly comin' your way." He glanced toward the door again. "The world's got its eyes on you once more."
Turning, he opened one of the wooden cabinets and retrieved a long coat. He rounded the counter and draped it over Logan's shoulders with practiced care, tucking it in just enough to keep the chill away.
Straightening, Saburo gave him a gentle pat on the back before heading toward the door, flicking off the lights as he went. At the threshold, he paused and looked back over his shoulder.
"But hey," he said with a small smile, "the world's knocked you down before. And knowin' you…" His eyes softened. "You won't let it do that again."
With that, he stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind him.
From where Logan lay, his eyes slowly opened, a quiet breath slipping free into the darkened café.
****
The front door to the derelict apartment shut behind her with a muted thud, the sound barely carrying in the stillness as Dahlia drifted inside. Her shoulders sagged forward, posture canted as though gravity itself had decided to double its claim on her body, and her long raven-black hair hung loose and heavy down her back, every strand soaked through with the lingering stench of sweat, burnt rubber, and exhaust that clung just as stubbornly to her clothes.
The hardened obsidian suitcase that carried her racing silks slipped from her numb fingers and struck the wooden floor with a hollow, jarring crash that echoed through the apartment far louder than she'd intended.
Every inch of her screamed in protest. Muscles seized and throbbed with a deep, bruising ache, joints stiff and uncooperative, her limbs feeling less like flesh and bone and more like dead weight she had to drag along with her. She had never felt exhaustion like this before. Not after training, not after a bad run, not even after the long nights she spent working herself raw just to keep the lights on.
This was something deeper, more complete, as if every reserve she possessed had been wrung dry and discarded. The adrenaline that had carried her through the night was long gone, leaving nothing behind but pain, dizziness, and a single, overwhelming directive pulling her forward through the haze: get to bed.
A warm mattress. Darkness. Sleep, deep, unbroken, merciful.
She barely registered the apartment around her as she moved, though the amber glow from the cracked balcony doors spilled through the tall windows, washing the room in a dull, tired light. Scarlet's trophies and plaques caught it as they always had, their dulled metal and glass reflecting faintly, untouched by polish for years. For so long they had loomed over Dahlia like silent judges, reminders of everything she had failed to become, everything she had been told she would never measure up to.
Tonight, they felt strangely small. Powerless. Their weight had finally lifted, just as the memory of her father's words had begun to lose their bite, his disappointment shrinking into something hollow and insignificant. A coward's voice. A man who had turned his back when things became inconvenient. She was done letting any of it define her.
A faint smile tugged at her lips as she drifted through the dark living room, her footsteps uneven, echoing too loudly as she swayed. Her hip clipped the edge of the dining table, the sharp scrape of wood against wood tearing through the silence, and she hissed softly as pain flared up her side, biting down on her lip to keep from cursing aloud.
Then came the sound of movement down the hall.
A door creaked open, steel hinges groaning in protest, followed by the familiar, gentle roll of wheels across the floorboards. Dahlia lifted her head, bleary eyes finding Scarlet in the doorway, her wheelchair half-shadowed by the hall light, crimson gaze fixed steadily on her sister. As always, Scarlet's expression was composed, unreadable, a calm stillness that never quite betrayed what lay beneath.
Dahlia smiled, a little crooked, a little tired.
"Hey, sis. Didn't mean to wake you."
She tried to straighten as she approached, though the effort only made the room tilt slightly. She caught the way Scarlet's expression tightened, just barely, likely at the smell clinging to her or the sight of the bloodied bandages. Dahlia followed her gaze and let out a soft huff.
"Rough night," she said lightly. "I'll tell you all about it later."
She stopped in front of her, leaning in to press a familiar kiss to Scarlet's cheek, but hesitated when Scarlet drew back a fraction. Dahlia paused, then nodded to herself, gesturing vaguely at her bruised, sweat-soaked state.
"Right. Sorry about… all this." A yawn overtook her, wide and unguarded, and she stretched with a wince. "I'm gonna crash. Night, sis."
She shuffled past, barely steady, and reached her bedroom door, fingers curling around the cool brass knob. The hinges creaked softly as she stepped inside, and as she did, something heavy slipped free from the back pocket of her black jeans, striking the floor with a dull, solid thud. Dahlia never noticed. The door closed behind her with a heavier sound, sealing the room, and her, away from the quiet apartment beyond.
****
Scarlet's gaze drifted downward, settling on the object lying where it had fallen, the glossy black surface of the phone catching and reflecting the dull amber glow of the hallway light in fractured streaks. For a moment she simply stared at it, then her hands tightened around the rims of her wheels and she pushed herself forward, the chair rolling softly until she was close enough to reach it.
She leaned down and lifted the device from the floor, her fingers brushing over the cool, smooth glass, tracing the worn edges of the frame where dings, chips, and fine cracks told the quiet story of years of use. It was old, unmistakably so, at least half a decade behind the curve, which in the language of technology might as well have made it ancient.
She drew a slow breath, then let it out again, steady and measured. Best to leave it on the dining table, she decided. Dahlia would notice it when she woke, probably groan about almost losing it, and that would be the end of it.
Scarlet shifted her grip, preparing to turn back, and then the screen lit up in her hand.
The sudden glow made her pause. The time stared back at her in clean white digits. Four-thirty in the morning. Beneath it was the lock-screen photo, an image she knew well, taken years ago, both of them smiling wide as they celebrated her win at the Tenno Sho, a moment frozen from a life that felt impossibly distant now. But it wasn't the photo that held Scarlet's attention. It was the notification banner hovering just below it.
A message preview from Daichi.
Scarlet's brow furrowed slightly. Dahlia spoke of him often, the boy from the convenience store a short walk from their apartment, always mentioned with an easy familiarity that spoke of long shifts and shared stories. The message preview scrolled just enough to be legible.
Awesome run! I'll admit, I still get chills watching the replay. I'm gonna save it and—
The sentence cut off there, unfinished, teasing at something more. Scarlet hesitated, her crimson eyes flicking toward the closed door of Dahlia's bedroom, as if half-expecting it to open, as if she might be caught in the act by someone already fast asleep. The hallway remained silent. After a beat, her gaze returned to the phone, and with a faint, almost apologetic exhale, she swiped the screen.
There was no lock.
The phone opened immediately, revealing an app interface she didn't recognize, its design sharp and busy, alive with motion and color. Scarlet tilted her head slightly as she scrolled, one tab after another slipping past beneath her thumb. Articles. Threads. Comment chains stacked upon comment chains. Messages bursting with oversized emojis and frantic punctuation, voices practically shouting through the screen with excitement and disbelief. And woven through all of it, again and again, was the same name, repeated so often it began to feel unreal.
Nightingale.
Her grip tightened. She scrolled faster now, heart beginning to thud a little harder in her chest, until she stopped on a video link embedded in one of the posts. After a brief pause, she tapped it, then turned the phone sideways in her hands.
The video began to play.
Seconds stretched, then minutes, and as Scarlet watched, her eyes widened, her lips parting without her realizing it, a soft, unsteady breath slipping free. There, on the screen, was a figure dressed in black and silver, boots screaming against concrete as she tore down the straightaway of an abandoned car park, sparks flaring, smoke churning, crowd roaring, momentum carrying her forward in a blur of speed and will. The finish line rushed up, the moment hit, and she crossed it.
Scarlet stared, unmoving, the glow of the screen reflected in her trembling eyes.
And for the first time in years, something stirred deep within her, faint but unmistakable, like an ember long buried beneath ash finally remembering how to burn.
****
Days slipped by, quiet and uneventful on the surface, and to most of Tokyo it was nothing more than another turn in the endless machinery of the city, a system fed by money, ambition, and the blood and sweat of those who ground themselves down chasing something better. For the average citizen, attention rested on safer headlines: the approaching Shuka Shō, the G1 debut of a promising uma whose name was already being murmured with expectation.
But beneath that orderly veneer, among those who lived in the shadows of the circuit, the race between My Fair Lady and the unseen underdog Nightingale had ignited the MRA like a wildfire, and the revelation of Logan Deschain, the Hand of God himself, had only poured gasoline onto the blaze, his name now spoken with equal parts reverence and disbelief across Japan, and perhaps far beyond it.
In the immediate aftermath, Logan had warned Daichi, Light, and Dahlia to keep their heads down, to stay quiet, to move carefully. Yet even as he said it, he knew the truth of it. Once the mask had been torn away, there was no slipping it back on. The months he had spent hiding in plain sight, playing the part of a nobody in Rococo, were already unraveling, thread by thread, whether he liked it or not.
Steam hissed sharply through the café as Saburo worked the espresso machine, the sound cutting through the low hum of ambient music that filled the confined space. He kept his attention on his work, methodical and practiced, though Logan caught the way his gaze flicked over now and then, quick, knowing, before returning to tampers and cups.
Logan sat at a table near the tall glass windows overlooking the street, lifting his mug for a slow sip as the burnt, bitter edge of roasted beans rolled across his tongue, grounding and familiar, before he set it back down with a quiet clink. Around him, Daichi, Light, and Dahlia chatted idly, their voices blending together into a soft, indistinct murmur that barely registered over the weight of his own thoughts.
The café air was thick with layered scents. Freshly ground coffee, steamed milk, caramelized sugar clinging to slices of tiramisu, buttered pastry cracking open to release the savory aroma of gravy and roasted beef. It should have been comforting, ordinary, yet Logan felt it all keenly, because he knew the truth of the room. Eyes were on him. Most patrons tried to be discreet, heads bent together in whispered conversations, curiosity wrapped in politeness, but every so often someone would falter, a sharp intake of breath or a muttered exclamation slipping free, only for them to look away the moment his dark gaze lifted in their direction.
Logan exhaled and pinched the bridge of his nose, a familiar ache settling in his temples. At the height of his career, this kind of attention had been routine, the price of standing at the top. Now, it felt like an unwanted ghost from a life he had tried, and failed, to leave behind.
Daichi spoke with his hands as much as his mouth, one wrapped around the sweating glass of his iced latte while the other carved shapes through the air, the melting ice chiming softly against the crystal with every emphatic gesture. Logan noticed the change immediately, not just in the boy's energy but in his appearance as well. Everything he wore was new, from the crisp white shirt to the camo jacket and even the jeans, none of it flashy or designer, yet worlds apart from the faded fabrics and frayed seams that once clung to him like a second skin.
Logan sighed inwardly, the thought half-amused and half-resigned. The kid had put his winnings to use. He had no real right to judge. The memory rose unbidden of his own first trainer's paycheck, of staring at more zeroes than he'd ever seen in his life, an underprivileged orphan on the verge of sprinting headlong into the nearest mall until Rose had quite literally grabbed him by the collar and dragged him back to reality. A soft scoff escaped him at the recollection.
"Seriously, it's been almost a week and the MRA's—" Daichi burst out, only to be cut short by a sharp, synchronized hiss from both Dahlia and Light. His eyes went wide as he clamped a hand over his mouth, all three of them instinctively scanning the café in quick, nervous unison.
"Idiot," Dahlia whispered sharply, leaning toward him. The plasters and bandages still marked her face and body, the stains dulled now but not yet gone. "You trying to get us arrested? I get it, you're hyped. So am I. But the fire's still burning, and the smoke's still drifting."
"Right, right—sorry," Daichi muttered, lifting both hands in mock surrender before glancing around again and leaning closer. "Still, it doesn't change the fact that everyone's talking about it. About you. You've got fans now. Real ones. No uma's ever pulled this kind of attention on a debut, not even Queen."
"I know," Dahlia said, sinking back into her chair as her tail flicked restlessly and her ears twitched. "Is this what champions deal with? Just nonstop eyes on you, every day, everywhere you go?"
Logan snorted softly into his coffee, drawing her attention as she narrowed her eyes at him.
"What?" she asked. "Is this… normal for you?"
He lifted a hand in mild surrender. "Hey, you wanted this. I tried to talk you out of it, remember? You charged headfirst into a bonfire you helped light." He set the mug down and met her gaze evenly. "Recognition brings attention, and attention breeds fame. Sometimes it's a slow burn, sometimes it's a flash fire, but either way it grows. Take it from me, there are days when you can't step outside without getting swarmed by fans, reporters, and paparazzi who think they own a piece of you just because they know your name."
"Logan's right," Light said quietly. The spoon chimed softly against the porcelain as she stirred her tea, the delicate ring of silver punctuating her thoughts before she set it back onto the saucer. "Lady never reached that kind of stardom. She's known in the MRA, sure, but mostly for all the wrong reasons." Light paused, her fingers resting lightly on the cup as her gaze drifted. "I've seen a few of them though. The ones they call the legends of the MRA. The Blacklisters."
She drew a slow breath. "It's nothing like anything else I've ever seen. Not even among champions like Rudolf or Oguri. With them, there's admiration, respect, applause." Her eyes lifted again. "With the Blacklisters, it's different. It's like people, and umas, worship the ground they walk on."
Dahlia straightened, leaning forward as her tail stilled. "There it is again. The Blacklist." Her expression hardened. "That Hazama brought it up, seen it plastered all over the app, but I still don't get it. For starters, why the hell would the MRA call their ranking system something like that?"
"That's because it isn't theirs," Logan cut in, drawing all three of their attention. He leaned back slightly, one hand lifting as if brushing dust from an old memory. "Long before any of this. Before the lights, the apps, the crowds, the MRA was just a rumor. Something that lived in whispers and back alleys, never fully given shape." He exhaled slowly. "Then the Strider Scandal blew the doors off, and the whole thing got dragged into the open."
His gaze darkened. "That was about the same time new management stepped in, and law enforcement decided they'd had enough. C.H.A.S.E. went global, and everything escalated."
The table fell quiet as he continued.
"Back in the States, the cops already kept files on street racers," Logan said, his tone even. "Four wheels, engines, nitrous, the whole deal. Not umas." He took another sip of coffee. "But once C.H.A.S.E. expanded, they compiled a global list of the most wanted street racers on the planet." His mouth twisted faintly. "That list became known as the Blacklist. Think of it less as a ranking and more like a bounty board."
Daichi swallowed, eyes widening. "That's… insane."
"It was supposed to scare them off," Logan went on, unimpressed. "Instead, the umas wore it like a badge of honor." He gave a dry scoff. "One of America's finest traditions, right up there with Prohibition. It didn't take long before the MRA leaned into it, turned that same list into their own hierarchy." He gestured loosely with his hand. "Fifteen names. Fifteen umas across the world. The most wanted racers on C.H.A.S.E.'s books, and, not coincidentally, the fastest the MRA's ever produced."
He let the words settle.
"That's the Blacklist," Logan said. "They're not just street racers chasing thrills in the dark. They're legends forged in defiance, built outta pressure and bad decisions and the kind of fire that doesn't go out just because someone tells it to."
He leaned back slightly, then brought his hands together, fingers steepled beneath his chin as his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the room, as though he could see them all lined up in his mind.
"And here's the part most people get wrong," he continued. "No one in the MRA calls them Blacklisters." A faint, humorless curve touched his mouth before fading just as quickly. "That's what the media brands them. What the cops label them. What the plebs call them."
He lowered his hands slowly.
"In that world, they're Sovereigns," he said, the word deliberate, almost weighted. "Each one wears a crown, whether the world sees it or not. Earned in asphalt and blood and risk." His eyes hardened. "Rulers of their domain. Queens of whatever stretch of road they claim."
A beat passed before he added quietly, "And every single one of them believes that crown was taken, not given."
Dahlia and Light fell quiet, their attention drifting down to the drinks in front of them, steam curling lazily upward as if buying them time to think. Logan drew a breath and let it out slow.
"Anyway," he said at last, waving a hand as if to brush the weight of the topic aside, "that ain't your concern." His gaze shifted to Dahlia, firm but not unkind. "Hate to break it to you, kid, but you're light-years away from that damned list even crossing your mind. Right now, the only thing you should be thinking about is the Stakes."
"Speaking of the Stakes," Daichi cut in, straightening in his chair, energy bubbling back up as if he'd been waiting for the opening. "I've been digging around. Forums, chatter, old race breakdowns. Learned a couple things." He hesitated, then grimaced. "Some good. Some… not so good."
Dahlia lifted a brow. "That sounds reassuring."
Daichi cleared his throat. "Alright, so. The Shibuya Stakes is Sapphire grade. Basically a G3 by URA standards." He glanced around to make sure no one was listening too closely before continuing. "But don't let that fool you. It's brutal. Roughly two to four kilometers, cutting straight through some of the busiest arteries in the city, including Shibuya Crossing itself." His expression tightened. "And with the heat the MRA's been drawing lately, plus Tokyo's C.H.A.S.E. division already set up, you can bet the cops'll be on standby."
No one interrupted as he pressed on.
"Put all that together and it starts to make sense why the starting pot's sitting at twenty million," Daichi said. "That's serious money, the kind that drags out people who usually stay buried. And since Queen isn't participating—"
"Hold on," Dahlia cut in, eyes snapping wide. "Queen's not running the Stakes?"
"That's what the chatter says," Daichi replied, nodding. "She bowed out this year. No explanation. Just… not."
A smile tugged at Dahlia's lips before she could stop it, but it barely had time to form before Logan's voice cut through.
"I wouldn't be celebrating if I were you," he said flatly.
She turned to him, smile faltering as his expression hardened.
"Queen's one of the main reasons a lot of veteran racers avoid the big events," Logan continued. "They know what happens when she shows up. She's fast, she's efficient, and most of the time her presence alone turns the race into a foregone conclusion." He paused, letting the implication sink in. "But with her out?"
Light's eyes widened. "Everyone in Japan is going to jump in."
"Japan?" Logan let out a short, humorless chuckle. "Try the whole damned world."
"The world?" Dahlia blinked. "What do you mean, the world?"
"This ain't the URA," Logan said evenly. "The MRA doesn't care where you're from, what flag you fly, or what box you check. If you can run the road and survive the tarmac, you're a racer." He shrugged. "That's the appeal. No politics, no paperwork, no one telling you you're ineligible because of some stone-aged rule written in the early fifties."
His gaze sharpened, a flicker of old frustration cutting through the calm. "Maruzensky's the perfect example of it," he said. "The URA robbed her of everything she could have been over a damned technicality." He shook his head. "Sure, she carved out a legacy worthy of champions, one that'll be remembered for generations, but imagine how far she might've gone if bureaucracy hadn't slammed the door in her face."
The table fell quiet again, the weight of it settling in, heavier now than before.
"Anyway…" Daichi said, lifting a hand as if to pull the reins on the conversation before it drifted any further. "That's not all. Turns out the Stakes has one more little surprise tucked up its sleeve." When all eyes turned back to him, he swallowed and continued. "The final stretch to the finish line? It's never announced ahead of time. They keep it secret on purpose, then drop it on the racers at the last possible moment." He exhaled. "Last year it was a suspension bridge they had to leap. The year before that, a jump from a crane onto a half-finished building."
"I'm sorry, what?" Dahlia's face twisted, half disbelief, half horror.
Daichi nodded grimly. "Yeah. I don't know what they've cooked up this year, but whatever it is, you can bet it'll be just as unhinged." His gaze dropped to the tabletop. "And I don't really need to spell this out, but the Shibuya Stakes has one of the highest injury rates on record. Even fatalities. That's assuming the cops doen't slap cuffs on you first."
"He's not exaggerating," Light added quietly. "There's a reason the Shibuya Stakes carries the reputation it does. It's iconic, it's lucrative, and it's brutally dangerous." She folded her hands around her teacup. "You're racing straight through the most famous crossing in Tokyo, with civilians, traffic, police, and chaos all baked into the course." She hesitated. "On paper, it's only Sapphire grade, which makes it sound manageable compared to the upper tiers, but in practice?" She shook her head. "It's anything but."
Her expression softened, tinged with something like old regret. "Back when I was still with Lady's crew, I wondered why she never ran the Stakes. At the time, I thought it was pride, or caution." Light paused. "After learning about her daughter, I understand now. Lady's reckless, sure, and stubborn to a fault, but she's not stupid."
"And that's before you factor in the competition," Logan said, tapping his fingers once against the table. "I'm not even talking about whoever flies in from overseas." His gaze lifted, sharp. "Rekka Blaze and Yamino Breaker are already confirmed."
Light and Daichi both stiffened at the names, while Dahlia's reaction hovered somewhere between intrigue and unease.
"We'll break them down properly later," Logan went on. "But for now, just know this. They're veterans, they know the streets inside out, and they don't race clean." He paused, then added, "And word on the wind is that Captain Barbarossa herself is entering."
Daichi's eyes went wide. "Wait, the Captain Barbarossa?" His voice nearly cracked. "The Bloody Baron herself?"
Dahlia let out a short laugh, waving a hand. "Captain Barbarossa? What is she, some pirate wannabe—?"
The sound died in her throat when she realized no one else was laughing. Daichi was already looking at her, expression flat in a way that made her stomach tighten.
"You know how the URA's got its Big Three?" he said. "Oguri Cap, Super Creek, Inari One. That level." He swallowed. "Captain Barbarossa was the MRA's equivalent here in Tokyo. One of the Big Three. Second only to Midnight Queen."
Dahlia's smile faded completely. Her eyes widened just a fraction as the café's ambient noise bled back in. The hiss of milk frothing, the sharp burst of steam, the low hum of conversation. Even Logan caught Saburo glancing over from behind the counter, curiosity barely concealed.
"She tore through every grade," Daichi continued. "Quartz, Sapphire, Emerald, you name it. Sure, she never pushed into Diamond territory, but everything below that? She owned it." He hesitated, then added, "And when Tokyo stopped being interesting, she went on the road. Kyoto, Yokohama, even Okinawa. Wins stacked on wins."
He met Dahlia's gaze. "I don't know how else to put this. Captain Barbarossa isn't hype, and she isn't a gimmick. She's the real deal."
Light could only nod, her ears splayed as her tail flicked behind her, the motion small but resolute.
Dahlia swallowed before turning to Logan, who sat in quiet thought, his finger still tapping a steady rhythm against the side of his mug. When he finally spoke, it carried the weight of experience rather than warning.
"This is what you signed up for, kid," he said evenly. "The road to glory is always crowded with monsters. Victory brings rewards, sure, but it also brings battles, new challengers, and every one of them tougher than the last." His dark eyes lifted to meet hers. "My girls fought tooth and nail. Against rivals just as desperate as they were. Against a world that never wanted them to succeed. And I fought right alongside them."
He exhaled slowly. "Nobody ever said it'd be easy, and I won't lie to you now. It's only going to get harder." His gaze sharpened. "It'll push you, test you, and try its damnedest to break you." He leaned forward slightly. "Wise men say it isn't the climb that ruins you, it's the fall." A pause. "You know that better than most."
Dahlia's eyes dropped to the table, her jaw tightening as memories flickered through her mind. A heartbeat passed, then she lifted her gaze again, steadier now.
"You're right," she said. "I did sign up for this." Her eyes moved from Light to Daichi, drawing strength from both of them. "And I know exactly what I'm walking into." A crooked smirk tugged at her lips. "I'm going to step up, I'm going to cross that finish line, and I'm going to win."
Her shoulders squared. "And nobody's stopping me. Not Rekka. Not Yamino. And definitely not Captain Hook."
Light, Daichi, and Logan shared a smile, the kind that carried relief, resolve, and the quiet certainty that this wasn't a road Dahlia would be walking alone.
"We're with you, Dahlia," Daichi said. "Every step of the way."
"And don't forget," Light added brightly, leaning in just a little, "I'm part of the crew now too. Officially." She smiled. "It's a pleasure working with you."
"Crew?" Dahlia tilted her head, ears twitching.
"Well, yeah," Light said easily. "Every runner in the MRA has a Crew. Lady had the Kokuteikai. Anyone who matters has one, and an emblem to go with it."
"Ooo, I hope yours ends up being epic," Daichi said, hands gesturing wildly as inspiration struck. "Like… like… Detergent!"
Both Light and Dahlia stared at him, utterly unimpressed.
Daichi shrank under the combined deadpan. "Too much?"
"Please tell me that wasn't a Bleach joke," Dahlia said flatly.
"I'm not even into manga," Light added, lips pursed, "and that was still bad."
"Oh, come on, cut me some slack," Daichi protested. "Besides, if I were good at naming crews, do you think I'd still be stuck behind a counter counting change?"
Logan let out a low scoff, shaking his head. "Children," he muttered. "One step at a time." He took a sip of his coffee. "Like I said, you're light-years away from worrying about the Blacklist, let alone crews and emblems." His gaze flicked to Dahlia. "No point building a banner when you haven't earned your first Gems yet."
A pause, then a faint smirk tugged at his lips. "But when the time comes," he added, "we'll make damn sure it's worth remembering."
He reached beneath the table at last.
"First things first."
What emerged was a thick binder, nearly four inches deep, and when he dropped it in front of Dahlia the impact landed with a heavy thud that made the cups rattle. All three of them froze, staring at it as if it had just declared war. Colored tabs jutted from the edges like warning markers, and when Dahlia hesitantly opened it, she was greeted by page after page of dense sketches, diagrams, arrows, and tightly packed scrawls of ink, each line screaming structure, obsession, and an almost frightening level of intent.
"You… you can't be serious," Dahlia said, lifting her gaze to him, eyes wide.
"Oh, I'm dead serious," Logan replied with a crooked smirk. "I told you I was about to dial it up to eleven. This?" He tapped a finger against the page. "This is eleven."
Light leaned closer despite herself, reading aloud as her ears slowly rose higher with every line. "Five hundred sit-ups, five hundred push-ups, five hundred suicides, five hundred jumping jacks…" She paused, blinking as she scanned further down. "And twenty kilometers of roadwork?" Her words faltered as she looked up at Logan. "That's… that's just the morning?"
The color drained from Dahlia's face.
"Hah," Logan chuckled, lifting his mug and resting his cheek against his fist as if indulging an old memory. "I still remember the groaning. The whining. The threats to quit." His smile softened just a touch. "Good times. Real good times."
"God, Logan," Daichi said, staring at the binder like it might lunge at him, "are you training her or sending her to an early grave? I thought you were nuts before, but this would get you locked up in an asylum."
Logan turned a flat, thoroughly unimpressed stare on him. "Believe it or not," he said evenly, "Some of the greatest champions in the world could do twice that and still have enough left in the tank to run a marathon afterward."
A faint, almost nostalgic smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
"Hidalgo comes to mind."
Light froze mid-breath. Dahlia did too. Even Daichi blinked, momentarily at a loss for words.
"Wait," Light said slowly. "Hidalgo? As in the twenty-six-time G1 champion who went on to become the Trans-American Champion? That Hidalgo?" She swallowed. "S-she was… one of the Fifteen?"
"Trans-American. Atlantic Circuit. Outback Trail," Logan replied without missing a beat. "Even the Ocean of Fire and the Casa Cristo Grand Prix." He nodded once, firm and unembellished. "Yup. That Hidalgo. And yeah, she was one of mine."
He leaned back in his chair, posture relaxed but his gaze steady, distant in a way that suggested memory rather than pride. "That girl had stamina for miles, and she kept running long after everyone else had burned out and hit the ground."
He swirled what remained of his coffee, watching the dark liquid trace the sides of the mug.
"Hardheaded as they come, but she worked like hell for every inch she gained. Built like a tank, with the power to match. She ruled the long races in the Twinkle Series, no question about it, but once she went off-track?" He let out a quiet breath. "That's when she became a legend."
Logan's gaze lowered, the smile fading into something more subdued. "Come to think of it, it's been years since I've spoken to any of them," he added softly. "Well… save for Lightning."
Dahlia, Daichi, and Light's expressions softened at the revelation, the weight of Logan's words settling in. For a brief moment, the table fell into an easy, contemplative quiet. One that was promptly broken when Saburo appeared at their side, hands planted on his hips and a grin splitting his weathered face.
"So," the old man said cheerfully, "how're you kids doing today?" Without waiting for an answer, he began setting plates down with practiced ease. "Brought you a little something."
He placed a slice of red velvet cake atop the open page of the binder in front of Dahlia. "For you."
Next came a generous wedge of carrot cake for Light. "And this one's yours."
Finally, he slid a slab of chocolate fudge cake toward Daichi. "Don't pretend you weren't hoping for this."
All three of them lit up, eyes dropping to their desserts like children on a holiday morning. Forks were lifted, only for Logan's face to go slack. He glanced down at the empty space in front of him. Then slowly, he looked up at Saburo.
"And… where's mine?" he asked flatly.
Saburo didn't even pause as he turned. "If the Hand of God wants cake," he said over his shoulder, "he can pay for it like everyone else." He clicked his tongue and started walking away. "You ain't a charity case, Logan."
Logan raised a hand and flipped him off. "Drop dead, you old fart!"
"I heard that," Saburo called back without turning around.
"Asshole," Logan muttered, scowling into his coffee.
The others dug in at once, silver forks slicing through icing and sponge. Light glanced over at Dahlia, smiling. "Here, try some of my carrot cake."
Dahlia lifted a hand immediately. "No thanks. I don't like carrots."
The world stopped.
Daichi froze mid-bite. Light's eyes went wide. Logan slowly lifted his gaze.
Light's fork slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the plate.
They all leaned back from Dahlia in unison.
"…What are you?" Daichi whispered.
Dahlia blinked. "What's with those faces?!" she snapped.
"An uma that doesn't like carrots?" Daichi said, words trembling. "That's not possible."
"You have to be a yōkai or something," Light whispered, inching closer to Daichi. "That's the only explanation."
"Oh, for God's sake!" Dahlia barked. "I hate carrots, alright? Always have. Always will. Hate the taste, hate the color, hate them stuffed, fried, mashed, shoved into stews—"
As Daichi and Light began muttering half-remembered prayers under their breath, Dahlia continued her furious rant, tail lashing behind her. Logan, meanwhile, sat back and watched.
For just a moment, the present blurred into the past. His girls around a table, the same ridiculous arguments, the same teasing and mock outrage, all of it wrapped in laughter. He felt it then, sharp and warm all at once. The joy, the pride, the easy comfort of belonging. He could almost see Bee's grin, the way she'd glance at him like no matter how bad things got, they'd face it together. The feeling settled deep in his chest, heavier than nostalgia and gentler than regret.
For the first time in years, Logan realized it wasn't just memory that stirred in him.
It was home.
Daichi's gaze drifted slowly toward the large front window, and then locked there, utterly still. Whatever half-hearted prayer he'd been muttering died in his throat as his eyes widened.
"Uh…" he said faintly. "Speaking of Lightning."
He lifted a finger and pointed.
Light and Dahlia followed his line of sight.
Outside, a bright red Shelby GT had just pulled up to the curb, its engine ticking as it cooled. Two figures stepped out. On one side was a young man in a dark maroon shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, grey slacks pressed sharp, black shoes gleaming against the pavement. He slid his aviators off and dragged a hand through short auburn hair, his jaw tight, nerves written plainly across his face.
On the other side, the door slammed shut.
The uma straightened, red flannel hanging open over a white top tied at the waist, light blue denim hugging her frame, brown leather boots planted firm on the concrete. Sapphire eyes snapped up at once, locking onto the café window, and straight through it, onto Logan. The lightning bolt cut through her near-platinum hair caught the sunlight as her ears flicked sharply. Her tail lashed once behind her as she folded her arms, posture coiled and dangerous.
The temperature in the café seemed to drop.
A long beat passed.
Logan exhaled sharply, already resigned.
"Aw," he muttered. "Dang."