"I'm home," Dahlia called as she stepped into the apartment, easing the door shut behind her until the latch clicked softly into place, the familiar sound echoing faintly through the quiet interior. She exhaled softly and dragged her fingers back through her hair, loosening it from the stiffness of the commute before bending to slip off her shoes and nudge them neatly against the wall.
"Man, can the trains get any more crowded?" she muttered under her breath before raising her voice slightly. "Scarlet?"
The apartment met her with stillness, though it no longer felt neglected.
It looked much the same as when she had left that morning, yet there was a subtle order to it now, a quiet reclaiming of space that had not existed weeks prior. The days she had spent recovering after the race had given her something she rarely allowed herself, time enough to vacuum the floors properly, to mop until the wood reflected the daylight streaming in from the balcony, to wrestle the shower drains free from the thick strands of hair she and Scarlet both shed in frustrating abundance, and to finally reorganize the kitchen she had ignored for months while grinding herself thin running deliveries late into the night. None of it had been enjoyable work, but it had felt necessary, a small assertion of control in a life that often felt as though it was slipping through her fingers.
Her gaze drifted across the living room and softened.
Scarlet's trophy cabinet gleamed beneath the pale afternoon sun that filtered through the tall balcony windows, its glass polished and reflective, its contents preserved like relics from another era. Framed photographs lined the walls, frozen celebrations and wide smiles belonging to days when the world had not yet tilted sideways. Even the flat-screen television they rarely used caught the light in a muted sheen.
Despite her reluctance, Dahlia had accepted Logan's loan, modest but sufficient, enough to prevent her from scraping by on pocket change and half-exhausted deliveries. He had been blunt in his reasoning, insisting that if she was serious about preparing for the Stakes then she needed to stand on solid ground first, not stagger into training worn down to bone. And if the rumored purse was anywhere near what people whispered, she would repay him many times over.
Her footsteps tapped softly across the wooden floor as she moved deeper into the apartment, her eyes settling instinctively on Scarlet, who sat in her usual place near the balcony.
The sunlight bathed her sister in a pale wash of gold, illuminating her profile as she stared out toward the horizon without blinking, her posture straight but lifeless, her expression distant in a way that pressed against Dahlia's chest with a weight she had learned to endure but never accept. She approached slowly and leaned down, brushing a stray lock of hair from Scarlet's cheek before pressing a soft kiss against her skin.
"Heya, sis," she murmured gently. "Hope you slept well."
Her gaze flicked toward the clock on the wall and she gave a small huff of breath.
"Two already. You've got to be hungry by now. Come on, I'll make us something."
That was when she noticed the object resting in Scarlet's lap, its dark surface catching the light in sharp, reflective angles. Dahlia leaned slightly closer, her brows knitting together as recognition settled in.
The phone.
Square and obsidian, encased in that familiar reddish-pink cover with the little rose keychain still attached. Scarlet had not touched that device since the accident, leaving it forgotten in her desk drawer for months as though it belonged to someone else entirely. Dahlia had assumed it was easier that way, easier to avoid the media frenzy, the endless messages from friends, the speculative chatter that refused to quiet down, and most of all the photographs and videos from that night with Melody before everything unraveled.
For a moment, Dahlia considered gently taking it from her, fearing that perhaps her sister was reopening wounds that had only just begun to scar. Yet another part of her, fragile but stubborn, wondered whether this might mean something different, whether Scarlet was finally confronting the past rather than hiding from it.
She straightened slowly, forcing lightness into her tone.
"I think I've got enough ingredients for curry," she said with a faint smile. "Sound good?"
Scarlet offered no response, her gaze still fixed outward, her face unreadable.
Dahlia nodded to herself regardless and turned toward the kitchen, only to freeze mid-step as something flickered at the edge of her vision. For the briefest moment she thought she saw it. A curve at the corner of Scarlet's lips, soft and fleeting, gone almost before it could register.
Her head turned sharply over her shoulder, her pulse tightening.
Scarlet's expression was once again blank, distant, untouched by emotion.
Dahlia lingered there a second longer before shaking her head and letting out a quiet, self-conscious chuckle.
"I'm gonna clean up for a bit," she called over her shoulder, masking the unease that lingered beneath her ribs. "How about you set the table?"
With that she disappeared down the hallway toward the bathroom, the faint rush of running water soon filling the apartment.
Only when her sister was fully out of sight did Scarlet's eyes shift, moving toward the hallway as though confirming Dahlia's absence before lowering her gaze to the device resting in her lap. Her finger tapped the dark screen twice, and the glass came alive beneath her touch.
Frozen on the display was a frame from a race. Nightingale and Lady locked shoulder to shoulder beneath blinding halogen lights and streaks of neon, muscles coiled and jaws set as they thundered down the final stretch of concrete. Even muted, the image radiated force, sweat arcing into the air, headlights cutting sharp beams through the dark, the energy of the crowd almost palpable despite the silence.
Scarlet pressed play.
The video resumed without sound, both racers straining toward the finish line with relentless determination, bodies pushing beyond exhaustion in pursuit of something greater than pain. And as the clip looped beneath her unblinking gaze, that faint smile returned to her lips, subtle yet unmistakable, lingering just long enough to suggest that somewhere beneath the quiet shell she wore for the world, something restless had begun to awaken.
****
As the sun climbed over the angular skyline of Tokyo Bay and spilled its early gold across the inverted pyramids of Tokyo Big Sight, the glass and steel structure gleamed like something ceremonial, almost unreal, rising above a sea of bodies that stretched far beyond its entrances. To describe the gathering as a crowd would have been insufficient. It was an ocean of faces, an unbroken swell of humans and umas packed shoulder to shoulder in lines that snaked from the front doors, across intersections, down entire city blocks, and all the way back toward the station where fresh waves continued to spill out with every arriving train.
The air thrummed with noise, hundreds upon hundreds of voices colliding into a constant, indistinguishable roar as fans clutched banners, merchandise bags, posters rolled beneath their arms, and carefully folded T-shirts bearing the likenesses of the Fifteen. Cosplayers adjusted wigs and props while cameras flashed intermittently, and traffic along the main roads had long since ground into a metallic crawl, vehicles backed up toward the highway for kilometers as law enforcement officers struggled to manage both the influx and the impatience. What should have been a simple convention had transformed into something closer to a pilgrimage.
Beneath a makeshift command tent set up along the perimeter, Detective Nishimura stood with his arms folded across his chest, flanked by dozens of uniformed officers and plainclothes personnel coordinating security logistics. His weathered gaze swept the swelling mass before him, and his expression wavered between reluctant admiration and thinly veiled irritation at the sheer scale of it all. It never ceased to surprise him how willingly people surrendered their weekends, their comfort, even their sense of order for the chance to glimpse legends who had once dominated the URA like living myths.
Gods.
The word soured in his mouth.
Because among the Fifteen, among the legends these people had elevated onto banners and cotton prints, stood a name that now carried a different weight entirely.
The Hand of God.
Logan Deschain.
Nishimura's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as he adjusted his stance and let his gaze drift across the sea of merchandise, the posters raised high, the smiling faces eager and bright, unaware or unwilling to reckon with the fractures beneath the surface. The very same man these fans were here to celebrate had thrown in with the MRA, had stepped across a line that others would never have dared approach, and now stood in Tokyo not as a relic of glory but as a variable in a far more dangerous equation.
His eyes shifted toward his partner.
Kaito stood a short distance away, animatedly speaking with a cluster of younger officers who listened with rapt attention as he once again recited his encyclopedic knowledge of the Fifteen, gesturing here and there as he corrected dates, titles, and finishing times with near-religious precision. Nishimura caught fragments of the conversation drifting through the air. Names, race records, career highlights, and he could tell by the eager nods that Kaito was in his element, relishing the chance to educate anyone willing to listen.
But Nishimura's thoughts were elsewhere. They lingered on Lightning. On the quiet storm that had brewed behind her eyes when she learned the truth.
The shock of discovering that a man she once respected, perhaps even revered, had aligned himself with the very forces she had dedicated her life to dismantling. The metaphor was not lost on him; a cannon firing from the opposite side of the bow was still a cannon, and the damage did not discriminate based on old loyalties. He drummed his fingers lightly against his folded arm, a habit born of long years spent weighing risks.
He had not voiced his opinion to anyone, and he had no intention of doing so, but in the privacy of his own mind he found himself agreeing with Red's blunt assessment. A man like Deschain did not fade quietly into obscurity, nor did he retire into irrelevance with a sigh. Men like that were built from something volatile. They burned, and when the flame dimmed, they did not extinguish. They sought another place to ignite.
As Nishimura watched the bright faces pressing forward toward the entrance, watched children clutching posters while older fans wiped sentimental tears from their eyes, he found himself hoping, perhaps foolishly, that they would remember the Hand of God for what he had once been.
Not the man reduced to a headline and a courtroom transcript, judged beneath fluorescent lights by a gavel and a jury of six who could never fully grasp the storm that had led him there. Not the cautionary tale dissected in panel discussions and late-night documentaries.
But the man who became legend.
The child prodigy who once stood at the edge of a track in the pale hush of early morning, sleeves rolled to his forearms and eyes sharp with a focus that bordered on obsession, studying stride patterns and breathing rhythms while the rest of the world still slept.
He was the architect of comebacks that defied statistics, the steady presence just beyond the rail when legs trembled and lungs burned, the quiet voice that cut through panic in the final stretch and turned desperation into drive.
The umas the world overlooked, the ones dismissed as inconsistent, too reckless, too raw, too damaged to matter, and refused to let them be defined by the labels stamped upon them. Long before the crowds learned their names, long before banners were printed and chants echoed from the stands, he had already seen what they could become and built them toward it with an unshakable belief that bordered on faith.
That was the man Nishimura hoped they remembered, not the shadow currently circling the edges of rumor and allegiance, but the figure carved into memory by grit and impossible victories.
The old detective let his eyes close for a moment as the sound of the crowd blurred into a distant hum, drawing in a slow breath that tasted faintly of salt from the bay and exhaust from the stalled traffic, holding it there as though steadying something within himself before releasing it in a measured exhale.
When he opened his eyes again, the softness had gone.
His gaze sharpened, the lines in his face settling into something resolute, because whatever remained of the legend would soon be tested against what stood ahead. And what Deschain was positioning himself to become would not inspire cheers or autograph lines or children waving posters overhead.
It would draw lines in the sand, hard ones, and force people to choose which side they were willing to stand on. And Japan. No, the entire world, would soon see for themselves what happens when a man once hailed as divine chose to step down from the pedestal built for him and walk willingly into shadows.
When a figure crowned by victory and reverence turns his back on the heaven others had carved in his name, and reach instead for an infernal throne forged in blood, fire and asphalt.
After all, even the devil had once stood among angels.
****
The exhibition had claimed nearly the entire expanse of Tokyo Big Sight, stretching across the South, West, and East halls in an unbroken sweep of curated reverence that ran from one end of the structure to the other. The ceilings soared high overhead, ribbed with steel beams and softened by warm amber lighting that spilled downward in a steady glow, bathing the dark carpets below in a subdued radiance that felt almost ceremonial. The scale of it all was deliberate, immersive, designed not merely to display history but to enshrine it.
From the rafters hung towering banners of the Fifteen, each portrait rendered in sharp, vivid detail. Bright smiles captured mid-laugh, determined gazes locked forward as though still charging toward a finish line. Fans gravitated instinctively toward their favorites, weaving through the organized sprawl of color-coded stands dedicated to each uma. Every exhibit had been meticulously constructed. Glass cases displaying trophies and medals polished to mirror sheen, curated collections of personal effects and race-day gear, handwritten notes and training logs, framed photographs accompanied by detailed narratives that chronicled entire careers from debut to retirement, even beyond.
Flat screens looped footage of iconic runs, while holographic projections shimmered against glass panels, recreating stride and posture with such uncanny realism that for a fleeting second it almost felt as though the legends themselves were pacing the floor once more.
Young umas lingered in clusters, smiling brightly as they snapped photographs and filmed short clips, some posing beside holograms of their idols while others stood quietly, tracing the long columns of text that recounted victories and setbacks alike. Cosplayers had taken their places with near-reverent precision, adjusting racing silks as they mirrored the stances of the women they honored. The air inside was warmer than the crisp autumn chill beyond the walls, yet it carried a faint, curated fragrance that softened the density of the crowd.
At Kadokawa Hornet's exhibit, the atmosphere shifted almost imperceptibly.
Dozens upon dozens of bouquets had been placed carefully at the base of her display, their petals fresh and vibrant, their combined scent lending a sweetness to the surrounding air that lingered heavier than the rest. Her hologram flickered gently above the floral tribute, frozen mid-stride in one of her most celebrated finishes, a reminder that she alone among the Fifteen would never walk into the hall in person. Visitors approached her exhibit more slowly, conversations hushed, hands brushing lightly against the rail as though the space were part memorial, part pilgrimage.
A short distance away, Lightning's exhibit drew a different kind of energy.
Panels detailed her triumphs in the Twinkle Series, the trajectory of her career laid out with sharp clarity before transitioning into her eventual leadership of C.H.A.S.E. The tone there was less sentimental and more charged, visitors standing in tight circles as they read through the accounts of the Strider Scandal and Lightning's role in exposing it. Some leaned closer to the screens displaying investigative timelines and redacted documents, their expressions serious, brows furrowed as murmurs rose and fell around the display. It was not merely a recounting of wins and titles; it was a chronicle of confrontation, of defiance against an institution that had rotted from within.
The exhibition did not simply celebrate the Fifteen. It preserved them, dissected them, sanctified them, and in certain corners, reminded everyone that legends did not rise without leaving fractures in their wake.
Meanwhile, at the center of the main hall where the ceiling arched into shadow and the lighting dimmed to heighten the spectacle, a hologram rose nearly the full height of the structure, towering like a luminous monument and casting bands of shifting neon across the polished floor below. The projection was so large that it seemed less like a display and more like an apparition summoned for worship, its light rippling outward in waves of blue and violet that brushed against the surrounding walls and the faces of those who stood beneath it.
Within that radiant column stood the image of a younger man. Short black hair swept neatly back, jaw clean, posture confident in a tailored black three-piece suit that fit him with effortless precision. A pair of slim shades rested lightly in his right hand as though just removed for dramatic effect, while his other hand settled casually at his hip. The smile he wore was bright without being careless, edged with conviction rather than vanity, and there was something unmistakable in his eyes. A steady, unshakeable belief in forward motion, in victory, in the inevitability of rising above whatever stood in the way.
Beside the projection, illuminated letters floated in clean, commanding script:
Logan Deschain
The Hand of God
The name shimmered against the dark backdrop, suspended between reverence and myth.
Logan tilted his head upward, the hood of his jacket drawn low enough to cast his eyes in shadow, though it did little to conceal the fatigue carved into his features or the haunted stillness lingering in his gaze. His hands remained buried in his pockets as he watched in silence, shoulders squared yet heavy, as if bracing against something unseen. Around him, attendees murmured in admiration, pointing at the projection as it cycled through carefully curated footage. Victory laps beneath roaring crowds, tight embraces in the winner's circle, clenched jaws in the final stretch, a younger Deschain leaning over railings with a fire that bordered on divine certainty.
To everyone else, it was history brought to life.
To Logan, it felt like looking into another existence entirely.
The hologram looped again, replaying moments of triumph and unwavering resolve, the neon light flickering across his face as if trying to reassemble a version of him that no longer existed. He searched that projected figure for familiarity, for some fragment of recognition, but found only distance. The man suspended above the hall moved with purpose and clarity, untouched by compromise, untouched by loss.
Logan could not remember the last time he had felt anything close to that.
Whoever that man had been. The prodigy hailed as savior, the architect of miracles, had been buried long ago, laid to rest beside the life he had once built and the woman who had anchored it. Standing there now beneath the artificial glow, Logan did not see a reflection of himself.
He saw a ghost.
And for the first time in a long while, he was not certain whether the world was honoring the memory, or preparing to mourn it.
"You know," came a gruff voice from just behind him, roughened by years and sharpened by experience, the kind of voice that carried weight even when it was barely raised. "Of all the faces I might have expected to cross in this place, yours would have ranked dead last."
The sound alone was enough to stiffen Logan's spine.
Recognition struck before he even turned, his eyes widening slightly beneath the shadow of his hood as something long dormant stirred at the edge of memory. He pivoted slowly, and within seconds found himself staring down at a figure who barely reached his elbow in height but somehow managed to command the space around him.
The older man stood hunched yet steady, leaning into a polished walking stick that looked more ornamental than necessary. He wore a maroon turtleneck tucked neatly beneath a loud Hawaiian shirt splashed with faded tropical colors, all of it layered beneath a deep brown blazer that matched his coffee-colored slacks with deliberate flair.
Polished loafers gleamed under the neon spill of the hologram overhead, and atop his head sat a Panama hat banded with a sharp red ring that drew the eye upward. Dark sunglasses concealed his eyes entirely, but the thick, snow-white mustache stretching boldly across his upper lip more than compensated, curling slightly at the ends like punctuation.
"It's been a long time," the older man said, his grin spreading wide and unapologetic, all teeth and mischief. "Logan."
For a moment, Logan simply stared, his jaw parting as disbelief overtook composure.
"Ah—" He lifted a hand, pointing as if confirming the reality before him. "Roppei!"
The old man's grin faltered just enough to reveal irritation beneath it.
"It's Musaka," he corrected sharply, the name delivered with pointed emphasis as though the distinction mattered far more than Logan appeared to remember.
"Honestly," he said with a slow shake of his head, the corners of his moustache twitching despite himself, "more than a decade has passed and you're still every bit the crass, mouthy brat I remember."
Logan reached up and pushed the hood back from his head, letting it fall against his shoulders. A slow grin pulled across his roughly-shaven face, teeth flashing briefly before the smile sharpened into something more familiar, more dangerous.
"And you got old," he shot back, eyes narrowing. "Hell, looks like someone tossed you in a dryer on high and forgot to take you out."
A beat of silence stretched between them, long enough to test whether the jab had gone too far.
Musaka tried to suppress it, his mustache twitching as his shoulders trembled, but the laugh forced its way out anyway, loud and unrestrained, cutting through the low hum of the hall. Logan followed with a low chuckle of his own, the sound carrying something that had not been heard in his voice for some time.
"There he is," Musaka said at last, still grinning as he steadied himself on his cane. "For a second there, I thought I'd lost you entirely."
"Heh." Logan dragged a hand back through his hair, slicking it away from his forehead as though resetting himself. "Same here. Figured you'd have retired years ago. Or croaked. Either way, didn't expect to see you hauntin' a place like this." His smirk softened just slightly. "Glad to see you're still kickin', old man."
"Not for lack of trying, mind you," Musaka went on, shifting his weight slightly against the cane as though the memory itself carried fatigue. "I've attempted to leave Tracen behind more than once, packed up the office, cleared out drawers, even drafted resignation letters I never sent, but Akikawa wouldn't hear a word of it." He let out a sharp scoff, the brim of his Panama hat dipping as he shook his head. "At this rate, that little miss is going to have me mentoring girls until I'm ninety, or dead. Whichever comes first."
Logan glanced back at him, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly. "Could you blame her?" he asked. "You're the last of Tracen's old Round Table who's still breathin'." His gaze steadied. "Call it whatever you want, but she'd be out of her mind to cut the legendary Fairy Godfather of Tracen loose."
"Cut that out," Musaka snapped immediately, the irritation quick and sharp despite the amusement lingering beneath it. "I told you once, like I've told you a thousand times, I've always despised that ridiculous nickname. That bastard Nase said it once, one time, and somehow it stuck like gum on a shoe."
Logan's smirk deepened, nostalgia flickering briefly across his features. "I'll admit, it got a chuckle out of me when I first heard it."
"Yeah, laugh it up, brat," Musaka replied, though the sternness in his words was undermined by the grin creeping back across his mustache. "Not everyone gets saddled with something as dignified as you did." He gave a small shake of his head. "Some of us would've appreciated a title with a bit more gravitas."
Musaka let his gaze drift across the steady stream of passing faces, fans weaving between exhibits with merchandise tucked under their arms and cameras raised toward legends frozen in light.
"In all honesty," he said slowly, "color me curious as to why the real thing would pay his way into a hall that's spent the better part of today framing every polished second of his life as though it were already history. You lived it. Every stride. Every victory. Every fall. So, what draws you back to watch it from the outside?"
Logan rolled his eyes, though the gesture lacked any real bite.
"Not exactly my grand idea," he replied. "Saburo shoved a ticket into my hand and practically booted me out of the café. Said I needed air." A faint chuckle slipped from him at the memory. "I wasn't plannin' on coming. Didn't think I'd get anythin' out of it."
"Then I figured… why not?" he added more quietly. "Maybe I'd get a chance to look back at a time that felt… lighter." His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly before easing again. "Better. Happier, even."
"Saburo?" Musaka echoed, genuine surprise breaking across his features before it gave way to a disbelieving scoff. "You're telling me that old goat's still walking the earth? God help us." He shook his head, mustache bristling faintly. "It's been what, years? Decades, even. You'd think the bastard could've picked up a phone at least once."
Logan allowed himself a small, knowing smile at that.
"He hasn't slowed down a day in his life," he replied. "Still up before sunrise, still runnin' drills like he's preparin' for war. Man's in his early seventies and built like someone half his age. It's honestly unsettling."
Musaka gave a low whistle.
"He runs a café downtown now," Logan continued, folding his arms loosely. "Place called Rococo. Quiet little spot. You'd like it. Drop by sometime. I'm sure he'd be more than glad to see an old friend walk through that door."
"That aside." Musaka inclined his head as the humor ebbed from his expression as he studied Logan more carefully, as though the neon glow revealed things daylight might have hidden. "The years haven't exactly treated you kindly, have they?"
Logan's smile faded just as gradually, settling into that familiar flatness that had replaced so many of his former expressions. He slipped his hands back into his pockets and let his gaze drift across the crowd, watching strangers pass beneath banners that bore his younger likeness.
"That's probably the nicest way anyone's put it," he replied evenly as he turned his head toward the massive hologram of himself. "You'd think," Logan murmured, almost to himself, "that someone would take one look at me and recognize who I am."
His gaze lingered on the projection for a long moment before his jaw tightened.
"But hell," he added quietly, "I don't even recognise myself."
Musaka's cane tapped lightly against the carpet as he shifted closer, the sound dull and restrained beneath the thickness of the flooring, and together they stood beneath the towering hologram that continued its endless cycle of curated glory. The older man tilted his head back, his hidden gaze tracing the projection's movements as the younger Deschain smiled down at a crowd long gone.
"When I first heard what happened," Musaka said at last, "I'll be honest with you. I couldn't believe it. Wouldn't believe it." His fingers tightened around the handle of his cane, knuckles paling beneath age spots. "And after you went away, Strider didn't just fall. It went straight to hell."
Logan said nothing.
"At the time, I still had friends on the inside," Musaka said. "And what I was hearing wasn't rumor or exaggeration. Parents were lining up to withdraw their daughters. Sponsors were yanking funding overnight. Major backers who'd plastered their logos across Strider's banners were quietly scrubbing their names from contracts. Even reigning champions began distancing themselves, pulling endorsements before the ink had time to dry."
He let out a breath, the mustache shifting as his jaw tightened.
"The academy tried to contain it," he went on, "issued statements, held press conferences, promised internal reviews and oversight committees, but by then the fire had already caught. It spread faster than they could draft apologies, and that was before the girls started speaking to the police."
His fingers began tapping lightly against the curved handle of his cane, a slow, measured rhythm that betrayed the agitation beneath his composed exterior.
"And then, everything came out," Musaka continued, his jaw setting as memory replaced speculation. "For all our rivalry, Roarke was a good friend of mine once. Stubborn, arrogant, full of himself, sure. But I would never have imagined that he and his boy were capable of something so sickeningly deplorable."
His words hardened further. "When the files hit public record, the shockwave didn't stop at Strider. It tore through every uma academy across the world. The then Chairman Akikawa, Yayoi's old man, locked Tracen down within hours. Screenings, audits, interviews. Trainers questioned, staff grilled, girls protected and re-evaluated. It took weeks before the dust settled, and by some grace we came out clean."
He lowered his chin slightly, the brim of his hat casting a shadow across his mustache.
"I know, by the way," Musaka said, his tone shifting as he adjusted his grip on the cane. "Word has a way of traveling upward before it ever drifts down. Someone near the top let it slip that you were in quiet talks with Tracen."
He tilted his head slightly toward Logan.
"To finally take them up on their offer," he continued. "And the funny part? They were so certain you'd say yes that they didn't bother waiting for your signature. They cleared a space. Had the office cleaned, furnished, stocked. Your name wasn't on the door yet, but everything else was ready."
Logan's brow twitched almost imperceptibly.
Musaka allowed himself a faint grin. "I won't lie. A part of me was excited. Seeing you at Tracen, working your magic again. Watching you mold another generation of champions." He gave a small shrug that carried more weight than the gesture suggested. "Life's cruel like that, isn't it?"
Logan took a breath and released it in a quiet scoff before a thin grin curved across his lips, though it never reached his eyes.
"Well," he replied, "maybe it's for the best."
Musaka turned his head slightly, one eyebrow lifting behind dark lenses.
"Me at Tracen?" Logan repeated as he glanced up at the towering hologram of his younger self before lowering his gaze back to the older man beside him. "If I'd walked through those gates back then, like it or not, I would've cast a shadow over half your aspirin' trainers without even trying."
He shifted his weight slightly, the neon light catching the angles of his face.
"Hana Tojou of Rigel," he continued, "would've been reduced to a passin' face in the corridor, another ambitious trainer fightin' for attention in a place that didn't need a savior. Kouji Okino of Spica would've just been a name on a board, swallowed up in comparisons he never asked for."
His gaze hardened just a fraction before softening again.
"And Hidehito's daughter, Fumino?" he went on. "She carved out her own path the hard way, the right way, carryin' her father's legacy without leanin' on it. She doesn't need my shadow loomin' over her shoulder."
He tilted his head thoughtfully, as though turning over the present in his mind rather than the past.
"Not to mention," he added, "last I heard your nephew's stepped into the ring properly. Picked himself up a real champion, too." There was no bitterness in his statement, only a quiet acknowledgment that time had moved on without waiting for him.
Musaka's shoulders straightened faintly at that, surprise flickering across his hidden eyes before softening into something warmer.
"Yeah," Musaka admitted, the chuckle that left him softer than before, tinged with something that bordered on pride. "Jo's come a long way from the aimless kid I found drifting through Kasamatsu, killing his days in pachinko parlors and pretending he didn't care that the world had already started without him. Back then he had no direction, no fire, just stubbornness and wasted time."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"He's late to the race compared to the rest of you," Musaka went on, returning his attention to Logan, "but he's finally running, and that's what matters. Timing doesn't mean much if you've got the legs and the will to keep moving. He'll get where he's meant to go, even if he takes the long road getting there."
"In fact," Musaka said, lifting a hand to shade his line of sight as he peered across the crowded hall, scanning the moving tide of attendees and the glowing exhibits beyond, "he, Oguri, and Belno should be somewhere around here."
He shifted slightly onto the balls of his feet despite the cane, craning his neck as though expecting to spot a familiar silhouette between banners and holograms.
"Knowing Oguri," he added with a dry shake of his head as his hand lowered again, "she's probably dragged the both of them straight to whatever confection stand she could smell from a hundred meters away."
A faint smirk returned beneath his mustache.
"Some things never change."
"Ain't that the truth," Logan replied, folding his arms as his gaze settled back on Musaka. "Speakin' of Hidehito."
The name alone was enough to make the older man lift an eyebrow beneath his hat.
"Word on the street," Logan continued as his eyes sharpened slightly, "is that your old archnemesis has traded turf for something a little… louder. Greener pastures, if you want to call it that. Or more precisely, tarmac."
Musaka scoffed, though the grin that followed betrayed more amusement than surprise. "Would you believe me if I told you they came to me first?" he asked, straightening just a little despite the cane. "Had the pleasure of meeting that uma of yours. The one with the lightning bolt slicing through her hair."
He paused, as if replaying the encounter.
"I can see her reputation is well founded."
"No kiddin'," Logan muttered, glancing sideways at him before shaking his head. "Yeah, Light can be quite the hard ass at times."
"Anyways, told her she was about thirty years too late," Musaka went on, tapping the tip of his cane lightly against the carpet. "Believe it or not, I used to hover around the old Wangan Midnight Club. Never raced myself, but I knew the scene well enough." He turned his head toward Logan. "I'm sure you're familiar with Smokey."
Logan's eyes widened, and a short laugh escaped him. "That son of a bitch." He shook his head in disbelief. "Least he could've mentioned he was tight with good ole' Ginjirou Musaka."
"Yeah, well," Musaka replied with a shrug, "your girl understood soon enough and moved on to the next best thing." His grip tightened subtly around the handle of his cane. "Hidehito and I have been at each other's throats for decades. He'd win some. I'd win some. Back and forth, year after year. We had more than a few colorful names for each other when we were younger."
A small smile crept across his mustache.
"But rivalry doesn't mean incompetence," he added. "With him at the helm of C.H.A.S.E., I'd say those girls are in capable hands."
A quiet beat passed between them, the noise of the exhibition swelling and fading like distant surf.
"Which reminds me," Musaka continued. "You're not the only one with an ear to the curb, Logan. Tracen keeps a firm eye on its students and trainers, though not as firm as we'd like to think." He exhaled softly. "And it's difficult to keep anything contained when it's being shouted across the world."
He let the implication hang before finishing.
"About a little bird named Nightingale. And more importantly, the Hand of God himself being named her trainer."
"Well, look at you," Logan said, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he studied the older man. "Stickin' your head behind the forbidden curtain. Better be careful. Wouldn't want the Chairwoman to nail you to the wall for fraternizin' with the enemy."
Musaka didn't rise to it. He simply held Logan's gaze, steady and unreadable behind the dark lenses. The humor faded on its own. Logan kept his hands buried deep in his pockets and let out a slow breath as he turned his head away, eyes scanning the crowd rather than the man beside him.
"Yeah," he said at last. "I ain't hidin' it. Couldn't even if I wanted to." His jaw tightened slightly. "I spent the better part of the last two years keepin' to my side of the aisle. Stayed quiet. Kept it contained. Never dipped more than a toe into that pond."
His gaze hardened as he spoke. "But like always, the world had other plans."
Musaka tilted his head slightly.
"What changed?"
A different kind of expression crept across Logan's face then. A smile curled at the edges of his lips though tempered with a sense of trepidation.
"Her," he replied at first, the word simple enough, but the certainty behind it tempered by hesitation. He glanced briefly at the moving crowd, then back at Musaka, weighing the line between trust and caution. "I'm not sure I should be airin' her real name," he added more carefully. "Handles exist for a reason."
Musaka let out a short snort, the sound dry and unbothered. "Please," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "You and I go too far back for me to start clutching pearls now. And besides, I've got enough dirty laundry tucked away on people far more powerful than some random uma in a crowd."
His grin returned, sharp beneath the brim of his hat.
"I can keep a secret," he added. "And don't lose sleep over the law or Tracen. What exactly are they going to do to me at this stage? Fire me?" His smile widened into something almost theatrical. "Throw me in jail? Three meals a day, rent-free lodging, no paperwork, no race prep, no wrangling hotheaded girls before dawn? At my age, that sounds less like punishment and more like an early retirement package."
Logan let out a low scoff, shaking his head as a reluctant chuckle slipped free. "You're screwed in the head, old man. I'll give you that."
He paused for a moment, the humor thinning as something steadier took its place.
"Her name's Black Dahlia."
"Black Dahlia? Now why does that name sound so fam—" Musaka's posture shifted, subtle but sharp. "Hold the damned phone, you don't mean Genzo's kid, do you?"
Logan turned fully toward him, one eyebrow lifting. "Who?"
"Sakazuki Genzo," Musaka clarified. "Former trainer at Tracen. Built himself quite the résumé. Had a few champions under his belt." His mouth tightened. "In fact, one of them was his wife."
Logan said nothing, listening.
"I watched him rise," Musaka said, his tone leveling out as he spoke. "Back then, Genzo wasn't just some green rookie with grit and loud ambition. He had real talent. An instinct for the track that you can't teach. He could read stride patterns at a glance, break down an opponent's form within a single lap, and devise counters before most trainers had even finished taking notes."
He adjusted his grip on the cane, the handle creaking faintly beneath his palm.
"No one denies what he was capable of," he continued. "He could dismantle techniques piece by piece, rebuild them sharper, leaner. Give him raw potential and he'd sand it down, refine it, polish it into something formidable."
A faint grin tugged at his mustache.
"In that way, he reminded me of you," Musaka admitted. "The difference was that you never mistook the craft for divinity."
His expression hardened again.
"Genzo did."
He exhaled slowly.
"Success got to him. Early wins. Headlines. A string of victories that made people start whispering his name in the same breath as veterans. And somewhere along the line, he started believing he was untouchable. That his methods weren't just effective, they were absolute. That they worked for everyone, without exception."
His fingers began tapping lightly against the cane again, a quiet rhythm underscoring his words.
"So, when an uma faltered under his charge," he said, "he never questioned the approach. Never adjusted the regimen. Never asked whether the system was flawed." His jaw tightened. "In his mind, if she failed, it was because she wasn't built for greatness."
He shook his head once.
"And instead of adapting, instead of giving them room to grow, he cut them loose. Every single time. No recalibration. No second chances. Just a dismissal and a new recruit."
"Damn," Logan let out a quiet scoff and dragged a hand across his roughly shaven jaw, eyes narrowing as pieces began to settle into place. "And just like that, everythin' Dahlia told me about her shitty old man starts linin' up a little too cleanly."
Musaka nodded once.
"Some of those girls landed elsewhere and flourished under trainers who actually tailored their approach. Others didn't recover." His jaw tightened faintly. "Tracen lost more talent than anyone realized because of his arrogance, and dare I say, negligence."
He paused briefly before continuing.
"And after the… incident with his daughter, Genzo completely unraveled," Musaka said, the pause before the word incident heavy enough to suggest that even now it was a term too small for what had happened. "By then he was already skating on thin ice with the Chairwoman. His record had been under scrutiny for years. For over a decade, his team had the highest turnover rate in the academy, and yet not a single champion to justify it."
The older man's grip tightened subtly around his cane.
"Akikawa tolerated it longer than she should have, hoping results would eventually match reputation, but reputation only carries you so far when the trophy case stays empty."
Logan's expression darkened as he absorbed it, his jaw tightening until the muscle flexed visibly beneath his skin.
"That's when Scarlet entered the equation," Logan said, his tone flat and stripped of anything resembling warmth. "The moment she started showin' promise, he decided to make her his golden ticket. That one thing standin' between him and the unemployment line."
"Imagine that," he continued. "Bankin' your own future on your daughter. Measurin' her worth in podium finishes and press headlines. Loading that kind of weight onto her shoulders just so you don't have to admit how royally you screwed the pooch."
His lip curled faintly. The disgust unfiltered. "What a goddamn prick."
"Yeah," Musaka agreed. "Anyways, the man started showing up drunk. Lost control of himself. Took it out on the girls still under his charge." His words cooled further. "Akikawa warned him more than once. Final notices. Private meetings. Opportunities to correct course. He refused. So, she did what had to be done."
Logan arched an eyebrow, though the contempt in his expression never wavered. "I take it he didn't go quietly."
Musaka let out a dry laugh, the sound sharp beneath his mustache. "Heh, you wish. It was the most spectacular temper tantrum I've ever seen from a grown man who supposedly built his career on discipline." He shifted his cane slightly as if recalling the scene. "Word is he tried to vault the desk to get at Akikawa when she handed him the decision."
A faint smirk tugged at his lips.
"Of course, Tazuna made sure he regretted it."
He exhaled slowly, the amusement fading.
"The Chairwoman could've pressed charges right then and there. She didn't. Said she wasn't in favor of kicking a man when he's already down and out." Musaka turned his head toward Logan. "And if Dahlia is really under your wing now, then you already know what that bastard did afterward."
Logan's jaw flexed as he drew a breath through clenched teeth. "Yeah," he answered, the word heavy and final.
"Well," Musaka continued, "if it's any consolation, and take this with as much salt as you like, there are whispers that Genzo got himself tangled up with the wrong crowd. I'm talking about people who don't extend grace when debts go unpaid. The kind who collect one way or another."
He paused, letting the implication settle.
"You get the picture."
"More or less," Logan replied evenly. "Still, doesn't change a damned thing."
"For once, I don't disagree," Musaka said, leaning a little more firmly into his cane as the crowd flowed around them in restless waves. "I've watched trainers come and go for decades. Good ones. Bad ones. The rare great ones who reshape eras, and the forgettable ones who barely last a season. I've seen names etched onto gold plaques in the URA Hall of Fame, polished and permanent, and others reduced to whispers spoken only when someone wants a cautionary tale."
His expression tightened slightly beneath the brim of his hat.
"Genzo had everything going for him," he continued. "Talent. Timing. Opportunity. The right academy backing him. And he still managed to throw it all away. But that's not what stuck in my craw." His jaw set. "It's how many girls he dragged down with him on the way."
Logan's expression hardened as he removed his hands from his pockets and folded his arms across his chest.
"Bastard spent his whole career thinkin' he was sitting on lumps of coal," Logan said quietly, "never realizing he could've polished half of them into diamonds."
Musaka angled his head slightly. "And what's that supposed to mean?"
"Dahlia," Logan replied evenly, without hesitation. "I've barely had a month with her, and she's already showin' signs that most trainers would kill for. Drive. Instinct. A refusal to fold when the pressure tightens." His eyes narrowed, not with anger but conviction. "She's got the same spark each and every one of the Fifteen had. Maybe more."
He held Musaka's gaze.
"If her father had actually seen that. Really seen it instead of tryin' to hammer her into his mold, she'd be up there with the legends right now. Face plastered across Japan. Sponsorships. Merchandise. The works."
Musaka was silent for a moment, studying him carefully, then a slow smile crept across his mustache.
"Coming from you," he said, "I'd believe it." He shook his head faintly. "Shame's too small a word for that kind of waste."
Logan gave a quiet nod, then shifted his attention back toward the towering hologram of his younger self.
"That aside," he said after a beat, "I'll admit I was surprised as hell seeing my ugly mug plastered all over this convention. Thought the world was eager enough to scrub my name off the records after everythin' that happened."
"Well," Musaka replied dryly, "you can thank Director Gunn for that."
Logan turned sharply, eyebrows lifting. "Director Gunn? As in Richard Gunn? The Oracle Of Strider?"
Musaka nodded once. "The very same. Man's a legend inside the USURA. After Roarke went away, they pulled him out of retirement and handed him the Director's chair, hoping he could steady the ship. So far, he's doing more than steadying it."
"Legend's a light way to put it, old man," Logan said, his tone carrying a quiet reverence that he rarely afforded anyone. "He was the Hand of God long before I ever stepped onto a track. Nobody dethroned him. Nobody could. He walked away from that throne on his own terms."
Musaka's grin widened, deepening the creases at the corners of his mouth as memory softened his tone.
"The man wasn't so different from Jo once upon a time," he began. "Didn't even discover he wanted to be a trainer until he was pushing forty. By then, most of the establishment had already decided what he was worth. Too old. Too late. Too inexperienced to stand shoulder to shoulder with the big names."
He gave a low scoff. His head tilted slightly as he glanced at Logan.
"He caught the same ridicule you did. Umas passed him over without a second thought, and truth be told, I can't entirely blame them. You tell a young, ambitious girl with raw talent that her future rests in the hands of a forty-year-old rookie, and most of them are going to walk the other way." He shrugged faintly. "No one wants to gamble their prime years on a man still figuring himself out."
He paused, letting that settle before continuing.
"That was, of course, before he trained three of the greatest umas the United States had ever produced." His words carried a quiet weight now. "Man o' War. Secretariat." He allowed himself another beat. "And then there was the one who would cross the ocean and carve her name into Japan's racing history. His last and greatest student. Sunday Silence."
A low chuckle escaped him.
"Two rejects, if you listened to the critics. One trainer no one believed in, and one uma no one wanted to take seriously. They found it in themselves to trust one another anyway, and together they made history." He gave Logan a knowing look. "Sounds awfully familiar, doesn't it?"
Logan shook his head slightly, though there was something almost reverent in his expression.
"Yeah," he said quietly.
He exhaled, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Honestly, it's a wonder the world hasn't built a shrine in his name. With a legacy like that, I'm genuinely surprised he doesn't have his own damned convention running year-round."
Musaka's expression softened beneath his sunglasses.
"If there was ever a man too big for his own legend, it was Gunn," he said. "Resume like his, on the track and even on stage, and still he never chased the spotlight. Never needed it. The sport revolved around him, but he never made it about himself."
He let out a slow breath.
"That's why, when he retired, he did it clean. Turned his back on the noise and walked off into the sunset without so much as a farewell tour. Would've stayed gone too, if not for that bastard dragging Strider's name through the mud and turning the place into a cesspool."
Musaka's jaw tightened faintly.
"That was the only thing strong enough to pull him back."
He adjusted his grip on the cane.
"Anyway, you know the rights to the Godly Fifteen technically sit with Strider. After your conviction, Roarke shelved the entire brand. Locked it up like it never existed." Musaka's gaze flicked toward the massive projection overhead. "When Gunn stepped in, the organizers approached him about reviving it. Bringing the convention global."
"And he agreed?" Logan asked.
"With one condition," Musaka said, turning back to him. "That you be put right back on the pedestal where you belong."
Logan's expression shifted subtly.
"They refused at first," Musaka continued. "Didn't want the controversy. Didn't want the headlines. But Gunn made it clear that if your name wasn't reinstated, the whole thing was dead in the water. So, they caved." A faint grin tugged at his mouth. "Seems the man's got a soft spot for you."
Logan allowed himself a small smile. "Met him once. Just once." He drummed his fingers lightly against his forearm. "Man's sharp. Knows how to command a room. And he's got a hell of a voice on him."
Musaka chuckled. "So do you, but forgive me if I'm not exactly a country music enthusiast."
"I'd be concerned if you were," Logan replied without missing a beat.
The two men shared a quiet laugh, brief and unguarded, as the convention carried on around them. Lights flickering, crowds murmuring, and above it all the ghost of a younger legend smiling down at a world that had not yet learned how complicated heroes could become.