The warm breeze of early May swept across the broad Kentucky landscape, carrying with it the scent of grass and earth.
Today marked the opening of the annual grand event—the curtain-raiser of the Triple Crown classics—the Kentucky Derby, held at the historic Churchill Downs.
The sunlight wasn't harsh, but it shone brightly enough to gild the racetrack's iconic twin spires in gold.
By now, the grounds and surrounding areas—usually so spacious—had been completely swallowed by crowds and noise.
Bright flags and massive race signage came together to create a Derby Day atmosphere that felt almost like a carnival.
The stands were packed to capacity. From the highest general seats to the private boxes with the best views, every corner was filled with spectators leaning forward in anticipation.
Outside, the lawns and food stands were just as crowded. Conversation, laughter, and the occasional blast of a horn tangled into a single rolling wave of sound that surged across the racecourse.
The air was thick not only with the smell of popcorn, hot dogs, and beer, but also with an invisible tension—like static before a storm.
Veteran fans flipped through Umamusume magazines, analyzing each runner's condition and her trainer's strategy.
But there were even more casual spectators, drawn by the once-a-year spectacle, enjoying the festive atmosphere while their hearts raced in anticipation of the coming sprint.
And yet, if one listened carefully to the ebb and flow of conversation in the crowd, one name kept surfacing—again and again—wrapped in amazement, curiosity, controversy, or simple expectation.
Sunday Silence.
That name had detonated like a depth charge in the waters of American racing, and even a month later, the ripples hadn't faded. If anything, on the larger stage of the Kentucky Derby, they had gathered into an even stronger current.
"You heard, right? The 'monster' that won Santa Anita by thirteen lengths..."
"She's running today too, isn't she? But this time she's up against American Academy's top geniuses!"
"Hah. I just want to see if she's really as arrogant as the media says. Didn't even bother thanking anyone."
"No doubt about her ability, but her attitude... tch. Hopefully she doesn't make another scene."
"I think she'll win. Honestly, it feels pretty safe."
"Safe? She's up against Easy Goer! Secretariat's little sister! It won't be that simple!"
"Exactly! She's the next Big Red! No way she loses to that Black Jinx!"
Whispers and loud speculation mixed together, all aimed at the black-clad figure who hadn't appeared in official races for a month—yet still stood at the center of every discussion.
Her overwhelming victory. Her controversial, almost aggressive conduct afterward. Her mysterious origins in a Japanese regional academy—and the equally mysterious investor behind her...
All of it had made her the undeniable focal point of today's event.
People didn't just want to see if she could continue her miracle run. They wanted to see how she would face the American circuit's finest prodigies. They wanted to see what kind of fire would burn in those cold eyes under even greater pressure.
Some were even secretly hoping she would cause another shock.
Churchill Downs—the racecourse that had witnessed countless legends—seemed today to have reserved its very center stage for that thorn-wreathed figure from the East, trailing storm winds behind her.
The air carried not only the festivity of Derby Day, but also a taut sense of something about to break.
All eyes—whether filled with curiosity, doubt, or support—drifted toward the preparation area, waiting for the "monster" who had stirred the entire circuit.
...
The VIP viewing section at Churchill Downs was spacious and perfectly positioned, offering a clear view of the entire track while maintaining just enough distance from the noise below.
Soft, comfortable seating and private service made its exclusivity obvious.
Sakuraba Ryo held the thick, high-quality VIP ticket in his hand, brows slightly furrowed as he checked the seat number against the gold-embossed markings on the armrests.
Row 3, Seat 7.
There was no mistake.
He checked again.
Still correct.
The problem was...
His gaze slowly shifted, a hint of disbelief creeping in, toward the person already seated beside him.
A woman in a neatly tailored, understated yet dignified outfit sat there, posture flawless, a perfect smile on her face—
Secretariat, student council president of the American Tracen Academy.
She noticed his gaze and turned slightly, her eyes curving as she smiled, as if his presence surprised her not at all.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Sakuraba."
Her voice was warm and smooth, like water flowing over stone, carrying clearly in the relatively quiet VIP section.
"What a coincidence. Our seats are right next to each other. It seems we're quite... fated, wouldn't you say?"
Fated?
Yeah, right.
The corner of Sakuraba Ryo's mouth twitched faintly.
No one had mentioned this when he booked the ticket.
And VIP seating for an event like the Kentucky Derby wasn't random—it was arranged. Carefully.
So she was here as a representative of the academy?
And him—as Sunday Silence's investor?
A dozen questions spun through his head, but outwardly he quickly adjusted, putting on a polished social smile.
"Uh... good afternoon, Miss Secretariat."
He nodded lightly, keeping his tone as natural as possible.
"It really is... quite a coincidence. I didn't expect to run into you here."
He sat down, movements just a bit stiff.
The seat was soft.
Too soft.
It felt like sitting on needles.
What was this supposed to be?
Close-range observation before the race?
Thinking back to how interested she'd seemed in him at Santa Anita a month ago...
His mood had already been grim from watching Sunday Silence train like her life depended on it for the past month.
And now she was sitting right next to him?
What part of this was watching a race?
This was a trial!
Secretariat, meanwhile, seemed perfectly at ease. She turned her attention back to the track, where the runners were preparing.
"The weather's perfect for racing today, Mr. Sakuraba. Do you have any particular hopes for this race?"
Hopes?
I'm hoping Sunday Silence suddenly loses form or someone else goes full miracle mode... but can I say that?
He forced a calm expression.
"Well... the weather is nice. As for hopes, I just want the race to be exciting and for everyone to perform at their best."
Her smile deepened slightly.
"Mr. Sakuraba is as 'objective' as ever."
Why did that sound... pointed?
He quietly decided to keep his focus on the track and avoid provoking her any further.
But she didn't let it drop.
"Come to think of it..."
Her gaze remained on the runners below, her tone casual—but the question wasn't.
"The favorites today are Sunday Silence and Easy Goer, wouldn't you say?"
She turned slightly toward him.
"As Sunday Silence's investor, you must have your own judgment. In your view... which of the two do you favor?"
There it was.
A trap disguised as small talk.
Support his own runner—he looks arrogant.
Support the other—he looks unconfident.
In front of someone like her, any answer could be dissected.
His thoughts raced—
Then, perhaps worn down by a month of despair, he gave up on playing safe.
"What I think doesn't really matter."
A habitual buffer.
Then, calmly—
"But if I had to say who has the better chance of winning..."
He paused, eyes drifting toward the track.
"Sunday Silence."
Even Secretariat raised a brow slightly.
But inside...
How can I not pick her?!
You haven't seen how she's been training!
She looks like she's trying to grind the track—and her opponents—into dust!
And besides...
He hadn't even properly researched Easy Goer!
He knew the name. Knew she was a prodigy. Secretariat's sister.
But details? Running style? Physical condition?
Nothing.
With that kind of information gap, what choice did he have?
Outwardly calm. Inwardly—
Easy Goer, I'm begging you—step up!
Channel your sister, transcend your limits, do something!
Please make me lose money!
Secretariat watched him, interest deepening in her eyes.
"Mr. Sakuraba's confidence in Sunday Silence is impressive."
"It was the same last time."
"..."
That definitely meant something.
He pretended not to notice.
Then—
"Mr. Sakuraba, you seem... a little nervous."
His back stiffened.
"I'm not going to... eat you, am I?"
The way she said eat you—with that perfect smile—sent a chill down his spine.
Before he could respond—
She stood.
Then stepped behind him.
His whole body tensed instinctively.
Cool, soft hands settled on his shoulders.
"Sitting too long while tense can stiffen your muscles."
Her voice came from just behind him.
"Relax a little. A short massage should help."
And then—she started pressing.
Sakuraba Ryo: "!!!"
Her technique was...
Orderly.
Proper.
But clearly not professional.
The pressure was slightly off.
The rhythm... probing.
This wasn't a massage.
This was an interrogation via touch.
Did he dare comment?
Absolutely not.
"Th-thank you... I feel... a little better..."
"Your technique is... distinctive."
Distinctive meaning terrifyingly awkward.
She hummed, apparently pleased, then withdrew and returned to her seat.
"I'm glad it helped."
He rolled his shoulders, feeling like he'd just survived psychological warfare.
She sat elegantly, as if nothing had happened.
Then—
"I think physical contact like that is a very effective way to build understanding."
A terrible premonition hit him.
"So... in the spirit of reciprocity, Mr. Sakuraba—shouldn't you massage me next?"
"...!!!"
His brain short-circuited.
Massage her?
Here?
In public?
Before the Kentucky Derby?
Absolutely not.
"Th-that's not necessary! And the race is about to start, people are watching... it wouldn't be appropriate—"
He gestured toward the track.
Trying to escape.
Desperately.
Massage her?
If he messed up—social death.
If she reacted—actual death.
And his technique...
If she made those sounds here—
He would not leave America alive.
Secretariat listened, smiling.
"Oh? So the setting is the issue?"
She had a regretful tone.
"What a shame. I thought we might have a deeper exchange..."
Alarm bells screamed.
Then—
"...It's not impossible, though."
He froze.
"We could do it while watching the race."
She smiled brightly.
"Think of it as a special exception. A special way to communicate."
Then, softly—
"Mr. Sakuraba... surely you wouldn't refuse me?"
Dead.
Agree? Dead.
Refuse? Also dead.
Just kill me already.