"Here's the deal," Daichi said. "They don't stay in one place. The meet changes every night, depending on the heat."
Dahlia's brows furrowed. "Heat?"
"How heavy the cops are breathing down their necks that day," Daichi clarified. "Keeps the law guessing. Whoever's running the MRA servers, they're a ghost. The police have been chasing their tails all over Japan for months, and still can't pin them down."
"Fine," Dahlia said flatly. "Where are they tonight?"
Daichi hesitated, then exhaled. "East side of Shinjuku. Abandoned high-rise parking garage. That's where they'll be." His gaze lingered on her, grim. "And Dahlia, please don't mistake this for some thrill ride. Out there, luck runs out fast. You slip, you crash, you get caught, and you're finished. You'll end up in a body bag or behind bars. So, if you're really going… you'd better make yours count."
****
Dahlia stood before the structure, taking in the sight of the once-white walls, now weathered and streaked with grime. Time had chewed at the concrete, and the glass windows, dark and tinted, barely held back the muffled thrum of bass and music vibrating from within, rattling faintly in their frames. The streets around them were near empty. The last train had long since departed, leaving only a few stragglers weaving unsteadily down the sidewalk, drunks clinging to railings as they staggered home.
She checked the empty stretch of asphalt to the left, then to the right, both deserted, before lowering her gaze to the map glowing on her phone. With a nod, she slid it back into her pocket, squaring her shoulders beneath her leather jacket.
"This is the place," she murmured, hand on her hip. Her tail flicked once. "Honestly, I thought it'd be… livelier."
"As lively as an underground street meet ever gets," Daichi muttered beside her, his plain t-shirt and jeans already damp from the mist in the air. His jacket clung to him awkwardly as he shot her a sideways glare. "And seriously, did you have to drag me into this?"
Dahlia smirked, not missing a beat. "Oh, come on. It's not every day a cute girl asks you out." She tilted her head, playful edge cutting through the tension. "Call it a date."
Daichi went stiff, color flooding his cheeks. "D-D-Date?!" he sputtered.
Dahlia chuckled, low and amused. "Oh, you're adorable," she teased, then tipped her head toward the looming structure. "Come on. Let's see what all the fuss is about." She strode forward, boots clicking against the asphalt.
Daichi straightened with a cough, forcing himself to follow. The entrance was flanked by several hulking figures. Men cut from the same cloth as every back-alley bruiser Daichi had ever dreaded ringing up at the counter. Gaudy shirts straining against muscle, cheap suits reeking of knock-off cologne, and one idiot wearing sunglasses in the middle of the night. Their stares were heavy, unblinking, a silent warning that this was the line, and crossing it meant consequences.
Dahlia's gaze held steady. Daichi, throat dry, fumbled for his phone, swiping to his digital ID on the app. He raised it just enough for the nearest man to see. The man's lips didn't so much as twitch, but after a beat he flicked his chin in a silent command. The wall of bodies shifted aside.
Dahlia drew a quiet breath. Daichi forced a nervous grin that fooled no one. Together, they slipped past the sentinels and into the shadows of the garage.
****
The parking garage was overflowing, a hive of heat and noise. Halogen lamps hummed overhead, their sterile glow fractured by the wash of neon strobes. Lavender, electric blue, blood-red, painting the concrete in shifting colors. Cars of every shape and make lined the rows, headlights blazing, neon strips spilling light across the slick floor. Their bodies were plastered with stickers, elaborate graffiti murals, wild sprays of color like moving canvases.
Hoods were propped open, engines displayed like trophies, while grease-streaked hands made last-minute tweaks that were more for show than necessity. The thunder of mufflers rattled the pillars, blending with the pounding bass of club beats that turned the cavernous garage into something primal, alive.
Daichi stuck close to Dahlia, shoulders tight, acutely aware of the weight of every glance cast their way. Dahlia, by contrast, kept her head high, her dark gaze cutting across the throngs of umas gathered in clusters. Each group was a crew, marked by garish neon uniforms, custom jackets, layered jewelry, and logos stitched boldly into their clothes.
From every corner, banners hung like battle standards. Crew emblems, slogans, and names painted in bold strokes alongside lists of victories and rival crews beaten into submission. The clang of hammers echoed, ringing against steel as cleats were bolted to racing boots. Sparks cascaded in showers from grinders, steel edges sharpened to precision.
Others hunched over their gear, polishing boots with sprays and rags until the metal gleamed under the neon. Off to the side, a few tapped away at laptops, their screens alive with streams of data. Timings, maps, betting odds. Eyes locked, movements efficient, focused. The place wasn't chaos, it was choreography. Every racer, every handler moved with intent, their rhythm mechanical, purposeful. The garage pulsed like a living machine, every cog in motion, every hand preparing for what was to come.
But what unnerved Daichi most weren't the colors or the swagger. It was the masks. Every face in the crowd was partially hidden: eyes veiled by tinted lenses, mouths concealed behind steel fangs, animal motifs, stylized visors. The effect was chilling. Nothing hid the stares, though. Sharp, unwelcoming, brimming with suspicion as the outsiders threaded through their world.
Dahlia slipped her hands into her jean pockets as they pushed deeper into the garage, weaving past clusters of bodies and the pulsing haze of neon. Daichi's nerves, tense since they arrived, suddenly gave way to wide-eyed wonder as his gaze locked on the racers around them.
"Holy crap, that's Yamiyo Breaker," he blurted, pointing to a tall, sculpted uma standing in the center of her crew. Her crimson-and-white motorcycle jumpsuit clung tight, unzipped to the navel to show off a maroon bikini top and the kind of torso built for power. A leather mask veiled her mouth, her spiked blue-black hair jutting wild in every direction. She looked like someone born from asphalt and adrenaline.
Before Dahlia could respond, Daichi's attention snapped elsewhere. Another uma leaned casually against a car, the image of raw swagger. Black leather jacket cropped short over a white tee, shorts cut high with thigh boots riding up her legs. Her abs were corded, cut sharp under the fluorescent glow. Blonde hair tied in twin tails, ribbons shaped like shurikens swaying with every flick. A bandage crossed the bridge of her nose, gloves half-fingered and worn, while a sleek black mask framed her golden eyes. She blew a bubble, popped it with a snap, and kept chewing, gaze flicking in their direction with cool disinterest.
Daichi nearly vibrated in place. "And that's Rekka Blaze! She's one of my favorites," he gushed, grinning wide like a kid standing before his idols.
Dahlia rolled her eyes. "You're such a nerd."
"I am not!" Daichi protested, flustered but grinning as he fell into step behind her. "I am not."
She ignored him, scanning the crowd with a cool sweep. "Alright. Where's the desk? If the MRA's actually organized, there should be reps. You know, some kind of welcome point."
Daichi fumbled his phone back out and squinted at the screen. "Says here you don't go to a desk. You find a Scout. They're the ones wearing a silver pin with the MRA logo. Scout is the gatekeeper. Find them, and you find the race."
"Good. Then we find one," Dahlia pushed deeper into the press of bodies, shoulders brushing past jackets and badges, tail flicking once. An unconscious metronome to her heartbeat.
Daichi slid his phone back into his pocket, shoulders tight. He shot her a nervous, sideways glance. "I'm so going to jail tonight."
****
The bass from the speakers hammered through the concrete, each pulse rattling ribs and threatening to churn whatever sat in the stomach into the open. Logan had never been one for clubs, not in his youth, and certainly not now. That was a young man's game. His dark eyes drifted toward the DJ booth. Some kid bobbing behind the console, one hand glued to his headphones, the other waving like he was conducting an orchestra of strobes and noise. Colors strobed across the walls, lines chasing beats on the monitors behind him.
The floor was a writhing mess of bodies. Umas and humans alike, half of them too young to be here, grinding against each other, hands roaming, hips moving to a rhythm that had nothing to do with the music. Girls in knee-highs and skirts cut indecently short. Enough to make any father lose sleep and every teenage boy forget how to breathe. Logan scoffed into his bottle, leaning against a pillar, arms crossed. The world had moved on in the ten years he'd been gone. Or maybe it had always been like this, and he was only now seeing it without blinders.
Once, they had called him a genius. A prodigy. The youngest to pass the National Trainers Exam at fifteen. The youngest to be accepted into Strider Academy. He'd had to grind twice as hard as trainers twice his age, endure the scorn of colleagues who sneered at a boy in their ranks. There hadn't been time for this kind of thing. For lights, for girls, for wasting nights in sweat and smoke. He raised the bottle again, taking a slow pull.
No, he never regretted it. Not once. He had found meaning in something greater than neon, booze, and empty noise.
"Thought I'd find you here."
Logan groaned at the voice. Too slick, too oily, before turning. The sight churned his gut. A man his age stood before him, tall and lean, snake-like in the way he held himself.
"Logan-kun."
The man's smile stretched unnaturally wide, his eyes slitted to nothing, giving his face the look of something inhuman. Moss-green hair was slicked back beneath a black fedora. A fitted black waistcoat clung to his frame over a crisp white shirt and tie, slacks pressed razor-sharp, steel-tipped loafers gleaming under the lights. His ankle-length coat flared just enough to reveal the silver MRA badge pinned at his chest. Leather fingerless gloves flexed over his hands as if already itching for a move.
Logan scowled. "Hazama. I'd call this an unpleasant surprise, but that'd still be too damned polite." He lifted his bottle and took a long swallow. "And drop the kun crap. Last I checked, we weren't friends."
"Aw, you wound me, Logan-kun." Hazama's smile didn't falter long. Just a flicker, before it stretched even wider, a knife's edge of teeth. He leaned in close. "Biggest fan, remember? I know your habits better than you think. You keep claiming you're finished, washed your hands of it all. Yet every night, I find you here. Watching. Waiting. Toe in the water, but too scared to admit you're already drowning in it."
"Just spectating," Logan muttered. "Man's gotta eat. Bets keep the lights on."
Hazama let out a soft laugh, tilting his head with mock sympathy. "Bets? Spare me. A man like you doesn't waste time on pennies. Not the Hand of God." His words barbed. "Back then, you touched a girl and she turned to gold. Champions. Legends. Entire circuits bent around your name. And now? You want me to believe you're here scraping for pocket change?"
Logan's eyes narrowed, jaw tight.
Hazama leaned even closer, his whisper brushing Logan's ear, emerald green eyes cutting like glass. "No. You're not here for scraps. You're here because you miss it. The thunder in your chest. The ground splitting under boots. The power of turning nothing into something divine. You're starving for it, Logan-kun. And the longer you lie to yourself, the hungrier you get."
Logan snapped his gaze toward Hazama, eyes black as midnight, sharp enough to cut. The weight behind them wasn't just anger. It was the kind of stare that stripped flesh from bone, the kind that pinned a man in place and left no room to breathe.
Hazama stumbled back with his hands up, his grin never breaking. "Ooooh, terrifying," he drawled. "Easy now, Logan-kun. Just having a bit of fun."
The low snarl of exhaust rolled through the garage, oversized mufflers rattling the stained windows until the glass quivered. Logan's gaze snapped to the sound, his scoff cutting through the thrum.
Hazama slid back into his space like a shadow, draping an elbow over Logan's shoulder as if nothing had happened. "Beautiful, isn't it?" He gestured lazily toward the rows of cars and crews. "Two worlds bound by speed, asphalt, and obsession. Would you believe me if I told you umas were the ones who lit the match for all this?"
Logan's brow ticked upward, a flicker of reluctant curiosity betraying the otherwise stone set of his face.
"Umas who aimed for the moon but fell short," Hazama murmured. "Some scraped the stars. Most didn't. They hit pavement. Hard. But the clever ones?" His grin sharpened. "They got back up. They traded turf for tarmac, dirt for asphalt. And from that wreckage… the Wangan Midnight Run was born."
He tipped his head, eyes narrowing to sly slits. "Didn't take long before the rest of us looked over and thought, why should they have all the glory? If we can't run, we'll drive. If we can't breathe fire, we'll bolt lightning on wheels. Thus, the Midnight Club came screaming into life."
Hazama's words coiled tighter. "Sure, they clashed. They always do. Flesh against steel. No uma alive can outrun a machine, and no machine could outmaneuver an uma. But then the pigs came sniffing." He bared his teeth, mock-sweet. "And I don't mean the ones you spit-roast over a fresh pint."
"I get it," Logan cut in, words sharp enough to sever the air.
Hazama chuckled, stepping back with a mock bow, his coat flaring like a stage curtain. "Scary, scary. Always so serious." He straightened. "But here's the truth, Logan-kun. Boots or wheels, it doesn't matter. They bled together. They fought together. And that bond is why the MRA still lives… and why men like me are still standing here, waiting for men like you."
He cast his gaze over the rows of machines, then lower, toward the lightly dressed umas posing against the metal frames. His smile slithered wider. "Of course, the cars now? Just glitter. Eye candy for the boys." His eyes glinted. "Among other things."
"Fascinating," Logan deadpanned, lifting his beer in mock salute before taking a slow pull. "You want a dollar in the tip jar for the bedtime story?"
Hazama only smiled wider, tilting his fedora with theatrical ease. "Just doing my duty," he said smoothly, fingers brushing the silver badge pinned to his coat. "Gotta dress the hook nice if I want the Hand of God himself to finally bite."
Logan snorted. "Yeah, keep dreaming, slick."
****
Dahlia and Daichi had worked their way through the garage. From the bottom floor to second, without a trace of a Scout. Not one silver pin in sight. Daichi barely seemed to notice, too busy gawking at racers and muttering names like a kid at a theme park, half of which meant nothing to her. What she did notice, however, was far more troubling.
Men in suits. Not the swaggering kind outside, but the other sort. Stoic, disciplined, moving with precision. Earpieces tucked discreetly in their ears, eyes sweeping the floor in calculated arcs. They weren't fans, and they weren't muscle. They were the kind of quiet watchers you only saw at official circuits, the ones who lingered in the shadows so the cameras never caught them.
The deeper they pressed into the haze of exhaust and sweat, the more her nerves twisted. Neon strobes cut across halogen glare, heat baking the crowd, noise pounding like a second heartbeat in her skull. Unease gnawed at her ribs, whispering that this was wrong, dangerous, that she needed to turn around and walk out before the night swallowed her whole. But each time that temptation rose, she strangled it down. She couldn't afford hesitation. Not now. Not when Scarlet's future might hinge on this.
Her sister's broken voice echoed in her head, the first words in nearly two years. Words laced with grief and fury, begging for legs she'd never feel again. Then the silence returned, heavier than before. Even as Dahlia bathed her, dressed her, tucked her in, Scarlet's eyes had been glassy, far away. Empty. A quiet absence that terrified her more than any storm or crowd ever could. She knew this time had ended harmlessly. But next time? Next time might not.
If Grace ever heard of it, she'd push for institutionalization. Dahlia clenched her fists, jaw tight. That couldn't happen. She wouldn't let it. She had to keep going.
The lift doors slid open with a hollow ding, spilling them into the third floor. Heat and noise hit them at once. The crowd was thicker here. Bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, umas and humans alike, music pounding so hard it rattled in the ribs. Dahlia's ears twitched at the bass, her tail flicking in irritation as she pushed forward into the crush.
The stench was heavier too. Smoke curling through perfume, alcohol soaked into sweat, the whole place reeking of vice. Her eyes darted across flashes of half-lit corners. Boys and uma girls grinding against each other, mouths locked, hands wandering without shame. Dahlia rolled her eyes and shoved her way through.
Beside her, Daichi looked like a fish gasping on dry land. His eyes flicked everywhere, wide and skittish, the weight of it all swallowing him. This wasn't his world. It was something he'd only ever glimpsed through the glow of anime screens or game consoles. To be standing in it now, smelling it, feeling the thrum of the music crawl under his skin. It was eating him alive.
"Are you kidding me?" Dahlia snapped, cutting above the music as she spun on him. "Three floors up, and still not a single damned Scout. You sure that app of yours isn't lying?"
Daichi fumbled with his phone, thumbing through screens like the answer might appear if he just scrolled fast enough. "Positive," he muttered. He waved a hand toward the crowd. "Maybe they don't show up every night. Maybe we just… missed them."
His eyes darted nervously to a group of masked racers watching from the shadows, then back to her. "Dahlia, look. Maybe we should call it. Come back another night. I'm starting to feel really uncomfortable here."
"Come on, Daichi, we can't give up now, not when we're so—" Dahlia stopped cold, her breath catching as her gaze snapped across the crowd.
There, perched on the armrest of a leather couch like a queen on her throne, one booted leg hooked across the cushions. An uma draped in raven-black motifs. Every line of her body radiated control, her posture coiled but regal, the mask across her face only sharpening the aura around her.
"Dahlia?" Daichi waved a hand in front of her, confused by her sudden stillness. "Earth to—"
Dahlia grabbed his chin and yanked his head toward the sight. His eyes widened, jaw slack. "No way… it can't be…" he whispered. "It's—"
"Midnight Queen," they breathed in unison.
Daichi lit up like a kid at Christmas, the awe practically shaking out of him. "Holy crap, it's her. It's the Midnight Queen."
"Alright, lover boy, cool your jets," Dahlia muttered, rolling her eyes. "We need to—"
But Daichi was already gone, bolting toward his idol like a moth to flame. Dahlia cursed under her breath, half-raising her hand to stop him before letting it drop. With a sharp exhale, she followed, her eyes locked on the uma cloaked in shadows and silver.
Her mind reeled back to that night. The way Queen had cut through the streets, drifting across asphalt like smoke given flesh. The screech of steel, the scream of rubber, the impossible grace of it. Dahlia's chest tightened. She didn't understand it, not fully. But standing here, staring at her, she knew one thing: if anyone could unlock that secret, it was her.
Dahlia edged closer to Queen, her pulse quickening as their gazes finally locked. The steel, carbon-black mask concealed the uma's eyes, but the weight of that look still pressed into her. Dahlia's breath hitched. Only for the moment to shatter at the sound of a cry cutting through the bass and neon.
Her head snapped toward it.
A cluster of umas. Five, maybe more, loomed in a half-circle. On the ground at their feet, another uma writhed. She was small, two heads shorter than Dahlia, chestnut hair greasy and unkempt, her tail just as ragged. A school uniform hung loose on her thin frame, its white blouse stained with dirt. She clutched a laptop to her chest like it was the only shield she had left.
"You useless bitch!" The leader's voice cut like broken glass. Her boot drove hard into the girl's stomach, folding her up with a cough and a pained cry. "I lost the race because of you! A hundred big. Gone, because you're too stupid to do your job!"
The one leading the charge stood tall above her, fury radiating off her in waves. Her hair was a wild curtain of blond, sharp as her twitching ears. She wore a baseball jacket stretched over a loose shirt, a short skirt, thigh-high socks strapped with Velcro guards, and crisp white running boots that gleamed under the strobe lights. A scarf hung at her throat, pinned with a bolo tie topped by a golden ornament.
The shark-like grin she bared as she snarled down at the girl was all teeth. Her crew, dressed in variations of the same uniform, flanked her like vultures circling a carcass, feeding off the violence.
Dahlia's eyes flicked past the blonde to the crowd circling them. Faces half-lit in neon, mouths curled into eager grins, some even laughing under their breath. Not shock, not outrage, amusement. They weren't witnessing something new. They were watching a show they'd seen a dozen times before. A routine. A ritual. And the realization twisted in Dahlia's gut. This wasn't an outburst. It was culture. A spectacle baked into the bones of this place.
The girl on the ground whimpered, hazel eyes swimming with tears as her arms clutched the laptop tighter to her chest. "I-it's not my fault," she stammered through choked breaths. "I—I told you to take a left, y-you didn't listen—"
"Hah?!" The leader bent low, seizing a fistful of her tangled hair and yanking it hard enough to wrench a cry from her throat. "Are you saying this is my fault?!"
"N-no! No, Lady, I didn't say that!" the girl sobbed, shaking her head, panic written across her face.
The leader's lips peeled back, her sharp teeth flashing as her hand arced upward. The girl squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the blow.
But the slap never landed.
A hand had caught the blonde's wrist, fingers digging in with unflinching strength. The leader froze, golden eyes snapping to the side. Dahlia stood before her, close enough that their breath nearly touched, shoulders squared, her dark gaze sharp. Every line of her face hardened, her tail flicking sharp behind her.
Around them, the onlookers' grins slipped, the amusement draining as the weight of the standoff settled in. Chatter dulled to a low murmur, spreading outward until even those who hadn't been paying attention turned their eyes to the scene. The air grew heavy, expectant. Even Midnight Queen straightened, her crew following suit as their masked gazes locked on the brewing confrontation.
Daichi, caught in the pull of it, turned, and the color drained from his face.
"Enough." Dahlia said, her tone carrying like a spark in dry grass. "Let her go. Now."
The blonde's nostrils flared, pride twisting her face into something ugly. She could feel her crew behind her, the weight of their stares, and worse, the eyes of rivals watching too. To back down here would be blood in the water.
****
"And don't get me started on the price of gyūdons these days," Hazama droned, hands gesturing lazily. "How's a man supposed to eat proper when everything's—"
The sharp hiss of glass cracked open cut him off. Logan twisted the cap off another beer, the fizz curling out like steam before he took a long swallow. Hazama's voice dulled into background noise, his patience fraying with every word. It was like sandpaper against raw skin. He exhaled sharply, wishing the snake would finally slither off.
Then came the sound. High, pained, cutting through the bass and thump of the rave. Logan's gaze slid past the crowd, deadpan narrowing as it fixed on the far end of the floor. He didn't need long to understand what was happening.
"Well, looks like Lady's throwing another tantrum," Hazama said with mock sympathy, leaning into him like an oily shadow. "Poor thing. Being navigator to that shark? Can't imagine the headache."
"Don't you people have rules for this shit?" Logan muttered, lifting the bottle again. "Pretty sure abuse isn't above board."
"On the road, sure," Hazama replied, grin spreading slick as grease in an engine block. "But crews? That's their business. The MRA doesn't meddle. Wouldn't want to… overstep."
"Convenient," Logan grunted, taking another swig, then choked mid-swallow, coughing as beer nearly spilled across his red flannel. His eyes widened, disbelief snapping through the haze. "Dahlia?" he rasped under his breath.
At the sight of her hand clamping onto Lady's wrist, Hazama's grin curved razor-sharp. His slitted eyes cracked open, emerald gleam flashing. "Oh, ho," he murmured, curling with relish. "Tonight just became very… interesting."
****
"You lost, little bird?" Lady snapped, teeth bared like a predator. "This is crew business. Scram."
"You enjoy picking on girls who can't fight back?" Dahlia's words were cold iron. "Must make you feel real big, huh?" She leaned closer, measuring. "I've dealt with bitches like you like you more than once. Those who get real comfy blaming everyone else for their own screw-ups. You lost the race? Big deal. But you don't get to pin it on her. And looking at you, pretty face, big mouth, I'd bet you couldn't outrun a paper bag."
"You little—" Lady snarled, wrenching her other victim free so the girl crumpled to the floor. She swung at Dahlia, but Dahlia's grip tightened over her wrist like a vice. The girl's arm froze in the air. Her crew tensed to move, then stopped dead when Dahlia's glare pinned them.
"Try that with me, sister, and I'll snap it clean off," Dahlia warned, teeth clenched. "I've taken down men twice your size running the seediest streets of this damned city. Don't test me."
Heat flickered across Lady's face. Her bravado thinned. The sweat at her temple glinted under the neon.
Daichi shoved through the circle of onlookers and planted himself beside Dahlia, panicked hands fluttering. "Dahlia, what the hell are you doing?!" he hissed. "Do you know who this is?!"
Before Dahlia could answer, Daichi blurted "That's My Fair Lady, leader of the Kokuteikai!"
Lady's lip curled as pain flared up her arm. She forced a smile. "So you're not complete loser after all," she said, narrowing her eyes at Dahlia. "Listen to your boyfriend, girl, unless you want to get hurt. Really, really hurt."
"B-B-Boyfriend?!" Daichi stuttered, color rising to his cheeks. He scrambled for words, fingers twisting nervously. "N-no—no, I'm not— I mean, we're not—um…"
Dahlia's glare darkened, but before the tension could snap, a presence slid in between them. Smooth, silent, like a shadow peeling itself off the wall. A gloved hand brushed Dahlia's wrist, another nudged Lady's away, and suddenly he was there, a step planted neatly between them.
"Ladies, please." The man in the fedora smiled wide. "No need for claws. We're all friends here."
Gasps rippled through the onlookers. No one had seen him approach. No sound, no warning. He might as well have materialized out of the smoke. Dahlia's expression went slack with unease, but Lady only scoffed, jaw taut.
"To those who know me, how do you do?" He tipped his fedora with a theatrical bow. "To those who don't…"
His hand closed around Dahlia's, raising it lightly before brushing his lips across her knuckles.
Daichi nearly shrieked at the sight.
His slitted eyes cracked open just enough to catch hers. "Hazama Honoka. Pleasure is mine. And you are…?"
Dahlia blinked, caught off guard. "Um… Dahlia. Black Dahlia."
"Oh, fearsome," Hazama purred, releasing her hand. His fingers tapped the silver badge on his coat. "And as you can see—"
"Scout!" Daichi burst in, scrambling to her side, eyes lit like fireworks. "Finally, we've been searching everywhere—"
"Let me finish, boy." Hazama's head tilted, his grin not shifting, but his gaze cutting sharp enough to make Daichi flinch back.
"Y-Yes, sir!"
"I'm not a Scout," Hazama said smoothly, straightening his coat. "I'm an Overseer. A touch higher on the ladder, so to speak." His grin curved sharper as his eyes returned to Dahlia. "And I must say, Miss Dahlia… it's been far too long since I've seen an uma with teeth. You made my blood stir."
Dahlia raised an eyebrow, clearly uncomfortable. "…Thanks?"
Lady rubbed her wrist, jaw tight, and stepped forward. "She grabbed me. Threatened me. My crew saw it. Everyone saw it. I want her gone." Her golden eyes narrowed to slits. "Now."
Dahlia bared her teeth, tail lashing like a whip as she surged forward. Only for Daichi to grab her arm, holding her back.
Hazama lifted a hand, his grin cutting through the tension. "Now, now," he drawled, gaze sliding lazily between them. "Technically, Lady-chan's right. Normally? Zero tolerance for troublemakers." He spread his arms in a mock-solemn flourish, his tone laced with amusement.
"But…" his eyes sharpened as they landed on Dahlia. "You're an uma." Then he turned to Lady. "She's an uma." His gaze dropped, noting Dahlia's scuffed running boots. "And you've come prepared. Here in the MRA, we don't waste energy with bans or whining. Disputes are settled the way they should be."
He leaned in, grin spreading. "On the track. You want blood? Earn it under the lights."
The music died almost instantly. The crowd stirred, a ripple turning into a roar, voices rising like a pack scenting blood. Phones came up. Cheers, whistles, chants. A dozen conversations crashed into one frenzied beat.
Hazama snapped his fingers, the sound sharp as a gunshot. "Race. Winner stays. Loser leaves. No appeals. No excuses." He swiveled to Lady, eyes glinting. "Sound good?"
Lady's lips curled into a vicious smirk, jagged teeth flashing. "Perfect. I'll enjoy watching her eat concrete." She planted a hand on her hip, chin tilted high, savoring the crowd's approval. "Hope you can run half as fast as you flap your mouth, little bird."
Dahlia stepped forward, her glare a blade. "Oh, I'll do more than run, sister."
The crowd exploded, a chant starting at the back and spreading like wildfire. Stomps shook the concrete. Fists pumped in the air. The garage had become an arena, and Hazama soaked in every drop of the frenzy like a conductor with his orchestra.
He clapped once, sharp and theatrical. "Then let's race!" He spun toward the DJ booth. "Light it up! We've got a live one!"
The bass surged. Lights flared. The mob howled for blood.
Daichi's eyes flew wide, his heart hammering so hard it rattled his chest. The roar of the crowd crashed over him like a tidal wave, drowning out reason. His palms went slick, sweat trailing down his temples as his whole body trembled. He couldn't tear his gaze from Dahlia, locked in that stare-down with Lady, fire burning in her eyes.
His throat went dry, the words clawing their way out in a broken whisper. "Dahlia… what the hell have you done?"
****
Logan leaned back against the pillar, the crowd's roar washing over him like heat. He took a long, slow pull from his beer, eyes narrowing into slits. "Dumb kid," he muttered, not a trace of triumph in it. "Lady's goanna eat her alive."