The smell of roasted coffee and the sweet hint of powdered sugar and cinnamon drifted through the midtown diner, wrapping around the hum of early morning chatter. Sunlight spilled through tall windows, glinting off the polished tiled floor where waiters moved briskly between tables, trays balanced on their palms. The soft clatter of cutlery, the hiss of the espresso machine, and the sizzle of bacon on the grill merged into a quiet symphony of comfort. It was busy, but not rushed. A small pocket of warmth in a city that rarely slept.
A cheerful waitress, an uma with chestnut hair tied neatly behind her, approached their booth with a smile that came as naturally as the morning light.
"Alright, grilled saba with a side of rice and miso," she said, setting a lacquered tray before Dahlia. Without waiting for acknowledgment, she turned to the man across from her. "And for you, sir, All-American breakfast." She placed the steaming plate before him. Eggs, ham, bacon, toast, and beans on the side. "Enjoy." With a polite bow, she left them to the quiet tension that hung between their meals.
Logan unfolded his napkin and laid it over his lap. He picked up his fork and knife, cutting into the yolk with care before glancing up. "When you're done staring," he said, voice even but rough around the edges, "maybe you'll find the words you've been chewing on. I can tell you've got plenty."
Dahlia's gaze tightened as she split her chopsticks cleanly in half. "Are you really who they say you are?" she asked. "Logan Deschain, the Hand of God. The one who trained the Godly Fifteen?"
Logan paused, chewing once before setting his fork down. He leaned back slightly, the morning light brushing over the tired lines of his face. "Yeah," he said finally. The word was quiet, almost reluctant, carried more on breath than conviction. "But that was a lifetime ago."
Dahlia rolled a neat ball of rice between her chopsticks and lifted it to her mouth, the warm, slightly vinegared grains a small comfort compared to the grimy bentōs she'd been surviving on. "So, what happened?" she asked around a bite, curiosity threading through the fatigue.
Logan cradled his mug of black coffee like something sacred and took a slow pull, the bitterness settling in his chest. "Life," he said at last, exhaling a sound that might have been a laugh once. "Bad choices. Stupid decisions. Call it what you want."
He set the cup down with the deliberateness of a man who'd learned how to measure words like rationed food. "But I paid my debts. Did my time. Thought that would be that." He tapped the rim of his mug. "Turns out the past is as patient as it is persistent."
Dahlia chewed, eyes narrowing. "Then, why Tokyo?" she asked, reaching for the grilled saba and tearing off a piece, the skin crackling under her teeth. "Why show up here of all places?"
Logan's look sharpened, a small, almost feral smile that didn't reach his eyes. "No offense, kid, but we ain't that tight. Not yet." He fixed her with a steady stare. "Sides, I have my reasons. If you want to know something useful, worry less about me and more about what you're planning. The clock's running, and you're not as ready as you think."
Dahlia's ears flicked, a flush rising in her cheeks before her face settled into something harder. An edge she wore like armor. "I know why I'm doing this," she snapped, then, quieter, "I have to."
Logan's face didn't soften, if anything it hardened, but there was no sneer in it. He laced his fingers on the tabletop and leaned forward until the city's din seemed to fade away. "Maybe you do. Maybe you don't," he said.
"Either way," Logan said, "the MRA ain't your ticket to easy money. I've seen what it does. Chews up bright-eyed umas like you, spits out what's left for the rats." He gave a slow shake of his head. "The failures. The Tracen washouts. The URA rejects. They think a few laps on dirt and turf would give them an edge. Newsflash, it doesn't."
He tapped the table once, hard enough to make the mug tremble.
"If the cops don't get them, the streets will. And trust me, ending up with your head cracked open on the asphalt's the good way out." His tone dropped to a low rasp. "Racing ain't free. It comes with a price tag and shit ton of collateral. The ones who can't pay their debts? They vanish. Get sold off."
He leaned in closer, his shadow stretching across the table. "You know as well as I do there's a hundred ways for pretty little umas to make a buck. The soaplands are full of them. Smiling, pretending, waiting for someone to remember they used to race."
He drew a slow, sharp breath through his teeth. "And those are the lucky ones." His words dropped lower, edged with something colder. "Those nasty rumors you hear about stables? Sorry to break it to you, sweetheart, that ain't a myth."
Dahlia's eyes widened, the color draining from her face. The hum of the diner around them suddenly sounded distant, hollow, as if the world itself recoiled from what he'd just said.
He let the words hang between them, eyes locked on hers. "Truth is, you dove headfirst down the rabbit hole without even stopping to think how deep it really goes." His words carried no judgment. Just the weary truth of someone who'd seen the bottom.
"The URA's all sunshine and rainbows," he went on. "Pretty girls in frilly skirts, singing their cute little songs, waving to fans who light up the night with glow sticks and empty promises. That's the dream they sell you. Bright lights and soft smiles."
He lifted his mug once more, the rising steam curling, carrying the bitter scent of burnt coffee and sleepless nights. "But here? This is Hell. Down here, it's fire, brimstone, devils, demons, and the kind of monsters you don't wake up from." His stare hardened. "Take it from me, you don't know horror until you've seen what an eighteen-wheeler does to a body that's still breathing." He sat back. "You want to keep anything that matters, then do yourself a favor and bow out while you've still got the chance."
Dahlia met his gaze, resentment and resolve warring behind her eyes. For a long moment, neither spoke. Only the faint curl of steam from their food drifted between them, blurring the space like a thin veil.
"I know why you're trying so hard to talk me out of this," she said quietly. "Master probably told you about my sister. About Scarlet."
Her eyes dropped to the half-eaten fish on her plate. "Everyone knows the story of Scarlet Rose. The golden girl of Tracen. The bright star whose life was shattered, her future stolen by some heartless bastard behind the wheel of a truck." Her jaw tightened. "That same bastard they tossed in a cell without a second thought."
"The media painted him like some irredeemable monster," Dahlia said. "Influencers dragged his name through the mud, turned him into a cartoon villain who kicks puppies for fun. They tore him apart for the clicks, for the headlines, and then they patted themselves on the back, felt righteous about it."
She drew in a breath, eyes hardening. "But he wasn't a monster. He was just a man. A man who broke his back working double, triple shifts. Juggling three damn jobs just to keep his kids fed and whatever scraps of happiness they had from slipping away."
"But that's the thing, isn't it? They don't care. Nobody does." She looked up again, her gaze hard and unwavering. "No one cared about his story. Just like no one cares about mine. Black Dahlia. The failure. The washout. The reject. The worthless uma who should've been the one in her sister's place." Her words cracked, sharp with restrained fury. "The world mourned Scarlet, but no one would've shed a tear if it had been me that night."
She drew in a sharp breath, eyes glinting with something raw and fractured. "And I didn't need tabloids or social media to remind me of that. My father did a pretty awesome job of it. Every damned day of my entire life. Right up until the moment he walked out on us both."
"And just like Suzuki Hiroshi, I've scraped my knees raw," she said. "I've run myself ragged, down to the bone, just trying to keep our heads above water." She set her bowl and chopsticks down with quiet finality, the faint clack echoing between them. "I tried doing it the right way. Kept it clean, played by the book, but the world's made it pretty damn clear it doesn't give a shit about me. Or about any of us."
Her shoulders straightened, resolve hardening in her eyes. "So, I'm done playing by the rules."
"I don't want pity," she went on, "and I sure as Hell don't need you handing down your wisdom like I haven't already sat here, night after night, thinking about every single way this could blow up in my face." Her gaze darkened. "So, if your plan is to stand in my way, then I suggest you get the Hell out of it."
Logan's jaw slackened, the tension of a decade easing into something that resembled a weary, almost approving nod. "Cute," he muttered, the word half a sigh. "But that's where you're wrong. I ain't here to piss on your parade."
Dahlia's expression eased, the sharpness in her eyes giving way to something quieter.
He lifted his mug and took a slow sip, the bitter coffee cutting through the quiet before he spoke again. "When I got out, I swore I'd never go back. Figured the world would've moved on by then. Forgotten me, buried me under the headlines and the whispers. Just another ghost people mention when they need a cautionary tale. For a long time, they did."
He shut his eyes for a moment, then opened them again "But when the truth finally came out. About Rorke, about Strider…" He paused, catching the flicker of confusion in Dahlia's eyes. "Google it," he said flatly. "Hell of a shit show."
He leaned back, exhaling before continuing. "Turns out they didn't forget. They worshipped me. Put me on a pedestal and called me a legend." A dry, humorless laugh slipped out. "The Hand of God. Some shiny myth they trot out to polish their image, pretending my name could somehow wipe away the rot festering under Strider and the USURA."
He set his mug back down, the ceramic clinking against the table. "Aspiring trainers still talk about me like I'm some kind of benchmark, some saint of the circuit they're all trying to beat or become." His lip curled faintly. "They want the name so bad they can taste it. I guess in a way, that makes me the trainer's version of Symboli Rudolf."
His gaze lifted to Dahlia's, steady and heavy. "But truth is, they want to remember the man I used to be. But that man's been dead a long time. I thought I could dip my toe back into that world, keep it at arm's length, maybe convince myself I was still moving forward. Never thought it'd drag me back under in a way I couldn't refuse."
Dahlia raised an eyebrow at his words, suspicion flickering in her gaze.
"I'll be straight with you, Dahlia," Logan said, leaning forward and steepling his fingers. "The way you are right now, you're gonna get creamed by Lady. Big time."
Dahlia's lips parted, but he lifted a hand before she could speak. "But not if you've got a trainer."
Her eyes widened slightly at the implication.
"Lady's been running the streets a while now," he continued. "She's got stamina, no doubt about it. Knows how to pace herself, how to play to the crowd. But she's soft when it counts. Against real racers, the ones who've seen blood on the asphalt, she doesn't stand a chance." His gaze steadied on her. "Neither do you, but you, on the other hand, have something she doesn't."
"Oh, really?" Dahlia asked, tilting her head. "And what's that?"
"Basics," Logan said flatly. "Your form's clean. Strides are measured. You've got balance, pace, reaction time, spatial awareness. Stuff you can't fake, can't learn just from watching others. That's training. Years of it." He paused, leaning back. "Most MRA racers don't have that. They just run till their legs give out."
He glanced at her, words softening just enough to cut deeper. "Rag on your old man all you want, and I won't blame you. Sounds like he's a real piece of work." A pause. "But he knew what he was doing."
Dahlia scoffed, folding her arms across her chest. "So… what now?"
"Well…" Logan muttered, picking up his fork. He cut a piece of egg, pressed it onto a slice of toast, and spread it with deliberate calm. "Now's the part where you think long and hard about what comes next."
He took a slow bite, chewed, and swallowed before reaching for the salt shaker. A single shake dusted the plate, grains scattering over yolk and white. "My cards are on the table," he said evenly. "You know the risks, the rewards, and the fallout." His eyes lifted to meet hers. "And I'm sure you've heard that one of my former trainees now runs the C.H.A.S.E. division in Tokyo."
Dahlia's ears twitched, her attention snapping back to him.
"Word of caution," he went on. "I know Lightning. Like most of the umas I've trained, she started out plain. Nothing special. Hell, more than a dozen top-tier trainers passed her over without a second thought." His gaze hardened, the faintest shadow flickering behind his eyes. "And wouldn't you know it. She started blowing past every so called undefeated uma and fan favorite. Smoking them one after the other from the Kentucky Derby to the Belmont Stakes. Her entire career spanned forty-two wins, thirteen of them G1s, both in and out of the States, and she earned every damn one of them."
"Lightning still credits me for her time on the track, but what she's built since?" He shook his head. "That's all her. Every arrest. Every takedown." He leaned forward slightly. "And from what I've read, she's made one hell of a career out of dismantling the MRA."
"So knowing that, tell me, Dahlia. Is this really the road you wish to take?" His stare narrowed. "Cause it's gonna be a long, dark road you're headed down."
Dahlia paused, ears twitching as her gaze slid to the polished wood of the diner table. For a heartbeat she seemed to gather herself from the air itself, then rose to her feet. Her tail wisped behind her, a black flag of resolve, and she straightened until her shoulders looked as if they might split the room in two.
"I know where this road goes," she said. "One wrong step and I end up behind bars or worse." She swallowed, eyes burning, then forced the words out as if pushing them through a narrow gap. "I've spent my whole life being told I wasn't enough. That I'd never be anything. Scarlet had the light. She had the future everyone wrote about for her."
She dropped a hand to the table, fingers splayed against the grain as if to anchor herself. "There's a chance to bring her back. To help her walk again, to get her back on a track and feel the wind in her hair. But that costs money. The kind you don't earn running deliveries until your bones give out." Her jaw set. "I won't let my sister waste away in some place that smells like bleach and regret, and I refuse to put her in the ground because nobody else had the spine to try."
A sharp breath escaped her, small and ragged. "If I have to walk barefoot through the gates of Hell to drag her out, then so be it. I'll go. I'll pay whatever price." Her gaze hardened. "But I can't do it alone."
She let those last words hang between them, the room tightening as if the walls themselves had leaned in to listen. Steam curled from the bowls, a thin, ghostly veil that did nothing to soften the rawness in her words. "I need you," she said, the plea stripped of theatricality and laid bare. "I need the man they once called the Hand of God. The one who could see diamonds where everyone else saw stones, who could take failures like me and carve them into something people couldn't ignore."
Dahlia bowed low then, not a practiced curtsey but something that belonged to someone who had nothing left to lose and knew it. Ears dipping, tail tucked but steady, the motion small and humiliating and honest all at once. "Please," she murmured, "I beg you, help me. Help my sister."
The seconds crawled by as Logan stared at her, half-lidded and unamused. Then, without a word, he took another bite of his toast. "Sit down, kid."
He propped his elbow on the table, resting his chin in his palm as his gaze drifted toward the other patrons now watching. "You're making a scene," he muttered. "Never understood why you Japs love bowing so damn much. A simple ask would've done just fine."
Dahlia lifted her head, catching the curious eyes around them. Her cheeks flushed crimson as she quickly sat back down, hands folded tightly in her lap, gaze fixed on the table.
Logan finished his toast in silence, then reached for his mug. The coffee was cold, but he drank anyway, exhaling softly. "Go home," he said. "Clean up. Get some rest. You've got deliveries in the evening. Bills don't stop just 'cause you've got ambition." He paused, glancing at her from beneath his brow. "Then meet me at Saburo's. Midnight."
Dahlia's head shot up, her eyes wide, lips parting in stunned disbelief, but no sound came.
Logan set his mug down with a dull thud. "Don't get the wrong idea," he said. "I won't go easy on you. You're less than two weeks out from race day, and we've got a lot of ground to cover." His tone hardened, sharp as gravel. "There's only one pace, mine. If you can't keep up, don't bother stepping up. You'll just get left behind. Am I clear?"
Dahlia's throat tightened, the sting of humiliation still clinging to her as the last of the patrons turned back to their meals. For a long moment she said nothing, just sat there with her hands clasped in her lap, heart drumming against her ribs. Her ears and tail twitching. Then she drew a breath, slow and steady, and lifted her head.
Her embarrassment didn't fade. It hardened into something else. Determination.
She met his gaze. "Crystal."
Logan gave a slight nod, more to his coffee than to her. The faintest curve ghosted across his mouth. Something caught between fatigue and faint approval.
"Good. Now finish your breakfast," Logan said, gesturing toward her half-eaten meal. "If there's one thing I can't stand, it's good food going to waste."
Dahlia nodded faintly and lifted her bowl, chopsticks trembling slightly between her fingers. She ate in silence. Small, careful bites of rice and fish, each one grounding her in the reality of what had just happened. Somewhere between one mouthful and the next, her eyes began to blur, tears slipping soundlessly down her cheeks. For the first time in years, the food didn't taste like ash. It was warm, rich, alive, like something she'd been missing without even knowing it.
Logan watched without comment, chewing a strip of bacon. He leaned back in his seat, gaze distant, a quiet weight settling over him as he wondered, not for the first time, if he'd just made a mistake he couldn't take back.
Or perhaps, after all this time, he'd finally decided to stop running.
****
The cafeteria at the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department was alive with the usual midday chorus. Trays clattering, chairs scraping, and the steady murmur of tired voices trying to sound lighter than the work that brought them there. The air was heavy with the warmth of cooked rice and miso, with the savory scent of grilled pork and soy-glazed chicken drifting beneath the flicker of fluorescent lights. Steam curled from open bowls, rising between laughter and idle talk of families, side gigs, and hobbies meant to distract from the weight of the badge.
At one of the far tables, Red Harlow sat with his back tipped against the chair, legs stretched out just enough to annoy anyone walking past. His half-eaten cheeseburger sagged on its bun, grease pooling beneath it while fries lay scattered like casualties on the tray. The plate was smeared with ketchup and sauce where his fingers had carelessly dragged through. His eyes, sharp but tired, stayed locked on the manila folder before him, pages filled with grainy photos and tightly typed reports. The muscles in his jaw flexed as he chewed, tension rolling beneath the skin like a ticking clock.
"Uh-oh."
The familiar voice drew his attention up. Lightning stood there with her tray, tail flicking once behind her before settling. The faint glint of the overhead light caught the edge of her badge and the stray strands of her platinum blonde hair that framed her sharp, confident face. "I know that look," she said, setting the tray down with practiced ease. "That's the face of Red Harlow when he's found something that really grinds his gears."
Red gave a half-smirk, wiping his fingers on a napkin before gesturing with it. "Heya, partner." His words rolled through the space, rough but easy. "And ya ain't wrong."
He slid the folder toward her, the paper whispering against the tabletop. "Been readin' up on some of the sick shit goin' down in Japan these past ten years." He tapped the cover with a grease-slicked finger, eyes narrowing. "Tell me somethin', you ever hear of a thing called Umagoya?"
Lightning raised a brow as she split her chopsticks, the sharp crack echoing faintly between them. "Can't say that I have."
"Umagoya?"
Both Lightning and Red turned toward the graveled voice next to them. Detective Nishimura stood a few paces away, tray in hand, his expression darkening as if the very word had clawed up from somewhere it didn't belong. His mustache bristled, his jaw tightening before he spoke again. "Now that's something I haven't heard in a long time."
He set his tray down with a muted clatter. "I ran point on a few of those cases back in the day." His gaze fell to the empty chair before them. Red gave a small nod toward it, and Lightning motioned with her chopsticks in silent invitation.
Nishimura pulled the chair back and sat heavily, the worn fabric of his overcoat spilling down to his loafers, smelling faintly of tobacco and rain. He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "See, the act of stabling, that's not new. It's old. Real old. Dates back centuries. Shoguns, Warring States… the kind of history most people pretend never happened." He gestured with a hand. "Back then, slavery was business. Power. And umas, same as people, could be bought, traded, broken in." His eyes lifted, meeting theirs with quiet gravity. "You catch my drift."
Red scoffed, baring his teeth in a humorless grin. "Heh. Sounds just like the good ol' U.S. of A. to me. Dress it up, slap a shiny logo on it, and call it progress."
Lightning's expression hardened, her tail flicking once behind her. "Go on."
"'Course, a lot's changed over the centuries," Nishimura said, exhaling sharply. "We put an end to plenty of that shit." He gazed at his noodles absently, steam curling past his lined face. "But then the URA came along. And whenever there's money on the table, people get real creative, real dark, with their thoughts and intentions."
He lifted his wooden chopsticks, gesturing loosely. "Now, you know as well as I do, there ain't any official betting in the Twinkle Series. It's all clean on paper. But the girls still get their cut. Sponsorships, merch, the fan clubs. Winners rake in the gold, losers scrape what's left. That's just the way the system spins."
Lightning gave a short, knowing smirk. "Yeah, I still get royalty checks from the Academy."
"Right," Nishimura said, pointing a chopstick toward her before lowering it again. "Then you also know how folks like to play God with bloodlines. The idea that strong umas make strong offspring. That speed runs in the family. The Satanos and the Majiros come to mind." He snapped the chopsticks apart, the crack sharp in the air. His expression turned grim. "Now imagine those umas don't get a choice in the matter."
Lightning's smirk faded, her tail stilling behind her as the weight of his words sank in. Red's jaw tightened, anger simmering under the surface.
"That's what a Umagoya is," Nishimura continued, eyes far away. "These bastards travel the country, targeting the poor, the desperate, anyone buried under debt. They offer to settle what's owed… in exchange for their uma daughters." He reached for his cup of green tea and took a sip, the gesture casual only on the surface. "They run 'em into the dirt. And when they can't run anymore…" His eyes flicked to Lightning's, flat and cold. "They put 'em on the rack."
"Jesus," Lightning muttered, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose.
Red blew out a harsh breath. "And that ain't even the worst of it," he said, leaning forward. "They rinse and repeat, tryin' to make their own champions. Even go as far as to—" He stopped, swallowing hard. "Get 'em studded. Which is another way of sayin'—"
"I get it, Red," Lightning cut in sharply, her eyes burning. "I've heard a lot of messed-up shit in my time… but this?" Her hand clenched around her chopsticks until they creaked. "This takes the damned cake."
"In all honesty, I'm surprised this isn't something you folks back home came up with first," Nishimura said, scooping up a mouthful of soba. He slurped it down, set the chopsticks against the rim of his bowl, and sighed. "You'd think this kind of thing happens everywhere. Hell, it probably does."
Red let out a low breath through his teeth, eyes narrowing. "Yeah, it did happen. Difference is, we wrote that kinda shit outta the Constitution. Don't mean we're clean, though." His tone sharpened. "Back in Strider, we had our own damned version. Whole thing blew up so bad it made national news."
He jabbed a finger against the file. "But this? This went on from the eighties clear to about ten freakin' years ago, and not a single damn whisper hit the airwaves. No leaks, no scandals, nothin'."
"Because between you and me," Nishimura said, glancing around the room before leaning in, "there were names attached. Big ones. Politicians, corporate execs, maybe even a few higher-ups in the Association." He paused, eyes hooded. "The grunts took the fall, sure. But the ones at the top?" He gave a dry, humorless chuckle. "Some of them are still in office today."
Lightning hesitated, sapphire eyes flicking up to Nishimura with the flat, dangerous calm of someone who'd seen worse but needed the facts. "You said you ran point on some of the cases. What happened?"
"Pretty much what you'd expect. Knocked on doors, asked questions, leaned on informants." He pinched the bridge of his nose, as if the motion could squeeze the memory out. "A tip brought us up into the mountains. An old, dingy warehouse tucked into a dead valley. Smelled like mold and old oil."
He spread his hands, palms up, then steepled his fingers, eyes distant. "There were dozens in there. Little girls, umas in their twenties and thirties… most of the older ones were expecting." His throat tightened. "Some… some were as young as early teens."
The chopstick in Lightning's hand cracked clean in two, the sound like a fired shot. She didn't look away.
"We arrested the bastards," Nishimura went on. "Most of the ones we could find are serving time. The kids, we tried to do right by them. Minors got their records sealed. Some were returned to family, others put into foster care. A few had new names, new files, new starts. At least on paper." He rubbed his temple with the heel of his hand. "The kids of those too young to care for them were placed with willing families."
He glanced at Lightning, then Red. "Whole damned thing nearly made me quit the force. Took everything I had, everything I'd sworn to keep in check, not to put a bullet in every last one of those sons of bitches."
Silence pooled around them, heavy as the steam rising from their trays. Red's jaw worked. Lightning's fingers tightened on the broken chopstick, white at the knuckles, but her face didn't betray more than a cold, coiled fury.
"But if it'll make you two sleep better," Nishimura said, lifting his chopsticks along with his bowl, "it's been years since anyone tried to pull that kind of shit." He drew a long slurp of noodle, the steam fogging the rims of his tired eyes, then set the bowl down with a soft clack. "The URA pushed, hard. Lobbying, hearings, pressure. They made sure the courts hit those bastards with everything they had."
He tapped the table once, the motion punctuating the sentence. "And prison? It ain't kind to people like that. The ones responsible, most of 'em are living in solitary. Not because the state is cruel, but because the other inmates don't take too kindly to 'em. Even scum's got moms, wives, sisters, and daughters who're umas. You don't end up in that cell with that rap and expect a quiet life. No, they get shivs, or a steel pipe to the head."
Red's fingers drummed the table, a slow, angry rhythm. Lightning's jaw set, the ache of outrage tightened behind her eyes, but Nishimura carried on, steady and bitter as gravel. "Justice ain't perfect. It's messy. But God help anyone who thinks they can bring that business back without someone burying them first."
"That's what's got me twisted," Red said, folding his arms, jaw working. "Call it jumpin' the gun, but I can't shake this knot in my gut."
Lightning watched him, eyes narrowed. "What's on your mind?" she asked.
Red leaned forward, tapping the edge of the file with two fingers. "At the rate the MRA's creepin' across the globe, you don't think somebody's gonna try an' bring this shit back?" His words dropped, low and heated. "Money talks, ya know? We already got pinks and side hustles floatin' around, all slick and pretty. What's stoppin' these sons'a bitches from rebuildin' the same hell. Just cleaner and smarter?"
He gave a dry laugh. "'Specially when half the assholes who wrote the goddamn book are still sittin' pretty at the top."
Lightning and Nishimura exchanged a look. For a second the air between them felt thin, like breath held in a waiting room. Nishimura chewed, then let the noodles slip back into the bowl. "By God," he said finally, "you might be onto somethin'."
Lightning tapped the table once, fingers staccato like a metronome. Her face hardened, the blue of her eyes sharpening. "It's not gonna happen," she said, the words landing like a verdict. "I won't let it. Not here, not anywhere." She drew a long breath, the kind that steadies a storm. "The sooner I get the girls trained. The sooner I get them out into the streets where people can see them, the sooner I can start takin' the MRA apart. They won't get the time to lay a single foundation for an Umagoya."
Red's grin was all teeth and weathered pride. "I'm with you, partner, every step. Red Lightnin' all the damned way."
Nishimura looked at them both, the weight of years in the slant of his shoulders. He shook his head, not in doubt but in warning. "Then you'd better be in it for the long haul. This road's gonna be ugly, and it's gonna be long."
They sat there for a beat, the cafeteria's chatter folding back over them as if nothing had happened, but the folder on the table felt heavier now. An open wound that needed tending, and three hands ready, for better or worse, to pick at the scab.