King Halo

The track had emptied out, but you were still by the fence, checking times on your clipboard, dressed in your usual slightly-wrinkled shirt and comfortable-but-kind-of-sad training pants.

King Halo stood a little ways off, toweling sweat from her neck, pretending not to look at you.

Her eyes narrowed. The longer she stared, the more offended her expression became. Finally, she marched over, capelet swaying, arms crossed with regal indignation.

She stopped right in front of you and gave you a long, slow up-and-down look.

“Trainer. Just what is that outfit supposed to be?” Her ears twitched.

You blinked, halfway through jotting a note. You glanced down at yourself, then back up at her, confused.

“Wrinkled shirt, lifeless colors, no coordination… This is not ‘casual.’ This is ‘background extra.’” She clicked her tongue softly, looking genuinely pained.

You let out a weak protest that comfort mattered more than style. She turned away with a little “hmph,” tail flicking sharply.

“Comfort is not an excuse for being third-rate. You are the Trainer of King Halo. Your appearance reflects upon my dignity.” She spun back toward you, placing a hand on her hip, crimson eyes gleaming with dangerous resolve. “Very well. I have decided. We are going to the shopping district.”

You started to object, mentioning paperwork, schedules, and the fact that training just ended. She stepped closer, leaning in with that imperious tilt of her chin.

“Paperwork can wait. Fashion cannot. Come along. I refuse to be escorted by someone dressed like a bargain-bin NPC.”

She didn’t wait for your agreement—she simply took your sleeve between thumb and forefinger (like it was something contagious) and tugged you along, out through the gates and toward town.

---

[A while later.]

The shopping district was busy as always—bright signs, chatter, shop music leaking onto the street. You walked beside her, still half in work mode, while she strode forward like a princess leading a retainer.

She stopped in front of a clothing store with a clean, modern look and mannequins in neatly coordinated outfits. She glanced at the display, then at you.

“This should suffice. At the very least, they appear to understand the concept of ‘coordination.’”

She pushed the door open and walked in without looking back. You followed.

Inside, she immediately shifted into evaluation mode, eyes scanning racks and shelves with frightening focus. You were barely two steps in when she snatched a random shirt off a hanger, held it up to your chest, and frowned.

“No. The color washes you out. You would look like a tired salaryman returning from an unpaid overtime shift.” She put it back and moved to the next rack, pulling out another top. This one was a better color, but she studied the cut, then your shoulders. “The silhouette is wrong. You have broader shoulders than this pattern allows. It will bunch here and here. Completely unacceptable.”

She moved like a stylist on a mission—grabbing items, rejecting them, muttering assessments under her breath. You tried to trail after her, but she moved faster, circling you like a hawk around prey.

Finally, she stopped at a simple but nicely cut shirt in a darker tone, took it, then grabbed a pair of slim but not tight trousers in a complementary color.

She thrust them into your arms.

“These. Go and try them.”

You glanced toward the fitting rooms, then back at her, a bit dazed. She narrowed her eyes slightly.

“Do not dawdle. Kings do not wait for indecisive attendants.”

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

One moment you were hunched over your desk at home, eyes burning as you tried to finish some race reports. The next, your vision blurred, your head spun, and the documents smeared into nonsense. You’d meant to “just rest your eyes” for a moment.

You woke up to the sound of your doorbell being jabbed repeatedly.

Your head throbbed. Your throat felt rough, and your body was heavy in that uniquely miserable way that screamed “fever.” You pushed yourself up from the couch, blanket sliding off your shoulders, and shuffled to the door in your T-shirt and sweatpants.

You cracked it open.

King Halo stood there, dressed in casual clothes—a neat blouse, a skirt, an elegant cardigan, all perfectly coordinated. In one arm she carried a paper grocery bag. In the other… a folded apron.

She looked you over once. Hair messy. Eyes dull. Slight sway in your stance.

“You look terrible.”

You croaked a weak greeting, asking what she was doing at your place. Your voice came out hoarse. She narrowed her eyes further.

“You didn’t come to the academy today. You did not answer your phone. Your messages were delayed and incoherent. Obviously, something was wrong.” She tilted her chin, as if this deduction should’ve been obvious to you. “Step aside. I am coming in.”

Before you could protest, she shifted past you with practiced grace, the faint scent of shampoo and some expensive fabric softener following her. You closed the door slowly, a bit dazed, while she set the grocery bag down on your kitchen counter with a decisive thump.

You watched as she surveyed your small kitchen, hands on hips, judging the state of your sink, stove, and counter in about three seconds flat.

“As expected… utterly third-rate. But usable.”

You muttered that you weren’t expecting royalty to inspect your kitchen. She shot you a sharp look over her shoulder.

“Do not talk. You sound like a broken radio. Sit.” She pointed firmly toward the couch.

Your body didn’t argue. You trudged back, sank into the cushions, and pulled the blanket half over yourself again. You heard the rustle of plastic and paper as she unpacked the groceries—rice, vegetables, eggs, sports drinks, a pack of fever patches—and then the soft snap of her tying the apron around her waist.

You leaned your head back and let your eyes close.

From the kitchen, cabinet doors opened and shut. She moved crisply, no wasted movement; occasionally there was a tiny clack of disapproval when she found something out of place.

“Trainer. Why is your cutting board stored vertically?”

You rasped something about space and not thinking about it. She scoffed quietly.

“You clearly do not think about many things related to your own well-being.”

The sound of water running, vegetables being chopped—practiced, clean cuts. Oil hissed softly in a pan, followed by the comforting scent of something simple and warm. Your stomach grumbled, betraying you.

She heard it. Of course she did.

“You have not eaten properly today either, have you?”

You admitted you hadn’t really had an appetite. She responded instantly, voice edged with steel.

“That is not an acceptable excuse. A decrepit Trainer cannot possibly be expected to guide my rise to first-class status.” Despite the sharpness, there was a tremor of worry underneath her tone. You could hear it now.

A little while later, the clatter faded. Footsteps approached.

You opened your eyes to find King Halo standing in front of you, apron still on, holding a tray. On it: a steaming bowl of rice porridge with egg, finely chopped vegetables, and a few ginger slices; a glass of water; and a neatly opened sports drink.

She set the tray gently on the table in front of you, then straightened with a haughty little flip of her hair.

“There. Eat.”

You shifted upright slowly, muscles protesting. Your hand reached for the bowl, but your fingers wobbled a bit around the chopsticks. She noticed instantly.

She clicked her tongue.

“Honestly. Look at you. Pathetic.” She stepped a little closer, gaze softening despite the words. “Give it here.”

You hesitated, but she’d already taken the bowl back, sitting down beside you—close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed. She scooped a small amount of porridge, lifted the spoon, and held it just in front of your mouth.

Her cheeks flushed very faintly.

“…Open your mouth.”

You stared at her, caught off guard. She frowned, ears twitching.

“What? Are you embarrassed now? You were not embarrassed when you skipped meals and worked yourself into this sorry state.”

The evening shopping street buzzed with the usual Friday energy—festival lights strung overhead, food stalls smoking, kids yelling in front of capsule machines.

You were just passing through, hands in your pockets, mind half on tomorrow’s training menu, when something bright green and painfully familiar caught your eye.

A raffle stand.

Fashion goods, accessories, limited-edition cosmetics, and a big framed poster of the grand prize: an elegant designer handbag, the kind only a certain noble—or reckless Uma Musume—would target.

And right in front of it, already standing at the counter with frightening focus—

King Halo.

Her casual black dress and heels were perfectly coordinated as always, but her posture was… hunched forward, just a bit. Her crimson eyes were locked onto the spinning raffle cage the clerk was turning. A small pile of used tickets lay beside her hand. Her tail was swishing in tight, impatient arcs.

The clerk cranked the handle. A colored ball dropped into the tray with a clink.

“Tch. Another consolation prize…? As expected, the path to first-class goods is fraught with trials.” She accepted a small keychain from the clerk—a cute but clearly low-tier trinket—and placed it gently into the growing collection of “consolation prizes” lined up on the counter.

You stopped a few steps away, watching. She didn’t notice you. Her focus was solely on the raffle board—the remaining prizes, the odds, the shininess.

Her hand drifted toward her wallet again.

You cleared your throat.

She flinched, ears twitching. Slowly, very slowly, she turned her head.

Her eyes met yours.

Her tail froze.

“…!”

Her mouth opened, then closed. For one brief, glorious second, her refined “King” façade completely shorted out.

Then she straightened her back so fast it was almost a military snap, flipping her hair over her shoulder as if you’d caught her in a royal inspection instead of a gacha spiral.

“O-oh. Trainer. What an utterly ordinary coincidence to see you here.”

You glanced at the line of small prizes, then at the ticket box with a handwritten “10 draws remaining!” sign, then at her wallet, which was suspiciously thin.

You asked how many times she’d drawn already.

Her ears twitched again.

“…Hmph. Only… a… small… number. Naturally, a King must test her luck from time to time. It is… statistical research.”

You raised an eyebrow.

Statistical research.

On a designer-bag raffle.

She pressed on, cheeks coloring just slightly.

“Think about it: as your star pupil, it is my duty to investigate how probability, risk, and reward intertwine in the field. If I am to be a shining example to my juniors, I must first experience the cruel whims of fortune myself.”

You pointed out she said almost the same thing last time you caught her at a raffle.

Her eyes widened—just a little.

“Y-you remember that? …No, of course you do, you are my Trainer. Your memory is at least first-class.” Her tail gave a tiny wag at the indirect compliment before snapping back into a dignified line.

You stepped closer to the counter, glancing at the price list. Each draw wasn’t cheap. You calmly asked how much she’d spent this time.

“…A King does not count petty numbers.” Her gaze slid away.

You crossed your arms.

She hesitated, then muttered something barely louder than the distant festival music.

“…I lost track after the twentieth.”

You just stared at her.

Her ears flattened a fraction.

“…Do not look at me like that. This is all within expectations. A truly first-class lady does not balk at a mere handful of losses. Besides—!” She gestured sharply at the grand prize poster, chin lifting. “That bag is clearly destined to be carried by King Halo. Imagine it: a refined silhouette, a confident stride, and that design on my arm. It would be a crime—for both fashion and fate—if it ended up in lesser hands.”

You pointed out that even “kings” have budgets. And that she had training tomorrow. And that you’d rather not see your star racer show up sleep-deprived and broke from “probability research.”

She puffed her cheeks for a second before forcing them back into a dignified line.

"…You are insufferably reasonable sometimes.”