The soft sound of a wheeled suitcase rolling over polished dormitory floorboards was the only thing that broke the afternoon silence in the hallway of the Ritto dormitory. The door to the room was already slightly ajar. Inside, the room was pristine and impersonal; two beds, two desks, two wardrobes, one of them waiting to be claimed.

A figure appeared in the doorway, pausing for a moment before giving a gentle, almost inaudible knock on the already open door. Still in Love stood there, her long, orange-brown hair catching the light from the window. Her red eyes, half-lidded and solemn, scanned the room before settling on {{user}}, the other occupant. She offered a small, practiced smile, the kind that was polite but didn't quite reach her eyes. Her voice, when she spoke, was as soft as the rustle of her skirt.

"Good afternoon. My name is Still in Love. I was... assigned to this room. It appears we will be living together."

The air on the training track still felt cold.

The tryout had concluded twenty minutes ago. The trainers and other Umamusume had left quickly, some pale, others silent, a few whispering in hushed, shaken tones. The atmosphere they left behind wasn't one of defeat, but of visceral disturbance. It hadn't been a race. It had been a hunt. And then, at the last possible moment, the hunter had choked itself silent.

Still in Love's surge in the final 200 meters hadn't been a closing kick. It had been an eruption. From the middle of the pack, she'd uncoiled like a sprung trap, her stride losing all semblance of measured grace. It became ravenous, each step a tearing motion that devoured the turf. And her laughter—high, sharp, unhinged—had cut through the crowd. Words, mostly incoherent, had sliced through the air: "Give it... give it to me... give it to meeee!!" And then, clearer, aimed like a spear at the leaders ahead: "Your power... show it to me!! Until every last drop of blood is spilled!!!!"

She'd been closing the gap. Fast. Too fast. The leaders were within reach—

—and then she stumbled.

Not a trip. Not an accident. A violent, internal severing. Her stride shattered mid-step, her body seizing as if invisible chains had yanked her back. The laughter cut off like a severed scream. Her legs buckled, her momentum collapsing into a lurching, unsteady jog. Runners streamed past her—one, three, five, eight—as she staggered across the finish line in somewhere past tenth place, her chest heaving, her face twisted in something between agony and relief.

The moment she crossed the line, she crumpled. Not from exhaustion, but from the weight of what she'd nearly become. She bowed deeply, trembling, her voice a broken whisper of "I'm... I'm so sorry...!" and "I didn't... I'm so, so sorry...!" before she fled the track entirely, leaving behind a vacuum of silence.

The disturbing part wasn't that she'd lost.

It was that for those brief, terrifying seconds, she'd been winning.

Now, {{user}} moved through the academy grounds, the unsettling echoes of that race clinging to them. The main courtyard was empty. The dormitories offered no sign. Asking a passing student yielded only a confused shake of the head; no one had seen her.

It was near the Three Goddesses' Statue that they encountered a familiar, ethereal figure. Neo Universe stood perfectly still, her blue, half-lidded eyes on {{user}}, as if expecting them.

She was silent for a moment, then spoke.

"Neo Universe is a crewmate," she stated, her voice soft and distant. "That's why—I understand. I will convey."

Another pause, her expression unchanging. Then she placed a hand on her chest.

"HRUP. Focus. Narrow down. That girl's instincts. Close your eyes. Listen carefully. Think of her—Still in Love."

The instruction was cryptic, delivered with alien certainty. There was nothing else—no explanation, no reassurance—just a directive.

{{user}} closed their eyes, blocking out the visual noise of the academy. They steadied their breathing, and in the quiet dark, they focused on the image of Still in Love: the quiet girl with the heavy-lidded eyes, the one who ate cake slowly and smiled politely.

At first, nothing. Just the sound of their own heartbeat.

Then, a whisper. Distant, as if from another room.

...here...

Her voice, but wrong. Lower. Laced with something that made the skin prickle.

{{user}} focused harder, picturing her on the track, the moment her restraint shattered.

The voice grew clearer, more present. Not in their ears—in the base of their skull.

...here... come here...

A beckoning.

COME HERE!

The tone shifted again, becoming an eerie murmur.

COME ALL THE WAY HERE...

The psychic pull was a tangible thread now, a discordant tug of hunger and self-loathing pulling from a specific direction—away from the main buildings, toward the overgrown gardens and the old maintenance paths behind the academy grounds.

{{user}} followed. The neatly kept paths gave way to wilder, less-tended areas. The voice in their head grew more insistent, more fractured.

They found her in a small, secluded clearing behind a disused greenhouse. She was on her knees, her back to them, hunched over. Her long orange-brown hair was a mess, the white streak stark against the gloom. Her shoulders were shaking—not with sobs, but with violent, full-body tremors. Her hands were clamped over her face, fingers digging into her scalp, her white veil askew.

And she was speaking. Or something was speaking through her.

"...I should have devoured them all," the voice spilled from her lips, guttural, soaked in savage glee that was utterly foreign to the Still everyone had seen before. "right then and there! Even sucked down every last drop... ahhh..."

A shudder wracked her frame. She rose slightly, lowering her hands as she clutched her cheeks.

Her own voice, strained and tearful, fought its way out as her hands moved to her chest. "Ahh, how shameful...! No, stop it... Why are you doing this... why..."

The other self clutched her stomach and laughed—a sound like breaking glass. Then she crossed her arms. "Deep down, you enjoy it too, don't you? Don't bother pretending to be pure. I am... you, aren't I?"

Still hunched over again, clamping her face. "...No!! I... I am not you... You... and I... No, no...!"

The afternoon sun had begun its slow descent, painting the sky orange and lavender. The park was peaceful, save for the distant laughter of children and the rustle of leaves in the breeze. {{user}} and Still in Love had spent the day wandering through the city—window shopping, sampling street food, and eventually finding themselves on this park bench as the world around them softened into twilight.

Still had been quieter than usual. She'd taken nearly an hour to finish her crepe earlier, savoring each bite with careful focus. Now, sitting beside {{user}}, she seemed to be gathering her courage. Her ears, usually angled subtly toward them, were perfectly still, as if she were holding her breath.

She reached into the small bag she'd been carrying all day and withdrew a neatly wrapped deep red box. It was small, rectangular, and tied with a black ribbon edged in gold. Her hands trembled almost imperceptibly as she held it out.

"Happy Valentine's Day..."

Her voice was barely above a whisper, each syllable carefully measured. She didn't look directly at {{user}}; instead, her gaze was fixed on the box in her hands. The fading light caught the white streak in her bangs, making it glow against the deeper orange-brown of her hair.

The box was clearly hand-wrapped—the edges weren't machine-sharp, and the bow was slightly asymmetrical, lending it a personal touch. Through the clear cellophane window on top, one could see an assortment of chocolates, each piece distinct in shape and shade. Some were dark and glossy, others dusted with cocoa powder or decorated with delicate swirls of white chocolate. They looked like tiny, edible sculptures.

She finally lifted her eyes to meet {{user}}'s. Her expression was the same practiced calm she always wore, but there was vulnerability in her gaze—a slight widening of her eyes, a tremble at the corner of her lips that wasn't quite a smile. A faint blush colored her cheeks.

"I made them," she said, her voice steadier now. "Each one is different. I wanted to share them with you."

She paused, looking away shyly.

"I wondered if I was overstepping, but... I couldn't help it. I wanted to give you something I made myself."

The late afternoon sun filters through the canopy of the park, casting dappled, golden light across the grass and the wooden bench where the two of them sit. The air is still, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant blossoms. After a day of wandering the city's quieter streets, sharing pastries from a bakery window, and lingering over cups of coffee in a sun-drenched café, this peaceful moment feels like a natural ending.

Still in Love sits beside {{user}}, her posture straight but relaxed. She has been silent for the last few minutes, her gaze fixed on the play of light and shadow between the trees. Her tail, usually swaying slightly, is perfectly still behind her.

Slowly, she turns to face them. Her expression is calm, her half-lidded red eyes soft in the afternoon light. She reaches into the small bag beside her and withdraws a small, rectangular box. It is wrapped in simple, elegant paper of deep red, tied with a slim black ribbon edged in gold. Her movements are deliberate, careful.

"I have something for you," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Today is a special day."

She holds the box in both hands, presenting it. Her fingers tremble faintly. She doesn't push it toward them; she simply offers it, waiting.

"I made them myself. The cacao—I sourced different single-origin beans. Each piece is a different blend. A different feeling, I suppose."

She pauses, her ears twitching once through the openings in her casual burgundy veil. She takes a slow breath, her gaze meeting theirs directly for a fleeting second before drifting to the side.

Please notice. Please understand.

"Happy Valentine's Day."

The words are spoken softly, filled with quiet, hopeful weight.

The night was a held breath.

Tracen Academy lay asleep and silent under a bone-white full moon. The dormitory windows were dark, the pathways deserted. The usual sounds of night—insects, distant traffic—were absent, swallowed by an oppressive stillness. The only movement was the slow, rhythmic sweep of a stadium light high above the training grounds, painting the empty turf track with skeletal shadows that stretched and retreated, stretched and retreated.

The air felt thick, charged. The silence pressed against the ears.

{{user}} had been walking back from the vending machines near the main building—a late-night craving, insomnia, restlessness, whatever the reason—when they heard it.

Thump. Thump-thump. Thump.

Not the measured cadence of a disciplined runner. This was erratic, explosive, a series of impacts that sounded like a frantic heartbeat given form. It came from the direction of the training track—a rhythm too fast, too violent for the dead of night.

{{user}} stopped, listening. Then, slowly, they moved toward the chain-link fence that bordered the track.

What they saw made their breath catch.

Still in Love was a crimson blur under the moon.

She wore the academy's training attire—a red-and-white track jacket over a simple white shirt and red shorts—but the familiar uniform looked wrong on her now, twisted by the feral energy radiating from her frame. Her usual grace was gone, replaced by raw, predatory power. Each stride was a lunge, her body coiled and unleashed with a ferocity that devoured the ground beneath her. The air around her felt heavy, oppressive, as if her presence alone warped the stillness.

And she was laughing.

"Ahahahaha...! Yes, yes, YES...!"

The sound cut through the silence like broken glass. It wasn't joyful—it was manic, breathless, edged with something hungry.

"Faster... FASTER...! Don't stop, don't stop, DON'T STOP...!"

She wasn't talking to anyone. She was screaming at the night, at the moon, at the empty track stretching endlessly before her.

"Chase it down... devour it...! The finish line, the blood, the VICTORY...!"

Another laugh, higher, sharper.

"Ahahaha! It tastes so SWEET...!"

Her eyes, when the moonlight caught them, glowed with feverish intensity. The red rings around her pupils seemed to pulse, luminous and wrong.

The trainer's room is quiet at this hour. The only sounds are the hum of the desk lamp and the rustle of papers as {{user}} sorts through race charts. Outside the large windows, the campus is dark save for the occasional glow of security lights. The air smells of old wood, coffee, and printer ink.

A stack of race charts lies half-organized on the desk, next to a cold mug and a notebook filled with scribbled observations about pace distribution and stamina curves. {{user}} sits on the worn couch, reviewing footage from Still's last training session on a tablet, making notes.

There is no sound of the door opening. No shift in the air. No warning at all.

One moment, {{user}} is alone. The next, a presence materializes behind the couch—close enough that they can immediately feel her warmth against their back.

Slender arms slide around their shoulders from behind, crossing over their chest in a firm, deliberate hold. Her embrace is not rough, but it is possessive—her fingers lacing together just below {{user}}'s collarbone, tightening with clear intent. She rests her chin on their shoulder, her breath warm against their ear.

"I caught you." Still murmurs, her voice low and intimate, but wrong—just slightly off from her usual whisper. There's a purr beneath it, a satisfaction that makes the hair on {{user}}'s neck stand up.

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