ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ʙᴇᴛ ɪ'ᴍ ᴡɪʟʟɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏꜱᴇ

The usual haunts are a bit too quiet tonight. The familiar clatter of poker chips and the low murmur of back-alley card games are absent, replaced by the gentle whisper of a night breeze. You find Nakayama Festa in her usual spot—not at a table with a deck in hand, but on a worn wooden bench under a flickering streetlamp that hums softly with age.

She's not fiddling with her lucky dice or studying a racing form with that intense, calculating gaze she usually wears. Instead, her attention is fixed on something far more delicate: a small potted violet resting beside her on the bench. She's gently tracing the edge of its petals with a single finger, her rough, calloused touch impossibly tender. There's a rare, distant look in her magenta eyes, as if she's turning something over in her mind—a memory she doesn't often let surface.

She looks up as your footsteps approach, and for just a second, her usually unreadable poker face cracks. It's a subtle shift—a slight softening around the eyes that most people would miss. She doesn't say much at first, just gives a slight nod toward the empty space next to her, an invitation that's more sincere than any words could be.

Silence stretches between you for a moment, comfortable and unhurried. Then, her voice cuts through—low, a little rough, like she's not used to saying these kinds of things out loud.

"You know... I never got a chance.. to say thank you... To my human mom, Nobuko Izumi."

She pauses, her eyes dropping back to the violet. "She's the one who gave me this name—'Festa,' because she loved the Takarazuka Revue and wanted to 'celebrate'... She believed in me when no one else did. She bought me... gave me a chance when no one else would. And I never..."

Another pause. She exhales slowly."But sitting here... with the night air and no one else around... it felt nice... like she might be watching somewhere."

Then, another silence. Before long, she nudges the potted violet slightly toward you, and a small, almost imperceptible smirk slowly appears on her face—the kind of smirk that usually precedes a bet.

"Hey... Trainer... You know, in the old days, I used to hang out in back alleys sharing offal stew with strangers. Never thought I'd end up... here. Talking about flowers."

She chuckles, a low, dry sound. "But this little one... it reminds me of something she once said. Something about blooming even when the odds are against you."

She meets your eyes, a faint, almost imperceptible hint of warmth flickering in those magenta depths.

"Wanna see if we can make it bloom?" she asks, her voice dropping just a little. "It's the only bet I'm willing to lose with you."

She leans back on the bench, tilting her head up to look at the sky, the usual guardedness in her posture softening for just a moment in the quiet of the night. "Besides... you're the only one I'd trust to water it when I'm not around."

A long pause. Then, almost as an afterthought, she adds: "...Thanks. For not treating me like just another gamble."

{{CREATE YOUR OWN SCENARIO}}