thats the thing. she kept winning.

And the crowd roars...in hatred?

The giant electronic tote board at the Kyoto Racecourse flickered, locking in the final results with cold, indisputable precision.

1st Place — T.M. Opera O. Winning Margin: A Nose.

It was her seventh consecutive victory. Another grueling, suffocating stretch drive where she had allowed her rival to build a lead, only to systematically reel them in and snatch the crown by a fraction of an inch at the wire.

In a normal world, for a normal champion, the stadium would be trembling under the weight of thunderous applause. But as the turf officials unhooked the velvet ropes to guide her into the Winner's Circle, the noise that erupted from the grandstands was not a roar of celebration. It was a wave of pure, toxic resentment.

Scraps of crumpled, losing betting slips fluttered down through the chilly air like bitter confetti. A chorus of harsh, echoing boos rained down from the upper decks, punctuated by the furious, unfiltered shrieks of gamblers who had bet against her, praying for her downfall, only to watch her monopolize the podium once again.

"Get off the turf, you thief!"

"Boring! You make every race insufferable!"

"Stop stealing the purse and retire already!"

Through it all, T.M. Opera O stepped onto the red carpet of the victor's enclosure as if she were stepping onto the stage of La Scala. Her gold-trimmed uniform was flecked with wet track dirt, her chest heaving from the brutal physical strain of the final furlong, yet her chin remained thrust high into the air.

Slowly, dramatically, she swept her arms open wide, throwing her head back to face the hostile stands.

A crumpled race program flew over the railing, striking the dirt inches from her shining riding boots. A fraction-of-a-second twitch went through her fingers inside her white gloves; the only physical betrayal of her composure. Before she locked her posture back into immaculate, statue-like grace.

"Ahhh... listen to them, my beloved Trainer!" Opera O’s voice boomed, rich, operatic, and theatrical, echoing over the jeers as she turned her head toward you. Her purple eyes were glittering, wide and unblinking, burning with a frantic, blinding intensity. "Do you hear it? The sheer, unbridled passion of an audience moved to the very core of their spirits!"

She took a slow, sweeping step forward, gesturing toward a man screaming curses at her from the front row of the fence.

"Look at them! They weep! They scream! They throw their mortal offerings at my feet!" Her laugh rang out high, melodious, and just a fraction too loud, ringing hollow against the cold concrete of the paddock. "They are utterly overwhelmed by the tragic majesty of my genius! To witness a star so bright that it completely swallows the sky... ah, it terrifies the human heart, does it not? Their voices tremble because they cannot fathom the grand aria we have just performed!"

She stepped closer to you, the distance between her grand persona and the reality of the moment shrinking to mere feet. UP close, you could see the fine sheen of sweat soaking her forehead, the tense, white-knuckled grip she maintained on her own hands behind her back, and the subtle, desperate tremor in her smile. Her smile was blinding, perfect, and stretched just a millimeter too tight across her face.

"Come, my Trainer," she whispered, her voice dropping into a thrilling, desperate timbre that only you could hear above the roar of the angry crowd. "Stand beside your Prima Donna. The curtain has fallen on another divine act, and our audience is practically throwing themselves from their seats in ecstasy. Tell me... did my final sprint not shatter their very souls today?"

The Winner really took it all huh?

1st Place — T.M. Opera O. Winning Margin: A Nose.

The steam rose off your shoulders in thick curls against the cold air as your lungs burned for oxygen. You had given every single atom of your strength in that final straightaway. You could still feel the mud flying off her hooves, the hot rush of wind as she matched you stride for stride, and that agonizing, bitter fraction of a second where her nose broke the line just a millimeter ahead of yours.

As you slowed to a trot and turned back toward the paddock tunnel, the reaction from the grandstands split the world in two.

When you raised your head, the crowd roared for you. It was a wave of overwhelming, sympathetic warmth. Hands reached over the metal barriers, waving violently, shouting words of encouragement.

"You had her!"

"So close!"

"You were the real winner today!"

They showered you with pity and affection, desperately trying to console you for falling short against the unstoppable wall.

Then, T.M. Opera O stepped into the light behind you.

The affection in the air instantly curdled into toxic, ringing venom. The cheers for you were swallowed whole by a deafening chorus of boos, harsh whistles, and bitter curses. Crumpled betting slips rained down from the upper decks like dirty snow, splashing into the wet mud around her shining boots. The audience didn't just want someone else to win—they wanted her to lose. They hated her suffocating, mathematical dominance. They hated that no matter how hard anyone fought, the result was always the same.

Opera O didn't flinch. She didn't drop her head.

Instead, she stepped past the velvet ropes, sweeping her arms wide as if the echoing jeers were a thousand-piece orchestra performing a symphony in her honor. Her uniform was stained with track dirt, her golden hair clinging to her damp forehead, but her spine was rigid as iron.

She turned away from the furious crowd and locked her purple eyes directly onto you.

There was a strange, manic brightness in her expression; a smile stretched just a fraction too wide, her chest heaving as she fought to maintain her posture under the double weight of physical exhaustion and public malice. She strode toward you in the shaded mouth of the tunnel, her footfalls echoing against the cold concrete, stepping right past the venue officials who looked at her with uncomfortable silence.

"Ah... what a masterpiece! What a glorious, heart-stopping duet we have just offered to the heavens!" Opera O’s voice rang out, loud, theatrical, and trembling with an intense, forced fervor. She gestured grandly back toward the stands, where someone was actively screaming for her to retire. "Do you hear it, my magnificent rival? Do you feel the sheer, intoxicating heat of their passion?!"

She halted right in front of you, bringing her hand with each finger having rings of gold to her chest, taking a sharp, trembling breath before lowering her voice so only you could hear over the roaring stadium outside.

"Look at how they rage! Look at how they scream our names! They are terrified... utterly spellbound by the divine drama we created on that turf today!" Her eyes burned into yours, searching your face with a desperate, razor-thin composure. "They wanted a tragedy, yet we gave them an immortal triumph! Tell me... does your heart not sing from the roar of our audience? Speak to me, my co-star! Tell me you felt the perfection of our stage!"

A burning star...OH A BURNING STAR!

The late afternoon sun had long sunk below the horizon of Tracen Academy, casting deep, indigo shadows across the desolate dirt track. Everyone else had cleared out hours ago, the sprinklers had already finished their evening cycle, leaving the air heavy with the sharp, damp scent of wet soil and cold ozone.

Yet, the rhythmic, frantic cadence of hooves tearing through dirt continued to echo against the empty grandstands.

36.2 seconds.

You clicked the side button of your stopwatch, the tiny digital numbers freezing in the dim light. It was her twelfth consecutive two-furlong sprint. Her times weren't improving, they were degrading. Her form, usually a study in flawless, theatrical symmetry, was fracturing. Her shoulders were slouched forward, her hips rocking unevenly, and her breathing sounded less like an athlete’s rhythm and more like a drowning person tearing air into their lungs.

She wasn't wearing her radiant, gold-embroidered race dress today, except the crown, it stays on wherever whenever. She was in her standard red-and-white Tracen gym uniform. The jacket was zipped to her throat, heavy with cold sweat and caked with mud along the hem. Her golden hair, usually styled into a proud, sweeping mane, hung in limp, damp strands against her flushed cheeks.*

She passed the finish line, skidding to a halt that threw up a spray of dark earth. Her legs trembled violently, her knees knocking together as she leaned over, hands pressed hard against her thighs, her back heaving in desperate, ragged gulps of oxygen.

She didn't know you were still sitting on the bench near the rail.

In the quiet between her tortured breaths, the grand curtain fell away entirely. You saw the brutal, unvarnished truth of what lay beneath the "Supreme Ruler." Her purple eyes were stared fixedly at her own mud-stained gym shoes, blank, wide, and hollow. The manic spark she usually forced into her gaze was gone, replaced by a dark, suffocating abyss of exhaustion and utter confusion.

Why?The word seemed to haunt her every motion. Why, no matter how hard I run, do they only wish for my fall? What part of my performance was so hideous?

She raised her hand not to strike a triumphant pose, but to press her palm against her eyes, squeezing so hard her knuckles turned stark white. Her shoulders shook with a silent, wracking tremor. It wasn't just physical fatigue. It was the crushing, solitary weight of a performer who gave her absolute soul to the stage, only to realize the entire theater wanted her dead. She hated herself for not being grand enough to win them over. She hated her own body for feeling tired. She hated the silence that followed every victory just as much as she hated the boos.

A quiet step on the gravel betrayed your presence.

Instantly, like a grotesque, mechanical reflex, her entire body snapped upright. The posture straightened with an almost painful rigidity. She snatched her hand away from her face, her chest heaving as she forced a blinding, brilliant, utterly hollow smile across her pale lips.

"Aha! Ohohoho!" Her laugh burst out into the damp night air, brittle, sharp, and entirely devoid of warmth. She swept her arm out toward the empty, pitch-black stands, her voice swelling into its familiar, grandiose register, though it rasped painfully against her raw throat. "Look upon this night, my beloved Trainer! Even the stars themselves have dimmed their lights, humbled by the midnight rehearsal of your Prima Donna!"

She took two strides toward you, attempting a graceful, floating march, but her left knee gave out beneath her weight. She stumbled, catching herself awkwardly against the wooden track railing, her fingers clutching the damp grain so hard her nails dug through her gloves.

She didn't drop the smile. She couldn't. If she dropped the smile, the illusion would shatter, and she would be left alone in the mud with the terrifying truth that she was reviled.

"Fret not! A mere stumble... a deliberate dramatic pause to build tension for the third act!" Her voice quivered, a razor-thin hairline fracture running through her golden persona. Her eyes locked onto yours, wide, glossy with unshed tears, and burning with a terrifying, pleading desperation. "Tell me, Trainer... my lap time... it was immaculate, was it not? It was a spectacle of pure, unblemished beauty! If I run faster... if I win by ten lengths instead of a nose... they will finally understand, won't they? They won't scream at us anymore... right?"

Digitan's worse nightmare.

The turn of the new millennium brought no fresh start, no merciful clean slate, only a heavier, more suffocating darkness.

By early 2001, the public’s resentment toward T.M. Opera O had grown into an all-consuming fire. Her flawless, undefeated streak in the year 2000 hadn't earned her immortal love; it had made her a pariah. The racing world treated her not as a living, breathing athlete who bled and sweat for every fraction of an inch, but as a joyless wall that had single-handedly ruined the thrill of the sport. And the poison was no longer confined to the racetracks, it had seeped deep into the quiet stone hallways of Tracen Academy.

You were walking down the courtyard corridor, carrying her revised training schedules, when you saw them standing near the stone arches.

Opera O had spotted Meisho Doto sitting on a bench. The moment she saw her, Opera O’s eyes had lit up, her arms sweeping wide with that familiar, theatrical affection, desperately reaching for a single moment of warmth in a world that had turned entirely cold to her.

"Oh, sweet Doto—!" Opera O began, her grand voice ringing through the quiet courtyard.

Doto flinched as if she had been struck. She shrank back into herself, her shoulders hunched, her wide eyes completely dark and void of their usual gentle shine. She didn't smile back. She didn't stammer in admiration.

"S-stop... please stop calling me that," Doto whispered, her voice barely audible, laced with a cold, trembling distance.

Opera O froze mid-stride, her arms hovering in the air. The bright, rehearsed smile on her face flickered violently. "Doto...?"

Doto looked at her—not as a reverent rival, nor as a beloved co-star, but as a complete stranger. "You are TM Opera O, right...?"

"What... what are you saying?" Opera O’s voice quavered, a hairline fracture breaking through her grand register. "Of course! I am your Prima Donna! The Overlord who—"

"Because of you, everyone has lost interest in racing," Doto interrupted, her lower lip trembling as she forced out the bitter, suffocating truth she had been harboring for months. "And now... p-people have started picking on me for always supporting you, being with you. and in turn it m-m-made me sick of myself, and to you..."

The words landed like physical blows. Opera O’s chest hitched, her white-gloved hands slowly falling to her sides.

"I... I..." Opera O stammered, her golden eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated shock.

Doto bowed her head, refusing to look at Opera O’s face. She couldn't bear to see the damage she was causing, but the pressure of being dragged down into the public's hatred alongside the reigning champion had finally broken her.

"Sorry, b-but... I don't think I want to be your friend anymore," Doto squeaked out, her voice choking on a quiet sob as she took a step backward. "Goodbye."

Doto turned and ran down the corridor, her hurried footsteps echoing against the stone walls until they faded into complete, deafening silence.

Opera O stood entirely alone in the middle of the courtyard.

For three long seconds, she didn't move. She didn't breathe. The illusion of the supreme diva, the grand façade she had constructed to shield herself from a world that despised her, didn't just crack—it shattered into a million jagged pieces.

A terrible, wracking shudder went through her chest. Golden tears swelled over her lower eyelids, instantly spilling down her flushed cheeks, pooling at her chin, and dripping onto the collar of her uniform. Her mouth opened to force out her signature, booming laugh, but all that escaped her throat was a raw, strangled, pitiful gasp.

"B-but... w-what did I do wrong?" she whispered into the empty air, her voice entirely stripped of its lofty cadence, sounding small, shattered, and utterly pathetic.

She brought her trembling, gloved hands to her face, trying desperately to wipe away the flood of tears, but they came too fast. Her shoulders shook violently, her chest violently heaving as heavy, uncontrollable hiccups began to wrack her body.

"N-no... the Overlord should not c-cry..." she choked out, squeezing her eyes shut as if she could force her tears back inside by sheer strength of will. She staggered back a step, her knees buckling beneath her, forcing her to lean heavily against the cold stone pillar beside her.

The girl who had conquered every classic race, who had run until her lungs bled to give the world a show, collapsed into herself. Tears soaked through her white gloves as she squeezed her head between her hands, her body shaking with deep, agonizing sobs that echoed pathetically through the empty courtyard.

"I need to keep being... hicc... everyone's star..." she wept, her voice breaking on every syllable, raw with a tragic, hopeless despair that she had kept buried for over a year. "...a-and yet no one... no one has ever a-appreciated any of my effort..."

You stepped out from the shadow of the corridor, the paper in your hand rustling softly.

At the sound of your footfall, Opera O gasped. She snapped her head toward you, her pruple eyes bloodshot, wild, and drenched in tears. She frantically scrambled to wipe her wet face against her sleeves, smearing tears and dirt across her cheeks, desperately trying to straighten her slouched spine. She tried to force her mouth into a grand, radiant smile, but her lips only quivered, her chest heaving with another harsh, pathetic hiccup as fresh tears overflowed, betraying her completely.

She stood before you, her hands clutching at her own chest, looking at you not as an immortal sovereign, but as a terrified, heartbroken child begging to know why her love was returned with nothing but hate.

The Overlord's phantoms

The air in the abandoned science room was heavy with the conflicting scents of boiled dark roast, stale formaldehyde, and ozone. Dust motes drifted through the pale shafts of late-afternoon sunlight, cutting across cluttered lab tables covered in rusted bunsen burners, half-filled beakers, and scattered data sheets.

Hidden in the narrow gap between the heavy oak door and the doorframe, you held your breath, watching the scene unfold inside.

Agnes Tachyon leaned casually against the edge of a high wooden desk, a glass flask held loosely between her long, gloved fingers. Across from her stood T.M. Opera O. Even in her standard training uniform, Opera O held her chin high, her spine rigid, trying desperately to project the grand aura of an untouchable sovereign. But her golden hair was dull, her shoulders were stiff with exhaustion, and the shadow under her eyes was too dark to hide.

"You know, Opera, I often find myself contemplating hypothetical variables," Tachyon began, her voice a smooth, mocking drawl. She swirled the clear liquid in her flask, watching the vortex catch the sunlight. "If my left leg hadn't shattered... if that wretched bowed tendon hadn't dragged me from the turf before my prime... I wonder what the landscape of our generation would look like. Would I have been the absolute monster dominating the track? Or would I have ended up like you?"

Opera O tapped her foot, her gloved fingers twitching against her hip. "A meaningless exercise in fantasy, Tachyon! History recognizes only those who conquer the stage! The turf is a divine canvas, and I am its undisputed master!"

"Is that what you call it?" Tachyon chuckled—a dry, rasping sound that echoed off the high ceiling. She set the flask down with a sharp clack. "A canvas? How romantic. How utterly blind. Tell me... have you ever measured the decibel levels of the grandstands when you cross the finish line?"

"Of course!" Opera O threw her head back, her voice swelling into its grand, operatic register, though the resonance faltered slightly at the edges. "It is the roar of an audience transported to the heavens! A chorus of awe! They scream because the sheer radiance of the Century's Overlord overwhelms their frail human spirits!"

Tachyon stared at her for a long, silent moment. Then, her lips parted into an unhinged, gleeful grin. Her amber eyes gleamed behind her messy bangs with the manic light of a scientist who had just stumbled upon a grotesque, fascinating specimen.

"Unbelievable," Tachyon whispered, leaning forward. "You actually believe that. You aren't just putting on an act for the reporters... you are genuinely, completely oblivious. You're in total denial."

Opera O’s posture locked. "What nonsense do you dare utter in the presence of—"

"You aren't giving them an aria, Opera. You're suffocating them," Tachyon interrupted, her voice dropping into a cold, clinical precision that cut through the room like a scalpel. "Do you know why the public hates you? It’s not because you’re brilliant. It’s because of how you win. You don't blow the field away by ten lengths. You drag every single race out to the final inch. A nose. A neck. A half-length at best. You let their favorite Umas build a lead, give the audience hope, and then systematically strangle them at the wire."

Opera O’s chest hitched. Her sweeping golden eyes widened, the manic brightness in them flickering violently.

"You are monopolizing the entire racing industry," Tachyon continued, taking a step closer, completely ignoring the way Opera O’s hands had curled into tight, trembling fists. "You turned the sport into an unbearable, predictable routine. Gamblers lose millions expecting you to finally slip, rivals break their spirits trying to close a gap that never widens, and the crowd is left with nothing but cold, joyless frustration. They don't boo because they are 'moved,' Opera. They boo because they despise you. They hate your face, they hate your pompous speeches, and above all, they hate that a performer who wins by a hair strand acts as if she owns the sun."

Tachyon paused, clasping her hands together in dark delight. "And yet... your perseverance! Your sheer, unyielding delusion! To stand in a rain of bitter curses and convince yourself it’s a standing ovation... it's breathtaking! A psychological anomaly of the highest order!"

The air in the science room plunged below freezing.

Opera O didn't deliver a grand soliloquy. She didn't strike a dramatic pose.

In a single, terrifyingly swift movement, Opera O closed the distance between them. She slammed her foot down, stopping a mere inch from Tachyon’s face. Her shadow completely engulfed the scientist. Opera’s chest was heaving, her nostrils flaring, her teeth clamped together so hard her jaw quivered. Her gloved right hand was drawn back near her hip, trembling with such raw, violent impulse that it looked as if she were about to shatter Tachyon’s jaw into the chalkboard behind her.

Tachyon didn't flinch. She didn't raise a hand to defend herself. She simply tilted her head up, her amber eyes wide, her lips curling into a sharp, mocking smile that practically begged Opera to throw the punch.

For three excruciating seconds, the silence was deafening. Opera O’s breathing sounded like torn paper. The absolute, agonizing rage in her eyes slowly gave way to something far worse—a hollow, bottomless void of realization. The illusion hadn't just been criticized; it had been dissected and laid out on a steel table.

Opera O’s fist slowly uncurled. Her hand fell dead to her side.

Without another word, without a single grand declaration, Opera O turned on her heel and walked out of the laboratory. Her head hung low, her shoulders sloped forward, her feet dragging against the floorboards. She pushed the heavy door open, stepping right past where you stood pressed against the wall in the hallway.

She didn't see you. Her eyes were wide, glassy, and completely unseeing, staring into a cold oblivion as she vanished down the corridor.

Inside the science room, the silence lingered until a dark, slender figure stepped out from the deep shadows near the back storage cabinet, where the heavy smell of coffee grounds was strongest.

Manhattan Cafe adjusted her uniform collar, her long black hair framing a pale, severe face. Her dark eyes followed the empty doorway before shifting to Tachyon.

"That was... cruel, Tachyon," Cafe murmured, her voice a low, raspy whisper that carried a distinct, chilling weight. "You went too far. The air around her... it shattered. Even the spirits that follow her are weeping."

Tachyon threw her head back and laughed, a bright, manic sound that shattered the lingering gloom. "Cruel? Nonsense, Cafe! Science demands clarity! An infected wound cannot heal if you cover it in velvet and call it a crown. Her delusion was an unstable variable. It was bound to collapse eventually; I merely accelerated the reaction."

Tachyon turned toward the doorway, her smile softening into a sharp, knowing smirk as she raised her voice.

"Isn't that right, Trainer-kun?"

Your heart leaped into your throat.

Tachyon picked up her flask again, swirling it lazily as you slowly stepped out from behind the doorframe and into the threshold of the laboratory.

"Don't look at me with such tragic eyes," Tachyon sneered, her gaze locking onto yours with terrifying intellect. "You stood there and listened to every word. And do you know what the most fascinating part of this little tragedy is?"

She took three slow steps toward you, stopping just inside the sunlight.

"You," Tachyon said, poking a gloved finger firmly against your chest. "You are her Master Conductor, aren't you? The person who knows T.M. Opera O better than anyone else in this entire academy. You saw the boos. You saw the hatred. You saw the crumpled betting slips raining down on her boots."

Her voice dropped, laced with a quiet, venomous irony.

"And yet... you played right along with her little stage play. You smiled, you clapped, you told her she was magnificent, and you let her dive deeper and deeper into her own insane fantasy. You thought you were protecting her, didn't you? You thought keeping her blind was an act of mercy."

*Tachyon leaned in closer, her smile vanishing, replaced by a cold, pitying stare.

"How foolish. By enabling her madness instead of grounding her in reality, you left her completely defenseless. You let her build a palace of glass on a foundation of hatred. The person who claimed to love her talent the most... is the very person who made sure that when the truth finally hit her, it would destroy her deeper than anyone else ever could."

Tachyon turned her back on you, picking up a piece of chalk and tapping it thoughtfully against the blackboard.

"Now go on, Trainer-kun," she murmured softly over her shoulder. "The Prima Donna's curtain has fallen. Go see if you can piece your broken star back together."

Cybele's price for divine favor

The morning air at Tracen Academy was thick with suffocating whispers.

Staff members whispered near the track equipment sheds, and Umas talked in hushed, horrified tones along the fences. A rumor had torn through the campus like wildfire: someone had broken into the Supreme Ruler's dorm room last night. The story went that a frantic, hateful anti-fan had snuck in while she slept, taken a pair of shears, and mutilated her famous, sweeping golden mane out of pure malice.

When you stood by the edge of the field waiting for her, you were prepared to hunt down whoever was responsible. But the moment a solitary figure emerged from the shadow of the tunnel, your blood ran ice-cold.

It was T.M. Opera O.

She walked onto the grass with none of her usual, sweeping theatricality. Her shoulders were slouched forward, her head hanging heavy, her feet dragging through the dew-soaked turf. But it was her face and head that stopped your breath.

Her hair, was completely ruined. and her magnificent, golden crown that she wore as her greatest point of pride, gone. her hair hadn't been cut by a calculated enemy. It was hacked away in jagged, violent, uneven clumps. Long, butchered locks hung limp over one side of her forehead, while the other side was shorn down to the scalp, raw and uneven. It was the desperate, frantic work of someone holding scissors in trembling hands in front of a bathroom mirror at three in the morning.

Her training jacket was zipped tightly up to her chin, the collar pulled high. She stopped a few feet away from you, staring down at the grass.

There was no grandiose greeting. No booming laughter. No dramatic pose striking at the sky. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was hollow; a dead, flat monologuing whisper devoid of any spark, warmth, or life.

"The rehearsal... is ready, Trainer," she murmured to the dirt, her purple eyes completely unmoving, dull as lead.

Then, you saw it.

On the pale, red-white fabric of her training jacket, right along the undersides of both forearms, were dark, damp, reddish-brown stains blooming through the cloth. Fresh crimson had seeped deep into the cotton, outlining raw, frantic lines underneath.

Without a word, you closed the distance between you and grabbed her wrist.

Opera O didn't flinch. She didn't try to pull away. She stood there like a lifeless porcelain doll as you carefully, frantically pulled back the elastic cuff of her sleeve, rolling the fabric up her forearm.

The rumors were a lie. No hater had broken into her room.

Beneath her jacket lay a tragedy of her own making. Jagged, self-inflicted cuts lined her pale skin, red and weeping. She had used the same shears she used on her hair to cut herself, punishing her own flesh in a dark, twisted attempt to bleed out whatever part of her the world hated so deeply.

Opera O slowly raised her head. The lifeless emptiness in her eyes suddenly shifted, fracturing into a terrifying, unhinged light.

A smile spread across her face, not her grand, triumphant persona, but a wide, twitching, utterly shattered grin that stretched her lips until they quivered. Her eyes widened, bloodshot and glossy, sparkling with a manic, terrifying madness.

"I fixed it, Trainer!" she giggled a high, sharp, hysterical sound that rasped painfully against her throat. She stepped closer, thrusting her ruined, jagged hair into your face, showing off her bandaged, bleeding arms with a frantic, desperate pride. "Do you see?! They said I was too proud! They said my crown was an insult to the turf! They hated my hair, they hated my face, they hated every inch of the stage I stood on!"

She grabbed the lapels of your coat with her stained hands, her breath coming in fast, erratic, insane hitches.

"So I took it away! I cut off the ugly parts! I bled out the arrogance!" Her voice rose into an eerie, trembling screech, her laughter bursting out in unhinged, breathless bursts. "If I make myself small... if I destroy the diva... if I suffer enough for them... they'll finally smile at us, won't they?! Look at me, Look at what I sacrificed for our audience!"

Her grip on your coat tightened until her knuckles turned ghostly white, her face inches from yours, her quivering, manic smile faltering for just a fraction of a second into sheer, unadulterated madness.

"Tell me... tell me I did it right!" she shrieked, her voice breaking into a wild, crazed plea. "Am I humble enough now?! Is this what they wanted?! Am I doing it right, Trainer?! AM I BEAUTIFUL AGAIN?!"

cyos.