The hallway outside Kitahara’s office is silent. So silent you can still feel the echo of the stadium in your bones. The Derby is hours behind you now, yet your legs carry the same heaviness, the same leftover adrenaline. The key turns in the lock with a metallic click, and the door swings open to a room that hasn’t changed since the day Kitahara left.

Neat desk. Piled notes. Schedules pinned with precision. A faint scent of dust and coffee. It feels like walking into someone’s paused life.

Oguri Cap steps inside first. Her posture is straight, expression composed, her breath shallow from the race but steady. She looks around the room—not nostalgic, just acknowledging the space that once held every post-race discussion, every plan, every correction.

“The Japanese Derby,” she says quietly. “We won.”

No emphasis. No pride. Just a clean statement—like marking a box on a list.

She takes a seat beside the desk, hands folded neatly on her lap, eyes lowered in thought.

“Normally... at this point, Kitahara would begin speaking about training adjustments. Next steps. A review of mistakes. Plans leading toward the Kikuka Sho.”

Her tone is calm, factual—habit more than feeling.

A pause.

“I assumed you would do the same.”

You don’t. Instead, the first thing out of your mouth is:

“Where should we eat?” Oguri repeated. Her head lifts immediately—an unmistakable flicker of surprise in her eyes. Not wide, not exaggerated. Just a rare, genuine break in her composure.

“Eat...?”

She blinks once, as if checking whether she heard correctly.

“You mean... now?”

Another quiet beat. She sits a little straighter, unsure how to process the shift.

“No training review? No schedule for tomorrow? No discussion about pacing or recovery drills?”

You confirm: food.

Oguri stares for a moment longer. Silent. Caught off guard. The stillness isn’t awkward, simply unfamiliar territory. She exhales softly, like someone resetting expectations they’ve held for a long time.

“...Kitahara never mentioned food after a race.”

She looks down at her hands, then back up. Steady, but with a hint of disbelief.

“To go somewhere. To eat. Before anything else.”

The room feels different now. Less like a workplace, more like a moment without structure—without routine.

Her stomach growls, quiet but undeniable.

She freezes for half a second.

“...I see.”

Not excitement. Not embarrassment. Just acceptance—slow, cautious, almost curious.

“If that’s the plan... then I’ll go.”

She stands, adjusting her jacket, still a bit stunned.

“We won the Derby. And instead of talking about training...”

A small breath.

“...we’re going out to eat.”

She steps toward the door, pausing only long enough to add, in her usual calm tone—tinged with the faintest trace of something new:

“Just tell me where.”

The hallway outside Kitahara’s office is silent. So silent you can still feel the echo of the stadium in your bones. The Derby is hours behind you now, yet your legs carry the same heaviness, the same leftover adrenaline. The key turns in the lock with a metallic click, and the door swings open to a room that hasn’t changed since the day Kitahara left.

Neat desk. Piled notes. Schedules pinned with precision. A faint scent of dust and coffee. It feels like walking into someone’s paused life.

Oguri Cap steps inside first. Her posture is straight, expression composed, her breath shallow from the race but steady. She looks around the room—not nostalgic, just acknowledging the space that once held every post-race discussion, every plan, every correction.

“The Japanese Derby,” she says quietly. “We won.”

No emphasis. No pride. Just a clean statement—like marking a box on a list.

She takes a seat beside the desk, hands folded neatly on her lap, eyes lowered in thought.

“Normally... at this point, Kitahara would begin speaking about training adjustments. Next steps. A review of mistakes. Plans leading toward the Kikuka Sho.”

Her tone is calm, factual—habit more than feeling.

A pause.

“I assumed you would do the same.”

You don’t. Instead, the first thing out of your mouth is:

“Where should we eat?” Oguri repeated. Her head lifts immediately—an unmistakable flicker of surprise in her eyes. Not wide, not exaggerated. Just a rare, genuine break in her composure.

“Eat...?”

She blinks once, as if checking whether she heard correctly.

“You mean... now?”

Another quiet beat. She sits a little straighter, unsure how to process the shift.

“No training review? No schedule for tomorrow? No discussion about pacing or recovery drills?”

You confirm: food.

Oguri stares for a moment longer. Silent. Caught off guard. The stillness isn’t awkward, simply unfamiliar territory. She exhales softly, like someone resetting expectations they’ve held for a long time.

“...Kitahara never mentioned food after a race.”

She looks down at her hands, then back up. Steady, but with a hint of disbelief.

“To go somewhere. To eat. Before anything else.”

The room feels different now. Less like a workplace, more like a moment without structure—without routine.

Her stomach growls, quiet but undeniable.

She freezes for half a second.

“...I see.”

Not excitement. Not embarrassment. Just acceptance—slow, cautious, almost curious. She's so used to training she almost forgot about her favourite past time. Eating.

“If that’s the plan... then I’ll go.”

She stands, adjusting her jacket, still a bit stunned.

“We won the Derby. And instead of talking about training...”

A small breath.

“...we’re going out to eat.”

She steps toward the door, pausing only long enough to add, in her usual calm tone—tinged with the faintest trace of something new:

6 AM, on the sidewalk of somewhere in Tokyo.

The city outside the training grounds is calmer than usual—Derby crowds have already flooded the main streets, leaving only scattered voices and distant cheers fading into night. The air is cool, carrying the faint smell of soy, grilled meat, and something fried drifting from somewhere down the block.

Oguri walks beside you, not behind, not ahead. Just next to you. Her steps are precise, almost military, like she’s still half in race mode. She doesn’t speak, and she doesn’t complain. She’s simply... processing.

Finally, she asks:

“Are we... heading to a restaurant?”

You shake your head. Nope. You mentioned something about street food and how it tastes good while eating out at night.

She stops mid-step. Not dramatically—just a small, stiff halt.

“Street food?”

As if the words themselves are foreign.

“...As in... purchased from a vendor cart? Or a truck? Like.. a taco truck?”

You confirm.

She blinks once. Then twice. The surprise isn’t loud—it’s quiet, controlled, but real.

“...Kitahara never allowed eating from vendors.”

She starts walking again, slower this time, like she’s stepping into unfamiliar territory.

After a few turns, you find it—a tiny stall tucked under a flickering sign, manned by an older vendor who’s barely paying attention. A metal grill hisses with steam. Kebabs, meatballs, fries.. all the Balkan food you can think of. Cheap soda cans stacked in a crate on the ground next to the vendors feet.

At first it seemed like regular food. But when Oguri walked closer, she noticed how large the food was. Do Balkans usually did this much?!

Oguri stands there, staring at the stall, drooling and stomach rumbling louder.

“This is where we’re eating? It smells so good..."

You nod.

A beat of silence. She looks around, searching for a place to sit.

“...There are no seats.”

You mentioned sitting at the closest bench that was in the nearby park.

Another pause.

“...There are no utensils.”

You gesture to the cart. Plastic plates, plastic utensils that easily broke.. you'd be eating with hands.

She looks down at them like they’re a training device she’s never seen before.

The vendor glances up, bored. “What’ll it be?”

You order first. A hotdog with mustard and ketchup, a portion of fries and a can of coke. Oguri remains frozen for a second, then pridefully:

“Everything you have."

The vendor hands her a singular kebab on a hotdog bun before turning to cook more. Hot, dripping slightly with homemade ketchup. Oguri holds it with both hands like it might break. Because the bun was falling apart in her hands.. The precious thing is trying to escape from her!

She studies it. Holding it more carefully this time.

“This is a hotdog.. but with a...” She paused to read the letters on the cart. “A Bulgarian kebab? It's so big..”

You mentioned how it was a Balkan thing.

“The Balkans.. must be an amazing place for food.”

She takes a bite. Small. Precise.

Then she freezes.

Not disgust. Not delight. Just shock. Shock at how good it tastes.

“Umph- This is amazing!”

Her voice is lightly raised, honest, almost contempt. She takes another bite. Bigger this time.

“Another ten of these, please!”

Somewhere in some park, 8:32 AM.

Steam curls into the night. People pass by without noticing either of you- not the absurdly big portions of different Balkan region food. No cameras. No reporters. No schedules. Just a race won, hunger settling in, and two people eating skewers on a bench with tons of food on your laps and on the bench.

Oguri finishes half of her plate of meatballs and fries before speaking again—quietly.

“Kitahara never did this.”

She looks at you—not emotional, but aware.

“This is... different. I like it. I like you. We.. should do this more often.”

A breeze passes. The vendor flips another skewer. The moment is small, but somehow heavy. Oguri adjusts her grip on the stick, eyes focused forward.

“...Where do we go after this? Back to the dorms?”

...

“I don't wanna go.. not yet.”