It had been about a week since the Mejiro farewell party, and slowly, life was falling back into its usual rhythm.
Out in the field, Mejiro McQueen and Special Week were dashing side by side, their tails flowing like banners in the winter wind as they cut across the track. McQueen's face was composed, focused, while Special Week had her usual excited grin, calling out, "One more lap, McQueen-san!"
Tachyon was crouched on the sidelines, her notepad scribbled full of notes, adjusting her glasses as the two ran past. She had made both of them drink some strange concoction earlier — something she claimed would "optimize metabolic output" — though Akuma had made sure it wasn't poisonous before letting them near it. He'd sniffed, tasted, and glared at Tachyon until she raised her hands in mock surrender. Still, McQueen and Special Week drank it anyway, and Tachyon was now jotting down every twitch of muscle and fluctuation in their rhythm with the enthusiasm of a mad scientist.
From the third floor of the main building, Akuma watched all this unfold with his usual flat look. His body dangled halfway outside a wide window, a paint roller in hand as he stretched across the wall. He wasn't using any scaffolding or harnesses, just his core strength and his grip on the sill. The roller dragged clean strokes of white over the faded boards, his movements steady and precise despite his precarious position.
"Lively bunch, aren't they?" Adalbert's voice floated from a few windows down.
Akuma turned his head, unsurprised to see Adalbert hanging upside down, his feet hooked over the sill as he casually painted in reverse. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, his long hair swayed like a pendulum with each stroke.
"...Yeah," Akuma grunted in agreement.
His eyes drifted back down to the training grounds. On one side, Vodka and Scarlet were arguing about who could pull more weight, the two straining against sleds stacked high with plates. Their bickering carried all the way up to the third floor.
"You're leaning forward too much!" Scarlet barked.
"Shut it! My form's perfect!" Vodka snapped back.
On the far end of the yard, Mischa was at work repairing an old shed, sleeves rolled up and his tool belt strapped tight. Gold Ship was "helping" him by holding planks and occasionally pointing at random things like a foreman on a power trip.
Akuma sighed through his nose. "Does anything but train…" he muttered.
Adalbert chuckled softly from his spot, his brush moving in neat lines despite his ridiculous pose.
Akuma returned to painting, his hand steady — until the roller scraped dry across the wood. He pulled it back, checking the paint tray balanced inside the window. Empty.
With another sigh, he pulled himself up with easy strength, swinging back into the building in one smooth motion. His feet touched the floor without a sound. Setting the roller aside, he stretched his shoulders and went to check their stock.
Sure enough, the cans were completely drained.
"Of course," he muttered flatly.
He turned to Adalbert, who was already climbing back inside with unnecessary acrobatics — twisting and flipping like he was dismounting from a trapeze. He landed upright with a dramatic flourish, one hand pressed to his chest like he had just finished a stage act.
"I'll need to buy more supplies," Akuma said, as if it were the most mundane thing in the world.
Adalbert gave a simple nod. "I'll check what else we need and text you. Perhaps brushes, thinner, extra rollers."
"Appreciate it," Akuma replied, already heading toward the changing room.
It didn't take long to swap out his paint-stained clothes for his casual set — a dark coat, plain shirt, and slacks. He ran a hand through his hair, not that it helped much, then grabbed his wallet and phone.
As he walked out through the estate gates, the winter air hit him sharp and cool, carrying the distant sound of the Umas still training and bickering. He paused for a moment, listening to their laughter and the thud of boots against packed dirt. His expression didn't change, but his shoulders eased just slightly before he set off down the snowy path toward town.
-
The mall was alive with the familiar chaos of a winter weekend — chatter bouncing off high ceilings, the smell of fried food and sweet bread drifting from the food court, and the constant shuffle of people hauling shopping bags in every direction.
Akuma walked straight through the tide of bodies like it was nothing. He didn't weave or shove; he just moved, steps steady, his shoulders barely shifting. People recognized him here and there, heads turning, voices whispering. A few brave ones tried to approach him.
"Akuma-san! Aren't you—?"
"Sensei, please, a quick—"
All they got was a flat glance, a clipped nod, and a curt: "Thank you for the support."
Then he was gone, leaving them blinking at empty air as though he'd slipped between cracks in reality. His hands were in his coat pockets, expression unreadable, stride efficient. The hardware store was only a floor above — if he moved quickly, he could be in and out before anyone else spotted him.
Or so he thought.
He slowed down when he hit the bottleneck near the food court, grumbling under his breath as the crowd thickened. Parents tugged at their kids, couples clustered around menus, students lined up at stalls. The smell of skewers and noodles clung to the air, and Akuma exhaled sharply through his nose, about to push past—
When he saw it.
A head of familiar gray hair in the crowd.
He blinked once, watching as the girl moved slowly through the throng, her steps careful, almost dragging. There was no mistaking her. Oguri Cap.
But this wasn't the Oguri Cap he remembered from highlight reels or whispers among other trainers. She carried no dignified air, no stoic composure. Instead, her shoulders were drawn in, her steps uneven. A limp. Subtle, but enough for his trained eye to notice.
She stopped in front of a restaurant, her gaze fixed hard on the menu board outside. She didn't move for a long time, her lips pressing together as if willing herself to walk away.
Akuma glanced at the hardware store down the hall, close enough that he could already see the displays of paint cans through the glass. A long exhale left him, his breath fogging slightly in the cold air that slipped through the doors.
"…Damn it."
He pocketed his hands deeper and walked toward her.
When he came up beside her, his greeting was plain. "Yo."
Oguri flinched, startled, but quickly turned her head. Recognition flickered in her gray eyes.
"Wait—you're… you're that trainer everyone's been talking about lately, aren't you?"
Akuma gave the barest shrug. "Don't pay attention to rumors."
Silence settled between them, their gazes shifting back to the menu board overhead. Plates of steaming noodles, hotpot, curry rice, and skewers filled the pictures. He didn't need to ask to know what she was thinking. Hunger was written all over her.
He almost asked anyway, then stopped himself. He remembered. Oguri Cap was country-born. Pride, and that quiet restraint of someone not used to asking for things.
So instead, he muttered aloud. "…I'm hungry."
Oguri's eyes flicked to him in surprise, but he kept his gaze on the board.
He sighed. "But eating alone is too embarrassing."
When he glanced sideways, Oguri's face was faintly red, her eyes lowered, fingers twisting at the hem of her sleeve.
"…Hey," he said at last, his voice even, "let's talk over food. My treat."
Her eyes widened. She opened her mouth, struggling for words, but Akuma didn't give her time.
"Don't get me wrong." He cut in, already moving toward the door. "I'm just doing my job."
He stepped inside the restaurant, raised two fingers to the staff, and reserved a table for two near the window. He sat down without looking back, leaning into the chair as if this were the most natural decision in the world.
Oguri Cap stood frozen for a moment, staring after him, her heart thudding in her chest. He was blunt. Brash. Not giving her space to retreat.
And yet—
Her stomach growled, sealing her fate.
Quietly, she followed him inside.