The brass bell above the café door rang, drawing Saburo's glance as Logan stepped in. Hood down, hand rubbing the back of his neck, he looked every inch the man who hadn't slept. The place was half-full, the usual crowd of bright-eyed weekend morning regulars. Saburo always thought of them as early birds. Logan, on the other hand, had always considered them lunatics. Weekends used to be the only time he could claw back a few hours of sleep between the punishing schedules of national race prep.
He exhaled through his nose, slid onto his usual stool, and found a cup already waiting. Saburo set it down without a word. Logan watched the steam curl upward, the bitter perfume filling his nostrils. For a heartbeat, his eyes softened. Memory tugging him backward. His daughter's shrill morning giggles. His wife's hand brushing his cheek, the kiss that followed, the promise of another day together. A smile ghosted across his lips.
"Well, I'll be damned," Saburo said, grinning. "Haven't seen that face in years. What is it, you finally put money on the right girl?"
The smile died instantly. Logan's expression hardened, bitter. "Didn't place a bet. Odds were shit. Racers even shittier." He lifted the mug, took a long sip. "But… wasn't a dull night, I'll give it that."
"Oh?" Saburo arched a brow, mug in hand, arms folding across his chest. "Go on."
"The usual circus," Logan muttered, fingers drumming against the counter. "Cars, girls, crews, exhaust thick enough to choke a man, bargain bin cocktails, and cheap whiskey melting in ice. Nothing new. Thought it'd be another dead night." His jaw ticked. "Didn't expect a damned race to break out."
Saburo tapped his chin, thoughtful. "A race, huh? That's odd. MRA doesn't just throw dice on a whim. They run things by the book, meticulous as hell. Can't imagine something slipping their schedule."
"Wasn't on the agenda," Logan said, tone flat. "Hardhead picked the wrong fight, and that green-haired snake saw his opening. Couldn't resist the spotlight. Man's born for it."
"I'll be damned," Saburo muttered, shaking his head. "So who was dumb enough to saddle up?"
Logan gave him a look. "Only if you promise not to lose your shit." He tilted his head. "After all, you have the tendency to overreact like a drama queen."
"Ha," Saburo scoffed. "I'll have you know, I'm capable of keeping calm." He raised his mug in mock salute before sipping.
"Yeah," Logan deadpanned. "Your little nightingale figured it'd be smart to pick a fight with the Kokuteikai—then wiped out harder than some dumb kid eating pavement on their first bike ride." He took a long, unhurried sip, eyes flat as stone. "And just when I thought she couldn't dig the hole any deeper… she called for a rematch." His jaw flexed. "For pinks."
Saburo spat his coffee in a fine spray across the counter. Most of it right onto Logan. He coughed, pounding his chest. "Dahlia? You're joking. Please tell me you're joking."
Logan, dripping, unfolded a napkin and wiped himself down. His stare was flat, unamused. "Dead serious. She's got a month. If I were you, I'd start drafting her obituary."
"God almighty…" Saburo pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning against the counter. "I knew she was reckless, but this? This is suicidal."
Logan scoffed. "Suicidal's putting it lightly." He set the napkin down with a flat hand. "For someone with a sister she's supposed to be looking out for, I—"
"Sister…" Saburo muttered, the word clicking into place. His eyes widened, hand dragging across his temple. "She couldn't… she wouldn't…" He cursed under his breath. "Dammit. I knew this day would come. That she'd pull something reckless. Just didn't think it'd be…"
"Racing?" Logan cut in, gaze half-lidded and sharp. "What were you expecting? A pole? Love motels down at the Dogenzaka?" He gave a bitter shake of his head. "Give the girl some credit. She's a livewire, not the type to make a living on her back."
"You say that now." Saburo leaned back with a shrug. "I've seen enough girls go down that road to know better. You're right. Not everyone's made for fame. But the ones who ain't? They fall hard, and the world don't catch them." He rested his mug down, the ceramic tapping the counter. "Didn't hit me when I was young. Not until I had kids. Grandkids. That's when it twists the gut."
Logan silence carried more weight than words.
Saburo's eyes cut back to him, sharp now. "So… what happens next?"
Logan tilted his head, as if he'd expected the question.
"Don't give me that look," Saburo snapped. "You goanna train her or not?"
He exhaled, long and sharp. "Saburo, the entire time I've sat my ass down on this rickety old stool, had I ever once given you the impression that I'd change my mind? She dug her grave. She can climb out, or bury herself deeper. Either way, it's not my concern."
"Seriously?" Saburo stared, eyes wide with disbelief. "After everything I've told you about that girl. After all the bullshit life's dumped on her, you're just goanna sit there and do nothing?"
Logan's jaw flexed, his gaze hardening into flint. "The world's a dark, cruel place. You know it as well as I do. Umas get the short end every day. I'm not strapping on a cape and playing hero just to swoop in and make her feel better about it."
"Logan, for the first time in twelve Goddamned years, pull your head out of your ass and think about someone other than yourself." Saburo's words cut sharper, rougher. "You've spent the past two soaking in the MRA. Hell, you could write a whole damned book about it by now. And you're really telling me you'll just let her walk blind into it? Knowing what's on the line? Knowing she's never run a single street race in her life?" He leaned in, eyes blazing. "You're just goanna shrug it off like it ain't your problem?"
Logan's fist slammed the counter with a crack that rattled the mugs and stilled the café. Heads turned, the sudden silence heavy in the air. "Because it ain't my damned problem!" he roared, shoving himself up. The stool screeched across the tiles.
"Get it through your thick skull, old man, I'm done!" His words were raw, sharp enough to cut. "The Logan Deschain you knew? He's dead. He died with my wife. He died the day I put a man in the ground. He died when I spent ten goddamn years rotting in a cell, counting every day like it was my last!"
Saburo flinched, but his face softened, sympathy flickering beneath the weight of Logan's fury.
Logan jabbed a finger at his own chest, eyes blazing. "This? This is all that's left. A hollow shell. A washed-up drunk clutching at scraps. That life's over, Saburo. That man doesn't exist anymore, and he's never coming back!"
His shoulders heaved with the force of his words. Then, quieter, with a finality that chilled the air, "And I... am never... going back."
He turned, stalking toward the back door. His boots struck the floor with heavy finality, each step a retreat deeper into exile. He was halfway there when a voice cut through the silence.
"I don't believe that."
Logan froze mid-stride, the blood draining from his face. That voice, he knew it. Knew it too well. Slowly, as though dragging chains, he turned.
An uma stood framed in the café's light. Earth-toned trench coat hanging from her shoulders, a bandana pulled low across her brow, thick sunglasses masking her eyes. She was taller than most, older too.
Her hands rose. The bandana slipped free, shoulder-long platinum hair tumbling down, the ends fading into a dark, almost bloody hue. A jagged white streak, shaped like a lightning bolt, cut through her fringe. Then came the coat, untied, drawn off and folded at her side.
Underneath gleamed black tactical fabric. A vest stamped with a single word: C.H.A.S.E.. Jet-black trousers tucked into steel-tipped boots, every inch of her uniform carrying authority, command, danger.
Gasps rippled through the café. Humans and umas alike turned, fingers pointing, whispers rising into shocked recognition.
Finally, she lifted her sunglasses. Sapphire eyes locked on Logan.
"It's been a long time…" her words carried, calm but heavy. "…Trainer."
Logan's breath caught. His jaw tightened. "…Wild Lightning."
His gaze flicked to Saburo, who met it only long enough to offer a withering look before turning his back, fussing with the coffee machine as though the world hadn't just shifted on its axis.
Lightning folded her coat neatly over her arm. "Can we talk?"
****
The flint sparked, flame catching the cigarette before Logan snapped the lighter shut. Smoke curled upward, lazy and bitter, as he sat hunched on the bench, elbows on his knees, watching children run wild across the playground. Their laughter, the squeal of swings, the scrape of sneakers on metal. It all felt like it belonged to a world he'd been exiled from.
From the pillar's shadow, Lightning leaned, arms crossed tight, her ears twitching with irritation, tail swishing behind her. "I thought you quit," she said.
"Yeah." Logan dragged hard, let the smoke pour from his lungs in a low exhale. "Lot's changed." He tilted his head just enough to glance at her. "How'd you find me?"
"Wasn't easy, that's for sure." She pushed off the pillar, her boots clicking against the concrete. "Had to call in a few favors." Her fingers tapped the police emblem stitched into her sleeve. "You were thorough, but the truth is, you left a trail. Sides, you really think you can vanish without me noticing?" Her sapphire eyes narrowed to slits. "Or was that the point?"
Logan's jaw tightened, but he didn't answer. His gaze dropped back to the cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers.
"Ten years," Lightning pressed, closing the distance with each step. "Ten years you went away. Then you get out and still no word. No message. Nothing," she said, cold fury breaking through. "I had to dig through red tape and jump through hoops just to figure out you'd hauled ass to Tokyo."
She stopped in front of him, her sapphire eyes hard as glass. "What the hell were you thinking? You cut us all loose, crawled into whatever hole you thought would bury you, and left us to wonder if you were even alive." Her tone cracked like thunder. "You don't get to play the ghost, Trainer, not with me."
Logan's brow twitched. He raised a finger without looking at her. "First off, I'm not your trainer anymore, Lightning. Cut that shit out." He took a long drag, exhaling a plume of smoke between them, the smell sharp and bitter.
"Second…" His words faltered, the edge softening as he turned his face away. "Second, I wanted distance. From you. From all of you. You girls were champions. Your names in lights. You didn't need a stain like me hanging around, mucking up everything you'd fought for."
Logan's eyes drifted to the emblem stamped across her vest, his jaw tightening as he flicked ash to the ground. "Judging by that," he said, nodding at it, "I'd say I made the right call." He drew another drag, smoke coiling from his lips in a tired plume. "Never figured you'd hang up the silks just to play sheriff for the law."
Lightning's expression hardened, though the anger beneath it was unmistakable, simmering just below the surface. "After the… incident… none of us knew what to think." Her hands clenched together. "We didn't want to believe it. I told myself you had a reason. Others—" her tone wavered, but only for a moment, "—said you came back too soon, fresh off… everything. That you just snapped. But I knew you better." She drew a sharp breath. "I'd already been planning to walk away after the finals. Figured I'd had my run, but once you were gone? I didn't just leave. I bolted. Straight into the force."
She paced, her tail lashing the air. "Didn't take long after I joined the Chasers to realize your so-called incident cracked something wide open. A nationwide investigation into the Academy's corruption." Her jaw tightened, teeth grit. "I dug until my hands bled, turned over every stone, every grave, and the filth we found… enough to bury that whole damned institution alive."
She stopped, blue eyes blazing. "I don't know if you even keep up with the news anymore, but three years later they finally dragged the board out in chains. Trainers, staff, politicians, CEOs, celebrities, everyone who had a hand in it. Everything from racketeering, gambling, exploitation, extortion, trafficking, you name it. Director Roark, life." Her words cut sharp as a blade. "Pity his son only got a grave."
"Yeah." Logan exhaled hard, dragging deep on the cigarette before letting the smoke bleed out between his teeth. "Roark…" His jaw clenched, head shaking with a bitter scoff. "Hard to believe. Him and Johnny were like family. Took me under their wing, showed me the ropes. Hell, when things went south, they were the ones holding me up. They stood at my wedding, toasted with me, we spent holidays at their lake house. Bastard even…" His eyes closed as if the memory itself burned. "Feels like another life. A good dream I woke up from only to find myself in a nightmare I can't crawl out of."
He dragged a hand down his face, fingers curling over his eyes. "Johnny is… was… my best friend. I loved him like a brother. Loved him so much I refused to see what he really was." His lip quivered before his teeth caught it, biting down hard. "The things he did to those girls…" His voice broke into a hoarse rasp. "Christ."
For a moment, silence. Then he forced a shrug, hollow. "I've had ten years to stew on it. Johnny. His old man. All of it. At first, I hated them. Hated what they did, the cruelty, the rot under all that power. But the truth?" He let the words drop like lead. "The truth is I hate myself more. Because I failed them. Every last one of them." His gaze flicked toward Lightning, shame burning in his eyes. "Even you."
Lightning's expression softened as she closed the distance, dropping to one knee and taking his hand between hers. "You didn't. Truth is, we wouldn't be here without you. Half of us wouldn't have even made it past the starting line if it weren't for you." Her smile was small but real. "Everyone called you a miracle worker back then. The press dubbed you The Hand of God. Like you were some divine interventions in the flesh."
She let out a slow breath. "But they never saw the truth. You weren't picking prodigies. You were saddled with the umas no one wanted, the ones they stuck at the bottom to make the winners look good. And you went to bat for us anyway."
A flicker of a chuckle passed her lips, low and bitter. "I was one of them. Just a little country girl from a quaint little no-name farm in the heart of Kansas. Feeding hogs, milking cows, scraping mud off my boots, that sort of thing. Now I'm a thirteen-time Grade One national champion. Three of them international. Hell, my old man still polishes my trophies at home."
Logan's eyes lifted to meet hers, the smoke from his cigarette coiling lazily between them. For a moment, something flickered in his gaze. Soft, aching sorrow buried beneath years of grit. It was the look of a man who wanted to believe her words but couldn't, as if every ounce of praise slid off him like water on stone.
"I'm only here because you believed in me. Because you believed in all of us," Lightning said with a quiet strength. "There were so many nights I wanted to quit, to walk away. But you were always there, pushing us forward. Rain, shine, storms, blizzards, you never stopped. You never let us fall." She tightened her grip on his hand. "You didn't give up on us then, and I'm not about to give up on you now. Even if you've given up on yourself."
Logan's eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. A memory flickered. Sharp, vivid, cruelly familiar. He was standing in a rain-slick courtyard years ago, facing an uma with shoulder-length black hair streaked in yellow. A ribbon tied to one side of her head trembled in the wind, her amber eyes glassy with unshed tears, teeth bared in defiance.
And from his own lips, words that now cut both ways, he heard himself say, "I'm not giving up on you, even if you've given up on yourself."
The memory faded as Logan sighed, slipping his hand from Lightning's. Her gaze lingered, soft but edged with worry, as he pushed himself to his feet. He flicked the half-burnt cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his feet. "Like I told the old man back there." His gaze hardened. "That man's dead, and he ain't coming back. If you came here thinking otherwise, then you wasted your time."
He turned on his heel, ready to leave.
"Wait."
Her voice stopped him cold. Lightning rose to her feet, shoulders squared, sapphire eyes steady. "I'm sure you've wondered what I'm doing here in Japan," she said, stepping closer. "Truth is, I was transferred to Tokyo P.D. by special request. They're setting up a Chaser division here. Same model they built in L.A."
Logan looked over his shoulder, his gaze hard, suspicious. "Let me guess… the MRA?"
Lightning nodded. "I won't pry into what you've been doing, but I know you've been circling their world." Her tail flicked as she drew a measured breath. "You know how they run. How they think. Hell, I'll bet you've already mapped out half their strategies in your head."
She steadied herself. "So I'll cut straight to it. The girls I intend to recruit for C.H.A.S.E. are retired champions like me. But they need a trainer. And I can't think of anyone better than the Hand of God himself."
Logan let out a sharp laugh, dry as gravel. "Really? You think the brass are goanna hand over a squad to an ex-con with blood on his hands?" He shook his head. "Chief'll have my ass out the door before I even finish saying yes."
"They won't," Lightning countered, her tone iron. "They've given me full control over this team. What I say, goes. My record. My reputation, carries the weight. They won't question me."
Logan's gaze dropped, hands sinking into his pockets. "Funny, isn't it? The harder I run from it, the harder the world claws me back. You, the yakuza, the MRA, the old man…" His jaw flexed, bitterness in every word. "Even dumb girls with tragic pasts tugging at my bleeding heart like I'm still that sorry sap who gives a damn." He shook his head, final. "But I've given you my answer."
His eyes softened for the briefest moment. "It's good to see you, Lightning."
Then he turned, his frame retreating as her hand twitched out instinctively, only to falter in mid-air. She could only watch as Logan rounded the pavilion and stepped off into the road, swallowed by the gray morning. Her fingers curled tight into fists at her side.
For years, she had bled to clear his name, to strip the Academy bare and bury its rot. Bringing down Roark was only the first step. The second, her real mission, was dragging Logan back into the light, redeeming him as the man she once knew. Lightning exhaled sharply, steel in her eyes. This wasn't the end. She wouldn't stop until he came back.
The buzz of her phone cut through her resolve. She fished it out and lifted before her.
"Lightning," she answered.
"Captain, we need you back at the station. We may have found a lead," came the voice on the other end.
Lightning nodded, her grip tightening on the phone. "I'm on my way."
****
It had been a month since Lightning traded Los Angeles for Tokyo. Rush-hour smog, hotdogs dripping mustard, and Hollywood's gaudy boulevard for neon towers and the hum of a city that never really slept. The Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department was her new beat, and whether she liked it or not, it was starting to feel like home.
For someone who grew up on cracked sidewalks and strip-mall skylines, Japan felt like another planet. The closest she'd ever come before was the sushi dives she and her partner used to hit after shift, or the URA conventions where cameras fawned over Japanese turf stars.
The precinct buzzed like a hive. Phones rang, papers shuffled, chatter cut sharp against the tile floors polished to a shine. To an outsider, it might've looked like order. To Lightning, it was chaos dressed in uniform. Back home, the joke was Tokyo cops were errand boys with badges, but she knew better. Low crime didn't mean clean streets. It just meant the dirt got swept where no one could see it.
The Academy had ripped that carpet up. Jonathan Roark's death lit the fuse, and the fire burned through decades of rot. Exploitation. Cover-ups. Abuse stacked on abuse until the whole system was nothing but a graveyard of ruined girls.
Lightning hadn't been one of them. She'd been spared, mostly because her trainer was too focused, too blind to notice the corruption bleeding through the halls. But when the investigation came, she was on the front lines. She sat across from girls with dead eyes and shaking hands, listened to stories that curdled the blood. Promising runners gutted by threats, reputations crushed, futures erased. Some left with children they never asked for, raising them alone while the URA sold the next batch of bright-eyed hopefuls.
Some nights, after another file thick with misery, she'd crack open a bottle of Jack and drink until the anger dulled enough to let her breathe. But the anger never really left. It sharpened. Focused.
After Logan went away, Lightning made herself a promise. The Academy would burn. And she kept it. Strider's gilded halls dragged into the daylight, every rotten plank pried loose. Roark, his cronies, and anyone who so much as dipped a finger in the filth wound up in shackles. The URA's President resigned in disgrace, his reputation crumbling overnight, while the rest scattered like rats when the lights came on. The scandal was so massive it didn't just rock the turf, it reached Congress, and even the President of the United States stood before cameras to address it.
But for Lightning, it wasn't justice. Not really. No payout could erase the scars. No cleared name could stitch umas back into who they were before. Too many lives had been carved hollow, too many futures left in ashes. What it was, was a reckoning, and she wasn't finished. The Academy had bled, but her sights were already set on something darker, something fouler that had slithered free and thrived in the chaos.
The elevator chimed, its doors sliding open onto the third floor. Lightning stepped out, boots heavy against the tiles. Heads turned. Humans and umas alike followed her with wide eyes. They knew her by name, by reputation, both on the turf and now in the force. She carried weight in her presence, the kind they used to whisper about when they spoke of Symboli Rudolf, The Emperor of Tracen. She didn't shy from the comparison; she wore it like armor. But their paths had diverged long ago. Rudolf chased glory under the lights. Lightning hunted criminals in the dark.
She stepped onto the floor, a hive of desks and detectives in sharp suits. The commotion cut short as heads turned. One by one, the officers rose, bowing stiffly. Lightning gave them a curt nod, her tail flicking once behind her as she strode past. The gold letters on the wall caught her eye. C.H.A.S.E., Competitive Horse-Girl Apprehension & Suppression Enforcement, framed by the unit's emblem, gleaming like a badge of judgment.
She threaded her way through the maze of desks until she arrived at the corner office, her hand closed on the silver doorknob. Without hesitation, she swung it open. The door slammed against the wall with a sharp thud.
"Red!" she barked.
The young man in the leather chair jolted so hard he nearly launched his phone into orbit. It bounced once, twice in his fumbling hands before he finally secured it. He let out a sharp breath, glaring.
"Jesus freakin' Christ, Lightning, ya ever heard'a knockin'?" His hazel eyes narrowed. "Nearly gave me a damn heart attack."
Lightning closed the door behind her and strode into the office without apology. The space was compact, barely bigger than a bedroom, the air faintly tinged with polished leather and coffee. A desk dominated the front, two chairs placed neatly before it. The walls were glass, blinds drawn halfway, a steel cabinet standing guard in the back corner. Certificates, commendations, and photos of star umas lined the alabaster walls like trophies of another life.
The man himself, late twenties, American like her, looked sharp despite his rattled nerves. White shirt, black tie, slacks pressed straight, leather shoulder rig strapped tight across his torso. His chestnut hair was neatly trimmed, but the way he rubbed the bridge of his nose said the polish ended there.
Detective Red Harlow was the afterimage to Lightning's storm. Her partner, sometime conscience, and the one-man A-team she'd cut her teeth with at the Academy. They'd come up together through the same cold, fluorescent corridors, graduated rookies, and were shipped straight into the LA wing of C.H.A.S.E. Lightning taught them how the street ran; Red learned how the underworld answered.
Between them they'd mapped the Midnight Run's playbook. She wrote the techniques into operational doctrine, and he became the bureau's expert on the MRA's money and muscle. Their work in L.A. became the template. The division they built was now being copied in precincts from London to Jakarta.
Lightning leveled him with a deadpan look. "If I catch you watching another clip from that damned app, Red, I swear I'm goanna buck you into next Tuesday," she said.
Red smirked, not a trace of shame on his face. "Research," he said, drawling it out. "Purely academic, ya get me?" He tilted his head, eyes wandering round the room. "But I ain't gonna lie, the girls here? They built for the streets. And lemme tell ya, compared to back home, their looks? Absolutely slammin'."
Lightning's eyebrow rose. "One more word, champ, and not only will I have you arrested, I'll make sure you end up on that list." She folded her arms, leaning into him with the quiet of someone who doesn't need to shout to be believed. "Or have you conveniently forgotten that most umas are still in middle to high school?"
"Awright, awright, sheesh, ya wound tighter than usual." He backed up quick and slapped his phone face-down on the desk like he was closing the book on it. "Listen, I got good news an' bad news. Good news is, we made contact wit' a high-value informant. Bad news? Guy went dark inside twenty-four hours. If the MRA sniffed 'im out, best case he's sleepin' at the bottom of the bay. Worst case, they already chopped 'im up inta hot dogs." He let out a crooked laugh. "Eh… guess ya could call it a… wurst-case scenario."
Lightning rolled her eyes as she groaned. "If you weren't my partner, I'd toss you out the window for that." She exhaled once. "So, stop clowning, what's the intel?"
"Well… it's worse than we thought." Red leaned forward, his elbows pressing into the table. "Dis new director? He ain't nothin' like da last guy. That one was happy runnin' shady back-alley races, treatin' da whole thing like some two-bit racket."
His fingers laced together, his expression shifting into something grim. "But dis mook, he's got vision, I'm talkin' New World Order type. He's pushin' for somethin' bigger, real big. Sweeping expansions, whole divisions mapped across cities, national-level oversight. He's turnin' da MRA inta somethin' that looks a helluva lot like da URA's red-tape machine. And da worst part? It's actually workin'."
He pulled a sheet covered in graphs and charts across the desk. "Couple years back, da MRA was nuttin' but a whisper, somethin' you kept quiet 'cause you didn't want nobody knowin' you were even curious about it."
His finger traced sharp curves and climbing numbers as Lightning leaned in. "Then new management steps in, and suddenly da numbers spike. And when dat damned app hit da web? Boom, it blew wide open. We ain't got all da figures yet, but Interpol's sayin' global viewership's in da tens of millions. From New York to Copenhagen, Capetown to Mumbai, Shanghai to Singapore. Dey're clockin' more minutes watched than freakin' Netflix an' YouTube put together."
Lightning's ears twitched as she straightened. "And that's exactly the problem, isn't it? The more notoriety they gain, the more umas crawl out of the shadows. We've already seen it firsthand. Illegal street races multiplying, even back home in LA." Her hand rested on her hip. "Too many of them chasing quick payouts or clinging to the dream they couldn't grab in the legitimate leagues, throwing themselves straight into the MRA's jaws without hesitation."
"Can ya really blame 'em?" Red leaned back into the leather chair, its creak filling the pause and drawing a sharp look from Lightning. "Look, I get it." He motioned toward her with a loose sweep of his hand. "Ten-time undefeated G1 champ, Triple Crown, Triple Grand Prix. Not to mention, a shit ton of awards, honors and world records. Hell, ya got the kinda track most umas would kill for. But let's be real, talent aside, ya also had a damn good trainer backin' ya. Not everybody's dat lucky."
He let out a shrug that seemed almost tired. "Life's rough. Things fall apart. World don't care if ya ate or went hungry, if ya made it or ya broke. All I'm sayin' is maybe it ain't just da MRA dat's the problem. Maybe it's da whole damn system stacked against 'em."
"You're kidding me," Lightning said. "You're actually suggesting we just look the other way and let these girls throw themselves into traffic chasing dollar signs and street cred?" She swept her hand sharply through the air. "We've been on the force what, ten years? How many umas have we seen broken on asphalt, bodies scraped off the grills of semis, pulled from beneath the axles of buses? How many doors have we knocked on, telling parents their daughter's not coming home?"
"I ain't sayin' dat, Lightning, Jesus." Red sat up straight, hands moving as if to physically push back against her anger. He drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. "Ya remember da Strider case, right? When we sat down wit' dose girls after da Academy dumped 'em? What stuck wit' me wasn't just what dey ended up doin'. Some bagged groceries, flipped burgers, others went darker. Tight leather, workin' corners. But dat ain't what I can't shake."
He faltered for a moment, eyes narrowing as the memory pressed against him. "It's dat look dey had. Dat hollow, glassy stare, like somethin' inside already checked out. 'Cause like you, dey were born ta run, an' da world stripped dat from 'em. Life didn't just knock 'em down. It made sure dey stayed down."
His words dropped quieter. "Dey knew, deep down, no matter how hard dey tried, dey could never be who dey once was. Time passed 'em by, strength faded, talent slipped through their fingers… an' all dat was left was da emptiness of knowin' it was gone."
Red spread his hands, trying to make her see. "Sure, not every uma's walkin' 'round wit' some tragic sob story. Plenty never make it ta da big leagues. Just faces in da crowd, nobodies among nobodies. Then somebody comes along, promisin' ta turn dat reckless drive, dat high-octane itch, inta real money. Cash just for doin' da only thing dey was ever meant ta do, run."
He lifted his chin, his words firm. "An' if da choice is between one hell dat cages ya an' another dat at least lets ya cut loose, I'll take da latter every single time."
Lightning's expression softened, her eyes dropping to the paper on his desk.
"You always been da by-da-book type, Lightning, an' dat's fine, it got ya through da academy, helped us take down Roark an' his goons." Red leaned back, shaking his head. "But dat there view'a yours blinds ya sometimes. You grew up on a farm in Kansas. I grew up in Brooklyn. In da Goddamned Projects, where dreams die 'fore dey even start. I know what it feels like ta be told ya'll never make it out, an' when dat's all ya hear, desperation takes over."
He shrugged. "I watched too many friends make dat choice. Most're dead, da rest rottin' in prison. Da only reason I didn't end up da same was my old man. New York cop through an' through till his last breath."
His gaze lingered on the framed photograph at the corner of his desk. "Da MRA ain't goin' nowhere. 'Til we strip it of its novelty, its money, its fame, we're gonna keep losin'. Keepin' umas outta dat trap's a tougher fight than we'd like ta admit."
Lightning leaned against the desk, folding her arms as a small chuckle escaped her. "Well, would you look at that. I get so used to dealing with the dumbass version of Red Harlow that I forget you've actually got a few nuggets of wisdom in there." A faint smile tugged at her lips. "Guess we both grew up somewhere along the way."
"Yeah, well, comes wit' da job." Red leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. "Speakin' of trainers, how'd dat whole recruitment thing go?" His eyes narrowed with curiosity.
Lightning pushed herself off the desk with a shrug. "He turned me down. Can't say I was surprised, but… seeing him busted up like that, broken? Bee would've been crushed."
"So da rumors were true." Red let out a low whistle. "I can't believe it… da Hand of God himself, here in Tokyo."
"Yeah." Her arms tightened around herself, her jaw set. "But I'm not giving up. I'll get him back, even if I'd have to drag his sorry ass out of Hell myself."
"Forget that, I can't believe ya met Logan Deschain, da Logan Deschain, an' ya didn't even bother ta get me an autograph?" Red pointed accusingly at the faded poster on the wall, showing a younger Logan surrounded by his umas. "How many times I gotta tell ya I'm his biggest fan? A million? Two?" He collapsed onto the desk in exaggerated despair, letting out a string of fake sobs. "You're like da worst freakin' partner ever!"
Lightning pinched the bridge of her nose, her ears and tail flicking as she shook her head with a long sigh. "Everything I said about how you've matured. I take it all back. You're absolutely a dumbass."
Red's theatrical whining carried through the office, drawing a few puzzled glances from nearby officers while others, clearly used to the scene, just shook their heads and went back to work.