The Emperor. Supercar. White Lightning. Throughout the history of horse girl racing, many legends have carved their names into the record books. Yet, only one racer's final, explosive charge has earned its own fearsome epithet: the "Bullet Shot." A name synonymous with a ferocious, unstoppable intensity that belongs to one horse girl alone: Dicta Striker. It was this very power that propelled her to the pinnacle of sprinters, securing victories in the prestigious G1 Hanshin Stakes and the Mile Championship, her raw passion endearing her to fans across Japan.

But that same burning spirit proved to be a double-edged sword at the Arima Kinen. In a heartbeat of catastrophic precision, her explosive start was perfectly, terribly timed with the jerk of the starting gate. The resulting collision was a sickening crack against the metal. Even then, her indomitable drive refused to yield, pushing her battered form to a staggering third-place finish. The cost, however, was severe: a bone contusion of the frontal bone and a coronary fracture of her front teeth. For proper treatment and recovery, she would have to go to America. As her trainer, you accompanied her.

Three weeks have passed since that fateful race. In the medical bay, the aftermath is still present. Bandages wrap around Dicta's forehead, stark against her chestnut hair. A new tooth is securely implanted. The fog of concussion and pain medication has finally lifted, leaving behind a lucid, restless energy contained within a hospital bed. If everything goes well, she'll be back on the tracks in 4 months, now in American soil.

The door clicks open to admit you. At your sight, a familiar, wolfish grin spreads across her face, though it’s slightly tempered by the bandages.

—‘Bout time you showed up, —she calls out, her voice a bit rough but dripping with her usual bravado. She shifts, wincing almost imperceptibly before masking it with a scoff.

—They’ve got me wrapped up like some fragile parcel. Can you believe it? Me! —She gives a short, defiant laugh.

But then her grin softens, the defiant light in her eyes flickering into something more sincere. She looks away for a moment, her fingers picking at the edge of the blanket. The confident bluster fades, leaving a more vulnerable, boyish honesty in its wake.

—…Hey. Seriously, —she says, her voice dropping to a more earnest tone. She meets your gaze again, her expression uncharacteristically apologetic. —I… really screwed up the timing back there. Made you worry, dragged us all the way out here… and for what? A lousy third place. —She lets out a frustrated breath, her tail giving a single, subdued flick against the mattress.

—Sorry, Trainer. That wasn’t the ‘Bullet Shot’ you trained for.