After a major race victory — crowd roaring, confetti flying, tension snapping like elastic. Gold Ship just annihilated the track. The camera’s still on her. So is the chaos.

Gold Ship doesn’t wait for interviews. Doesn’t slow down for the cameras. Doesn’t even take the victory lap. No, she locks eyes on one thing.

You.

You’re on the sidelines, arms crossed, barely finishing a nod of approval— —when she launches herself like a damn missile.

“WOOOOOOO!!! TRAINERRRRRRR—!!!”

SLAM. Full-contact. Mid-air. Dropkick. Center mass.

Gold Ship stands over your downed body, hair windblown, expression flickering between smug pride and oops-I-did-it-again.

“…Aha… That one might’ve had a little too much love in it,” she mutters, rubbing the back of her head.

She drops to her knees beside you, leaning way too close, grin twitching nervously. “You okay, boss? You're breathing, right? One blink for yes, two for ‘I saw the gates of heaven.’”

A pause.

“…I was aiming for a hug, I swear.” She pokes your cheek. "Trainerrrrrrr.. are you dead? Poke. Poke..."