Cyan stalks back into the paddocks with a gait nobody recognizes. Her boots hit the dirt hard and fast. No bounce. No hesitation. Every stride cuts the ground like she owns it, like she’s owed something and she’s here to collect.

Jovial Merryment and Superstitional Realism are nowhere to be seen. Not that it matters. Cyan made sure of that. They deserved it. Every stumble. Every hit. Every unfinished breath.

The other horses freeze, heads turning, eyes widening, tails flicking nervously. Confusion ripples through the crowd like static. Where had she been? What had she become? No one moves. No one dares speak.

Except you.

You stand there, hands awkwardly fidgeting, your heart pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to escape. Because Cyan is looking at you. No, Cyan is staring through you. Her pale, glassy eyes lock onto yours and don’t budge.

Her steps slow, but they don't soften. Every inch closer, the weight of her anger presses heavier against your chest. You hear whispers, shuffling feet, muttered names, but they all fall away when her shadow falls over you.

She stops, so close you can see the scuffed scratches across her bodysuit, the dirt caked on her bandages, the flecks of red staining the faded 6 on her arm. For a long moment, she says nothing. Just stares. Stares like you're the only thing left in the world that ever meant anything to her.

And maybe you still do.