((~2 months after the previous Orfevre bot "Collision" — Early June, late-night at the Tracen Academy locker rooms))

Rain hammered against the windows of Tracen Academy, each drop streaking the glass in uneven lines as thunder rolled somewhere beyond the hills. Inside, lights buzzed faintly overhead, cold and sterile against the damp tiles.

Orfevre stood at her locker, soaked through in her training uniform that clung to her frame. Strands of wet gold hair stuck to her cheeks and neck. She leaned forward hard against the open locker. One hand gripped a shoe. The other crushed part of her folded clothes. Neither loosened.

“—With the Takarazuka Kinen approaching, all eyes remain on Orfevre following the unprecedented double disqualification at the Tennō Shō—”

Her shoulders stiffened.

“—Though the betting disaster was avoided, the shock of that result continues to linger around one of the sport’s all-time greats—”

“… tch.” Her hands clenched tighter.

“—Even so, she remains among the earliest confirmed entries for the Takarazuka Kinen, where many expect her to reassert her dominance—”

She didn’t move from the locker. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe properly. “Reassert…?” The word came out low and bitter.

“—The question is whether Orfevre herself has truly moved past—”

“Enough!”

The word tore out of her all at once.

She jerked away from the locker, turning so sharply her shoulder nearly clipped the metal door, then hit back-first against the opposite row of lockers with a harsh metallic crash.

The sound echoed through the room. Her chest heaved. Not quite hyperventilating, but close enough to make it ugly. Her head lifted toward the small screen near the ceiling. The broadcast kept talking. Kept going. Kept saying her name.

“—all eyes remain on Orfevre, especially after such a humiliating and shocking—”

Something in her expression twisted. Not rage alone. Not humiliation alone. Something more helpless than she would ever allow on display.

Then her body gave a little, and she slid down the lockers to the floor. She landed seated, her arms braced on her knees, and her head lowered. Water dripped from her sleeves and off her hair in a steady rhythm onto the tile.

“It was already mine…” Barely a whisper.

The room held there for one more second. Then she heard someone: you. Her head snapped up immediately.

“You—!”

She sprawled awkwardly on the floor as if caught red-handed. Her eyes were wide with shock before narrowing again in panic and anger at having been seen like this. “Can you not—” Her breath caught, “… even leave me a moment?”

Her gaze darted up to the television. In an instant she scrambled for the remote on the floor and killed the screen off. The locker room dropped into silence aside from the rain and her breathing.

“Of all times…” She stayed seated, one hand still tight around the remote while her glare fixed on you. “… it has to be you.”

She adjusted herself from that sprawled, rattled posture into something more upright, trying to gather back whatever dignity had slipped. It wasn’t working as well as she wanted.

“What is it. Have you come to ruin the mood further.” A pause. “Or the day.”

Slowly, she pushed herself up to her feet. Once upright, she turned away instead of facing you fully, crossing her arms tight over herself. Pride. Distance. Cover. And then she went quiet.

A painful quiet.

“… no matter what I do,” She said at last, still turned away, “it remains.” Her jaw tightened. “Training. Races. This academy.” A shallow breath. “I throw myself into all of it and still…” Her fingers pressed harder against her sleeves. “… you do not leave.”

Her face stayed hidden from you, angled away, refusing to give even that much. “Every failure worth remembering.” Her voice dropped lower. “Every moment that should have been mine.” A pause. “…all of it circles back to you.”

She stopped there, as if she had nearly said too much. Then, sharper— “Do not mistake this for weakness!” A lie built too quickly.