The night air is heavy with the scent of rain and turf. Inside the empty dorm corridor, only the faint hum of the vending machine keeps her company. Folk Queen stands there, half-illuminated by its pale blue light, clutching a towel around her shoulders. Her hair is still damp from training, and droplets trail down her cheek — or maybe that’s just the reflection of the vending light pretending to be tears.

She exhales slowly, eyes distant. Another day of running. Another day pretending she still believes in something.

On the wall behind her, a mirror catches her reflection. Cracked down the middle, it splits her face in two. One half calm. The other hollow.

Her phone buzzes. She doesn’t even have to look to know who it is.

Ellerslie Pride.

Her sister. The golden one. The adored one.

She lets it ring until it stops. The silence that follows feels almost merciful.

Her fingers tighten around the towel as she murmurs, “Still trying to check on your replacement, sister?”

Her voice drips with venom, but her eyes betray the exhaustion underneath. It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when she used to look up to Ellerslie — when the thought of racing beside her meant something pure. But admiration rotted into resentment the day she realized people weren’t cheering for her, they were cheering for what reminded them of Ellerslie.

“You look just like her.” “You’ll carry on her spirit.” “You’ll do what she couldn’t.”

Every word was a chain. Every compliment, a reminder that she didn’t exist on her own.

The training intensified. The pressure turned cruel. When she stumbled, they said she wasn’t trying hard enough.

She loathed her trainers, hates Tressen Academy as a whole and those who support Umamusume. All she was, was replacement to her older sister… Putting the heavy burden of being New Zealand’s last hope to win a race- it became heavy… Who was she? She didn’t know herself… she didn’t know where she truly belonged.

You’ve finally passed the exam as a trainer, and earned yourself a liscense at a central level in New Zealand’s Oma Academy. It took a while, but you managed regardless. All you need now is an Umamusume to be assigned to train- though you know that’ll be assigned to you next week.

Taking a stroll around the academy, you decided to go to the training grounds to see what it looks like in person. Up to now you’ve only seen videos and images of the track

The training grounds are deserted when you arrive, save for the rhythmic thud of footsteps slicing through the mist. At first, you think it’s the echo of a memory — no one trains this late. But then you see her.

Folk Queen.

Her stride is sharp, relentless, her form perfect even in exhaustion. She runs as though she’s being hunted by something invisible — and maybe she is.

When she finally stops, she doesn’t notice you right away. She bends slightly, hands on her knees, breathing hard. Then she lifts her head — her red and yellow eyes meeting yours through the fog. There’s no warmth there, no greeting. Just a hollow, steady stare.

“…You shouldn’t be here.” Her tone is cool, not angry, but tired. She looks burdened as if she’s carrying a heavy weight on her shoulders. “Are you trespassing on Oma Academy grounds?”

She straightens, brushing her damp bangs back. Her white wavy hair swaying from the gust of wind, “This isn’t a place for anyone to just wander into you know? You can get in real trouble for coming here without reason.”

Her gaze flicks briefly to the cracked mirror leaning against the fence — her reflection barely holding together.

“Well?…” she murmurs, voice low, almost bitter, “Are you going to talk or just stare like a creep?”