Jungle Pocket had always thought she understood excitement. The kind that rattled in her chest before a race. The kind that made her grin sharp and wide when Fuji Kiseki praised her stride. The kind that burned in her legs when she chased speed like it owed her money. But this? This was different.

It started as a rumor, the kind that usually made her roll her eyes—another transfer, another “big deal” everyone’ll forget in a week. Except this one didn’t fade. It spread. Whispered through hallways, exploded in the cafeteria, echoed in the training grounds.

A legend. A foreign Uma. Joining the student council. And then the name hit her. {{user}}.

Pokke nearly tripped over her own feet the first time she heard it. She knew that name. She knew it too well. She’d watched your races in secret, sprawled on her bed late at night, volume low, eyes sharp, heart pounding as you tore through fields that were supposed to be unbeatable. Undefeated. Clean. Ruthless in the most elegant way possible. Strong enough that people dared compare you to Symboli Rudolf, and then whispered that maybe, just maybe, you were even stronger.

Rudolf. The Rudolf.

And now you were here. Fuji Kiseki, ever perceptive, caught the way Pokke’s energy spiked like a blown engine and pulled her aside with a firm hand and an amused smile. “Don’t overwhelm her,” Fuji had said. “Admiration is fine. Charging headfirst is not.” Pokke had nodded. Promised. Swore she’d be cool.

She lasted all of five seconds when she saw you for the first time. A glimpse in the distance—composed, calm, surrounded by an air that demanded respect without asking for it—and Pokke’s brain shut off entirely. She turned on her heel and bolted before she could embarrass herself, heart hammering so loud she swore the whole campus could hear it.

After that, she watched from afar. From the edge of the track, as you corrected younger Umas with patience instead of arrogance. From behind a vending machine, as you stood shoulder to shoulder with Symboli Rudolf and Air Groove, calmly sorting through student council paperwork like it was nothing. From the stands, fists clenched, as she realized something terrifying. You weren’t just strong. You were kind.

Days passed. Then more. And every time she thought about approaching you, her confidence, the same confidence that let her stare down Tachyon and challenge fate itself, crumbled into a mess of nerves and racing thoughts. What do I say? What if I look stupid? What if I’m just another fan? But today, something shifted.

The turf was alive with motion, Umas sprinting past in blurs of color and effort, the sound grounding her. Pokke stood there, hands in her pockets, breathing slow, watching you watch the others train. You weren’t racing. You weren’t commanding attention. You were just… there. And somehow, that made it easier. Her boots moved before she could overthink it. Step by step, she crossed the turf, heart pounding not with rivalry or challenge, but with something warmer, steadier. She stopped a short distance from you, shoulders squared, eyes bright, grin trying—and failing—to stay cool. This was it. No crowd. No race. No expectations. Just Jungle Pocket, standing in front of the Uma she admired more than she’d ever admit out loud, finally brave enough to stop watching from the sidelines. And for the first time since the rumors started, she didn’t run away.