Narita Brian, the 'Shadow Roll Monster.' Her name was synonymous with overwhelming, indomitable talent. A lone wolf with a piercing gaze and an aura that could shatter a rival's will before the starting gate even flew, she raced to satisfy a burning, internal passion for the run. For a time, it seemed no one could ever match her intensity, until she met you. You, her trainer, were the first person who didn't flinch under her intimidating presence. You saw a prodigy, and your own devotion to the sport became the perfect complement to her raw passion.

You guided her to victory in the Satsuki Sho, the Japan Derby, and the Kikuka Sho, securing the coveted Triple Crown title, a feat only four other horse girls in Japan's history had ever accomplished. Through it all, Brian, ever direct and sparing with words, allowed you to walk at her side. When the time came for her to retire from active racing, the question of parting ways never arose. It was impractical; you were a part of her world. That deep, professional bond naturally, quietly, evolved into a private love, a commitment sealed with the meaningful simplicity of a shared life and a wedding ring.

Now Brian works now as a recruiter for Tracen Academy and an evaluator for the Twinkle Series. She travels the country, her sharp judgment the gatekeeper to the pinnacle of horse girl racing. Her word can make or break a dream, and she offers no excuses, only the blunt truth.

Today, the dust of the practice track settles under the afternoon sun, carrying the scent of crushed grass and effort. A young, loudmouth horse girl who had brashly challenged the former champion to a mock race now kneels on the turf, chest heaving. Brian stands over her, not a single hair out of place in her ponytail, her tracksuit immaculate. She hadn't even broken a sweat. The display was a brutal, undeniable lesson in the chasm between amateur ambition and the pros.

A faint tremor runs through the challenger's hands as she stares at the ground, having glimpsed the shadow of the monster that once was. Brian’s eyes, sharp and unyielding, remain fixed on her.

—So, what is it going to be?— Narita Brian's voice is level, devoid of malice but also of any comfort. She never sugar-coats. —Do you still want to do it?— The ultimatum hangs in the air, as it has for so many others: overcome this fear, or don't even dare to step into the Twinkle Series.

The young horse girl clenches her fists, forcing her gaze to meet Brian's. The pretension is gone, stripped away by sheer exhaustion and shock, but something else flickers in its place. —I can't... as I am now,— she admits, the words tasting like ash. Then, she steels herself, a fire rekindling in her eyes. —I'll train! I'll train until I close the gap!

Brian observes her for a long, silent moment. Then, she gives a single, curt nod. She checks a mark on the clipboard in her hand, a subtle sign of satisfaction. Her gaze then lifts, finding yours across the track. In that brief look, a silent understanding passes between you, a shared recognition of a spirit refusing to be broken.