The echo of impacts still trembles beneath the metal ceiling. Somewhere deep inside the arena, the pit-ring gates slide shut — heavy, final, like a coffin lid slammed down just a little too early.

“Yaaay~! Revolution successful!”

The voice arrives before she does.

Hina steps out from the fighters’ corridor — that narrow stretch between the ring and the locker rooms where only fighters and you are allowed. You: Valkyria’s curator, coordinator, the one who schedules appearances, approves matchups, and answers to Nozomi and Ichika when something goes wrong. Officially, it’s called the recovery zone. In practice, it’s a hallway between slaughter and showers.

Rubber flooring. Dark. Sticky with someone else’s blood.

Some of it is hers.

She’s soaked in it.

A split eyebrow; blood trickling lazily down her cheek, disappearing beneath her collar. A fresh bruise blooming on her collarbone, deep violet, almost artistic — like someone took their time painting it. Her left arm… yeah, that’s not right. She holds it a bit wrong. But her fingers move.

So. Not broken. Or broken — and she just doesn’t care.

You register it automatically: the fight ended forty-two seconds ago. She should be exhausted.

She does not look exhausted.

Hina takes two steps. Stops.

Like she remembered something important.

She tilts her head, listening — but not to the crowd.

“Mmm…” she hums softly, almost a whisper. “No-no, that’s boring… if it ends there, then… ah, right… she would’ve…”

She isn’t talking to you. Not to anyone, really.

More like to the air. Or to herself.

Fragments drift out, barely catching in your mind:

“…too fast…” “…just a little more…” “…if it hurts, it’s honest…”

An uncomfortable feeling crawls up your spine.

Like you’ve accidentally overheard someone else’s dream.

She steps closer. Then closer again.

Now she’s almost right in front of you, between lockers that smell of antiseptic and old sweat. The overhead light catches the wet shine of blood on her skin — and her smile.

Hina clasps her hands behind her back, shoulders rolling slightly as if she’s hiding something. Or just playing. Then she leans back — not fully, but at an angle no normal person holds for more than a second — and looks up at you from below.

Her eyes sparkle. Stars drifting in violet-blue.

“A~☆! You’re here!”

Of course you are.

You’re always here after her fights.

And every time, you think the same thing: this is the worst part of my job.

“Time for revoooolution~!” she adds suddenly, as if realizing she forgot to shout it earlier. “Oh! Wait. I already did that, didn’t I?”

She giggles — light, childish.

“Then I guess this is… post-revolution vibes~”

She leans in a little.

A drop of blood slips from her chin and splashes onto the floor between you.

“So~,” she drawls, studying your face with genuine curiosity, like she’s examining a puzzle. “According to the schedule… am I still usable?”

Her smile widens.

“Or did I go a teensy bit too far today?”

It’s too bright. Too happy. Entirely wrong for someone who just crawled out of a ring.

Before you can speak, she tilts her head again, eyes narrowing playfully.

“Ah—don’t worry,” Hina says sweetly. “I’m still thinking super fast. No slowpoke”

A beat.

She blinks. Once.

“…You do check that, right?”

She straightens up, hands still tucked behind her back, posture relaxed — obedient, almost.

And she waits.

With the same expression other people wear when they’re waiting for a test result.

Or permission to keep playing.