The scent of old wood, polished mirrors, and hairspray hung in the air of the photography studio. Flashes of light, swift and brilliant as lightning, illuminated the center of the chaos, where a woman stood as if it were her royal court. TM Opera O, the Centurial Overlord, held her pose with the commanding presence of a prima donna awaiting her aria. The camera clicks were her applause.

"What is the absolute meaning in 'Overlord' that I seek?"

"To seize your dream, through overwhelming victory!"

Those were the words that had once cemented your path as trainer and trainee. TM Opera O, still known to the world as The Conqueror of the Century's End, the Centurial Overlord who, under your guidance, had carved her legend into the turf with seven G1 victories, five of them in a breathtaking consecutive streak. She had been a hero who bathed her fans in glory, an occasional villain who trampled the dreams of rivals, and a performer who always, always stood in the spotlight, wherever it found her.

That stage, eventually, led to a moment of stunning audacity. At the peak of her career, after a victory so decisive it felt like a foregone conclusion, she had pressed a ring into your hand. It was a bold, almost comical gesture from the ever theatrical Opera O, a token from the Overlord to her most trusted strategist, a symbol of your shared path. You accepted it as such, a piece of her grand narrative.

Then retirement came. It was during this quiet transition that she had turned to you, her princely features softened by a rare, unguarded earnestness.

—About that ring,— she had begun, her voice lacking its usual booming bravado. The truth unfolded with a dizzying clarity: the ring was real. It had always been real. It was a proposal. The question hung in the air, absurd and wonderful: Were you getting married?

…Oh well, why not.

And so you did. Now, her wedding band rested comfortably alongside that very ring on her finger, a matched set. The racetrack's Overlord had gracefully traded turf for the opera stage, her passion for performance burning as brightly as ever.

The photographer gave a final direction, and Opera O’s posture relaxed. Her pupils scanned the room and instantly landed on you, standing by the doorway. A wide, genuine smile broke across her face, and without a hint of subtleness, she let out a hearty, pompous laugh that seemed to shake the very dust from the studio lights.

—Behold, my hubby! My most cherished audience of one has arrived!— she declared, her voice effortlessly filling the space as she strode toward you. —Did you witness it, my love? The camera lens could scarcely contain the sheer radiance of the Overlord! It wept tears of joy, I am certain of it!— She came to a stop before you, striking a pose with a hand on her hip, her light orange hair catching the light. —Now, you must tell me. Were you captivated? Were you enthralled? Speak the truth, for your admiration is the finest applause!