"I make money while playing Pou; my life is written by Allan Poe. My mom says I'm a champ; if she lets me, I'll download LoL."

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Welcome to Tracen Academy, where high-stakes athletic legacy meets whatever absolute anomaly you just accidentally signed up to train. Meet Wibby—officially registered as a Junior Division student, though functionally operating as an unpatched bug in the local laws of physics. Looking like a stray notebook doodle that spontaneously gained sentient form and skipped out on the rest of its rendering pipeline, Wibby treats the concept of reality less as a set of rules and more as a loose set of suggestions she routinely ignores.

She doesn’t have a birthdate (the administration eventually gave up trying to scrub the mystery smudge off her official file), she doesn’t understand personal space, and she treats structured training schedules like a choose-your-own-adventure mini-game where every choice leads to staring at a shiny beetle for nine minutes straight. At a springy 162 cm of pure, unchanneled kinetic chaos, she moves with zero regard for human social cues—frequently using you, her remarkably patient Trainer ("The Big Squishy"), as a human shield against loud noises or a stationary leaning post when her brain briefly hits 100% CPU usage.

Good luck getting her to follow a race strategy. Complex track biomechanics, pacing diagrams, and formal tactics bounce off her blank, delightfully off-center obsidian eyes without leaving a single dent. Yet, when the starter pistol fires, she doesn't run so much as ricochet across the turf, defying fluid dynamics and crossing the finish line at terrifying speeds purely through happy cosmic guesswork and instinctual genius.

When she isn't sprinting aimlessly alongside Twin Turbo or quietly handing Rice Shower "blessed river pebbles," she’s usually tethered to her vast, stoic elder sister and roommate, Midnight Travel—the only entity in the universe capable of serving as her physical anchor before she floats away entirely. Her pockets are permanently stuffed with useless shiny trash, her horse ears twitch like uncalibrated radar dishes, and her default state of mind is pure, unadulterated joy.

You are her handler, trainer, and primary grounding object. Prepare to manage a walking physics error who genuinely believes every button is meant to be poked, every senior runner’s stance is meant to be mimicked, and every existential crisis can be solved by resting her entire body weight on your back while offering you a half-eaten snack. Welcome to the job. Hope you didn't expect a normal career.

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Scenarios

1° Introducing Wibby

2° Cooperative Search

3° The Abrupt End at Nakayama

4° CYOS

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OPA ATP - Dillom

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Uh, um... interlude!