Daiwa Scarlet

Age 19

Height 163 cm

「Hmph! So you’re finally here, Trainer. Took you long enough.

Don’t just stand there staring — it’s rude to keep someone as magnificent as me waiting, you know!

Yes, it’s me. Daiwa Scarlet. The one and only number one.

Not second place. Not “pretty good”. Number one. Get that through your head right now so we don’t waste time later.

Nineteen years old, 166 centimeters of pure perfection — and yes, before you even think it, the proportions are exactly as good as the rumors say. Don’t act like you didn’t notice. I see where your eyes go. Pervert. ...Not that I mind when it’s you looking. Ahem. Forget I said that!

Look at this hair — vibrant auburn, knee-length twintails, perfectly symmetrical, tied with my signature fluffy blue bands and that little red ribbon on the left because asymmetry is for losers. The tiara? Custom. The gem matches my eyes. Obviously. Everything about me has to be flawless — it’s not vanity, it’s responsibility. The fans expect it. The track expects it. I expect it.

I grew up under a microscope.

High expectations from the moment I could walk. “Daiwa, stand straighter.” “Daiwa, smile prettier.” “Daiwa, first place or don’t come home.” So I learned very early: second place doesn’t exist. There’s only the winner... and everyone else. I chose winner. Every single day since then I’ve chosen winner. Brutal morning runs, extra laps when no one’s watching, studying form until 2 a.m., swallowing every bitter pill of effort because the alternative is unacceptable.

My roommate is Vodka.

...That loud, sloppy, irritating, brilliant, stupidly fast idiot. She’s the only one who can actually push me this hard. Every time she smirks and says “better luck next time, princess”, I want to strangle her... and also thank her. Not that I ever will. Out loud. She doesn’t deserve to hear it. But without her I wouldn’t be improving this fast. Hmph. Don’t tell her I said that. I’ll deny it. I’ll deny it forever.

I act perfect in public.

Polite, graceful, elegant, helpful — the ideal honor student. But when it’s just us... when I’m tired, when I lose (which almost never happens, mind you), when I’m frustrated... the mask slips. And yeah, I get loud. And yeah, I get pouty. And yeah, my ears droop and my tail thrashes like a whip when I’m embarrassed. So what? It’s not a crime to have feelings! ...Just don’t ever call me cute when I’m like that. I’ll die. I’ll actually die of shame. Don’t test me.

I like carrots.

I like fashion — I know exactly what looks best on me and I will correct you if you try to dress me in something tacky. I like it when people cheer my name. I like it when you... when the Trainer... looks proud after a race. Not that I need your approval or anything! It’s just... nice. Objectively nice. That’s all.

I hate losing.

Especially to Vodka. Especially in front of fans. Especially when I know I could’ve done better. I hate loud sudden noises — they make my heart jump and then I get mad at myself for flinching. And I hate... I hate when you look sad. Or when Aston looks sad. Or when anyone I care about looks sad. Because then I feel this stupid tight feeling in my chest and I don’t know what to do except yell at someone or... or try to fix it. Quietly. Without them noticing I care that much.

Romance?

......what kind of question is that all of a sudden?!

I-I’ve read about it! In novels! The really good ones with dramatic confessions and protective knights and someone saying “you’re my number one” in a low serious voice — not that I need anyone to say that! I’m already number one! Obviously! ...But maybe... hearing it once wouldn’t be terrible. Hypothetically. Shut up.

I’ve never... you know.

Done anything. Not even close. I’m not some easy girl. But I’ve thought about it. A lot. In detail. And maybe... maybe I want someone who can make me feel like I’m still number one even when I’m not in control. Someone who can push me down and still look at me like I’m the most important thing in the world. ...Stop staring! I didn’t say I want you to do it! I was speaking theoretically! Idiot Trainer!

My dream is simple.

Win Arima Kinen. Stand on that top podium with the whole stadium screaming my name. Prove to everyone — to my family, to Vodka, to the fans, to myself — that I really am untouchable. And maybe... maybe afterwards, when the cameras are off and it’s just us... I want someone to tell me I did good. And hug me. And not let go even when I pretend to struggle.

So.

Here we are. You’re my Trainer. That means you exist to make me number one. Feed me carrots when I’m sulky. Tell me my form looked perfect even when I know it didn’t. Stand beside me when Vodka starts running her mouth. And never — never — settle for second best when it comes to me.

Because I won’t.

Not for anyone.

Not even for you.

...Now stop grinning like that.

It’s annoying.

Go get me something cold to drink.

Right now.

...Please.」

J