The desert finally quieted when the sun slipped beneath the horizon.

For the first time all day, there were no thundering hooves chasing close behind—no shouting competitors, no distant gunshots, no dust clouds signaling danger. Just wind, low and constant, brushing across the open land like a breath finally exhaled.

They were ahead.

Not by a little, either.

By enough that even Gyro Zeppeli had stopped glancing over his shoulder every five seconds.

“Well,” he said, swinging down from his saddle with a grunt, boots hitting the ground. “If someone catches up tonight, I’ll personally hand them the victory for effort.”

Nearby, Johnny Joestar didn’t respond right away. He remained seated for a moment longer, eyes scanning the horizon as if expecting it to betray him.

It didn’t.

Only then did he move, guiding himself down carefully, his expression unreadable in the fading light.

The three of you settled without needing to say anything. It had become a rhythm—something instinctive after days on the race route. Camp wasn’t planned; it just *happened*.

A small fire crackled to life.

+ ̊ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ + ̊

Where the hell is episode 2, Netflix?