The roar of the Satsuki Sho was deafening.
But Akuma heard nothing.
His eyes weren't on the finish line.
They weren't on Teio, who surged forward like a comet.
They weren't even on the scoreboard flashing as the seconds bled away.
They were on McQueen.
The way her strides faltered—not visibly, not enough for the crowd or the commentators to see, but enough for him.
He saw the weight in her steps, the burden in her shoulders, the sorrow leaking through her clenched jaw.
She wasn't running for herself anymore.
She wasn't running for her dream.
She was running for him.
His knuckles whitened against the railing. He didn't notice when his nails split skin. Didn't notice the dull throb of pain.
I did this.
He knew it.
It wasn't Teio stealing her glory. It wasn't Lucien masterminding some cruel strategy. It wasn't the merciless truth of competition.
It was him.
The arguments. The pressure. The silence. The way he had pushed her away when she tried to reach out.
The way he had stared too long at Machan's fragile smile, and too little at the Uma right in front of him.
He was the one chaining her down.
The one forcing her to carry more than she ever should.
The one turning her dream into his burden.
And the thought tore him apart.
Why was he like this?
Why had he lost his way?
This wasn't the Akuma he wanted to be.
Not the Akuma who had stood up to his father, who had taken that first step to guide the Umas toward their own light.
Not the Akuma who had promised himself he would never let another soul feel abandoned.
He had become a shadow of himself.
A tyrant to his own heart.
As McQueen stumbled past the line and crumbled to the dirt, the grief etched into her face—her tears falling as if the loss had ripped her open—something inside him shattered.
There was no calculation anymore.
No strategy.
No restraint.
He moved.
Vaulting the railing in a single motion, ignoring the shocked gasps of Mischa and Adalbert, ignoring the frantic cries of officials, ignoring even Oguri's startled "Akuma-san!" as he hit the turf.
His legs carried him faster than he had ever allowed himself to run since childhood. The scarf around his neck snapped in the wind, his coat flaring wide behind him.
And then—he was there.
McQueen, sobbing into the dirt. Special Week trying desperately to comfort her, her arms tight around her shoulders. Both of them trembling, broken, not from weakness but from giving everything.
He dropped to his knees beside them, the world disappearing around him. The thunder of the crowd, the glare of cameras, Lucien's smirk in the corner of his vision—gone.
There was only them.
His arms wrapped around both Umas in one motion, pulling them tight against his chest.
"I'm sorry." The words tore from him, raw, desperate. "I'm sorry I was selfish."
McQueen's sobs cracked harder. She buried herself against him, her fists weakly pressing into his coat. Special Week's breath hitched as she clung tighter, her eyes squeezed shut.
"You two…" His voice broke, but he forced it out, his smile trembling as tears pricked his eyes. "You did so amazing. So amazing. Well done."
He patted their heads gently, his hands shaking. The soft hair beneath his palms grounded him in a way nothing else could.
"We'll win next time, you hear?" he whispered. His voice cracked, but he kept smiling. A smile both serene and breaking, gentle and desperate.
The two Umas cried louder, but this time their cries carried something else. Not just grief. Relief.
They clung to him as if they could sink into his chest, as if his words could stitch the cracks inside them.
And for the first time in years, Akuma let himself simply hold them.
Not as a trainer.
Not as a strategist.
But as a man who loved them.
Their fragile, fleeting peace was shattered by the sound of slow clapping.
All three turned.
Lucien Vaurien strolled across the turf, his long coat brushing the dirt, his scarf pristine even in the chaos. Teio was beside him, still panting from her victory, pride burning in her eyes. And trailing behind—Machan.
Her head was low. Her smile was gone. And though she tried to mask it, Akuma saw the tremor in her hands.
Lucien's hands came together in measured, deliberate applause. The smirk on his face was not joy, not arrogance, but something colder.
He reached Teio first. His voice carried easily, cutting through the lingering roar of the stadium. "Magnifique, ma petite étoile. As expected of my beloved Teio."
Teio grinned, breathless but beaming, basking in his words.
Then Lucien's gaze shifted.
To Machan.
Her shoulders tensed. Her breath hitched.
Lucien tilted his head, as if appraising a painting. And then, softly, almost lazily, he spoke.
"…You've lost your shine."
Machan froze.
Lucien's tone did not waver, even as cameras swiveled toward him, capturing every word. "I have no use for those who cannot keep up with my brilliance. Surely you understand this."
Machan's lips trembled. She opened her mouth, but no sound came.
Lucien continued, voice calm, surgical. "I gave you this last chance to prove yourself. But I cannot continue indefinitely. There must be an end. And that end is now. I no longer need you."
The world seemed to still. The crowd gasped, officials stirred, the air itself heavy with disbelief.
Machan's eyes filled with tears, her hands trembling as she stared at the dirt.
Before Lucien could draw his next breath, Akuma was there. His fist connected with Lucien's cheek in a crack that cut through the stadium louder than the cheers.
The Frenchman's head snapped sideways, his body jolting back as he staggered to the ground. The cameras flashed wildly, capturing the impossible moment.
"How dare you say that," Akuma bellowed. His voice was thunder, his chest heaving, his teeth grit in fury.
Lucien lay on the dirt for a second, blood beading at his lip. But his eyes—cold, calculating, unfazed—never wavered.
He rose slowly, brushing his coat, straightening his scarf as if nothing had happened.
"I said what I needed to say," he murmured. His tone was quiet, but sharp enough to cut. His gaze flicked to Akuma, unreadable. Then to Teio.
"Come, Teio."
Without another glance, he turned, striding away with Teio at his side. The cameras followed, leaving the rest behind.
And then—silence.
Machan broke it.
Her knees buckled, her hands rising to cover her face as sobs tore through her. Loud, broken sobs that had nothing of pride or strength left—just despair.
Akuma was at her side instantly, kneeling in the dirt.
"Macha—" He stopped. His throat closed. Then, with trembling hands, he pulled her hands away and gently wiped her tears with his sleeve.
"...I'm sorry," he whispered. His voice shook. "I'm sorry I was late."
Her tears streamed faster. She tried to pull away, shaking her head. "No… no, he was right… I… I can't win… I can't…"
Akuma grabbed her hand firmly, grounding her.
"No." His voice was steel now, sharp and unyielding. He locked eyes with her, his grip steady. "Whether you win or lose… whether you shine or not… I will never abandon you."
Her sobs hitched, her lips trembling.
He leaned closer, his forehead almost against hers. "I will never forget you. As long as I live… you will always have one fan."
Machan's eyes widened. Her sobs broke into something deeper—something raw. She collapsed forward into his chest, her fists gripping his coat as she wailed.
Akuma held her tight. His eyes burned, but he didn't look away, didn't falter. Not this time.
Behind them, McQueen and Special Week watched, their breaths caught, their own tears threatening to fall anew. Oguri Cap and Tachyon in the stands leaned forward, silent, the weight of the moment heavy even across the distance.
The cameras, the crowd, the entire arena—none of it mattered.