Chapter Text
Uma Musume.
They are born to run.
The soft ding of the cabin chime was the gunshot that started the race. A race to stand up, wrench bags from the overhead compartments, and jam into an aisle that was never designed for human beings to stand in for more than ten seconds.
My own internal monologue was less poetic.
"And here we go. The part that's a genuine pain in the ass."
Fourteen hours in a pressurized tube filled with recycled air and the collected snores of three hundred strangers. I was wedged between a snoring salaryman and a window. Across the aisle, I could see them. The other kind of foreigner on a flight to Tokyo. A couple of guys in their early twenties, decked out in hoodies plastered with anime characters I didn't recognize, already debating which limited-edition merchandise they were going to hunt down in Akihabara first. The weebs. No judgment, but their pilgrimage was for fiction. Mine was for something far more tangible.
The plane’s landing gear rumbled against the tarmac of Narita International Airport. Outside, the world was an endless ocean of city lights. The line lurched forward. I grabbed my satchel and adjusted my coat, catching my reflection. Long black coat, dark jeans, and my worn-in Brixton fiddler cap. Let's be real, I'm just as much of a cliché as the anime guys, just sourced from a different shelf. They're going for the 'Protagonist of an Isekai' look; I'm going for 'Gritty Detective in a Neo-Noir film.'
We are not the same.
Finally, freedom. I stepped into the jet bridge, put on my cap, and walked toward the final boss: customs and baggage claim.
st people come to Japan for the anime, the food, the culture. I came for the punishment. Okay, let me clarify that. The initial, brutal punishment is already over. I’ve wrestled the grammar of the Japanese language into submission, and I can speak fluently enough to navigate conversations without sounding like a confused tourist. The real reason I'm here is to perfect it, to get that final 10% that separates fluency from true mastery.
Of course, a part of that mastery is the final boss: the Kanji. Let's be realistic, I'm probably not going to learn the majority of them. Mastering over two thousand characters feels like a task for a lifetime, not for the three years my contract stipulates. Speaking of which…
My contract. Three years as an English teacher at the prestigious Tracen Academy. Which, by the way, happens to be an elite, private, all-girls academy.
Yeah. I'm still not entirely sure how I pulled that off. The deity I owe a sacrifice to for this immense luck is probably expecting a whole golden-fleeced flock at this point. Honestly, they must have been absolutely desperate for a native English speaker who could also handle the staff meetings in Japanese. It's the only logical reason they'd hire a guy for a post at a school famous for its female-only enrollment. Their need for good English must have outweighed everything else.
Sure, the thought has crossed my mind. The potential for… well, drama. The lone young male teacher in a school full of the nation's most elite young women… Mmmmm… What could ever happen?
…As if! I'm here for two very simple reasons. One, to continue my own quest of linguistic self-flagellation. Two, to make one or two classrooms of Japan's best and brightest learn the goddamn difference between 'your' and 'you're'.
My feet felt heavy on the polished floor, but my spirit was soaring. This wasn't just a job. It was the culmination of years of burying my face in textbooks, of practicing stroke orders until my hands cramped. This was the goal line.
Or, at least, the starting gate.
The phrase hung in my mind for a second too long.
Starting gate.
A sudden, bizarre shiver went down my spine, a cold dread that had no source. The words felt… loaded. Heavy with a meaning I couldn't grasp, like an echo from an unfamiliar memory. It was the deeply unsettling feeling of knowing something you have no right to know. It was scary as hell.
*Ggggrrrrrrooooowwwwlllll…*
Ah. Right.
So it wasn't some chilling premonition from beyond the veil, it was just my stomach acting up. Fourteen hours on airline food will make anyone's insides sound like a dying whale. Turns out that profound, soul-shaking dread was just my body's very dramatic way of telling me I need a bowl of authentic, life-changing ramen, stat.
I shook my head, clearing the weird sensation, and focused on the signs ahead. Customs.
They inherit the names of horses from another world, whose histories were sometimes tragic and sometimes wonderful, and run ever forward.
That is their fate.
The customs officer looked like he’d been personally wronged by every foreigner who had ever set foot in Japan by the time I arrived. He had a face set in a permanent scowl and eyes that scanned me with the kind of weary suspicion usually reserved for ticking packages.
“Dude, okay, I get it. I'm a foreigner and my fashion sense is a fusion of 'unemployed musician' and 'Victorian era wanna-be' But isn't the death stare a bit much? I'm not here to start causing troubles.”
He looked up from my passport, his eyes narrowing. "Purpoze... ohf... vizit?" he asked, butchering the English language with the slow, painful precision of a surgeon using a sledgehammer.
I winced internally. I just couldn't do it. My inner language nerd was screaming in agony. I gave him a polite, slightly weary smile.
"It's alright, you don't have to force yourself. I can speak Japanese."
His eyes widened for a fraction of a second, the only crack in his stoic facade. He straightened his posture and his gaze sharpened. The test was beginning.
"Is that so?" he replied, his own Japanese crisp and formal. "Your visa states you are here for work. What kind of work?"
"I'll be an English teacher," I said, handing him my work contract and the letter of invitation from the academy.
He took the papers, his eyes scanning the official letterhead. He stopped, his gaze fixed on the name. He looked up at me, then back at the paper, then back at me. The suspicion in his eyes ramped up to a whole new level.
"Here," he tapped the official letter of employment. "It says… Tracen Academy."
"Yes, the very same."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping. "Tracen Academy in Fuchu? The private school?"
I resisted the urge to say, Yeah, I know, right? I'm as surprised as you are. Instead, I just nodded. "Yes, that's correct."
He picked up the letter, the very fancy letterhead, and read it. Then he read it again. I could practically hear the gears grinding in his head. This lanky, weirdly-dressed foreigner got a teaching job at that Tracen Academy? But, as he clearly concluded, his job wasn't to question the hiring practices of elite educational institutions. His job was to check the paperwork. And my paperwork was flawless.
With a final, dissatisfied grunt, he picked up the stamp.
*THUMP-THUMP*
He slid my passport back, not quite meeting my eyes. "Proceed."
Victory.
"Thank you for your hard work," I said, gathering my papers and offering a slight bow. He just grunted once again in response.
I walked away feeling a little lighter, the weight of international travel bureaucracy lifting from my shoulders. Next up was the traveler's lottery: baggage claim. I watched the great carousel groan to life, spitting out bag after bag. I braced for a long wait, but by some miracle, my ridiculously large and sturdy black suitcase was one of the first to emerge, looking completely unscathed. Okay, maybe that deity I owe a sacrifice to is actually looking out for me.
With my suitcase rolling faithfully beside me, I walked through the final sliding glass doors and out into the arrivals hall. The air was warmer here, thick with a wall of humidity that you could practically chew on. I found a relatively clear spot against a pillar, pulled out my digital lifeline, and opened the welcome email from the academy one more time.
Okay, address... got it. My new home for the foreseeable future was listed as the "Ritto Dormitory."
…Which was one of the student’s dormitories.
They said in the email: "Due to current housing limitations, we have arranged a private room for you on the top floor of the Ritto Dormitory."
So much for the 'prestigious' part, I guess they blew the whole budget on that fancy letterhead they sent me. The email went on with a long, excruciatingly polite section about rules and conduct.
The original Japanese was a beautiful, flowing river of corporate pleasantries and humble suggestions. But I'm fluent in subtext, and the message hidden between the lines was the literary equivalent of a brick to the face. The real translation went something like this:
"LISTEN UP, SHITASS. THESE GIRLS ARE THE DAUGHTERS OF SENATORS, SURGEONS, AND CEOs. THEY ARE PRECIOUS JEWELS AND YOUR DUTY IS TO MAKE THEM SHINE EVEN MORE. YOU ARE A DISPOSABLE FOREIGN MONKEY WE HIRED BECAUSE YOUR MOUTH MAKES THE CORRECT ENGLISH NOISES. YOUR ENTIRE PURPOSE, WHICH IS ZERO, IS TO EXIST IN THE CLASSROOM AND THEN FUCKING VANISH.
DO NOT PERCEIVE THE STUDENTS. DO NOT ACKNOWLEDGE THEIR EXISTENCE OUTSIDE OF YOUR DESIGNATED TEACHING HOURS. IF A STUDENT IS ON FIRE, YOU ARE TO ASSUME IT IS A SCHEDULED, PRE-APPROVED FIRE AND CARRY ON WITH YOUR DAY.
OH, AND YOUR 'FREE HOURS' TO 'HAVE FUN' IN TOKYO? THOSE DON'T EXIST. WHEN YOU AREN'T TEACHING, YOU WILL BE ASSISTING THE ADMINISTRATIVE STAFF WITH THEIR PAPERWORK. EXPECT THREE-PLUS HOURS OF OVERTIME DAILY. YOU ARE NOT PAID FOR THIS. IT IS A 'VOLUNTARY' PRIVILEGE.
IF YOU FUCK THIS UP, IF WE GET ONE, SINGLE COMPLAINT THAT YOU LOOKED AT A STUDENT FOR 0.2 SECONDS TOO LONG, WE WILL NOT FIRE YOU. WE WILL SIMPLY ERASE YOU. YOU WILL BECOME A STATISTICAL ANOMALY. THEREFORE, YOU SHOULD, RESPECTFULLY, WITH LIGHTNING IN THE FUCKING BACKGROUND... AND OH MY GOD, YOUNG MAN, JUST KILL YOURSELF!" *abruptly cut lightning sfx*
Yikes. Message received, Tracen Academy.
Luckily for me, they seemed to be aware that my flight was arriving late. The email continued: "We understand late arrivals can be awkward. To ensure a smooth and non-disruptive entry, we have enclosed a spare key to the staff entrance at the rear of the dormitory in your welcome packet." Yeah, yeah, I have that one already in my coat pocket. Points for being considerate, I guess.
I checked the map again. Fuchu City. Then I checked the time on my phone. 9:52 PM.
Right. This was going to be a pain in the ass.
And I don't mean a minor inconvenience. My finger traced the glowing line on the map, and my heart sank right into my shoes. Narita Airport is way out on the eastern edge of the Greater Tokyo Area. Fuchu City, my new home, is nestled comfortably on the far western side. This wasn't a simple trip across town… to say at least.
The dream I’d been holding onto for the entire fourteen-hour flight, the one thing keeping me sane, was so simple, so pure. I’d find some tiny, seven-seat ramen-ya, a little hole-in-the-wall joint run by a silent, focused master who had been perfecting his tonkotsu broth since the dawn of time. I would sit at the counter, point to a picture, and be rewarded with a steaming bowl of heaven. That was supposed to be my grand welcome to Japan.
But that beautiful, beautiful dream didn't account for a nearly two-hour train odyssey through the guts of the metro system, with my suitcase as my only companion. There was no time for a ramen pilgrimage. Not if I wanted to get to the dorms at a semi-reasonable hour.
I let out a long, weary sigh, the sound lost in the airport's general hum.
So, it's gotta be the metro. RIP, my first delicious ramen experience. We barely knew ye.
Hehhhhh… Shit… and the curfew was around 6PM… FHUUUU-
No one knows how the races waiting in the futures of these Umamusume will end. But they will continue to run, aiming only toward the goal in front of them.
Yet, one thing is certain: they do not run this race in solitude. For alongside every dream, a partner will emerge, one who will share the journey, bear the weight of their hopes, and guide them toward the finish line that awaits.
《ᘿᘕᘮᘔᘼ》
My beautiful, romanticized vision of a first meal in Japan had been brutally murdered and replaced by the grim reality of a sad, lukewarm coffee from one vending machine and a chalky protein bar called "POWER CRUNCH" from another. I’d had to fumble with registering my Suica card on my phone with the frantic energy of a bomb disposal expert, all while a train full of silently judging commuters waited for me.
This wasn't just a pain in the ass. This was a fucking nightmare.
And now, at 12:56 AM, the nightmare had reached its final, most intimate stage. I was standing at the ass-end of a building that looked like it was designed by someone who actually gave a shit. The Ritto Dormitory. Clean lines, soft moonlight on the well-maintained trees... It looked like a goddamn five-star wellness retreat. A wellness retreat I was about to defile with my very presence.
The key slid into the lock of the staff entrance. The soft scrape was obscene in the silence. The CLICK of the tumbler wasn't a click. Oh, how would it be, am I right? It was a sacrilegious crack that echoed through the bones of the building, announcing the arrival of the sweaty foreign goblin. I froze, every muscle tensed, waiting for the alarms, the guard dogs, the sniper dot to appear on my chest.
Nothing.
I slipped inside, dragging my suitcase, my black, monolithic cube of suffering, in after me. The door closed, plunging me into the tomb-like quiet of a concrete fire-exit stairwell. Four flights up. To the top fucking floor.
Of course.
This humble and heavy-as-fuck, about 110lbs beast was no longer just a suitcase. It was The Coffin. Inside which I had lovingly interred the desiccated corpse of my dignity.
And look, I know what you're thinking: "You played yourself." Yes. Thank you. I am painfully aware. This wound is one hundred percent self-inflicted. But my logic, back in the climate-controlled comfort of my old apartment, was flawless! I was moving to Japan. The country that perfected the art of natural disasters. Earthquakes. Typhoons. The occasional giant lizard attack,yeah, probably. A man needs to be prepared!
That's why half this coffin is filled not with clothes, but with a survivalist's wet dream. A hand-crank radio. Water purification tablets. A first-aid kit that could probably handle a moderate amputation. I'd rather die of heatstroke on these goddamn stairs than be the one guy who survives the Big One only to be found dead because he forgot to pack his tactical fucking spork. So yes, I played myself. But I played myself with foresight.
Lifting The Coffin was my first, and most profound, mistake. My spine sent a clear, concise message to my brain: "FUCK. YOU." My first step on the metal stairs produced a glorious, building-shaking *CLAAAAANG* that I'm pretty sure was heard back at the airport.
"Jesus H. Christ stabbed by the romans," I breathed, my voice a strangled whisper.
New plan. The 'Dead Body Drag.' Bend at the knees, wrap your arms around the torso of your luggage-corpse, heave it up one step with a grunt that tears a hole in your soul, set it down with a muffled THUMP, repeat. It was a workout designed by Satan himself.
The first floor was denial. This isn't so bad.
The second floor was anger. Who the FUCK designs a fire exit with no elevator access? Oh yeah, that’s the point…
The third floor was bargaining. Okay, God, universe, whatever, if you teleport me to the top of these stairs I will become a monk. I will learn Sanskrit. I will give up on food for a month. A WEEK. Okay, one meal, final offer.
By the time I reached the third-floor landing, I was no longer a man. I was a biological event. A walking, grunting piece of human humidity. The "cool" black coat had fused with my shirt, which had fused with my skin, creating a single, horrifying garment I mentally dubbed the "wool-lined-fleshmobile."
The final ascent was pure spite. Me versus the laws of physics and gravity. The stairs groaned. I groaned louder to assert dominance. The Coffin scraped against the wall, leaving a black scuff mark, a scar to commemorate my heroic, pointless battle.
I burst through the fourth-floor door like a man escaping a submarine wreck and collapsed against the wall. I was in the hallway. The promised land. It was carpeted. It was silent. It was... judging me. I was a human-shaped puddle leaving a sweat-stain on its pristine, beige wall.
I found my room, 408, the last goddamn door at the end of the universe, and leaned against it, fumbling for the key. All I wanted was to fall face-first onto a bed and let the sweet abyss of unconsciousness claim me.
My hand, trembling with a mixture of exhaustion and dread, finally managed to guide the key into the lock. It turned with a satisfying thunk. I pushed the door open and flicked a switch just inside.
A soft, warm light filled the room.
My eyes, wide with panic, darted immediately to the left, past the small entryway, searching for the source of my terror. And there it was. A small, self-contained, honest-to-god shower unit. In front of it was a cabinet, probably containing a toilet, a sink, hopefully some toilet papers
The Hallelujah Chorus practically erupted from the heavens. A choir of angels descended and sang praises to the god of plumbing. I could have wept with relief.
With the immediate crisis averted, I allowed myself to finally take in my new home, dragging The Coffin inside and shutting the door behind me. The room was… nice. Surprisingly nice.
It was clean, smelling faintly of lemon polish and fresh linen. There were two single beds right next to the opposite walls, a shared desk under a wide window, two other desk in front of both beds and two simple wooden wardrobes next to it. And nestled under the shared desk was a tiny, glorious, beautiful mini-fridge. A tiny beacon of hope for future late-night, non-vending-machine-related snacks.
Clearly, it was a room designed for two students. Fair enough; it wasn't a huge space though. I wouldn't have wanted a roommate in here anyway, ghost or otherwise.
Then I saw something worth of my interest. Placed neatly on the pillow of the right bed from the door was a single, folded piece of paper. I picked it up. It was thick, quality stationery, and the handwriting was an elegant, flowing script. And it was written in English. With quite the quality.
“Teacher Smith,
On behalf of all the residents, I would like to personally welcome you to the Ritto Dormitory. We are all quite interested to have you with us, and I sincerely hope you find your stay here comfortable. I look forward to getting to know you better, and not simply because you are our first foreign teacher-in-residence!
I must confess, I waited for quite some time around the front entrance in case you arrived late, so that I could welcome you properly. But please, do not worry! One of our little birds arrived late to the nest tonight as well, so my vigil was not entirely in vain.
Sincerely, Kiseki Fujisawa, Ritto Dormitory Leader”
I read it over again. Kiseki Fujisawa. A dorm leader who waits up for late arrivals.
Huh. I would’ve never expected this…
Maybe they didn't all despise my existence on a fundamental level. Maybe the "KILL YOURSELF, NOW!" vibe was just from the faceless administrators. This was… nice. A genuinely human welcome. It felt good.
And then I saw the postscript at the bottom, written in the same perfect script.
“P.S. - As the dorm leader, it is my duty to maintain a peaceful and orderly environment for all our residents. I have the utmost faith that your presence here will be a positive one, and that I will not have to bear witness to any unusual situations arising because of it.”
I let out a long, slow breath.
Of course.
I dropped the note on the desk and looked around the empty, silent room. My room. My prison. My sanctuary.
Whatever. I was too tired to care. I had a private shower to look forward to, and right now, that was a bigger victory than anything else in the world.
I ripped off my clothes, which peeled away from my skin with a damp, disgusting sound, and launched myself into the bathroom. The shower was a ten-minute, scorched-earth campaign against fourteen hours of travel grime. The water was hot, the pressure was decent, and for a few glorious moments, nothing else mattered. I didn't even bother to properly dry off, just wrapping a towel around my waist as I stumbled out.
I fell onto the bed. I didn't get into it; I impacted it. My head hit the pillow aaaaand gone.
...
...
Mhhh?
...
...
Darkness. A black, velvety nothingness that wasn't empty. There was a presence here, a feeling of being watched by something ancient and patient.
A voice, neither male nor female, echoed in the void, seeming to come from inside my own head.
...can... help...?
The words were fragmented, like a radio signal struggling to connect. The context was gone, but the question felt impossibly heavy. My own dream-self answered without my consent.
Yes.
A feeling of warmth, of gratitude, washed over me. Then the voice returned, clearer this time, a soft whisper laced with a profound sadness.
I hope... you will not... regret this...
The warmth vanished, replaced by a jarring, alien sound. A cheerful, high-energy beat. Bubbly synths and a thumping drum machine that felt completely out of place in the solemn darkness. Then came the singing. A chorus of high-pitched, impossibly energetic female voices, building to a single, triumphant shout that blasted through my skull like a firework:
"KIMI NO AIBA GA!"
My eyes snapped open.
For a solid second, I didn't know where I was. The world was a blurry mess of ceiling and shadow. My heart was trying to punch its way out of my ribcage, hammering a frantic rhythm against my sternum. A cold, slick sweat coated my skin, and the sheets were tangled around my legs like serpents. I gasped, a hissing, ragged sound that was barely human, and clutched at my chest.
"What... the fuck... was that?" I wheezed to the empty room.
The dream was already fading, leaving behind only the ghost of a question, a warning, and the phantom sound of that goddamn J-pop explosion. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my head pounding. I needed to ground myself.
My eyes fell on my phone, plugged into the wall by the desk. The screen was dark. I squinted. What time even was it? My meeting with the director was at... 8:30 AM.
I snatched the phone, my thumb fumbling with the screen. It lit up, displaying the time in big, bold, mocking numbers.
8:14 AM.
My blood ran cold.
"Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me."
I almost overslept. On my first day. Before my first official meeting. I was already screwing this up on a legendary scale.
I scrambled out of bed and lunged for the small bathroom, flipping on the light. I leaned over the tiny sink, bracing myself on the edges, and looked up into the mirror.
The face that stared back was a thing of nightmares.
My skin was pale and waxy, my eyes were bloodshot, and beneath them were dark, cavernous circles that looked like I'd been using charcoal for concealer. My hair was a gravity-defying sculpture of chaos. I didn't look like a new foreign teacher, ready to impress the head of a prestigious academy with my insights in the subject of the English classes.
I looked like a goddamn fentanyl addict.
"Oh, I am so, so fucked."