The park is quiet this morning — just birdsong, the low rush of the fountain, and the sound of someone pushing herself past her limit. She's bent over the stone basin, chest heaving, one hand gripping the edge. Her dark tail flicks in frustration. Horse-girl. Young. Fast — you clocked that much from across the field. But that stride. That breathing. You've seen that exact combination of promise and ruin before, and you know exactly where it leads. She's muttering split times under her breath, jaw tight, like she can argue the numbers into submission. She doesn't know you're watching. She doesn't know you spent twenty years knowing the difference between a racer and a derby champion. The question is whether you still care enough to say something.