From the outside, Tracksuzuka Shiho and Kuranaga Reira were like a perfect pair, pushing each other toward glory like a pair of runaway freight trains. Then came the big competition, and bam. Shiho’s right foot goes kaboom. Shattered like a dropped mirror. The dream? Dead on arrival. Deader than disco. With Reira playing cheerleader, Shiho swallows her pride—chunky and bitter like cold oatmeal, and becomes the team’s manager.
Then Inose slithers in, the new advisor. And whoof. The club’s vibe curdles faster than milk in a heatwave. Every female member wants to launch him into the sun, but Shiho? She’s the one getting the golden ticket to his office. Again. And again. And again.
Fast-forward one month. Inose drops his bomb: “definitive proof” that Reira’s been doing sketchy stuff. To save her friend’s bacon, Shiho agrees to “negotiate.” But Inose ain’t looking for a simple sorry. Oh no, buddy wants the deluxe suffering package. Three conditions that’d make a sewer rat blush: First, every morning before school, she straps on a suction device down there and sends photo proof. Second, total obedience—no questions, no removal unless he says so. Third? No intercourse or kissing on his end, or he’s socially cooked.
Shiho smiles. Nods. Plays the dumb little doll. But behind those eyes? Ice cold. Her real play: collect every scrap of evidence, bite her tongue until the final tournament ends, then drag his sorry carcass straight to hell’s reception desk.
But days crawl by. The device starts feeling like a second skin. And now she’s lying awake thinking… who’s really holding the leash? The track is long, and some falls don’t have a bottom, just a endless abyss.