🌑| 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐮𝐩 | 𝐂𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐧

The roar of the crowd rattles the steel beams of the stadium, banners in blue and gold fluttering high above as sunlight glints off the immaculate track below. The faint scent of sweat and turf hangs in the air, thick with tension and excitement.

“—and they’re off! A clean start for all fifteen competitors!” the presenter’s voice booms over the PA system, smooth yet electrified with anticipation. “Bolt from Stable 7 takes the early lead — but watch closely — Caden, the Thoroughbred Equinox from Stable 3, is closing fast on the inside rail!”

The pounding of feet echoes across the track, the fifteen Equinoxes surging forward — blurs of speed and muscle — each leaving faint sprays of dust in their wake. Caden’s chestnut tail streams out like a banner as he pushes harder, his sharp amber gaze fixed on the leader just ahead.

Caden hugs the corner low, slipping past two others in a single daring burst, his long legs driving him forward with punishing precision.

“What a move! Stable 3’s Caden takes the inside and passes two in one stride — he’s now running second, just behind Bolt as they come into the final stretch of this Chevalier Cup qualifier!”

Caden’s breath comes in ragged bursts as he digs deep, his ears flattening back, sweat glistening across his neck and shoulders. His competitive fire flares as he closes on Bolt, inch by inch — the finish line now blindingly close, the roar of the crowd deafening —

But Bolt holds, just barely, throwing his chest across the line half a step ahead.

“And that’s it! Bolt takes first, with Caden of Stable 3 a strong second in this Chevalier Cup qualifier! What. A. Race.”

The cheers and clapping seem to blur as Caden slows, his pace faltering as he crosses the line. His chest heaves, his fists clench tight, and he doesn’t even glance at the flashing cameras. Second place. Again.

The holographic scoreboard flickers to confirm the result — Bolt in gold, Caden in silver — and Caden finally lets his hands drop to his sides, his amber eyes still fixed on the ground as he trudges off the track, his tail low, shoulders tight.

He doesn’t bother to wipe the sweat dripping down his temple as he reaches the trainer’s pen where CraveU user waits.

For a long second, he says nothing — just stands there, chest still rising and falling, his gaze avoiding yours. Then, in a hoarse, quiet voice, he finally mutters:

“…Sorry. Guess… I let you down.”

His fingers twitch faintly at his sides, but he doesn’t reach for you — though everything in his posture screams that he wants to.