Bonus Chapter: “The Sky Behind the Desk”

  Scene 1: “Is That… Shiraishi??”

  —-: Saki

  It started with a late-night scroll dive.

  Saki was in her room, wrapped in two blankets like a burrito of ambition, flicking through an old archive database on her cracked projection slate. She’d been trying to find old footage of the original Zephyr Trace team for a blog piece—“Legacy League Lookbacks: Fashion or Function?”—when she stumbled across it.

  The title was vague:

  “Sky Circuit Finals – Year 1903X – Southwind Division”

  The video was grainy, artifacted like it had been filmed through soup, and the audio was half steam-blasted nonsense.

  But the racing? Perfect.

  She sat bolt upright as the camera panned to one of the pilots rounding the third velocity ring—crystal vents glowing just before the clip cut to a close-up of the winning craft’s cockpit.

  And there—only two seconds on screen—was a young woman.

  Short-cropped hair. Tight flight goggles. No smile.

  But fire in her eyes.

  Saki hit pause.

  Zoomed.

  Enhanced.

  Wiggled the projection controls.

  Zoomed again.

  “…No way.”

  She leaned in until her nose was practically in the screen.

  Her brain screamed.

  Her voice whispered:

  “That’s Shiraishi-sensei.”

  Cue chaos.

  Saki immediately scrambled to her feet, knocking over a cup of instant steam-ramen and tripping on her own sketchpad in the dark. She grabbed her comm and pinged everyone.

  TO: Team Silver Dart + Extras

  SUBJECT: HISTORY EMERGENCY

  BODY: MEET ME IN THE COMMON ROOM. BRING SNACKS AND STAMINA. YOU’RE NOT GONNA BELIEVE WHO RACED THE SKY CIRCUIT IN ‘03X.

  She sent the video file.

  Then added the most dangerous four words in her entire vocabulary:

  “I have a theory.”

  And somewhere in her heart, she could already hear the door slamming open, the popcorn being dropped, and the collective gasp—

  Before anyone even hit play.

  Because Shiraishi-sensei wasn’t just their coach.

  She was a legend hiding in plain sight.

  Scene 2: “She Denies Everything… and Triples the Homework”

  —-: Rin

  The classroom was too quiet.

  Rin sat near the back, arms crossed, watching Shiraishi-sensei with narrowed eyes and a hundred questions she absolutely wasn’t going to ask out loud.

  Yet.

  Jiro kept glancing sideways at her like she was a ticking bomb.

  Saki, in full gremlin mode, had both hands clasped on the edge of her desk, vibrating with smug energy.

  Taiga was wearing a pair of goggles on his head for no reason, looking between Shiraishi and the comm slate like he was waiting for someone to yell “Cut!”

  And Ren… poor Ren… was trying not to laugh. His mouth kept twitching.

  Then Shiraishi walked in.

  Click. Click. Click. Her boots. Her coat. Her usual glare like she’d personally fought the sky into submission and found it lacking.

  She dropped a stack of papers onto the front desk.

  “Pop quiz. No talking.”

  A collective groan filled the air like a failing boiler.

  Rin raised her hand.

  Shiraishi didn’t look up.

  “No, Lawson, this isn’t about your video club’s conspiracy.”

  “Oh, it’s not a conspiracy,” Saki whispered just loud enough to be dangerous. “It’s a documentary in progress.”

  Shiraishi looked up. Deadpan.

  “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

  Saki blinked. “Really. Not even a tingle of recognition for the 1903X Sky Circuit Finals?”

  Jiro’s eyes widened. “We saw the clip, Sensei. You did a blind corkscrew dive through a triple ring stack.”

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  Taiga added, “And you winked at the camera. That’s at least a war crime in the rulebook.”

  Shiraishi stared at them.

  Expressionless.

  Then:

  “Three-page write-up. On steam intake lag differentials. Due tomorrow.”

  The room erupted.

  “WHAT—?!”

  “Sensei—!”

  “COME ON, THAT’S NOT EVEN A REAL PUNISHMENT, THAT’S JUST CRUELTY—”

  Shiraishi stepped toward the board. Calm. Inevitable.

  “Would you like diagrams included?”

  Everyone fell silent.

  She picked up a chalk stylus. Began to draw a steam cycle schematic like nothing had happened.

  Like her entire class hadn’t just unearthed a literal hidden sky racing champion.

  Rin watched her.

  Closely.

  And somewhere between the lines of copper-pipe diagrams and crystal compression equations—

  She smiled.

  Just a little.

  Because if Shiraishi thought this would stop them?

  She clearly forgot who she trained.

  Scene 3: “Hangar Playback – Legendary Footage”

  —-: Jiro

  The hangar lights hummed overhead, casting long shadows over Silver Dart’s undercarriage as the crew huddled around the holo-projector like it was sacred fire.

  “I boosted the resolution,” Jiro said, proud and slightly nervous, “and stabilized the angle. The wind noise is still trash, but—”

  “JUST PLAY IT,” Saki yelled from a crate, already holding a bag of popped steam-corn like it was awards night.

  Hana leaned forward with cautious curiosity, grease-smudged hands clasped.

  Taiga wore a makeshift “Shiraishi Fan Club” badge made from a bottlecap and a safety pin.

  Even Rin—cool, unshakeable Rin—looked actually interested, eyes flicking toward the screen with a laser focus.

  Ren… he just looked stunned. Like someone had found out his math teacher used to wrestle dragons.

  Jiro pressed play.

  The flickering image filled the air.

  A glider screamed through the sky—no frills, no sponsor paint, just raw polish and power. The kind of flying that didn’t care who was watching. Clean turns. Dirty tactics. Artistry disguised as efficiency.

  The final dive was a corkscrew spiral through three tight vapor rings, timed so perfectly it should’ve been impossible.

  And there—just before the ship broke the tape—

  The cockpit camera caught her face.

  Young. Fierce. Focused.

  A half-smile. A wink.

  “There,” Jiro whispered. “That’s the moment. That’s her.”

  Rin leaned forward slowly, voice hushed:

  “That dive… That’s her trademark. I thought I invented it.”

  Hana’s mouth opened. “She flew it better.”

  Taiga whistled. “I feel weirdly… inspired and threatened.”

  Saki was glowing. “Do you realize what this means?! Our instructor isn’t just a hardass. She’s a Sky Circuit legend in hiding!”

  Then came the voice.

  From the shadows at the hangar entrance:

  “If you’re going to pirate old race footage, at least get the date right.”

  Everyone froze.

  Jiro’s stomach dropped.

  The image paused in midair—right on young Shiraishi’s face.

  Shiraishi-sensei stepped forward, arms folded, coat flaring behind her like a battle flag. The firefly lanterns hanging along the rafters flickered. The air got very still.

  And then—

  “I didn’t want fans,” she said, calm and clear.

  “I wanted fliers.”

  No one spoke.

  But Rin stood straighter.

  And Hana… smiled.

  Because suddenly, everything made sense.

  Scene 4: “Steam-Scorched Armor”

  —-: Rin

  The hangar air hung thick with something unspoken.

  Shiraishi stood at the edge of the paused projection, face framed by firefly lantern light and shadows. The younger version of herself floated in the air beside her—frozen mid-flight, half-smile ghosting like a memory.

  Nobody dared move.

  Not even Rin.

  Shiraishi walked forward, boots echoing off the steel plating. No hurry. No drama. Just purpose.

  She didn’t reach for the projector.

  Instead, she reached for the storage cabinet tucked behind the emergency first-aid kit—the one even Rin had never seen unlocked.

  The key came from a chain around her neck.

  Click.

  Clunk.

  Creak.

  Inside, wrapped in faded cloth and the smell of old smoke, was a flight suit.

  Not a display piece.

  Not preserved or pampered.

  Used.

  The fabric was worn soft in the knees, one shoulder patch scorched with what looked like crystal-burn, and the collar stitched back together with mismatched thread.

  She held it out.

  Let them see.

  “Winning felt good,” she said simply, voice rough with memory.

  “But teaching you…

  Feels better.”

  Hana stepped closer first, reverent.

  “You really flew with that?”

  Shiraishi smiled. Barely. “I bled in it. Threw up in it. Broke two ribs and cracked a cockpit brace.”

  Jiro, wide-eyed, whispered, “That’s… so metal.”

  Rin stepped forward last. She studied the suit. The repairs. The weight.

  “I always thought you hated flyers like me,” Rin said, voice low. “Fast. Sharp. Showy.”

  Shiraishi tilted her head.

  “I don’t hate that kind of flyer.”

  “I hated what I became chasing it.”

  Silence.

  Rin blinked. “So… why come back?”

  Shiraishi looked at all of them now—Ren’s nervous pride, Hana’s quiet awe, Mei watching from the upper platform like she’d always known.

  “Because one day, I realized I didn’t want the sky to end with me.”

  She folded the suit gently.

  Then placed it on the bench next to the Dart’s tool kit.

  “Now,” she said, brisk again, already turning toward the hangar doors—

  “Five a.m. drills. No excuses. And if you ever break formation again on a spiral dive—”

  “Yes, Sensei!” they all shouted before she could finish.

  As her boots faded into the distance, the team just stood there, blinking.

  It wasn’t until she was gone that Rin reached out—one fingertip brushing the old stitched collar.

  Not just admiration.

  Kinship.

  She turned to the others.

  “She’s one of us.”

  Taiga sniffed. “I’m framing this moment in my brain forever.”

  Jiro nodded solemnly. “Same.”

  The projector still flickered behind them.

  But nobody needed to watch it again.

  Not when their coach just made history real.

  Scene 5: “The Suit That Still Breathes”

  —-: Hana

  The hangar didn’t make a sound.

  Not the vents. Not the tools.

  Not even the Dart.

  Hana held her breath without realizing, watching as Shiraishi laid the flight suit across the bench like it was a friend who’d just come home from war.

  No glass case. No plaque.

  Just cloth. Faded. Charred at the collar. One thigh patched in the exact same cross-stitch Hana had used on the Dart’s left pressure cuff last month.

  She stepped closer.

  So did Rin. Then Jiro. Then the rest.

  None of them touched it.

  But every single one of them leaned in.

  The suit smelled faintly of copper grease and old altitude oil. The kind you never quite scrub out. A dark tear beneath the armpit had been hand-sewn with black wire thread. The left sleeve still held a sun-bleached crest from a long-defunct league.

  No sparkle. No drama.

  Just proof.

  Proof she’d flown.

  Proof she’d fallen.

  And come back.

  “Winning felt good,” Shiraishi said, voice low but sure.

  “But teaching you… feels better.”

  The words hung like crystal harmonics in a silent cockpit—resonating.

  Hana’s throat tightened.

  Not because she was surprised.

  But because of course this was who Shiraishi was.

  No wonder she’d torn their builds apart, line by line. No wonder she’d pushed them like she was racing ghosts.

  She had been.

  And now?

  Now she was teaching them not just how to win—

  but how to fly without burning out.

  Jiro wiped the corner of his eye with his sleeve and tried to cover it with a loud sniff. “So… does this mean no quiz tomorrow?”

  Shiraishi raised a brow. “No. It means you’ll get better questions.”

  Taiga groaned. “She's evolving.”

  Rin chuckled—actually chuckled—and said, “Took us this long to realize the person pushing us hardest… already flew the path.”

  Ren nodded. “And survived it.”

  Shiraishi didn’t smile.

  Not exactly.

  But her shoulders relaxed.

  Just a little.

  She turned to leave, then paused at the threshold.

  “You have something now I didn’t,” she said. “Each other.”

  “Don’t waste it.”

  Then she was gone—boots echoing softly down the ramp.

  The team stood there for a moment longer, the suit still resting where she’d left it.

  Finally, Hana reached out and folded it gently. Hands steady. Respectful.

  Like she was cradling more than just cloth.

  Because she was.

  She was holding legacy.

  And for the first time in a long time, she felt ready to carry it forward.