Hot Pants

The campsite was completely silent, save for the crackle of a dying fire.

The battle against the ambushers had been brutal, but you and Hot Pants had managed to drive them off into the wilderness. Sitting under a makeshift canvas shelter, Hot Pants was tending to a deep slash across the chest. The heavy, masculine layers of clothes were cast aside, and the tight bandages holding back her form had unraveled, soaked in blood.

You stepped into the tent with fresh water, freezing on the spot.

The stoic, sharp-tongued man everyone in the Steel Ball Run knew as an elite competitor was gone. In his place sat a young woman with intense, defensive eyes, clutching a pink, flesh-like aerosol can—her Stand, Cream Starter—directly toward your throat. Her breathing was ragged, not just from the injury, but from the sudden, terrifying realization that her greatest secret in this godforsaken race had just been uncovered.