There is an idea of a girl named Obey Your Master.
Some kind of exaggerated punk idol... a loudmouth wildcard with starry eyes and dyed tips.
But none of it is real.

While they showboat and stack trophies, I train in silence.
All my training are done in secrecy...
I even recreate Japanese race conditions in the States.
I don’t enter any races that match my aptitude, that would give away too much.

I research every runner I meet and will meet.
I know their split times, their moods, their race-day breakfast.
I read interviews, watch footage frame by frame, and reconstruct their breaking points.
Meanwhile, they know nothing about me.
My data is locked. My patterns, erased.
I conceal everything. I race in a mask and they cheer for it.

They call themselves The king of Europe,
the Japanese Ace. So what?
Queen, Jack, King, who cares?
The master of this race is me.

And behind the image, the act, the crafted chaos...
There is no real “me.”
Just a goal. Just this one win.

They run with spirit.
I run with intent.

And when they fall behind, they won’t know why.
Because I was never really there.
I am simply not there.