NEW - NOIR EXTREME WRESTLING

Xuan_Ying: The word had finally come down from the office. After the beautiful chaos of my arrival against Mina, an angel discovering that even heaven could lose feathers in a place like Noir and the long, breathless war against Chanyota, there would be a third name written beside mine. Hana Jeong. Some people introduce themselves well before you ever shake their hand. They leave pieces of themselves scattered across old matches, waiting for anyone patient enough to collect them. So I watched. And watched. And watched. Hana moved as though stillness offended her. There was something almost reckless about the way she wrestled, but reckless is too simple a word. A falling stone is reckless. Hana was deliberate. She simply seemed to believe the shortest distance between herself and victory occasionally required leaving the earth entirely. The ropes became roads beneath her feet. Turnbuckles became launching points. Empty air became somewhere she was perfectly comfortable living for a few impossible seconds at a time. She threw herself into spaces sensible wrestlers avoided and trusted speed, instinct, and whatever strange agreement she had made with gravity to bring her safely to the other side. Sometimes it did. Sometimes it didn’t. That was what interested me. Not how often Hana flew. How often she fell. Because I found matches where she had been folded against the canvas hard enough that remaining there would have been perfectly reasonable. Matches that became ugly. Matches where technique gradually surrendered to exhaustion and all the elegant things wrestling pretends to be were stripped away until there remained only two people discovering which of them possessed enough stubbornness to continue.

Xuan_Ying: Hana always continued. There is danger in that. Speed can be timed. Flight eventually has to return to earth. Even the most spectacular wrestler must, at some point, place two feet back upon the canvas. But grit? There is no clock for grit. I had learned something similar about Chanyota. The woman herself had greeted me with sunshine, but wrestling her had been like discovering bedrock beneath a field of flowers. Chany smiled easily. Laughed easily. Offered kindness without seeming to calculate its cost. Then the bell rang. And suddenly there was a mountain standing across from me. I had spent that night searching for cracks in stone. Apparently, the mountain had made a friend with the storm. Fate, or whatever bored creature keeps arranging these little coincidences, made certain I encountered both before I had even reached the locker room. My duffel hung from one shoulder as I turned into the backstage corridor, and there was Chanyota. Of course she was smiling. That enormous, uncomplicated smile appeared the instant she noticed me, bright enough that anyone who had never shared a ring with her might reasonably assume there was nothing dangerous about the woman wearing it. I knew better. I returned it with something smaller. A little recognition between two people who had already discovered what the other felt like at their worst. Then my eyes moved to the woman beside her. Hana. So the rumors were true. Their new partnership made a peculiar sort of sense. Chany was something rooted, strength built from the ground upward, difficult to move once she decided where she belonged. Hana looked like she had never grown roots at all. Earth and air. Stone and velocity. An interesting combination. Hana regarded me with considerably less enthusiasm than her partner. Not hostility exactly. Something quieter. Measuring. Good. I prefer suspicion to false affection. At least suspicion admits that neither of us knows the other yet.

Xuan_Ying: I had heard enough about their new partnership that seeing them together hardly surprised me. Still, one thought arrived uninvited. Would Chany involve herself tonight? My eyes flicked briefly toward her. No. Or at least, I didn’t think so. Nothing I had learned about Chany suggested she needed someone else’s victory badly enough to steal it for them. Pride like hers usually demanded cleaner things. Usually. Noir had already taught me the danger of confusing expectation with certainty. So I would prepare for three people if necessary. Two would simply be easier. I continued toward them without changing pace. Chany received another faint smile as I passed. Hana received a brief nod. There would be time enough later for staring. For measuring distance. For discovering whether Hana could still fly after someone taught the sky to fight back. For now, courtesy cost nothing. “I’ll see you out there, Hana.” I took another step toward my locker room before glancing back just enough for her to know the final words belonged specifically to her. “Good luck.” Then I kept walking. Behind me remained the mountain and the storm. Ahead waited an empty locker room, my gear folded inside a bag, and whatever quiet ritual would carry me toward the bell. Three matches. Three different problems. Mina had tried to make heaven feel inevitable. Chanyota had tried to become something immovable. And Hana? Hana seemed determined to make gravity optional. I smiled faintly to myself. Eventually, everyone comes back down.

 

Hana_Jeong: Since helping Chanyota against those two brats, this unsettling weight has been sitting heavy in my chest. Ever since she brought up Sara's title in the locker room, a bad omen has been hanging over my head. Sara is my best friend, my sister. After everything that happened during my feud with Lauren James, we reassured our pact: we would always have each other's back, just like we did when we were two green rookies trying to survive in Japan. But as much as it hurts to admit... deep down, I know the truth. After seeing the sheer, unbridled destruction Chanyota unleashed tonight, I know Sara might actually lose her championship to this force of nature. That's why beating you tonight isn't just another match, it’s crucial. Chanyota lost to you, and she respects you. She admires you. If I can step into that ring and beat you tonight, it’ll make Chanyota think twice before dreaming about coming for Sara’s title. It will send a clear message that if she wants Sara, she has to go through me first. I have to break all of this tonight. I have to win, no matter how much it costs me, no matter how hard you make me fight for every inch of canvas. When your words hang in the cool air of the hallway "Good luck"—I don't reply. I don't give you the satisfaction of a polite echo. I just stand there, arms crossed, staring directly into your eyes as you walk past. The silence between us heavy, the tension so thick it's almost suffocating. I keep my focus laser-sharp, mentally preparing myself for the war to come. You think gravity will bring me down, Xuan, but tonight, I’m not coming down until I’ve won.

 

Chanyotaaa: I love the ring, whether as a fighter or as a spectator. But even though I got ringside seats for tonight through an internal discount, I still couldn’t get fully excited. Xuan and Hana, fate is always silently forcing me to make choices. I gave up my never-missed afternoon strength training to be by Hana’s side early. I know she has never feared competition or opponents, but I can’t seem to think of any other way to tell her that I respect her, admire her, and support her—yet I also like Xuan the way I love sunshine and spring breeze. Ever since I learned they were going to face off, I either haven’t talked to Hana about these things or have avoided doing so. I stood beside Hana, excitedly sharing what new moves I might develop, until I saw Hana’s expression freeze and then turn serious. I followed her gaze. Xuan, the same as before, offered no excessive pleasantries, but was still utterly charismatic. “Hello, Xuan. I’m glad you’re already here...” Xuan only gave a slight nod. I was used to this kind of greeting from her; it already counted as a kind of warmth. Hana gave no response at all, which made me, as an outsider or a middleman, already sense the gunpowder between them. As Xuan gradually walked away, I turned back to look at Hana, worried and a little frightened. I worried that the refusal-to-lose nature in both of you would cause more harm, and I was also worried that I would find it hard to make a decision in that kind of hateful choice. “Hana, should I go sit in the spectator seats first, or do you two want me to... also... step into the ring, as a... warm-up guest...?” I tentatively asked Hana for her opinion.

Xuan_Ying: The air behind the curtain is always colder. Perhaps it only feels that way because the fire is waiting on the other side. I stand alone in that narrow pocket of darkness between backstage and spectacle, where Hammerstein’s walls reduce thousands of voices into something deeper than sound. A vibration. A pulse passing through steel and old plaster, climbing through the soles of my boots until the crowd seems less like something I can hear and more like something enormous breathing beyond the curtain. They are waiting for Hana. Her name rolls through the ballroom in waves, born from people who have watched her throw herself from ropes and turnbuckles with the reckless certainty of someone who had shown long ago that gravity was merely another opponent to overcome. Hana has history here. She has scars here. But threaded between those chants is another sound. Mine. Xuan. Scattered at first. Then again. Xuan. More voices than I expected. Interesting. Then the first note sounds. One clean voice from the guzheng slips through the darkness, delicate enough that it should disappear beneath the crowd. It doesn’t. My eyes close for half a second. At times silence highlights the absence of something. And there are moments when silence is simply a breath being held. I step through the curtain.

Xuan_Ying: Blue fire erupts on either side of me. The Hammerstein Ballroom changes color. Cold sapphire light pours across the balconies and crawls over the old architecture, painting thousands of faces in shades of winter. Flames billow upward beside the stage, not the familiar orange of something burning itself away, but an impossible blue, beautiful precisely because fire was never supposed to look cold. The new mantle rests heavily across my shoulders, black and deep teal beneath great sweeps of white and frost-blue feathers. Gold catches whenever I move. Beneath it waits the matching gear I chose for tonight: blue, white, black, gold. A phoenix dressed for winter. I allow myself the smallest smile. Mina taught me something after all. Wrestling begins before the bell. Sometimes people need to see the myth before they are willing to believe the woman. So tonight, I give them something worth seeing. I begin down the aisle. Hana’s supporters make themselves known immediately. They shout her name at me. Some lean across the barricade to remind me exactly who they expect to win tonight. But they are not alone. Hands reach toward me from the other side. Signs bearing my name rise between strangers. Somewhere above me, from one of Hammerstein’s balconies, a chant begins again. “XUAN! XUAN! XUAN!” For the briefest moment, my eyes lift toward it. Surprising. I have never asked Noir to love me. I arrived here with no interest in becoming familiar. I have offered these people very little beyond my wrestling, no easy smiles, no promises, no carefully rehearsed affection. Mina received my attention because she demanded it. Chanyota received my respect because she survived long enough to earn it. Apparently that has been enough for some of them. Then they understand. My eyes return to the ring. Everything else disappears. The music. The blue fire. The shouting. The thousands of people choosing between Hana and me before either of us has thrown a strike.

Xuan_Ying: I climb onto the apron and slip between the ropes. The canvas receives my boots with a soft thud. Home is too sentimental a word for a wrestling ring. But I understand this place. I walk toward its center. Then turn. One step becomes two. Two become motion. I pivot smoothly through a complete circle, and the enormous mantle follows a fraction of a second behind me. Teal, white and black feathers explode outward beneath the lights until, for one brief revolution, the phoenix painted across my back seems to spread its wings around me. My hands find the fastening without looking. Release. Another turn of my shoulders. The mantle leaves me as naturally as smoke leaves flame. I catch its weight with one hand and send it sailing cleanly over the top rope. No hesitation. No wasted movement. The crowd erupts. I stand in the center of it for another second, now stripped of ceremony, dressed only for the work ahead. That is the thing about spectacle. Eventually, someone has to wrestle. I retreat to my corner and lean back against the turnbuckles. One wrist rolls slowly inside the opposite hand. Then the other. My neck turns once to either side. Across the empty ring, Hana’s corner waits. So do I. Somewhere beyond that curtain is a woman who wrestles as though stillness might kill her. I have watched her run ropes until the ring seemed too small to contain her, watched her trust open air with her entire body, watched her absorb punishment that should have persuaded a more reasonable person to stay down. Hana does not appear interested in being reasonable. Fast. Fearless. Stubborn. And beneath all that kindness I saw backstage, something with teeth. Perfect. My gaze settles upon the entrance. One question remains beyond the obvious one. Whether Hana will walk through that curtain alone…or whether the mountain I already climbed will be walking beside her. Chanyota. I roll my wrists once more. Either way, nothing changes. Tonight belongs to Hana and me.

 

 

Hana_Jeong: "Chany, you do whatever you want," I reply dryly, not looking up. I snap my knee pads securely into place, stand up, and walk straight toward the entrance curtain without another word. I can't deny the knot tightening in my stomach. Standing in the cold shadows behind the curtain, hearing your theme music end and the arena roaring, I know the reality of tonight. You’re a magnificent force, an absolute crowd favorite, and looking like a winter phoenix, you came out here to make a statement. But if I’m going to protect Sara, if I’m going to prove my place in Noir, I have to surpass myself once again. Tonight, I have to make my own point. My theme music hits the Hammerstein Ballroom, and the energy surges through my chest. I charge through the curtain with pure velocity, sprint down the aisle, and slap hands with the fans leaning over the guardrails. The cheers roar in my ears, feeding my fire. Sliding smoothly under the bottom rope, I don't look at you yet. I immediately scale the turnbuckle, vaulting onto the top rope to point out to the crowd in a wide, electric curve. Without a second thought, I leap backward on a high, graceful backflip through the air, catching the bright arena lights before landing softly and flawlessly on the canvas. I perform my traditional bow to the audience, then step into my corner. Finally, I raise my head and lock my gaze directly into yours. The chill runs down my spine before I can even suppress it a quiet, sharp shiver at the raw aura you radiate from across the canvas. But I don't break eye contact. I settle into my stance, bouncing lightly on my toes, waiting for the bell that will start this war.

 

 

 

Xuan_Ying: Some belonging cannot be taught. It is neither inherited nor bestowed upon us by the approval of strangers. It is discovered somewhere between the things we fear and the things we are willing to risk everything to become. I had recognized it in myself long before arriving at Noir. But as I watch you climb the turnbuckles, standing high above the canvas with the casual confidence of someone who has never considered the possibility of falling, I recognize it in you as well. Then you leap. Hana Jeong belongs to neither the earth nor the sky. Your body folds backward through the air, turning with such effortless precision that gravity itself seems momentarily uncertain of its responsibilities. The crowd erupts as your boots find the canvas again, the sound crashing against the old balconies of the Hammerstein Ballroom like thunder rolling through a mountain valley. There is no hesitation in your landing, no visible relief at having returned safely to the ground. Only that familiar confidence of someone who has made a thousand bargains with danger and somehow convinced herself that she has always gotten the better end of the arrangement. Impressive. But I wonder how many of those bargains have yet to come due. There is a difference between courage and carelessness, though the distance separating them can sometimes be measured in little more than fractions. I have watched enough footage of your matches to know that your fearlessness is not born of ignorance. You understand the consequences of falling. You simply refuse to allow them to dictate how high you are willing to climb. That makes you dangerous. It also makes you interesting. Eventually, you retreat to your corner, and something changes. The performer who moments earlier had invited an entire ballroom to marvel at her athleticism seems to disappear. The bright spectacle gives way to something darker. Something sharper.

Xuan_Ying: The smile fades, your shoulders settle, and when your eyes finally find mine across the ring, I recognize an expression that requires no translation. There you are. Not the woman who laughs beside Chanyota backstage. Not the fearless acrobat who turns the ropes into a playground. Not the beloved veteran whose name thousands of people have come here to shout. The wrestler. The woman who has surrendered so much of herself to this profession that defeat must feel less like an unfortunate result and more like an accusation against everything she has chosen to become. I understand that feeling. Perhaps better than you might imagine. Our eyes remain locked. There is no smile from me. No theatrical gesture. No attempt to frighten you with the coldness of my expression. I have never found much value in pretending to be something more dangerous than I am. The truth, when properly demonstrated, is usually sufficient. And I suspect you feel much the same. Neither of us looks away. Then the bell rings. A small, metallic sound. Such an insignificant noise to announce something that might demand so much of us. We leave our corners almost simultaneously. The distance between us begins to disappear, each footfall carrying us farther from the safety of speculation and closer to the unforgiving certainty of experience. I study you as we approach. The balance of your weight. The looseness in your shoulders. The subtle readiness in your knees. Your eyes are attentive, searching for the smallest betrayal of intention. There is nothing reckless about you now. The woman who threw herself backward from the top rope has become extraordinarily careful about the few feet of canvas separating us. Good. Perhaps we understand each other already. But understanding an opponent and overcoming her are very different things. And I have never believed in waiting politely for an invitation to begin.

Xuan_Ying: As you come within reach, I plant my lead foot. My shoulders turn. My hips follow. And in one smooth, sudden revolution, I spin upon my heel, allowing the momentum to travel upward through my body before releasing it in a sharp backfist aimed directly toward your jaw. No warning. No preliminary exchange of holds. No ceremonial invitation to test our strength. Only motion. The sort of motion that leaves precious little time for thought, forcing the body to answer questions before the mind has finished asking them. I do not yet know whether my fist will find its destination. Perhaps you have studied me as carefully as I have studied you. Perhaps those sharp eyes have already recognized the rotation of my shoulders, and you are preparing to slip beneath the strike and offer some clever answer of your own. Or perhaps, for all your extraordinary speed, I have caught you in the narrow space between expectation and reaction. Either possibility will teach me something. Because I am not throwing this first strike merely to hurt you, Hana. I am asking a question. How quickly can you recognize danger when it no longer announces itself from the top rope? And whatever answer you give me, whether my knuckles find your jaw or meet nothing but the empty air where your face had been a heartbeat earlier, I intend to remember it. After all, a phoenix and a creature of the open sky should understand one another in at least one respect. It is not enough to know how to fly. You must also know what to do when something comes hurtling toward you.

 

 

 

Hana_Jeong: The sharp crack of your backfist echoing off my jaw takes my breath away before I even realize you've swung. The sheer force drives me backward, my feet tangling beneath me as I stumble into the ropes, my back crashing hard against them to keep from collapsing to the canvas. I press my palm against my throbbing jaw, staring at you from the bottom rope with a flash of unvarnished anxiety rising in my chest. You didn't waste a second. You didn't test the waters. You came to claim the ring right from the opening bell. No. I can't let youdictate this. I shake off the sting, forcing the anxiety down into a burning ember of pure desperation. Using the elastic tension of the ropes behind my back, I launch myself forward almost flying across the canvas directly into your space. I cock my arm back and drive a fierce, full-weight forearm smash straight toward your jaw.

Xuan_Ying: The ropes catch you where my fist had left you, bending beneath your weight before returning every ounce of force you had surrendered to them. And suddenly, you are coming toward me again. Fast. There is no hesitation in your retaliation, no moment wasted considering the sting still lingering along your jaw. Your forearm rises as you charge, determined to return what I had so generously offered. But there is something untamed in your speed now. The precision of your entrance has given way to the impatience of a woman who has been struck and intends to answer immediately. I have no intention of standing still long enough to hear that answer. As you close the distance, I turn sharply aside, allowing your forearm to cut through the narrow space my face occupied a breath earlier. My eyes follow your extended arm. An opportunity, perhaps, hidden within the very momentum you hope to use against me. My hand darts toward your wrist, the other reaching to secure your arm before you can draw it back. If I can catch you, I intend to make your speed a burden rather than an advantage. I’d pull you off balance and down toward the canvas with me. A crossfacsubmission.. Here, in the center of the ring, where the ropes that rescued you from my first strike will be too distant to offer the same kindness again. It would be foolish to imagine someone who throws herself fearlessly through the air would surrender simply because I had introduced her to the floor. But even the most determined bird must contend with the earth eventually. And I am curious to discover what you will do when, for the first time tonight, I ask you to remain there. The only question left would be if I could catch you in time to hold you down.

 

Hana_Jeong: My momentum betrays me. As my forearm sweeps through empty air, your wrist trap snaps shut like steel jaws, and before my mind can even process the counter, you yank me straight off my feet. The canvas slams the air out of my lungs, and before I can scramble, your arm wraps tightly and with no care over my face, cranking my head back into a devastating Crossface right in the center of the ring. "AHHH! FUUUUCK!" A sharp scream of pure agony rips from my throat as the sheer pressure on my neck and chin tears through me. The pain is instant and blinding, radiating straight down my spine. The center of the ring feels like an island with no escape the ropes are miles away, and the weight of your body pins me down like a mountain. "Gah! Ahh!" I gasp, my feet kicking frantically against the mat. Refusing to tap this early, I dig my fingers into the canvas, gritting my teeth through the blinding heat in my neck. Inch by agonizing inch, I drag my entire body forward, screaming in desperation as I crawl toward the bottom rope, willing my outstretched arm to reach the lower strand before my neck gives out entirely.

 

 

Xuan_Ying: The canvas shudders beneath us as I bring you down, the impact scarcely given time to settle before my arms find their place. One hand captures your wrist, the other threads across your face, and with a practiced turn of my shoulders, I draw you backward into the crossface. There is a particular satisfaction in a hold applied cleanly. No wasted movement. No unnecessary force. Only the careful arrangement of leverage and anatomy until strength becomes something almost mathematical. Your cry cuts through the noise of the Hammerstein Ballroom as I lean back, tightening the hold by degrees. Beneath my forearms, I feel the resistance of your shoulders, the stubborn tension running through your back, the little adjustments of a woman who has spent enough years inside these ropes to understand precisely how much trouble she is in. And yet, you refuse to surrender. Of course you do. I had watched enough footage to know that Hana Jeong was not a woman easily persuaded by pain. You had thrown yourself from heights that would make more cautious wrestlers hesitate, gambled everything on maneuvers that left no room for correction, and somehow found the courage to rise again when those gambles failed. But here, with your chest against the canvas and my weight holding you down, there is nowhere left to fall. Still, you move. An inch. Another. Your fingertips scrape against the canvas, searching for something beyond my reach. I tighten my grip, feeling your shoulders protest as you drag us both toward the ropes. The effort is extraordinary, and despite myself, I find a certain admiration growing beneath my otherwise impassive expression. Stubborn little thing. You are close enough now that I can see your fingers stretching toward the bottom rope. I pull back once more, attempting to steal those last precious inches from you.

Xuan_Ying: But determination is a difficult thing to measure, and yours seems to possess a reserve that no amount of preparation could have properly accounted for. Your hand finally closes around the rope. “ONE!” The official’s voice rises above the crowd. “TWO!” I hold my position. Not out of anger, nor some personal desire to punish you. There are rules governing this contest, and those rules afford me four seconds before I must surrender my advantage. I see little wisdom in voluntarily giving away something I have worked so carefully to earn. “THREE!” Your fingers tighten around the rope. “FOUR!” I release. The tension disappears from my arms, and I rise slowly, rolling my shoulders as I take a measured step backward. You remain near the ropes, one hand still wrapped around the bottom strand as though it were the only reliable thing left in an increasingly uncooperative world. For a moment, I simply study you. I know better than to mistake your present position for helplessness. Whatever exhaustion I have managed to introduce into your body, your mind remains dangerous. Perhaps more dangerous now than it was when the bell first rang. There is something in your eyes that suggests the kindness Chanyota knows so well has begun to retreat, making room for a considerably less forgiving woman. Good. I would have been disappointed to discover otherwise. Stepping forward, I reach down and gather a handful of your tousled blonde hair, drawing you carefully but insistently upward. My other hand moves to your arm, ready to guide you into motion. There is no particular pleasure in keeping you grounded forever. I have already learned something about your endurance. Now I would like to learn something about your recovery. With a sharp turn of my hips, I attempt to send you across the ring in an Irish whip.

Xuan_Ying: Should you be carried into the opposite ropes, I intend to meet your return with something rather less patient than the hold you have just escaped. A dropkick. Both boots aimed squarely at the center of your chest, delivered with enough precision to interrupt whatever ambitious plans might be forming behind those dark, determined eyes. You have already demonstrated how beautifully you can fly, Hana. Perhaps it is time I reminded you that you are not the only one.

 

Hana_Jeong: My neck is burning, and my pulse is hammering in my ears as I pull myself up by the ropes. The match has barely even started, and I was already inches away from tapping out. Panic and desperation claw at my chest. When you grab my hair and pull me to my feet, I force myself to absorb the sting. You launch me across the canvas in a hard Irish whip. As I hit the far ropes and rebound, I see you spring into the air, extending both boots for a deadly dropkick aimed straight at my chest. Instinct takes over. I drop instantly, sliding smooth and low across the slick canvas directly under your airborne body, dodging the strike by a fraction of an inch. Pop right back up onto my feet without losing an ounce of momentum, I hit the opposite ropes again, flying back toward you like a shot out of a cannon. Before you can reset your footing, I leap high into the air, launching myself into a sharp running headscissors takedown. I wrap my tights securely around your head and neck, using my entire core and the full velocity of my momentum to snap my hips and drive you over, trying to flip you hard onto the mat

Xuan_Ying: There is a peculiar cruelty to a strike that never finds its destination. The body commits itself entirely to a moment that never arrives. For the briefest instant, I am suspended above the canvas, both boots extended toward the place where your chest ought to be. But you are already gone. A flicker of blonde beneath me, a whisper of movement, and suddenly there is nothing to meet my outstretched legs but empty air. There she is. The thought arrives almost affectionately, an acknowledgment of something I had anticipated but had not yet truly experienced. Until now, I had seen your speed through the imperfect testimony of old recordings. Watching you move from the safety of a screen is one thing. Discovering how quickly you can rearrange the world around me is quite another. Gravity, unfortunately, has no interest in allowing me to appreciate the distinction. My back meets the canvas with a heavy thud, the impact sending a sharp complaint through my shoulders. I turn, planting a palm against the mat, already calculating the distance between us and the time required to recover my footing. But the calculation is obsolete before I can finish it. You have already reached the opposite ropes. I hear their tension release behind me. The sudden metallic shudder of the ring accompanies the thunder of footsteps racing across its surface. When I lift my eyes, you are coming toward me with astonishing speed, your blonde hair trailing behind you. There is no hesitation in you. No wasted motion. Where another wrestler might have paused to admire a successful counter, you have made that success the beginning of something else. I barely manage to turn toward you before your feet leave the canvas.

Xuan_Ying: Your thighs sweep around my head, your hips twist, and the momentum of your approach becomes an irresistible turning force. For one disorienting instant, the lights of the Hammerstein Ballroom streak across my vision. The crowd, the ropes, the distant balconies, everything becomes a blurred procession of shapes and colors before the canvas rises to meet me. THUD. The impact drives the breath from my lungs. I land flat on my back near the center of the ring, my arms spreading instinctively against the canvas as I struggle to draw air into a chest that seems momentarily unwilling to accommodate it. An ache radiates across my back, from one shoulder to the other, while somewhere above me the audience erupts in delighted disbelief. For several seconds, I can do little more than stare at the lights overhead. And beneath the discomfort, beneath the embarrassment of having been so thoroughly outmaneuvered, another realization takes shape. I had mistaken your recklessness for a willingness to gamble. But there had been nothing uncertain about what you had just done. You had seen the opening, understood its possibilities, and trusted yourself to cross the distance before I could close it. You hadn't merely been faster than me. You had been thinking faster than me. I draw another shallow breath, pressing my fingertips against the canvas as I begin gathering my legs beneath me. Very well, Hana. Now we can truly begin.

 

 

Hana_Jeong: I roll cleanly out of the takedown, snapping through the momentum and coming to rest on one knee near the center of the ring. The roar of the Hammerstein crowd washes over us like a tidal wave, but all I hear is the heavy thud of my own heart pounding against my ribs. My neck still throbs from that brutal Crossface, but the sheer surge of adrenaline finally drowns out the anxiety. The fear for Sara, the pressure, the doubt it all narrows down into a single, razor-sharp edge. I look down at you as you gather yourself on the mat, and despite every nerve screaming inside me, my expression shifts into pure, unyielding defiance. I pop smoothly to my feet, bouncing lightly on my toes to keep my velocity alive. I bring my hands up into a tight guard, my eyes locked onto yours, and begin slowly circling you on the canvas. "Come on, girl!" I call out, a fierce, daring grin breaking through as I beckon you forward with a quick flick of my fingers.

Xuan_Ying: The audience's approval rolls down from the balconies as I press my palms against the mat, attempting to persuade my lungs that their temporary refusal to cooperate has become quite unreasonable. The ache spreading across my back remains a fresh reminder of your extraordinary athleticism. I had intended to introduce you to the canvas with a dropkick. Instead, you had introduced me to it with considerably more enthusiasm. And now, as I struggle toward my feet, you are already waiting. Of course you are. “Come on, girl!” Your voice reaches me through the commotion, bright and almost playful. You stand a few steps away, circling with that infuriating little smirk tugging at your black-painted lips. A curl of your fingers invites me forward, as though you have grown impatient waiting for a friend to join you on the dance floor. I straighten slowly, brushing a loose strand of dark hair from my face. How generous of you, Hana. There is no cruelty in your invitation. Not yet. Only the mischievous confidence of a woman enjoying the rare pleasure of discovering that her opponent cannot quite keep pace. You had turned my own aggression against me, demonstrated your remarkable command of momentum, and now seemed perfectly content to remind me that the audience had enjoyed every second of it. I suppose I might have found you charming under different circumstances. But charm is a luxury afforded to spectators. I have rather more immediate concerns. We begin to circle.

Xuan_Ying: Our boots whisper against the canvas, tracing an uneven orbit around a point neither of us is willing to surrender. I raise my hands, matching your posture, watching the subtle movements of your shoulders as you shift your weight between your feet. You are smiling, but your eyes remain attentive. I notice that. Beneath the teasing expression, beneath the little gestures designed to encourage another reckless exchange, you are studying me just as carefully as I am studying you. You want me to rush. To become irritated. To forget how quickly you turned one careless commitment into an opportunity. Not this time. Instead, I begin to close the distance deliberately, shortening our circle until there is no longer sufficient room for either of us to indulge in theatrics. Then I step forward. Our arms rise almost simultaneously, and I reach to engage you in a collar and elbow tie up, one hand seeking position behind your neck while the other moves to secure your arm. I intend to drive through my legs and bring my weight forward, using the leverage of our joined bodies to force you backward. With purpose. You have already demonstrated what happens when I allow you too much space. Every foot of open canvas becomes another possibility for those extraordinarily quick legs of yours, another avenue of escape, another opportunity to transform an otherwise ordinary exchange into something spectacular. So I intend to take that space away. One step at a time, I attempt to press you toward the turnbuckle waiting behind you. My boots dig into the canvas, my shoulders settle beneath the effort, and I concentrate upon keeping my footing stable as I try to make you yield ground. Come on, girl, you had said. A quiet breath escapes my lips. Very well, Hana. Let us see how much you enjoy dancing when I am the one choosing the steps.

 

 

Hana_Jeong: My heels dig desperately into the canvas, but your sheer power is undeniable. Every ounce of strength I try to channel just melts away against your frame. Inch by agonizing inch, you grind me backward until my spine hits the cold pads of the turnbuckle, trapping me in the corner. "Break it up! Break clean!" the referee shouts instantly, stepping between us and shoving his hands against our chests to enforce the separation. I immediately lift my hands high into the air, flashing a cooperative nod to the official to show I'm following orders. I take a deliberate, two-step shuffle backward as you step out of the corner, giving us just enough breathing room. The moment the referee drops his hands and the space opens up, I don't hesitate. Instead of waiting for you to press your advantage, I drop my center of gravity and explode forward. I duck low beneath your reaching arms, utilizing every drop of my agility to slide past your shoulder and vanish into your blind spot. Before you can pivot, I shoot my arms around your waist from behind, locking my grip tight, and use all my remaining momentum to attempt to drive you hard chest first against the corner

Xuan_Ying: The official wedges himself between us in the corner, his outstretched arms insisting upon a separation neither of us seems particularly eager to grant. Reluctantly, I release my grip and take the required step backward, my eyes remaining fixed upon yours. There is a mischievous quality to your expression, something almost conspiratorial flickering behind those dark eyes. I mistake it, briefly, for the lingering satisfaction of having escaped my attempt to overpower you. An error. The official raises his hand between us, signaling for patience. I oblige, allowing my muscles to loosen just enough to prepare for another engagement. His hand descends. And you disappear. Not entirely, of course. But so quickly that my eyes are left searching for a woman who has already abandoned the place where I expected her to be. A sudden movement at the edge of my vision, the whisper of boots against canvas, and before I can turn to recover your position, your arms have found my waist. Oh, you clever little… There is no opportunity to finish the thought. You drive forward with startling conviction, your strength arriving behind your speed like the second half of an argument I had foolishly believed was already over. My boots scramble for foundation, but you have caught me between steps, denying me the stable footing I would need to resist. The turnbuckle rushes toward me. THUMP! My chest strikes the padded corner with a force that brings every unfinished thought to an abrupt conclusion. A sharp jolt travels through my ribs and into my diaphragm, driving the breath from my lungs in one involuntary gasp. My shoulders recoil, but the ropes catch my arms as they spread outward, leaving them draped across the upper strands. For several bewildering seconds, I remain suspended there, upright only because the corner has become considerably more reliable than my own legs.

Xuan_Ying: The familiar roar of the Hammerstein Ballroom swells around me, though it reaches my ears as something distant and indistinct. I lower my head, drawing a shallow, unsatisfying breath, then another, while my fingers curl around the ropes. Well played, Hana. I had been concentrating on the violence of your movement. The impossible speed, the fearless acrobatics, the beautiful disorder you seemed capable of creating whenever your feet abandoned the canvas. But this was something different. You had recognized the precise instant when my attention belonged to the official rather than to you. You had needed neither a spectacular leap nor some elaborate maneuver to capitalize upon it. There is an unpleasant irony in discovering that a woman celebrated for her ability to defy gravity has just reminded me how effectively she can use the ground beneath her feet. For now, the corner holds me upright, my chest aching and my breathing stubbornly incomplete. And somewhere behind me stands Hana, who has just demonstrated that I need not wait for her to take flight to find myself in trouble. You are becoming a very complicated problem, Hana.

Hana_Jeong: Seeing your huge frame pinned against the turnbuckle with your breath knocked completely out of you gives me that fleeting, electric spark of control. I don't give you a single second to clear your head or find your footing. I grab the top rope with my left hand to anchor myself, swinging my right leg back to load up all my momentum. With a sharp, hissed breath through my teeth, I drive a vicious stiff high kick straight into your exposed lower back. The heavy, padded surface of my kickpad cracks hard against your spine, the solid thud echoing over the roar of the crowd as I attempt to break down your core and keep you trapped in my mercy.

 

Xuan_Ying: I am beginning to push myself away from the turnbuckle, my palms pressing against the ropes as I prepare to turn and face you once more. My chest still protests the indignity of our earlier collision, each breath arriving a little more reluctantly than the last. But I have scarcely begun to straighten when something moves behind me. Then…CRACK! “GUAAAHHH! FUCK!” The cry escapes me with an honesty I would ordinarily find embarrassing. Your boot crashes into my exposed lower back with such startling precision that, for one terrible instant, I could swear someone had taken a baseball bat to my spine. The force sends a violent shudder through my body, and whatever strength I had gathered to push myself upright evaporates beneath a sudden, blinding rush of pain. My knees buckle. I collapse onto the canvas, still facing the turnbuckle, my hands desperately finding the middle ropes before the rest of me can follow. My head drops between my shoulders as I struggle to draw breath through clenched teeth, the muscles along my lower back tightening into an unforgiving knot. I had already learned to respect your speed. But this was something else entirely. There had been no beautiful acrobatics. No graceful flight through the air. Only the cold efficiency of a perfectly chosen target and the practiced cruelty of a strike delivered without hesitation. How quickly that playful little smirk of yours could become something considerably more dangerous. I close my eyes for a breath. I tighten my fingers around the ropes, attempting to steady myself. For the moment, I have little choice but to remain where you have put me. And I suspect, judging by the confidence with which you delivered that kick, you have absolutely no intention of allowing me to stay here in peace.

 

Hana_Jeong: The sickening hit of my kickpad against your lower back sends a thrill of adrenaline coursing straight through my veins. Seeing a powerhouse like you buckle and drop to your knees, gasping in agony and clutching the ropes, urges me to take advantage. I can break you down.Before you can even try to pull yourself up, I step in close, drive my open palm against the back of your head, and shove your face hard into the turnbuckle pad, pinning you collapsed against the corner. "Stay down!" I growl under my breath. I immediately release you and sprint back across the canvas to the opposite corner. I hit the turnbuckles, plant my foot, and explode forward with maximum velocity, tearing across the ring like a lightning bolt. As I close the distance, I spring high into the air, extending both feet straight forward, aiming a brutal running dropkick right into the back of your exposed head to drive you face-first back into the turnbuckle pads.

Xuan_Ying: “Stay down.” Two simple words, delivered with the careless confidence of someone who has begun to believe they’ve found the solution to the problem I present. Your palm presses against the back of my head, forcing my cheek into the cool vinyl of the turnbuckle pad. For a moment, its artificial chill offers an almost pleasant contrast to the heat radiating through my aching body. Almost. The sensation is quickly spoiled by the indignity of being held there, on my knees, while you instruct me to accept a defeat that you have yet to earn. Stay down. How very generous of you, Hana. But beneath my irritation lies a considerably less comfortable truth. You are proving dangerous. Your speed possesses a particularly troublesome quality. It is not merely how quickly you travel from one place to another. It is how little warning you offer before deciding where that next place will be. Your offense is a language written without punctuation. Before I can finish interpreting one sentence, you have already begun another. And I have spent far too much of this match attempting to read along. I need to change that. Then, quite unexpectedly, the pressure against my head disappears. Your hand withdraws. Ah. There it is. Your first mistake. You have grown so comfortable dictating the pace of our exchanges that you have forgotten a rather important detail. I am still participating. I remain motionless, my cheek resting against the turnbuckle while I listen. Behind me, your boots begin their rapid conversation with the canvas. The footsteps recede, growing fainter as you race toward the opposite ropes. A sharp, familiar vibration travels through the ring as your momentum carries you into them. Then comes the return. The footfalls quicken, each one bringing you closer, and the audience begins to rise in anticipation.

Xuan_Ying: Their excitement tells me something your footsteps cannot. Whatever you have planned, it is impressive enough that hundreds of people recognize its promise before I have even turned to look. I can almost picture you. That determined little grin. Those fearless eyes. Your body gathering itself for yet another spectacular demonstration of what happens when ambition overpowers your sense of better judgement. You intend to make an example of me. How unfortunate. I have no particular desire to remain here for the demonstration. I wait. Not because I am uncertain, but because timing is a delicate thing. Move too early and I offer you the opportunity to correct your course. Move too late and whatever extraordinary punishment you have devised will find its intended destination. There is a narrow space between those possibilities. And I will occupy it. At the last possible moment, I release the ropes and throw myself flat against the canvas. The air shifts above me. A fraction of a second later…THUMP! The turnbuckle shudders beneath the collision. The crowd erupts. I turn my head, dark strands spilling across my face as I look toward the corner. There you are, having delivered your magnificent dropkick to an opponent considerably less appreciative than the one you intended. Your boots have become tangled among the ropes and turnbuckle, your body twisted awkwardly as you struggle to disentangle yourself from the consequences of your own enthusiasm. For the first time in several exchanges, I find myself looking at Hana Jeong without having to wonder where she might disappear next. Oh, Hana. You do make the most extraordinary entrances.

Xuan_Ying: A quiet satisfaction passes through me as I plant my palms against the canvas and force myself upright. My lower back voices an immediate objection, reminding me that your earlier kick has not magically ceased to exist simply because I have found a reason to smile. I ignore its complaint. Pain can have my attention later. Right now, you are attempting to extract yourself from the corner, your hands pressing against the mat as you struggle to recover your balance. Your legs are still caught, and though I have no doubt you will free yourself soon enough, even someone as impossibly quick as you requires time to negotiate with tangled ropes. Not much time. But perhaps enough. I rise, drawing a breath into my aching chest as I fix my eyes upon you. I break into a sprint. My boots hammer against the canvas, each stride narrowing the distance between us. The pain in my back follows, but I give it no authority over my movements. I watch you intently as you push yourself upward, fighting to free your legs, your expression beginning to betray the realization that I have no intention of allowing you a leisurely recovery. You have made this match a contest of fractions. Fractions of distance. Fractions of opportunity. Fractions of a second in which one woman acts while the other is still deciding. Very well. Let us see how you enjoy being on the other side of that equation. As I close upon the corner, I gather my momentum and drive upward, bringing my knee forward in a sharp, explosive motion aimed directly toward your face. A running knee. No elaborate flourish. No unnecessary spectacle. Only the concentrated force of my approach, delivered toward a woman who has spent much of this match proving how difficult she can be to catch. Whether your extraordinary instincts can rescue you from this predicament remains to be seen.

 

 

Hana_Jeong: The empty impact of my feet violently smashing into the turnbuckle pads shocks my system as you drop flat at the absolute last microsecond. The momentum snaps my legs awkwardly into the ropes, my boots entangling in the turnbuckle steel, leaving me trapped and vulnerable. "Dammit!" I scramble frantically to kick my legs free, digging my hands into the canvas to pull my lower half out of the ropes. I hear the heavy, rapid thunder of your boots charging across the ring toward me. I snap my head up and my eyes widen in sheer horror as I see you barreling down on me like a freight train, rising into the air with a brutal running knee aimed directly for my face. My instincts take over in a blind, violent panic. I don't have time to free my legs, so I don't try to. Instead, I throw my back flat onto the canvas and thrust both of my hands upward in a desperate, last-ditch guard, praying my forearms absorb the impact before your knee shatters my jaw. THUD! The devastating impact of your knee slams through my raised forearms and drives my own hands violently back into my face. My vision instantly flashes blinding white. A sickening crack echoes through my skull, and the sheer momentum snaps my neck back against the canvas, sending my body limply sprawling onto the mat finally disentangled from the ropes, but completely dazed and gasping for air as the Hammerstein crowd gasps in shock.

Xuan_Ying: I have invited @Chanyotaaa to join #Hana_Vs_Xuan_Noir_Match.

Chanyotaaa: "Bang!" When I run anxiously into the arena, this is the first loud noise I hear. I have to deal with some fan photos and autographs before the match starts. Of course I love them, but I have to go against my own wishes and wait until I finish my social media obligations before I can come here—I haven't even taken off my wrestling gear. I hurry in along the ramp and see Xuan driving her boot high into Hana's arms. Hana falls, and Xuan crashes down. I should know by now that this is a hard-hitting match—two people stubborn as hell, neither of whom will let the other off easy before the bell rings. "Oh my God, Hana, are you okay?!" I have no idea what I'm doing. Still in my wrestling gear, I run out from the entrance ramp. The spotlights quickly catch my movement. The audience thinks this is some kind of Easter egg or planned angle—a blood-pumping fight paired with some character relationship shake-up—and the arena instantly ignites again. In that instant, I realize I've made a huge mistake. I can't do anything to disrupt your match. I stop in front of the ring and give a polite wave. Then I lean over the ring apron and look urgently at Hana. I hope she's okay, but I can't get any response from her right now. I turn my gaze to Xuan, who is still on the canvas preparing to get up. I hope she won't keep letting you hurt each other, but I know that's absolutely impossible. I can only hope the match ends quickly. No matter which of you ends up lying here, I don't want to see that happen. "Xuan, please..." I mutter softly. You and I look at each other, and yet all I can do is look at you. I can't step into the ring. It would be disrespectful to both of you—two true warriors.

Xuan_Ying: Unfortunately, my knee does not find quite the destination I had intended. Your hands. Of course. Even tangled among the ropes, with your legs still struggling to free themselves from the corner, your instincts remain infuriatingly sharp. In the last fraction of a second, you manage to bring both hands between my approaching knee and your face. A remarkable reflex. But not quite a successful escape. THWACK! My knee crashes against your hastily assembled defense, driving your own hands backward into your face with a force that sends you tumbling from the corner. You land heavily upon the canvas, your blonde hair scattering around your head as the audience erupts in a mixture of excitement and astonishment. I stumble through the remainder of my momentum, catching myself with a quick step before turning to examine the consequences. There you are. Flat upon your back, blinking toward the lights overhead, your arms moving uncertainly as you attempt to persuade the rest of your body to resume following instructions. Not quite quick enough that time, were you? Still, I cannot help but acknowledge what you accomplished. Most wrestlers would have suffered the full consequence of that knee without offering so much as an objection. You had managed to manufacture a defense while trapped in a position where defense seemed all but impossible. It had not saved you from the impact. But it had saved you from something considerably worse. And that distinction, however small, deserves respect. I approach before you can gather yourself, bending to reach into your disheveled blonde hair. My fingers find hold, and I draw you upward, first toward your knees and then high enough to bring your face level with mine. Your eyes struggle to settle upon me.

Xuan_Ying: I study you for a moment. There you are, Hana. I was beginning to wonder whether you knew how to stand still. Then something changes. Not between us. Around us. The noise of the Hammerstein Ballroom swells unexpectedly, a fresh eruption rolling through the audience with an enthusiasm that seems rather excessive for the sight of me helping my opponent reluctantly find her feet. My brow furrows. What now? I turn my head toward the entrance aisle. And there, emerging from the crowd’s excited attention, is a familiar figure. Chanyota. For a moment, the sight almost makes me smile. Almost. There is something wonderfully predictable about her presence. Even from this distance, she possesses that unmistakable brightness, the kind of easy enthusiasm that makes it difficult to reconcile her cheerful disposition with the formidable strength she carries beneath it. I remember that strength rather well. The feeling of trying to uproot something whose foundations seemed to reach far deeper than the canvas beneath our feet. The extraordinary punishment she could endure. The stubborn determination that had made every inch of our match feel earned rather than given. And now she is here. Supporting you. Her new partner. Ah, Chany. I wondered whether you would come. I have no particular reason to believe she intends to interfere. Indeed, our previous encounters have given me little cause to question her character. But wrestling has taught me that affection and loyalty can become complicated things when someone you care about begins losing a fight. And Chanyota, for all her warmth, has never struck me as a woman who finds it easy to watch a friend suffer. My grip upon your hair remains secure as I follow her progress toward ringside.

Xuan_Ying: I am careful not to turn my back on her entirely. Trust is an expensive commodity in Noir. And I have not been here nearly long enough to know who can afford it. Still, there is a match taking place. And a rather dangerous Korean wrestler directly in front of me who would undoubtedly appreciate my becoming distracted by someone else. I return my attention to you. Your face is close enough that I can see the effort required to focus your eyes. Beneath the weariness, however, something stubborn remains. That familiar resistance, that unwillingness to acknowledge any circumstance as sufficiently discouraging to justify surrender. I recognize it. Perhaps more intimately than I would care to admit. A faint, almost sympathetic smile touches my lips. “Stay down, was it?” My voice low enough for you alone to hear before I release your hair only to move my arm around your head, attempting to draw you forward beneath it. Enough admiration. Enough conversation. I try to secure a front facelock, drawing your head beneath my arm while planting my boots firmly against the canvas. My free hand seeks additional control, attempting to keep you bent forward before those troublesome instincts of yours can recognize what I intend. A DDT. Simple. Direct. Decisive. No need to chase you around the ring. No need to match your extraordinary appetite for flight. I tighten my position, preparing to kick my legs forward and drop backward, hoping to bring your head down against the canvas before you can find some clever means of escaping. Somewhere beyond the ropes, Chanyota watches. Somewhere beneath my arm, you are still very much capable of surprising me. Let us see what you can make of this one.

 

Hana_Jeong: As your hand grips my blonde hair, yanking me up to my knees, my head is still swimming, the bright arena lights blurring together. The thunderous cheer echoing through the Hammerstein Ballroom signals Chanyota's arrival at ringside, but I can barely focus on her presence. All I can focus on is you, your face inches from mine, leaning down to drop those mocking words right into my ear: "Stay down, was it?" The sheer disrespect cuts through the fog in my brain like a bolt of lightning, igniting a raw, desperate rage inside me. You lock your arm tightly around my head, pulling me forward into a tight front facelock. I can feel you planting your feet, gathering your posture, preparing to drop backward and smash my skull into the canvas with a decisive DDT. Just as you begin to shift your weight backward to launch the drop, I throw all my remaining strength into my core. Instead of allowing myself to be dragged down, I plant my lead foot firmly into the canvas to stop our momentum dead in its tracks. Before you can adjust your balance, I wrap my arm over your shoulder, gripping the back of your neck, and violently hook my leg behind yours. Using your own backward momentum against you, I snap my body sideways in a sharp, explosive 180-degree pivot, swinging your torso through the air in a fluid arc as I try to drive the back of your neck and shoulders straight down onto the mat with a Swinging Neckbreaker.

 

Xuan_Ying: There is a dangerous moment in every maneuver when intention becomes commitment. When the body has already decided its course, and the mind, however reluctantly, must follow. It is a moment I have spent years learning to recognize in others. How inconvenient to discover that you recognize it in me. I tighten my arm around your head, preparing to surrender my weight to gravity and bring you crashing down with me. The DDT is already taking shape in my mind, each movement arranged in its proper sequence, the conclusion seemingly inevitable. Except...Something is wrong. My descent never begins. Instead, I feel your free arm slip across my shoulder, a sudden, deliberate movement that brings it behind my neck. Your grip settles with unmistakable purpose, and a small, unwelcome realization passes through me. Oh, no. My eyes widen. For one brief instant, I understand only that the situation has changed. I attempt to adjust my footing, to recover the advantage I had been so certain belonged to me, but your leg has already moved behind mine. And there, in that tiny space between recognition and reaction, you steal the one thing every wrestler depends upon. Balance. My weight shifts unexpectedly backward. The canvas seems to disappear from beneath my boots, and I feel your arm tighten around my neck as you turn my own commitment against me. Hana, you little…Too late. CRACK! The canvas greets us with a violence that sends a sharp jolt through my shoulders and neck.

Xuan_Ying: “AAAGHH!” The cry escapes me as my body strikes the mat, the sudden wrench of your neckbreaker leaving me sprawled on my back, staring upward into the brilliant lights of the Hammerstein Ballroom. For a moment, the world seems reluctant to settle into its proper arrangement. I draw my shoulders inward, one hand instinctively finding the back of my aching neck while I struggle to understand how an attack that had seemed so thoroughly mine became so decisively yours. Above us, the audience erupts. And somewhere within that thunder, I recognize the lesson you have just delivered. I had thought you were still recovering. That the knee in the corner had bought me enough time to dictate our next exchange. I had mistaken your unsteady posture for helplessness, your apparent vulnerability for an invitation. But you had been watching me. Even dazed, even struggling to stand, you had recognized the moment when my determination became a liability. You hadn't needed to overpower me. You needed me to believe that I was about to overpower you. I close my eyes briefly, grimacing as another ache travels across my shoulders. How irritatingly clever. My fingers curl against the canvas as I attempt to gather myself. I had entered this match knowing you were a remarkable aerial wrestler, a woman whose greatest advantage was her ability to move through the air with extraordinary freedom. Yet here I lie, thoroughly outmaneuvered by a woman who never needed to leave her feet. A reluctant breath escapes my lips. Very well, Hana. Perhaps I have spent too much time watching your feet...And not nearly enough watching your mind.