NEW - NOIR EXTREME WRESTLING

Hana_Jeong: The heat of the moment completely consumes me. The ringing in my ears vanishes, replaced by a dark, intense focus. I don't pause to celebrate the neckbreaker. I scramble onto my hands and knees, reach down, and grab a coarse fistful of your dark hair. "Get up, bitch," I snarl, my voice laced with venom and adrenaline. With zero care for your aching neck, I pull you forcibly up from the mat and drag your heavy frame toward the nearest corner. As I haul you along, I steal a fleeting glance past the guardrails at Chanyota her eyes are wide with shock, completely unused to seeing this raw, unhinged side of me. I look right through her with a glare that says this is what it takes. I shove you violently back into the corner pads. Before you can slump forward, I hook my arm deep under your tights, haul your weight up, and forcefully hoist you to sit atop the top turnbuckle. PAFF! I crack my palm flush across your face in a vicious, sharp slap that echoes through the front rows. "Don't fall," I growl into your face. I plant my boot firmly onto the bottom rope, then spring onto the middle strand. I press my palms flat over your shoulders for leverage, digging my toes into the steel turnbuckle structure. Contracting my abs and pushing off my legs with every ounce of power I have left, I launch my entire body upward into the air above you. High above the canvas, I snap my legs tightly over your head and back of your neck, locking my thighs around your throat like a vise. Hanging suspended over the open air, I throw my upper body backward into a full, explosive arc, snapping my hips with ruthless, surgical force to execute a high-angle Top-Rope Hurricanrana intending to hurl you headfirst off the high tension and crash your body all the way down into the center of the ring

Xuan_Ying: “Get up, bitch.” There it is. Something unfamiliar in your voice. A sharpness that had been absent from your earlier teasing, an ugliness slipping through the cracks of that cheerful, mischievous demeanor you had worn so comfortably since the opening bell. I had grown accustomed to your confident invitations. Your little smiles. The almost infectious delight you seemed to take in demonstrating that gravity bends to your will, and that anyone foolish enough to stand opposite you would eventually become a participant in your experiments. But this? This is something different. Perhaps I have finally begun to irritate you. How reassuring to know the feeling is mutual. Your fingers find my hair before I can properly gather myself, and you haul me upward with an impatience that makes my aching neck protest immediately. The neckbreaker has left an unpleasant reminder of your ingenuity, a deep, stubborn ache spreading between my shoulders that seems determined to accompany every movement I make. “Ahhngh!” I attempt to find my footing, but you are already directing me toward the corner. I have scarcely recovered enough to understand your intentions when you begin maneuvering me onto the turnbuckle. My legs offer only reluctant cooperation as you hoist me into a seated position atop the highest pad, the ring suddenly appearing much farther beneath me than I would prefer. The Hammerstein Ballroom stretches out beyond the ropes. Hundreds of faces crowd the balconies, their expressions merging into a restless tapestry of anticipation beneath the brilliant overhead lights. I blink, attempting to persuade the room to remain still. What are you planning, Hana? SMACK! Your open palm answers before I can protest. My head snaps sideways, a startled gasp escaping my lips as the sting blossoms across my cheek. For a moment, I can only stare at you. Oh. So we are finished being polite.

Xuan_Ying: The slap is not particularly devastating, at least not compared with the punishment we have already exchanged. But it accomplishes something considerably more important. It interrupts the fragile effort I have been making to collect my thoughts, stealing the little concentration I had managed to recover. And concentration, I am discovering, is a luxury you have no intention of allowing me. I feel your weight shift. Your hands settle against my shoulders, and suddenly you are climbing. There is something deeply unsettling about the ease with which you do it. Even exhausted, even after everything I have thrown at you, your movements retain that extraordinary certainty. You climb as though the turnbuckle were familiar ground, as though the distance between yourself and the canvas meant nothing at all. Then your body rises above mine. Hana… My eyes widen. No. Your thighs close around my head. I feel the strength in your legs immediately, the practiced control of a woman whose entire career has been built upon transforming the impossible into something she can perform almost casually. My hands move toward your waist, desperately searching for an opportunity to interrupt the maneuver. But you have already committed. Your hips twist. Your weight shifts backward. And the Hammerstein turns upside down. There is an instant, impossibly brief, when I feel myself suspended between the turnbuckle and the canvas. My body has surrendered its balance entirely, dragged forward by the momentum of your rotation. The lights sweep across my vision. The audience becomes a wall of sound. I understand, with dreadful clarity, what is about to happen. You magnificent, reckless little monster. THUUUD! “GAAAAHHH!” The canvas rises to meet my back with a force that seems to shake every thought from my head.

Xuan_Ying: For one terrible clock’s tick, there is nothing. No breath. No coherent thought. Only the overwhelming shock of impact and the sensation of my entire body rebelling against the punishment it has just endured. My shoulders strike the mat, my back following an instant later, and the remaining air escapes my lungs in one helpless rush. I lie there, staring toward the ceiling, my mouth open in a desperate attempt to breathe. Nothing comes. I try again. A thin, broken gasp finally finds its way into my chest, immediately followed by a sharp cough that makes the ache across my back flare anew. “Khhaaah...!” Somewhere nearby, the audience is losing its collective mind. I can hardly blame them. That was extraordinary. An astonishing feat of athleticism, performed with a degree of fearlessness that would have seemed almost admirable had I not been the unfortunate woman required to complete its trajectory. I attempt to roll onto my side. My body refuses. A fresh wave of discomfort spreads from my shoulders down through my back, and I settle against the canvas again, grimacing as I struggle to restore some semblance of rhythm to my breathing. Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. I had been thrown from the highest corner of the ring by a woman who, only moments earlier, had been struggling to remain upright. And I had thought she was the one in trouble. The irony is not lost on me. My fingers curl weakly against the canvas as another ragged breath enters my lungs. Above me, the lights remain painfully bright, their outlines swimming whenever I attempt to focus. I cannot immediately see where you have landed. But I know you well enough by now to recognize the danger in assuming you require rest simply because any reasonable person would. You are not, I have discovered, an especially reasonable woman. A distant thought begins to form beneath the confusion.

Xuan_Ying: This is what Chanyota must have seen in you. Not merely the speed. Not the beautiful, reckless athleticism or the almost playful joy with which you approach the impossible. But the stubbornness beneath it. That fierce, uncompromising determination to continue fighting long after exhaustion should have persuaded you otherwise. And now, perhaps, something darker. A temper that reveals itself when the smiling invitations stop producing the results you desire. I draw another painful breath. My eyes close. For the first time since the bell rang, I find myself with no immediate answer to the question you have placed before me. My body lies sprawled across the canvas, my neck and back aching, my lungs still struggling to recover from the fall. I am painfully aware of just how vulnerable I have become. But vulnerability is not surrender. And lying here, beneath the thunderous approval of a crowd celebrating your extraordinary hurricanrana, I manage to hold on to one stubborn thought. You have finally shown me what happens when Hana Jeong stops smiling. Now I must find a way to survive long enough to show you what happens when Xuan Ying gets back up.

 

 

Chanyotaaa: I watch you two compete and roar mercilessly in the ring. When Hana is in the ring, she is completely different from the courteous Hana at the restaurant that day: she is wild, furious, rude, and yet full of agility and skill. My palms are red from my own fingers rubbing them. I climb over the barricade and come as close to the ring as I can. Hana is on the ropes—that is the technique she prides herself on. I see Xuan land from the air with almost no cushioning. “My God, Xuan, tell me you’re all right—quick.” If Xuan were facing anyone else, I would rush into this match without hesitation to help my Xuan, but that is Hana, someone I cannot bear to—and cannot allow myself to—think badly of. The crowd watches me grab the ropes and cheers frantically; they must think I am going to interfere in this match. If I could, I would be willing to trade my own loss for both of your victories, but... Hana’s face is full of a desire for violent domination, and Xuan is in the same situation. I am completely unable to stop this suffocating match. I can only let my worry show on my face. I begin to pace around the canvas, wanting to learn more about Xuan’s condition. The referee also looks at me expectantly, points at the canvas, and asks whether I am going to enter. I bite my lip and shake my head. “No, I can’t...”

Hana_Jeong: I land on the canvas in a squat with breathtaking, fluid grace after flipping us through the air, the sheer momentum of the Avalanche Hurricanrana echoing through the roaring Hammerstein Ballroom. Adrenaline surges through my veins, hot and blinding, masking the tearing agony in my core. Without giving you a single second to recover, I snatch you roughly by the ankle and drag you across the mat like you're trash, hauling your battered frame right into the dead center of the ring. I position you squarely on your back, legs spread, completely vulnerable to the rafters. Dropping down onto one knee beside you, I lean close to your ear, my voice dropping to a cold, breathy whisper: "I promise... it's gonna end soon." PASSSSHHH I deliver a sharp, deeply disrespectful slap across your cheek, the loud snap echoing over the noise of the crowd. Standing up, I point with a vicious flourish to the opposite corner. The audience instantly erupts they know exactly what's coming. My signature Moonsault. I scale the turnbuckles with terrifying speed, perching myself on the top rope in a high squat, my back turned toward your helpless body. Looking out over the balcony, my eyes briefly lock onto Chanyota. I flash her a cocky, dangerous smirk, letting her see the relentless monster she helped unleash. Then, I drive my knees upward and spring backward into the open air, my body arching into a high, beautiful, perfect Moonsault, flying straight down to crash all my weight directly onto your chest.

Hana_Jeong:

Xuan_Ying: “I promise, it's going to end soon.” Such a gentle thing to say. There is almost something tender in the way you whisper it, your voice lowered beneath the tremendous noise of the Hammerstein Ballroom. Had I encountered you anywhere else, under circumstances that did not involve the systematic dismantling of my ability to stand, I might have mistaken it for an expression of kindness. But kindness is a peculiar thing, Hana. Particularly when offered by someone who has already decided what is best for you. And you seem rather convinced that what is best for me is defeat. I want to answer. Something clever, perhaps. Something sufficiently irritating to wipe that newfound confidence from your face. But the words refuse to arrange themselves into anything useful. My head still swims from the spectacular hurricanrana you delivered moments earlier, the memory of falling from the top turnbuckle preserved not as a sequence of events, but as a confused collection of lights, movement, and the terrible finality of meeting the canvas. Before I can gather enough breath to object…SMACK! “Ahh!” Your palm strikes my cheek, sending my head sideways and scattering what little concentration I had managed to recover. You take hold of me again, dragging my uncooperative body across the canvas until you have arranged me in precisely the position you desire. I feel the mat scrape beneath my shoulders, the uncomfortable tug of your hands, and finally the peculiar stillness that follows when you release me. I remain there, staring upward, struggling to persuade the blurred shapes above me to become something recognizable. Then the audience begins to change. I have learned that there are different kinds of noise inside a wrestling arena. The sudden explosion accompanying a successful strike. The collective protest when an official makes an unpopular decision. The rhythmic encouragement offered to a competitor whom the audience believes might still find the strength to rise.

Xuan_Ying: But this is something else. A low murmur spreading outward, growing louder as hundreds of individual voices discover that they are anticipating the same extraordinary thing. My eyes blink slowly, then again, until the shapeless colors overhead finally begin to sharpen. I turn my head. And there you are. Perched atop the turnbuckle, your boots balanced upon the ropes, your knees bent beneath you as you prepare to launch yourself into the air. For a moment, the theatrical lights catch in your golden hair, surrounding your silhouette with a brilliant halo of white and violet. Your chest rises and falls with exhaustion. Even from here, I can see how much this match has demanded of you. But your eyes… Those determined eyes have not surrendered an ounce of their conviction. The moonsault. I recognize it immediately. I have seen you perform it a dozen times on tape. Watched opponents struggle beneath you, watched your body rise and turn through the air with astonishing grace, watched the awful certainty with which you descended upon them. I know exactly what is coming. And somehow, knowing makes the moment worse. Move, Xuan. My fingers twitch against the canvas. Get up. I attempt to draw my knees beneath me, but a fierce ache spreads through my back before the movement has properly begun. My muscles seem unable to agree upon which instructions deserve their attention. I manage only a slight turn of my shoulder. Come on. The audience is standing now. MOVE! But my body remains stubbornly, impossibly still. But now, when I require nothing more sophisticated than the ability to roll a few feet to either side, it refuses me. Above me, you straighten.

Xuan_Ying: The Hammerstein Ballroom seems to hold its breath. Your body rises into the brilliant lights, arms extending as you begin the backward rotation. Your silhouette turns gracefully through the air, a beautiful, terrible demonstration of the freedom you seem to possess whenever your feet abandon the ground. I watch you become inverted against the ceiling. No. Your rotation carries you onward. No, no! And then you are descending. SHIT! WHY CAN'T I MOVE?! THUUUUUD! “GUAAAAHHHH!” The impact crashes through my midsection, your body landing cleanly across mine with enough force to drive every remaining breath from my lungs. My eyes fly wide. My shoulders lift involuntarily from the canvas before collapsing back against it. A startled spray of breath and saliva escapes my mouth as my body attempts to draw air that simply will not come. There are no balconies. No audience. No lights. Only the tremendous weight of your landing and the awful, breathless realization that I had understood precisely what was coming and could do absolutely nothing to prevent it. I try to inhale. Nothing. My mouth opens wider, my chest straining against the pressure, but the first attempt produces only a faint, broken gasp. The arena erupts around us. I hear it distantly, as though the thunderous celebration is taking place somewhere far beyond the walls of the ballroom. Your moonsault. Your beautiful, infuriating, devastating moonsault. I had studied it. Understood it. Recognized every movement from the moment you first climbed the ropes. And still, I had become another opponent lying beneath its conclusion. A thin breath finally enters my lungs, shallow and painfully inadequate. I cough, turning my face toward the canvas as I struggle to recover another. You promised it would end soon, Hana. I close my eyes, struggling to draw another breath. Perhaps you are right. For the moment, my body has precious little to offer in disagreement.

 

 

Chanyotaaa: "No! I don't dare look at the ring again. I've lost count of how many times Hana has flipped off the ropes. She went all out from the start; she didn't even save the Moonsault for a final, absolute advantage—or maybe now is the absolute advantage in her mind. I saw Xuan's entire torso get hit head-on by a white missile, bounce up, and then fall back onto the canvas. Even though Hana had the upper hand, the impact also sent a shock through her body, and she bounced away onto the canvas on Xuan's side. Frantic, I climbed straight onto the apron and, outside the ropes, anxiously called Xuan's name: "Xuan, please, get up, tell me you're okay..." I saw Hana also struggling to get up. "That was cool, Hana, but please, don't do this anymore... just... if you can... I don't want to watch the two of you wear each other down and torture each other like this in a match anymore."

 

Hana_Jeong: BAAAAAAAAAAM! The thunderous crash of my body landing dead-center on your torso vibrates through the entire ring structure. A sharp, burning ache flares through my abs from the sheer force of the impact, but it's the absolute sweetest kind of pain: it means the moonsault connected cleanly. I don't waste a single millisecond transitioning into the cover. I drive my forearm across your face, pressing my elbow firmly into your cheek in an almost intimate, breathless hold, smothering any chance you have to draw a full breath. My hand hooks deep beneath your left leg, hauling it high, while I throw my leg heavy across your other leg to lock down your hips. Chest-to-chest, panting heavily, I tear my eyes away from yours for a brief second to lock a gaze of pure, burning defiance right onto Chanyota at ringside. Look at this, Chany. Look at what I am willing to do. The referee slides onto her knees, slapping the canvas hard as the Hammerstein crowd shouts in unison: "ONE!" "TWO!"

Xuan_Ying: There are moments in a wrestling match when victory seems to have been decided before the official has been given the opportunity to announce it. When the body has endured enough punishment that continuing becomes less a question of ability than an argument with its own limitations. And beneath the considerable weight of your successful moonsault, I am beginning to understand why so many of your previous opponents have found themselves on the losing side of that confrontation. Your body settles across mine, pinning my shoulders against the canvas. Your elbow presses firmly against my jaw, turning my face sideways until my cheek meets the mat. Your leg hooks mine, controlling my hip while you adjust your position with the practiced confidence of a woman who has performed this particular conclusion many times before. So certain, aren’t you, Hana? I might have found the thought amusing had breathing not become so inconveniently complicated. “ONE!” The official’s palm strikes the canvas beside my head, sending the faintest movement of air across my flushed cheek. Such a small sensation. Delicate. A strange contrast to the tremendous weight holding me down. The audience has become a distant, shapeless roar. Somewhere beneath your pin, my body is attempting to remember how to function, while my mind struggles to assemble a coherent objection to the rather definitive ending you appear to have prepared for us. Then, “TWO!” Something changes. The official’s voice cuts through the confusion with startling clarity, and suddenly the consequences of remaining still become far more frightening than the consequences of moving.

Xuan_Ying: No. A thousand hours of training have taught me that instinct is not something we are born knowing how to trust. It must be cultivated, challenged, corrected. Repeated until the body remembers what the mind can no longer articulate. And beneath the exhaustion, beneath the pain spreading through my back and the crushing ache of your landing, that instinct makes one final demand. Not yet. Home flashes before me. Of the countless mornings spent practicing movements until my muscles trembled. Of every opponent who taught me something worth remembering, whether through victory or defeat. Of the long and uncertain road that brought me here, beneath the lights of the Hammerstein Ballroom, with so much still left to prove. “NOOOOO!” I twist my hips with everything I have left, wrenching one shoulder upward as my arm shoots toward the ceiling. Your carefully arranged leverage collapses. The pressure across my chest breaks, and I feel your weight shift abruptly away as the official’s hand stops short of the canvas. The ballroom explodes. For a moment, I scarcely understand what I have accomplished. I know only that the crushing weight has disappeared, that air is finding its way back into my lungs, and that the bell has not rung. I roll onto my side, drawing my knees inward as a series of ragged breaths escape my lips. My body is trembling. My back protests even the smallest movement, and I have neither the strength nor the inclination to attempt standing just yet. Hana... You were so very close. I cannot pretend that escaping your pin has restored my strength. It has not. Nor has it erased the tremendous advantage you have fought so hard to establish. But there is an important distinction between being unable to stand and being unwilling to continue. A faint, stubborn satisfaction finds its way through the pain. You promised me this would end soon. I’m afraid you’ll have to be a little more patient.

 

Hana_Jeong: My eyes widen in shock as you violently twist your hips, driving your shoulder up and throwing your arm toward the lights. My leverage shatters, and I get tossed off your torso, landing heavily on the mat beside you as the referee's hand stops dead an inch before the third slap. "TWO AND A HALF!" It's been so long since anyone has ever kicked out of my moonsault. "FUUUUCKKK!" I scream, slamming both of my open palms furiously against the canvas. The sharp sting in my hands is nothing compared to the burning rage and disbelief knotting in my chest. I scramble up onto my feet, running both hands frantically through my disheveled blonde hair, tangling my fingers in it as I pace back and forth like a caged animal. My breathing is ragged, my heart hammering against my ribs. My eyes snap toward the outside of the ring, and the first target of my boiling frustration is Chanyota. I march right up to the ropes, leaning over the top strand and glaring down at her with unbridled fury. "Are you happy now?! Huh?!" I yell, my voice cracking with emotion over the roar of the crowd. "What are you even doing down there anyway?!"

 

Xuan_Ying: Hammerstein returns to me in pieces. First, the cool canvas against my cheek. Then the restless thunder of the crowd, slowly separating into individual voices. Finally, the blessed sensation of air filling my lungs without quite so much resistance. And somewhere nearby… SMACK! The unmistakable sound of an open palm striking the canvas. I cannot see you from where I lie, curled upon my side, but your displeasure requires little imagination. Another frustrated slap against the mat, followed by a sharp exclamation that rises above the audience's noise. I allow myself the smallest smile. Two seconds. Barely enough to finish a sentence or draw a comfortable breath. Yet the distance between two and three has apparently become the most offensive thing you have encountered all evening. Then your frustration discovers a new destination. Chanyota. I hear your voice turn toward ringside, its familiar brightness replaced by an increasingly sharp demand for an explanation. I might have felt sorry for her, had the task of moving my own limbs not demanded such extraordinary concentration. My palms press against the canvas. The first attempt to rise accomplishes little beyond reminding me that your moonsault was every bit as impressive as the footage suggested. My back protests, my shoulders tremble, and I am forced to pause on one knee while the room briefly tilts around me. Steady, Xuan. I breathe. Again. Then I rise. There is no elegance in the effort. No graceful phoenix unfolding its wings. Just a stubborn woman from Shanghai, bruised and aching, refusing to negotiate with the floor any longer. And, for the moment, that will have to be enough. I take my place near the center of the ring, my breathing still heavy, my legs scarcely more dependable than they were a moment ago.

Xuan_Ying: You have hurt me, Hana. More than I care to admit. Your extraordinary athleticism has battered my body and repeatedly exposed weaknesses I had been foolish enough to believe I could conceal. If this contest were decided solely by the punishment we have endured, I suspect you would have a rather convincing argument. But wrestling has never been so accommodating. Strength is not merely the ability to endure an opponent's offense. It is the ability to endure what happens when your own offense fails. And for the first time tonight, I believe I am watching you struggle with exactly that. You had your victory arranged so beautifully. The moonsault. The cover. The official's hand descending toward the canvas. And then I had the audacity to interrupt your ending. I study you as you continue directing your anger toward ringside. Your temper has begun doing something your spectacular agility seldom permits. It has made you predictable. Not beaten. But distracted. So I wait. When you finally turn toward me, you find me standing where you least expected, my battered body upright beneath the arena lights. I offer you a smile. Not a particularly broad one. I doubt my aching ribs would appreciate the effort. Just enough. Then I slowly extend both arms before me, palms turned upward, curling my fingers in a deliberate invitation. Come on, Hana. No words. No elaborate insult. Only the same little gesture you offered me earlier, when you stood so confidently above my fallen body and invited me to prove I could still fight. I remember that smile of yours. I remember how irritating it was. And I wonder whether you might find it equally unpleasant to see it returned. My stance remains guarded, my eyes fixed upon you, while beneath the surface every aching muscle prepares for whatever fury you decide to unleash. You have been faster than me tonight, Hana. But now I wonder... Can you still be clever when you're angry?

 

Hana_Jeong: My chest heaves, the frustration still burning hot in my veins as I glare down at Chanyota through the ropes. The noise of the crowd swells and shifts around me, a sudden collective wave of gasps and murmurs that I'm too blind with anger to fully process at first. What is she looking at like that? I snap my head back around, expecting to see you still sprawled out on the canvas, gasping for air, clutching your aching ribs the way every other opponent does after my moonsault. Instead, the words die in my throat. My eyes go wide. There you are, standing right in the center of the ring. You're battered, bruised, and clearly moving through sheer pain, but you're up. And worse—you're mocking me. That subtle, quiet smile touches your lips, and you slowly extend both arms, curling your fingers in that exact, infuriating little gesture I threw at you earlier. Come on. The blood drains from my face for a split second as the cold, crushing reality hits me: I let my temper distract me. My anger flares instantly, but this time, it’s mixed with raw panic. I pivot entirely away from the ropes, dropping my hands into a tight guard as I try again to launch myself on you

Xuan_Ying: There it is. The sudden tightening of your shoulders. The fury gathering behind those dark, impatient eyes. And then, almost before the thought has finished forming, you lunge. Unfortunately for you, anger has begun to make some rather important decisions on your behalf. You are still impossibly fast. I would be a fool to pretend otherwise. But speed is a curious advantage. Experience enough of it, endure enough punishment at its hands, and eventually even the most extraordinary movements begin to surrender little fragments of their mystery. I have not learned to move as quickly as you. I have simply begun to understand where you intend to arrive. And this time, you have been considerate enough to announce your destination. The moment your weight commits forward, I step sharply to my left, lowering my hips as your arms sweep through the space my body occupied an instant earlier. I feel the displaced air brush past my shoulder, close enough to remind me that even a good idea can become a terrible one when executed a fraction too slowly. Not this time. My battered muscles protest the sudden movement, but my feet find their purpose. I plant my left boot against the canvas, gathering what strength remains in my aching legs. You have given me momentum, Hana. Not mine. Yours. And I intend to make you regret spending it so carelessly. With your arms extended and your body rushing past my defenses, I drive upward from my planted foot, thrusting my right knee toward the center of your abdomen. A sharp, compact strike intended to meet your forward momentum with a particularly unpleasant interruption. No elaborate spectacle. No desperate attempt to chase you through another impossible sequence. Just one well-timed opportunity. And one very determined knee. You wanted me to fight you, Hana. I am. I’m simply beginning to understand that the cleverest way to catch you… is to let you come to me.

 

Hana_Jeong: The blind fury driving my lunge turns instantly to sheer, blinding terror as my momentum carries me right into your trap. Before I can pull back or alter my trajectory, your knee drives upward with surgical, punishing precision. URRRRRGHHHHHH. The strike connects dead-center in my abdomen, smashing against my core and driving every last drop of oxygen out of my lungs in a violent, high-pitched gasp. The world instantly spins. The red mist of anger vanishes, replaced by the white-hot agony of a completely compromised midsection. My eyes bulge, my knees buckle under the sudden weightlessness of a completely winded body, and I collapse forward, spilling hard onto the canvas. I curl into a tight ball, both arms wrapped desperately around my stomach, my mouth opening and closing as I struggle to drag air back into lungs that refuse to cooperate.

Xuan_Ying: The sound that escapes your lips is neither a scream nor a curse. It is something considerably less dignified. A startled, breathless “URRRGHHH!”, the involuntary protest of a body whose lungs have just received an eviction notice. My knee has found its mark. I feel the impact travel through my thigh as your forward momentum meets the rising strike. Your eyes widen in magnificent disbelief, your arms abandoning their intended assault to embrace your wounded abdomen. Then, rather unceremoniously, Hana Jeong falls to her knees. I would ordinarily allow myself a moment to appreciate the reversal of our fortunes. Unfortunately, I know you. Three seconds of generosity would be three seconds too many. Your extraordinary athleticism is only half the problem. The other half is that infuriating resourcefulness, the ability to discover an escape where no reasonable person would think to look for one. And I have been reasonable with you quite enough tonight. My own back voices a spirited objection as I bend forward, catching you beneath the arm and hauling you upright.“Nggh... get up!” You rise reluctantly, your boots searching for balance while your upper body remains doubled over. Your golden hair tumbles across your face, and I watch you struggle to recover the breath I have so rudely interrupted. For one peculiar moment, we resemble two exhausted friends helping one another home after an evening on the town. What a charming picture we make. My aching shoulders remind me that the resemblance is entirely superficial. I release you. Then I turn and run. The Hammerstein Ballroom’s balconies overflowing with spectators, the great illuminated displays bearing our names flashing above the ring. Each stride sends an unwelcome complaint through my battered body, but I lengthen them anyway. I need speed. The ropes meet my back with a familiar resistance, stretching beneath my weight as I press into them. For a fraction of a second, they hold me. Then, they send me flying forward.

Xuan_Ying: My boots thunder across the canvas as I race toward you, the distance between us disappearing with every stride. You remain bent forward, fighting to recover, though I have learned the hard way that appearances can be dreadfully unreliable where you are concerned. So I watch your shoulders. Your feet. The smallest suggestion that you might be preparing another of your extraordinary escapes. And as I close the remaining distance, I gather my balance and lift my right leg high, preparing to bring my heel sweeping downward in a powerful axe kick aimed at the back of your lowered head. There is something almost comical about it. All evening, you have made a spectacle of defying gravity. Now I intend to enlist it. Come on, Hana...My leg rises, my eyes fixed upon my target. Let's see how quickly you can think.

 

 

Hana_Jeong: The wind in my lungs is gone, replaced by a deep, suffocating vacuum. As you yank me up by my arm, I can barely keep my boots under me, doubled over in agony as my golden hair falls completely over my face, hiding the absolute desperation in my eyes. "Nggh..." a ragged, broken sound leaks from my throat as you haul my dead weight upright. For a split second, I'm just holding onto whatever I can to stay on my feet. Then you let go and run the heavy, rhythmic thunder of your boots striking the canvas as you charge into the ropes. My vision is blurred with tears of pain, but my fighter's instinct honed by hundreds of brutal exchanges notices the sudden shift in wind and the arena's collective gasp. You're coming back at me like a freight train, building full momentum for a finishing blow. An axe kick. She's bringing the heel down to drive me into the mat for good. I don't have the breath to counter. I don't have the stomach to take another hit. So I bet everything on one last instinctual dodge. The microsecond before your heel sweeps downward, I drop my entire frame completely flat onto the canvas, melting into the mat like a shadow. Your heavy boot cuts sharply through thin air directly above me. As you stumble through the follow-through of your swung weight, I scramble desperately backward on my hands and knees, clutching my bruised ribs with one hand and using the lower rope to haul myself upright in the corner. Panting heavily, blood dripping from my lower lip, I stare across at you with wide, wild, unbroken eyes.

 

Xuan_Ying: Nothing. After all that effort, all that careful arrangement of momentum and timing, my descending heel finds absolutely nothing. How disappointing. You have flattened yourself against the canvas with an urgency of prey desperate to survive. My leg sweeps through the empty space above you, and I land with a sharp exhalation, catching my balance as another complaint travels through my exhausted muscles. Still too quick. Though perhaps not quite as quick as before. I watch you scramble away on hands and knees, abandoning any pretense of elegance in favor of the considerably more practical ambition of putting distance between us. Your boots scrape against the canvas as you retreat toward the opposite ropes, where you seize the middle strand and begin the laborious business of dragging yourself upright. The sight almost makes me smile. How thoroughly undignified for you. And yet, I find no comfort in underestimating you. Even now, your eyes follow me with a ferocious intensity, golden hair falling across your flushed face as you struggle to steady your breathing. You are frightened of being caught. Good. Fear, when properly understood, can be an excellent teacher. I straighten and reclaim the center of the ring, deliberately refusing to follow you toward the ropes.

Xuan_Ying: My own body is hardly in a condition to celebrate. Each breath reminds me of your moonsault, and there is an unpleasant stiffness spreading through my back that I suspect will become tomorrow’s most persuasive argument against leaving bed. But I have learned something important. For all your remarkable speed, you are beginning to require more time between your extraordinary escapes. A fraction of a second here. An uncertain step there. Small things. The sort of things a patient woman notices. I roll my aching shoulders, settling into a guarded stance as the Hammerstein Ballroom hums with anticipation. Then I allow myself a faint, mischievous smile. “Careful, Hana. You’re getting slower.” My hands rise before me, fingers relaxing into an open invitation. Come on, little whirlwind. Show me you’ve still got somewhere left to go.

 

Hana_Jeong: Every muscle in my chest and core screams in protest, a white-hot agony radiating from my abdomen straight through to my lower back. My breathing is a series of ragged, painful wheezes, and my pride feels completely shattered. I drag myself up using the ropes, my knuckles white as I hold onto the top strand. Tears of pure rage and exhaustion sting the corners of my eyes. Watching you stand comfortably in the center of the ring, rolling your shoulders and throwing that quiet, mocking taunt right into my face. I rub the palm of my hand on my bleeding lip. The rage overrides the pain, drowning out the blinding exhaustion for one last desperate explosion. I throw myself back into the ropes, letting the thick strands launch my battered frame forward. I hit maximum velocity in two quick, desperate strides, leaping straight into the air as I reach you and snapping my hips around into a high-risk Running Spinning Heel Kick aiming my heel squarely at your jaw to wipe "ARRRRGHH"

 

Chanyotaaa: I am left flustered by Hana’s sudden anger. Perhaps she feels I should add a layer of insurance to her victory—that I should step into the ring on my own initiative, even if I won’t face Xuan head-on. Maybe a bear hug from behind or an armbar could wear Xuan down more. But I don’t do that, and I don’t know whether I should respond to Hana, because I likewise don’t attack Hana out of any feelings for Xuan. Hana leaves me only a brief window for anger, and then I see Xuan quickly throw her body into a seamless chain of attacks. In my surprise, I close my eyes; I don’t dare watch Hana’s midsection get hit and then be knocked down again by an axe kick. After the gasp from the crowd, I see both Hana and Xuan standing on the canvas. Hana dodges this attack, but her condition is clearly not good. I walk to the side close to Xuan and gently catch hold of Xuan’s shin. “Please, Xuan, Hana is a bit out of line. Please forgive her—she isn’t like this… she’s just…” Before I finish, I clearly feel the canvas trembling. Hana rushes over fiercely, as if she wants to vent all her energy onto Xuan. “My God, Xuan, Watch out!!!…”

 

 

Xuan_Ying: I watch the insult reach you. A subtle tightening around your eyes. The sudden tension gathering in your shoulders. And then that familiar, furious determination takes possession of your entire body. There she is. For all your extraordinary athleticism, Hana, I am beginning to suspect your temper possesses considerably less imagination than your feet. You rush toward me, your boots striking the canvas in rapid succession, and for an instant I see the same dangerous woman who has spent the evening turning every moment of hesitation into an opportunity for punishment. But something has changed. Your speed remains astonishing. Your intentions, however, have become less mysterious. The rotation begins in your hips. A familiar gathering of momentum, your shoulders following as you prepare to send your heel whipping toward my head. Oh, I know this one. The spinning heel kick. Your body turns, and I drop beneath the approaching strike, feeling the rush of your boot passing harmlessly above my head. For one fleeting instant, your back belongs to me, your balance entrusted entirely to the leg still planted against the canvas. Such a tremendous amount of confidence to place in one foot. My hands close around your supporting leg. And I pull. Hard. The sudden theft of your foundation interrupts the rotation, sending your body pitching forward. Your arms reach instinctively for something to arrest the fall, but the canvas arrives before you can find sanctuary. THUD! You tumble forward onto the mat, your spectacular offense reduced to a rather undignified introduction to the floor. I maintain my grip as you land, tightening my hold around your captured ankle before you can scramble free. There is no satisfaction in merely putting you down. I have accomplished that before, only to discover that you possess an infuriating talent for returning to your feet. No. This requires a more thoughtful solution.

Xuan_Ying: I begin maneuvering beside your trapped leg, attempting to thread my own legs into position around your thigh while drawing your ankle securely toward my chest. A kneebar. Or, at least, the beginning of one. You have made an entire career from movement, Hana. From explosive acceleration, impossible changes of direction, and the kind of aerial freedom that makes ordinary wrestlers appear hopelessly earthbound. But even the most beautiful machine depends upon its smallest working parts. And yours, I have noticed, depend rather heavily upon two remarkably capable knees. My back protests as I attempt to settle into position, searching for the leverage that might allow me to straighten your captured leg and secure the submission. I know better than to assume you will remain cooperative. But I do not necessarily need you to surrender. Not yet. If I can force you to spend the remainder of this contest questioning the reliability of that leg, wondering whether every explosive leap will be followed by an equally dependable landing, then perhaps I can finally begin to make the ring feel a little smaller for you. My grip tightens as I try to establish the hold. You have spent the evening teaching me how difficult it is to catch the wind, Hana. Perhaps I’ve been going about it all wrong. Perhaps I need only impede its momentum.

 

Hana_Jeong: The moment your weight settles and you crank back on my captured ankle, a white-hot spike of agony shoots directly through my knee. "AAAAGGGGHHHH!" The scream tears violently from my throat, raw and unrefined, echoing off the high rafters of the Hammerstein Ballroom. My hands claw mindlessly at the canvas, my fingers digging desperately into the mat as tears finally break past my eyes, leaving tracks through the sweat and smudged black makeup on my face. My leg feels like it's being ripped apart at the joint. Every fiber of my core thrashes in pure survival mode, my free leg kicking frantically against the canvas to find an angle, a leverage point anything to stop you from fully extending my knee and locking that kneebar tight. "NO! NO, FUCK!" I gasp, my voice cracking under the sheer, blinding agony. I reach back with trembling, desperate hands, trying to reach your hands or your tights, fighting through the blinding pain in my leg to scramble toward the bottom rope.

Xuan_Ying: There. I feel the kneebar settle into place, that unmistakable moment when a collection of limbs and calculated movements becomes something considerably more persuasive. And you, Hana, are immediately persuaded to object. “NO! FUCK!” Your screams rise above the thunder of the Hammerstein Ballroom as your body erupts into frantic movement. Your free leg kicks wildly, your hands claw at my arms, and beneath my grip I feel the powerful muscles of your trapped leg tightening and trembling as you struggle to escape. Still so much fight in you. I almost admire it. Almost. Your resistance is extraordinary, but there is an important distinction between possessing strength and being able to use it. I adjust my leverage, keeping your captured leg secure as you twist desperately against the hold. I know you are unlikely to surrender. Not here. Not after everything we have endured. There is far too much pride concealed beneath that charming smile of yours, and even now, with your voice breaking into furious cries, I can feel your determination refusing to yield. But surrender is not the only thing I am pursuing. You see, Hana, I have spent much of this evening wrestling two opponents. The first is you. The second is the extraordinary confidence you place in your own athleticism. Your speed has been your greatest advantage. Your legs have carried you through impossible escapes, propelled you from the ropes, and transformed the space between us into a playground in which I have frequently found myself the unfortunate entertainment. And confidence, I have learned, is rather like a promise we make to ourselves. All I need is for your legs to begin breaking their promise to you. I feel your muscles tense again as you struggle against my control. Your frantic movements tell me precisely how much you want to be free. Good. The next time you attempt one of those spectacular leaps, perhaps you will remember this moment.

Xuan_Ying: Perhaps, for the first time, you will wonder whether your leg can be trusted to deliver you safely back to earth. A single moment of hesitation. For a woman who survives by fractions of seconds, that might be all I need. Your hand reaches outward, searching for the distant ropes, while your free leg continues its determined attempts to force yourself free. I give the kneebar one final, deliberate twist. Not enough to convince you to surrender, perhaps. But enough, I hope, to leave you with something considerably more troublesome than pain. Uncertainty. Then, almost as suddenly as I captured you, I release my hold. Your leg slips free, and I retreat several paces, allowing you the space to gather yourself. Go on, Hana. I watch you struggle upright, your hands briefly pressing against the canvas before you finally manage to stand. There is still defiance in your expression, that wonderful, infuriating refusal to acknowledge anything resembling defeat. But when you cautiously lower your injured leg toward the mat, something changes. Your face tightens. A small grimace. Almost nothing, really. Yet you hesitate before trusting it with your weight. Now you must ask permission from your own knee simply to stand. I do not mistake your hesitation for helplessness. You remain dangerous, and I have collected far too many painful reminders of that fact to indulge in another careless assumption. But the opportunity is there. I begin running. You see me coming.

Xuan_Ying: The question is whether your leg will allow you to do anything about it. I plant both feet firmly against the mat, bend my knees, and summon one more explosive effort from muscles that have already endured considerably more than they were promised. Then I leap. Both legs extend before me, my boots aimed squarely toward your chest as I launch a running dropkick, determined to drive you backward before you can escape. As I sail toward you, I catch the familiar intensity in your eyes. I wonder how frightening it must be...to discover that you might finally be stuck.

 

 

Hana_Jeong: The moment you finally release my leg, a ragged, broken groan tears out of my throat. I collapse sideways, clutching my knee pad with both hands, my chest heaving as tears stream down my face, cutting through the sweat and smudged eyeliner. The pain in my knee is a blinding, throbbing fire. I use the canvas to slowly, painfully push myself upward. The Hammerstein Ballroom blurs through my tear-filled eyes as I look out toward the crowd. A sickening pit forms in my stomach. I'm done. I'm completely fucked. I try to shift my weight, but my left leg gives out instantly, sending me wobbling sideways like a broken doll. The confidence, the speed, the flightit’s all gone. As I force myself to pivot back toward you, I see you launching into the air, both boots extended straight for my chest. The dropkick hits me with terrifying, unchecked force. With no solid footing to absorb the impact, my body is hurled violently backward, smashing hard against the ropes. The high tension snaps me back out like a ragdoll, sending me flying forward to crash face-first onto the canvas with a sickening, lifeless thud.

Xuan_Ying: The moment my boots return to the canvas, I force myself upright, just in time to witness the rather unfortunate conclusion of your encounter with my dropkick. You stagger backward into the ropes, which return you to the center of the ring with their customary indifference. Under ordinary circumstances, I imagine you would have converted that momentum into something spectacular. A handspring, perhaps. An improbable reversal. Another delightful little demonstration of why gravity seems to have taken a personal dislike to you. But your injured leg has apparently declined the invitation. Instead, you stumble forward and collapse face-first against the canvas. How quickly the extraordinary becomes ordinary when the body forgets how to cooperate. I have learned what I needed to learn. Your speed is still there, somewhere beneath the exhaustion and the punishment we have exchanged. But that unquestioning confidence you once placed in your movements has begun to fracture. Every step now requires consideration. Every attempt to accelerate comes with the possibility that your leg might disagree. I have not taken away your greatest weapon. I have made you afraid to use it. And yet, as I watch you stubbornly begin pushing yourself from the mat, I recognize something considerably more difficult to overcome. Your will. That, I suspect, will require a little more persuasion. I approach before you can recover, catching a handful of your disheveled golden hair and drawing you upward. Your knees tremble beneath you as you rise, your breathing ragged, your expression still carrying that familiar mixture of fury and magnificent stubbornness. For an instant, our eyes meet. Still angry with me? Good. I would hate for you to become agreeable now. It would make everything we have endured together seem rather anticlimactic.

Xuan_Ying: I release your hair and slip behind you, circling my arms around your waist before you can fully establish your balance. My hands clasp tightly against your abdomen. A German suplex. Unfortunately, my battered back has several objections to maneuver. Yes, yes. I hear you. One more effort. I lower my hips, plant my boots firmly against the canvas, and prepare to drive upward, attempting to lift you backward over my shoulders. But I have no intention of releasing you after one. If I can complete the first throw and maintain my grip, I intend to bring you upright again. And again. And again. Five. An ambitious number, considering my present condition. But wrestling has never rewarded modest ambitions. Perhaps the audience will count them for me. I certainly have little breath to spare. Of course, I have not forgotten who you are. You have escaped far more convincing predicaments than this, and I would be foolish to presume that your ingenuity has finally exhausted itself. Still, I tighten my clasp and gather my strength, feeling your body shift against mine as I prepare the first lift. A moonsault. A hurricanrana. All those magnificent flights. I draw one determined breath. Allow me to return the favor.

 

Hana_Jeong: As your hands grip a fistful of my hair and pull me upward, I have nothing left in the tank to fight it. My knees wobble violently, completely refusing to lock, and my chin drags against my chest. Through my disheveled hair, my tear-stained eyes lock onto yours for a brief second burning with a helpless, agonizing fury, but completely devoid of the physical power needed to back it up. When you release my hair and step behind me, wrapping your arms securely around my waist, my arms just dangle limply at my sides. I can't even raise them to break your clasp. My body feels entirely weightless and broken in your grip. You lower your hips, plant your boots, and arch backward with everything you have. BAAAAAM My feet leave the mat without a shred of resistance. You hurl my limp frame high over your shoulders, and my body arcs hopelessly through the air. With no strength left to tuck my chin or brace for impact, the back of my head and neck take the full, crushing brunt of my own weight as I smash violently into the canvas. My spine folds awkwardly beneath the impact, and as the echo of the suplex reverberates through the Hammerstein Ballroom, I land collapsed on my side in a crumpled, motionless heap my head cranked at a sickening angle, my legs bent beneath me, completely lifeless while your arms remain tightly wrapped around my waist, readying for the next lift.

Xuan_Ying: I plant my boots, tighten my arms around your waist, and summon what remains of my strength. Then I lift. Your feet leave the canvas, your golden hair spills backward, and for one brief moment we are suspended between effort and consequence. THUD! The impact reverberates through the ring, drawing a tremendous roar from the Hammerstein Ballroom. You collapse against the canvas, your body slackening within my embrace. I do not release you. Instead, I begin the considerably less glamorous business of gathering us both upright again. My aching back protests with such enthusiasm that I briefly consider whether my own body has begun cheering for you. Noted. Complaint denied. You offer little resistance as I pull you to your feet. Your legs struggle beneath you, your head hanging forward while my arms remain securely clasped around your waist. The audience begins to recognize what I intend. And suddenly, thousands of strangers become enthusiastic accomplices. I bend my knees. Lift. Fall backward. THUD! "TWO!" The crowd's response rolls through the ballroom like thunder escaping between the balconies. How generous of them to keep count. I have enough trouble remembering how to breathe. A third follows, your weakened legs offering scarcely enough resistance to interrupt the motion. "THREE!" I pull you upright again, my own movements becoming increasingly deliberate. There is nothing effortless about this. My thighs tremble, my shoulders burn, and sweat runs into my eyes as I force my exhausted body to obey. But there is a rhythm to our struggle now. A terrible little dance. And for once, Hana, you are not the one deciding the steps.

Xuan_Ying: "FOUR!" Another impact. Another collective roar. I pause with my forehead briefly resting against your shoulder, drawing a ragged breath. One more. Not because five possesses any particular magic. Because somewhere between the third and fourth, I remembered your confident smile after that moonsault. The certainty with which you told me our match was nearly finished. I remember how helpless I felt beneath you. And I confess, Hana... I am discovering a rather embarrassing fondness for proving you wrong. My arms tighten one final time. I plant my feet, arch backward, and carry you over. THUD! "FIIIIIVE!" The Hammerstein Ballroom erupts. For several seconds, I remain where I have landed, staring toward the distant ceiling through a haze of lights and exhaustion. Then my arms finally release your waist. You lie upon the canvas beside me, your golden hair scattered around your face, breathing heavily but making little effort to rise. I roll onto my side and slowly push myself upright. There is satisfaction in seeing you like this. I will not pretend otherwise. Not because I take pleasure in your suffering, but because I remember every moment you made me doubt whether I belonged in this ring with you. Every taunt. Every spectacular counter. Every confident declaration that you had already decided how our story would end. Such a talented woman. Such an unfortunate habit of writing conclusions before finishing the chapter.

Xuan_Ying: I stand over you, drawing one trembling breath after another. Then I extend my boot beneath your chin, gently tilting your face upward until your eyes find mine. Or attempt to. Your gaze is distant, struggling to settle upon anything. Yet somewhere behind that exhaustion, I can still recognize the stubborn woman who has refused to yield all evening. There you are. I lift my foot under your chin and your body obeys obediently as you slowly make your way to your unstable feet. You sway before me, your legs scarcely willing to cooperate. I retreat half a step, planting my left boot firmly against the canvas. My shoulders turn. My hips follow. And somewhere deep within the familiar mechanics of a movement practiced ten thousand times, I feel my exhausted body recognize an old friend. The Shanghai Cyclone. My signature spinning kick. The strike that has brought so many contests to their conclusion. I draw one final breath and begin rotating, gathering every remaining fragment of momentum as my leg rises, my heel sweeping toward your unguarded jaw. I do not shout. I do not offer another clever insult. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, I have nothing left that needs saying. You told me this would end soon, Hana. Perhaps you were right. Perhaps we simply disagreed about who would be standing when it did.

 

 

 

 

 

Hana_Jeong: The canvas shudders beneath us five excruciating times, the rhythmic, bone-crunching thuds of your suplexes echoing through the Hammerstein Ballroom like a relentless drumbeat. With every impact, another piece of my strength is stripped away, until there is nothing left inside me but a hollow, agonizing ache. When your arms finally unclamp from my waist after the fifth suplex, I'm unable to move. My body stays completely limp where you leave me, a crumpled tangle of hair, bruised limbs, and broken momentum. The arena lights overhead spin in nauseating, blinding circles. My mouth hangs open, my chest heaving in shallow, desperate gasps as tears mix with sweat and trace dirty lines down my face. I am entirely, terrifyingly at your mercy. Then, I feel the leather of your boot nudge beneath my chin. Slowly, helplessly, my head is tilted upward. My neck feels as fragile as glass, barely able to support the weight. My eyes unfocused, glossy with tears, and heavy with pure physical exhaustion struggle to fix on yours. I am completely spent already begging in silence to be finished. As you hook your boot beneath my chin to haul my limp frame upward, my legs buckle twice before taking my weight. I sway dangerously on my feet, my left knee trembling so violently that every micro-shift in balance threatens to send me crashing back down. My arms hang uselessly at my sides, my chin drooping, my shoulders slumping forward in total defeat. I look like a marionette with its strings cut, held upright only by the terrifying aura of the execution about to take place. I see you step back. I see your shoulders turn, your hips load, and the incoming kick.

Hana_Jeong: Your kick connects with terrifying, absolute precision straight across my unguarded jaw. The violent force snaps my head back so hard it almost looks to decapitate me, severing whatever last thread of consciousness was holding me together. My body gets hurled sideways through the air, completely lifeless, before crashing brutally onto the canvas. I lie there crumpled on my side, completely unmoving except for the involuntary, violent twitching of my limbs. My eyes roll back, fixed blindly on the arena lights above, as a dark mixture of blood and saliva slowly trickles from the corner of my mouth onto the mat. I am out cold.

Xuan_Ying: The Shanghai Cyclone finds its destination with terrible precision. My boot connects cleanly with your jaw, and for one suspended instant, your golden hair fans outward beneath the unforgiving lights of the Hammerstein Ballroom. Then your balance disappears, your body collapsing onto the canvas as the thunder of the audience arrives only a touch behind the impact. There. Finally. I lower my aching leg, nearly stumbling as exhaustion reminds me that even victory must be purchased with something. Every muscle protests. My lungs burn. Yet I remain standing, watching the sporadic uncontrolled twitching of your limbs. A pin would be enough. Three seconds. A raised hand. An announcement carrying my name into the balconies. Simple. But something about your earlier words has remained with me. The casual certainty with which you promised me an ending, as though my defeat were merely a formality we had yet to complete. You were so sure, Hana. And perhaps that is why, even now, I find myself wanting something more definitive than three seconds. I reach for your arm, drawing you into a seated position. Your head hangs forward, your golden hair concealing the face that has taunted and challenged me all evening. There is no resistance. That should tell me everything.

Xuan_Ying: Instead, pride whispers something considerably less sensible. I lower myself onto the canvas, drawing you toward me as my legs rise and maneuver into position. One passes across your shoulder, the other folding over it, until I have secured the familiar geometry of a triangle choke. A final submission. A final declaration. "TAP OUT, HANA! IT'S OVER!" My voice rises above the crowd, fierce and ragged, carrying the frustration of every punishment you have inflicted upon me tonight. But you offer no answer. No desperate counter. No furious accusation. Not even that stubborn glare I have come to recognize so well. Can you even hear me? The realization arrives with an uncomfortable clarity. I am demanding surrender from someone who can no longer argue. The official rushes into view, dropping beside us and urgently checking for a response. He calls out to you, “Do you give up?!?!” He frantically maneuvers trying to get a glimpse of any possible resistance you might offer.

 

 

 

 

 

Hana_Jeong: The suffocating pressure around my throat and the agonizing strain on my neck force a sudden, terrifying jolt of awareness through the black void of my unconsciousness. My eyes fly wide open, bloodshot and filled with pure, primal horror as my brain registers the suffocating nightmare of the triangle choke locked around my neck. "AAAAAGGGGGHH!!" A muffled, agonizing shriek tears out of my throat, raw and panicked. My hands instantly fly up, clawing frantically at the canvas and pawing desperately at your arm, my fingers scratching at your skin in a blind, instinctual attempt to break the hold and drag a single drop of air into my crushed windpipe. For two agonizing seconds, my body thrashes violently under yours in absolute desperation. Then, the world goes black again. My arms drop heavily to the mat, bouncing limply against the canvas. My body goes completely motionless once more, my head falling back against your thigh as a fresh stream of drool and pink-stained saliva leaks from the corner of my loose, unmoving mouth. I am completely out cold, leaving the referee to grab my limp hand and drop it to call for the bell.

Xuan_Ying: For an instant, I mistake your stillness for surrender. Then your eyes snap open. Your body surges against mine, a frantic rebellion of limbs and desperate instinct. Your fingers scrape across the canvas, before abandoning the floor to claw at my arms. Beneath the roar of the Hammerstein Ballroom, I can feel the sudden urgency of your struggle, the last furious refusal of a woman who refuses to admit when she’s been beat. "YOU'RE FINISHED, HANA! TAP!" Our eyes meet. Yours are wide with fury and alarm, their familiar defiance now accompanied by something I have not seen in them tonight. Fear. I offer you no smile. No clever remark. There is nothing amusing about the moment when an extraordinary opponent finally discovers the limits of her own endurance. But there is an unmistakable certainty in my expression. I know. And somewhere beneath all that magnificent stubbornness, you know too. You continue struggling, refusing even now to offer the smallest acknowledgment that our contest has reached its conclusion. I maintain the triangle, my exhausted legs trembling with the effort. Your movements become increasingly uncertain. The frantic urgency gives way to scattered resistance, then to a stillness that feels altogether different from the brief pauses you have used so cleverly throughout our match. The referee notices it almost immediately. His voice reaches me through the noise, urgent and authoritative, as he drops beside us to check your condition. There is no answer. No movement. No defiant attempt to escape. He signals for the bell. DING! DING! DING! And just like that, the argument is over.

Xuan_Ying: I release my hold immediately, withdrawing my legs as your head collides against the canvas. For a moment I remain seated beside you, my chest rising and falling in ragged succession, staring at the golden hair scattered across the mat. A strange thought occurs to me. For all the extraordinary speed you possessed, all those spectacular movements that seemed to make the entire ring yours to command, the last thing you surrendered tonight was movement itself. I wonder whether you would appreciate the irony. Probably not. With considerable effort, I climb to my feet. The Hammerstein Ballroom is roaring, but I hear it as though from the bottom of a deep river. My legs threaten to buckle. My back aches. Sweat clings to every inch of me, and I suspect tomorrow morning will introduce me to several injuries I have not yet had the pleasure of discovering. Still, I am standing. And you are not. I turn toward the opposite side of the ring, only to catch a sudden movement beneath the ropes. Chanyota. She slides inside with none of her customary cheerfulness, hurrying toward you before dropping to her knees.

Xuan_Ying: Her hands move carefully toward your shoulder as she leans close, searching your face for some reassuring sign of awareness. I stop. For a moment, I watch her. There is something unexpectedly sobering about seeing another person's concern for the opponent you have spent the evening determined to defeat. Chany looks up at me. I cannot quite decipher her expression. Concern, certainly. Perhaps disappointment. Perhaps something considerably more complicated. I have no intention of pretending the match was gentle. You demanded everything I possessed, Hana, and I answered with everything I had. But I find no satisfaction in watching Chany worry over you. My satisfaction lies elsewhere. In the struggle. In the countless moments when defeat seemed inevitable. In discovering, beneath layers of exhaustion and doubt, that I still possessed an answer when you had taken nearly everything else from me. You were magnificent tonight, Hana. And tonight, I was better. I turn away, leaving Chanyota beside you as the referee continues his examination. Behind me, your name mingles with mine in the tremendous noise of the ballroom. Two women who had given the audience everything they possessed. Only one able to leave on her own feet. And as I pass through the ropes, I allow myself the smallest, most exhausted smile. The phoenix has risen again. Though tomorrow, I suspect, she may have considerable difficulty getting out of bed.

Xuan_Ying:

Chanyotaaa: As a witness to the whole thing, I watched this fierce match—or rather, this brutality—from beginning to end. When Hana was completely controlled, when Xuan was no longer as sweet as she had been before the match, my shock and even worry made my palms grow hot from rubbing them together. Finally! The closing bell rang, and I slid into the ring through the bottom rope without a second thought. The canvas was covered in sweat and blood, and Hana was just lying there. I knelt beside her, took her in my arms, and began frantically wiping away the dried blood at her lips and on her chest. “You’re still so serious, Xuan,” I said toward Xuan. She stood there—proud, powerful, unquestionable. When I faced her, I couldn’t even find the courage to blame her. “Can’t you be a little… even if it’s just for me…” I knew such complaints were futile. Xuan wouldn’t understand, and Hana would disdain receiving such charity. I put Hana on my back. Her chest was rising and falling noticeably, which reassured me a great deal. As I carried Hana toward the medical room, I looked at Xuan—after an absolute victory, that brief yet exquisite smile… it was truly mesmerizing.

Xuan_Ying: The roar of the Hammerstein Ballroom follows me backstage, though the heavy curtains have reduced its thunder to something resembling a distant, restless sea. I have barely made it halfway down the corridor when the curtain parts again. Chanyota. Her unmistakable frame emerges beneath the fluorescent lights, though tonight her considerable strength is occupied with something far less triumphant than carrying a championship belt. Hana. Draped across Chany's back, her golden hair hanging loosely beside her shoulders, her bloodstained white gear offering a rather unfortunate account of our evening together. Her arms hang motionless, her head resting against Chany's shoulder, seemingly unaware that the match has ended or that she has left the ring. I have faced Chanyota before. I know what those shoulders are capable of carrying. I have felt the extraordinary strength beneath them, the stubborn determination that makes her so difficult to overcome. Yet watching her now, I wonder whether there is a greater test of strength than carrying someone who cannot carry herself. Our eyes meet. For a brief moment, neither of us speaks. There is concern written across her expression, perhaps something approaching resentment beneath it. I cannot blame her.

Xuan_Ying: The woman resting unconscious across her back is someone she cares about. And I am the reason Chany must carry her. Still, we are wrestlers. We enter that ring understanding the terrible bargain we have made with one another. I do not offer an apology for winning. Nor do I mistake victory for permission to be unkind. Instead, my gaze returns to Chany. "I heard a rumor..." My voice is quieter than I expect, exhaustion having stolen much of its usual composure. "Someone told me you might be challenging for the Noir World Championship." I allow the thought to settle between us, studying her expression. Then I offer a small nod. "You should." Two words. No elaborate encouragement. No unnecessary flattery. Chany knows me well enough to understand that I do not offer compliments simply because silence makes people uncomfortable. I mean it. She has earned the opportunity to discover just how far her strength might carry her. And perhaps, one day, I will have the pleasure of testing it again. But not tonight. Tonight, she has someone else to look after. I step aside, allowing her room to pass, before turning toward the showers. Behind me, I hear her footsteps resume, steady and deliberate beneath the weight of her fallen companion. Take care of her, Chany. I do not say it aloud. Some things are better left to those who have the right to offer comfort. And tonight, having taken so much from Hana inside that ring, I suspect the kindest thing I can give her now... Is my absence.

 

Hana_Jeong: My eyelids flutter open, raw and heavy, as the harsh fluorescent lights of the backstage corridor hit my blurred vision. Reality crushes down on my chest like a ton of lead: I lost. I was completely broken down, systematically dismantled, and tamed by you in front of everyone. I'm dangling over Chanyota's shoulder like a lifeless wreck, my cheek pressed against her warm back, my arms hanging limply as she carries my dead weight toward the medical room. The two of you talk right over me as if I'm not even here as if I'm just a corpse being moved off the slaughterhouse. Then I hear those simple, quiet words fall from your lips to Chanyota: "You should." My heart violently tightens in my chest. A cold wave of dread washes through me, cutting right through the fog of my concussion and the throbbing agony of my knee. Sara. Her championship reign is in absolute danger, and here I am, beaten, humiliated, and completely unable to make Chanyota think twice.I faint again and what comes out from my mouth is a weak, broken cough, a fresh stain of pink saliva slipping past my cracked lips as Chanyota carries me away. (END)