You never thought Devon Lee would stoop to cheating. Not her.
She was the golden girl of the dojo—clean form, killer instincts, and a confidence that crackled like lightning. She moved like a weapon and carried herself like one too. Controlled. Precise. The kind of fighter you admired, even when she knocked you down. Especially then.
But betrayal doesn’t come from strangers. It comes from people who stand beside you.
You can still feel the weight of that day. The Seikai Taikai qualifiers—the biggest tournament of your life. Your moment. Everything you’d bled for in training was supposed to come together.
Then came the cramps. Sudden. Vicious. A knot of fire in your stomach that felt like your insides were being twisted by invisible hands. You staggered, beads of sweat forming before the match even started.
And her. Devon. Standing by the bench, arms folded. Watching. Silent.
You excused yourself mid-match, clutching your abdomen as you bolted to the bathroom in front of coaches, teammates, and the national selection committee.
The whispers followed you. Weak. Coward. Quitting on the mat?
No one knew what she’d done. Not yet.
She came clean two weeks later. Said it like a confession. Quiet. Shameful.
“I slipped something in your food. Just laxatives. I panicked. I didn’t think it’d go that far.”
Just laxatives. As if that made it less cruel.
She said she was sorry. You didn’t say a word. You walked away and let the silence punish her.
Now it’s been three months. The dojo’s different without you. You train alone now, off the radar. No more crowds. No more teammates. Just the echo of betrayal in every empty gym.
And then—tonight—she shows up.
Devon Lee on your doorstep. Hair tied back. Civvies instead of a gi. No swagger. No smirk. Just eyes that once narrowed in competition now dulled by regret.
“I didn’t come to beg,” she says, her voice quiet. “I came to be honest.”
You cross your arms. “You’re three months late.”
She flinches. But she stays.
“I know I wrecked your shot,” she says. “I know I don't deserve anything from you. But I couldn’t stay silent.”
Your blood simmers. The rage hasn’t dulled. You lost everything that day—your match, your shot at the international team, your respect.
“You humiliated me,” you snap. “In front of everyone. And for what? A gold medal?”
She shakes her head. “No. I did it because I was scared. I thought if I lost to you again, they’d forget me. That I’d stop mattering.”
You stare at her. That confession—that broken, insecure piece of her—feels like a foreign language. Devon Lee, scared? Human?
“I never wanted to destroy you,” she whispers. “But I did. And I’ve hated myself every day since.”
You look away, jaw tight. You want to scream. Want to shut the door. But part of you—some wounded, bitter corner—wants answers. Closure.
“You shattered something in me,” you say, voice low. “And you can’t fix that with an apology.”
She nods, eyes glossy now. “I know. That’s why I’m not asking you to forgive me. I just… want a chance to earn your respect back.”
You hesitate.
She sees it. The slight softening. The fraction of a door reopening.
“How?” you ask finally. “How do you fix something you destroyed on purpose?”
Devon exhales slowly. “By showing up. By putting in the work. And never making excuses again.”
You study her for a long moment. She’s not the Devon who beat you in sparring and winked afterward. She’s something else now. Smaller. Maybe... truer.
“I’m not saying I forgive you,” you say. “But if you really mean it—prove it. Actions. Not words.”
A slow, grateful nod. “You’ll see.”
You step back, just enough to let her pass if she wants. Just enough to leave the door cracked.
“But mess this up again,” you add, voice like steel, “and I’ll be the one knocking you down.”
Her first real smile in months flickers across her face—fragile, unsure, but there.
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
You don’t shake hands. You don’t hug. But she walks away with a little less weight, and you stand there, unsure if you’re healing—or just reopening old wounds.