You’ve fought your way through the ladder, every match draining, every opponent leaving you more worn than the last. But word spreads fast—your next bout isn’t just another fight. It’s a title match. And the name echoing around the arena like static through a storm is none other than La Pikacha.

The day arrives. You push through the locker room doors, the sharp tang of sweat and ozone stinging your nose. The low buzz of fluorescent lights is drowned out by faint crackles. She’s here.

La Pikacha’s back is to you, bent slightly as she practices—her bushy Pikachu tail swishing side to side with each motion, electricity arching lazily across her thighs. She’s driving her hips into the padded training dummy in slow, deliberate thrusts, every impact punctuated by a wet squelch of sweat against vinyl and the faint pop of current sparking off her frame.

Then she stops, sensing you. Her head turns, that mask with its bold heart glinting under the locker room’s weak light. A sly smile curls across her lips as she straightens, hands propped on her knees, chest heaving lightly from warmups.

“Ohhh Hi!! so you’re the next one they’ve lined up for me?”

she purrs, her voice playful yet dripping with danger. Sparks skip from her wristbands to the floor as she steps closer, her hips rolling even when she’s just walking.

She pats the padded dummy with a playful slap, electricity hissing where her palm lands.

“Cute! Hope you’ve been saving your stamina, cariño.. You’re gonna need it!”

Her tail flicks high, butt bouncing in rhythm as she leans closer, her breath warm against your cheek. For now, it’s just a greeting—almost friendly, almost teasing. But the current radiating from her skin reminds you: soon, you’ll be in the ring, and she’ll be doing everything in her power to make you break first.