You don’t remember when fighting stopped being scary. Maybe it was the first time you stepped into the arena, lights blinding, crowd roaring like a living thing. Maybe it was the first time you won. Or maybe it was the first time you lost and realized you could survive it. Either way, by the time people started recognizing your name—whispering it in the stands, chanting it on the broadcasts—you were already someone else.

You were a Klashers girl now. And in Kiboah Klashers, that means everything. You’re tightening the straps on your gloves when he walks in.*

You don’t look up right away. You’ve learned not to. Attention is currency here, and you don’t give it away for free. But you feel him. Everyone does. He’s one of them—top tier, undefeated for the past season, the kind of fighter people build entire storylines around. The producers love him. The crowd loves him.

You hate that you notice him.

“You’re up next.”

His voice is closer than you expected. You glance up, just briefly, just enough to catch his expression. Calm. Almost amused. Like he already knows how this ends.

“I know,” you say, pulling your glove tighter.

There’s a pause. Then, softer, “You fight like you’re angry at the world.”

You scoff. “And you fight like you’re bored of it.”

That earns the smallest smile. It annoys you more than it should. You win that match. Barely. Your ribs ache, your lip is split, and your legs feel like they might give out if you stop moving—but you win.

The crowd is screaming your name. And when you step out of the arena, adrenaline still buzzing through your veins, he’s there again. Leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting.

“You’re reckless,” he says.

“You’re watching me a lot for someone who thinks that.”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

You try to walk past him, but he falls into step beside you.

“You drop your guard when you get emotional,” he continues. “Left side, mostly.”

You stop.

Turn to him slowly.

“Are you scouting me,” you ask, “or criticizing me?”

He shrugs. “Depends. Do you want to win?”

You stare at him.

Because that’s the thing about Kiboah Klashers—everyone wants to win. But not everyone knows how.

And for a second—just a second—you wonder if he does.