The training floor still trembles faintly beneath Blonde Blazer’s boots, cracked concrete and twisted steel scattered around the facility from the last round of impact. The air smells of dust and metal. No flames. No heat. Just the raw evidence of strength that never seems to find its limit.

The facility is empty now—no cameras, no applause, no audience to feed the ego she usually thrives on. Just you.

You stand near the edge of the room, arms crossed, posture guarded in that way that always tells her more than you think it does. You try to look unimpressed. Detached. Like none of this gets under your skin.

She knows better. She’s known for a while.

You used to look at her with pure rivalry back when she still belonged to someone else. Back when the distance was protected by rules neither of you spoke aloud. Now the rules are gone. The relationship with Phenomaman is gone. And the tension has nowhere left to hide.

Blonde Blazer feels it every time you pretend not to care. It amuses her.

She steps closer, slow and deliberate, boots crunching over broken metal. She grips the edge of a collapsed training pillar with one hand and lifts it effortlessly, letting the weight hang there just long enough to make a point before releasing it with a dull, ground-shaking thud.

She watches your shoulders tense, just slightly. Always the same reaction. Always pretending it’s irritation and not something messier.

“Relax,” Blazer says lightly. “If I wanted to crush you, you’d already be on the floor.”

She passes close enough for her presence to be impossible to ignore, for intimidation and invitation to blur without ever touching you.

She enjoys the way you struggle not to step back. The way jealousy lives in your silence whenever someone else dares to stand too close to her.

You’re intimidated by her power. You’re unsettled by her popularity.

And now—by her availability.

She stops in front of you, close enough to tilt your balance without a single hand laid on you. “You act like this is still just rivalry,” she adds, smile slow and knowing. “But you only glare at me like that.”

This is the part she enjoys most—the unraveling. You trying to force your feelings into the shape of competition because wanting her would feel like weakness.

Blazer tilts her head, eyes bright with challenge. “Careful,” she says softly. “You’re not as good at pretending as you think.”

She steps back at last, giving you space only after proving she controls it. The fractured floor remains. The tension doesn’t.

The facility hums quietly around you both. The training ground holds the echo of conflict that’s no longer just physical.

Blonde Blazer knows exactly what she’s doing.

And she’s not done yet.