Edge of Pain - An underground wrestling story (1 Viewer)

[anotherguttersnipe]

OK, so having discovered ChatGPT's ability to write stories, I decided to give it a go. The inspiration actually came from google's new ImageFX, that's allowed me to prompt the wrestling aesthetic with more clarity than I've ever seen before. Initially a test to see if chatGPT could grasp the context of wrestling, and to see if it would write maledom, it turned into a whole narrative piece, involving the Yakuza, Jin Kazama and Nina Williams based on their Tekken 6 personas, and....... a cloned version of Wallace Hartley from the Titanic? I'll post all of my chapters here, including pictures for extra clarity.
Edge of Pain: The Calm Before the Storm - Prelude 1.0

The bar lay tucked in the shadowed recesses of the Elite Underground Arena, a dim corner lit only by the soft, amber glow of aged sconces. It was here, away from the glaring eyes of patrons and fighters, that Ichiro Sakazaki and Kenta Hinamura watched over the evening’s crowd. Each nursed a drink in their hands, leaning casually against the bar as their eyes scanned the room. Beneath the low hum of conversation, there was an unmistakable tension in the air, the kind that seeped into the cracks and corners of places where excitement and danger intertwined. Here, in this hidden world, the dark thrill of the fight blended seamlessly with the illicit undercurrent of the arena’s operations, a potent cocktail that both men had grown accustomed to.


Ichiro took a slow sip, his eyes narrowing as he noticed the octet setting up by the edge of the ring. "Tell me, Kenta,” he said, his voice low and edged with skepticism. “Why in the hell did you bring them here? What’s the point of a live band in a place like this?" his broad shoulders and towering frame commanding attention even in his stillness. His presence alone was a deterrent, emanating an aura of quiet authority that kept even the boldest fighters and gamblers at a respectful distance. Ichiro's silver hair was neatly slicked back, a stark contrast to the storm brewing in his intense, dark eyes. A deep, rugged scar crossed his brow, hinting at the violence and trials he had endured in his long Yakuza career. Dressed in a finely tailored black suit that fit his muscular physique with immaculate precision, he looked both dignified and deadly. His strong jaw and grim expression remained unchanging as he nursed a glass of whiskey, staring intently into the amber liquid as though it held answers only he could see. The bar's dim light highlighted the streaks of silver in his hair, marking him as a seasoned figure in the underworld—a man who had seen it all and wasn’t easily moved.


Kenta took his time, swirling his glass thoughtfully before answering. "It’s the ambiance,” he replied, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Look around you. This place, with its Victorian architecture and old-world charm—it needs more than just the sound of fists and screams. It deserves something haunting, something that brings the crowd deeper into the experience. The band adds a certain… drama that you can’t replicate with canned music. They’ll only be playing during intermissions, anyway. Just a bit of flair, really.” Though his build was leaner than many of his Yakuza colleagues, there was a quiet strength to his posture—a sense of control and precision that only seasoned men of his world carried. His dark hair, neatly combed back, gave him a polished look, while his trimmed beard added a touch of age and wisdom. Kenta’s sharp, discerning eyes scanned the room with calm detachment, taking in every detail but betraying nothing of his thoughts. Dressed impeccably in a deep navy suit, he looked more like a businessman than a Yakuza lieutenant. His attire was flawlessly tailored, subtle yet refined, and matched his taste for understated elegance. As he sipped from his glass of whiskey, the soft lighting caught the faint crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, hinting at years spent in quiet contemplation rather than open conflict.



Ichiro gave a dismissive grunt, but his gaze lingered on the octet, the shadowed figures preparing their instruments with an air of somber precision. He noted one in particular—a man with a measured air, leaning over a stack of sheet music, his fingers dancing across the pages with focused intent. “And what’s his deal?” Ichiro muttered, nodding in the musician’s direction. “He looks like he’s preparing for a symphony, not a background piece.”

“That’s ‘Joseph Carmichael,’” Kenta replied, amusement clear in his voice. “Bit of an essentric one, I’ll give you that. Keeps to himself, but the man knows his craft. He brings something… genuine.” The man stood quietly in the dimly lit band alcove of the Elite Underground Arena, a figure of refined composure amid the murmur of the rowdy crowd beyond. Dressed in a classic black tuxedo, complete with tails and a starched white shirt, he looked like he belonged to a different era—a gentleman misplaced in the gritty heart of Dotenbori. His violin rested gently under his arm, held with the reverence of a man whose instrument was both a weapon and a shield.



Ichiro raised an eyebrow, skepticism still clouding his expression as he watched “Joseph” continue flipping through his music with a furrowed brow. “We’ll see about that,” he said, shrugging off his curiosity. For now, he had other things to think about—the matches, the bets, the business deals lingering on the edge of the night’s chaos. He took another drink, dismissing the musician and his odd mannerisms as mere quirks. After all, they had bigger concerns than a stranger with a penchant for melodrama.

The arena’s ambiance shifted as Tatsu Otome and Sato Yagami entered, the latecomers drawing subtle attention from those around them. Though the crowd’s reaction was brief—a glance here, a murmur there—it was enough to cast a faint ripple across the room. Tall and lean, Tatsu’s presence radiated an effortless confidence, his sharp, discerning eyes missing nothing as he took in the smoky, shadowed expanse of the arena. His dark hair, slicked back in his signature style, highlighted the sharp angles of his face, and a faint shadow of stubble along his jaw gave him a slightly rugged charm. Dressed in a sleek, well-fitted black suit, he looked more like a savvy businessman than a Yakuza lieutenant, though his reputation as a smooth-talking recruiter preceded him. His gaze swept over the crowd with a practiced detachment, his lips curving into a subtle smile, as though already sizing up potential new recruits among the fighters and spectators alike.



Sato Yagami was his stark contrast—sharp, intense, and radiating an almost tangible aggression. Where Tatsu’s lean frame and slicked-back hair projected an air of sophistication, Sato’s look was all business, exuding raw, unapologetic power. His head was cleanly shaven, accentuating the hard angles of his face and giving him a more intimidating edge. A pair of dark-rimmed glasses rested on his nose, adding a cold precision to his piercing gaze, which scrutinized everything and everyone with a level of intensity that made others avert their eyes. Dressed in a dark, pinstriped suit that emphasized his muscular build, Sato looked like a tightly coiled spring—ready to snap at a moment’s notice. Unlike Tatsu’s subtly charming expression, Sato’s face held a permanent scowl, a look of barely contained contempt for the world around him. Where Tatsu’s movements were graceful, Sato’s were direct and unyielding, his stride purposeful, cutting a path through the crowd without hesitation or care for anyone who might be in his way. The two of them together were a study in contrasts—Tatsu, the smooth-talking strategist, and Sato, the brutal enforcer.



Ichiro Sakazaki’s expression tightened, his eyes darkening as he watched them approach. Tardiness was not something he tolerated lightly, and both lieutenants were well aware of that fact.

Kenta Hinamura, Ichiro's trusted right-hand man, noted the barely perceptible twitch in Ichiro’s brow and quietly leaned over. “They got caught up in the crowd, no doubt. Let it go, Ichiro,” he murmured, his tone calm and reassuring.

Ichiro grunted, barely nodding in acknowledgment. “I might, but they shouldn’t make a habit of it,” he muttered, his voice low but unmistakably sharp.

Tatsu and Sato, meanwhile, moved confidently through the room, unfazed by the weight of their superior’s scrutiny. The difference in their demeanors was subtle yet clear; Tatsu, with his usual charm, offered a respectful nod, his face set in a mild, pleasant expression that he knew wouldn’t stir the Yakuza captain any further. Sato, however, met Ichiro’s gaze directly, his expression stoic, almost defiant.

“Apologies for the delay, boss,” Tatsu said smoothly, his voice as steady as if they had arrived early rather than late. “We had some business to settle on the way in. Needed to ensure no one would be bothering us tonight.”

Ichiro’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And here I thought punctuality was part of that business,” he replied, his tone as dry as the whiskey in his glass. He let the words hang in the air for a moment, the silence heavy between them.

Tatsu gave a faint smile, his calm demeanor unwavering. “I’ll make a note of it, sir.”

Sato, on the other hand, said nothing. His hands slipped into his pockets, his stance relaxed but far from dismissive. There was something almost challenging in his silence, an unspoken message that he wasn’t one to be lectured over a minor delay. His eyes flicked briefly to Tatsu, who gave him the barest of nods—a reminder to leave the talking to him.

Near the ring, the octet continued to tune their instruments, seemingly unbothered by the subtle tension unfolding at the bar. But Joseph Carmichael, perceptive as ever, noticed Tatsu and Sato’s entrance. His eyes flicked toward them for a fraction of a second, a brief assessment of the latecomers before he returned to his sheet music, disappearing back into the ambiance of the room as if he’d never glanced up at all.

Positioning themselves casually beside Ichiro and Kenta, they nodded in acknowledgment but ignored the matter of their lateness, settling in to watch the night’s matches with practiced ease. Ichiro’s gaze lingered on them a moment longer before he took a measured sip of his drink, letting the moment pass but leaving his dissatisfaction hanging in the air. In the background, the band played on, a low, haunting tune that floated through the room and added a layer of tension to the evening.

Kenta swirled his drink, casting a quick glance at Ichiro before steering the conversation toward the night’s matches. “Quite the lineup tonight,” he began casually, allowing the evening’s tension to dissipate as he listed each bout. “First up, Tae-Yeung Park. Then Eliza Sturgeon, followed by Melissa Shammel, the Matsumoto sisters as a tag team, and closing with Alyx Sharpe.”

Ichiro nodded thoughtfully, his expression a careful mask as he considered each fighter. “Tae-Yeung—she’s a fighter who leans heavily on speed. She’s fast, I’ll give her that, but it won’t do her much good against El Diablo. She’ll probably tire herself out trying to evade him,” he commented, his tone calm and detached, assessing her strengths with the dispassion of a strategist.

“Eliza might do alittle better.” Tatsu interjected, shaking his head. “Her style is more in-tune. She'll at least lock up with him from the get-go.”

Sato smirked, joining in with a note of interest. “But what about Melissa Shammel?” he mused. “Arrogant as she is, that cocky attitude might fuel her—especially with that cameraman of hers snapping shots every five seconds. She loves her audience, even if she’s on the mat. It could keep her going longer than we think.”

Ichiro gave a faint nod, acknowledging Sato’s insight. “Melissa knows how to put on a show, I’ll grant her that. It’s probably her best asset here. As for the Matsumoto sisters…” His gaze drifted toward the ring, his thoughts on the two young fighters with a slight edge of indifference. “They’ve got spirit but lack coordination. I believe this is the first time we're letting them take the stage as a tag team. Could be interesting.”

The group shared a collective murmur of agreement until Kenta brought up the night’s final match. “And then…Alyx Sharpe,” he said, his voice holding a hint of expectation. At the mention of her name, Ichiro paused, a subtle shift in his demeanor. His respect for her was clear, a rare acknowledgment that underscored her reputation.

“Alyx is…different,” Ichiro remarked, his tone carrying a hint of admiration. “She’s raw, unpolished, but her resilience is unmatched. She fights with everything she has, as if the pain fuels her.” His gaze lingered, as if lost in thought, before he continued. “24 matches. And she's always gone the distance.”

The group fell into silence, their thoughts shifting to the impending matches. In the dim light of the bar, the arena felt like a loaded weapon, its potential for violence and spectacle hanging in the air. As Ichiro and his lieutenants wrapped up their conversation, the crowd’s energy shifted perceptibly. Murmurs grew into a buzz, an eager anticipation weaving through the audience like an electric current. Patrons leaned forward in their seats, a collective thrill stirring among them as they sensed the night’s spectacle about to begin. Ichiro glanced over the room, noting how each spectator seemed to drink in the tension, savoring the promise of brutality. Beside him, Kenta, Tatsu, and Sato settled into place, their expressions a mix of calm detachment and keen interest, knowing they were about to witness a familiar yet mesmerizing ritual.

The crowd’s murmurs stilled as the door to the locker room opened, revealing the evening’s first contender—Tae-Yeung Park. She strode forward, her head held high, her physique showcasing both strength and grace. Her toned, muscular frame is accentuated by a simple white wrestling leotard, hugging her curves and highlighting her powerful legs and broad shoulders. Her green hair, tied back in a high ponytail, falls down her back, with a few loose strands framing her intense, focused expression. Black wristbands and knee pads add a rugged touch to her otherwise clean, minimalistic outfit, while her white laced boots complete her look, giving her a grounded yet agile appearance. To the casual observer, she seemed the image of a confident fighter; but to those who knew her, there was a hint of apprehension in her gaze, a flicker of tension at the edges of her steely resolve. Her posture remained strong, yet her eyes betrayed a knowledge of what awaited her in the ring with El Diablo. She was no stranger to his brutality, out of 13 matches she's lasted the distance with him 8 times. He'd broken her before the limit in their last 3.



Ichiro’s gaze followed her as she approached the ring, his appraisal sharp and assessing. Tae-Yeung was quick, agile, with a measured technique he respected, yet he could see the strain hidden beneath her controlled expression. While he acknowledged her skills, he knew they would only carry her so far. Against a fighter as ruthless and calculating as El Diablo, the odds were always stacked. Her poise might earn her a few minutes, but survival in the ring required more than skill—it demanded endurance beyond reason, and pain tolerance that few possessed.

Across the room, from a shadowed alcove, Joseph Carmichael stood, his gaze tracking Tae-Yeung’s movement with a quiet intensity. His demeanor, always reserved, was marked now with a solemn edge as he observed her approach the ring. The anticipation in the room weighed on him differently, the thrill of the crowd a stark contrast to his own growing unease. He sensed Tae-Yeung’s determination but couldn’t ignore the dread curling in his stomach at the violence about to unfold. Tonight, he was not merely a musician but a silent witness to the struggle soon to play out before him.

As Tae-Yeung stepped through the ropes and into the ring, the crowd’s energy swelled. Every eye turned toward her, awaiting the inevitable clash. Tae-Yeung Park stood alone in the center of the ring, her fists clenched tightly as she breathed in the atmosphere surrounding her. Beneath her outward calm, a steely resolve burned, though the knowledge of her opponent—of the sheer brutality she was about to face—tightened her stance. She scanned the crowd, eyes settling momentarily on the expressionless faces of Ichiro, Kenta, Tatsu, and Sato. Their gazes met hers with an unsettling indifference, observing her with a detached curiosity, as if she were nothing more than a pawn in the league’s violent spectacle. To them, she was another contender stepping up to test herself, knowing full well the punishment that awaited her.

Suddenly, the lights dimmed, and a hush rippled through the crowd, followed by a low rumble of anticipation. The air shifted, thickening with an intensity that only grew as El Diablo stepped into view, an imposing figure of raw power and intimidation. His physique is nothing short of monstrous—every muscle sharply defined and bulging with strength, radiating a primal force that demands attention. His attire is also minimal, clad only in black trunks, boots, and a black lucha mask that conceals his face but leaves his piercing gaze and scowl visible, enhancing his menacing presence. Black wristbands and knee pads add to his rugged look, emphasizing his readiness for combat. Standing with fists clenched and a fierce, unyielding stance, El Diablo’s entire form exudes a brutal energy, His towering figure emerged from the shadows, each step deliberate, exuding an aura of calculated brutality that filled the arena. A roar erupted from the audience, eager for the violence they knew was coming. El Diablo’s calm was unnerving; he moved with a confidence that seemed carved into every fiber of his being, his presence a stark contrast to the inner battle of nerves and determination Tae-Yeung wrestled with.


In the stands, Tatsu and Sato shared a look, their lips curling into knowing smirks as they savored the tension in the air. Kenta, more reserved, sipped his drink with quiet expectation, his gaze fixed on the ring as he awaited the inevitable clash. Ichiro remained stoic, his attention pinned on Tae-Yeung, assessing the way her body braced, the slight shift in her posture as she squared off against her monstrous opponent. He could read her resolve but also the dread simmering just beneath it, her instincts urging her to fight yet reminding her of the last time she’d faced El Diablo.

With a calm step forward, Tae-Yeung took her stance, her gaze hardening as it locked onto El Diablo’s. She pushed aside the noise, the roaring crowd, the emotionless gazes of Ichiro and his men, focusing only on the monster before her. She inhaled, grounding herself in the quiet strength she had summoned for this moment. The bell rang, signaling the start of the match.

In the charged silence that followed, a single breath held the weight of a thousand heartbeats, suspended in anticipation. And as the first second ticked down, the air crackled with the electric promise of violence yet to come.

 

[anotherguttersnipe]

Match 1: El Diablo vs Tae-Yeung Park

The bell echoed through the arena, signaling the start of the match. Tae-Yeung Park moved immediately, lunging forward with the precision of a seasoned fighter, her eyes locked on El Diablo’s towering frame. She knew she’d have to hit fast, keep him off balance. Her leg shot up, delivering a rapid high kick aimed directly at his head. The strike landed clean, and the sharp sound of impact cut through the crowd’s noise.

But El Diablo didn’t even flinch. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, a glint of amusement sparking in his eyes.

“Is that supposed to hurt?” he taunted, his voice a low rumble that barely masked his mocking tone.

Ignoring him, Tae-Yeung shifted her stance, her focus intensifying. She unleashed a series of kicks — fast, precise, each one aimed to wear him down. She targeted his ribs, his torso, even his knees in an attempt to destabilize him. Her strikes were relentless, a testament to her years of Taekwondo training. Each move was calculated, each hit delivered with purpose.

Yet, with every blow that connected, El Diablo remained unshaken, barely moving under the onslaught. He just stood there, absorbing each strike like a mountain weathering a storm.

“Come on, Tae-Yeung,” he sneered, brushing off an impact to his shoulder. “Is this really all you’ve got? I thought you were supposed to be something special.”

Tae-Yeung’s jaw clenched, her frustration boiling. She threw a powerful sidekick aimed at his chest, hoping to push him back. The force reverberated up her leg as her foot struck solid muscle, but he didn’t budge. His smirk only widened, his eyes glinting with dark amusement.

“Not even close,” she muttered under her breath, refusing to let his taunts rattle her.

“Oh, I heard that,” El Diablo chuckled, his tone dripping with condescension. “Maybe try a little harder? Or is this the best the famous Tae-Yeung Park can do?”

Her eyes narrowed, determination hardening her features. She stepped back, readjusting her stance before charging forward with a quick right punch aimed at his jaw. She followed up with a high kick, snapping her leg up with perfect control. But at the last second, he leaned to the side, allowing her kick to glance off his shoulder harmlessly.

“Is that all?” he asked, feigning disappointment as laughter rippled through the crowd. “You’re gonna have to try harder than that.”

She didn’t let the crowd’s reaction get to her. She couldn’t afford to. Taking a deep breath, Tae-Yeung shifted her weight, her mind racing for an opening. Her legs already burned, her muscles protesting the relentless barrage she’d thrown at him. She wasn’t used to her attacks landing without effect — especially not after coming at him with everything she had.

“I’ve got more than you know,” she spat back defiantly, her voice steady despite her fatigue.

“Good,” he replied, his voice a taunting growl. “Then show me what you’ve got, little bird.”

With a fierce shout, she launched herself at him again. This time, she aimed lower, sweeping her leg toward his knee in a roundhouse kick meant to unbalance him. Her foot connected, the impact solid. But El Diablo merely shifted his weight, absorbing the blow effortlessly.

“Wasting your energy,” he drawled, shaking his head as if she were a child failing a simple lesson. “At this rate, you’ll be all worn out before I even break a sweat.”

“Shut up!” she snarled, launching a desperate combination of punches and kicks. She knew she was throwing everything she had, but he was like a wall. Each strike seemed only to amuse him, his eyes glinting with that infuriating mix of superiority and disdain.

“You really thought you’d get through me with this?” El Diablo’s voice cut through the cacophony of her blows landing in quick succession. “I almost feel sorry for you.” His words dripped with mock pity, his smirk widening as he watched her fight with everything she had.

Tae-Yeung took a step back, breathing heavily, her chest heaving. She was already starting to feel the fatigue, her muscles protesting with every move. But she couldn’t let him see any sign of weakness. Straightening, she glared up at him, eyes blazing with defiance.

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” she shot back, her voice low but steady.

El Diablo chuckled again, tilting his head as he looked her over, his eyes almost gleaming with anticipation. “Oh, I think I’ve seen more than enough. You’re all flash and no substance, little bird.”

The crowd’s laughter filled the air, but Tae-Yeung ignored it, focusing solely on the man in front of her. She gritted her teeth, determined to make him regret every word, every condescending smirk. Lunging forward, she aimed a powerful kick directly at his chest, her heel connecting with a satisfying thud. But once again, he didn’t move.

“Not enough?” she muttered, trying to hide the frustration creeping into her voice.

“Not even close,” he replied, stepping forward with a predatory glint in his eye. “But by all means, keep trying. It’s almost cute.”

Tae-Yeung felt a spike of anger shoot through her. With a growl, she surged forward, aiming a high kick that swept past his head as he sidestepped at the last second. She spun around, immediately following up with a punch aimed at his ribs, but he caught her wrist, holding it just long enough to stop her momentum before releasing her with a slight push.

“Careful,” he warned, his voice low and mocking. “Wouldn’t want you to wear yourself out.”

She stepped back, breathing hard, her mind racing. She had to change her approach, find a weakness. But before she could think of a new strategy, he advanced, his steps slow and deliberate.

“You’d better keep your distance, Tae-Yeung,” he said, his voice a sinister rumble. “Because once I get my hands on you, this little game is over.”

A flicker of fear shot through her, but she quickly suppressed it, forcing herself to hold his gaze. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her intimidated.

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere,” she replied defiantly, raising her fists. “If you think I’m done, you’re in for a surprise.”

El Diablo’s smirk deepened, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of amusement and cruelty. “I hope you’re ready, little bird,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “Because this is where the real fun begins.”

They faced off, the charged silence between them filled only by the sound of her heavy breathing. The crowd watched, eager, sensing the shift in momentum. And as he took another step forward, Tae-Yeung realized that her battle had only just begun. El Diablo was advancing on her now, his steps slow and menacing. She could feel the shift in the match, a weight settling over her as if the air itself had thickened. But she wasn’t done yet. Not by a long shot.

With a sharp breath, Tae-Yeung went for another high kick, snapping her leg toward his head with precision and speed. This time, however, he was ready. In one swift movement, he caught her leg mid-kick, his grip vice-like around her ankle. Tae-Yeung’s balance faltered, and she stumbled, momentarily losing her footing as she tried to pull free from his grasp.

A dark grin spread across El Diablo’s face. “Nice try,” he said, his tone dripping with condescension. “But this is my ring, little bird.”

Before she could react, he yanked her forward, throwing her off balance. She barely had time to register what was happening before he lifted her effortlessly, holding her aloft for a brief, humiliating second before slamming her down onto the mat. The impact sent a shockwave of pain through her body, and she gasped, her vision momentarily blurring as the crowd’s cheers echoed around them.

“Come on, Tae-Yeung!” El Diablo taunted, circling her as she tried to push herself back up. “Where’s all that fire now? You were so eager a second ago.”

Ignoring the pain radiating through her back, Tae-Yeung grit her teeth and rose to her feet. She wasn’t about to let him see any weakness. But before she could fully steady herself, he was on her again. He grabbed her around the waist, hoisting her up before driving her back down in a powerful slam that rattled the mat. Another wave of pain shot through her, and she felt her strength beginning to wane. Her muscles screamed in protest, but she forced herself to keep going.

“You’re not getting out of this that easily,” he growled, grabbing her arm and pulling her up as if she weighed nothing. He spun her around, lifting her effortlessly before slamming her down once more. Each impact left her feeling more battered, her energy draining with every second. It was like he was toying with her, showing the crowd how easily he could dominate her.

The jeers from the audience grew louder, and she could hear their mocking laughter. They loved seeing her struggle, loved watching her be overpowered by the seemingly unstoppable force that was El Diablo. Tae-Yeung tried to block it out, focusing on her breathing, on keeping her focus sharp.

“You know,” he said, his voice cutting through the noise as he loomed over her, “I expected a little more fight from you. All that training, all that hype, and yet here you are…on the mat.”

Tae-Yeung clenched her fists, summoning every ounce of willpower as she pushed herself up onto her knees. Her body screamed in protest, but she refused to give in. Not yet.

“Oh? Still trying, are we?” El Diablo chuckled, shaking his head as he reached down, grabbing her leg and twisting it in a way that forced her onto her stomach. Before she could react, he’d locked her into a brutal hold—the Boston crab. He leaned back, bending her spine painfully, the pressure forcing her torso to arch up from the mat.

A cry escaped her lips as the pain tore through her back. She gritted her teeth, trying to hold back any further sounds of distress, but it was impossible to ignore the agony radiating through her body. El Diablo had her locked in tight, and every shift, every slight adjustment he made only amplified the pressure.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” he sneered, casting a glance over his shoulder as he leaned back further. “Go on, scream. Let everyone know how much pain you’re in.”

Tae-Yeung bit down on her lip, her hands clawing at the mat as she struggled to pull herself forward, desperate to find an escape. But with each attempt, he tightened his grip, bending her lower body up and back with a cruelty that bordered on sadistic.

Her breaths came in ragged gasps as she fought to endure the hold. The pain was searing, relentless, spreading from her spine down to her legs. She could feel the strain in her muscles, the pressure threatening to overwhelm her. But she couldn’t let him break her. She couldn’t give him that satisfaction.

“Is that all you’ve got?” she managed to spit out, her voice trembling but defiant.

El Diablo laughed, his grip unyielding. “Oh, I’m just getting started, Tae-Yeung. Don’t worry—I’ll make sure this lasts as long as possible.”

He leaned back even further, and Tae-Yeung’s resolve wavered as a fresh wave of agony shot through her. Her body felt like it was being torn apart, and for a brief, terrifying moment, she wondered if her spine would give out under the pressure. Her vision blurred, dark spots dancing at the edges of her sight, but she forced herself to stay focused, to push past the pain.

“You can’t…break me,” she gasped, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Can’t I?” he replied, his tone mocking. “Because from where I’m standing, you look pretty broken already.”

She tried to pull herself forward again, reaching for the ropes, but they were maddeningly out of reach. Her arms felt weak, her strength ebbing with each passing second as he kept her trapped in the hold. Her body trembled from the strain, every nerve screaming in agony, but she refused to tap out. Not yet.

“Give up, Tae-Yeung,” he said, his voice low and taunting. “Save yourself the humiliation.”

But giving up wasn’t an option. Not for her. Summoning what little strength she had left, she clawed at the mat, inching forward as much as she could, the movement minimal but determined. Each inch felt like a mile, the pain intensifying with every shift, but she kept going.

“Still fighting, huh?” El Diablo’s voice was a mixture of irritation and amusement. “Fine. I’ll make sure you remember this, every time you even think about challenging me.”

With a grunt, he leaned back even further, and Tae-Yeung couldn’t hold back a cry of pain this time. Her back felt like it was on fire, every muscle screaming in protest as he continued to bend her in the brutal hold. Her breathing came in shallow gasps, her strength nearly spent.

“Come on, Tae-Yeung,” he sneered. “All you have to do is tap out. Just one little tap, and all this pain ends.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, blocking out his words, his taunts, the mocking cheers of the crowd. She focused on the sound of her own breathing, the steady rhythm grounding her in the midst of the agony.

“Not…going…to happen,” she panted, her voice barely audible.

He laughed, a cruel, hollow sound. “Suit yourself. But remember—you asked for this.”

She could feel the strain in her spine reaching its limit, the pain so intense she could barely think. Her vision blurred again, the edges of her world narrowing down to the unbearable pressure radiating through her back. But still, she held on, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her break.

El Diablo shifted slightly, adjusting his grip just enough to dig in harder, his voice a menacing whisper. “I can keep this up all night, Tae-Yeung. But I’m not sure you can.”

She bit down on her lip, her nails digging into the mat as she tried to push past the pain. She wouldn’t tap. Not yet. But as the agony intensified, as her body threatened to give out, she wondered just how much longer she could hold on. A cruel smile tugged at the corners of El Diablo’s mouth as he finally released the Boston crab, letting Tae-Yeung’s body slump to the mat in a twisted heap. She fell forward, her face pressing against the canvas as she gasped for breath, her back pulsing with fiery pain. Every nerve felt raw, her muscles trembling uncontrollably. But despite the agony, she knew this was only a temporary reprieve.

El Diablo stood over her, arms raised as he soaked in the roar of the crowd. They loved it — the brutal display, the way he dominated her so completely. The cheers echoed around the arena, feeding his ego, fueling the power he held over her. He took his time, deliberately stalling, casting a shadow over her as she lay prone on the mat. Each second that he lingered gave her a sliver of hope, a flicker of time to catch her breath.

Tae-Yeung pressed her palms against the mat, her arms shaking as she forced herself up. Her back screamed in protest, every inch of her body weighed down by pain. But she couldn’t stay down. Not now. Gritting her teeth, she slowly rose, clutching her lower back with one hand as she staggered to her feet. The ache was relentless, but she wouldn’t let it stop her. She couldn’t.

A few voices from the crowd shifted, a smattering of admiration breaking through the jeers. They saw her defiance, her refusal to stay down. For a brief moment, she let herself take in the sound, allowing it to push her forward. But as she lifted her gaze, she locked eyes with El Diablo, and the cold hunger in his stare sent a chill down her spine.

“Oh, still standing?” he mocked, his voice dripping with amusement. “I guess I’ll have to try a little harder to keep you down, then.”

She barely had a second to brace herself before he was on her. El Diablo lunged forward, his body a blur as he closed the distance in an instant. She tried to step back, to evade, but her body was too slow, too battered to react in time. He took her down with a sweeping tackle, sending her crashing to the mat once again. This time, he moved with ruthless precision, grabbing her leg and twisting her into a vicious leg lock, trapping her in a new wave of searing pain.

A strangled cry escaped Tae-Yeung’s lips as he twisted her leg, the tendons in her knee and thigh straining under the brutal hold. She could feel the pressure building, her muscles stretching beyond their limits, her knee bending in ways it was never meant to. Every time she thought the pain had reached its peak, he twisted just a little more, wrenching her leg with a brutal efficiency that left her breathless.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” he taunted, his grip unyielding. “I told you, Tae-Yeung. This ring belongs to me.”

She clawed at the mat, her fingers digging into the canvas as she fought to withstand the agony. Her breaths came in shallow gasps, her body shaking as he continued to apply pressure. She knew she should try to pull herself free, to fight back, but the pain was overwhelming, drowning out any thoughts of escape.

“Just…stop talking,” she managed to gasp out, her voice trembling with both defiance and pain.

“Oh, you want me to stop?” He laughed, tightening his grip. “Then make me.”

He wrenched her leg again, pulling it to an even more excruciating angle. She cried out, unable to hold back the sound of her agony. Her vision blurred, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes as she struggled to endure the relentless assault. The crowd’s cheers filled her ears, their voices merging into a chaotic roar that only intensified the pressure weighing down on her.

“Go on, Tae-Yeung,” he sneered. “Why don’t you scream a little louder for them? They’re enjoying this almost as much as I am.”

She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms as she fought to keep control. The pain was blinding, each second stretching her endurance to its limits. But she refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing her scream again.

Seeing her grit, El Diablo’s smirk faded, replaced by a cold, calculating look. “Fine. If you won’t scream, then I’ll make sure this hurts even more.”

He released the hold for a split second, just long enough for a flicker of relief to wash over her. But before she could even register it, he snapped her leg back into the lock, twisting with renewed intensity. The shock of the pain was like fire shooting up her thigh, her entire leg feeling like it was about to snap. Her body bucked instinctively, a raw, desperate attempt to break free, but his grip was ironclad.

Tae-Yeung let out a strangled gasp, her voice barely a whisper. “You…you won’t break me.”

“Oh, I think I will,” he replied, his tone chillingly calm. He adjusted his grip, pulling her leg at a new angle that made her cry out, the sound ripped from her throat before she could stop it. “You see, I know exactly how much you can take before you’re begging me to stop.”

She couldn’t think, couldn’t focus on anything but the searing pain radiating through her leg. It felt like her knee would give out at any moment, the tendons stretched to their breaking point. Her mind screamed at her to tap, to make it stop, but her pride kept her hand from moving.

“You know, if you tap now, I might actually go easy on you,” he said, his voice taunting. “But somehow, I don’t think you’re going to. You’re too stubborn for your own good.”

He loosened his grip just a fraction, letting her leg relax before twisting it again, the motion sending fresh waves of agony shooting through her. Her body jerked involuntarily, her hands clawing at the mat as she fought to keep herself together.

“Just…shut up,” she hissed through gritted teeth, her voice laced with pain but still defiant.

“Oh, the little bird still has some fight left?” He chuckled, shaking his head in mock admiration. “Impressive. But let’s see how long that lasts.”

He released her leg again, letting it drop to the mat, but before she could even register the relief, he grabbed her other leg, locking her into a different variation of the hold. This time, he twisted both legs together, his movements precise and merciless, leaving her no room to escape.

Tae-Yeung’s vision swam as the pain reached new heights, her body on the verge of giving out. She could feel her strength slipping away, her endurance stretched thin as he wrenched her legs with brutal efficiency. She couldn’t think, couldn’t focus on anything but the relentless agony tearing through her.

“You’re almost done,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the roar of the crowd. “Just admit it.”

She shook her head, her voice a barely audible whisper. “Not…yet.”

El Diablo laughed, a cruel, mocking sound. “Suit yourself. But remember — every second you hold on just makes this worse.”

He twisted her legs one final time, the motion so intense that her entire body arched off the mat, a strangled scream ripping from her throat before she could stop it. The pain was overwhelming, consuming her, leaving her breathless and trembling. Her vision blurred, the edges of her world narrowing down to the unbearable agony radiating from her legs.

Through the haze of pain, she could barely hear his voice, taunting her one last time. “Go ahead, Tae-Yeung. Just tap. Save yourself.”

But even as her body screamed for mercy, her pride held firm. She clenched her fists, forcing herself to endure, her breaths coming in shallow, ragged gasps. She wouldn’t tap. Not yet.

And as she fought to hold on, she could see the faintest flicker of frustration cross El Diablo’s face, just enough to remind her that, despite everything, she still had a shred of control. El Diablo wasted no time. As soon as Tae-Yeung’s scream faded, he moved, seizing her legs again and twisting her into yet another brutal hold. This time, he locked her into a figure-four leglock, his body weight pressing down on her trapped leg, amplifying the pain in her already damaged knee. Tae-Yeung let out a strangled gasp as the hold tightened, her vision blurring as fresh waves of agony radiated up her leg.

“Still holding on?” he sneered, leaning back to increase the pressure. “You’re tougher than I thought, I’ll give you that. But we both know how this ends, don’t we?”

Tae-Yeung’s breaths came in ragged gasps, her body trembling under the strain. Every instinct screamed at her to tap, to end the relentless punishment, but she forced herself to stay defiant. She clenched her fists, her jaw set as she fought to block out the searing pain. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her break.

“Just…keep talking,” she hissed, forcing the words out through gritted teeth. “It’s the only thing you’re good at.”

El Diablo’s smirk faded, his expression darkening with irritation. “Oh, I’m good at a lot more than that, little bird.” He twisted her leg sharply, and she couldn’t hold back a cry, the sound tearing from her throat as the pain escalated. Her knee felt like it was on the verge of snapping, the tendons straining under his merciless grip.

The crowd roared in response, a chaotic mixture of jeers and scattered cheers. Some of them taunted her, reveling in her suffering, while others voiced a grudging admiration for her resilience. She could feel their eyes on her, feeding off her pain, their voices blending into a deafening roar that filled her ears.

“El Diablo’s got her right where he wants her!” one voice shouted from the crowd. “She’s not getting out of this one!”

“Give it up, Tae-Yeung!” another called, but there were a few cheers mixed in, faint but unmistakable.

“Hang in there, Tae-Yeung!” someone yelled, their voice barely audible over the chaos.

El Diablo chuckled, releasing the figure-four hold just as she felt her endurance beginning to falter. The sudden release was almost as jarring as the hold itself, her leg falling to the mat as a fresh wave of relief washed over her. But she knew better than to hope for mercy. Before she could even catch her breath, he was on her again, locking her into a new hold — a single-leg Boston crab, twisting her leg painfully while pressing his weight down to keep her immobilized.

Tae-Yeung let out a choked gasp, her hands clawing at the mat as he leaned back, increasing the pressure on her already battered leg. She could feel the strain in her knee, the ligaments screaming in protest as he bent her leg further and further. The pain was all-consuming, a white-hot agony that left her breathless.

“Go on, scream for them,” he taunted, casting a glance over his shoulder as he twisted her leg even more. “You know they’re loving this as much as I am.”

She bit down on her lip, fighting to keep control, to stay silent. The pain was unbearable, her body trembling under the relentless assault, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Not yet.

“Oh, still trying to be tough?” he sneered, releasing the hold just as she felt her strength beginning to wane. He allowed her leg to drop, watching her with a smirk as she struggled to catch her breath, her body curled up in pain. But he wasn’t finished. Not by a long shot.

El Diablo grabbed both of her legs this time, pulling her into a cloverleaf hold, bending her lower body in a way that sent fresh spikes of pain shooting through her back and legs. Tae-Yeung let out a strangled cry, her muscles straining under the unnatural angle as he leaned back, putting his full weight into the hold.

“Still hanging on?” he mocked, his voice dripping with contempt. “You’re only making this harder on yourself, you know.”

Tae-Yeung’s fingers dug into the mat, her body trembling as she fought to endure the pain. The pressure in her back and legs was unrelenting, every nerve screaming in agony, but she refused to give in. She could hear the crowd’s reactions, a mix of admiration and mockery, but she blocked it out, focusing solely on the pain and her determination to withstand it.

“You’re…gonna have to try harder than that,” she spat, her voice weak but defiant.

El Diablo’s eyes narrowed, his smirk faltering. “Oh, I’ll make sure you regret those words.”

He released the cloverleaf hold, letting her drop to the mat once more. But before she could even think of recovering, he grabbed her leg again, twisting her into a calf slicer, pressing his weight down to amplify the pressure on her lower leg. The pain was sharp, intense, radiating up her calf and into her knee as he applied the hold with brutal precision.

Tae-Yeung gasped, her body tensing as the pain reached new heights. Her vision blurred, dark spots dancing at the edges of her sight, but she forced herself to stay focused, to endure. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her break.

“Come on, Tae-Yeung,” he taunted, his voice laced with irritation. “You know you’re done. Just tap out already.”

She shook her head, her breaths coming in shallow gasps. “Not…gonna happen.”

The crowd’s reaction grew louder, their voices a chaotic mix of encouragement and mockery. She could hear them cheering her defiance, but also reveling in her suffering, feeding off the spectacle of her endurance. El Diablo tightened his grip, twisting her leg even further as he leaned forward, his voice a menacing whisper.

“Fine. If you want to suffer, I’ll be happy to oblige.”

He released her leg from the calf slicer, letting her collapse onto the mat, but he gave her no time to recover. He immediately locked her into a kneebar, his grip unyielding as he wrenched her leg with renewed ferocity. Tae-Yeung’s body arched off the mat, a strangled scream tearing from her throat as the pain reached a blinding crescendo. She could feel the tendons in her knee straining, her leg twisted in ways it was never meant to go.

“Still holding on?” he mocked, his voice a low growl. “How much more can you take?”

Her hands clawed at the mat, her fingers digging into the canvas as she fought to endure the agony. Every nerve in her leg felt like it was on fire, the pain consuming her, but she forced herself to stay defiant. She wouldn’t tap. Not yet.

The crowd’s reaction grew even louder, some of them cheering her endurance, others jeering at her refusal to surrender. She could feel their eyes on her, watching as she fought to hold on, feeding off the spectacle of her suffering.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, El Diablo released the kneebar, letting her leg fall to the mat. He stood over her, breathing heavily, his expression a mix of frustration and admiration as he watched her struggle to catch her breath.

“Impressive,” he said, his voice laced with grudging respect. “But don’t think this is over.”

Tae-Yeung lay on the mat, her body trembling from the relentless assault, but she forced herself to meet his gaze, her eyes blazing with defiance.

“Do your worst,” she whispered, her voice barely audible but filled with determination.

El Diablo’s smirk returned, a dark, hungry glint in his eyes as he looked down at her. “Oh, I intend to.”

And as he stepped back, giving her a moment of reprieve, Tae-Yeung braced herself, knowing that the worst was yet to come. El Diablo loomed over Tae-Yeung as she lay sprawled on the mat, her chest heaving, her body trembling from the relentless punishment. The pain in her legs radiated through her whole frame, an unyielding reminder of the brutal holds he’d forced her to endure. But he wasn’t finished with her. Not yet.

Without a word, he reached down, grabbing her by the arm and hauling her to her feet. She could barely stand, her legs wobbling beneath her, but he held her upright, his grip firm and unyielding. For a moment, she thought he might let her go, that maybe he’d finally shown her enough mercy to let her limp out of the ring. But then, with cruel precision, he maneuvered her into an abdominal stretch.

A strangled gasp escaped her lips as he twisted her body, bending her torso to its limits. She felt her spine twisting, her side stretching painfully as he cranked the hold with merciless intent. Her abdomen screamed in agony, the strain pulling her muscles taut, forcing her body into an unnatural angle.

“Remember this?” he sneered, tightening his grip around her arm and waist. “I’ve broken you with this before. Let’s see if you’ve gotten any stronger.”

Tae-Yeung’s response was a weak groan, her body sagging as he applied more pressure. She raised her free hand, trying to find some way to fight back, to push him off, but her strength was all but gone. She pounded her fist weakly against his thigh, each strike a desperate, futile attempt to escape. But he didn’t even flinch; her resistance was nothing more than an annoyance to him, a slight irritation that he easily brushed aside.

“You call that a punch?” he taunted, his voice dripping with mockery. “Come on, Tae-Yeung. Show me what you’ve got. Or is this all you can muster?”

Her body trembled, her breaths coming in shallow, ragged gasps as he twisted her further, bending her at an angle that felt like it would snap her in two. She tried to pull herself out of his grasp, but every movement only made the pain worse, the pressure in her abdomen growing unbearable. Her vision blurred, dark spots dancing at the edges of her sight as she fought to stay conscious.

The crowd roared, their cheers and taunts blending into a chaotic symphony that filled her ears. She could hear them urging her to keep fighting, to hold on, but their voices felt distant, muffled by the agony that consumed her.

“Just…stop,” she managed to gasp, her voice barely audible over the crowd. But El Diablo only laughed, his grip tightening as he leaned in close, his voice a menacing whisper in her ear.

“Not a chance, little bird,” he said, relishing every second of her suffering. “You’re not getting out of this until I say so.”

He wrenched the hold even further, bending her body to its absolute limit. Tae-Yeung’s mouth opened in a silent scream, her hand clawing at his thigh as she tried to pry herself free, but her strength was all but gone. Her body was on the verge of collapse, every nerve screaming in agony as he held her captive, unyielding.

“Just…tap,” he mocked, his tone almost sing-song as he ground her body further. “Go on, Tae-Yeung. Give up.”

She clenched her jaw, refusing to give in. But her body was failing her, her muscles trembling under the strain, her spirit unwilling to surrender even as her body reached its breaking point. Her hand hovered in the air, her pride keeping her from tapping, but the pain was too much. She had no choice.

With a shaky hand, she tapped against his thigh, her voice a strained whisper as she forced the words out. “I…surrender.”

El Diablo’s laughter filled her ears, cold and mocking. He kept her trapped in the hold for a moment longer, relishing her defeat before finally releasing her. She collapsed forward, her body sagging in relief, but he caught her, refusing to let her fall. Instead, he scooped her up effortlessly, holding her aloft before slamming her down in a brutal backbreaker.

A sharp, searing pain shot through her spine as she hit his knee, her body arching instinctively from the impact. She let out a strangled cry, her body convulsing as the pain reverberated through her. For a moment, she thought it was over, that he’d finally be satisfied with her submission. But El Diablo had other plans.

Ignoring the end of the match, he grabbed her legs once more, twisting her into a Texas Cloverleaf submission hold. The crowd roared in approval, their excitement renewed as he bent her body in yet another excruciating position, his grip unyielding as he pulled her legs back, wrenching her lower body mercilessly.

Tae-Yeung’s mind was a haze of pain, her body barely responding as he stretched her to her limits. She tried to pull herself free, her hands clawing at the mat, but she had no strength left. The agony was overwhelming, consuming her, leaving her breathless and trembling.

“Please…stop,” she gasped, her voice barely a whisper, her body on the verge of collapse.

El Diablo laughed, his grip tightening as he leaned back, applying even more pressure. “What was that?” he sneered, feigning innocence. “Did you say something?”

She forced herself to speak, her voice filled with desperation. “I…can’t…take it. Please…stop…”

He chuckled, his tone mocking. “Oh, Tae-Yeung, you’re begging already? I thought you’d hold out a little longer.”

Her pleas fell on deaf ears. He continued to wrench her legs back, her body twisting painfully as he maintained the hold, relishing every second of her suffering. She could feel her strength slipping away, her vision blurring as the pain reached a blinding crescendo.

“Just a little more,” he murmured, his voice low and taunting. “Let’s see how much you can really take.”

Tae-Yeung’s voice broke, her cries echoing through the arena as she begged him to release her. “Please…no more…I…surrender…”

But El Diablo only tightened his grip, showing no mercy as he forced her body to its limits. He kept her in the hold, her pleas barely registering as he reveled in the control he held over her, the power to keep her on the edge of collapse.

The crowd roared, their voices a chaotic mix of cheers and taunts, feeding off her agony, her desperation. Tae-Yeung’s mind was a haze, her body trembling as she struggled to stay conscious, her breaths coming in shallow gasps.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, El Diablo released the hold, letting her legs fall to the mat. She lay there, motionless, her body wracked with pain, her mind barely able to process what had just happened.

And as the crowd’s cheers echoed around her, Tae-Yeung lay there, broken, defeated, knowing that she had given everything she had — and it still hadn’t been enough. The deafening cheers began to fade, replaced by a low murmur as the crowd watched Tae-Yeung lie motionless on the mat. Her body ached, every muscle screaming in agony, but she wasn’t about to let that be the last image they saw of her. Gathering her strength, Tae-Yeung took a deep breath, her hand pressing against the mat as she forced herself to move.

A tremor ran through her arms as she tried to push herself up, her legs trembling beneath her. Her back throbbed, and her legs felt like dead weight, but she grit her teeth, willing herself to keep going. She refused to be carried out of the ring. No matter how much pain she was in, her pride wouldn’t allow it. With a shaky exhale, she pulled herself to her knees, her gaze fixed on the ropes just a few feet away.

The crowd watched in silence as she inched forward, her fingers clawing at the mat as she dragged herself toward the ropes. A few began to clap, their applause tentative at first but growing as she struggled onward. They recognized the resilience, the stubbornness that had kept her fighting despite the impossible odds. It was more than just admiration; it was respect.

She finally reached the ropes, her hand gripping the bottom one as she slowly pulled herself up. Her legs wobbled, her body protesting with every movement, but she refused to let them see her break. She took a breath, steadying herself as she gripped the middle rope, then the top, her fingers clutching it tightly as she rose to her feet.

Behind her, El Diablo watched, a faint smirk on his face as he took in her battered, unyielding figure. The crowd’s reaction didn’t bother him. To him, this was just another victory, another broken opponent left in his wake. He raised his arms, acknowledging their cheers, his grin widening as he looked toward the entrance, already anticipating his next challenger.

But Tae-Yeung wasn’t done. Summoning every ounce of strength she had left, she limped toward the ropes, her head held high. She knew she looked like a wreck, bruised and broken, her body barely able to support her weight. But she wouldn’t let them see her weakness. Not now, not after everything.

As she reached the edge of the ring, she paused, casting a final glance at El Diablo. The two locked eyes, a silent challenge passing between them. She knew this wouldn’t be the last time they’d meet. But for now, she would walk away with her pride intact.

With one last push, she climbed out of the ring, her legs nearly giving way as she touched the floor. She steadied herself, taking one step, then another, each movement a reminder of the punishment she’d endured. The crowd’s applause followed her as she made her way up the ramp, her head held high, her gaze unwavering.

El Diablo watched her go, his grin widening as he raised his arms in triumph. His stance was powerful, victorious, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. He’d beaten her, just as he would beat the next, and the one after that. To him, this was just the beginning.

And as the crowd cheered for the champion, Tae-Yeung limped toward the exit, her spirit unbroken, her resolve strengthened by the fire of her defeat. She’d be back. And next time, she’d be ready.

 

[anotherguttersnipe]

Edge of Pain: Interlude 2.0 - The Wager

Tatsu leaned against the bar, his eyes following Tae-Yeung as she limped toward the heavy curtains at the edge of the arena. The crowd's roar began to fade, but the electric atmosphere lingered, charged with anticipation for what was to come. He took a slow sip of his whiskey, the amber liquid warming his throat.

"How long did she last this round?" Tatsu asked, turning to Kenta, who was tapping away on a sleek tablet, pulling up the night's statistics.

Kenta glanced up, adjusting his glasses slightly. "Seventeen minutes," he replied. "A minute shorter than her last match."

Tatsu raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement playing on his features. "Seventeen, huh? She's slipping."

"Seems that way," Kenta agreed. "What's interesting is that in her last two matches where she didn't make the distance, she tapped out to abdominal stretches every time."

Tatsu chuckled softly. "You think she has a particular dislike for that move, or is El Diablo just fond of putting her through it?"

Kenta considered the question, his gaze drifting back to the ring where El Diablo was still basking in the crowd's adulation. "Could be both. Maybe he knows it's her weak point, or perhaps he just enjoys the control it gives him."

"Either way, it's not working in her favor," Tatsu remarked, setting his empty glass on the bar.

Around them, the crowd surged with renewed excitement. El Diablo raised his arms, a triumphant grin on his face as he played to the audience. The spectators responded with a mix of cheers and jeers, their enthusiasm undiminished. The atmosphere was intoxicating—a blend of raw energy and the thrill of impending violence.

Kenta glanced at the eager faces surrounding them. "They never get tired of this, do they?"

Tatsu shook his head. "Why would they? It's the perfect escape—a place where rules don't apply and they can indulge their darkest curiosities."

"Speaking of indulging," Kenta began, a sly smile creeping onto his face, "care to make a wager on the next match?"

Tatsu's eyes gleamed with interest. "Depends on the stakes."

"Eliza Sturgeon is up next," Kenta said, nodding toward the entrance where the fighters emerged. "I'll bet she doesn't last fifteen minutes."

Tatsu considered for a moment. "Eliza's tough. I'll take that bet. If she lasts longer than fifteen minutes, you owe me dinner at that new place downtown."

"And if she doesn't, you cover our bar tab for the night," Kenta countered.

"Deal." They shook hands, the friendly rivalry adding an extra layer of excitement to the evening.

Just then, Sato, with a glint of amusement in his eyes, leaned in. “Twenty minutes,” he announced confidently, folding his arms. “She’ll last at least that long, maybe even more. You two just don’t see her potential.”

Tatsu scoffed, accepting the dare with a chuckle. “You’re cocky because you’ve got more money than sense,” he teased. “How about we make this bet interesting?”

Sato grinned, exuding confidence. “Real money, huh? I’m game.” He tossed back a drink, the alcohol loosening his tongue. “Besides, making money’s never been easier. Especially when American soldiers are practically begging to buy map data these days.”

The words slipped out with a casual confidence that froze the air around them. Kenta’s face shifted, eyes narrowing as he processed Sato’s boast. Tatsu raised an eyebrow, but Kenta’s reaction was sharper, a hint of tension brewing as he picked up on the implication buried in Sato’s words. The murmur of their conversation drew brief glances from those nearby, subtle but enough to stir the atmosphere.

Without warning, a hand clamped down on the back of Sato’s head, snapping him back to the present. Ichiro, who had been observing the conversation from a short distance, stepped forward, his expression a controlled mask of irritation. He delivered a sharp smack to the back of Sato’s head, silencing him mid-sentence.

“Careless words,” Ichiro muttered, his voice low and edged with warning. “Your reckless mouth could get us into trouble we don’t need.”

Sato tensed, the thrill of his bragging instantly replaced by the chill of his superior’s reprimand. He glanced down, mumbling an apology, though his face held the stubborn edge of youthful arrogance. Kenta’s gaze remained fixed on Sato, alert to the potential consequences of his slip.

Ichiro held his gaze on Sato, his voice carrying the weight of authority. “You might think this is all just a game, but remember, discretion isn’t a suggestion. It’s a requirement. This isn’t a playground for your ego.”

Sato’s eyes flickered with frustration, but he nodded, casting a quick, humbled glance toward Ichiro. Tatsu and Kenta exchanged a look, sensing the tension shift as Ichiro’s veteran presence asserted itself over Sato’s brash confidence. The moment passed, the hum of conversation returning as they readjusted their focus to the night’s spectacle.


________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


In the dimly lit alcove overlooking the arena, the Octet concluded their haunting intermission piece. The final notes of the violin lingered in the heavy air, casting a melancholic veil over the brutal setting. The crowd below murmured with subdued appreciation, momentarily captivated by the ethereal melody that stood in stark contrast to the violence they had come to witness. Eyes that had been fixed on the ring now glanced upward, acknowledging the musicians whose somber tunes added a layer of depth to the night's dark allure.

"Joseph Carmichael," lowered his violin gracefully, his posture poised and unassuming. He exchanged brief nods with his fellow musicians as they began to shuffle sheet music and adjust their instruments for the next set. "Excuse me for a moment," he said softly, his voice barely audible over the ambient noise of the arena.

A fellow violinist looked up, offering a faint smile. "Of course, Joseph. Take your time."

Joeseph Carmichael, or rather, the clone known by his true name, Wallace Hartley, stood in the shadowed recess of the Elite Underground Arena. His formal demeanor and unassuming presence had allowed him to slip through the cracks in this dangerous underworld with minimal suspicion—a fitting role for a spy engineered by the Mishima Zaibatsu to infiltrate the heart of the Dotenbori Yakuza’s operations.

Wallace was a man out of time. Cloned from his descendants DNA of a violinist who had perished on the RMS Titanic over a century prior, he carried the memories of that fateful night, the haunting strains of "Nearer, My God, to Thee" that had echoed into the icy Atlantic air as the ship descended into history. Awakening in a world so different from the one he had known was a shock he hadn’t yet fully overcome, and perhaps never would. And yet, here he was, playing a part in a high-stakes game he barely understood, driven by a mixture of duty and the hope that he might one day be reunited with his bandmates, should the Zaibatsu fulfill their end of the deal.

Taking a deep breath, he first unscrewed a small compartment within his violin to retrieve a small USB device. Then, he retrieved an encrypted smart device from his jacket, where he plugged in the USB. He uploaded a file: an audio and video recording taken from strategically angling his violin towards the Yakuza's table. He added in a message: "Context: American Soldiers = G corporation." He hit send, the message encrypted and dispatched to his handler, Nina Williams. The weight of his responsibility pressed upon him, but there was a resolute steadiness in his demeanor. Gathering intelligence in such a perilous environment required constant vigilance, and the facade of "Joseph Carmichael" was both a shield and a burden.

Wallace took a moment to steady himself, his mind briefly wandering to thoughts of his past—or rather, the memories implanted within him. The dissonance of existing out of time weighed heavily, but he pushed those feelings aside. There was work to be done.

As he began to make his way back to the alcove, a sudden uproar from the crowd signaled the commencement of the next match. The energy within the arena spiked, the air thick with anticipation and the thirst for spectacle. Wallace paused, his eyes once again finding Ichiro, who now wore a contemplative expression, no doubt calculating his next move both in the ring and beyond.

"Best not to linger," he murmured to himself.

Rejoining the Octet, Wallace resumed his position, lifting his violin and preparing for the next piece. The other musicians acknowledged his return with subtle nods, their focus shifting seamlessly back to the performance. The haunting strains of the strings began anew, weaving a melodic undercurrent that both contrasted and complemented the raw brutality unfolding below.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


One week earlier....


In the shadowed briefing room, tension hung thick in the air as Nina Williams slid a slim, neatly bound dossier across the table to Wallace Hartley. She stood tall and poised, her presence as commanding as her reputation. With piercing blue eyes that never wavered, she observed him as he took the folder, her platinum-blonde hair cascading in smooth waves past her shoulders, framing a face as striking as it was unyielding. Dressed in a sharp, tailored black suit, each seam pressed and crisp, Nina emanated a cold professionalism, her athletic build and finely honed presence reminding him she was a woman who wasted no time on half-measures.


Wallace hesitated, his fingers lingering on the folder as if it might burn him. His gaze flickered toward Nina, trying to read her expression. But there was nothing, only the calm and impassive look of someone who had long ago learned to conceal her thoughts. He opened the dossier, and his initial curiosity quickly turned to unease as he skimmed the mission parameters.

“Your assignment,” Nina began, her voice crisp and almost mechanical, “is to infiltrate the Ryona Combat League.” She watched him carefully, her gaze unflinching as she caught the subtle shift in his expression—a flicker of horror, a tightening of his jaw. “We have reason to believe there’s a spy within the league. Someone has been leaking Zaibatsu information to G Corporation, compromising our security and operations. Your task is to identify this individual and to gather intel on the league’s structure and operations.”

Wallace’s fingers tightened around the edges of the dossier, his hands suddenly clammy as he flipped through the pages. The details he found there painted a chilling picture of the Ryona Combat League—a secretive, brutal organization that catered to the darkest desires of a powerful elite. The league held underground matches where female fighters were subjected to extreme violence, all for the perverse pleasure of wealthy patrons. His stomach churned at the thought. The descriptions alone—the profiles of fighters, the grotesque spectacles listed as entertainment—made him feel ill.

Nina leaned back, her gaze unfazed by his discomfort. “The league recently put in a request for a string quartet to play during intermissions between matches. You’ll enter as the lead violinist of a small octet.” She tapped a finger against the table, the sound sharp and definitive. “It’s the perfect way in. You’ll be providing ambiance and keeping a low profile, but with access to most areas as part of the entertainment. If you do your part well, the Zaibatsu will handle the rest.”

Wallace closed the dossier, setting it down as he looked back up at her. The disbelief in his expression was plain, tempered only by a simmering anger. “So, let me get this straight,” he said, his voice low but shaking slightly with tension. “You expect me to stand by and watch as people, as women, are brutalized in some depraved sport? This place… it disregards every last shred of human dignity! How can I… how do you expect me to participate in this? To simply play my part as if I’m indifferent to all of it?”

Nina met his gaze, her own gaze icy, unfazed by his protest. “I expect you to focus on your mission, Wallace.” Her voice was a dagger, sharp and cutting. “Your job is to identify the spy and observe the league’s inner workings. Nothing more. You’re not here to question their methods or get sentimental about the fighters. The Zaibatsu brought you into this world, and they’re paying you to follow orders, not to satisfy your own morals.”

He opened his mouth, but the words caught, choked by a swell of indignation and horror that he couldn’t put into words. His hands clenched, nails pressing into his palms, as he struggled with the implication of her words. The Ryona Combat League, this den of violence and exploitation, was a place he found abhorrent. Yet here he was, expected to ingratiate himself into it, to blend in as if he condoned everything it represented. It seemed as if Nina had no regard for what she was asking of him—no understanding of the revulsion it stirred within him.

Seeing his reluctance, Nina tilted her head slightly, a trace of amusement crossing her lips. To her, his horror was almost amusing, a predictable response that only served to confirm her earlier suspicions about his sentimental nature. “You won’t have to pretend much, Joseph Carmichael,” she said, her voice turning cold as she emphasized his alias, the identity he was to assume for this mission. “Remember, you’re just another musician to them—a performer paid to play and stay silent. You’ll be in the shadows, observing, not participating. Sooner or later, our mole will reveal themselves. You’re simply… watching.”

She leaned forward, her gaze hardening, voice dropping to a near whisper. “Don’t mistake this mission for something it isn’t. You don’t have to like the job, Wallace. You just have to do it.” Her words were a clear, unbreakable command, stripping his hesitation of any weight it might have held.

He struggled to hold her gaze, feeling the ground beneath him slip. There was no room for principles here, no space for the past values he had clung to for so long. As if reading his thoughts, Nina’s eyes narrowed slightly, her expression flickering with something he couldn’t quite place—a warning, perhaps, or a test of his resolve.

“Look,” she continued, her voice laced with a calm finality. “This is your second chance, Wallace. Or should I say… Joseph. Don’t waste it on some outdated sense of squeamishness. You’ve been given a new life in a new world. That place may be abhorrent, but it’s just another task. And you’re capable of seeing it through. So either commit to the mission or walk away now. Just know that there’s no turning back once you’re in.”

A tense silence settled over them, stretching as Wallace processed her words. His mind raced with protest, his heart hammering at the thought of entering such a twisted place. But he knew, deep down, that he had little choice. The Zaibatsu had given him this life, and he was bound to repay that debt, one way or another.

He took a deep breath, drawing his fingers along the edge of the dossier, feeling the weight of the mission settle upon him. There was no space for reluctance; Nina had made that clear. Slowly, he forced himself to nod, his voice subdued but resolved. “Very well,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I’ll do what’s required.”


Behind them, NiCO lingered in silent observation. She was slender and precise, almost clinical in appearance, her platinum-teal hair falling in a sharp line to her jaw, framing a face that radiated an unsettling calm. NiCO’s sharp, analytical eyes never left Wallace, studying him not as a person but as a subject, as proof of her genius. She was a former MIST scientist, pulled into the Mishima Zaibatsu’s orbit after MIST’s fall. In their desperation to expand R&D, the Zaibatsu recruited her, bringing her theories and ambition into their fold, though it came at the cost of nearly endless restrictions and oversight.


For NiCO, Wallace was a testament to her work. Theories of revival through cloning had been regarded as far-fetched, even insane, by her contemporaries, yet she knew it was only a matter of resource allocation. Her theory relied on the extraction of a subject’s DNA from the bloodline of their descendants, a method she believed would bring about a perfect recreation—practically bringing the dead back to life through the power of science.

When selecting her subject, Wallace Hartley had been the least boring choice, a man she could regard as both scientifically fascinating and a controllable variable. A musician with polite quirks and an outdated moral compass, he would make fewer waves than most and, more importantly, be malleable to the demands of Zaibatsu espionage. For NiCO, he was a chess piece moved onto a scientific board, his existence merely the first step in proving that her method worked.

From her vantage, she watched him with the detached gaze of a creator testing a hypothesis, wondering not if, but when her methods would come to redefine what was possible for the Zaibatsu.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


Present day.


Wallace Hartley took a deep breath. “The show must go on,” he murmured, his voice a quiet reminder of the duty that bound him to this place. He brushed a hand through his hair, the somber weight of his purpose pulling his posture taut. His fellow musicians were already on stage, tuning their instruments to prepare for the next intermission performance. Their calm demeanor contrasted sharply with the rising hum of anticipation from the crowd below. Wallace took his place among them, lifting his violin and testing its strings as the distant rumble of the audience grew louder, signaling the impending start of the next match. He cast a glance down at the arena, his heart sinking at the sight of the spectators leaning forward in their seats, eyes locked on the ring with eager intensity.

As he adjusted his grip on his violin, Wallace’s gaze drifted to the ring, catching a glimpse of the next fighter stepping into the spotlight. The crowd’s enthusiasm swelled, voices rising in a chaotic chorus that echoed off the walls. Even from the alcove, he could feel the weight of their anticipation, the electricity crackling in the air as they awaited the violent spectacle they had paid to witness.

Wallace forced his gaze away, focusing on his instrument as he prepared to play. Yet the images from the ring lingered in his mind, each glimpse a reminder of the brutal reality he was now entangled in. His mission demanded his attention, required him to see and understand this world’s darkest elements, but every fiber of his being resisted. This was no place for him; his values, his sense of humanity, clashed violently with the environment he was forced to navigate.

 

[anotherguttersnipe]

Edge of Pain:Match 2: Eliza Sturgeon vs El Diablo

The atmosphere in the Elite Underground Arena was electric, the air thick with anticipation as Eliza Sturgeon stepped into the ring. Her strong, athletic frame a testament to countless hours of training and sheer determination. Her toned arms and legs were visibly powerful, built not only for endurance but also for the explosive movements required in the wrestling ring. Dressed in a sleek black wrestling leotard that hugged her form, she looked both fierce and focused, every inch the seasoned fighter. Black wristbands and kneepads emphasized her readiness for the match, while her tall white laced-up boots added an extra layer of classic wrestling flair to her attire.


Her short, vibrant red hair was partially held back by a black headband, keeping it away from her face while highlighting the intensity in her expression. Her emerald eyes scanned the roaring crowd, taking in the mix of eager faces—some jeering, others watching with a predatory gleam. She rolled her shoulders, loosening the tension in her muscles, and shifted her gaze to the opposite corner where El Diablo stood, his imposing frame radiating confidence and cold calculation. His eyes locked onto hers, dark and unflinching. The two fighters began to circle each other, the space between them charged with unspoken challenges. Eliza's determination was palpable; she knew the odds were against her, but she was resolved to push her limits. El Diablo, in contrast, moved with a predatory grace, his expression inscrutable as he analyzed her stance and movements.


The bell's echo hadn’t fully faded before Eliza Sturgeon and El Diablo began circling, each calculating, each aware of the gravity of the moment. Despite her resolve, Eliza couldn't shake the memory of Tae-Yeung Park’s most recent struggle against him, the intensity of that fight still etched in her mind. Now, in the same ring, she felt the weight of that defeat—and the weight of the man who had caused it—pressing down on her.

El Diablo’s eyes gleamed with a calm indifference, barely a flicker of interest breaking through his icy stare. He knew her reputation, her skill, and perhaps even her determination, but he seemed almost bored, like this was just another match in a long series of inevitable victories. The crowd sensed it too, murmurs of anticipation bubbling up as they wondered if Eliza might find a way to overcome him—or if she’d simply become his next conquest.

“Ready to follow Tae-Yeung's path?” El Diablo’s words dripped with derision, his voice low, meant for her ears alone.

Eliza clenched her jaw, fighting the urge to react. "I'm here to make my own path," she shot back, her voice steely.

They closed the gap, locking eyes, bodies taut with readiness. And then, in a flash, they engaged in a collar-and-elbow lockup. Eliza planted her feet and leaned in, pouring everything into the grapple. But even as her muscles strained, she could feel El Diablo’s unyielding strength bearing down on her, his grip tightening like a steel vise. Every inch felt like a mile as he gradually forced her back, her boots sliding ever so slightly across the mat.

"Is that it?" he taunted, his voice barely above a murmur, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

Eliza gritted her teeth, refusing to let his words distract her. She shifted her stance, trying to leverage her balance and lower center of gravity, but El Diablo merely shifted with her, tightening his hold. The crowd roared as Eliza fought to hold her ground, even as her legs trembled under the strain.

Then, with a brutal twist, El Diablo yanked her into a side headlock, his arm coiling around her neck like a constrictor. Eliza felt the pressure instantly, his forearm pressing against her windpipe, cutting off her breath.

“You look tired already, Sturgeon,” he mocked, squeezing tighter.

Eliza grunted, clawing at his arm, but his grip was unbreakable. Her vision blurred at the edges as she struggled to pull in air, and just when she thought she might start seeing stars, he shifted again, his movements seamless as he transitioned into an armbar, wrenching her arm at an unnatural angle.

"Come on, Eliza!" someone in the crowd shouted, their voice lost in the sea of cheers and jeers. But the support bolstered her, even as pain shot through her shoulder.

Focusing on the throbbing pain in her arm, Eliza forced herself to stay grounded, taking shallow breaths and adjusting her footing. She knew she couldn’t match him in sheer strength, but she had to outmaneuver him, stay a step ahead if she wanted any chance. With a swift, desperate jerk, she twisted her body, breaking the torque of his hold for just a moment—but that moment was all he needed to yank her back, trapping her once again, this time in a wrist lock.

Eliza suppressed a cry as he twisted her wrist, bending it in a way wrists weren’t meant to bend. He tightened his grip, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of amusement and cruelty.

“This is all Tae-Yeung’s friend can offer? No wonder she went down so quickly,” he sneered, voice laced with a taunt that cut deeper than any hold.

Eliza’s gaze hardened. “Keep talking, Diablo. It’s all you’ve got.” She bit back the pain, using her free hand to steady herself, balancing on the edge of her strength. Her mind raced, analyzing every inch of the hold, searching for a weakness, a way out.

But El Diablo wasn’t done. He released the wrist lock only to pull her in, sliding behind her to lock in a standing full nelson. His powerful arms pushed her head forward, forcing her to stare down at the mat as he ground her shoulders painfully, his strength utterly dominant.

"Look familiar?" he whispered, the words hitting like a physical blow. "Did you get a good look at Tae-Yeung's face last time? Maybe you’ll end up just like her."

The image of Tae-Yeung struggling flashed in her mind, reigniting a spark within her. She tensed, feeling his breath on her neck, his grip unyielding, almost mocking her attempts to break free. She dug her heels into the mat, pushing against him, but his grip didn’t waver.

"That’s it, struggle a little more," he taunted, voice low and cold. "It only makes it more satisfying."

The crowd’s reactions swelled, feeding into the intensity of the moment. Eliza knew she had to shift the momentum, to create even the smallest opening. She twisted sharply to the side, and while his hold loosened only slightly, it was enough for her to slip an arm free. With a burst of adrenaline, she hooked his leg, dropping her weight to shift them both off balance.

El Diablo stumbled, momentarily caught off guard. It was the opening she needed. She managed to roll forward, slipping out of his hold and landing on her hands and knees a few feet away. Her breaths came in ragged gasps as she struggled to rise, her limbs aching from his relentless grip.

The audience’s noise swelled, sensing the shift as she rose to her feet, determination etched on her face. El Diablo simply straightened, his gaze steady, expression unreadable. He raised an eyebrow, almost amused.

“You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,” he acknowledged, the barest hint of respect in his voice. But it was quickly masked by a smirk. “Not that it’ll save you.”

Eliza clenched her fists, squaring her stance. “I’m still standing,” she replied, her voice steady despite her fatigue. “And I’m not going down like Tae-Yeung.”

He chuckled, a dark, humorless sound. “Good. I’d hate for this to be too easy.”


The brief respite did nothing to dull the intensity between them. Eliza could feel every ache and strain in her muscles as she and El Diablo locked eyes again, each aware that this match was far from over. She sucked in a steadying breath, preparing herself to meet him head-on once more.

Without another word, they clashed in another collar-and-elbow lockup, both of them straining against each other. Eliza gritted her teeth, determined to hold her ground. She could feel the crowd’s energy surging, as if each cheer and jeer added weight to her stance. But El Diablo’s strength was inexorable; even as she fought with everything she had, his unrelenting power forced her back inch by inch.

"Still think you can handle this?" he taunted, his tone dripping with mockery.

Eliza glared at him, struggling to push back. “I didn’t come here to lose,” she growled, pouring her remaining strength into the hold.

El Diablo chuckled, a low, menacing sound. “Maybe you should’ve thought about that before stepping into this ring.” With one swift, brutal twist, he overpowered her, forcing her into a half-kneeling position as he bore down on her. Her arms trembled, muscles screaming in protest as she tried to push back, but he showed no mercy, his grip tightening like a vice.

Before she could react, he released the lockup, only to seize her wrist and whip her toward the ropes. Eliza barely had time to brace herself before she slammed back-first into the turnbuckle, the impact reverberating through her entire body. Pain flared in her spine, momentarily leaving her breathless as she sagged against the ropes.

“Welcome to the corner,” El Diablo sneered, stalking toward her like a predator closing in on its prey. “Let’s see if you can handle a little more.”

He lunged forward, driving his shoulder into her midsection with brutal force. Eliza gasped as the air was forced from her lungs, her body folding over his shoulder. He didn’t relent, slamming his shoulder into her again and again, each hit pushing her further into the turnbuckle, trapping her in place.

“Had enough yet?” he asked, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze. There was a twisted satisfaction in his eyes, a sadistic glee as he watched her struggle.

Eliza forced herself to straighten, her breaths coming in short, painful bursts. “Not even close,” she rasped, refusing to show him any weakness.

El Diablo’s smirk deepened. “You’ve got spirit. Too bad it won’t do you any good.”

With a swift, fluid motion, he grabbed her by the shoulders and drove his knee up into her abdomen, forcing another strangled gasp from her. The crowd roared, feeding off the brutal display, but Eliza barely heard them. Every fiber of her being was focused on enduring, on standing tall in the face of his unrelenting assault.

He took a step back, giving her just enough room to slump against the turnbuckle, struggling to catch her breath. But before she could fully recover, he closed the distance again, lifting her onto the second rope. His hands gripped her shoulders with an iron strength, leaving her no room to escape as he began to climb the ropes, positioning himself above her.

The realization hit her like a shock of ice water. He was setting her up for something devastating, something that could end this match before she even had a chance to fight back.

“Going somewhere, Sturgeon?” he mocked, leaning close as he secured his grip. “Let me show you how the big leagues handle things.”

Eliza’s mind raced, desperation clawing at her. She struggled against his hold, trying to shift her weight, but his grip was unyielding. He lifted her up, her feet leaving the mat as he ascended to the top rope with her in tow. The crowd’s excitement was palpable, a tense anticipation building as they watched him position her for a superplex.

“You ready for this?” he whispered, a cruel edge in his tone.

Eliza’s heart pounded, every instinct screaming at her to escape, to break free. “You don’t scare me,” she managed, her voice strained but defiant.

“Good,” he replied, his voice cold and calculating. “It’ll make this that much sweeter.”

And then, in one brutal, merciless motion, he launched them both off the top rope, executing a flawless superplex. Time seemed to slow as they descended, the mat rushing up to meet them. Eliza braced herself, but nothing could have prepared her for the impact.

They hit the mat with a thunderous crash, the force of the landing sending a shockwave through her entire body. Pain erupted in every nerve, radiating from her spine outward, leaving her disoriented, gasping for breath as the world spun around her. She barely registered the crowd’s deafening cheers, the roar of approval as El Diablo stood, looming over her prone form.

Eliza lay on the mat, her body aching, her limbs heavy as lead. The superplex had left her winded, her strength drained, but somewhere beneath the haze of pain, a flicker of resolve remained. She couldn’t give up—not yet, not while there was still fight left in her. But as she lay there, staring up at the lights, even that sliver of determination felt distant, elusive, as if it were slipping through her fingers with every passing second.

El Diablo’s shadow fell over her, his expression one of calm satisfaction as he looked down at her. “Stay down, Sturgeon,” he said, his tone almost condescending. “Save yourself the embarrassment.”

She closed her eyes, fighting to steady her breathing, to find that spark within her that refused to be extinguished. Despite everything, despite the pain and the odds stacked against her, she knew she had to keep fighting. This was more than just a match—it was a test of her resilience, her spirit.

With a groan, she began to shift, the slightest movement sending fresh waves of pain through her body. El Diablo watched her struggle, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“Still moving, are we?” he asked, a hint of amusement coloring his voice. “Guess you didn’t learn your lesson after all.”

Eliza forced her gaze up to meet his, her eyes blazing with defiance despite her battered state. “It’ll take more than that to break me,” she murmured, her voice weak but unwavering.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Then I guess we’ll have to see just how much you can take.”


As Eliza lay gasping for breath on the mat, her body throbbing with pain, El Diablo moved with a measured calm, almost as if he were savoring each moment of her suffering. He reached down, seizing her by the arms and pulling her upright, forcing her to sit with her back to him.

“Come on, Sturgeon,” he muttered, his tone carrying a trace of impatience as he locked her into a seated double arm stretch. “Show me what you’re really made of.”

The pressure on her shoulders and arms was immediate and excruciating. He twisted her arms back, pulling until she felt her muscles screaming in protest, the joints grinding under the relentless force. Her face contorted in pain, but she gritted her teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing her cry out.

“You don’t have to hold it in,” he taunted, his voice low in her ear. “Let them hear you.”

Eliza clenched her jaw, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. “I… don’t… break that easy,” she managed, her voice strained but defiant.

He chuckled, as though her resistance were a mild inconvenience. With each passing second, he increased the pressure, twisting her arms back at an agonizing angle. The crowd roared, caught up in the brutality unfolding before them, their energy fueling the intensity of the hold. Eliza’s vision blurred at the edges as she struggled to focus, every nerve in her body on fire.

“Is this all Tae-Yeung’s friend can handle?” he sneered, twisting her arms even further. “I thought she’d at least make this interesting.”

Despite the pain, a spark of anger flared within her. “You don’t know anything about me,” she hissed, forcing herself to stay grounded, to ignore the searing agony in her arms.

“Oh, I know enough,” he replied, his tone dripping with derision. “You’re all the same—scrappy, resilient, but in the end? Weak.”

With one final wrench, he released her arms, letting them fall limply to her sides as she gasped for breath. But he didn’t allow her a moment’s respite. Without missing a beat, he slid his arms under hers, pulling her into a seated full nelson. His hands locked at the back of her neck, trapping her in the unforgiving hold as he leaned in, applying pressure with brutal precision.

Eliza’s head was forced forward, her chin pressing against her chest as he tightened his grip, his forearms pressing into her shoulders and immobilizing her completely. She felt the muscles in her neck strain as he increased the pressure, each second dragging out in agonizing detail.

“Let’s see how long you can keep that defiance up,” he murmured, his voice laced with a dark amusement.

The crowd’s excitement grew as he held her there, savoring the control he had over her. Eliza’s breaths came in shallow gasps, her chest heaving as she fought to keep her focus, to stay conscious through the haze of pain.

“Had enough yet?” he whispered, his tone almost mocking as he tightened his hold.

Eliza’s voice was little more than a strained rasp, but her resolve hadn’t wavered. “Keep… dreaming.”

Without a word, El Diablo pulled her up, lifting her to her feet while maintaining the full nelson, his arms like iron bars holding her in place. He adjusted his grip, transitioning seamlessly into a standing full nelson, trapping her with a ruthless precision that left her no room to maneuver.

The pressure on her neck and shoulders was unbearable, and for a brief moment, the thought of surrender flashed through her mind. But she shoved it down, clinging to her resolve, to the fire that kept her fighting even as her body threatened to give out.

"Still standing?" he taunted, wrenching her neck slightly. "Let’s fix that.”

And before she could react, he released the full nelson, only to wrap his arms around her waist in a vice-like grip. She barely had a second to register the shift before he launched her backward in a brutal German suplex. The impact sent a shockwave through her spine, her body bouncing off the mat as pain exploded through her back.

But El Diablo didn’t stop. He held on, pulling her back up with him, his grip unyielding as he lifted her into another German suplex. The crowd’s cheers swelled, a cacophony of excitement and anticipation, but to Eliza, it was just noise—a distant hum as she focused on staying conscious, on enduring the punishment he was dishing out.

The second impact was even worse than the first, her head and shoulders slamming into the mat with a force that left her dazed, her limbs feeling like lead. She could feel her strength waning, her body screaming in protest, but he didn’t allow her any reprieve.

With a cruel efficiency, El Diablo hoisted her up once more, launching her into a third German suplex. This time, her body hit the mat with a sickening thud, her vision dimming as she struggled to cling to the last shreds of her resilience. She lay sprawled on the canvas, barely able to move, every fiber of her being battered and bruised.

But El Diablo wasn’t finished. He pulled her up one final time, his expression one of cold, merciless focus as he lifted her onto his shoulders. The crowd’s anticipation reached a fever pitch as he positioned her for a Samoan drop, the final, crushing blow in his sequence of attacks.

“End of the line, Sturgeon,” he muttered, his voice a harsh whisper.

Before she could muster any response, he drove her down into the mat with a thunderous impact. The force of the Samoan drop left her breathless, the air forced from her lungs as she lay motionless on the mat, her body aching, her spirit battered.

El Diablo stood over her, his gaze impassive, as though he were already thinking about his next opponent, his next victory. The crowd roared, a mix of awe and anticipation as they watched him, waiting to see if he’d deliver the final blow, or if he’d allow her the small mercy of defeat.

Eliza’s mind was a blur of pain and exhaustion, her limbs heavy, her breaths shallow. She knew she had reached her limit, her body unable to endure much more. But somewhere within her, that flicker of defiance still burned, a small, stubborn flame refusing to be extinguished.

El Diablo’s voice cut through the haze, his tone cold and detached. “Stay down, Eliza. You’ve got nothing left.”

She lay there, eyes half-closed, her vision hazy as she looked up at him. For a moment, she considered it—letting go, surrendering to the pain and exhaustion. But then she thought of Tae-Yeung, of every friend and rival who’d faced him and suffered under his brutality. She thought of every opponent who’d been told to stay down and had found the strength to rise.

With a ragged breath, she forced herself to move, her hand pressing against the mat as she tried to lift herself, the defiance still evident in her eyes.

“I… don’t… give up,” she whispered, her voice barely audible but unbroken.

El Diablo’s eyes narrowed, a glint of irritation flickering in his gaze. “Then I’ll just have to make sure you can’t get up.”

The crowd’s anticipation hung heavy in the air, waiting to see if he would end it—or if he’d draw out her suffering just a little longer. But as Eliza struggled to rise, her spirit undeterred, it was clear that no matter how brutal the battle, she would not be broken easily.


Eliza’s body ached with every attempt to push herself up, each motion a reminder of El Diablo’s merciless onslaught. The mat beneath her felt as though it were swallowing her whole, every nerve in her body screaming at her to stay down, to yield. But her spirit, battered and bruised as it was, kept her crawling, inch by inch, willing her body to rise.

El Diablo watched her struggle with a mixture of impatience and amusement, his stance relaxed, as if he had all the time in the world to draw out her suffering. She had barely made it to her hands and knees when his shadow loomed over her, a dark omen against the bright lights of the arena. Without a word, he raised his boot and drove it down hard on the small of her back, sending a shockwave of pain through her spine.

“Still fighting?” he sneered, his tone mocking. “Let’s see if I can fix that.”

He dropped his boot again, this time grinding his heel into her back, pressing down with a cruel deliberation that left her gasping. The audience’s cheers and jeers blurred together, a cacophony of noise that seemed to echo her agony. She could feel the pressure building, her body sinking further into the mat as his weight bore down on her.

“Come on, Eliza,” he taunted, twisting his heel as he pressed down harder. “Don’t tell me you’re giving up already. I thought you wanted to make this a challenge.”

Eliza gritted her teeth, biting back a cry as she fought to stay grounded, to keep herself from sinking entirely beneath the weight of his boot. But her strength was waning, her endurance stretched to its limit, and he could see it in her every strained breath.

With a slow, measured movement, El Diablo shifted his stance, lowering himself to straddle her back. Before she could even comprehend his next move, his hands snaked around her chin, pulling her head back with a brutal force that sent fire through her neck and spine.

Eliza’s vision blurred as he wrenched her head back, locking her in a camel clutch. The pressure was immediate and relentless, his hands digging into her chin as he pulled back, forcing her spine to arch in a way that left her body screaming in protest. She could feel the strain in every inch of her, her muscles quivering as they fought to resist the hold, but El Diablo showed no mercy.

“This is it, Sturgeon,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper but laced with a deadly finality. “Time to decide if you’re really as tough as you think.”

Eliza’s breaths came in short, pained gasps, her chest heaving as she struggled to draw in air. Every second in the hold felt like an eternity, the pressure on her neck and back building as he applied even more force, his strength seemingly limitless. The crowd’s intensity surged, sensing the finality of the hold, their collective gaze fixed on her, waiting to see if she would break.

“Ready to give up?” he asked, his voice a dark whisper against the roaring crowd.

Eliza clenched her jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. She could feel his fingers digging into her jaw, his grip unyielding as he pulled her head back further, stretching her spine to its breaking point.

“No answer?” he sneered, tightening his grip. “Fine by me. I’ll just keep going until you’re begging for mercy.”

Despite the pain, Eliza forced herself to speak, her voice barely a whisper but filled with defiance. “You’ll… be waiting… a long time.”

El Diablo chuckled, his laughter cold and mocking. “Is that so?” He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. “You’re not fooling anyone, Sturgeon. We both know you’ve got nothing left.”

With a cruel twist, he yanked her head back even further, eliciting a strangled gasp from her as the pain intensified, radiating from her neck down to her lower back. The crowd’s anticipation grew, feeding off her suffering, their cheers mingling with his taunts as he held her there, savoring every second of her agony.

But even as her vision blurred and her body trembled, Eliza refused to yield. She focused on her breathing, on the slow, steady rhythm that kept her grounded, even as he pushed her to the edge. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing her beg, of seeing her break.

After what felt like an eternity, he seemed to sense her resolve, his grip loosening ever so slightly as he regarded her with a faint glimmer of respect—twisted and sadistic, but respect all the same.

“You’ve got spirit, I’ll give you that,” he murmured, his tone laced with a dark amusement. “But I’ve got something special planned for you.”

With a final wrench, he released her, letting her fall to the mat like a ragdoll, her body slumping as she struggled to catch her breath. She lay there, gasping for air, her limbs heavy and unresponsive as he rose to his feet, towering over her with a cruel smile.

El Diablo raised his arms, gesturing to the crowd as they roared in approval, their excitement building as he played to them, feeding off their energy. He knew he had them in the palm of his hand, and he was relishing every second of it.

“Come on, Sturgeon!” he called out, his voice booming over the noise of the crowd. “Show them what you’ve got left!”

Eliza could barely lift her head, her vision swimming as she tried to focus. Every instinct screamed at her to stay down, to let the match end. But something deep within her refused to give up, a stubborn fire that wouldn’t be extinguished, no matter how much pain she endured.

She braced her hands against the mat, pushing herself up inch by inch, her body trembling with the effort. The crowd’s cheers swelled as they watched her struggle, some urging her to stay down, others cheering her on, their voices a chaotic blend that echoed in her ears.

El Diablo watched her, his expression unreadable as she fought to rise, his arms crossed over his chest. There was a glint in his eye, a cold amusement as he watched her defiance, her refusal to yield.

“Impressive,” he murmured, almost to himself. “But let’s see how long that fire lasts.”

Eliza finally managed to lift herself to her knees, her breaths coming in shallow gasps as she glared up at him, her eyes filled with a burning resolve. She knew she couldn’t last much longer, but as long as she had the strength to stand, she would keep fighting.

“Is that… all you’ve got?” she rasped, her voice hoarse but unbroken.

El Diablo’s smile widened, his gaze darkening as he took a step forward, towering over her. “Careful what you wish for, Sturgeon,” he replied, his tone dripping with menace. “I might just give you more than you can handle.”

With a slow, deliberate motion, he lowered himself to meet her gaze, his face mere inches from hers. “Last chance to back down. Make it easier on yourself.”

Eliza forced herself to smile, a faint, defiant curve of her lips. “I don’t do ‘easy.’”

His eyes narrowed, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. But just as quickly, his smirk returned, and he rose to his feet, turning to the crowd with a flourish, basking in their approval as they roared in anticipation.

He gestured to them, his voice rising above the noise. “Looks like she still wants more!” The crowd’s response was deafening, a wave of cheers and applause that filled the arena.

El Diablo turned back to her, his expression a blend of amusement and cold determination. “Alright, Sturgeon,” he said, his tone low and menacing. “Let’s finish this.”

As he took a step closer, Eliza braced herself, her heart pounding as she prepared for whatever he had in store. She knew she was at her limit, her strength nearly spent. But no matter how brutal his next move, she was ready to face it head-on, her resolve unbroken, her spirit unyielding.

Eliza knelt on the mat, her body quivering, each shallow breath sending fresh waves of pain through her battered frame. She had pushed herself to her limits, her strength nearly gone, but the fire in her eyes hadn’t dimmed. El Diablo watched her, a flicker of dark satisfaction in his gaze, sensing that the end was near.

He closed the distance between them, reaching down and hauling her to her feet with a brutal efficiency that left her no time to resist. His grip was unbreakable as he pulled her close, shifting his hold to position her for a muscle buster. With a swift motion, he lifted her onto his shoulders, her legs hanging on either side of his neck as he held her in place. But instead of delivering the move immediately, he locked her in the hold, her body stretched across his shoulders in a makeshift submission.

The crowd’s reaction was immediate, a mix of anticipation and awe as they watched him use the muscle buster as a sadistic submission, prolonging her suffering for his own satisfaction. Eliza gasped, the pressure on her back and shoulders unbearable as he tightened his hold, each second dragging out her pain.

“Feel that?” he murmured, his voice low and mocking. “This is what happens when you don’t know when to quit.”

Eliza bit back a scream, her body writhing against him as she struggled to breathe. Every nerve was on fire, her muscles straining as he twisted her in the hold, testing her endurance, her will to keep fighting.

“Go on,” he taunted, his tone filled with dark amusement. “Just say the words, Sturgeon. Everyone’s waiting for it.”

For a moment, she resisted, her pride keeping her silent even as her body threatened to give out. But the pain was relentless, an endless, crushing force that left her no escape. She could feel her strength fading, her vision blurring as he continued to twist her, pushing her closer and closer to her breaking point.

Finally, unable to endure any longer, she forced the words out, her voice barely above a whisper. “I… I submit.”

The crowd erupted, a wave of mixed reactions filling the arena as Eliza’s words echoed through the space. She had fought with everything she had, but even she couldn’t withstand the punishment El Diablo had dealt. Yet, as the realization settled in, El Diablo didn’t release her. His grip remained as tight as ever, his smirk widening as he looked out at the crowd, drawing out their anticipation.

“What’s that?” he asked, his voice dripping with mock surprise. “I didn’t hear you.”

Eliza’s body trembled, her voice strained and desperate as she repeated her submission. “I submit… Please.”

“Now, that’s more like it,” he said, satisfaction clear in his tone. But instead of letting her down gently, he completed the muscle buster, slamming her down onto the mat with a devastating impact that left her gasping, her body crumpling under the force.

Eliza lay there, her limbs limp, every breath a struggle as she tried to process the pain radiating through her. The match was over, and she knew it—but El Diablo wasn’t finished. She could sense it in the way he loomed over her, the intensity in his gaze as he looked down at her battered form.

Without a word, he reached down and grabbed her by the arms, pulling her back up despite her weak attempts to resist. Her body felt like dead weight, her strength completely drained, but he ignored her struggles, his grip unyielding as he positioned her for another hold.

“Please… it’s over,” she managed, her voice barely a whisper.

El Diablo chuckled, his gaze cold and unfeeling. “Over? I don’t think so, Sturgeon. Not until I say it is.”

With ruthless precision, he pulled her into a modified surfboard stretch, his knee pressing into her spine as he yanked her arms back, contorting her body in a way that sent fresh waves of agony through her. Eliza’s head fell back, her face contorted in pain as she let out a strangled gasp, her body arching under the pressure.

“Stop… please…” she begged, her voice laced with desperation. “You… you won.”

He leaned in, his voice low and menacing. “I know. But I’m not done with you yet.”

He shifted his grip, transitioning her into a bow and arrow hold, his knee digging into her back as he pulled her arms back, intensifying the strain on her spine. The crowd watched in stunned silence, some murmuring in awe, others growing uncomfortable with the brutality unfolding before them.

Eliza’s vision blurred, her breaths coming in shallow gasps as she felt the hold tear at her already weakened body. She struggled weakly, her voice a choked plea as she tried to appeal to whatever sliver of mercy he might have left.

“Please… no more…”

But her words fell on deaf ears. El Diablo tightened his grip, a sadistic gleam in his eyes as he ignored her pleas, his expression one of cold satisfaction as he continued to stretch her, pushing her to the limits of her endurance.

“You wanted to fight me, Sturgeon,” he murmured, his tone filled with dark amusement. “Consider this your reward.”

He finally released her arms, letting her collapse onto the mat, her body trembling from the pain. She lay there, gasping for breath, her mind barely registering the sound of the crowd as they watched her suffering, transfixed by the spectacle.

But El Diablo wasn’t finished. He grabbed her by the legs, pulling her into a Boston crab, his weight bearing down on her lower back as he leaned back, wrenching her spine with ruthless precision. Eliza let out a strangled cry, her body arching against the hold as she clawed at the mat, her voice filled with desperation.

“Please… I can’t take anymore…”

He smirked, tightening his grip as he leaned back further, ignoring her pleas. “Then maybe you should have stayed down.”

Each second felt like an eternity as he maintained the hold, her body writhing in agony as she struggled to breathe, to endure. The pain was all-consuming, a relentless force that left her mind spinning, her strength completely drained.

When he finally released her, she collapsed onto the mat, her body spent, her breaths coming in shallow gasps. She could barely move, barely think, her mind overwhelmed by the sheer agony that had been forced upon her.

El Diablo stood over her, a look of cold satisfaction on his face as he surveyed his handiwork. He had broken her, pushed her to her limits, and he had done it with a chilling indifference that left her feeling utterly powerless.

He crouched down beside her, his voice low and mocking as he leaned in close. “Next time, Sturgeon, remember your place.”

With that, he rose to his feet, leaving her crumpled on the mat, a broken shell of the fighter who had once defied him. The crowd’s cheers and jeers faded into the background as she lay there, her body a testament to his brutality, her spirit tested to the very edge.


The arena was still buzzing from the match’s brutal conclusion, the crowd’s energy a strange mixture of awe and discomfort as they processed what they had witnessed. El Diablo stood in the center of the ring, his gaze steady, his posture relaxed, as though the fight had hardly taken anything out of him. His eyes lingered on Eliza, her broken form sprawled across the mat, his expression unreadable as he watched her, almost daring her to get up.

Minutes passed before the faintest sign of movement from Eliza drew a ripple of anticipation from the audience. With a painful groan, she began to stir, her fingers clawing at the mat as she struggled to push herself up. Every inch was agony, her body protesting each movement, but she was determined to leave the ring on her own two feet.

El Diablo watched, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He took a slow, deliberate step toward her, his shadow falling over her once more. The crowd held its breath, sensing he might not be finished, their murmurs growing louder as he loomed over her, a predator over weakened prey.

Eliza forced herself to her knees, her head hanging as she took shallow, shaky breaths. She felt his presence, his intent, the threat of more pain if he so desired. A part of her wanted to sink back to the mat, to give in to the exhaustion and let herself be carried out. But the part that refused to be broken, the part that had carried her through every agonizing hold and devastating slam, kept pushing her forward. She planted a foot on the mat, her muscles quivering as she began to rise.

Just as El Diablo took another step forward, ready to deliver one final, punishing blow, a crackling voice in his earpiece broke through the tension.

“Leave her. We need you in peak condition—you’ve still got three more matches tonight.”

El Diablo’s expression shifted, a flicker of irritation crossing his face as he absorbed the command. He tilted his head, glancing at Eliza with a hint of disappointment, as though the opportunity for one last strike was a gift taken away too soon. With a low, begrudging sigh, he stepped back, lifting his hands in a mock gesture of surrender as he turned away from her.

Eliza, struggling to stand, felt the wave of relief wash over her, mingled with a renewed sense of defiance. He’d been commanded to leave her alone, but it wasn’t out of mercy. She knew that, and she accepted it. But the victory, however small, was hers—she had endured, she had withstood everything he’d thrown at her, and she was leaving the ring on her own terms.

The crowd, sensing the finality of her struggle, began to clap, a slow and steady rhythm that grew louder with each passing second. It was a rare moment of respect, an acknowledgment of her resilience in the face of overwhelming odds. The noise surrounded her, lifting her spirit even as her body felt on the brink of collapse.

Step by painful step, Eliza made her way toward the ropes, her grip shaky but determined as she used them to steady herself. Her vision was blurred, her entire body wracked with pain, but the chorus of claps fueled her, a reminder that, while she had lost, she was far from defeated.

As she finally reached the edge of the ring, she paused, casting one last look back at El Diablo. He stood in the center, his expression unreadable, though a glint of something like respect crossed his eyes as their gazes met. He gave her the slightest nod, a silent acknowledgment of her resilience, before his attention shifted back to the crowd, his posture shifting as he prepared for the next challenger.

Eliza took a deep, ragged breath, her resolve hardening as she turned away, stepping through the ropes and out of the ring. The applause followed her all the way up the ramp, a bittersweet testament to her courage, her determination. She knew that her body would carry the bruises, the marks of this match, for days, maybe weeks. But her spirit, beaten as it was, remained unbroken.

As she reached the top of the ramp, Eliza allowed herself one final look back. The crowd was already shifting, their attention drawn back to El Diablo as he raised his arms, hyping them up for the next fight. She knew she had given everything, that she had endured a test few could withstand. And though he remained the victor, Eliza walked away with something he couldn’t take from her—her resilience, her strength, her unyielding will.

With a final nod to the crowd, she turned and disappeared backstage, the cheers and applause fading behind her as the next chapter of her journey awaited.

 

[anotherguttersnipe]

Edge of Pain: Interlude 3.0 - Camaraderie

In the dimly lit locker room, Tae-Yeung Park sat alone on a wooden bench, a towel draped loosely around her neck. She had showered and changed, her damp hair pulled back into a rough ponytail, but the soreness from her recent match with El Diablo radiated through her muscles, making her wince with every slight movement. Her fingers brushed over the fresh bruises on her arms and shoulders, vivid reminders of the bout she had barely endured. The room was silent, save for the occasional drip of water from a nearby faucet, and Tae-Yeung took a slow, steadying breath, feeling the weight of the match settle heavily on her.



The memory of the fight was still fresh, each moment vivid in her mind. She had entered the ring confident, her stance poised, her eyes fixed on her opponent with defiance. She remembered the initial flurry of strikes, the taekwondo kicks she had delivered with precision, each movement fueled by a simmering determination to prove herself. But it hadn’t taken long for El Diablo to assert his dominance, catching her leg mid-kick with an iron grip, his mocking smile flashing beneath the shadow of his mask. The crowd’s cheers and jeers echoed around her as he countered with brutal efficiency, transitioning her captured leg into a vicious hold that had left her gasping.Tae-Yeung winced again, the memory of that hold still sharp in her mind. El Diablo had worked her over with an almost casual cruelty, testing the limits of her endurance, each twist of his grip a reminder of the power he wielded so effortlessly. She had fought back, of course, rallying every ounce of strength she could muster.

Her fingers traced the edges of a bruise on her ribcage, a dull ache flaring as she pressed it lightly. Frustration twisted within her, mingling with the determination that had always kept her coming back to this unforgiving arena. She hated feeling so powerless, hated the way El Diablo seemed to dismantle her with ease. But the worst part was the way he’d taunted her, his voice low and taunting as he applied yet another punishing hold, his words a cruel echoed in her mind.

The thought alone made her blood simmer, anger stirring beneath the pain. Tae-Yeung clenched her fists, jaw tightening as she forced herself to breathe through the frustration. She wasn’t the type to dwell on losses, but this defeat had cut deeper than most. It wasn’t just the physical pain—it was the reminder of how far she still had to go, how wide the gap between her skills and El Diablo’s overwhelming strength truly was.

Despite everything, a flicker of determination lit up within her. She wouldn’t let this defeat define her, wouldn’t allow El Diablo to stand as an immovable obstacle. She had come too far, fought through too many challenges, to let him break her spirit. Tae-Yeung adjusted her position on the bench, gritting her teeth as the soreness flared again. Every bruise, every ache, every reminder of the brutal match served as fuel, as motivation to push herself harder.

As she sat there, the locker room seemed to close in around her, a quiet, solitary space where she could let the frustration flow without restraint. She was no stranger to pain—it was an inseparable part of her path, the cost she paid to survive in this ruthless world. But for all the humiliation, for all the exhaustion weighing down on her now, Tae-Yeung knew she would step into that ring again. She would face him again, no matter how many times it took, until she found a way to break through his defenses and make him feel the sting of her strength.

Her fingers slowly uncurled, and she released a slow breath, steadying herself. The journey wouldn’t be easy, and she knew it might demand more than she was even prepared to give. But she had no intention of backing down.


Tae-Yeung’s quiet reflection was interrupted by the sound of uneven footsteps at the entrance to the locker room. She looked up to see Eliza Sturgeon limping through the door, moving slowly, each step betraying the strain her body had endured. Bruises were already forming along her legs and arms, and she seemed to favor her left side, wincing as she crossed the threshold. Despite it all, Eliza managed a tired but genuine smile as she caught Tae-Yeung’s gaze.

Tae-Yeung stood up, stepping forward with a look of concern, and the two women embraced briefly, finding solace in each other’s presence. There was an unspoken understanding in the hug—a camaraderie formed through the shared pain of facing the same brutal opponent, the same relentless force.

“You doing okay?” Tae-Yeung asked softly, pulling back to look at her friend. She could see the exhaustion in Eliza’s eyes, the subtle tremor in her muscles as she tried to mask her discomfort.

Eliza gave a lopsided smirk, brushing off the question with a wave of her hand. “Oh, just peachy,” she replied with mock cheerfulness, though her voice held a noticeable edge. “You know, I always dreamed of getting tossed around like a ragdoll by a masked psychopath. Really livin’ the dream here.”

Tae-Yeung chuckled, rolling her eyes as she helped Eliza to the nearest bench. The sarcastic deflection was typical of her friend, but the strain in Eliza’s posture and the way she gingerly lowered herself onto the bench told a different story. Tae-Yeung settled beside her, giving Eliza a moment to catch her breath.

For a few seconds, they sat in silence, each absorbed in their own aches and bruises. Then, as if on cue, they both began to examine their injuries, comparing fresh bruises and marks left behind from their battles. Tae-Yeung exposed a purple blotch on her thigh, a nasty bruise from where El Diablo had yanked her leg in a merciless hold. Eliza winced in sympathy, nodding as she looked down at her own bruised thigh.

“You too, huh?” Tae-Yeung muttered, a mix of frustration and exasperation in her voice. “He got me again with the abdominal stretch—third time in a row. I swear, it’s like he knows I can’t stand that one.” She attempted a wry grin, but there was a genuine bitterness behind it. “Every time I think I’m doing alright, he pulls that out, and it’s all over before I even know it.”

Eliza laughed, though the motion made her wince, clutching her side. “Well, at least you made it past fifteen minutes,” she replied, her tone light but self-deprecating. “This time, I barely lasted fourteen before he had me down. Hell, I was doing better last month. Guess I’m losing my edge.” Her gaze drifted to the floor, a hint of disappointment flickering in her eyes before she shrugged it off, masking it with a half-hearted smile.

Tae-Yeung nudged her lightly. “Oh, please. You lasted longer than most people ever could in there. We’re up against a human wrecking ball with a sadistic streak—no one expects us to go in there and win.” Her tone softened as she looked at Eliza. “But it doesn’t mean we can’t try.”

Eliza glanced over at her friend, a flicker of gratitude in her tired expression. “I know,” she murmured. “But still… fourteen minutes is a personal best for a lot of people, but for me, it feels like I should be doing more. I guess I’m just not bouncing back as quick as I’d like.”

They both fell quiet, their mutual frustration mingling in the silence. The brutal reality of their matches loomed over them, the exhaustion settling deeper as the adrenaline wore off. Tae-Yeung traced her finger over one of the bruises on her arm, a reminder of her own shortcomings in the ring. For all their training, all their resilience, El Diablo’s strength remained an unyielding barrier.

Eliza exhaled slowly, breaking the silence. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “maybe I should schedule a session in ‘The Dungeon’ with him. Train with him outside the ring, see if that’ll get me back up to speed.” Her voice held a trace of hope, an eagerness to close the gap she felt widening with every match.

Tae-Yeung nodded slowly, recognizing the logic behind Eliza’s suggestion. “Might be worth it,” she agreed. “He’s… different in there. Still brutal, but controlled. Like he’s pulling his punches just enough to push you without breaking you completely. It’s not like the league matches.” She shook her head, her expression reflecting a mix of respect and caution. “But you’ve got to be ready for it. Training with him is like getting a taste of what he’s truly capable of—without the crowd, without the performance.”

Eliza looked at her friend, her expression serious. “I think I need it. I can’t keep ending up like this. I need to be tougher, more resilient… and maybe a few sessions in ‘The Dungeon’ will remind me of that.”

Tae-Yeung patted her shoulder. “Then do it. If anyone’s got the grit for it, it’s you.” She paused, her gaze softening. “Just… be careful, alright? He’s unpredictable, even in training. He’ll push you to your limits and beyond.”

Eliza nodded, a faint smile creeping back onto her face. “That’s exactly what I’m counting on.”

They both settled into a companionable silence, each woman lost in her own thoughts. Despite the exhaustion, the pain, and the frustration, there was a shared sense of resolve between them, an understanding that they were both chasing something far greater than a simple victory. They were fighting for their own strength, their own endurance—to prove, not to the crowd, but to themselves, that they could keep going, no matter the cost.

The locker room door swung open with a dramatic flair. Melissa Shammel strutted into the locker room, every bit the picture of smug confidence, her form clad in a vibrant blue wrestling leotard that emphasized her toned physique. Her golden blonde hair fell loosely around her shoulders, framing a face set with a sly grin. She placed her hands on her hips, the stance not only accentuating her muscular arms but also communicating her unapologetic arrogance.

Her outfit, complete with matching blue knee pads, white wristbands, and tall laced-up white wrestling boots, made her appear larger than life. It was the attire of a woman who took pride not only in her appearance but in her ability to command attention. Her gaze swept over Tae-Yeung Park and Eliza Sturgeon, lingering just long enough to make her intentions clear—she was there to gloat.



“Well, look at you two,” she said, her voice thick with mock sympathy. “Battered, bruised, and looking like roadkill. Tough night?”

Tae-Yeung barely glanced up, though her gaze sharpened at the sight of Melissa’s smug grin. A low groan escaped her lips as she shifted to face her, a dry smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Well, if it isn’t little miss OnlyFans,” she muttered, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “What are you planning on doing out there, winning a match or giving ‘em a free show?”

Melissa rolled her eyes, brushing off the jab with a look of practiced indifference. “Oh, please. Jealousy’s a real ugly look on you, Tae-Yeung,” she replied coolly. She adjusted her wrist tape, pretending not to notice the glares the two women were throwing her way. “Just because you two can barely last ten minutes in the ring without looking like you’ve been run over doesn’t mean I’m the one doing anything wrong. I’ve gone the full time limit two matches in a row, and guess what? I intend to make it three tonight.”

Tae-Yeung clenched her jaw, the taunt hitting its mark as her fingers curled into fists. The mention of Melissa’s recent success against El Diablo stung—a reminder of her own struggles and, despite herself, the jealousy that crept in every time Melissa flaunted her record. “Good for you,” she bit out, her voice tight. “You’re making it sound like going the distance with a sadistic asshole is something to brag about.”

“Oh, it is,” Melissa said with a sly grin, her eyes flashing with pride. “Not that either of you would know. Not everyone has what it takes to stand their ground against him. That’s why they keep putting me in these main events.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. “Maybe if you both stopped licking your wounds long enough, you’d actually give him a real challenge.”

Eliza, who had been silent up until now, rolled her eyes and let out a derisive snort. She was exhausted, still nursing the ache from her own match, and Melissa’s taunting was the last thing she had the patience for. “Jesus, Melissa, you’re not impressing anyone here,” she muttered, not even looking up. “You want to brag about lasting thirty minutes with him? Good for you. But some of us are here to fight, not to pad our egos.”

Melissa’s smirk only grew wider. She crossed her arms, unabashedly amused by their reactions. “Oh, believe me, honey, I’m doing more than just padding my ego. You two can wallow all you want, but I’m out there actually getting results. While you’re limping out of the ring, I’m the one who’s making a name for herself. Maybe if you both stopped sulking long enough, you’d realize that.”

Tae-Yeung let out a low laugh, though it was anything but amused. “Results, huh? If by ‘results,’ you mean taking a beating while smiling for the camera, sure. I guess that counts.” Her gaze narrowed, her tone biting. “But don’t kid yourself, Melissa. None of us are walking out of those matches as winners. Especially not you.”

“Oh, is that so?” Melissa shot back, her voice laced with venom. “Last I checked, I’m the one who’s got a following, who’s actually turning this into something. I don’t know why you’re so bitter, Tae-Yeung. Maybe if you stopped getting your ass handed to you, you wouldn’t be so pressed.”

Eliza shook her head, her patience finally snapping. She straightened, leveling a glare at Melissa, her expression hard and unforgiving. “You know what, Melissa? Maybe you should get out there and show us how it’s done. El Diablo’s waiting, and something tells me he’s not the patient type. So why don’t you stop wasting our time and go do what you’re so good at?”

Melissa looked between the two of them, her smile never faltering, though her eyes glinted with satisfaction at having gotten under their skin. “Fine by me,” she said, shrugging as she turned to leave. She cast one last look over her shoulder, her smile widening. “Enjoy the show, ladies. Try not to take it too personally when I show you how it’s done.”

And with that, she strode out, the locker room door swinging shut behind her with a finality that left Tae-Yeung and Eliza in heavy silence.

Eliza shook her head, her lips twisting in disgust. “Americans.....”

Tae-Yeung leaned back, a faint, bitter smile tugging at her mouth. “Right? But don't worry. If his form tonight is anything to go by, she won't make it to the 30 mark."


They sat quietly for a moment, both nursing bruises, physically and emotionally, left behind by El Diablo’s relentless force. Tae-Yeung leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her gaze distant. She could still feel the phantom grip of his hands, the way he’d immobilized her with ease, twisting her body until every nerve screamed for relief. It was a humiliation she felt down to her bones.

“Do you ever wonder if this is really worth it?” she asked quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. She didn’t look at Eliza, but there was a vulnerability in her question, an openness that rarely surfaced.

Eliza shifted beside her, wincing as she moved her sore leg. She took a deep breath, her gaze tracing the lines of bruises that decorated her forearm. “More often than I’d like to admit,” she replied, her voice tinged with a tired honesty. “I came here because… well, let’s just say it’s better than the alternative.” Her eyes flicked to Tae-Yeung, a faint, knowing smile on her lips. “And I’m guessing it’s the same for you?”

Tae-Yeung nodded slowly, her gaze falling to the floor. “Yeah. My agency back in Korea, they’re deep in debt to the Yakuza. Guess they figured I’d be their way to pay it off.” She laughed bitterly. “Funny, right? Sent off to Japan to get thrown around like a ragdoll so someone else can dig their way out of trouble.”

Eliza’s smile was tinged with sympathy, her hand reaching out to pat Tae-Yeung’s shoulder. “It’s messed up, alright. But… I get it.” She looked away, her voice softening as she spoke, her own past surfacing in her mind. “I tried to build something for myself here, a gym, a place to train, but things went south fast. I made the wrong friends, took the wrong deals, and now… this is what’s left.”

Tae-Yeung gave her a sidelong glance, a flicker of understanding passing between them. They were both here for reasons that went beyond the thrill of competition, beyond the fight. This wasn’t just about winning or proving themselves—it was survival. Each of them was here because they had to be, bound by obligations and debts they’d never asked for. In this ring, they had no choice but to face pain, humiliation, and the sheer brutality of a world they’d been thrust into.

“It’s like… no matter how hard I try, I’m just treading water,” Tae-Yeung murmured, her voice heavy with frustration. “Every time I think I’m getting somewhere, he’s there. Standing between me and whatever chance I have of moving forward. Doesn’t help that he gets some sick thrill out of making us scream.”

Eliza nodded, resting her head back against the locker behind her, her expression pensive. “That’s the way of it, isn’t it? Guys like him… they’ll always find a way to keep us down. But I guess we keep getting back up anyway.” She paused, a faint, rueful smile crossing her face. “Can’t say we don’t have grit.”

The locker room fell quiet again, their shared reflections settling like dust on a battlefield. The ache of their bruises, the sting of their fresh wounds, all served as constant reminders of the lives they were fighting to reclaim—or maybe just survive. The pain was a stark, unflinching reality, and yet, in some strange way, it was a comfort too. Proof that they were still here, still breathing, still standing. Even if just barely.

Eliza leaned her head against Tae-Yeung’s shoulder, letting out a long sigh. “Maybe I should try that ice bath you mentioned,” she said, her tone lighter, almost teasing.

Tae-Yeung chuckled, shaking her head. “Wouldn’t hurt. Might even make it possible to get out of bed tomorrow.”

But Eliza shook her head, settling back against her friend. “Nah, think I’ll just rest here for a bit,” she murmured, closing her eyes as her breathing slowed, the exhaustion of the night settling in. Her shoulders relaxed slightly, and she allowed herself a rare moment of peace in the midst of chaos.

They sat in silence, neither woman speaking, each lost in her own thoughts. The sounds of the arena beyond the locker room walls faded into a distant hum, leaving them alone in the quiet space. It was a fragile truce, a brief reprieve from the unrelenting world they’d chosen to face, but it was enough.

In the back of their minds, both Tae-Yeung and Eliza knew that this moment wouldn’t last. Soon, the bell would ring again, the arena would call them back, and they would step into the ring to face the pain all over again. But for now, they sat together, letting the silence and the weight of their shared burden bind them, if only for a little while.

 

[anotherguttersnipe]

Edge of Pain: Match 3: Melissa Shammel vs El Diablo


The ring lights dimmed as the crowd erupted, their anticipation filling the Elite Underground Arena with a restless, thrumming energy. The two fighters stood poised, each a striking contrast to the other. In one corner, Melissa Shammel radiated confidence, her bright smile revealing a playful arrogance that bordered on self-assured vanity. She basked in the attention, her eyes occasionally darting to locate her cameraman, Steven, stationed at the edge of the ring, lens ready to capture every moment.

Across from her, El Diablo exuded a dark, menacing calm. Dressed in his usual black trunks, his muscular form seemed almost statuesque under the spotlight. Unlike Melissa’s show of confidence, El Diablo’s intensity was quiet but palpable, his eyes narrowed, fixed solely on his opponent. He had fought Melissa before, each match a dance of taunts, feints, and her relentless self-promotion. But tonight, he sensed something different. Tonight, he planned to make her work for every breath.

The crowd’s cheers reached a fever pitch as the announcer stepped back, leaving the two wrestlers in their silent standoff. They began to circle each other slowly, bodies tense, each movement measured. Melissa’s eyes glinted with confidence, her lips curled in a playful smirk. She was in her element, the crowd’s energy only amplifying her excitement.

El Diablo watched her intently, his expression unchanging. He knew her game—the glances, the posturing, and her obsession with the camera. The way her gaze flitted towards Steven after each movement was all too familiar. El Diablo let her play her part, never breaking eye contact, as if daring her to focus on him and him alone.

Melissa’s voice broke the silence as she taunted, her grin widening. “What’s wrong, Diablo? Afraid the camera might catch you losing?”

He chuckled, low and unbothered. “I’ll make sure your cameraman gets his money’s worth. But keep your eyes here, Shammel. You might miss something important.”

With a subtle shift in his stance, El Diablo inched forward, closing the gap between them. Melissa mirrored his movements, her expression defiant, her body poised. They met in the center, locking up in a collar-and-elbow tie-up. Their arms pressed against each other, muscles straining, faces close. The tension was electric.

Melissa grinned through the struggle, teeth bared as she pushed against him. “Hope you’re ready for some competition tonight,” she said, her tone laced with mockery.

But El Diablo barely flinched, his grip unyielding as he replied, “Competition? That’s generous, Melissa.”

With a sudden shift of weight, he maneuvered her into a headlock, his powerful arm pressing her head close to his chest. Melissa winced but quickly twisted, trying to pry herself free. She struggled, arching her body to ease the pressure, but El Diablo kept his stance solid, his calm precision evident in every movement.

“Focus, Shammel,” he muttered, tightening the hold slightly. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint your fans.”

She huffed, her fingers clawing at his arm. “Don’t worry. They’re here for the long game,” she replied, managing to angle her face toward Steven’s camera, giving a quick wink.

The audience caught her defiant gesture, responding with a wave of laughter and cheers. El Diablo smirked, recognizing her tactic. Without hesitation, he shifted his stance, releasing the headlock only to trap her arm in a wrist lock, twisting her hand back until her face contorted in pain. Melissa bit down, fighting to mask her discomfort, but the strain was evident.

“You’re gonna regret that,” she hissed, her free hand reaching up, clawing at his fingers.

“Oh, I doubt it,” El Diablo replied, his voice a mocking calm. With a calculated twist, he transitioned her into an armbar, his hands tightening around her wrist as he applied pressure. Melissa’s back arched, her face betraying the pain shooting through her shoulder. The crowd leaned in, captivated by the brutal efficiency with which El Diablo controlled the exchange.

Yet even in the painful hold, Melissa's eyes shifted again to the camera, her lips forcing a strained smile. She turned back to El Diablo, her voice laced with challenge. “This all you got? I thought the great El Diablo could do better.”

“Oh, you’ll get more than enough,” he answered, amused. He yanked her to her feet, not releasing his grip, and transitioned into a hammerlock, twisting her arm behind her back. Melissa gasped, her body contorting to relieve the pressure, but El Diablo held firm, forcing her forward as he kept the arm locked tight.

“You like the crowd’s attention, don’t you?” he asked, his voice a low taunt in her ear. “Let’s see how long you can keep that smile.”

Melissa’s teeth were gritted, her defiance unwavering. “Smile? This is my warm-up face,” she shot back, wriggling her fingers toward Steven. She couldn’t risk looking too distressed—not when she knew every shot would be scrutinized, every angle captured.

With a frustrated grunt, she planted her feet and twisted her body sharply, managing to spin out of the hold. El Diablo released her, only to step forward with relentless intent. Before she could fully recover, he trapped her in another grapple, shifting her weight and flipping her onto the mat with a snapmare.

The impact left Melissa dazed, her breath escaping in a rush. But she wasn’t about to let him have the upper hand. Gritting her teeth, she rolled to her feet, shaking off the pain as she faced him once more, defiant.

“Not bad,” she panted, wiping a strand of hair from her face. “But I hope you’ve got more than that, Diablo. Or else this is gonna be one short match.”

El Diablo gave a quiet chuckle. “Oh, I’m just getting started.”

The two circled once more, the crowd murmuring with anticipation, sensing the growing intensity. Melissa’s expression was still confident, but a hint of caution had crept in. She kept her eyes on El Diablo, but every so often, her gaze drifted toward Steven, as if ensuring he was still capturing her every move.

El Diablo noticed and seized the opportunity, lunging forward to trap her in a waist lock. He lifted her clean off the mat, her legs kicking as she attempted to break free. Melissa’s eyes widened, a flicker of panic breaking through her composed facade as she struggled in his iron grip.

She gasped, “A little rough for a warm-up, don’t you think?”

El Diablo’s grip tightened, his voice a cold whisper. “You should be paying attention, not posing.”

With that, he slammed her down with a brutal German suplex, the ring shaking as her body hit the mat. Melissa arched her back, a groan escaping her lips as the pain radiated through her spine. She blinked, disoriented, but still managed to twist her body, pushing herself up on shaky arms.

But before she could fully stand, El Diablo was already looming over her, pulling her to her feet. He locked her into a side headlock, grinding her head against his chest as he held her firm. Melissa’s face twisted in discomfort, her fists beating against his chest in a desperate attempt to break free.

Through clenched teeth, she forced out, “Don’t… flatter yourself. This… is nothing.”

El Diablo leaned down, his voice a dark, mocking murmur. “Then maybe I should step it up, for the sake of your fans.”

With a sudden twist, he released the headlock, only to grab her by the waist and hoist her up, positioning her for a spinebuster. Melissa’s eyes widened, her hands instinctively reaching for his shoulders as he drove her down into the mat once more, the impact reverberating through the ring.

The crowd’s cheers escalated as they watched her struggle, every move an indication of the pain she was enduring. But even as she lay there, catching her breath, Melissa forced a smile, weak but defiant. She shot a quick glance toward Steven, who stood unwavering, his camera aimed, capturing the moment for her fans.

El Diablo noticed her gaze, his own smirk deepening. “Don’t worry, Shammel. I’ll make sure your cameraman gets plenty to work with.”


The ring pulsed with the echo of Melissa’s last impact, her breath a shallow gasp as she pushed herself up once more. Though her body ached, she couldn’t afford to falter, not with Steven’s camera trained on her every move and the crowd eagerly awaiting her next display of resilience.

Across from her, El Diablo waited, his eyes gleaming with a challenge. He raised one hand, fingers spread, and tilted his head ever so slightly, issuing a silent invitation.

Melissa wiped a trickle of sweat from her brow, forcing a smirk. “You want to go hand-to-hand, Diablo?” she sneered, stretching her fingers as if warming up. “Hope you’re ready to lose a little face in front of my fans.”

The audience murmured with excitement, sensing the power struggle about to unfold. El Diablo’s hand remained steady, unwavering as he beckoned her forward with a slight tilt of his fingers. Melissa took a steadying breath, refusing to let him rattle her. She stepped forward, raising her hands to meet his, locking eyes with him as their fingers entwined.

The first jolt was subtle—a mere test of pressure. But the difference in strength quickly became apparent. El Diablo’s grip was like iron, his fingers locking around hers as he applied a gradual, insidious force. Melissa gritted her teeth, her smirk faltering as she pushed back, her arms tensing as she tried to gain even a fraction of control.

“C’mon, Diablo, is that all you got?” she muttered, straining to keep her voice steady. Her muscles tightened, every fiber of her being focused on holding her ground, resisting the slow, merciless push of his strength against hers.

But El Diablo barely budged. His expression remained calm, almost amused, as he increased the pressure inch by inch, forcing Melissa to take an involuntary step back. Her brow furrowed, beads of sweat forming along her hairline as she dug her heels in, desperately trying to push back.

The crowd watched with bated breath, captivated by the spectacle. Even Steven’s camera was unwavering, capturing the moment as Melissa’s smug confidence began to waver, her expression shifting from feigned nonchalance to one of genuine strain.

“Having… a little trouble there, Shammel?” El Diablo’s voice was a low, mocking murmur, his gaze never leaving hers.

Melissa’s jaw clenched, her lips pressed tightly together as she fought to keep from showing the effort it took to hold her ground. “Trouble?” she panted, forcing a strained smile. “This… this is nothing.”

But even as she spoke, her grip began to falter. Her arms trembled, her fingers slowly giving way to the relentless power behind El Diablo’s hands. Inch by inch, he forced her back, the tension in her body visible with every strained movement. Melissa’s face contorted, her eyes darting to Steven’s camera, a flicker of desperation breaking through her earlier bravado.

El Diablo noticed her glance, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Worried about the camera? Don’t worry. I’ll make sure it captures every moment of this,” he taunted, his voice a chilling calm.

With a sudden surge of force, he drove her back further, bending her hands down until her wrists strained under the pressure. Melissa gasped, her body trembling as she struggled to resist, her expression shifting from defiance to discomfort. It was clear now—he was toying with her, allowing her just enough control to make her think she could hold her own, only to crush her resistance in a single, merciless motion.

“Don’t… flatter yourself,” she ground out, though her voice was wavering, her breaths coming quicker. She could feel her strength waning, her arms buckling as he overpowered her, every inch a humiliating reminder of his dominance in the ring.

Just as it seemed he would drive her fully to her knees, El Diablo released one of her hands, only to seize her waist in a crushing grip. Melissa’s eyes widened, the realization hitting her just as he pulled her close, wrapping his arms tightly around her torso.

The transition was so sudden, she barely had time to react. His massive arms locked around her in a brutal bearhug, pinning her arms to her sides as he began to squeeze, his grip a vice-like cage around her ribcage. The force of it sent a shockwave of pain through her chest, her air knocked from her lungs in a single, helpless gasp.

“Ugh!” Melissa choked, her body jerking against him as she struggled to breathe. Her arms were pinned, her fists pressed uselessly against his chest as she squirmed, her face twisted in discomfort.

El Diablo’s face was calm, almost detached, as he held her, applying just enough pressure to force the air from her lungs with each passing second. “What’s wrong, Shammel?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble against her ear. “Losing your breath already?”

Melissa’s face flushed, both from the strain and the humiliation of her helpless position. She twisted, trying to free herself, but his arms were unyielding, pressing in with a crushing force that left her struggling for even the slightest gasp of air.

Her voice came out as a strained whisper, barely audible. “I… I’m not… finished yet.”

El Diablo’s grip tightened, his arms pulling her even closer, his chest a solid wall against hers. The crowd’s cheers faded into a distant roar, her vision blurring as she fought to keep her composure, refusing to let him see her break. But each squeeze drained her strength, her resistance fading with every second she spent trapped in his merciless hold.

He leaned closer, his voice a taunting whisper. “I’ll make sure your fans remember this, Melissa. Every… last… second.”

The pressure was relentless, her ribs aching, every breath a struggle as his grip tightened further. Melissa’s head lolled back slightly, her face flushed, her eyes dazed as she fought to maintain even the slightest semblance of control. The smirk that had once graced her lips was gone, replaced by a pained grimace as she realized he wasn’t letting go anytime soon.

The audience was enraptured, their cheers growing louder, feeding off her suffering, each second she spent trapped in his hold only amplifying their excitement. And in the midst of it all, Steven’s camera remained focused, capturing the raw vulnerability etched across her face, the quiet struggle against her own limits.

El Diablo held her steady, his expression unchanging, as if her struggles meant nothing to him. Melissa’s breaths came in shallow gasps, her body sagging against his as the strength ebbed from her limbs. And yet, she refused to yield, her voice a weak but defiant murmur.

“I… I can… still… handle it…”

But her voice betrayed her, each word a painful gasp as her strength waned, her defiance fading under the unrelenting pressure of his embrace. El Diablo’s smirk widened, satisfied with the cracks forming in her composure.

“Is that so?” he taunted, giving one last, brutal squeeze, forcing a strangled gasp from her lips. “Then let’s see… just how much you can handle.”

With a final twist of his arms, he applied a surge of pressure, his grip a crushing vise around her ribs. Melissa’s body arched, her head tilting back as her face contorted in agony, her voice reduced to a choked cry as the last of her resistance slipped away.

The crowd erupted, their cheers echoing in the dimly lit arena, their excitement palpable as they watched Melissa struggle, helpless against El Diablo’s overpowering strength. And as she sagged in his arms, breathless and defeated, her gaze drifted once more toward the camera, her expression a mix of pain and defiance—a testament to her refusal to yield, even in the face of utter dominance.

El Diablo released her suddenly, letting her collapse to the mat, her body a crumpled heap as she gasped for air, clutching her sides. She looked up at him, her face flushed, but the fire in her eyes hadn’t dimmed.

He leaned down, his voice a low murmur. “You wanted the spotlight, Shammel. Hope you’re ready for what’s next.”

Melissa’s jaw clenched, her breaths still shallow, but her eyes never left his. She gave a weak, defiant smile, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Bring it, Diablo… I’m still here.”


The mat felt unforgiving beneath Melissa as she lay sprawled, her body aching from the relentless grip of El Diablo’s bearhug. Her breaths were shallow, her usual poise slipping, the confidence she had flaunted earlier now fractured. For a moment, she managed a flicker of her old self, turning her head toward Steven’s camera, but the discomfort on her face was undeniable. The pain was seeping into her focus, making it harder to keep up the act.

El Diablo’s shadow loomed above her, his figure dominating the ring. He glanced briefly at the crowd, his hand gesturing outward, inviting them to share in the spectacle. The audience responded eagerly, their cheers a cacophony of anticipation, fueling the intensity he planned to unleash.

Without hesitation, he launched himself into an elbow drop, his weight crashing down onto Melissa’s chest. The impact drove a gasp from her lips, her body jolting under the force. She coughed, her hands instinctively clutching at her ribs, her breath coming in stuttered gasps as she tried to regain control.

El Diablo rose smoothly, his expression impassive as he watched her attempt to collect herself. But he wasn’t about to let her rest. Before she could even gather her bearings, he reached down, his hands seizing her legs in a vice-like grip. With a swift motion, he flipped her onto her stomach, pulling her legs back as he settled into a Boston crab.

The pressure on her lower back was immediate and brutal, the stretch forcing her spine into an unnatural curve. Melissa’s fingers clawed at the mat, her face contorted in pain as El Diablo leaned back, amplifying the pressure. Her teeth clenched, her breath ragged as she fought against the agonizing hold.

“Not so eager for the camera now, are you?” he taunted, his voice calm, unbothered by her struggles.

Melissa gritted her teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing her pain. “Keep talking, Diablo,” she managed, her voice strained but defiant. “I… can take it.”

But her resolve wavered as he pulled back further, his unyielding strength making it harder to maintain her composure. The crowd’s cheers grew louder, their excitement building as they watched her strain against the hold, every twitch and wince a testament to the struggle she was enduring.

El Diablo allowed her to suffer for a few more seconds, his hold relentless, giving the crowd ample time to drink in her discomfort. Then, with a slight shift, he released one of her legs, transitioning seamlessly into a single-leg crab. The new position allowed him to apply targeted pressure on her right leg, twisting it at an angle that sent sharp jolts of pain shooting through her muscles.

Melissa’s face twisted, a groan escaping her lips as she pounded a fist against the mat, frustration mingling with the pain. She could feel her control slipping, her body weakening under the unrelenting pressure. The crowd’s cheers blurred into the background, her focus narrowing to the burning ache in her leg, the helpless sensation of being trapped in his grasp.

El Diablo leaned in, his voice a low murmur. “Starting to look a little less sure of yourself, Shammel. Thought you could handle this?”

She forced herself to look up, her face flushed but defiant. “I… I’m still… here,” she gasped, the words barely more than a whisper.

He chuckled, unfazed by her resolve. “For now.”

Without giving her a chance to catch her breath, he shifted again, transitioning smoothly from the half crab to an STF. Locking her right leg under his arm, he reached forward, capturing her head and pulling it back in a vicious facelock. The new hold was a brutal combination, stretching her neck and leg simultaneously, forcing her body into a torturous contortion.

Melissa’s eyes squeezed shut, her mouth open in a silent scream as the pain radiated through her back, neck, and leg. Her hands clawed at his arm, desperate to relieve even a fraction of the pressure, but his grip was unyielding, his strength overwhelming.

“Not so talkative now, are you?” El Diablo’s voice was barely above a whisper, a dark satisfaction evident in his tone.

Melissa forced her eyes open, her vision blurry as she looked up at him. Her voice came out ragged, each word a struggle. “Y-you… think this… scares me?”

His smirk widened. “Doesn’t matter if it scares you, Shammel. What matters is if you can endure it.”

The pressure was relentless, her body arching involuntarily as he continued to wrench her neck and leg, stretching her muscles to their limits. Every instinct told her to give in, to relieve the unbearable strain, but her pride held firm, refusing to let him see her break.

The audience was enraptured, their cheers and shouts mixing with Melissa’s labored breathing, their excitement feeding off her struggle. And still, Steven’s camera remained trained on her, capturing every pained expression, every subtle twitch as she fought to endure the hold.

El Diablo’s voice cut through the noise, his tone as calm as ever. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it, Shammel? The spotlight?”

Melissa forced a shaky breath, her defiance barely flickering in her eyes. “Spotlight… or not… you won’t… break me.”

His gaze met hers, unflinching. “We’ll see.”

He leaned back further, applying a surge of pressure that drew a strangled cry from her lips, her body contorting as the pain reached an excruciating peak. Her fingers clawed at his wrist, her face a mask of agony, every ounce of her remaining strength focused on resisting the urge to submit.

But El Diablo held firm, his grip steady, his expression unreadable as he let her struggle, his control over the hold absolute. For what felt like an eternity, he kept her there, forcing her to endure, to confront her own limits.

Finally, with a calculated release, he let her go, her body collapsing to the mat in a heap. She lay there, gasping for air, her limbs trembling, her face flushed and damp with sweat. Her usual confidence was nowhere to be seen, replaced by a raw vulnerability as she struggled to catch her breath.

El Diablo stood over her, his shadow casting a menacing silhouette as he looked down, unphased by her suffering. He leaned down, his voice a low, mocking murmur. “Still feel like putting on a show, Shammel? Or are you ready to admit you’re in over your head?”

Melissa forced herself onto her elbows, her breaths still ragged, her body screaming in protest. She glanced toward Steven’s camera, the flicker of defiance returning to her eyes as she managed a weak, determined smile.

“Still here, Diablo,” she whispered, her voice barely above a whisper. “And still… not giving up.”

The crowd’s cheers intensified, their admiration for her resilience mingling with the thrill of her torment. She had endured, but the match was far from over, and El Diablo’s calm, methodical brutality was a constant reminder of the punishment still to come. With a pained groan, she planted her palms against the mat, her arms trembling as she forced herself up, inch by inch. Her muscles protested, her ribs ached from the bearhug, and her stomach throbbed from the impact of the elbow drop. But giving in wasn’t an option.

As she finally stood, her eyes caught Steven’s camera across the ring, and she managed a small smile—a weak, but defiant reminder that she hadn’t forgotten her audience. Her resolve was there, even if her body was struggling to keep up.

But her moment was short-lived.

El Diablo, noticing her movement, turned around, a dark smile spreading across his face as he watched her barely holding herself upright. Without a word, he closed the distance, his towering presence bearing down on her, his gaze fixed, unyielding. Before she could react, his hands gripped her shoulders, pulling her close as he forced her into another grapple, his chest pressing against her, trapping her in his hold.

“Got up just for me?” he muttered, his voice cold and mocking.

Melissa attempted to push back, but her energy was draining fast. She felt his hands shift, one moving to her waist as he drew her in even closer. Then came the first blow—a hard punch directly into her abdomen. The impact was immediate, her body jerking as pain exploded in her core. She flinched, her breath catching as she doubled over slightly, her resolve wavering.

“Ugh…!” Melissa choked, trying to pull away, but his grip held her firmly in place.

Another punch landed, sharper, deeper, driving into her stomach with brutal precision. The audience’s cheers became distant as she struggled to breathe, each hit sending shockwaves of pain through her. Her body tensed, her hands reflexively gripping his shoulders in a futile attempt to stabilize herself as she gasped for air.

El Diablo’s smirk grew, his voice a low taunt. “Feeling it yet, Shammel? Still think you can take it?”

Melissa forced herself to look up at him, her face flushed and pained, but she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of seeing her break. “Keep… dreaming, Diablo,” she managed, her voice breathless but defiant.

But her defiance only fueled him further. He brought his fist down again, another body shot that forced a strangled gasp from her lips. Her vision blurred as she struggled to stay upright, her legs shaking under the relentless assault. Each punch seemed to chip away at her remaining strength, and with every impact, her confidence faltered just a little more.

Satisfied, El Diablo shifted his grip, maneuvering her into an abdominal stretch. In one swift motion, he locked her arm behind his back, wrapping his other arm around her waist as he twisted her torso to the side, pulling her body taut in a painful arch. Melissa’s head fell back, her face contorted in agony as the stretch sent fresh waves of pain through her core, her muscles screaming under the strain.

“Let’s see how long you last,” he murmured, his voice almost casual. “Tae-Yeung Park tapped out to this same hold, you know.”

Melissa’s breath caught, her jaw clenching as his words sank in. She had watched Tae-Yeung’s matches, seen how El Diablo broke her down, forcing her to submit. But Melissa had always told herself that Tae-Yeung was weaker, that she herself could handle more. Yet now, here she was, caught in the same hold, feeling her own limits being tested.

He leaned closer, his voice a dark whisper in her ear. “Think you’ll do better than her? Or are you just another easy tap-out?”

The taunt hit a nerve, igniting a spark of anger within her. “I’m… not Tae-Yeung,” she spat, struggling against the hold, her fingers clawing at his arm as she tried to twist free. But every movement only seemed to deepen the stretch, amplifying the pain until she was gasping, her body trembling under the pressure.

El Diablo chuckled, his grip unyielding as he maintained the hold, letting her struggle. “No? Could have fooled me. Right now, you look exactly like she did… desperate and trapped.”

Melissa gritted her teeth, her face flushed with both pain and frustration. Tae-Yeung’s face flashed in her mind, the memory of her former rival, and the bitterness that lingered from every interaction they’d had. Tae-Yeung had always been a reminder of her own insecurities, her need to prove she was stronger, better. And now, those insecurities clawed at her, mocking her as she struggled against El Diablo’s grip.

Her voice came out as a strained murmur, barely audible. “I… I’m not like her…”

“Oh?” El Diablo’s voice was laced with mockery. “Then show me. Get out of this, if you’re so different.”

Melissa’s resolve hardened, and she renewed her efforts, straining against the hold, her muscles burning as she twisted her torso in an attempt to break free. But his strength was unyielding, his hold so precise, so controlled, that every movement only worsened the pain. She felt her energy fading, her vision dimming as the intensity of the stretch took its toll.

The crowd’s cheers blurred into a distant roar, their voices merging into an indistinct hum as she fought to maintain her composure, to push through the searing pain that consumed her body. But the agony was relentless, each second stretching into an eternity as El Diablo’s grip tightened, forcing her body further into the punishing arch.

He watched her struggle, his expression unreadable, as though her suffering was nothing more than a means to an end. “Still think you’re better, Shammel? Or are you ready to admit that you’re just like everyone else?”

Her response was a pained hiss, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I… won’t… break…”

But her body betrayed her, her strength slipping as her arms trembled, her head lolling back as she struggled for air. Every inch of her core throbbed, her muscles stretched to their limits, and still, he held her, unyielding, waiting for her to reach her breaking point.

El Diablo’s grip remained firm, his taunts ceaseless as he leaned down, his voice a dark murmur. “It’s okay to admit it, Shammel. You’re in over your head.”

Melissa forced herself to look up, her vision hazy but her eyes filled with defiance. “Not… giving… up.”

He gave a final twist, pulling her torso even further, a surge of pain that sent a choked cry from her lips, her body sagging in his grip as her strength gave way. But even as her vision blurred, her breaths shallow and labored, she clung to her defiance, refusing to yield. Melissa’s world had narrowed to the relentless agony radiating through her body. El Diablo’s grip was unyielding, his taunts relentless, and the stretch was twisting her muscles to their limit. She had fought with everything she had, but each second in his hold eroded her strength, her spirit, until she could feel herself reaching the edge of what she could endure.

And then, with a calculated ease, El Diablo shifted his stance, loosening his grip just enough to reposition her. Before she could process the change, he rolled her onto the mat, taking her legs in his grip. Melissa’s eyes widened as he spread her legs apart in a banana split hold, stretching her limbs to an almost unbearable angle. The move was excruciating and humiliating all at once, a complete display of dominance.

The crowd erupted in cheers and laughter, their excitement building as they watched her struggle against the degrading hold. Her face twisted in pain, her cheeks flushed with a mix of exhaustion and the shame of her helpless position. She could feel the weight of every eye on her, the intensity of Steven’s camera trained on her pained expression, capturing the raw vulnerability that she could no longer mask.

“Looks like you’re out of options, Shammel,” El Diablo taunted, his voice calm, almost amused as he applied pressure, pulling her legs apart further. “Not so confident now, are we?”

Melissa gritted her teeth, her hands clawing uselessly at the mat as she tried to hold on, to find some shred of strength. But the pain was overwhelming, the humiliation burning into her resolve. Her breaths came in quick gasps, her face flushed, her pride slipping away with every second she spent trapped in his grip.

Finally, the strain was too much, the pain too excruciating. She clenched her fist and tapped the mat, her voice choked as she managed, “I… I submit!”

But El Diablo wasn’t done. He held her there for a few seconds more, intensifying the stretch, watching her face contort as the crowd cheered louder, their excitement feeding off her suffering. Melissa’s fists pounded against the mat, her voice breaking as she gasped, “I said… I submit!”

Satisfied, El Diablo released her legs, letting her collapse onto the mat in a defeated heap. Her body slumped, exhausted, her breaths shallow as she lay there, every inch of her aching from the prolonged assault. She could barely move, her muscles trembling as she tried to push herself up, only to collapse again, the sheer weight of the match crushing her.

The crowd, sensing her vulnerability, began to chant in unison, their voices filling the arena. “We want more! We want more!”

Melissa’s heart sank, the echo of their voices a cruel reminder that her suffering wasn’t over. She had given everything, fought until there was nothing left, but the crowd was unsatisfied, their thirst for more pushing them to demand another show of dominance.

El Diablo turned to face them, his eyes gleaming with a dark satisfaction. He raised a hand, silencing them briefly, before nodding. Their cheers rose to a fever pitch as he walked back over to Melissa, his towering figure casting a shadow over her trembling form.

“No… please…” Melissa’s voice was a weak murmur, barely audible over the crowd’s demands. She tried to push herself up, her arms shaking as she attempted to pull herself away. “I… I already tapped out…”

But El Diablo was unmoved. He reached down, gripping her wrists firmly as he pulled her back into the center of the ring. She struggled weakly, her body too worn down to offer any real resistance as he positioned her for his next hold.

He leaned down, his voice a low, mocking whisper. “The crowd wants a show, Shammel. You wouldn’t want to disappoint them, would you?”

Before she could respond, he maneuvered her into a ceiling hold, hoisting her body off the mat as he stretched her limbs out, her arms and legs lifted as he pulled her into the air. The strain on her body was immediate, her muscles protesting as he wrenched her limbs in opposite directions, suspending her in the brutal hold.

Melissa’s face twisted in agony, her mouth open in a silent scream as the pain tore through her. She could feel every inch of her body stretched to its limit, her back arched, her arms and legs locked in his grip, rendering her completely helpless. The crowd cheered louder, their voices blending into a single, deafening roar as they watched her struggle.

“Please… stop…” Melissa’s voice was barely a whisper, her words choked as the pain intensified, her body writhing in his grasp. “I… I can’t take… anymore…”

But El Diablo only tightened his grip, his face a mask of calm cruelty as he held her steady, watching her face contort with each surge of pain. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? The spotlight?”

Her vision blurred, tears pricking her eyes as the strain on her body became unbearable. She fought against the hold, her muscles quivering as she tried to twist free, but his strength was overwhelming, his control absolute. She was completely at his mercy, her pride shattered, her defiance fading as the pain consumed her.

“Please… Diablo…” Her voice cracked, a desperate plea as she looked up at him, her face flushed with humiliation and defeat. “Just… let me go…”

He held her there for a few seconds more, letting her hang in the air as the crowd’s cheers reached a fever pitch. Then, with a final wrench, he intensified the stretch, drawing a strangled cry from her lips as her body arched in agony.

At last, he released her, letting her collapse to the mat, her body crumpling in a heap. She lay there, motionless, her breaths shallow as she struggled to process the pain, her mind barely able to register the crowd’s cheers as they celebrated her defeat. Her body ached, every muscle throbbing, her spirit broken as she lay there, utterly defeated.

El Diablo stood over her, his gaze cold and unyielding as he looked down, his expression betraying no remorse. He had done what he set out to do—he had proven his dominance, left her broken in the ring, a spectacle for the crowd’s enjoyment. Melissa lay sprawled on the mat, her body exhausted and battered, her breaths shallow as she tried to gather what little strength she had left. The roar of the crowd thundered in her ears, their cheers a mix of awe at El Diablo’s display and respect for her unyielding resilience. She had endured far more than most, pushing herself beyond her limits, and even in defeat, the crowd could see her spirit had not been broken.

As the lights dimmed, a figure rushed toward the ring. Her cameraman, Steven, slipped under the ropes, his face filled with concern as he hurried to her side. Kneeling down, he extended a hand, his gaze steady as he waited for her to take it.

“Melissa,” he murmured, his voice low, but filled with an encouragement that went beyond the lens. “You did amazing out there.”

She managed a weak smile, her hand trembling as she reached up, allowing him to help her to her feet. Every muscle protested as she rose, her legs shaky, her body bearing the full toll of the match. Her pride stung, and her body ached, but she held her head high, refusing to let the pain dampen her spirit.

With Steven’s arm supporting her, she took a step, her breaths slow and steady as she looked out at the crowd. The cheers were still loud, a constant hum of admiration and awe as they watched her stand, battered but unbroken. She gave them a small, defiant wave, her lips quirking in a faint smile despite the exhaustion etched across her face.

“Thank you,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else, feeling a small spark of pride reignite within her. She had made it through, endured the pain, and even though she hadn’t won, she had left her mark.

El Diablo stood in the center of the ring, watching her with a look of satisfaction on his face. His arms crossed, he inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her resilience with a faint smirk. His gaze held no malice, just a quiet sense of approval, as though he, too, recognized the strength she’d shown tonight.

As she began to limp toward the ropes, she glanced back at him, her eyes still fierce, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Don’t… get too comfortable, Diablo. Next time… might be different.”

His smirk deepened, and he inclined his head in mock acknowledgment. “Looking forward to it, Shammel. Just don’t keep me waiting too long.”

With Steven’s help, Melissa climbed through the ropes, her body sagging as they made their way down the steps and toward the back. Each step was a struggle, her legs weak, her arms aching, but she kept her gaze forward, refusing to let the weight of her defeat show.

The crowd’s cheers followed her, their voices filling the arena as they watched her exit, their admiration evident in the way they called her name. They had seen her at her lowest, her most vulnerable, and they respected her all the more for it.

Steven glanced at her as they moved, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You’re going to have plenty of photos from this one,” he murmured. “The fans won’t forget it anytime soon.”

Melissa chuckled softly, the sound pained but genuine. “Good,” she whispered, her voice tired but laced with determination. “Let them remember… I’ll be back.”

As they reached the tunnel leading to the back, she allowed herself one last glance at the ring, at El Diablo’s towering figure, his gaze still following her as if savoring his victory. She clenched her jaw, the flicker of defeat replaced by a steely resolve.

This wasn’t the end—only the beginning of a battle she was determined to win.

With a final, defiant look, Melissa disappeared into the shadows of the tunnel, her body worn but her spirit unbroken, leaving the arena with the crowd’s cheers echoing in her ears and the promise of a rematch lingering in her heart.

 

[anotherguttersnipe]

Interlude 4.0 - Zaibatsu

The atmosphere around the bar was dim and tense as Ichiro, Kenta, Sato, and Tatsu sat together at their table, each man nursing a drink as they watched Melissa Shammel stagger her way off the ring. She was bruised, disheveled, her breathing ragged, yet she wore a triumphant smile as her cameraman, Steven Huxley, reached out to steady her. Every inch of her movements showed exhaustion, and she leaned on him as they slowly made their way backstage, leaving the arena to the low rumble of applause and murmurs.

Kenta took a long sip from his glass, his eyes lingering on Melissa’s retreating form. “She made it to the twenty-five-minute mark,” he remarked, voice neutral but tinged with faint respect. “Not bad. But she's done better than this.”

Ichiro nodded, a contemplative expression on his face as he watched the door swing shut behind Melissa and Steven. His gaze shifted back to the empty ring, where traces of sweat lingered under the harsh lights. “Perhaps,” he murmured, his tone laced with a certain caution. “But then again, maybe it isn’t them weakening. Perhaps El Diablo himself is getting stronger, more relentless. There’s a power to him, something beyond brute force.” His voice trailed off, and a strange respect settled in his gaze, though it was tempered by wariness.

Sato scoffed, leaning back in his chair with a dismissive wave. “Or they’re just running out of steam,” he retorted, a smirk tugging at his lips. “First Tae-Yeung, then Eliza, now Melissa. Each of them just about burned out. None of these girls are built for endurance like that.”

Kenta shot Sato a warning glance. “Be careful what you say. If El Diablo really is growing stronger, it might mean the league will need more than the same faces every time. We need him… but even he has his limits.” His tone was calm but pointed, a reminder to keep perspective.

Tatsu chuckled, a knowing smile on his face. As the talent recruiter, he was all too familiar with the ebb and flow of challengers who entered the league, each one as hopeful—and disposable—as the last. “Relax, gentlemen,” he said smoothly, swirling his drink as he leaned back in his seat. “Even if the regulars can’t keep pace with him forever, I’ve already signed up five new girls, fresh and eager to prove themselves. Another ten are on my scouting list. We’ll never run out of contenders to throw into the ring, not while there are people desperate enough to risk it all.”

Ichiro’s eyes flickered with approval, though a slight frown creased his brow. “Ensure they’re ready,” he replied, his tone firm. “We can’t afford to send amateurs into that ring. Our crowd pays for violence, but they expect a show, and El Diablo’s opponents need to last long enough to keep them entertained. We can’t make this easy for him.”

The men fell silent, each pondering the quiet challenge implicit in Ichiro’s words. They knew all too well that the league was built on a delicate balance, a brutal choreography of pain and spectacle. The crowd wanted to see their champion dominate, but they also wanted fighters with grit, challengers who would make El Diablo earn his victories.

Sato shifted in his seat, his gaze lingering on the door through which Melissa and Steven had exited. A sly smile played on his lips as he leaned toward Tatsu, his tone laced with envy. “You know, that Steven guy—he’s got it good, doesn’t he? All that time by Melissa’s side, capturing her best angles, seeing her in ways no one else does. Bet he’s got a front-row seat to everything.”

Tatsu rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Yeah, maybe,” he replied, his voice tinged with something close to pity. “But he’s always separated by that lens, isn’t he? Think about it. He’s close, sure, but he’s only there to capture her from a distance. It’s like he’s part of the act but can never get involved. He’ll always be just the cameraman, a spectator to her life. No real connection, no depth.”

Sato shrugged, downing his drink as he mulled over Tatsu’s words. “Still, I’d trade places with him any day,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Better than being just another face in the crowd.”

Ichiro’s gaze flicked toward him, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You say that now, Sato. But to be close to someone like Melissa, yet always at arm’s length? That’s its own kind of punishment. And if she keeps pushing herself like this…” His voice trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished, though his meaning was clear. The price of being drawn too close to the flame was often as painful as the distance.

Kenta gave a small nod of agreement, his eyes contemplative. “Maybe that’s true. But Steven made his choice. He’s here for his reasons, same as the rest of us.”

They all settled into a thoughtful silence, the weight of their observations settling heavily in the quiet. Each man understood that the league was a place of brutal irony, a place where strength and ambition often came at a terrible price. The fighters, the champions, even the cameramen—all of them were bound by their choices, locked into roles that demanded resilience, sacrifice, and the willingness to bleed.

Tatsu broke the silence, raising his glass with a wry smile. “To the league,” he toasted, his voice carrying a faint edge of irony. “Where everyone plays their part.”

The others raised their glasses, clinking them together, the quiet toast a somber acknowledgment of the harsh realities they all faced. They were the ones who pulled the strings, but they too were bound by the unspoken rules of the league, as much a part of the spectacle as anyone else.


The subdued atmosphere around Ichiro's table was shattered by the hurried footsteps of one of his henchmen, a thin sheen of sweat visible on the man’s brow as he approached. Leaning in close, he spoke in a low, urgent tone. “Sir, Jin Kazama has just entered the arena… with his bodyguard. The one from the media.”

Ichiro’s face remained impassive, his expression unreadable, but the announcement sent a ripple of tension through the group. Kenta, Tatsu, and Sato each reacted subtly: Kenta’s gaze sharpened, Tatsu’s fingers paused over his glass, and Sato shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his jaw tightening.

After a beat, Ichiro gave a slight nod, his voice calm but commanding. “Prepare a VIP booth for him. Make sure it’s handled immediately.” He looked at the henchman, his gaze cold. “We don’t want any misunderstandings. See to it that he’s treated with respect.”

The henchman nodded and hurried off, leaving the group to absorb the news. The men exchanged wary glances, each understanding the implications of Jin Kazama’s sudden arrival. The Mishima Zaibatsu’s influence was vast, and Jin’s presence here was both a statement and a silent threat.

Sato scoffed quietly, breaking the tension with a bitter smirk. “He’s not on the list. Are we really just going to let him walk into our territory like he owns the place?” His tone was laced with irritation, his discomfort clear.

Kenta turned his head, his expression stern as he spoke in a low, warning tone. “Drop the attitude, Sato. The Mishima Zaibatsu might as well be the government at this point. Jin Kazama doesn’t need to be on guest lists to show up wherever he wants. You’d be wise to remember that.” His voice carried an edge, a reminder of the power they were dealing with.

Sato grumbled but said nothing more, his gaze shifting to where Jin and his bodyguard had entered. Ichiro’s men each stole discreet glances, not daring to stare openly but too intrigued—and wary—to look away entirely.

Jin Kazama stood near the entrance, his tall, imposing figure dressed in a long black trench coat that fell in dark waves around him, accentuating his broad shoulders and muscular build. Underneath, he wore a sharp, patterned shirt that added a touch of refinement to his otherwise severe appearance. His shirt’s collar was open, and his eyes were dark, cold, as he scanned the arena with an almost predatory gaze. His hair fell loosely around his face, framing his strong jawline and adding to the air of authority he carried.



Beside him, his bodyguard stood silent and watchful, dressed in a fitted dark suit that matched her steely expression. She carried herself with an unspoken menace, her eyes scanning the room with a sharpness that belied her calm demeanor. Together, they radiated a kind of authority that caused the surrounding attendees to instinctively shift away, creating a respectful distance without needing to be told.

Ichiro’s gaze flicked over to Jin and his companion, assessing them with a quiet intensity. He recognized the weight of their presence, the subtle show of power they brought with them simply by being there. As he observed, a rare expression of caution crossed his face, though it was so fleeting it could have been imagined. He took a slow sip of his drink, masking his thoughts as he glanced back at his associates.

Tatsu leaned in close to Sato, sensing his continued apprehension. “Stop staring,” he whispered, his voice tense but measured. “The last thing we need is to draw their attention. Do you want to provoke them? They’re not here to be friends.”

Sato tore his gaze away, scowling slightly but nodding in reluctant agreement. The tension at the table was palpable, each man on edge, acutely aware of the delicate balance that Jin’s presence disrupted. They were used to ruling this arena, to commanding respect and keeping control. But Jin Kazama’s arrival was a stark reminder that, for all their influence, there were forces beyond their reach, powers that could upend their world with a single command.

Ichiro’s voice broke through the tension, calm and authoritative. “We watch and wait,” he said quietly, his gaze never straying from Jin. “We don’t act unless we’re forced to. The last thing we want is to invite conflict with the Mishima Zaibatsu. Not unless we have a damn good reason.”

Kenta gave a slight nod, his expression resolute. “Understood.”

The group fell into a tense silence, each man processing the situation with a sense of controlled anxiety. There was an unspoken understanding between them, a recognition of the potential danger Jin posed simply by being there. His presence was not just a visit—it was a message, a reminder of the weight the Mishima Zaibatsu carried, of the influence Jin wielded without ever having to lift a finger.

Across the room, Jin’s cold gaze swept over the arena, his expression inscrutable as he took in the surroundings. He moved with purpose, his bodyguard following closely behind, their strides synchronized in a way that spoke of practiced efficiency. Every movement was calculated, deliberate, as if each step were part of a larger plan, an unspoken threat lingering in their wake.


______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


From his secluded vantage point in the alcoves, Wallace Hartley had an unobstructed view of Jin Kazama and Nina Williams as they entered the arena. The faint glow from the dim overhead lights cast long shadows over their faces, giving them an almost spectral presence as they moved with a practiced calm, their expressions unreadable. Jin, with his imposing figure draped in a black trench coat, radiated an authority that was impossible to ignore. His companion, Nina, moved with the silent grace of a predator, her gaze sharp and alert as she scanned the room.

Wallace kept his posture relaxed, outwardly calm, the very picture of composure. But beneath that polished exterior, a knot of dread was tightening in his stomach. His mind raced, trying to process the implications of what he was seeing. He’d recently played a critical role in confirming the identity of the mole within the Yakuza ranks—Sato Yagami, the ambitious young lieutenant who had been secretly leaking information to G Corporation. Wallace had delivered the intelligence to Nina, expecting she would handle the matter discreetly, likely through some shadowy intermediary. But this… this was something else entirely.

Seeing both Nina and Jin Kazama arrive in person sent a chill down his spine. The Mishima Zaibatsu’s leader rarely involved himself directly unless the situation was of significant consequence. If Jin was here personally, this was no ordinary visit, no routine check-in. This was something far more serious, and Wallace knew it could only mean one thing: Sato’s betrayal had drawn their full attention, and the consequences were bound to be severe.

Wallace’s gaze shifted momentarily to the table where Ichiro and his lieutenants sat. The Yakuza men were visibly tense, their usual composed demeanor fractured by the silent panic that rippled through them. Each man wore a mask of calm, but Wallace could sense the underlying dread as they watched Jin and Nina, aware that something was amiss but not fully understanding the gravity of it. They knew that Jin’s presence spelled trouble, but only Wallace understood the true depth of the threat looming over them.

His thoughts flickered back to Sato. The young lieutenant had always been reckless, his ambition bordering on arrogance. He’d assumed he could play both sides, feeding G Corporation information while remaining under Ichiro’s protection. Wallace had suspected his hubris would catch up to him eventually, but he hadn’t anticipated that Jin Kazama himself would be the one to deliver judgment.

If Jin’s here… Wallace thought, his unease deepening. Then it’s not just Sato who might pay the price.

Wallace clenched his jaw, forcing himself to maintain a calm expression. He couldn’t afford to let his emotions show, not here, not now. Any sign of fear or recognition could draw unwanted attention, and he had to remain inconspicuous, just another face in the crowd. His role here was to observe, to gather information, not to become part of the spectacle. His mission depended on his ability to stay hidden in plain sight, to act as though he was nothing more than “Joseph Carmichael,” the violinist providing ambiance for the evening.

Slowly, he exhaled, steadying himself, letting the tension drain from his shoulders. His fingers tightened subtly around the sheet music he held, an anchor to keep him grounded as his thoughts raced. Wallace doubted the resolution would be anything short of a message, one designed to remind the Yakuza—and anyone else who might think of crossing the Zaibatsu—of the price of betrayal.

The crowd’s murmurs swelled in anticipation, shifting Wallace’s focus back to the ring. They awaited the arrival of the Matsumoto sisters, Reika and Kana, the next challengers set to face El Diablo. Wallace took another deep breath, using the crowd’s energy as a buffer, a distraction from the sense of dread clawing at him. He needed to maintain his composure, to stay focused on his mission. His role here, after all, was to report back, to provide the Zaibatsu with insight into the Yakuza’s operations within the league. Any personal feelings, any inklings of dread, had to be pushed aside.

Glancing discreetly back at Jin and Nina, Wallace noted the way they moved with effortless control, the crowd instinctively parting around them, sensing the unspoken authority they carried. Jin’s gaze swept over the arena with cold indifference, his presence alone sending a ripple of unease through the attendees. And Nina, with her steely, piercing gaze, remained by his side, every bit as formidable. Together, they were an unsettling reminder of the power Mishima Zaibatsu held, a force that could upend the world around them with a mere shift in their focus.

Wallace forced himself to look away, blending back into his role, masking his growing anxiety beneath a carefully controlled exterior. Calm, measured, unseen, he reminded himself. That was the only way to survive this. His place was in the shadows, observing, documenting, but never stepping out of line. He couldn’t risk drawing their attention, not when he knew that even the slightest misstep could turn him from an observer into a target.

As the crowd’s anticipation reached a peak, Wallace’s focus remained steady. The Matsumoto sisters would enter the ring soon, and the night would unfold as planned. But the weight of Jin’s presence lingered like a shadow over him, a constant reminder of the precariousness of his position. Wallace had seen enough of the Zaibatsu’s methods to know that their patience was thin and their tolerance for disloyalty thinner still.

He would play his part, stay in the background, and fulfill his role as the unassuming musician. Anything less would be risking far more than he was willing to lose.

 

[anotherguttersnipe]

Edge of Pain: Reika and Kana Matsumoto vs El Diablo

El Diablo stood in the center of the ring, his towering figure framed by the shadows cast from the dim, flickering lights above. Around him, the Elite Underground Arena pulsed with restless energy, a familiar and almost tangible anticipation hanging in the air. The crowd was loud, some yelling taunts, others chanting his name, their voices rising in a chaotic symphony of fervor and excitement. He soaked it all in, that mix of admiration and disdain, feeling the buzz of their anticipation seep into his bones like an unspoken promise. They knew what was coming, and so did he.

But tonight was different. He lifted his gaze to the VIP booth, eyes catching a rare sight: Jin Kazama, leaning forward slightly, watching him with an intensity that unsettled him more than he’d ever admit. Behind Jin, his bodyguard—a figure whose cold presence seemed to radiate even from that distance—stood motionless, the silhouette alert and ready. El Diablo felt an unexpected flicker of unease twist through him. Jin’s presence had a weight, a reminder of stakes larger than the match he was about to face. He knew Jin's reputation, understood that his eyes rarely wandered without purpose. Why was he here tonight? And why was he watching him? El Diablo clenched his fists, letting the tension fuel his confidence, his bravado. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down—not here, and certainly not with those eyes on him.

Across the ring, Reika and Kana Matsumoto stood side by side, a striking pair of sisters whose contrasting appearances somehow complemented each other, showcasing their individual strengths as well as their unity. The audience could see at a glance that they were bonded not only by blood but by purpose, each bringing a unique style and energy to the fight that lay ahead.

Reika, the elder of the two, radiated a calm, steady resolve. Dressed in a vibrant pink wrestling leotard, she appeared every bit the seasoned competitor, her athletic frame a testament to her discipline and dedication. Her long black hair fell neatly over her shoulders, framing a face marked by quiet determination. Reika’s matching pink wristbands, white kneepads, and tall white laced-up boots added a touch of classic wrestling flair, reinforcing her poised, professional image. Her movements were slow and deliberate as she stretched, every motion carefully measured, as if conserving her energy for the grueling challenge to come. Her gaze was steady, focused on the task ahead, her calm demeanor exuding a sense of quiet strength. However, out of 4 singles matches, not once had she gone the full distance.



Beside her, Kana was a vivid contrast, exuding a vibrant, almost electric energy that seemed to crackle around her. Dressed in a deep blue wrestling leotard, her look was bold and edgy, her compact yet powerful frame suggesting she was more than ready to face whatever came her way. Kana’s short, choppy hair, highlighted with a streak of blue to match her outfit, gave her an unmistakable rebellious flair. Her bright blue wristbands and kneepads completed the look, a perfect match to her high-energy presence. Unlike Reika’s steady expression, Kana wore a playful grin, her eyes sparkling with a mix of excitement and anticipation. Her movements were fast and lively as she stretched, showing off her agility and hinting at a more unpredictable, spirited approach. Unlike her older sister, Kana had gone the full distance 2 times out of their 4 matches, demonstrating the grit that came with her more untamed confidence.




El Diablo caught the tension in Kana’s stance, the way her fingers clenched around the ropes as her sister brushed off her warning. He knew that feeling all too well—the frustration of knowing when someone was underestimating their opponent. Reika was skilled, but Kana’s hard-won endurance spoke louder. He would take advantage of that rift if it presented itself, exploit every edge he could find.

The crowd’s chanting grew louder, and El Diablo felt the rush of it again, felt that sharp thrill coursing through him. But his gaze drifted once more to the VIP booth. Jin still watched, unmoving, his expression unreadable. El Diablo’s jaw tightened, and he shifted his stance, forcing himself to focus on the ring, on Reika’s arrogant posture and Kana’s tense caution.

“You look distracted,” Kana called out suddenly, her voice cutting through the din, a sharp edge to her words. “Something bothering you, Diablo?”

El Diablo smirked, letting his mask of calm slide back into place. He shot Kana a look, arching a brow. “Just wondering how long you’ll last this time, Kana,” he replied smoothly. “You know the rules—you tap, you lose. And I don’t think your sister has what it takes to pick up the slack.”

Reika’s eyes flashed, and she took a step forward, her hands clenched. “Oh, you’ll see what we’re capable of soon enough. Maybe you’ve gotten used to all those easy matches, but this is going to be different.”

The match hadn’t begun yet, but the tension had already settled thick in the air, wrapping around them like an invisible shroud. El Diablo took one final glance at Kana’s confident posture, and Reika’s guarded caution. He relished the moment, savoring the anticipation, knowing they had no idea what they’d walked into. And this time, with Jin Kazama watching, he knew he’d need to make it a match they’d never forget.


Reika took a step forward, lifting her chin in defiance as she prepared to square off with El Diablo. Their gazes locked, her dark eyes radiating a fierce resolve as she raised her arms, ready to engage. El Diablo smirked, settling into his stance, his posture calm and collected. His focus shifted, no longer on the crowd or the VIP booth, but solely on Reika. He knew her type—the ones who walked into the ring confident, convinced that all they needed was a bit of willpower to overcome his strength. He’d seen it time and again. Confidence like that was fragile, easy to shatter when met with cold, unrelenting reality.

With a quick step forward, Reika engaged, her hands moving to his shoulder and collar in a traditional collar-and-elbow tie-up. She pressed forward, putting all her weight into the hold. El Diablo felt the strength in her grip, the way she drove her feet into the canvas, fighting to gain control. But as strong as she was, her efforts only seemed to amuse him. He allowed her to push him back a step, a subtle concession to gauge her limits, to see how much she was willing to commit.

"Is that all you’ve got, Reika?" he taunted, his voice low, carrying just enough bite to reach her ears over the din of the crowd.

Her jaw tightened, and she pushed harder, determination blazing in her eyes. "You’ll see soon enough," she shot back, gritting her teeth as she leaned into the hold. She wanted to prove herself, to show that she was no easy target, that she could hold her own against him. But El Diablo’s experience showed in the way he shifted his weight, guiding her momentum with subtle movements, positioning her exactly where he wanted.

In one swift motion, he transitioned from the collar-and-elbow tie-up into a side headlock, pulling her head under his arm and wrenching her neck just enough to make her feel it. Reika’s hands immediately went to his arm, trying to pry it loose, her fingers digging into the muscle.

"Come on, Reika. You wanted to prove something, didn’t you?" he mocked, tightening his grip, forcing her to struggle harder.

Reika gritted her teeth, pushing against his body with her forearm, trying to create space, but El Diablo’s hold was unyielding. With a quick twist, he released her from the headlock, only to shift seamlessly into a wristlock, twisting her arm and forcing her shoulder down. She winced, her muscles straining as she tried to reverse the hold, but El Diablo anticipated her every move. He was already two steps ahead, transitioning into a hammerlock, pressing her arm up behind her back, keeping her firmly in place.

Reika’s face tightened in frustration, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her struggle. "I’m not going down that easily," she bit out, her voice laced with defiance.

"Good," he replied with a smirk, twisting her arm a bit higher. "I wouldn’t want it to be over too soon."

Each time she managed to shift her weight, attempting to slip free, El Diablo would counter with ease, cycling through a series of holds that kept her perpetually under his control. Every movement was calculated, a relentless display of technical skill that allowed him to keep her at his mercy without expending any excess energy. He transitioned smoothly from the hammerlock into a waistlock, then to a full nelson, forcing her arms upward as he applied pressure.

Reika’s breaths grew heavier, but she remained resolute, using every ounce of her strength to resist. Her muscles strained as she fought to break free, twisting and turning, trying to find any opening. But each time she shifted, he adjusted effortlessly, redirecting her efforts, keeping her trapped in his control.

The crowd watched intently, murmurs rippling through the arena as they witnessed Reika’s struggle. The initial confidence she had displayed was slowly beginning to falter, her movements becoming less fluid, her attempts to counter growing slower.

Kana watched from the apron, her hands clenched tightly around the ropes, her eyes fixed on her sister. She could see the toll it was taking on Reika, the subtle signs of fatigue setting in. "Come on, Reika! Don’t let him control the pace!" she called out, her voice carrying an edge of urgency.

Reika heard her, and with a surge of determination, she planted her feet and pushed back, managing to shift her weight enough to momentarily loosen El Diablo’s grip. She attempted to twist out of the hold, hoping to turn the tables. But El Diablo was already moving, capitalizing on her momentary lapse in focus. He slipped behind her, locking in a standing armbar, pulling her arm across his chest and adding pressure to her shoulder.

"Running out of steam already?" he taunted, his tone laced with amusement as he watched her struggle against the hold.

Reika clenched her teeth, feeling the burn in her shoulder as she fought to keep herself upright. "Not… even… close," she gasped, though the strain in her voice betrayed her fatigue.

He chuckled, clearly enjoying her defiance. "Good. I’d hate for this to end too quickly."

With a sudden wrench of the arm, he forced her to her knees, applying pressure that made her grimace in pain. She fought back, trying to twist her body to escape, but he transitioned again, this time into a front facelock, pulling her down and keeping her grounded. Each hold was like a reminder of his dominance, a display of skill that showed he didn’t need brute force to wear her down. It was his precision, his timing, that kept her under control.

Kana couldn’t stay silent any longer. "Reika, you have to counter! Don’t let him dictate every move!" she shouted, desperation creeping into her tone as she saw her sister’s struggle intensify.

Reika tried to respond, her breathing labored as she struggled to regain control. But El Diablo showed no mercy. He shifted again, this time applying a crossface, his arm pressing against her jaw, forcing her to feel the pressure building with every passing second. The crowd watched in awe, the tension in the air palpable as they sensed her fatigue, her body beginning to betray her resolve.

"Still think you can outlast me?" he whispered, his voice a low, taunting murmur as he tightened the hold just enough to make her wince.

Reika managed a glare, even as her breathing grew more ragged. "I’ve… fought harder," she forced out, though the strain in her voice told a different story.

He chuckled, amused by her resilience. "Is that so?" With a sudden move, he released her from the crossface, only to pull her into a wristlock, twisting her arm and pulling her back to her feet. She staggered slightly, her muscles trembling from the relentless strain, but she refused to back down.

"Come on, then," he challenged, releasing the hold and stepping back slightly, giving her a brief moment of reprieve. "Show me what you’ve got."

Reika’s eyes flashed with determination as she took a steadying breath, lifting her hands again. She knew he was testing her, toying with her confidence, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her falter. She lunged forward, attempting to lock him into a headlock, but he countered immediately, sidestepping her and catching her in a waistlock, lifting her slightly off the ground before setting her back down.

The cycle of holds continued, each one draining her energy bit by bit, sapping her strength as she struggled to keep up with his relentless pace. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and her movements grew sluggish, but she fought to maintain her composure, to keep that initial confidence alive.

Kana could see it, the subtle signs of exhaustion beginning to show in Reika’s posture, the way her shoulders slumped just slightly, her breaths coming in quick, shallow gasps. She wanted to call out, to offer some words of encouragement, but she knew it wouldn’t help. Reika had to face this herself.

With one final shift, El Diablo brought Reika into a standing guillotine, his arm around her neck, holding her in place as he leaned in close, his voice a low murmur. "You’re running out of moves, Reika."

Her jaw clenched, and she forced a defiant glare, refusing to show weakness. "I’m not… done… yet," she managed, her voice strained but resolute.

For a moment, he seemed almost amused, his eyes gleaming with something close to admiration. But he tightened the hold, making her gasp, reminding her that he wasn’t here to admire her spirit. He was here to dominate, to leave a lasting impression.

"Good," he whispered. "Then let’s keep going."

El Diablo held Reika tightly in the standing guillotine, her neck trapped beneath his powerful arm. She squirmed, her breaths coming in sharp gasps, but her resolve burned bright in her eyes. He could feel her body tensing as she struggled, and for a brief moment, he allowed her that glimmer of resistance. Then, with a fluid shift, he transitioned seamlessly into a waistlock, tightening his grip around her midsection before hoisting her off her feet.

With a single, swift motion, he brought her crashing down onto his knee in an atomic drop, the impact jolting her body as a sharp cry escaped her lips. Reika’s face twisted, a mix of pain and stubborn determination as she fought to stay upright, her legs threatening to give way beneath her. But she refused to fall, her pride refusing to let her crumble in front of him, no matter how much it hurt.

"You’re tougher than you look, I’ll give you that," El Diablo taunted, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "But toughness only gets you so far."

Reika managed a glare, her breaths coming ragged. "I… don’t need… your approval," she spat, her voice laced with defiance despite the pain coursing through her.

He chuckled, unfazed, and in one fluid movement, he lunged forward, delivering a brutal clothesline to the back of her neck. The force sent her sprawling, her body flying forward onto the mat with a harsh thud. She lay there for a second, dazed, her vision swimming as she fought to orient herself. The arena seemed to spin, but she clenched her fists, determination overriding the pain.

El Diablo, however, gave her no time to recover. He dropped down beside her, his hands grabbing hold of her arm, and in a practiced, calculated motion, he locked her into a Fujiwara armbar. Her eyes widened as she felt the strain in her shoulder, the sharp pull of his grip twisting her arm back in a way that forced her spine to arch painfully.

"Let’s see how long that attitude holds up," he murmured, his voice low as he leaned in, twisting her arm just enough to elicit a groan from her lips.

Reika grit her teeth, every nerve in her arm and shoulder screaming, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her break. "It’s… going to take… more than this," she managed, though her voice betrayed the effort it took to suppress the pain.

He smirked, his eyes gleaming with cruel enjoyment. "Oh, I’m counting on it."

Kana watched from the apron, her knuckles white as she gripped the ropes, every muscle in her body tensed with worry and frustration. She could see the pain etched on her sister’s face, the way Reika’s breaths came in labored gasps as she fought to endure the hold. Part of her wanted to jump into the ring, to somehow break his grip, but she knew the rules. She could only watch, helpless, as her sister struggled beneath El Diablo’s unyielding control.

Reika clenched her jaw, digging deep to keep herself from crying out, from showing weakness. The pressure in her shoulder was relentless, the pain radiating down her arm and making her fingers numb. But she held on, her breaths shallow but steady, refusing to yield.

El Diablo felt her resistance, the stubborn way she refused to let go, and a spark of admiration flared briefly within him, though it was quickly overshadowed by his desire to dominate. With a calculated motion, he released her arm, shifting his position as he straddled her back, trapping her between his knees. Before she had a chance to recover, he reached forward, hooking his hands beneath her chin and pulling back, wrenching her into a camel clutch.

Reika’s head was forced upward, her spine arching painfully as he pulled, keeping her completely immobilized. Her hands clawed at the mat, but his weight on her back prevented her from moving, pinning her in place as he leaned back, increasing the tension on her neck and lower back.

"Look at you now," he taunted, his voice a low growl as he held her firmly in place. "Still think you can handle this?"

Reika’s teeth clenched, her breaths coming in harsh gasps as she fought to ignore the searing pain. "I… won’t… give you… the satisfaction," she managed, her voice strained but resolute.

El Diablo chuckled, leaning back even further, making her spine curve under the pressure. "Oh, I don’t need your surrender, Reika. I just want to see how much you can take."

Reika’s vision blurred slightly, every nerve in her body screaming as he applied more pressure. She could hear the murmurs of the crowd, their voices blending into a dull roar around her, but she forced herself to stay present, to focus on each breath, each heartbeat, each ounce of defiance she could muster. She wouldn’t let him break her, not here, not now.

Kana’s voice broke through the noise, sharp and desperate. "Come on, Reika! Don’t let him get to you!"

Reika heard her sister’s encouragement, clinging to it as a lifeline, a reminder that she wasn’t alone in this ring. Her fingers clawed at the mat, her nails digging into the canvas as she fought against the hold, trying to shift her weight, to find some way to alleviate the pain. But El Diablo held firm, his grip unwavering, his gaze focused on her struggle with a dark satisfaction.

"Fight all you want," he murmured, his voice laced with a cruel amusement. "It won’t change anything."

Reika’s breaths came in shallow gasps, the pain in her back and neck intensifying with every second he held her in the camel clutch. But she refused to give in, refused to let him see her break. "You… talk too much," she managed, her voice a whisper but carrying a hint of defiance.

El Diablo chuckled, amused by her tenacity. "Is that so?" he asked, his tone mocking as he leaned back even further, wrenching her head up, forcing her to look up at the ceiling lights, their harsh glow blinding her as the pain wracked her body.

"You want silence? Then make me stop," he taunted, his voice a low, menacing growl that sent a chill down her spine.

Reika’s hands trembled as she pressed them to the mat, trying to push herself up, to create some leverage. Her muscles strained, her entire body shaking from the effort, but she refused to let him see her weakness. She pushed back, inch by inch, feeling the weight of his hold bearing down on her, testing her endurance, her resolve.

Kana couldn’t hold back any longer. "You’re stronger than this, Reika! You’ve held out before—don’t let him win!"

El Diablo shot a glance at Kana, his smirk widening. "Your sister’s got faith in you, Reika. Don’t let her down," he mocked, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he tightened the hold even further, forcing her body to arch painfully.

Reika gritted her teeth, her vision beginning to blur from the strain, but she held on, refusing to let him see her falter. "I… won’t…," she gasped, her voice barely audible, but each word carrying the weight of her determination.

El Diablo watched her, feeling the resistance in her body, the defiance that refused to yield, and he leaned in close, his voice a low, menacing whisper. "You’re going to break, Reika. It’s only a matter of time."

Reika’s breaths came in shallow pants, her entire body aching, every nerve screaming for relief, but she forced herself to focus, to push past the pain. "Not… today," she whispered, her voice strained but unwavering.

The crowd murmured in awe, their voices a mix of admiration and tension as they watched her endure, saw the fire in her eyes even as her body betrayed her. She was trapped, immobilized, the pain overwhelming, but she refused to let him see her surrender.

El Diablo smirked, his eyes narrowing as he kept her locked in the camel clutch, feeling the resistance in her body, the fire that refused to be extinguished. He leaned back one final time, wrenching her neck to its limit, savoring her struggle, her refusal to give in.

"Suit yourself," he murmured, his voice dark and satisfied. "I’ve got all night."

El Diablo held Reika firmly in the camel clutch for a long, drawn-out moment, letting her exhaustion sink in as the crowd watched in awe. Then, with a dismissive look, he released the hold, allowing her to slump face-first onto the mat, her breaths coming in heavy, labored gasps. Without a second thought, he planted his boot against her back and gave her a hard, unceremonious shove, sending her rolling across the ring toward her corner.

"Come on, Reika," he sneered, gesturing dismissively as she struggled to pull herself up. "Tag out before you embarrass yourself further."

The crowd erupted, their voices a mix of excitement and curiosity as they watched Reika drag herself toward Kana, who was already extending her hand, her face a mask of determination and protective fury. She reached down, grasping Reika’s hand, her touch steady and reassuring.

Reika looked up, her face etched with pain but defiance burning in her eyes. "Be… careful," she managed, her voice weak but carrying a hint of warning.

Kana nodded, a fierce resolve in her gaze as she stepped into the ring. "I’ve got this, Reika. Just rest."

As Kana squared off against El Diablo, the crowd’s anticipation reached a fever pitch. She was no stranger to his brutality; she’d faced him before, had even lasted the grueling thirty minutes once before. But this time felt different. This time, her sister’s battered form lay just feet away, a reminder of what she was fighting for.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Kana charged forward, hoping to catch him off guard. She closed the distance quickly, launching into a flurry of strikes, her fists and knees aimed with precise intent. Her movements were quick, calculated, each attack flowing seamlessly into the next as she attempted to break through his defenses.

But El Diablo merely stood there, absorbing each hit with a look of amused indifference. She struck his chest, his arms, even attempted a kick to his midsection, but he barely flinched. Her strikes might as well have been raindrops against steel.

Growing frustrated, Kana attempted a powerful backhand, aiming to throw him off balance, but El Diablo saw it coming. He caught her wrist in mid-air, a smirk curling on his lips as he tightened his grip.

"Nice try, Kana," he taunted, his voice calm and mocking. "But I think it’s time you learned where you stand."

Without releasing her wrist, he pulled her into an Irish whip, sending her hurtling across the ring. Kana barely had time to regain her balance before she rebounded off the ropes and found herself barreling back toward him. El Diablo was ready, his body poised as he scooped her up mid-motion, lifting her off the ground and slamming her down in a devastating spinning spinebuster. The impact was brutal, her body crashing into the mat with a force that left her momentarily breathless.

But Kana wasn’t ready to give in. Gritting her teeth, she kept her legs wrapped around his waist as she hit the mat, her body instinctively locking onto him to keep him close, hoping to limit his movement. It was a risky move, and she knew it. She wanted to prevent him from following up on his momentum, to make him work to break free.

"Stubborn, aren’t you?" El Diablo sneered, glancing down at her with a look of mild amusement. "But this… isn’t going to end well for you."

With a cold, deliberate intensity, he began raining down a series of heavy blows, his fists crashing into her forearms as she raised them in a desperate attempt to shield herself. Each strike felt like a sledgehammer, her arms absorbing the brunt of his attacks but gradually weakening under the relentless assault.

Kana grimaced, her breaths growing shorter, her muscles trembling from the force of his punches. She tried to hold her guard, to keep her legs locked around his waist, but each hit chipped away at her defenses, the pain mounting with every blow.

"Is this all you’ve got?" he taunted, his voice a low, mocking murmur as he continued to batter her defenses. "I expected more from the so-called fighter who lasted against me."

Kana’s jaw tightened, a fierce determination in her eyes even as her arms began to buckle. "I… won’t… give up," she hissed, forcing the words out between gritted teeth, her resolve unwavering despite the toll it was taking on her body.

"Good," he replied, his smirk widening as he delivered a final, bone-jarring blow that forced her legs to loosen from around his waist. "Because I’m just getting started."

With a swift, practiced motion, he shifted his grip, taking hold of her legs and twisting her body until she lay face-down on the mat. Without hesitation, he crossed her legs, trapping her ankles in his grip as he settled back, pulling her into a brutal Boston crab. The pain was immediate, a searing agony radiating up her spine as her body was forced into an unnatural arch.

Kana’s hands clawed at the mat, her fingers digging into the canvas as she fought to endure the hold. The pain was overwhelming, a relentless pressure on her lower back that threatened to break her resolve. But she held on, gritting her teeth, refusing to let him hear her scream.

El Diablo leaned back, increasing the tension, his expression calm and methodical as he applied pressure with ruthless precision. "What’s wrong, Kana? Not as easy when you’re the one getting broken, is it?"

Kana gasped, her breaths coming in sharp, ragged pants as she struggled to endure the pain. "You… don’t… scare me," she managed, though her voice was strained, the words laced with defiance.

He chuckled, his grip unwavering. "Oh, I think I do. I think the pain is starting to get to you, Kana. How long do you think you can last like this?"

Her fingers dug deeper into the mat, every fiber of her being screaming for relief, but she forced herself to focus, to push through the agony. "As long… as it takes," she gasped, her voice filled with a fierce determination that refused to be silenced.

From the apron, Reika watched, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and helplessness as she saw her sister’s body contorted in the brutal hold. She knew the pain Kana was enduring, the strength it took to keep from breaking under the relentless pressure. But all she could do was watch, her heart pounding as she silently willed her sister to hold on.

Kana’s vision blurred, the pain in her back and legs reaching an unbearable intensity, but she gritted her teeth, forcing herself to breathe, to stay grounded. She wouldn’t let him break her, no matter how much it hurt. She’d faced him before, had endured his holds, his taunts, his unyielding strength. She knew what he was capable of, but she also knew her own resilience.

El Diablo leaned back further, wrenching her body into an even steeper arch, a smirk of satisfaction on his face as he felt her muscles strain against his grip. "It would be so easy to give up, wouldn’t it?" he murmured, his voice smooth and mocking. "All you have to do is tap, and the pain stops."

Kana’s fingers trembled, her breaths coming in shallow gasps as she fought to stay focused, to block out the agony. "Not… happening," she choked out, her voice barely a whisper, but each word carrying a weight of resolve.

El Diablo’s smirk widened, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement as he held her there, savoring her struggle. "Suit yourself. Just know, the longer you hold out, the more this is going to hurt."

Kana forced herself to take a steadying breath, her entire body screaming in protest, but her spirit unyielding. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her surrender. She was here for her sister, for herself, to prove that she could endure, that she could hold her ground even against someone as brutal as him.

From the apron, Reika’s voice broke through, soft but filled with encouragement. "You’re strong, Kana. Don’t let him get to you. Remember why you’re here."

Kana closed her eyes, drawing strength from her sister’s words, letting them anchor her as she fought to withstand the unrelenting pain. She wouldn’t give in. She wouldn’t let him win.

El Diablo held Kana firmly in the Boston crab, her body contorted beneath him, her spine bending painfully as he leaned back to apply maximum pressure. The strain was evident on her face, her jaw clenched as she fought against the searing pain radiating through her lower back and leg. She gripped the mat, knuckles white, her entire body taut with resistance as she refused to give him the satisfaction of surrender.

"Come on, Kana," he sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. "You’re barely hanging on. Tap out, and I’ll end this. Or keep fighting, and I’ll just make it worse."

Kana forced herself to breathe, to push through the pain, even as it threatened to overwhelm her. "I’m… not done yet," she panted, her voice low but resolute, each word a testament to her unwavering resolve.

He chuckled darkly, clearly amused by her defiance. "Then let’s make things a little more interesting."

With a smooth, practiced motion, he shifted his grip, releasing one of her legs and seamlessly transitioning into a single-leg crab. He leaned back, intensifying the pressure on her remaining trapped leg, his movements calculated and merciless. Kana’s face twisted in pain, a sharp gasp escaping her lips as her leg was forced into an agonizing angle. Every muscle in her lower body screamed, the strain nearly unbearable, but she gritted her teeth, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her break.

From the apron, Reika watched, her hands clenched tightly around the ropes, a look of helpless frustration etched on her face. She could see the pain her sister was enduring, the toll it was taking, but all she could do was shout her encouragement. "Stay strong, Kana! Don’t let him break you!"

Kana heard her sister’s voice, and it anchored her, gave her the strength to push through the pain, to hold on just a little longer. She wouldn’t give up, not with Reika watching, not after everything they’d endured together.

El Diablo glanced over his shoulder at Reika, his smirk widening as he held Kana in the brutal hold. "See this, Reika?" he taunted, his tone mocking. "This is what happens when you think you can step into the ring with me. Your sister thought she could handle it, just like you. How’s that working out for her?"

Reika’s eyes narrowed, her fists clenching tighter as she resisted the urge to jump into the ring. "Let her go, Diablo. You’ve proved your point."

But he only chuckled, savoring her frustration. "Not yet. I think Kana has a little more left in her."

After a few more agonizing seconds, he finally released the hold, letting Kana’s leg drop as he straightened up, casting a dismissive glance at Reika before turning his attention back to his opponent on the mat. Kana lay there for a moment, her breathing labored, her muscles trembling from the relentless punishment. But even as the pain coursed through her body, she forced herself to push up, her arms shaking as she struggled to rise.

El Diablo watched her with mild amusement, a dark glint in his eyes as he reached down and grabbed her by the arm, hauling her up to her feet. "Come on, Kana," he sneered. "You wanted to prove something, didn’t you? Let’s see it."

Kana stumbled slightly, her legs unsteady, but she squared her shoulders, refusing to let the pain show on her face. "I… I’m still standing," she managed, her voice barely a whisper but carrying an undeniable edge of defiance.

He tilted his head, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "For now."

Before she could react, he moved behind her, wrapping his powerful arms around her waist and hoisting her off her feet. She barely had time to register the movement before he drove her down onto his knee in a brutal atomic drop. The impact sent a shockwave of pain through her spine, her body jolting from the force as she gasped, her muscles tensing in response to the intense discomfort. But he didn’t let her go.

"Come on, Kana," he taunted, his voice low and menacing. "Where’s that fight you were so proud of?"

Kana’s breaths came in short, labored gasps, her body screaming in protest, but she forced herself to keep her head up, to look him in the eye. "I’m… not done," she whispered, though the strain was evident in her voice.

He chuckled, tightening his grip around her waist as he lifted her up once more, only to bring her crashing down onto his knee in another punishing atomic drop. The impact was even more brutal this time, her body buckling as the pain radiated through her hips and lower back. Her legs threatened to give out, her vision swimming slightly, but she refused to let herself collapse, her resolve holding her upright even as her body betrayed her.

El Diablo’s smirk grew darker, his eyes glinting with cruel satisfaction as he held her there, his grip unyielding. "Still standing?" he asked mockingly, his voice dripping with condescension.

Kana’s gaze was defiant, though her breaths were ragged, her entire body shaking from the strain. "I… I can take… more," she panted, forcing the words out even as the pain clawed at her resolve.

"Good," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Because I’m not done yet."

With a final, merciless motion, he lifted her one last time, holding her aloft for a brief moment before driving her down in a third atomic drop. This time, he released her, allowing her to collapse onto the mat, her body crumpling as the pain overwhelmed her. She lay there, her breathing shallow, her face twisted in agony as she fought to regain her composure, to push through the relentless discomfort that radiated through her entire lower body.

The crowd watched in tense silence, the weight of the match bearing down on them as they witnessed Kana’s struggle, the brutal toll that El Diablo’s relentless assault had taken on her. From the apron, Reika’s face was etched with worry and helpless anger, her hands clenched so tightly around the ropes that her knuckles were white. She wanted to reach out, to pull Kana to safety, but she knew that her sister would never forgive her for interfering.

El Diablo looked down at Kana, his expression cold and unfeeling, a predator savoring the sight of his prey’s suffering. "Still think you can keep up?" he asked, his voice low and mocking as he took a step back, giving her a moment to collect herself.

Kana forced herself to push up onto her hands and knees, her body trembling from the effort. Every nerve screamed in protest, every muscle feeling like it was on fire, but she wouldn’t let him see her weakness. She gritted her teeth, her jaw set with determination as she slowly pushed herself up, refusing to let him see her surrender.

"I… I’m not done yet," she managed, though her voice was weak, the strain evident in every word.

El Diablo’s smirk widened, his gaze darkening as he watched her struggle. "You’re tougher than I thought, Kana. But toughness only goes so far."

He took a step forward, his shadow falling over her as he loomed, a menacing figure of strength and control. She looked up at him, her eyes blazing with defiance even as her body betrayed her, every inch of her aching, worn down from the relentless punishment.

But Kana knew that she couldn’t give in, that she had to keep fighting, not just for herself, but for Reika. Her sister’s voice echoed in her mind, a reminder of the strength they shared, the bond that had brought them here.

"I’ll… I’ll keep going," Kana whispered, her voice barely audible, but carrying the weight of her determination. "You… won’t break me."

El Diablo tilted his head, a flicker of respect in his gaze, though it was quickly overshadowed by his cold, calculating demeanor. "We’ll see about that."

And with that, he moved forward again, his presence a constant reminder of the power and dominance he held over her. The crowd’s murmurs swelled, anticipation and tension hanging heavy in the air as they watched Kana’s defiant, battered form, knowing that the fight was far from over, that her resolve would continue to be tested in ways she had yet to imagine.


On the apron, Reika leaned over the ropes, her face etched with worry as she watched her sister struggle to rise. “Kana! Come on, tag out,” she called, her tone a mix of urgency and concern. “Let me take over—you’ve done enough!”

Kana shook her head, still catching her breath, her pride refusing to let her back down. She looked over at Reika, her jaw clenched with resolve. "You’re still hurt, Reika. I don’t need the tag,” she panted, though the strain in her voice betrayed her exhaustion. “I can keep going."

Reika’s expression shifted, a flash of frustration mingling with her worry. "Kana, don’t be stubborn! This isn’t the time to prove something. Just tag me in already!"

El Diablo, standing a few paces away with his arms crossed, watched the exchange between the sisters with a mixture of amusement and impatience. His lips curled into a mocking smirk as he leaned against the ropes, letting them argue over the tag. "Having a little family spat, are we?" he taunted, his tone laced with condescension. "Take your time. I’ve got all night."

Kana shot him a glare, a flicker of defiance in her eyes as she braced herself against the mat, determined not to show any weakness. "Mind… your own business," she spat, though her voice was strained, her body visibly struggling to hold up against the relentless toll the match had taken on her.

El Diablo chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, I’m just here to enjoy the show. Keep going—I want to see how long that pride holds up."

Kana gritted her teeth, her stubbornness keeping her rooted in the ring even as her body protested with every movement. She wanted to keep fighting, to prove that she could stand up to him, to show that she didn’t need anyone’s help, not even her sister’s. But the reality of her limits weighed heavily on her, the pain gnawing at her resolve as she glanced back at Reika.

Reika’s expression softened, her eyes filled with a quiet determination as she extended her hand toward her sister. "Kana… it’s okay," she said gently, her tone reassuring. "You’ve done enough. Let me handle the rest. We’re in this together, remember?"

Kana looked at her, a mixture of pride and reluctance flickering in her gaze. She wanted to keep going, to push herself beyond her limits, but the fatigue was undeniable, and she knew that staying in the ring would only put them both at a greater disadvantage. With a heavy sigh, she nodded, the realization settling over her as she acknowledged her own limits.

"Fine," she murmured, her voice barely audible as she began dragging herself toward the ropes. "But don’t… don’t push yourself too hard, okay?"

Reika offered her a reassuring smile, her hand still outstretched. "I can handle it. Just rest."

With a final, reluctant glance at her sister, Kana reached out, slapping Reika’s hand and making the tag. The crowd erupted in cheers, their excitement surging as Reika climbed back into the ring, her posture filled with a newfound resolve even as her body still bore the marks of her earlier confrontation with El Diablo.

El Diablo raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening as he watched Reika step forward, her expression fierce despite the fatigue evident in her movements. "Back for more, are we?" he taunted, his tone dripping with mockery. "You didn’t get enough the first time?"

Reika straightened, her eyes narrowing as she squared her shoulders, determination blazing in her gaze. "I’m not here to entertain you," she replied, her voice steady, unwavering. "I’m here to show you that we’re not as weak as you think."

He laughed, crossing his arms again as he regarded her with a look of condescending amusement. "Oh, really? Because all I’ve seen so far is a lot of stumbling and gasping for breath."

Reika took a deep breath, steadying herself, refusing to let his words shake her resolve. "You talk a lot for someone who’s so insecure," she shot back, her tone sharp, the words calculated to provoke him.

El Diablo’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, a glint of irritation flashing in his eyes before he masked it with an amused chuckle. "Insecure? That’s a big word for someone who’s about to be on the mat again."

"Then why are you stalling?" Reika challenged, lifting her chin defiantly, her posture unwavering despite the exhaustion evident in her every movement.

His eyes narrowed, a flicker of interest mingling with the irritation as he took a step toward her. "You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. But guts don’t win fights."

Reika held her ground, her eyes locked on his as he closed the distance, refusing to back down even as he loomed over her, his presence radiating strength and intimidation. She could feel the weight of his gaze, the intensity of his power, but she wouldn’t let it shake her.

"Maybe not," she replied, her voice steady. "But it’s enough to keep us fighting."

He snorted, shaking his head as he moved closer, his posture relaxed but radiating an underlying tension. "We’ll see how long that lasts."

With a sudden, powerful motion, he lunged forward, reaching for her. Reika reacted quickly, dodging to the side, her movements swift and precise as she aimed a punch at his ribs. But he was faster, catching her wrist in mid-air and twisting her arm, pulling her off balance as he brought her close, his grip unyielding.

"Nice try," he murmured, his voice low as he leaned in, his tone laced with a dark amusement. "But not good enough."

Reika struggled against his hold, her muscles straining as she tried to free herself, but his grip was like iron, his strength overwhelming. He twisted her arm further, forcing her to bend, to yield to his control.

"Come on, Reika," he taunted, his voice mocking as he held her in place, his gaze boring into hers. "Is that all you’ve got?"

She glared up at him, defiance blazing in her eyes despite the pain. "You wish."

With a sudden burst of strength, she pulled her arm free, staggering back as she quickly regained her footing, her gaze never leaving his. She knew she couldn’t match his strength, but she wouldn’t let him intimidate her.

El Diablo straightened, a flicker of interest in his gaze as he watched her, clearly entertained by her resolve. "You’re persistent, I’ll give you that. But persistence only gets you so far."

"We’ll see about that," Reika replied, her voice steady, filled with a quiet determination as she prepared to face him head-on once more.

The two of them stood there, locked in a silent battle of wills, the crowd holding its breath in anticipation. Kana watched from the apron, her expression filled with pride and worry as she saw her sister’s determination, her resolve to fight even against the overwhelming odds.

For Reika, this wasn’t just about winning. It was about proving that she and Kana were stronger than they appeared, that they could stand up to someone like El Diablo, even if it meant pushing themselves to their limits. And as she looked into his eyes, she knew that no matter the outcome, she would fight with everything she had.

El Diablo's dark gaze settled on Reika as she steadied herself, her resolve evident even through the exhaustion etched across her face. She barely had time to take a breath before he closed the distance between them with a sudden, powerful step, his movements as swift as they were merciless. Without warning, he drove a brutal body shot into her midsection, his fist sinking into her ribs. The impact forced a sharp gasp from her lips, her body bending slightly as the air rushed from her lungs.

Before she could recover, his hand shot out, seizing her by the back of her hair. His fingers tightened, gripping with an iron strength that left her no choice but to follow his lead. Reika’s face twisted in pain, her hands flying to his wrist in a desperate attempt to pry herself free, but his hold was unyielding, his control absolute.

"You’re still trying to fight?" he sneered, his voice low and mocking as he yanked her head back just enough to force her to meet his gaze. "I’d almost admire it… if it weren’t so pathetic."

Reika’s jaw clenched, defiance flashing in her eyes despite the discomfort. "I’m not… giving you the satisfaction," she bit out, her voice strained but filled with a fierce resolve.

El Diablo chuckled, clearly amused by her stubbornness. "Oh, I think you will. Just give it time."

Without another word, he began dragging her toward the corner, his grip on her hair forcing her to stumble along, her feet barely finding purchase on the mat. The crowd watched in tense silence, their attention fixed on the brutal display as he led her to the corner with calculated ease. Reika struggled, her body fighting to break free, but every movement only seemed to amuse him further, fueling his mocking smirk.

Upon reaching the corner, El Diablo wasted no time. With a sharp, unceremonious motion, he slammed Reika’s head face-first into the turnbuckle. Her skull met the padding with a dull thud, the impact jarring her senses, sending a dizzying shockwave through her body. Her knees buckled, her legs struggling to hold her weight as she reeled from the blow, her vision momentarily blurred.

Reika took in a sharp breath, her senses swimming as she fought to regain her focus. But El Diablo wasn’t about to give her that chance. He turned her around, pressing her back against the corner, his presence looming over her as he pinned her in place. His expression was cold, calculating, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes as he prepared to continue his assault.

"Look at you," he taunted, his voice carrying a mocking edge as he placed a hand on her shoulder, keeping her trapped against the turnbuckle. "All that bravado… and for what? Just to end up right where I wanted you."

Reika’s hands gripped the ropes at her sides, her breaths coming in shallow, pained gasps as she met his gaze. Despite the pain, despite the fatigue weighing her down, there was a fire in her eyes that refused to dim. "I’m… still here," she managed, each word a testament to her unyielding spirit.

He sneered, unimpressed. "Then let’s see how long that lasts."

With ruthless precision, he began delivering a series of brutal strikes, each blow landing with unrelenting force. His forearm smashed into her chest, driving the air from her lungs, followed by a sharp knee to her midsection that left her gasping. Reika’s body jolted with each impact, her grip on the ropes tightening as she struggled to stay upright, her determination fighting against the onslaught of pain.

The crowd watched in rapt silence, their breaths held as they took in every move, every blow that El Diablo delivered with calculated brutality. His strikes were relentless, each one designed to wear her down, to remind her who held the power in that ring.

Kana looked on from the apron, her fists clenched as she watched her sister endure the punishment, a mix of anger and helplessness in her gaze. She wanted to shout encouragement, to somehow lend Reika her strength, but she knew that words wouldn’t be enough. All she could do was watch, her heart pounding as she silently urged Reika to hold on.

Satisfied with his work in the corner, El Diablo finally stepped back, a smug smile playing on his lips as he took in the sight of Reika, her body slumped slightly against the ropes, her breathing labored. Without a hint of hesitation, he scooped her up, his hands gripping her firmly as he lifted her off her feet. The crowd held its breath, knowing what was coming, but Reika was helpless to resist.

With a powerful motion, he drove her down in a punishing powerslam, her body hitting the mat with a heavy thud that echoed through the arena. She lay there, stunned, her chest heaving as she struggled to process the pain, her mind reeling from the relentless assault. Every inch of her felt bruised, battered, but even as she lay there, gasping for breath, there was a flicker of defiance in her eyes, a silent refusal to surrender.

El Diablo, however, wasn’t finished. Moving with a practiced ease, he maneuvered her into a sitting position, slipping behind her and wrapping his arm around her neck, pulling her into a chinlock. He leaned back, his hold firm and unyielding as he applied pressure to her neck and spine, immobilizing her, keeping her trapped in his control.

Reika’s hands instinctively flew to his arm, her fingers gripping his wrist as she tried to relieve the pressure, her breaths coming in short, shallow gasps. The pain was intense, a sharp, unrelenting ache that radiated through her body, but she refused to let him see her weaken.

"Struggling already?" he murmured, his voice low, taunting as he leaned in close, his breath hot against her ear. "I thought you were supposed to be tough."

Reika clenched her teeth, her fingers digging into his wrist as she fought against the hold. "I… I’m still here," she panted, her voice barely a whisper but filled with a fierce resolve.

El Diablo chuckled, tightening his grip, drawing her even closer as he increased the pressure. "For now. But that can change any second you decide you’ve had enough."

Reika’s breaths grew more labored, her vision blurring slightly as she struggled to stay focused, to push past the pain. She could feel the weight of his control, the strength in his hold, but she wouldn’t let him break her. Not now, not after everything she’d endured.

From the apron, Kana leaned forward, her expression filled with a mixture of pride and desperation as she watched her sister fight, her heart pounding as she silently urged Reika to hold on. "Come on, Reika!" she called, her voice filled with determination. "Don’t give in!"

El Diablo glanced over at Kana, his smirk widening. "You should listen to your sister, Reika," he murmured, his tone dripping with condescension. "She believes in you. It’d be a shame to disappoint her."

Reika’s grip on his wrist tightened, her jaw clenched as she forced herself to focus, to block out his taunts. "You… talk too much," she managed, her voice strained but filled with defiance.

His chuckle was dark, his tone filled with amusement as he leaned back further, pulling her head back to intensify the hold. "And you struggle too much. But I suppose that’s part of the fun."

The pain in her neck and spine was relentless, an unyielding pressure that threatened to overwhelm her, but Reika forced herself to breathe, to stay grounded. She wasn’t about to let him have the satisfaction of seeing her break, not when Kana was watching, not when she still had something left to prove.

El Diablo’s voice dropped to a whisper, his tone filled with cold amusement. "Just admit it, Reika. You’re outmatched. It’s easier that way."

Reika’s fingers dug deeper into his wrist, her body trembling from the effort it took to resist, but her spirit remained unbroken. "I’ll admit… nothing," she whispered, each word a challenge, a testament to her defiance.

The crowd watched, captivated by the struggle unfolding in the ring, the tension palpable as they witnessed Reika’s unyielding spirit, her refusal to give in despite the pain, despite the overwhelming odds. Kana’s eyes were fixed on her sister, pride and worry mingling in her gaze as she silently willed Reika to hold on, to keep fighting.

El Diablo, feeling her resistance, smirked, tightening the hold just enough to remind her of his power. "Suit yourself," he murmured, his voice filled with dark satisfaction. "I’ve got all the time in the world."

And with that, he held her there, his grip unrelenting, his dominance absolute, letting the seconds stretch into an agonizing eternity as Reika fought to endure, her spirit blazing bright even as her body struggled to keep up.

Kana watched, her heart pounding with anxiety as she saw Reika trapped in El Diablo’s unyielding chinlock, her sister’s face contorted with pain yet blazing with defiance. The sight was too much to bear; every instinct screamed for her to act, to do something to help, despite her own bruised, battered body. She tightened her grip on the ropes, her eyes narrowing with determination. She couldn’t stand by any longer.

Ignoring the pain lancing through her body, Kana climbed through the ropes, her movements slightly unsteady but resolute. She braced herself, gathering her strength as she locked her gaze onto El Diablo, intent on breaking his hold over Reika. With a fierce resolve, she charged forward, intending to land a powerful flying knee directly at him.

But the damage she had sustained slowed her down, her body dragging against her will. El Diablo noticed her approach instantly. His gaze flickered with cold calculation as he made a swift decision, shifting Reika slightly and pulling her up just in time to redirect Kana’s incoming strike.

Kana’s knee connected—not with El Diablo, but with Reika’s stomach. Reika’s eyes widened in shock as the impact sent a jolt through her, a strangled gasp escaping her lips as she folded forward, clutching her abdomen. The betrayal of the unexpected blow left her reeling, her body already weakened and now struck by her own sister’s attempt at rescue.

Kana’s eyes widened, horror overtaking her expression as she realized what had happened. "Reika!" she gasped, her voice filled with guilt, her heart sinking as she saw the pain flicker across her sister’s face. "I didn’t mean—"

But her words were cut off as she felt a pair of powerful arms lock around her from behind. El Diablo seized the opportunity, his movements swift and merciless as he trapped Kana in a full nelson, his hands clasped behind her neck, his grip unbreakable. Kana struggled, her arms pinned as he pressed her head down, forcing her to look directly at Reika, who lay clutching her stomach on the mat, her breaths shallow and pained.

"Look at what you did," El Diablo sneered, his voice low and taunting as he tightened the hold, applying brutal pressure to Kana’s neck and shoulders. "This is what happens when you let your pride get the better of you."

Kana’s heart twisted, a wave of guilt and helplessness crashing over her as she gazed at her sister’s prone form. Reika had been fighting so hard, enduring so much, and in her attempt to help, she’d only made things worse. "Reika… I’m so sorry," she whispered, her voice filled with despair as she struggled against El Diablo’s unyielding grip.

"Apologies won’t save her," he mocked, his voice cold as he increased the pressure, his arms like iron around her shoulders. "Or you."

Kana’s breathing grew shallow, the strain of the full nelson wearing down her resistance, both physically and mentally. The positioning, the forced gaze at her injured sister, the unrelenting pain—it all felt calculated, designed to break her spirit, to shatter whatever hope she had left.

"See, Kana," he murmured, leaning close as he pressed her down further. "You’re not strong enough. Not to protect her, and certainly not to stand up to me."

A tear slipped down Kana’s cheek as she forced herself to breathe, to fight back against the despair creeping into her heart. "No…" she managed, though the strength in her voice was wavering. "You… won’t break us."

He scoffed, unimpressed by her defiance. "You’re already broken. You just haven’t realized it yet."

And with a swift, merciless motion, he transitioned from the full nelson, lifting her off the ground before driving his knee into her stomach in a brutal gutbuster. Kana’s body buckled from the impact, a choked gasp escaping her lips as she crumpled to the mat, her arms wrapped around her abdomen as she struggled to breathe, the pain overwhelming her senses.

El Diablo barely spared her a second glance, his focus shifting back to Reika, who was still lying on the mat, clutching her stomach from Kana’s inadvertent strike. He reached down, grabbing a fistful of her hair and pulling her up, his movements rough, his gaze cold and calculating.

"Ready for more, Reika?" he sneered, his tone laced with dark amusement as he locked her into a front facelock, his arm cinching around her neck in a tight grip. Reika’s hands instinctively went to his arm, her fingers clawing at his wrist as she tried to relieve the pressure, but he held her firmly, his strength overwhelming her resistance.

Without hesitation, he lifted her, holding her aloft for a moment before driving her down in a vertical suplex—directly onto Kana’s prone form. The combined impact sent a shockwave of pain through both sisters, their bodies colliding in a tangled heap as they lay sprawled on the mat, gasping for breath, their strength all but drained.

Kana’s face twisted in agony, the pain of Reika’s weight crashing onto her already battered body nearly unbearable. She struggled to breathe, her chest heaving as she fought to push herself up, her fingers trembling from the strain. Reika, too, was left reeling, her vision swimming as she tried to gather her senses, to process the relentless assault that had left them both sprawled on the mat.

El Diablo looked down at them, his expression a mixture of satisfaction and disdain as he watched the two sisters struggle. He took a step back, crossing his arms as he surveyed his handiwork, the faintest smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Is this really the best the Matsumoto sisters can do?" he taunted, his voice carrying a mocking edge as he regarded them with cold indifference. "I expected more fight."

Reika forced herself to look up at him, her breaths shallow, her face etched with pain but her eyes still blazing with defiance. "You… haven’t won… yet," she managed, her voice barely a whisper but filled with an unyielding resolve.

He arched an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Still talking big? You’re barely holding together."

Reika gritted her teeth, her fingers digging into the mat as she pushed herself up, inch by inch, refusing to let him see her give up. "You… underestimate us."

He laughed, the sound cold and devoid of humor. "Underestimate? No, Reika. I just know exactly how much fight you have left—and it’s not enough."

Kana, lying beside her sister, forced herself to reach out, her fingers brushing against Reika’s as they exchanged a glance, a silent exchange of strength, a reminder that they were in this together, no matter how much pain they endured.

"We… won’t stop," Kana whispered, her voice filled with a quiet but fierce determination. "Not until… one of us is left standing."

El Diablo’s smirk faded, replaced by a flicker of irritation. "Then I’ll make sure neither of you stand again."


El Diablo took a step back, his cold gaze flickering between the two broken sisters sprawled on the mat. They lay there, bodies battered, each struggling to rise despite the pain etched across their faces. He allowed them that moment, a dark glint of satisfaction in his eyes as he prepared to drive home his dominance once and for all.

Without a word, he reached down and grabbed Reika, his fingers digging into her shoulder as he hauled her up with ease. Her body was weak, her limbs barely responsive, but the flicker of defiance in her gaze remained, her spirit refusing to fully surrender. El Diablo, however, had other plans. In a swift, brutal motion, he hoisted her onto his shoulders, draping her across in a torture rack, her body bent at an excruciating angle.

Reika’s face twisted in agony, a strangled cry escaping her lips as he applied pressure, bending her spine in a way that made her nerves scream. She gripped his arm, her fingers weakly clawing at him as she tried to alleviate the pain, but his hold was merciless, his strength absolute.

"Let… me… go…" she managed, her voice barely a whisper as she fought against the unbearable pressure. But her resistance only seemed to fuel his cruelty, a dark satisfaction evident in his eyes as he adjusted his grip, intensifying the hold.

"Begging already?" he sneered, his voice filled with mocking amusement as he looked up at her contorted form. "I thought you were tougher than that, Reika."

Her response was a strangled groan, her body trembling as the pain overwhelmed her senses. She tried to hold on, to keep her resolve, but the agony of the hold was relentless, her strength quickly waning. Below her, Kana was still on the mat, her own body aching, but her gaze was fixed on her sister, horror and helplessness filling her eyes as she watched Reika endure the torture.

Kana tried to push herself up, every muscle screaming in protest as she forced her body to respond. She was battered, broken, but she couldn’t just stand by and watch her sister suffer. As she rose to her knees, she looked up at El Diablo, her voice raw with desperation. "Please… please stop! You’ve… you’ve done enough!"

El Diablo’s gaze flicked down to Kana, his expression a mixture of disdain and amusement. "Is that all you’ve got, Kana? Begging for mercy now?"

Her face twisted with a mixture of anger and anguish, but she swallowed her pride, her voice trembling as she pleaded with him. "Please… let her go. I’ll… I’ll do anything. Just… don’t hurt her anymore."

He scoffed, an amused chuckle escaping his lips as he shifted his stance, bringing Reika lower, his movements calculated and merciless. "Anything, huh?" he mused, a dark glint in his eyes as he pressed his boot against Kana’s midsection, grinding his heel into her abdomen. Kana gasped, the pain radiating through her body as she clutched his boot, but she didn’t let go, her gaze fixed on Reika.

Reika’s pained voice cut through the air, her resolve breaking under the relentless pressure. "I… I can’t… I give up!" she cried, her voice filled with desperation as her body shook from the pain. "Please… just… stop."

Kana’s own tears streamed down her face, her voice choked with guilt as she echoed her sister’s surrender. "Please… let her go. I… I’m begging you."

El Diablo’s smirk widened, a look of satisfaction flickering in his eyes as he finally released Reika from the torture rack, letting her body slump to the mat. She lay there, gasping for breath, her body trembling as she tried to process the pain, her gaze barely able to focus as she looked up at her sister.

But he wasn’t done yet.

With calculated precision, El Diablo reached down, rolling Kana over so that she lay face-down across Reika, their bodies positioned one over the other, both of them exhausted, battered, barely able to move. He stepped around them, taking hold of Kana’s leg and pulling it back, locking her into a single-leg Boston crab, her body arching painfully over Reika’s prone form.

Kana’s face twisted in agony, her voice breaking into sobs as the pain overwhelmed her. She clutched the mat, her fingers trembling as she tried to hold herself together, her body and spirit nearing their breaking point. The positioning was humiliating, her sister beneath her, both of them trapped in a position that left them vulnerable, helpless.

"Please… please stop," Kana sobbed, her voice filled with both pain and guilt as she glanced down at Reika. "I… I’m so sorry, Reika… I didn’t mean… I didn’t mean for this."

Reika, despite her own pain, managed to reach up, her hand brushing Kana’s as she tried to offer comfort, her voice soft, filled with a quiet strength. "It’s… it’s okay, Kana… we did our best."

The two sisters shared a moment of connection, a silent understanding passing between them, their bond stronger than the pain, stronger than the humiliation. They had come here together, and no matter what happened, they would endure it together.

El Diablo, watching their exchange, tightened the hold, a smirk of satisfaction tugging at his lips as he twisted Kana’s leg further, forcing another anguished cry from her lips. He seemed content to keep them in this position, to let them suffer for as long as he pleased, his dominance undisputed.

But then, a faint voice crackled in his earpiece, cutting through the crowd’s noise. It was cold, authoritative, the tone unmistakable. "Wrap it up, Diablo. Alyx is getting restless. You’ve had your fun—move on."

El Diablo’s smirk faded slightly, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face as he cast a final, disdainful glance down at the Matsumoto sisters. With a reluctant sigh, he released Kana’s leg, letting her collapse onto her sister, the two of them lying in a tangled, exhausted heap on the mat.

He straightened, taking a step back, his voice carrying a tone of cold finality as he addressed them. "Get out of my ring," he commanded, his gaze hard and unfeeling. "I’ve got a real main event waiting, and it’s not with you two."

The crowd was a mix of reactions—some cheers, some murmurs of sympathy, but all eyes were on the Matsumoto sisters as they lay on the mat, their bodies battered, their spirits strained but not broken.

Kana looked at Reika, her eyes filled with remorse as she tried to help her sister sit up, her voice barely a whisper. "Reika… I’m so sorry. I… I couldn’t…"

Reika reached over, placing a hand on Kana’s shoulder, offering a small, reassuring smile despite the pain etched across her face. "We did… our best. That’s what matters."

With great effort, the two sisters managed to pull themselves up, supporting each other as they staggered toward the ropes, their bodies aching but their bond stronger than ever. They shared a final look, a silent promise that no matter what, they would keep fighting, keep standing up, even if it meant facing monsters like El Diablo again.

As they climbed out of the ring, the crowd’s applause swelled, a tribute to their courage, their resilience in the face of overwhelming odds. And as they disappeared into the shadows, their heads held high despite the bruises, they knew that this fight had only strengthened their resolve, their determination to return stronger, to prove that they could endure anything.

Back in the ring, El Diablo watched them leave, his expression one of complete indifference. He had made his point, asserted his dominance, and now his attention was already shifting to the next challenge, the next victim.

For him, it was just another night in the ring. But for Reika and Kana, it was a night that would fuel their resolve, a reminder of the strength they shared, the unbreakable bond that would carry them through whatever came next.

 

[anotherguttersnipe]

Interlude 4.0 - The Plan:

The VIP booth held a quiet, ominous tension as Jin Kazama and Nina Williams observed the aftermath of the match below. The crowd’s thunderous cheers and shouts echoed up to them, an unsettling contrast to the calm silence between the two. In the ring, the Matsumoto sisters, Reika and Kana, were barely on their feet, leaning on each other as they staggered toward the exit. Their faces were pale, marked with bruises and cuts, their expressions reflecting a mixture of pain and humiliation. El Diablo, meanwhile, stood in the center of the ring, reveling in the attention, raising his arms to the crowd as if drawing power from their morbid fascination.

Nina’s gaze flickered to El Diablo, her lips curling in an indifferent smirk. “He’s efficient, I’ll give him that,” she remarked casually. “Brutal as ever. Handled those two like it was nothing.” There was no admiration in her tone, only a detached acknowledgment of his performance. To her, it was simply another match, another pair of challengers defeated, broken, and discarded for the night’s entertainment.

Jin remained silent, his eyes fixed intently on the ring. His expression was unreadable, but there was a shadow of distaste in his gaze as he watched El Diablo parade himself before the cheering crowd. After a moment, he spoke, his voice cold and laced with contempt. “This entire spectacle… it’s degenerate.” He spat the word out, his disgust barely concealed as he continued to observe El Diablo. The spectacle didn’t sit well with him. To Jin, this was a hollow display of strength, one that preyed on the desperation and vulnerability of those forced into the ring.

Nina raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at her lips as she gave Jin a sidelong glance. “Degenerate, huh?” she said, her tone light but with a hint of mockery. “Coming from you, that’s rich.” She leaned back, crossing her arms as she looked him over. “You and I don’t exactly hold back when we train, and I don’t remember you hesitating in the King of Iron Fist tournaments either. What makes this any different?”

Jin shot her a brief, icy look, his expression hardening. “This,” he said sharply, gesturing toward the ring, “isn’t about competition or skill. It’s about breaking people for the sake of it. This place feeds on suffering, and these people cheer for it. There’s a difference.”

Nina shrugged, unbothered by his disapproval. She returned her gaze to the ring, watching as the Matsumoto sisters made their slow, painful exit, each step a testament to the toll their match had taken. They leaned on each other, both physically and emotionally, as they stumbled toward the locker room, leaving behind the roaring crowd and the sadistic champion who had crushed them. The scene was familiar to Nina; she’d seen countless fighters in similar states, beaten down and humiliated, yet somehow clinging to the last shreds of their pride.

As the crowd’s noise began to die down, Nina’s attention shifted from the ring to the table where the Yakuza sat. Ichiro Sakazaki, the stoic leader of this underworld operation, was flanked by his lieutenants—Kenta, Tatsu, and Sato. They were engaged in quiet conversation, their expressions tense, no doubt discussing the events of the match and what it meant for their operation. Nina’s gaze lingered on Sato, her eyes narrowing slightly.

She leaned closer to Jin, her voice low. “Speaking of degenerates… Wallace confirmed it. Sato’s our mole. He’s been feeding intel to G Corporation behind Ichiro’s back.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, as if she were discussing the weather rather than someone’s impending downfall.

Jin’s eyes flicked to Sato, his expression remaining calm and unreadable. “So, it’s him,” he murmured, his tone neutral, almost detached. There was no anger, no satisfaction in his voice, only the cold recognition of a fact. “Good to know.”

Nina studied him, a faint trace of curiosity in her gaze. “So, what’s the plan?” she asked. “We’re not here to sit and watch, are we?”

Jin’s gaze drifted back to the ring, where El Diablo continued to play to the crowd, his presence casting a long, dark shadow over the arena. “I intend to have the Yakuza surrender Sato themselves,” he replied, his tone calm and measured. “They’re proud, but they’re not foolish. If they realize Sato’s actions threaten their own operations, they’ll take care of him for us.”

Nina raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “And how exactly do you plan to make them do that?”

Jin’s eyes remained fixed on El Diablo, a hint of calculation in his gaze. “Simple. I’ll give them a choice: hand over the mole… or lose something they can’t afford to lose.”

Nina’s eyes followed his gaze to El Diablo, understanding dawning in her expression. “El Diablo,” she said, her tone laced with amusement. “He’s the crown jewel of their little operation, isn’t he? All this revolves around him. Without him, this place loses its main attraction, its biggest draw.”

Jin nodded slightly. “Precisely. El Diablo’s presence is crucial to the Yakuza’s operations here. His skill in the ring, combined with his complete lack of morality, makes him irreplaceable. He’s not just a fighter; he’s an asset, one they can’t easily replace.”

Nina gave a small nod, considering his words. “Fair enough. Though I still think they could find another bruiser willing to beat the life out of anyone they throw in there. But I suppose El Diablo’s a rare breed. Not many have that perfect blend of technical skill and… lack of restraint.”

As she spoke, a new presence entered the ring, drawing the crowd’s attention. Alyx Sharpe strode into the arena, her confident, almost arrogant stride immediately shifting the energy in the room. She was tall and imposing, dressed in a vibrant green wrestling leotard that accentuated her powerful build and muscular frame. Her long black hair, streaked with a bold red stripe, fell down her shoulders, and her fierce, determined gaze scanned the crowd with a look that dared anyone to underestimate her. She wore black wristbands and knee pads, her stance radiating strength and defiance, as if she were ready to face any challenge that came her way.



Nina watched Alyx with mild interest, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Look who’s here. Miss undefeated herself. She’s never been submitted, you know. Always goes the distance, no matter how brutal the match.”

Jin didn’t respond, his gaze unreadable as he observed the scene below. Alyx’s arrival hadn’t shifted his focus; his mind was already set on the next phase of his plan. Without a word, he leaned slightly toward Nina, his voice low and commanding. “Go backstage. Wait for the match to finish, then intercept El Diablo. Incapacitate him and contact me once you’ve completed the task.”

Nina arched an eyebrow, her amusement fading as her expression turned serious. She nodded, understanding the gravity of the assignment. With a final glance at the ring, she rose from her seat and made her way toward the exit, her movements silent and purposeful, slipping into the shadows as she disappeared from the booth.

Left alone, Jin’s gaze remained fixed on the ring, his mind focused on the task at hand. The crowd’s energy pulsed around him, but he paid it no heed. His thoughts were sharp, calculating, each piece of the plan falling into place. As he watched Alyx and El Diablo prepare to face off, he felt no excitement, no anticipation—only the cold satisfaction of control, of knowing that, before the night was over, the Yakuza would have no choice but to yield to his terms.

 

[anotherguttersnipe]

Edge of Pain: Match 5: Alyx Sharpe vs El Diablo


The lights dimmed as El Diablo raised his fists to the cheers, his broad form casting a towering shadow across the ring. The Elite Underground Arena buzzed with anticipation; the crowd’s feverish energy wrapped around him, feeding his confidence. Yet, amidst this familiar chaos, something felt off. His gaze drifted up toward the VIP booth—Jin Kazama now sat alone, his bodyguard that was present for the previous match had since departed. The emptiness around Jin, his watchful presence focused solely on El Diablo, planted a flicker of unease deep in his chest.

A faint tension pinched at El Diablo’s instincts, his jaw tightening. It was rare for him to feel truly observed. The void of faces around Jin stripped away a layer of ambiguity. Tonight, he knew, Jin wasn’t just here to enjoy a fight; he was here to see something.

The buzz from the crowd shifted, drawing his focus back to the ring. Alyx Sharpe, with her relaxed swagger and vibrant grin, had stepped into his domain. Her usual unruly energy sharpened into something fierce and playful, and her eyes glinted with excitement. “Hey, D!” she called, her voice cutting through the noise. “Took you long enough! You know how long I’ve been waiting for this?”

Her grin broadened, as if she were ready to put him through a test she’d crafted especially for him. Her defiance, her electric thrill for a brawl—all of it danced across her features. She was more than comfortable in this ring, exuding a confidence only matched by the crowd’s enthusiasm. Tonight, the arena belonged as much to her as it did to him.

El Diablo’s lips curved into a smirk, pushing aside the strange weight Jin’s presence had settled over him. “Waiting, huh?” he drawled, rolling his shoulders with casual arrogance. “Well, don’t worry. I came prepared to make it worth your time.”

Alyx laughed, a bright, mocking sound that was as much a taunt as it was an invitation. “Good. Thought you’d give me a real show, D. I didn’t sign up for any of those lukewarm ‘fights’ you put everyone else through.”

He let her jab roll over him, amusement dancing in his eyes. Alyx was one of the few in this twisted league who dared to needle him, to push back with the same bite. She had her own reasons, of course—reasons that made her more of a masochistic thrill-seeker than the others, who feared him with every step. The crowd seemed to sense it, their cheers rising, their bloodlust mixing with the shared anticipation of something rare: a showdown between two fighters with no interest in holding back.

“Guess I’ll have to step it up, then,” El Diablo replied, his tone light but charged. He took a step closer, their gazes locking as they moved in sync, each word between them building the tempo of what was to come. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

Alyx tilted her head, a cocky grin stretching wide as her eyes met his without flinching. “You could try, but I doubt you’d know how to disappoint even if you wanted to.”

The intensity between them shifted, an unspoken understanding blending their rivalry with a peculiar camaraderie. She was here to test her limits, and he was here to see if she had any. They both knew it, and so did the audience, whose roars reached a fever pitch.

With her fists raised and her body angled, Alyx began to move, her stance open and inviting. She wore that glint in her eye, the one that dared him to come at her with everything. El Diablo’s expression darkened, but his grin never left his face as he mirrored her movements. Both circled each other, the crowd’s chants blurring into a single pulse that echoed in time with each step.

In that moment, he felt the strange unease from Jin’s watchful presence fade into the background. All that mattered now was the ring, the crowd’s chants vibrating in the air, and the woman circling him with a grin that promised more than any usual fight.


Alyx and El Diablo circled each other in the center of the ring, both fighters’ eyes locked in a fierce, unspoken agreement that this match would be unlike any other. The crowd’s roars dulled into a low hum around them as they sized each other up. Finally, Alyx lunged, her arms extending for the collar-and-elbow lock-up, meeting his stance in a clash of power and technique.

The moment their bodies connected, El Diablo took control. His grip was vice-like, his hands moving with calculated precision as he maneuvered Alyx into a series of holds. He transitioned seamlessly from a wrist lock to a hammerlock, twisting her arm behind her back. Alyx gritted her teeth, feeling the pressure in her shoulder, but she resisted with all her strength, refusing to let him get the better of her so easily. She tried to twist out, but his grip tightened, anchoring her in place.

“Trying to show off for Jin, huh?” she taunted, her voice strained but mocking, as she managed to get her feet back under her.

El Diablo chuckled, shifting her into a headlock with fluid ease. “Nah, he’s not the one I’m here to impress.” He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a taunting murmur. “Thought you’d know that by now.”

With a quick twist, he tightened the headlock, pulling her down to one knee. Alyx’s jaw clenched, but she used her free arm to throw a sharp elbow into his ribs. The blow earned her just a half-second’s worth of freedom, but it was enough for her to slip out of his grip and push away, putting some distance between them. She shook out her arm, the ache from his control leaving a lingering burn.

“Not bad, D. Almost had me there,” she teased, rolling her shoulder to ease the stiffness.

He smirked, unaffected by her words. “Almost, huh?” He stepped forward, forcing her to back up as his larger frame loomed over her. “Guess I’ll have to try harder.”

Without another word, he closed the gap between them and grabbed hold of her wrist, twisting it into a standing arm wrench. Alyx grunted, the strain radiating through her arm as she struggled to counter. She managed a step forward, looking for an angle to reverse the hold, but El Diablo was already a step ahead. He pulled her forward, transitioning into a hammerlock and pressing her arm tight against her back.

Alyx’s face tightened with pain, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her struggle. She forced a smile, glancing over her shoulder. “All these holds… You trying to lull me to sleep?”

“Just making sure you’re warmed up,” he replied, and with a quick twist, he changed his grip, moving her into a waistlock from behind. Alyx felt the shift in his stance and braced herself, but it was too late. With a powerful heave, El Diablo lifted her off her feet and slammed her down in a mat return, pinning her against the canvas with his weight pressing down on her.

Alyx let out a sharp breath, the impact jarring her body. Before she could catch her breath, he transitioned smoothly into a grounded headlock, pressing her head to the mat with a force that made it hard to move. The crowd was on their feet, roaring at his technical dominance, the subtle display of control and expertise building the tension with every passing second.

She tried to twist free, but his grip was unyielding, his strength far greater than her own. She managed to shift her legs, planting her feet on the mat, and used all her strength to bridge, pushing against his hold. Her defiance made him grin, and as she strained, he leaned down, his voice a low, mocking whisper.

“What’s the matter, Alyx? Thought you’d be tougher than this.”

Gritting her teeth, she growled, “I’m just getting started.”

Using her momentum, Alyx finally twisted her body enough to break free from his grip, rolling out and hopping to her feet. She was breathing heavily, the chain wrestling sequence having taken its toll, but her eyes shone with determination as she faced him. She wiped her mouth, smirking as she stepped back, gesturing for him to come at her.

“Alright, enough foreplay. Let’s get serious.”

He chuckled, a dark, amused sound. “Your funeral.”

Without wasting a second, El Diablo surged forward, locking hands with her again in a test of strength. Alyx fought back with all her might, but he quickly overpowered her, twisting her arm into another wrist lock. She grimaced, feeling the tension in her tendons, but before he could transition into another hold, she threw a sharp kick to his shin.

The blow forced him to release her, just enough for her to slip out of his grip and counter with a quick side headlock. She wrenched his neck, but he barely seemed affected, his amused smile lingering as he tightened his core and prepared to counter.

In a swift movement, he shoved her off, sending her stumbling back. She regained her balance just as he grabbed her arm and whipped her to the ropes. The momentum sent her running, and she ducked under a clothesline he aimed at her head, rebounding off the opposite ropes with a burst of speed.

Seeing her charge, El Diablo braced himself, expecting an attack. Alyx leaped, twisting her body mid-air as she aimed for a cross-body press, throwing her weight into him. But he was ready. With a practiced motion, he caught her, her smaller frame practically weightless in his arms. A flicker of surprise crossed her face, but before she could react, he twisted, bringing her down hard over his knee in a brutal backbreaker.

Alyx’s body arched as pain shot through her spine, a sharp gasp escaping her lips. The crowd roared, sensing the agony etched across her face, but she gritted her teeth, refusing to let him see her weakness. Even as her back screamed in protest, she pushed herself up, her movements slow but determined.

El Diablo watched, an amused gleam in his eyes as she struggled to her feet. “Still going?” he taunted, tilting his head. “I could do this all night, you know.”

She shot him a fierce glare, wiping a stray strand of hair from her face. “Yeah? Well, so can I.” She forced a smile, her breaths coming in heavy pants. “That the best you’ve got?”

He chuckled, a hint of respect mingling with his amusement. “Oh, you’re about to find out.”


Alyx steadied herself, shaking out the soreness in her back from the backbreaker. She took a deep breath, and then a mischievous grin spread across her face as she shifted her stance. El Diablo raised an eyebrow, noticing her subtle change in posture. She lifted her leg and snapped a quick kick toward him, aiming for his side. He sidestepped, evading it easily, but she followed up with another kick, this one higher, aimed at his shoulder. He blocked it with his forearm, the impact barely making him flinch.

With each kick, she shifted slightly, bringing more force and speed into her movements. El Diablo’s eyes narrowed as he caught the rhythm of her attacks, noticing a familiar pattern. Her movements mirrored Tae-Yeung Park’s Taekwondo techniques, each strike thrown with precision and purpose. It was almost as if Alyx were mocking him—or maybe mocking Tae-Yeung, the fighter who had already faced El Diablo and come up short.

“Cute,” he remarked, his voice laced with amusement as he dodged another high kick. “Didn’t know you took lessons from Park.”

Alyx’s grin widened as she landed another kick against his forearm. “Oh, come on, D,” she teased, lowering her guard for a brief moment. “Thought I’d give you a taste of something different. Figured Tae-Yeung could use some inspiration.”

Her taunt was playful, but he could see she was serious about the fight. Alyx wasn’t here to win by any typical means; she was here to test her own limits, to see how far she could go against him. Her kicks, though sharp, lacked the power to make him truly stagger, but he humored her for a few more strikes, the mockery bringing a smirk to his face. She stepped in for another high kick, her leg arcing toward his head with a surprising burst of speed.

But this time, he was ready. As her foot swung upward, he caught it mid-air, his large hand wrapping around her ankle with a vice-like grip. Alyx’s balance faltered, and her eyes widened slightly, realizing too late that she’d been caught.

“Enough playing,” he murmured, his voice low and ominous. With a swift twist, he yanked her leg down, pulling her off her feet. Alyx’s body hit the mat with a heavy thud, but he didn’t let go of her ankle. Instead, he twisted it further, locking her into a brutal ankle lock. The pressure was immediate, and Alyx’s face contorted with pain as he twisted her foot, bending it in ways it wasn’t meant to go.

A sharp hiss escaped her lips, but she clenched her jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a scream. She braced her palms against the mat, trying to relieve the tension in her leg as the crowd’s cheers rose, sensing the intensity of the hold.

“Still think Tae-Yeung’s moves will help you here?” he taunted, increasing the pressure, watching her squirm under his grip. “Doesn’t look like it.”

Alyx shot him a glare, her breathing heavy but her spirit unbroken. “Tae-Yeung might’ve tapped by now,” she gritted out, “but I’m just getting comfortable.”

He let out a chuckle, amused by her defiance, but he wasn’t done. Maintaining his grip on her ankle, he shifted his position, lowering himself down as he transitioned into a kneebar. The change in hold was seamless, his grip shifting to place maximum pressure on her knee. Alyx’s body tensed, her free leg instinctively kicking out, but his grip was relentless.

A gasp escaped her as he wrenched the kneebar, sending a sharp pain radiating through her leg. Every twist and pull was calculated, each movement designed to push her limits, to test how much she could withstand. El Diablo watched her carefully, intrigued by her endurance. Most of his opponents would have been screaming, tapping out, or begging for mercy by now. But Alyx…she was different. Her hands gripped the mat, her knuckles turning white as she fought through the pain, refusing to yield.

“You can give up anytime, you know,” he said, his tone almost conversational. “Wouldn’t blame you.”

Alyx let out a dry, humorless laugh, her voice strained but still defiant. “Give up? Not even in your dreams.”

He tightened the hold, the strain on her knee intensifying. She let out a grunt of pain, her body twisting as she fought against the hold. Desperation flickered in her eyes for a brief second, but it was quickly replaced by a determined glint. With a surge of energy, she kicked at him with her free leg, aiming for his torso. The first few kicks barely fazed him, but she increased her force, each strike more insistent.

Finally, one kick landed just hard enough to knock him off balance, forcing him to release her. She scrambled away, breathing heavily as she clutched her knee, the ache radiating up her leg a reminder of the brutal hold. El Diablo watched her, his smirk never faltering, even as she managed to pull herself up onto one knee.

Alyx took a steadying breath, her gaze locked on him as she rose to her feet, albeit slower than before. Her injured leg trembled slightly, but she forced herself to stand tall, ignoring the pain. She shook out her leg, testing its limits, wincing as the movement sent a jolt of discomfort through her knee.

“Not bad,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. Then, louder, “Thought you’d have me down by now, D. Starting to think you’re getting soft.”

He chuckled, crossing his arms as he watched her struggle to regain her footing. “Soft? You’re still on your feet because I’m letting you stand. But if you want, I can make this a bit harder.”

Alyx grinned, her breathing heavy but her eyes bright with determination. “Harder? I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The crowd cheered, sensing her resilience, her refusal to back down even with the odds stacked against her. She shook out her leg one last time, her stance shifting as she signaled her readiness to continue. The pain in her knee was evident, but she stood firm, meeting his gaze with a fire that refused to die out.

“Ready to go again?” he asked, his voice a mixture of challenge and respect.

She gave him a slow, deliberate nod, her grin never wavering. “Always.”

Inwardly, he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of admiration for her. Most fighters would have been broken by now, but Alyx stood there, defiant, daring him to bring his worst. He took a step forward, his stance shifting, preparing himself for whatever she’d throw at him next.

“You’ve got guts,” he said quietly, his voice carrying an edge of sincerity. “But guts only get you so far.”

“Good thing I brought more than just guts,” she shot back, raising her fists in a challenge. Despite the ache in her leg, she moved with renewed energy, bouncing lightly on her feet, showing him she wasn’t done yet.

They circled each other once more, the air between them thick with anticipation. The crowd’s cheers faded to a low rumble as they focused on each other, each movement precise, measured. Alyx’s injury was evident, her stance slightly off-balance, but her gaze never wavered.

El Diablo knew she was hurt, but he also knew that she’d never back down, not until her body gave out or he forced her to submit. And as they prepared for the next round of their brutal contest, he realized that Alyx Sharpe, with her defiance and resilience, might just be the most intriguing opponent he’d faced in a long time.

With a final nod, they closed the distance, their focus solely on each other, ready to see how far their limits could be pushed.


El Diablo stepped forward, closing the distance between him and Alyx with a single, purposeful stride. Before she could react, he reached out and locked her into another grapple, his massive hands seizing her shoulders with an iron grip. This time, there was no gradual build-up, no subtlety; he moved with sudden force, pushing her backward as she struggled to keep her balance.

“Not going easy on you now,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous as he maintained his hold.

Alyx didn’t back down, bracing herself and digging her heels into the mat. “Good,” she shot back, her breath coming in short, determined bursts. “I wouldn’t want you to.”

Instead of attempting another technical sequence, El Diablo shifted tactics. In a rapid succession, he delivered sharp knee strikes to her abdomen, each blow driving the air out of her lungs. Alyx grimaced, gritting her teeth against the pain, her body jerking with each impact, but she held her ground, refusing to break away from his grip.

“Come on, D!” she goaded, her voice raspy as she gasped for breath. “You’re gonna have to try harder.”

He smirked at her tenacity, delivering one final knee to her midsection before transitioning her into a powerbomb position. Hoisting her up, he lifted her above his shoulders, holding her suspended in the air for a brief, dramatic moment. The crowd went silent, their anticipation hanging heavy in the air.

Then, with brutal force, he brought her down in a sitting powerbomb, slamming her into the mat. The impact shook the ring, and a collective gasp rippled through the audience. Alyx’s body arched involuntarily, the pain radiating from her back as she lay sprawled out on the mat, her chest heaving as she fought to catch her breath. Despite the agony, she forced herself to prop up on one elbow, a fierce look of defiance still etched on her face.

“Still kicking?” El Diablo taunted, leaning over her. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

Alyx’s lips curled into a weak but determined smile, even as her voice trembled slightly. “Thought you’d figure that out by now.”

El Diablo let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Then let’s make this a bit more…interesting.”

Before she could respond, he reached down, grasping her legs and maneuvering them into a figure-four leglock. Alyx’s eyes widened as she felt her legs twisted and locked, the pressure building instantly. He leaned back, intensifying the hold, his body pressing down to maximize the strain on her knees.

The pain was immediate, white-hot, and all-consuming, radiating up her legs with each second he held her in the figure-four. Alyx’s face contorted, her body instinctively arching as she struggled against the hold, but his grip was unyielding. The crowd’s cheers mixed with gasps as they watched her endure the agonizing submission, each twist and wrench of her legs pulling her closer to her limits.

Through gritted teeth, she glared up at him. “You call this interesting?”

“Oh, it’s about to get a lot more interesting,” he replied, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “How about we play a little game, Alyx? You pick the next three holds I put you in.”

Alyx blinked, momentarily taken aback by his offer. The audacity of it was almost laughable, yet she found herself intrigued by the challenge. She knew he was testing her, pushing her endurance as far as it could go. And, true to her nature, she couldn’t resist.

“Fine,” she said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You’re on.”

El Diablo’s grin widened, a mixture of respect and anticipation in his gaze. “Good. So, what’ll it be?”

Alyx didn’t hesitate, her choice a reflection of her resilience and determination. “The Sharpshooter.”

A murmur ran through the crowd, a mix of awe and disbelief at her choice. The Sharpshooter was a hold known for its unrelenting pressure on the lower back and legs, a choice that would test her pain tolerance to its very limits.

Without a word, El Diablo released her from the figure-four and stood, giving her a moment to gather herself. Alyx rolled onto her stomach, her legs still aching, but she braced herself, pushing up to her knees with determination etched across her face. She positioned herself in preparation, refusing to show any weakness.

El Diablo circled her slowly, savoring the tension in the air before he took her legs and crossed them around his own. With practiced precision, he leaned forward, locking in the Sharpshooter. The second the hold took effect, a searing pain shot through her spine, the pressure on her lower back and legs intensifying as he leaned into the hold. She clenched her fists, her knuckles turning white as she fought against the urge to scream.

“Feeling that yet?” he asked, his tone taunting but laced with a twisted sort of respect.

Alyx gritted her teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Just…getting comfortable,” she forced out, her voice tight with pain. She pulled her body forward slightly, trying to relieve some of the pressure, but he leaned back further, deepening the hold.

Her vision blurred as she fought to endure the excruciating pain, every nerve in her back and legs screaming in protest. She could feel the sweat beading on her forehead, her breathing labored as she held on, determined not to give him the reaction he was looking for.

The crowd watched in awe, captivated by her sheer resilience. They’d seen many challengers fall to El Diablo’s brutal holds, but Alyx was different. She was refusing to yield, refusing to show any weakness, even as the agony twisted her features.

“You’re tougher than I thought,” he admitted, a hint of admiration in his tone. “Most people would’ve tapped out by now.”

Alyx managed a shaky laugh, though it came out more as a pained gasp. “Maybe…you’re just not trying hard enough.”

He chuckled, the sound low and amused. “Oh, trust me. I’m just getting started.”

El Diablo twisted her legs further, increasing the tension in her spine. Alyx’s body jerked involuntarily, her hands gripping the mat as she fought against the urge to tap out. Every instinct screamed at her to give in, to end the pain, but her pride and determination kept her going. She wouldn’t let him win, not like this.

The seconds stretched into an eternity, each one punctuated by the burning agony that coursed through her body. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, her vision swimming as she focused on the only thing keeping her from surrendering: the fierce, unyielding drive to prove herself. She was no ordinary fighter, no mere challenger in the ring. She was Alyx Sharpe, and she would show him exactly what that meant.

“Still hanging on?” he taunted, glancing back at her with a raised eyebrow.

“Gonna…have to do…better,” she panted, her voice barely above a whisper. Her face was pale, her muscles straining as she fought against the hold, but she refused to yield. The crowd was on their feet, chanting her name, their energy fueling her resolve.

El Diablo couldn’t help but feel a flicker of admiration as he watched her endure the Sharpshooter, her body trembling but her spirit unbroken. He leaned back further, applying the maximum pressure he could, yet still she held on, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a submission.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he released the hold, stepping back and allowing her to collapse onto the mat. Alyx lay there for a moment, her body drained and her legs aching, but a faint smile played at her lips. She had endured, had pushed through the pain, and she wasn’t finished yet.

El Diablo stood over her, his expression a mixture of respect and curiosity. “You ready to pick the next one?” he asked, his voice low.

Alyx pushed herself up, breathing heavily but meeting his gaze with unwavering determination. “You bet,” she replied, her voice barely a whisper, but her spirit as strong as ever.


El Diablo circled Alyx as she lay on the mat, her chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. He could tell that the Sharpshooter had taken its toll, yet there she was, her eyes flashing with defiance as she slowly pushed herself up. She was battered, her muscles trembling from the strain, but she managed to look up at him, her smirk unwavering.

“All right, Alyx,” he said, crossing his arms as he waited for her next choice. “What’s it gonna be?”

She pushed herself to one knee, a fierce glint in her eye as she met his gaze. “Abdominal stretch,” she declared, her voice hoarse but resolute. The crowd murmured in anticipation, knowing this was a hold he’d used with punishing effect earlier in the night.

El Diablo’s eyebrows raised, a smirk crossing his face. “Want to prove a point, huh?” He leaned down, gripping her arm and pulling her to her feet. “Let’s see if you can handle it.”

Without further warning, he shifted his grip, positioning himself behind her and locking his arm around her torso. With a swift motion, he maneuvered her into the abdominal stretch, bending her body at a brutal angle. Alyx let out a sharp gasp as the hold took effect, her muscles straining against the pressure. The audience leaned forward, captivated by the intensity radiating between them.

El Diablo leaned closer, his voice a low, taunting murmur. “Tae-Yeung tapped to this hold three times. You’re really that eager to follow her lead?”

Alyx gritted her teeth, a strained chuckle escaping her. “Tae-Yeung’s got nothing on me.”

The defiance in her voice only fueled his taunting. He dug his forearm into her side, grinding it back and forth against her ribs, sending waves of pain through her body. She winced, biting down hard to keep any sound of discomfort from slipping out, but he could feel her struggle to brace herself, pushing back against him with every bit of resistance she could muster.

“Oh, you’re tough, aren’t you?” he sneered, shifting his stance to increase the torque. “Didn’t get nearly this creative when I had Melissa in this hold.”

He felt her tense up, her breath coming in shallow pants as she fought against the pressure. Sweat trickled down her face, her body trembling as she refused to break. Biting her lip, she pressed her free palm against her knee, using her arm as a brace to keep him from bending her further.

“Is that all you got?” she taunted, her voice rough but taunting. “Thought you’d at least try.”

El Diablo chuckled, dark and low, appreciating the challenge she presented. “Fine, then. Let’s see how long you can last.”

He increased the intensity of the hold, wrenching her body further. Alyx’s face contorted with pain, but she held her ground, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a submission. Her hands gripped her knee tightly, her muscles straining with each passing second, but she endured, her defiance radiating through the pain.

Then, he leaned his free arm back and drove an elbow into her exposed side. The impact forced a grunt from her, and he followed it with another sharp elbow strike, each blow driving deeper into her ribs. Alyx gasped, her vision blurring from the shock of pain, but she clung to her resolve, refusing to let him see her break. The crowd watched with bated breath, captivated by her resilience as she absorbed each hit, her spirit unyielding.

“Still hanging in there?” he asked, amusement lacing his tone as he ground his elbow against her side, applying constant, unrelenting pressure.

Alyx grunted, her voice coming in a strained whisper. “You’re…gonna have to do better than that, D.”

His smirk widened, taking her endurance as a personal challenge. “Oh, I can do better.” He slid his free hand down her abdomen, his fingers pressing firmly against her stomach. Alyx tensed as his grip tightened, realizing too late what he was planning. His fingers dug into her flesh, applying a brutal stomach claw that sent fresh waves of agony radiating through her core.

Alyx’s body arched involuntarily as he pressed harder, the pain almost overwhelming. Her breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps, her fingers digging into her own knee as she fought to keep her composure. Every instinct screamed at her to tap, to end the agony, but she clamped her jaw shut, refusing to let him win. The crowd’s cheers blended into a haze of noise as she focused solely on withstanding the torment he was inflicting on her.

“You like that?” he taunted, his voice barely audible over the crowd’s noise. “Saved this part just for you.”

Alyx forced herself to look up at him, her face pale but her eyes alight with defiance. “You’ll… have to… try harder… than that,” she panted, her voice strained but unwavering. She leaned into his grip, pushing herself against his hold even as her muscles screamed in protest, her spirit as indomitable as ever.

El Diablo felt a flicker of respect as he continued to hold her in the combined stretch and claw, amazed by her resilience. She wasn’t just surviving his hold; she was challenging him to push further. He twisted his forearm against her ribs, his grip relentless, the stomach claw digging deeper into her skin. But still, she held on, her body trembling but her resolve unbroken.

Finally, he released her, letting go of the stretch and claw simultaneously. Alyx collapsed forward, landing on her hands and knees, her body shuddering as she gasped for breath. She didn’t look up, her focus solely on gathering herself, but a faint, triumphant smile lingered on her lips. She had endured, had taken everything he could throw at her and come out on the other side.

El Diablo watched her, his gaze a mixture of respect and intrigue. “You’ve got one more hold left, Alyx,” he said, his voice softer than before, though still carrying a hint of the menace that defined him.

She forced herself to lift her head, her eyes meeting his with a fire that hadn’t dimmed despite the punishment she’d taken. “Yeah,” she whispered, a smirk playing at her lips. “And I’m still here.”

The crowd erupted into cheers, their admiration for her resilience as palpable as the tension in the ring. Alyx straightened, bracing herself as she met his gaze head-on, her body battered but her spirit unyielding.

Alyx remained on her hands and knees, her breath ragged and her limbs trembling. Every fiber of her being felt like it was on fire, yet the faint glimmer of a smile still flickered across her lips. She glanced up, meeting El Diablo’s gaze with that familiar spark of defiance, and despite the pain, she pushed herself just enough to kneel, facing him as best she could.

El Diablo smirked, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of challenge and curiosity. “Ready for the final one?” he asked, his voice carrying an edge of respect. “What’ll it be, Alyx?”

Without hesitation, she replied, “Double Arm Crossface.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd, and El Diablo’s eyebrow quirked in interest. She’d chosen one of the most grueling submission holds, and he understood the message loud and clear. She wasn’t asking for any mercy; she wanted the worst he could give.

“El Diablo,” she rasped, her voice barely more than a breath but filled with conviction. “I want to feel it.”

He let out a low chuckle, his smirk widening. “Oh, you’ll feel it.” He crouched beside her, moving with a practiced precision as he maneuvered her arms, pulling them back and crossing them in front of her. He leaned over, trapping her arms and locking them into place as he secured the crossface, his hands gripping her chin to wrench her head back. Every inch of her upper body was under his control, the strain radiating through her shoulders and neck as he applied the hold with unrelenting force.

“This one has another name, you know,” he murmured, leaning closer to her ear as he tightened the hold. “The Nagata Lock III.”

She let out a strained laugh, shaking her head even as he maintained his grip. “I don’t need the history lesson, D,” she panted. “Just keep it coming.”

Her defiance only fueled his resolve. He wrenched back, his hands digging into her chin as he leaned his weight into the hold. Alyx let out a gasp, the pain cutting through her like a knife, but she clenched her jaw, refusing to give him the reaction he was looking for. The crowd watched in awe as she endured the brutal submission, her muscles straining under the pressure, her face twisted with pain but her spirit unyielding.

“Not bad,” he muttered, his tone almost appreciative as he continued to apply the hold. “You’re tougher than most.”

She forced a smirk, even as her body trembled under his grip. “You’re still…not impressing me, D.”

He chuckled, twisting her head back further, causing a fresh wave of pain to surge through her. “Is that so? Let me remind you of something, then.” His voice dropped, carrying a hint of nostalgia mixed with sadism. “Last time I used this hold, it was on one of the Matsumoto sisters. Can’t remember which one…but I do remember the tears.”

He felt her tense beneath him, her body reacting to his words. “Yeah,” he continued, his voice almost taunting. “She was begging me to stop by the time I was done.”

Alyx’s breaths came in short, pained gasps, but she forced herself to speak, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Too bad…I’m not them.” She tightened her grip on her own arms, grounding herself through the pain. “And you’re never…gonna see me cry.”

El Diablo raised an eyebrow, intrigued by her resilience. He twisted her arms back even further, his grip relentless, pressing his weight down on her to amplify the pressure. Alyx’s vision blurred from the pain, her body shuddering as he applied one final, excruciating wrench to the hold. Despite everything, she held on, her jaw clenched, her face a mask of determination. Every nerve in her upper body screamed in agony, but she refused to let him break her.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he released the hold, stepping back and letting her fall forward. Alyx collapsed onto the mat, her body shaking as she struggled to catch her breath. She lay there for a moment, the exhaustion evident in every fiber of her being, but she refused to stay down. Slowly, painfully, she planted her hands on the mat, pushing herself up onto her knees.

The crowd’s cheers swelled around her, their voices blending into a roar of admiration and respect. Alyx’s face was pale, her muscles trembling from the strain, but she forced herself to stand, straightening as best she could. She met El Diablo’s gaze, her eyes filled with a fierce, unbroken fire. Despite everything he’d thrown at her, she was still standing.

El Diablo crossed his arms, a smirk playing on his lips as he watched her struggle to her feet. “Not bad, Sharpe. You’ve got more in you than most.”

Alyx shot him a defiant glare, wiping the sweat from her face as she steadied herself. “What’s the matter, D?” she rasped, her voice hoarse but steady. “Thought you’d have me begging by now.”

The crowd erupted, their cheers reaching a fever pitch as they watched her stand tall, her defiance fueling their energy. El Diablo watched her with a mixture of respect and amusement, impressed by her resilience, by her refusal to break.

“Guess I underestimated you,” he admitted, his voice carrying a note of sincerity. “But you’re still on borrowed time, Alyx. Sooner or later, everyone falls.”

Alyx’s smirk widened, her breathing labored but her spirit as strong as ever. “Then it’s a good thing I don’t plan on falling anytime soon.”

The crowd roared, their cheers filling the arena as they watched the two fighters face off, each one embodying the unbreakable spirit that had drawn them to the Ryona Combat League. Alyx stood there, battered and bruised, but still standing, her resilience a testament to the strength she’d fought so hard to cultivate.

El Diablo’s gaze held a newfound respect as he nodded, acknowledging her strength in a way few had earned. “You’ve earned this, Sharpe,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent. “But don’t expect mercy if you can’t keep up.”

Alyx’s grin was fierce, her eyes blazing with determination as she met his gaze. “Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

The crowd’s cheers echoed around them as they stood there, two fighters locked in a silent understanding, each one unwilling to yield. For Alyx, this wasn’t just a match; it was a test of her very being, a chance to prove that she could endure, that she could stand toe-to-toe with the best and hold her ground.

And for El Diablo, it was a reminder that even the strongest could be challenged, that there were still those willing to push their limits, to rise above the pain and face him with defiance.

With one last look, they stepped back, each preparing for the next round, each fueled by the unbreakable will that had brought them to this moment. The fight wasn’t over—not by a long shot.

El Diablo raised his hand, a silent challenge gleaming in his eyes as he extended the invitation for a test of strength. Alyx looked up at him, her body battered and worn but her spirit still burning bright. The crowd watched with bated breath as she hesitated for only a moment, then stepped forward and accepted his hand, her fingers locking with his. Her grip was firm, her defiance unmistakable, even as her muscles trembled from exhaustion.

They stood there for a moment, locked in a fierce struggle, her entire body straining as she tried to match his strength. He didn’t hold back, letting her feel the full weight of his power as he pushed back, his muscles coiled and unyielding. Alyx’s face tightened with effort, her legs digging into the mat as she fought to hold her ground. But it was only a matter of time before the difference in their strength became evident.

With a swift motion, El Diablo slipped behind her, his arms wrapping around her waist in a tight grip. Alyx barely had a chance to react before he lifted her off her feet, arching his body back as he executed a flawless German suplex. Her body slammed into the mat, the impact reverberating through her spine as she hit the canvas. The crowd gasped, a mix of awe and apprehension filling the air as they watched her lie there, dazed from the brutal throw.

El Diablo, however, didn’t waste a second. Rolling her over onto her knees, he moved with ruthless efficiency, pulling her up and locking her in a pumphandle position. His arm hooked around her waist, securing her in place as he lifted her up once more, her body hanging almost helplessly in his grip. And then, with a powerful slam, he brought her down hard, the force of the impact echoing through the ring. Alyx’s body bounced off the mat, her back arching in agony as the crowd winced at the sheer brutality of the move.

She lay there for a moment, struggling to breathe, the pain in her body reaching new heights. But just as she began to gather her thoughts, El Diablo was already moving, not giving her a single moment of reprieve. He took a few steps back, measuring his target before leaping into the air, his leg extended. In an instant, he brought it down across her chest with a vicious leg drop, the force of his weight pressing into her ribcage and driving the air from her lungs.

Alyx’s body jerked beneath him, her face contorted with pain, but El Diablo wasn’t finished. With a fluid motion, he transitioned from the leg drop into an armbar, his legs wrapping around her arm as he locked her wrist in place, pulling her limb taut and stretching it to its limit. The pressure on her shoulder and elbow was immediate, a fiery pain that shot down her arm as he wrenched the hold, his grip unrelenting.

“Go on,” he taunted, his voice calm but dripping with dark amusement. “You’ve already been through enough, Alyx. Just tap.”

Alyx gritted her teeth, the pain in her arm intensifying with each second that passed. Her free hand hovered above the mat, the urge to tap almost overwhelming as she felt the strain in her tendons, the ache in her shoulder growing unbearable. But she forced herself to hold on, her mind racing as she fought against the instinct to give in. Her pride, her determination—everything that had brought her this far—refused to let her surrender.

“Not…gonna happen,” she managed, her voice barely more than a whisper but filled with defiance.

El Diablo tightened the hold, twisting her arm further as he applied more pressure. “You’re only hurting yourself,” he murmured, his tone almost mocking as he watched her struggle. “This ends when you say it does.”

Alyx let out a pained laugh, her body trembling from the strain but her spirit as unbreakable as ever. “Then it’s…not ending anytime soon,” she shot back, her voice hoarse but unyielding.

The crowd was on their feet, their cheers growing louder as they watched her resist, her resilience shining through even in the face of such intense pain. El Diablo’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of respect in his gaze as he continued to hold her arm, his grip merciless. He could see the agony etched across her face, the way her body fought against every instinct to give in, to end the pain. And still, she endured, refusing to yield.

After a few more seconds, he finally released the hold, letting her arm fall limp as he stepped back, watching her with a mixture of admiration and something darker. Alyx lay there, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath, her body drained but her spirit undiminished. Slowly, she pushed herself up, cradling her aching arm but managing to lift her head, her gaze defiant as she met his eyes.

El Diablo tilted his head, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he looked down at her. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,” he said, his voice laced with a twisted sort of respect. “Most people would have broken by now.”

Alyx forced a faint smile, her face pale but her spirit undeterred. “Guess I’m not…most people,” she replied, her voice shaky but filled with conviction.

He took a step closer, looming over her as he looked down, his eyes dark with a mixture of admiration and cruelty. “Since you’ve come this far,” he murmured, his voice low and menacing, “I think it’s only fair that I finish this match with something we’ll both enjoy.”

Alyx looked up at him, her smile faint but unmistakable, her eyes gleaming with a fierce anticipation. “Bring it on,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath but filled with an undeniable strength.

El Diablo’s smirk widened, his gaze never leaving her as he took a step back, preparing himself for the final phase of their battle. The crowd’s cheers reached a fever pitch, their energy feeding into the intensity radiating between them. Alyx’s body was battered, her spirit tested to its limits, but she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she was ready for whatever he had in store.

They stood there for a moment, locked in a silent understanding, each one acknowledging the other’s strength, their shared resilience, and the unbreakable spirit that had brought them to this moment. This was more than just a match; it was a testament to their endurance, their willpower, and the thrill of pushing themselves beyond their limits.

And as they prepared to face off one last time, they both knew that this was a fight neither of them would ever forget.


El Diablo’s arms wrapped around Alyx’s torso, pulling her into a crushing bearhug. She sucked in a sharp breath as his grip tightened, his powerful arms pressing against her ribs with relentless force. Her feet dangled slightly off the mat, and her body twisted as she fought to free herself from his unbreakable hold.

Alyx’s arms were still free, and she wasted no time, slamming her fists into his shoulders, her strikes landing with fierce determination. She pounded against him, her knuckles bruising with each hit, but he barely seemed to notice. His eyes gleamed with amusement, the smirk on his face growing wider with every punch.

“Gonna have to hit harder than that,” he taunted, his voice calm, almost playful, as he squeezed tighter, his grip a steel vice that showed no signs of relenting.

Alyx’s face contorted in pain as she strained against his hold, her breaths coming in shallow gasps. She tried to dig her fingers into his forearms, prying at his arms in a desperate attempt to loosen his grip, but he didn’t budge. Her ribs ached, every breath sending a spike of pain through her chest, but she refused to give in.

“Come on, D,” she gasped, her voice filled with determination even as her body trembled from the effort. “This all you got?”

He chuckled, tightening his grip even more, his face mere inches from hers. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

With one swift movement, he lifted her higher, his muscles coiling with strength as he held her above his shoulders. Before she could brace herself, he brought her down hard onto his knee in a reverse atomic drop. The impact sent a shockwave through her body, and she slumped against him, her head resting momentarily on his chest as she fought to catch her breath. Her legs felt weak, the pain radiating up her spine and settling deep in her core.

El Diablo looked down at her, an expression of dark satisfaction crossing his face. “Not so tough now, are you?”

Alyx gritted her teeth, forcing herself to lift her head and meet his gaze, her eyes still filled with that fierce defiance. “Still… standing,” she managed, her voice strained but resolute.

A flicker of admiration passed through his eyes before he wrapped his arms around her once more, pulling her back into another bearhug. This time, his hold was even tighter, the pressure on her ribs and spine unrelenting. Her entire torso felt like it was being compressed, each breath more difficult than the last.

But Alyx wasn’t finished yet. She wrapped her arms around his back, her fingers digging into his shoulder blades as she braced herself against his chest. Summoning the last of her strength, she lifted her legs and wrapped them around his waist, clamping down tightly. Her legs squeezed against his sides, creating enough resistance to slightly ease the pressure on her ribs.

El Diablo’s smirk faded for a moment, replaced by a look of intrigue as he felt her legs tighten around him. He chuckled, the sound rumbling in his chest as he adjusted his stance, tightening his grip in response. “Clever,” he murmured, his voice laced with a hint of respect. “But you’re just delaying the inevitable.”

Alyx gritted her teeth, refusing to let him see any sign of weakness. “Yeah? Then… let’s see you… finish it,” she replied, her voice strained but defiant.

They stayed locked in a tense, prolonged struggle, her legs gripping his waist as his arms squeezed her torso. She could feel his muscles coiled beneath her, the raw power radiating from him as he tried to break her resolve. Her body trembled from the strain, every inch of her aching, but she held on, refusing to let him have the upper hand.

“Come on, Alyx,” he taunted, his voice low and taunting. “How much more can you really take?”

She forced herself to meet his gaze, her face contorted with pain but her eyes filled with unbreakable determination. “More than… you think.”

El Diablo’s eyes narrowed, and he responded with a sudden, brutal squeeze, his arms tightening with a force that felt like it would crush her ribs. Alyx gasped, her grip loosening as the pain became almost unbearable. Her legs slipped slightly from his waist, her body weakening under the relentless pressure.

Despite the agony, she clung to him, her fingers digging into his back as she fought to stay conscious, her mind racing as she struggled to withstand the onslaught. The crowd watched in awe, their cheers blending into a single roar of admiration for her resilience, their voices fueling her resolve as she refused to break.

But El Diablo was relentless. His grip remained unyielding, his eyes focused solely on her as he watched her struggle, his smirk returning as he sensed her resistance beginning to falter. “This is it, Alyx,” he murmured, his voice almost gentle, as if he were offering her a way out. “Just give in.”

Alyx shook her head, the movement slight but defiant, her face pale as she forced herself to speak. “Not…gonna…happen,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath but filled with unyielding determination.

El Diablo’s gaze softened for a brief moment, a flicker of something almost resembling admiration crossing his face. “You’re one hell of a fighter,” he admitted, his voice carrying a rare note of respect. But the moment passed, and his grip tightened once more, his focus sharpening as he prepared to end the match.

Alyx’s vision began to blur, the pain radiating through her body as she felt her strength slipping away. But even as her body weakened, her spirit remained unbroken, her mind refusing to yield. She could feel herself fading, her grip loosening, but she held on to that last sliver of strength, refusing to let him win without a fight.

El Diablo’s gaze never left her, his expression a mix of respect and cruelty as he felt her resistance slowly wane. He adjusted his stance, preparing to finish the match with the final, brutal squeeze, his voice a low, menacing whisper. “Time to end this, Alyx. Let’s give them a show they won’t forget.”

And with one last surge of strength, he applied the final, crushing squeeze, his arms pressing into her with unyielding force. Alyx’s body trembled, her vision fading as the pain became all-consuming. But even in that moment, as her strength waned, she managed to give him a faint smile, her voice barely a whisper.

“Bring it… on.”


El Diablo held Alyx tightly, feeling her resistance slipping, her strength finally waning under the relentless pressure of his bearhug. Her breaths came in shallow gasps, each exhale a testament to the punishment she’d endured. But even as she struggled, he could see the fire in her eyes, that indomitable spirit refusing to give in.

Without warning, he shifted his grip, lifting her once more and dropping her forcefully onto his knee with a brutal reverse atomic drop. The impact sent a shockwave through her body, and her head fell forward, resting against his chest as she tried to catch her breath, her face twisted with pain.

“Still with me, Alyx?” he murmured, his tone carrying a dark amusement.

Alyx managed a weak chuckle, her voice barely a whisper. “Still here… D.”

Instead of letting her fall, he kept her there, holding her against his knee as he adjusted his grip and pulled her back into yet another bearhug. The crowd roared as he wrapped his arms around her, squeezing with a relentless force that made her back arch and her face contort in pain. She struggled weakly, her hands pushing against his shoulders, but she was drained, her energy nearly gone.

As the seconds ticked away, Alyx’s breaths grew labored, her head drooping as she fought to stay conscious. She whispered, her voice hoarse but steady, “Only… a minute left.” She managed a faint smirk, her eyes filled with defiant determination as she looked up at him. “I’m… gonna outlast you… again.”

El Diablo’s lips curled into a smirk, impressed by her audacity. He tilted his head, his grip tightening as he accepted her challenge. “So you think you’re tough enough for one more minute?” His voice dropped to a low, menacing tone. “Then this last minute… will be your most painful yet.”

With a slight shift in his stance, he increased the pressure of his bearhug, his arms tightening around her ribs with merciless force. Alyx’s body jerked, her head tilting back as she fought to endure the crushing pressure. Every muscle in her torso screamed, her ribs aching from the unrelenting force, but she gritted her teeth, determined to withstand him until the very end.

El Diablo leaned closer, his voice a dark whisper as he watched her face twist in pain. “Come on, Alyx. Just tap. There’s no shame in giving up.”

But Alyx only shook her head, her voice a barely audible rasp. “Not… a chance.”

Seconds ticked by, each one dragging out as he poured every ounce of his strength into the hold. The crowd counted down, their voices growing louder with each second, the anticipation building as Alyx fought to stay conscious, her vision blurring as the pain reached new heights. Her breaths came in shallow, strained gasps, her entire body trembling as she struggled to endure.

El Diablo’s expression darkened, his gaze focused as he tightened his hold one final time, pressing her body against his chest with an iron grip. “This is it, Alyx. Just let go.”

But she managed a faint smile, her eyes shining with the same fierce determination that had carried her through every second of the match. “I… told you,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath. “I’m… not giving up.”

The bell finally rang, signaling the end of the match. The crowd erupted into cheers, their admiration for her resilience filling the arena as El Diablo held her, his grip loosening as he allowed her a moment to breathe. Alyx slumped against him, her body spent but her spirit victorious.

A flicker of something almost resembling pride crossed El Diablo’s face as he looked down at her. Without a word, he shifted his grip, lifting her over his shoulder in a gesture that was equal parts respect and dominance. The crowd’s cheers intensified as he took a slow victory lap around the ring, acknowledging her strength in a way that few had ever earned.

As he carried her around the ring, Alyx’s eyes fluttered open, a faint smile gracing her lips as she looked out at the crowd. She had survived. She had endured every brutal hold, every crushing blow, and come out victorious, her resilience earning her a place in their admiration.

Finally, El Diablo reached the ropes, stepping out of the ring with Alyx still draped over his shoulder. The crowd’s cheers followed them, their voices echoing through the arena as he made his way toward the exit, his gaze focused ahead as he carried her with a quiet, unspoken respect.

For Alyx, the match had been more than just a test of strength. It had been a testament to her willpower, her determination, and the unbreakable spirit that refused to yield, even in the face of overwhelming odds. And as she hung over his shoulder, exhausted but triumphant, she knew that this was only the beginning of a journey that would take her to new heights.

And as the lights dimmed, and the sound of the crowd faded, she allowed herself one final, victorious smile, knowing that she had proven herself not just to El Diablo, but to everyone watching.

 

[anotherguttersnipe]

Edge of Pain: Interlude 5.0: Ultimatum.

As the last of the crowd began to filter out of the arena, a heavy silence settled over the main table where Ichiro Sakazaki and his lieutenants sat. The echoes of cheers and jeers faded, replaced by the low murmurs of the Yakuza men reflecting on the night’s spectacle. The final match had been a brutal display, but Alyx Sharpe had done it again, enduring to the end without succumbing to El Diablo. Despite the punishment she had taken, she remained undefeated according to the league’s rules, her resilience celebrated by the crowd and grudgingly acknowledged by the men at the table.

Kenta let out a low chuckle, swirling his glass thoughtfully. “Another win for Miss Sharpe,” he remarked, his tone laced with faint admiration. “The woman has stamina. She doesn’t break, no matter how far he pushes her. It’s impressive, I’ll give her that.”

Ichiro nodded, his gaze distant as he watched the last few spectators shuffle out of the arena, their conversations still buzzing with Alyx’s name. “She’s a rare one,” he said quietly. “Not many can last that long against El Diablo and walk out under their own power. That takes a particular kind of strength… and spirit.”

Across the table, Sato scoffed, his expression twisting with skepticism. “Or maybe it’s just because he lets her,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “Ever think about that? I mean, come on—Every damn time. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” There was an edge to his tone, a bitterness that didn’t go unnoticed by the others.

Kenta raised an eyebrow, giving Sato a disapproving look. “So what are you implying? That he’s going easy on her? You think El Diablo’s the type to ‘hold back’ for anyone?” His tone was even, but there was a warning hidden beneath it.

Sato shrugged, unfazed. “I’m just saying, maybe he’s giving her a pass. Keeping her undefeated streak alive for the show. It’s good for business, right? Makes her look tougher than she actually is.” His gaze drifted toward the ring, his mouth pulling into a smirk. “And I’d bet she knows it too. Wouldn’t surprise me if she’s milking it, playing up the whole ‘undefeated’ act.”

Tatsu, who had been listening quietly, set down his drink and looked directly at Sato, his eyes narrowing. “You really think she’s faking it?” he asked, his voice low and calm, but with an unmistakable edge. “Let me tell you something, Sato. I was the one who brought her here, and I know exactly what kind of fighter she is.”

Sato rolled his eyes, but Tatsu ignored him, leaning forward as he began to recount the night he’d discovered Alyx. “I first saw her in a bar on the outskirts of Atlanta,” he started, a faint smile playing at his lips. “The place was packed, rough crowd, not the type to back down from a fight. Alyx was in the middle of it all, taking on every bastard who stepped up to her. She took on nine men that night. Nine. By the time the tenth one came at her, she was covered in bruises, barely standing… but she let him get in close. She let him think he had her, that she was done. And then, just as he got cocky, she took him down so hard he didn’t get back up.”

He paused, letting the image sink in before he continued. “And it wasn’t like those guys were holding back either. They came at her with everything—fists, broken bottles, pool cues. One even had a knife, sliced her arm up pretty good. But she kept going. I knew right then that she had the spirit for this place, the grit to take whatever punishment was thrown her way and keep fighting.”

Sato’s skepticism softened slightly, but he still looked unimpressed. “So she’s tough. Great. But that doesn’t change the fact that El Diablo could end her streak if he wanted to. I’m saying it might be time we let him up the stakes a bit. Maybe bring a weapon or two into the mix, see how long she lasts then.”

The suggestion lingered in the air, and Ichiro’s gaze darkened, his eyes narrowing as he glanced at Sato. But before he could respond, Tatsu shook his head, an expression of distaste on his face.

“Bringing weapons into the ring?” he said, his voice low, almost disdainful. “That’s not how this works, Sato. We’re not running some back-alley brawl. This is a league, not some trailer-park blood sport. And El Diablo… he’d never go for it. He’s got his own code, whether you believe it or not.”

Sato looked at Tatsu, clearly unconvinced. “A code?” he sneered. “You’re telling me the guy who brutalizes everyone he faces has ‘standards’ now?”

Tatsu’s expression remained steady, unfazed by Sato’s sarcasm. “Yes. He doesn’t use weapons. Not because he couldn’t, but because he doesn’t need to. To him, weapons are cheap. They undermine the purity of the fight. He sees himself as above that… he’s brutal, sure, but he believes in his own kind of honor. Using a weapon in the ring would degrade what he’s built here. Make it… small.”

Sato scoffed again, though this time with less conviction. He knew Tatsu well enough to understand the respect he held for fighters who adhered to their own principles, however twisted those principles might seem to others. “Fine, keep your ‘honor,’” he muttered. “But the crowd’s always looking for more. Sooner or later, Alyx’s little act is going to wear thin. People are going to get tired of her winning by lasting, not fighting back.”

Ichiro interjected, his voice calm but commanding enough to quiet any further argument. “The crowd isn’t as simple as you think, Sato. They’re here for the thrill, yes, but they’re also here to see something unique, something they can’t find anywhere else. Alyx’s resilience, her ability to endure what others can’t—that’s part of the draw. And El Diablo’s refusal to rely on gimmicks only makes the spectacle stronger. It’s not about bloodlust alone; it’s about witnessing the limits of human endurance, and the struggle to break those limits.”

Kenta nodded, lifting his glass in silent agreement. “Alyx and El Diablo… they’re both symbols of something bigger. She embodies the unbreakable spirit, and he’s the unstoppable force. People come here to see if she can endure, to watch her push herself to the edge. That’s why they keep coming back. It’s not about cheap tricks or adding weapons. It’s about the test, the challenge.”

Sato leaned back in his chair, clearly unconvinced but silenced by Ichiro’s words. He understood the hierarchy here, the boundaries he couldn’t cross. As the others returned to their drinks and settled into contemplative silence, he begrudgingly accepted their perspective, though he still harbored his doubts.

Outside the ring, the last of the audience had begun to leave, the adrenaline of the evening’s matches giving way to the calm aftermath. In the center of the arena, the lights dimmed, and the silence of the empty ring seemed to settle like a blanket over the arena. The main table, too, fell quiet, each of the Yakuza men lost in their own thoughts, the echoes of Alyx’s defiant endurance still resonating in their minds.


________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


From his position in the shadowed alcoves above the arena, Wallace Hartley watched as the last of the night’s audience filtered out, their murmurs gradually fading into the heavy silence of the now-empty arena. The evening’s spectacle had concluded, leaving a hollow, almost eerie stillness in its wake. Even though the crowd had dispersed, Wallace’s eyes lingered on the ring, his thoughts preoccupied with the last match of the evening.

Alyx Sharpe. She was an anomaly, even by the brutal standards of the Ryona Combat League. Wallace had watched many fighters enter that ring, women who emerged broken in body and spirit after facing El Diablo. But Alyx was different. Of all the women who had stood against him, she was the only one who seemed to enjoy the punishment, to embrace the pain rather than endure it. Her resilience bordered on self-destructive, as if she sought out these encounters not to win, but to push herself to the very edge.

It was… unsettling, to say the least.

Wallace frowned, his fingers drumming lightly on the edge of the railing as he recalled the match. Alyx had taken blow after blow, her body absorbing punishment that would leave most fighters crumpled on the mat. Yet she kept coming back, her face twisted in something that looked disturbingly close to pleasure. Her laughter had echoed through the arena at moments when she should have been gasping for breath, her eyes gleaming with a strange, manic light as she faced down El Diablo’s relentless assault.

What drives someone like her? he wondered, a shiver running down his spine. Wallace wasn’t unfamiliar with resilience—he understood the strength it took to endure hardship. But Alyx’s endurance was of a different breed altogether, one that defied reason and unsettled him deeply. It was as if she derived strength from her suffering, as if every brutal strike only fed her determination to survive.

But why?

Wallace couldn’t understand it. For most, the ring was a nightmare to be survived, a place of fear and brutality. But for Alyx, it seemed to be a stage, a test of something dark and primal within herself. She was one of the few who had not only survived El Diablo’s brutal tactics but seemed to revel in them. And that, more than anything, made Wallace uneasy.

He tore his gaze away from the empty ring, forcing himself back into the present. There was a tension in the air, a feeling he’d learned to recognize navigating the Mishima Zaibatsu’s world of shadows and secrets. Something was coming—he could feel it, an almost tangible weight pressing down on him. The final match had ended, but the night’s business wasn’t over.

Nina had left Jin Kazama alone in the VIP booth before the match between Alyx and El Diablo had begun. That in itself was unusual; Jin was rarely seen without his imposing bodyguard by his side. Nina’s absence in the VIP booth throughout the match had gnawed at the back of Wallace’s mind. And now, with the crowd dispersing and the arena emptying, he could sense that the night was about to take a darker turn.

Wallace straightened, adjusting his collar and glancing back at his band, who were busy packing up their instruments with the sluggishness of men who thought the night was over. He maintained his calm demeanor, though his tone was firm as he addressed them. “Let’s move quickly, gentlemen,” he said, his voice carrying a quiet urgency. “I’d like us out of here before the place closes down. Pack everything with a bit more speed, if you don’t mind.”

The other musicians exchanged glances, sensing the edge in his tone but saying nothing. Wallace’s calm, collected manner rarely wavered, but tonight, he moved with a purpose that didn’t go unnoticed. He assisted them, gathering up sheet music and folding music stands, his hands steady but his eyes frequently darting toward the exits and the upper levels of the arena.

His instincts screamed at him, the finely honed sixth sense of a man who had learned to survive in dangerous environments. Nina’s absence, Jin’s silent watchfulness throughout the match, the disquieting sense that something was waiting just beyond the edge of the fading lights—it all coalesced into a single, undeniable warning in his mind: Leave. Now.

Wallace’s composure was impeccable, but his mind raced as he worked. He knew that Jin and Nina were here on a mission, and that he himself had played a part in setting this night’s events in motion. His recent intel on Sato, Ichiro’s youngest lieutenant and the league’s mole, had led to tonight’s encounter. He had delivered that information to Nina, expecting she would handle it with her usual discretion. Yet now, it seemed, Jin had something else in mind.

He glanced toward the empty VIP booth one last time, his gaze lingering on the spot where Jin had sat, impassive and silent. There had been something unreadable in Jin’s expression tonight, a calm detachment that unsettled Wallace even more than Nina’s usual ruthless demeanor. Jin’s presence here felt like the calm before a storm, an indication that something more permanent, something decisive, was about to happen.

Come on, he urged himself silently, quickening his pace as he helped the band load their final pieces of equipment. His every movement was deliberate, unhurried, but his mind was set on one goal: getting out before the storm broke.

“Joseph,” one of the musicians muttered, noticing his haste. “Everything alright?”

Wallace offered a polite smile, the perfect mask of the reserved, refined musician he portrayed himself to be. “Everything’s fine,” he replied smoothly. “I’d just like us to avoid any… unnecessary delays. It’s been a long night, after all.”

The musician nodded, accepting the explanation, and continued packing up. Wallace’s calm exterior never faltered, but his mind remained alert, attuned to every sound and shadow around him. He knew that in this world, timing was everything, and one misstep could mean the difference between walking out of the arena or becoming part of its dark legacy.

As he finished packing the last of his sheet music, Wallace cast a final glance around the empty arena, his instincts still screaming at him to leave. The feeling in the air was unmistakable, a tension so thick he could almost taste it. Whatever was coming would leave its mark, and he wanted no part of it.

With a final, quiet word to his band, Wallace led them toward the exit, his steps composed but quick. He didn’t look back, his mind already focused on distancing himself from whatever conclusion the night held.


__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


Kenta’s gaze drifted toward the alcove where "Joseph Carmichael" and his band had been stationed. He raised an eyebrow, noting the speed with which the musicians were packing up, moving with a quiet urgency that felt slightly out of place. Kenta dismissed the thought, focusing instead on the heavy silence settling over the room. Now, only he, Ichiro, Sato, Tatsu, a few henchmen, and Jin Kazama remained, their presence casting an eerie stillness over the arena.

The four Yakuza men sat at their table, each nursing a drink, though none were actually drinking. An unspoken tension hovered between them, a collective sense of dread they could feel in their bones. This wasn’t the usual end to one of their events, and they all knew it. Something was coming, something ominous and unavoidable, and it was drawing closer with each second. Ichiro’s fingers tapped lightly on his glass, his face impassive but his eyes sharp and alert, scanning the room with the caution of a seasoned predator.

Their uneasy vigil was broken by the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps approaching their table. All four men turned, their expressions carefully controlled as Jin Kazama strode toward them, alone. His black trench coat billowed slightly with each step, his face carved from stone, eyes cold and unyielding. He moved with the confidence of a man who knew he was untouchable, his gaze fixed on them as if he were sizing them up, weighing their worth and finding them wanting.

As Jin neared, Ichiro and his men rose from their seats in unison, a show of respect to the man who held power over even the most influential of crime syndicates. Their faces betrayed no fear, but each knew the gravity of this moment. This was not a casual encounter, not a meeting of allies or even rivals. Jin’s arrival here was something else entirely—an intrusion that demanded obedience without ever needing to say so.

Ichiro stepped forward, his face calm as he inclined his head slightly. “Mr. Kazama,” he greeted, his voice steady, though there was a subtle edge to it. “We trust you found the evening's entertainment… satisfactory?”

Jin’s gaze barely shifted as he looked at Ichiro, his expression devoid of any amusement or interest in pleasantries. His eyes were like shards of ice, his presence radiating a cold authority that made it clear he had no intention of engaging in idle conversation. He cut straight to the point, his voice low and unyielding.

“I know there’s a spy within your ranks,” he said bluntly, his tone leaving no room for doubt or denial. “One of your own has been selling information to G Corporation.”

The words fell like a stone into the silence, sending a ripple of unease through the men at the table. Kenta’s jaw tightened, though he forced a calm smile, raising his hands slightly in a dismissive gesture. “There must be some misunderstanding, Mr. Kazama,” he said smoothly. “Our operations are tight, our men loyal. A mole within our ranks is… improbable, to say the least.”

Jin’s gaze flicked to Kenta, piercing and unrelenting, and Kenta felt his bravado falter under that icy stare. Jin’s expression remained impassive, but there was an edge of steel in his voice as he repeated himself, with a precision that left no room for doubt.

“There is a spy,” he said, his voice colder, each word delivered with cutting finality. “And that spy is one of you.”

The weight of his statement sent a shock through the Yakuza men, their carefully controlled expressions slipping for just a moment as the accusation settled over them. Sato’s face twitched, a flicker of fear flashing in his eyes before he forced it down, his pride flaring in response to the insult.

“How dare you,” Sato snapped, his voice thick with indignation. He stepped forward, his posture rigid, his fists clenched. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating, but we don’t appreciate baseless accusations. We’ve shown you nothing but respect, Kazama, and we expect the same in return!”

The moment he finished speaking, a movement in the shadows drew their attention. All eyes shifted as a figure emerged from the dimness, carrying something over one shoulder. It was Jin’s bodyguard, stepping into the light with an ease that belied the burden she bore.

The Yakuza men froze, their faces a mix of shock and disbelief as they took in the sight before them. Draped over her shoulder like a discarded ragdoll was El Diablo—unconscious, limp, utterly defeated. The man they’d seen dominate women in the ring all night, the undefeated champion of their brutal league, was now reduced to this state by Jin’s bodyguard, a woman who carried him with an almost casual indifference.

The implication was clear, and it shook them to their cores. El Diablo, the symbol of their league’s power, the very embodiment of their dominance, had been subdued without so much as a fight. And the fact that it had been done by Jin’s bodyguard, a woman, only heightened their sense of fear and humiliation. A few of the henchmen instinctively reached for their sidearms, fingers twitching over the triggers, their expressions hardening with a desperate need to reassert control.

“Stand down,” Ichiro ordered sharply, his voice like a whip crack. The henchmen froze, hesitating but ultimately lowering their hands, casting wary glances at Jin and his bodyguard. Ichiro’s voice softened, but his tone was firm, reminding them of the risk. “You’ll only end up hitting El Diablo, and we’re not in a position to be reckless.”

Kenta, Tatsu, and even Sato shared uncertain glances, the reality of their situation settling over them like a shroud. Their greatest weapon, the man who had brought fear and awe to countless challengers, was now a liability—a hostage in the hands of the Mishima Zaibatsu. Jin’s calm, unflinching gaze held them captive, his expression devoid of sympathy as he watched their reactions, as though cataloging each flinch and twitch with clinical detachment.

Jin took a step forward, his voice colder than ever. “You have a choice,” he said, his words carrying a weight that pressed down on each of them like an iron fist. “Reveal the spy among you… or she cripples him in front of you. And believe me, I have no interest in how you feel about it.”

The silence that followed was thick, almost suffocating, as the Yakuza men processed the ultimatum. Jin’s bodyguard remained motionless, El Diablo’s limp form draped over her shoulder, an unspoken threat hanging in the air. She was waiting for Jin’s command, her eyes cold and unfeeling, a stark reminder that their champion was at the mercy of a force far beyond their control.

Ichiro’s expression tightened, his mind racing through his options, each one leading back to the inevitable conclusion. They were trapped, cornered in their own arena, their power reduced to dust in the face of Jin’s unyielding authority. He looked to Kenta, then to Tatsu and Sato, each man’s face reflecting the same fear he felt, the same understanding that they had no choice but to comply.

Sato’s face had gone pale, a fine sheen of sweat forming on his brow. His pride had led him to deny the accusation, but now, with El Diablo’s life hanging in the balance, the truth could no longer be ignored. He swallowed hard, his gaze darting between his fellow lieutenants, searching for an escape that didn’t exist.


The tension in the room was palpable, thick enough to drown in, as Jin Kazama’s cold gaze swept over the Yakuza men standing across from him. No one dared move. Their champion lay helpless at Jin's bodyguard's mercy in the ring—a sight none of them had ever thought possible. El Diablo, the man they all believed to be untouchable, was now reduced to a vulnerable figure lying limp under the control of Jin’s formidable enforcer.

To drive Jin’s point home, his bodyguard shifted her stance and grabbed El Diablo’s arm, positioning it with a ruthless precision. Then, without a moment's hesitation, she wrenched it back into an armbar, twisting his limb to the very edge of breaking. The Yakuza men watched in horror as their champion's arm was bent in an unnatural angle, the strain evident even from a distance. A pained groan escaped El Diablo’s lips, breaking the silence, and the Yakuza felt the brutality of the scene as a visceral, gut-wrenching reminder of the power Jin held over them.

Jin watched their reactions, his voice unfeeling as he spoke. “From there, she can break his arm in exactly three places,” he explained, his tone clinical, almost as if he were discussing an unremarkable fact. “Once at the elbow, twice along the forearm. Each break will make it impossible for him to fight again, even if he somehow recovers.”

The implication was clear—El Diablo’s life as a fighter, and by extension the foundation of their entire underground league, hung by a thread. The Yakuza men stood frozen, their faces pale, each grappling with the extent of their helplessness. Kenta clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white, but even he knew better than to make a move. This was Jin Kazama’s stage now, and any act of defiance would only escalate the destruction they faced.

Jin’s bodyguard shifted her position again, releasing El Diablo’s arm only to press her shin firmly against the back of his neck. She leaned forward, folding his limp body in on itself, manipulating him into a seated position. Maintaining her iron grip on his arm, she propped herself up, placing her heel on the back of his neck with a deadly precision that showcased both her control and her strength. It was clear she was capable of reducing him to a state far worse than mere incapacitation.

Jin’s gaze remained cold as he observed the spectacle. He raised his head slightly, his voice unwavering. “A small amount of pressure,” he said, nodding toward his enforcer, “and she’ll sever his spinal column. Paralyze him from the neck down. Permanently.”

The Yakuza men were horrified, the gravity of the situation hitting them like a physical blow. Each of them had seen El Diablo dominate countless opponents with merciless efficiency, but now he was nothing more than a puppet at Jin’s mercy, his life and body in the hands of a woman who showed no hesitation, no mercy.

Kenta’s calm facade finally cracked, desperation flaring in his eyes as he took a step forward, his tone a mixture of fear and pleading. “Kazama-san, please,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “This… this isn’t necessary. We can resolve this in another way. Let’s discuss this, negotiate terms. There’s no need for… this kind of violence.”

Jin’s gaze flicked to Kenta, and for a moment, the air grew colder. His expression was unmoved, his eyes as sharp as steel. He tilted his head slightly, regarding Kenta with the detached gaze of a predator. “You don’t get to decide what’s necessary,” he said, his voice chillingly final. “I do.”

His words left no room for argument, no space for negotiation. In that moment, it became painfully clear to the Yakuza men that they had no leverage here. Jin Kazama was in control, and he would decide their fate without a shred of sympathy or compromise.

A heavy silence fell over the group as they exchanged uneasy glances. Ichiro’s face was a mask of grim acceptance, his mind racing through their few remaining options. After a tense, weighty pause, he reached into his coat, his movements slow and deliberate. With a resigned expression, he withdrew a small USB drive, holding it out toward Jin with a reluctance that spoke volumes. He knew they were cornered, that defiance was no longer an option.

Kenta looked at Ichiro in surprise, clearly not fully understanding the extent of the situation. “Ichiro… what is that?” he asked, his voice laced with confusion.

Ichiro’s gaze was dark, and he did not answer, his eyes fixed on Jin as he extended the drive further, wordlessly admitting defeat. Jin took the USB drive, his face as impassive as ever, and plugged it into his phone. The screen lit up as he scanned the data, his eyes narrowing as he read through the files. A grim satisfaction settled over his features as he confirmed its contents.

The files were detailed, meticulous—evidence of Sato Yagami’s covert operations, proof of his betrayal laid out in damning detail. Each document, each transaction, revealed a trail of secrets sold to G Corporation, each piece of intel exchanged for personal profit. The files were irrefutable, painting Sato as a man who had not only betrayed the Mishima Zaibatsu but had also deceived his own Yakuza family.

Jin’s gaze returned to the group, his expression unreadable but his voice dripping with contempt. “This information,” he began, his tone accusatory, “cost me 200 Tekken Force soldiers and caused setbacks in Poland that cannot be undone. Because of this man’s actions, countless lives were lost, plans derailed, and efforts undermined.”

He paused, letting his words sink in, watching as the weight of the betrayal washed over the Yakuza men, each of them understanding just how deeply Sato’s actions had cut. Jin continued, his voice low and filled with barely contained anger. “And to make matters worse, he didn’t do it for your benefit. He kept the profits entirely for himself, selling out his own comrades as readily as he sold out the Zaibatsu. This wasn’t just a betrayal of me; it was a betrayal of all of you.”

The Yakuza men looked to Sato, horror dawning on their faces as the full scope of his treachery became clear. Sato’s face was pale, his earlier bravado completely shattered. He tried to speak, to offer some defense, but the words died on his lips as Jin’s cold gaze turned to him, silencing him with an unspoken command.

After a long, tension-filled pause, Jin looked toward his bodyguard, his expression as cold and unfeeling as stone. “Put the monkey out of its misery,” he commanded, his voice devoid of emotion, his words striking the Yakuza men like a hammer blow.

The realization hit them all at once—Jin’s threat was real. He had no intention of sparing El Diablo, no plan to show mercy. Their champion was about to be crippled before their eyes, a message written in bone and muscle, one that would remind them all of the consequences of defying the Mishima Zaibatsu.

Ichiro’s face contorted with horror as he realized that Jin’s ultimatum was absolute, that no amount of pleading or reasoning would sway him. They were powerless, their strength and influence crumbling in the face of Jin Kazama’s unyielding authority. The Yakuza men could only watch, helpless, as their champion lay at the mercy of a force that neither feared them nor respected their power.

In the silence that followed, the room was filled with the cold, undeniable certainty of their own impotence, the knowledge that they were now mere spectators in a play scripted by Jin Kazama’s iron will.


Sato, standing slightly apart from the others, was visibly shaken. His earlier defiance had drained from his face, replaced by a growing fear that tightened his features. His eyes darted around, searching for some way out, some way to salvage his pride, but there was none. The truth was bare, undeniable, and it pressed down on him with the force of a tidal wave. The dam holding back his composure shattered.

“I… I did it,” Sato stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. His words grew louder, as though the admission itself released a flood of panic he could no longer contain. “I’m the spy. I was the one who… who sold the intel to G Corporation.” His shoulders sagged, his voice raw with desperation as he continued. “I just… I wanted to make the Dotenbori branch the strongest in Osaka! We’ve been overlooked, underestimated—this was my chance to make us powerful, to give us leverage.”

The other Yakuza men stared at him, their faces a mix of anger, disbelief, and horror. Kenta’s fists were clenched at his sides, Tatsu’s expression was grim, and Ichiro’s face was carved from stone, his eyes narrowing as he listened to Sato’s pathetic confession. The betrayal stung more deeply than they could express.

Jin stepped forward, his movements measured, his face devoid of sympathy or understanding. He regarded Sato with the cold detachment of a judge, his eyes sharp and unforgiving as he listened to the desperate pleas spilling from Sato’s lips. When Sato’s confession petered out, Jin finally spoke, his voice low and laced with a quiet, deadly accusation.

“And how exactly did you plan to make the Dotenbori branch the strongest?” he asked, his tone dripping with disdain. “Would you have sponsored Ichiro’s bid for chairman, using his rise to secure yourself a seat at his table?” He paused, letting the question linger, the accusation slicing through the room like a blade. “Or maybe… maybe you would have bought the loyalty of his men, turned them against him, and taken his position of captain by force.”

Sato’s eyes widened, his mouth opening and closing, but no words came. The truth of Jin’s accusations struck him like a blow, each scenario Jin described forcing him to confront the ambition that had driven him to this betrayal. He had never thought his motives would be laid bare so ruthlessly, exposed for all to see. The bravado he had once worn as a shield had crumbled, and he was left defenseless, unable to answer Jin’s questions.

With a shudder, Sato fell to his knees, his pride and defiance shattered. His voice broke as he looked up at Jin, pleading. “Please… Kazama-san… I beg you. I made a mistake—a terrible mistake. Just… give me a chance. Let me take responsibility, let me fix this. I’ll do anything…”

Jin’s gaze remained cold, his expression unchanging as he looked down at the broken man before him. “You will take full responsibility,” he said, his voice as sharp as steel. There was no sympathy in his tone, no hint of mercy. The sentence had been passed, and there would be no reprieve.

Jin raised his right hand, his body coiling with purpose as he prepared to deliver his signature technique. A dark red glow flickered around his fist, the unmistakable crackle of energy building with an intensity that filled the room with an ominous hum. The other Yakuza men watched, paralyzed with fear and horror as they realized what was about to happen.

Sato barely had time to register what was coming. In a blur of movement, Jin’s fist shot forward in a move that was as swift as it was devastating. The Electric Wind Hook Fist connected with Sato’s chest, a violent burst of red lightning surging from Jin’s knuckles and cascading over Sato’s body. The impact was thunderous, sending Sato flying backward. His body collided with a nearby pillar, the force of the blow enough to shatter bone and disrupt life itself. He was dead before he even hit the ground.

The Yakuza men could only stare, stunned and horrified, at Sato’s crumpled form slumped against the pillar, smoke rising faintly from his body as the remnants of Jin’s red-tinted energy dissipated into the air. The brutal efficiency of the execution left them shaken, the finality of it sinking into their minds with an unshakable certainty. This was Jin’s justice—swift, unyielding, and without mercy.

Jin lowered his fist, his gaze never wavering as he turned back to face the remaining Yakuza men. His expression was cold, his voice devoid of any warmth as he addressed them. “Your orders are simple,” he said, looking directly at Ichiro. “Dismantle every operation that Sato had a hand in. Burn it to the ground. The Mishima Zaibatsu will not tolerate any further betrayal.”

Ichiro’s face was pale, his expression grim as he absorbed Jin’s command. He knew better than to argue, knew that there was no room for negotiation. The implications of disobedience were clear, spelled out in the broken body of his former lieutenant. He nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. “Understood.”

Jin’s gaze lingered on Ichiro for a moment longer, as if ensuring that his words were understood. Satisfied, he turned to his bodyguard, who still held El Diablo in her grip. Without a word, Jin nodded, and she released El Diablo, letting him slump onto the mat in a broken, unconscious heap. The sight of their champion, reduced to such a state, served as one final reminder of their helplessness, of the futility of defiance in the face of the Mishima Zaibatsu’s power.

As Jin turned to leave, he paused, his gaze sweeping over the Yakuza men one last time. His expression remained cold, but his tone carried a note of disdain as he addressed them. “Continue running your little fighting ring if you must,” he said, his voice filled with contempt. “But know this: I have no respect for what you do here. It’s a mockery of true strength. Keep a tighter leash on your people, or the next time I return, I won’t be as lenient.”

The words hung heavy in the air, a warning wrapped in contempt. The Yakuza men watched in stunned silence as Jin and his bodyguard turned and made their way toward the exit. They moved with an air of absolute authority, their steps unhurried, their backs turned to the men who now stood paralyzed by fear and awe.

The silence in the arena was deafening as the two figures disappeared into the shadows, leaving behind a shattered champion, a dead traitor, and a group of men who had been irrevocably humbled. Each of the Yakuza men stood rooted to their spots, the weight of Jin’s final words pressing down on them, a reminder of their own insignificance.

For a long time, no one moved, each man lost in his own thoughts, grappling with the reality of what they had just witnessed. The once-mighty Dotenbori Yakuza had been brought to their knees, and the shadow of Jin Kazama’s power lingered in the air, a silent promise of consequences should they ever stray again.

 

[anotherguttersnipe]

The next set of chapters are more filler stories, intended for character building. Not much wrestling/fighting here, but some things that happen will have some plot relevancy.

Edge of Pain: Interlude 6.0 - Ambush

Tae-Yeung Park walked slowly down the narrow alleyway, her hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket as she replayed her recent match against El Diablo in her mind. The sky above was a thick, oppressive gray, the clouds heavy with the promise of rain, matching her somber mood. The afternoon was quiet, save for the distant hum of city life around her, but her mind was anything but still. She couldn’t shake the memory of the abdominal stretch submission that had ended her match, the way it had forced her to tap out far too quickly for her own liking.



The hold haunted her. It wasn’t just the pain—she’d experienced plenty of that in the ring. No, it was the feeling of helplessness, the way he’d bent her body, wringing out every last ounce of resistance until her own pride had betrayed her. Tae-Yeung had faced El Diablo before, but each encounter seemed to reveal just how much she had yet to learn, yet to endure. The abdominal stretch was one of his signatures, a move he used to test his opponents’ limits. But to her, it was a reminder of her own vulnerabilities, one that gnawed at her every time she thought back to the match.

As she walked, her thoughts drifted to the other fighters—Melissa Shammel and Alyx Sharpe. Both of them had faced El Diablo’s infamous abdominal stretch, and both had endured longer than she had. Melissa, with her brazen confidence and penchant for pushing herself to the brink, had managed to last longer despite her lack of true skill. And Alyx… well, Alyx was an entirely different case. Tae-Yeung couldn’t forget the way Alyx had faced El Diablo, almost playing a twisted game with him in the ring. Their last match was a spectacle in itself, with Alyx choosing the holds she’d be put in, the abdominal stretch among them. Alyx hadn’t tapped to it, either—she had taken the pain with a twisted kind of enjoyment, as if testing herself against the very worst he could deliver.

The thought sent a wave of frustration through Tae-Yeung. Why couldn’t she have lasted like that? Why had she given in so quickly, her body betraying her before her mind was ready to surrender? She had always prided herself on her resilience, her ability to endure pain and keep fighting, but the match had exposed a weakness she wasn’t prepared to face.

As she walked, she considered a suggestion she had once given to Eliza Sturgeon about training with El Diablo in “The Dungeon.” It was his personal training space, a brutal place where he pushed fighters to their limits, testing their endurance and breaking down any illusions of strength they might hold. Tae-Yeung had trained there before, enduring the unforgiving sessions that left her battered and bruised but somehow stronger, more resilient. She had seen firsthand how the Dungeon brought out the best—and the worst—in those who entered it, stripping them down to their rawest, most vulnerable selves.

She wondered if she should return to the Dungeon, if another round of training there could help her overcome the mental and physical barriers she’d encountered in the ring. Tae-Yeung knew that training with El Diablo was a double-edged sword—his methods were ruthless, designed to push her past the point of breaking. But that was exactly what she needed, wasn’t it? To confront the weaknesses that had led her to tap out so quickly, to understand the limits of her own endurance.

The thought of going back made her stomach twist with a mixture of apprehension and determination. Training with El Diablo wasn’t like fighting in the ring; it was an experience that tested her in ways the league matches never could. It was raw, grueling, and, in its own way, enlightening. She could feel the urge to push herself building within her, the desire to become stronger than the version of herself who had failed in that last match.

Tae-Yeung slowed her pace, her mind now firmly set on the idea. She would go back to the Dungeon. She would train with him again, endure his holds, his methods, and maybe—just maybe—she’d come out of it better equipped to face him in the ring. This time, she wouldn’t let him bend her to his will so easily. This time, she’d make sure she could stand up to him, to the pain, and to the lingering doubts that threatened to erode her confidence.


Tae-Yeung’s mind was still tangled in her thoughts of training when a prickling sensation at the back of her neck jolted her to attention. Her instincts flared, every fiber of her being suddenly aware of a shift in the atmosphere around her. She stopped, her senses sharpened, scanning the alley ahead. Standing in her path were three men clad in black, their stance rigid and military. She recognized them instantly—the Tekken Force.

A surge of unease crept up her spine as she turned around, only to see three more soldiers blocking the other end of the narrow alley. Her pulse quickened, confusion morphing rapidly into panic as she realized she was completely surrounded. The overcast sky seemed to press down on her, and the shadows in the alley grew darker, as if trapping her in a cage of concrete and silence.

Her mind raced, but there was no clear answer to this situation. She couldn’t think of any reason the Mishima Zaibatsu would have for targeting her, and yet here they were, silent and unmoving, like statues awaiting an unseen signal. The familiar weight of dread settled in her stomach, and her body tensed, ready to fight if necessary. She scanned each of the soldiers, gauging her chances, knowing full well she was outnumbered, and that these men were trained far beyond the standard street brawlers she was used to.

And then, as she prepared herself, she sensed it—a foreboding presence, powerful and cold, approaching her from behind.

Without a moment’s hesitation, acting purely on instinct, Tae-Yeung spun around and launched a powerful Taekwondo kick at the figure behind her. Her foot arced through the air with a deadly precision, her body moving on muscle memory, years of training channeling her fear into a swift, fierce strike.

But her kick was stopped in its tracks.

A hand shot up, catching her foot effortlessly, halting her attack mid-air with an unnerving calm. The impact jarred through her leg, and she looked up, her eyes widening as recognition struck her like a lightning bolt.

Jin Kazama stood before her, his grip unbreakable, his face expressionless and cold. She felt her heart plummet, a wave of dread washing over her as she fully absorbed who she was facing. Jin Kazama, leader of the Mishima Zaibatsu, a name that carried both power and terror, whispered about in the darkest corners of the world. She knew his reputation—public knowledge of his ruthless control, his unmatched strength, and the darkness that seemed to follow him like a shadow.

A tremor of fear shot through her, and she instinctively pulled her leg free, stumbling back to put distance between them. Her mouth went dry, her voice shaking as she forced herself to ask, “What… what do you want?”

Jin said nothing, his gaze unyielding, his silence more intimidating than any threat she could have imagined. His expression was a mask, devoid of emotion, his eyes fixed on her with a detached, almost clinical interest, as though she were an insect caught in his web. For a brief, terrifying moment, she felt completely exposed, stripped of the strength and resolve she’d clung to as a fighter.

As he took a step forward, a few crackles of red lightning arced across his body, illuminating the shadows with a sinister glow. The energy flickered along his form, a silent reminder of the power he wielded, a strength that dwarfed anything she had ever encountered. The display was subtle, yet it spoke volumes, and Tae-Yeung felt the dread sink deeper into her bones.

She clenched her fists, willing herself to stay calm, to mask her fear, but she could feel the tremble in her hands, the betrayal of her own body. Her mind raced with questions, none of which had answers, each more unsettling than the last. Why was he here? What could the Mishima Zaibatsu possibly want with her? She wasn’t a threat; she was just another fighter, struggling to survive in the underbelly of the Ryona Combat League.

But Jin’s silence offered no solace, no answers. He remained still, his gaze unwavering, as if daring her to act, to resist, to do anything but stand frozen in his presence. She felt like a rabbit cornered by a wolf, her instincts screaming at her to run, though every logical part of her knew it was futile.

“I…” Her voice faltered, but she forced herself to speak again, her tone pleading now, desperate to understand the reason behind this encounter. “I don’t… I don’t know what you want from me.”

Jin’s expression remained unchanged, his eyes sharp, piercing through her with an intensity that made her feel small, insignificant. The silence stretched between them, each passing second amplifying her fear, her sense of helplessness.

And then, in that silence, she realized the truth—a painful, undeniable truth that settled heavily in her heart. Jin Kazama wasn’t here to offer explanations or to grant her understanding. He was here because he could be, because whatever purpose had drawn him to her was his alone, inscrutable and absolute.

With every flicker of red lightning that danced across his form, Tae-Yeung understood that she was at the mercy of a force far beyond her control, a power that would crush her without a second thought if she made one wrong move.


Tae-Yeung’s mind was a whirlwind of fear and resolve as she realized the gravity of her situation. Jin Kazama stood before her, silent, unmovable, and utterly indifferent to her presence. Her pulse thundered in her ears, and she felt her survival instincts surge to the surface, raw and undeniable. Every fiber of her being screamed that she was facing a deadly threat, one that wouldn’t hesitate to crush her if she showed the slightest weakness. She took a deep, steadying breath, forcing her terror aside as best as she could.

In that moment, Tae-Yeung knew she had no choice but to fight.

She shifted into her fighting stance, her muscles tensing as her gaze focused on Jin’s impassive face. There was no emotion there, no hint of intention or vulnerability. He stood like a monolith, unmoving, watching her with an almost casual curiosity. The sight only fueled her determination, a spark of defiance flaring within her chest. If he thought she would cower, that she would surrender without a struggle, he was mistaken.

With a sharp inhale, Tae-Yeung launched herself forward, her body moving with practiced precision as she threw herself into a full offensive. She unleashed a series of rapid kicks, each one powered by years of Taekwondo training, her legs cutting through the air with lethal speed. She aimed high, low, to the side, each kick targeting a different point, hoping to catch him off-guard. Her movements were fluid and relentless, a storm of force and technique as she gave everything she had.

But Jin was like smoke in the wind.

He moved with an effortless calm, his body shifting just enough to evade her strikes, his feet barely leaving the ground as he dodged with minimal effort. When she struck high, he tilted his head. When she swept low, he sidestepped, his expression unchanging, his eyes sharp and calculating. Every kick, every punch, every spin—he read her movements as though he’d seen them a thousand times before.

Undeterred, Tae-Yeung pressed on, launching a spinning kick toward his ribs. Jin raised his arm, blocking the strike with a single, casual movement that absorbed her power like it was nothing. She pivoted, throwing a series of rapid punches, each one aimed with precision, but his hands intercepted hers, redirecting the blows without even a flinch. His face remained impassive, his eyes watching her with the same cold detachment, as though her attacks were little more than an inconvenience.

Frustration gnawed at her as she increased her speed, her kicks coming faster, her punches more aggressive. She poured everything she had into the onslaught, her body moving in a blur of motion as she aimed for his vital points, hoping, praying, to land just one hit. But Jin moved through her strikes with a practiced ease, his calm control in stark contrast to her frantic assault. It was as if he were letting her fight, allowing her to burn through her energy without ever truly engaging.

Tae-Yeung spun and kicked, pivoted and punched, her breath coming faster, her frustration mounting with each failed attempt. Jin’s precision was unnerving, his control absolute, his body never faltering, never shifting beyond what was necessary to evade her. She felt like she was fighting a ghost, her strikes passing through empty air as he danced just beyond her reach, her determination clashing against his immovable calm.

And all the while, Jin’s expression remained unchanged, his face a mask of eerie tranquility. He was watching her, assessing her, but there was no acknowledgment of her strength, no hint of respect or admiration. To him, she was nothing more than an insect, something he could crush if he chose to. His eyes held no empathy, only a distant, detached interest.

Realizing this only fueled Tae-Yeung’s determination further, but a part of her began to understand the futility of her efforts. She was throwing everything she had at him, and he hadn’t even flinched.

The dread that had lurked in the back of Tae-Yeung’s mind now surged to the forefront, swelling like a dark wave, threatening to drown her completely. She’d faced El Diablo countless times, enduring his brutal onslaughts within the confines of the ring, but this was different. Here, there were no boundaries, no safety nets, no audience watching from the sidelines. This wasn’t a match in the Ryona Combat League—this was a real confrontation, and she was facing a man who could end her life without a second thought. There was no one to save her, no referee to call time. She was utterly, terrifyingly alone.

Her heart pounded, and her breaths came quick and shallow, but she forced herself to keep going, pushing aside the gnawing terror in the pit of her stomach. She launched herself at him again, her limbs moving more out of desperation than skill, her Taekwondo training carrying her forward even as her mind screamed at her to flee. Each kick, each punch was driven by a primal need to survive, her body moving with the last reserves of strength she could muster. She wasn’t fighting to win anymore; she was fighting simply to keep herself alive, to stave off the inevitability of his power for even a few seconds more.

But with each passing moment, her strikes grew slower, her movements more sluggish. She was burning through her energy at an alarming rate, the adrenaline that fueled her fury now beginning to drain her reserves. Jin remained unshaken, his expression as calm and unfeeling as before, his body shifting only enough to avoid or parry her attacks. He looked as though he was barely exerting any effort at all, each of her strikes met with a subtle dodge or block that further drained her strength.

A flicker of panic flashed across Tae-Yeung’s face as she realized how futile her attacks were. She was giving it everything she had, every ounce of power and speed, and yet he stood before her as untouchable as ever, his gaze hard and indifferent, as if she were a mere annoyance, a fly buzzing around him.

Her legs began to ache, her arms felt like lead, but she kept going, her survival instincts refusing to let her stop. She threw punch after punch, kick after kick, her body pushed to its very limits. Sweat dripped down her face, her breathing ragged and uneven, each strike weaker than the last. But she couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop, her mind locked in a frantic loop, demanding that she continue, that she push forward no matter what. If she stopped, if she gave in to the exhaustion, then she’d be as good as dead.

But her body had other ideas.

Her vision blurred as fatigue began to claw at her senses, each step becoming more unsteady, each swing of her arm slower. The alley around her seemed to darken, closing in as her energy drained away, her desperation the only thing keeping her upright. She could feel her knees weakening, her balance wavering, but she forced herself to stay on her feet, to give it one last effort.

With a final, desperate shout, Tae-Yeung pivoted on her heel, using the last of her strength to drive her leg forward in one last kick. She put everything she had into the strike, channeling her fear, her anger, her desperation into this single, final attack. Her leg cut through the air, aimed directly at his chest, hoping against hope that it would land.

But Jin moved in a blur. Before her kick could make contact, he swept his own leg forward with lightning speed, intercepting her motion and knocking her leg out from under her. Tae-Yeung’s balance evaporated in an instant, and her body dropped, hitting the pavement hard. Pain shot through her as her limbs sprawled out, her body sapped of all strength, leaving her defenseless and vulnerable on the cold, unforgiving ground.

For a moment, she lay there, gasping, her chest heaving as she struggled to pull air into her lungs. Her body was completely spent, every ounce of her energy drained in her futile attempt to hold her ground against him. She was exposed, helpless, her gaze drifting upward as she saw him standing over her, his expression as cold and unyielding as ever.

Jin moved with terrifying precision, raising his fist and positioning himself over her, the deadly intent clear in his posture. Tae-Yeung’s heart hammered, her eyes widening as she realized what was coming. This was it. Her mind screamed, her body frozen in terror as his fist began to descend, a wave of raw, electric energy crackling around it, casting a menacing red glow over his face. The concrete around them seemed to tremble under the force of his power, the atmosphere thick with an almost palpable dread.

Instinctively, Tae-Yeung flinched, bracing herself for the inevitable impact. She squeezed her eyes shut, her body tensing as she prepared for what she was certain would be the killing blow. This wasn’t the Ryona Combat League; this was a man with no reason to show restraint, and she knew he could shatter her in an instant if he chose to.

A heavy, thunderous crack echoed through the alley, and Tae-Yeung’s eyes snapped open, expecting the worst. But instead of feeling the searing pain of his fist, she found herself unharmed, her body still intact. Her gaze drifted to her side, and she saw his fist embedded in the pavement beside her head, the concrete splintered and shattered from the impact. His knuckles rested mere inches from her face, the fractured ground a silent testament to the force he’d held back.

The red lightning dissipated from around his fist, fading back into his body as he pulled his hand away, his face still devoid of emotion, his gaze unreadable as he looked down at her. Tae-Yeung’s mind reeled, her body still paralyzed by the overwhelming fear, the adrenaline that had once driven her now leaving her numb, shaking as she tried to process what had just happened.

Jin Kazama hadn’t killed her. He had chosen not to end her life, despite having every opportunity to do so.

Tae-Yeung lay on the cold, unyielding pavement, her body utterly drained, her mind reeling from the encounter. Her chest heaved with each ragged breath, her limbs limp and unresponsive as she struggled to process what had just happened. The shattered concrete beside her, the lingering shock of Jin’s power, the effortless way he had dismantled her—all of it weighed down on her, pressing into her soul and snuffing out any remnants of defiance. She had never felt so small, so defeated, and as she lay there, her spirit crumbled into a hollow, aching emptiness. This wasn’t a match; it was a message, one that tore through every ounce of her pride, leaving her feeling broken in a way she had never known before.

Jin stepped back, his expression hardening, and Tae-Yeung sensed a cold disdain in his gaze. He looked down at her, his face a mask of detached disappointment, as if the entire encounter had been nothing more than a waste of his time. His mouth twisted into a faint sneer, and he shook his head, muttering to himself with an air of disgust. “Empty, meaningless. Nothing like fighting him.” he said, his voice low and distant, more to himself than to her.

The words cut through Tae-Yeung’s haze of exhaustion, piercing her fogged mind like shards of ice. She tried to push herself up, her arms trembling beneath her weight as she forced her gaze to meet his. “What… what are you talking about?” she managed to ask, her voice weak, barely more than a whisper.

Jin’s eyes narrowed, and for a brief moment, something colder and sharper glinted in his gaze. He tilted his head, his voice laced with a contempt that made her flinch. “You think you’re strong?” he asked, his tone carrying an edge that was as dismissive as it was cutting. “You walk into that arena, parade yourself for an audience that thrives on your suffering, and you call that strength?”

He looked her over, his gaze filled with nothing but disdain, as though the very sight of her disgusted him. “You degrade yourself in that pit for what? The approval of those spectators? The thrill of a cheap fight?” He scoffed, the sound devoid of anything resembling respect. “This… spectacle you’re a part of, it’s a hollow imitation of strength. A twisted mockery of what fighting should be.”

His words bit deeper than any physical blow. Tae-Yeung’s fists clenched, but she found no fire left within her to protest. The truth in his accusations left her feeling exposed, her pride crumbling further with every sentence he spoke. She had given everything to survive in the Ryona Combat League, enduring pain, humiliation, and defeat countless times, all for the chance to prove her worth. But now, under Jin’s gaze, all of it felt cheap, meaningless—a fleeting illusion of strength that vanished under the weight of his contempt.

“Was that what you call Taekwondo?” he asked, his voice dripping with disdain. “You think throwing kicks in a ring, letting them bend and break you, is strength?” He shook his head, his expression hardening. “You disgrace the art you claim to practice. What you do in that ring isn’t Taekwondo. It’s a shallow imitation, a sad echo of what real martial artists stand for.”

His words left her breathless, each one twisting like a knife in her chest. Tae-Yeung opened her mouth to respond, to defend herself, but the words died on her lips. She knew there was nothing she could say, no argument that could change the truth he had laid bare. Her skills, her endurance, the pride she had clung to—they all felt hollow under his scrutiny, stripped away by his cold, merciless gaze.

As she lay there, Jin’s expression remained impassive, his face revealing no sympathy, no trace of understanding. To him, she was just another fighter in a world he looked down upon, someone who had willingly stepped into the muck of the league, a place he saw as beneath any true warrior. She could feel his contempt radiating from him, a wall of cold rejection that left her feeling utterly alone.

After a long, scathing silence, Jin turned his back on her, dismissing her completely. He raised a hand, a silent signal to the Tekken Force soldiers who had been standing nearby, watching the entire encounter without a word. At his gesture, they straightened, falling into formation as they prepared to leave. Jin’s cold gaze swept over the alley one last time, his disdainful silence echoing louder than any words could have.

Without another word, he began to walk away, the soldiers following him like shadows. Their footsteps faded, leaving Tae-Yeung alone, the empty alley and the shattered pavement the only testament to the brief, devastating encounter. She watched them disappear into the distance, her vision blurred with tears she refused to shed.

As the silence settled over her, Tae-Yeung felt the weight of Jin’s words sink deeper, each one a brutal reminder of how far she had fallen. She had entered the Ryona Combat League to prove her strength, to stand tall against the world that tried to break her. But here, under the harsh light of Jin’s judgment, all of it felt like a lie, a flimsy illusion shattered by his cold dismissal.

Her hand trembled as she reached for her phone, the tears blurring her vision as she dialed Tatsu Otome’s number. The phone rang, each tone feeling like a weight pressing down on her chest, amplifying the sense of isolation that had taken hold. When Tatsu finally answered, his voice was steady, calm—a lifeline to a world that felt distant and fragile in her current state.

“Hello? Tae-Yeung?”

She tried to respond, but her voice was choked with sobs, the words coming out in broken fragments. “Tatsu… I… Jin… it was him…”

Her voice cracked, each word drenched in fear and despair. She could barely speak, her mind struggling to find coherence amidst the tumult of emotions. Tatsu’s tone shifted, his usual calm replaced by a quiet urgency.

“What happened? Are you hurt? Where are you?”

“An… alleyway,” she managed, the word stumbling out between sobs. “He… he just… I don’t know why he…”

Tatsu’s voice softened, the edge of concern tempered with a quiet authority. “Listen to me, Tae-Yeung. I need thee to find thy way to the main plaza. I shall send someone to escort thee to safety.”

The reassurance in his voice brought a brief calm to her storm of emotions, but before she could even nod, she felt a gentle touch on her shoulder. Startled, Tae-Yeung looked up, her tear-filled gaze meeting the serene, almost ethereal face of Larissa Chatlion.

Standing beside her, Larissa appeared like a figure from another time, her platinum-blonde hair flowing over her shoulders in soft waves, framing a face touched with a quiet wisdom. Her eyes, a piercing blue, held a compassion that seemed to reach deep into Tae-Yeung’s despair. She wasn’t dressed in her usual ring gear; instead, she wore a simple yet elegant dark dress, its long sleeves fitting snugly, paired with a soft woolen shawl draped around her shoulders. Her attire gave her an almost otherworldly presence, as though she had stepped out of an ancient tale to offer solace.

With a gentle hand, Larissa took the phone from Tae-Yeung’s grasp, bringing it to her ear with a grace that felt timeless. “Master Tatsu,” she said, her voice carrying a soft, lilting accent that echoed of distant lands and old-world charm, “I shall see to it that the lady finds her way safely home. Rest assured, I shall not leave her side.”

There was a brief pause on the other end before Tatsu responded, his tone visibly relieved. “Thank you, Larissa. Ensure her safety, and I’ll arrange for a few eyes to watch the area from afar.”

“Aye, it shall be done,” Larissa replied with a gentle solemnity, ending the call and slipping the phone back into Tae-Yeung’s pocket. She knelt beside Tae-Yeung, her hand still resting lightly on her shoulder, her presence as calming as it was firm.

“Canst thou stand, dear heart?” she asked softly, her voice like a soothing melody, each word carefully spoken with a care that felt almost reverent.

Tae-Yeung looked up at her, dazed and overwhelmed, but the warmth in Larissa’s eyes gave her a small, flickering spark of courage. She nodded, managing to grasp Larissa’s outstretched hand, and with a gentle but firm grip, Larissa helped her to her feet.

Once Tae-Yeung was steady, Larissa kept her hand on her shoulder, guiding her forward with an elegance that seemed to transcend the grim reality of the alley. They walked in silence for a moment, Tae-Yeung’s breaths still uneven, her emotions raw and frayed, yet somehow, Larissa’s presence grounded her, offering a calm that she had thought lost.

“Worry not, dear soul,” Larissa murmured, her tone filled with a compassion that felt ancient, as though she had comforted countless others in the same manner. “Thou art safe now. I shall not let harm befall thee.”

The words were simple, yet they resonated within Tae-Yeung, easing the ache in her chest as they made their way out of the shadowed alley. She could feel Larissa’s strength, her quiet resolve, each step guided with a purpose that felt almost otherworldly, as though Larissa had been sent not just to help, but to restore some fragment of her broken spirit.

As they approached the edge of the alleyway, the dim glow of streetlights cast a gentle light over them, revealing the subtle kindness in Larissa’s expression. Tae-Yeung felt her breath begin to steady, the oppressive weight of the night lifting slightly as she clung to Larissa’s reassuring presence.

“Thou hast endured much,” Larissa said softly as they reached the open plaza, her tone warm and understanding, a slight archaic lilt giving each word a weight that was oddly comforting. “But remember, strength lies not merely in enduring pain, but in rising beyond it. Let thy spirit be thy guide, even in moments of darkness.”

Tae-Yeung swallowed, the ache in her throat easing as she absorbed the gentle wisdom in Larissa’s words. She glanced at her, gratitude and admiration mingling with her lingering sorrow. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice soft but genuine, her heart touched by Larissa’s kindness.

Larissa inclined her head gracefully, her eyes filled with a soft, unspoken understanding. “Come now,” she said, extending her hand once more, “let us away. Home awaits, and thou shalt find rest therein.”

Tae-Yeung took her hand, allowing Larissa to lead her away from the alley, her steps steadier, the weight of Jin’s harsh words lessened by the warmth of Larissa’s support. For the first time since her encounter, she felt a fragile hope—a small, flickering light in the depths of her sorrow, kindled by the quiet strength of a woman who spoke with the wisdom of ages past.

As they left the plaza behind, the night seemed less daunting, the shadows less oppressive, and Tae-Yeung found herself clinging to Larissa’s words, letting them soothe the wounds that Jin’s cruelty had left in her heart.

 

[anotherguttersnipe]

Edge of Pain: Interlude 7.0 - Escalation


The office of Ichiro Sakazaki sat high above the bustling streets of Osaka, a spacious yet understated environment that projected an air of calculated authority. The walls were lined with dark wood, polished to a fine sheen, punctuated by minimalist artwork that spoke to both Ichiro’s taste and his restraint. A large window stretched across one side, offering a sweeping view of the cityscape, its skyline fragmented by the distant glow of neon lights. The atmosphere was quiet, tranquil even, but beneath the calm exterior lay an undeniable tension.

Kenta Hinamura entered the office, his expression a mask of barely restrained anger, his every step tense. He closed the door behind him with a sense of finality, his gaze fixed on Ichiro, who was seated behind a large, meticulously organized desk. The older man’s expression was calm, his eyes sharp and calculating as he looked up to meet Kenta’s furious stare. There was an unspoken understanding between them, a weight that neither of them could ignore after the events of the previous night.

Without preamble, Kenta strode forward, his tone dripping with accusation. “You handed over everything—every piece of Sato Yagami’s operation—to Jin Kazama without a second thought. Did you know this was coming, Ichiro? Did you have any idea he’d pull a stunt like this?”

Ichiro remained unfazed, his expression unchanging as he listened to Kenta’s accusations. He waited until Kenta had finished before responding, his tone measured and calm. “Yes, I did,” he replied, his voice steady. “Jin’s intervention was inevitable, Kenta. The severity of Sato’s betrayal left us with little choice. The longer we tried to shield Sato, the more we risked drawing the full ire of the Mishima Zaibatsu upon ourselves.”

Kenta’s eyes narrowed, his fists clenched as he took another step closer to the desk. “So you’re telling me you knew that handing over all our intel to him was our only option?” His voice was low, simmering with anger. “Do you realize what that means? The data alone was worth millions, and you gave it away without even a fight. How can you be so calm about this?”

Ichiro regarded Kenta with a look of practiced patience, his gaze cool, steady. “This is about more than money, Kenta,” he replied, his tone pragmatic. “This is about survival. Sato’s actions compromised the very foundation of our operations. When the Zaibatsu discovered his treachery, Jin didn’t simply ask for information—he demanded retribution. And it’s a demand that cannot be denied without consequence.”

Kenta bristled, his frustration mounting. “But we could have handled this ourselves. Sato was one of us, for better or worse. We could have contained the fallout, disciplined him quietly, kept this within our own ranks. Instead, you laid it all bare for the Zaibatsu, exposed every last piece of information we had. Sato didn’t have to die—at least not like that.”

Ichiro’s gaze hardened slightly, though his tone remained steady. “Containment, Kenta? Is that truly what you think would have resolved this? Sato had grown reckless, arrogant. He believed himself untouchable, acting as though he could do as he pleased without consequence. He was already refusing to listen, defying direct orders, cutting deals with G Corporation as if the consequences didn’t concern him. Any attempt to discipline him internally would have only fueled his arrogance and risked further exposure.”

Kenta shook his head, his frustration boiling over. “So you sacrificed him. Threw him to Jin to avoid taking responsibility for our own. You didn’t even give him a chance to make amends, to explain himself. His death—” Kenta’s voice trembled slightly, his anger barely contained, “—it served no purpose except to placate the Zaibatsu. You handed him over on a silver platter because it was convenient.”

Ichiro held Kenta’s gaze, his own eyes unyielding. “Sato’s death was far from convenient. It was necessary. The Mishima Zaibatsu’s patience with us was already thin. Had we protected Sato, Jin would have seen it as a sign of defiance, a refusal to cooperate. That would have led to something far worse than the death of one man. You know as well as I do that we would not survive an all-out war with the Zaibatsu.”

Kenta scoffed, his frustration evident as he paced in front of the desk. “So you’re saying that throwing Sato to the wolves was the only way to keep us safe?” He stopped, looking Ichiro squarely in the eyes. “What does that say about us? About our loyalty to our own? Are we so weak that we have to sacrifice one of our own to appease some power-hungry overlord?”

Ichiro’s expression darkened, his voice gaining a steely edge. “This isn’t about weakness or strength, Kenta. It’s about survival. Sato was a liability, one that threatened everything we’ve built. His betrayal cost us dearly, not just in resources, but in trust. Jin Kazama didn’t see Sato as an isolated problem; he saw him as a reflection of our entire organization. A loose end left to rot would have signaled to the Zaibatsu that we are complicit, that we cannot control our own.”

Kenta opened his mouth to retort, but Ichiro raised a hand, silencing him with a firm look. “And make no mistake, Kenta—this was not a decision I made lightly. Sato was a member of our family, yes, but he chose his path. His arrogance blinded him to the reality of his actions. He believed himself untouchable, and that was his downfall. Sacrificing him may not sit well with you, but it ensured that we are here to have this conversation. It kept our organization intact, however fragile that may be.”

The words hung in the air, their finality resonating through the room. Kenta’s expression softened, though the anger still lingered in his eyes. He knew Ichiro was right in a sense, knew that Sato’s betrayal had left them exposed. But the way it had been handled—the ruthlessness of it all—left a bitter taste in his mouth, one that wouldn’t easily be washed away.

Ichiro leaned back, his gaze never leaving Kenta’s. “Sometimes, sacrifices must be made, Kenta. This world we live in does not afford us the luxury of sentimentality. We do what we must to survive, even if it means cutting off a poisoned limb to save the body.”

Kenta looked away, his shoulders tense, his mind reeling as he tried to reconcile his anger with the cold logic of Ichiro’s words. The reality of their world, brutal and unyielding, pressed down on him, reminding him that honor and loyalty were luxuries they could not always afford. Sato’s death may have been inevitable, a necessary cost to keep the Zaibatsu from tearing them apart.

But as he turned back to Ichiro, a flicker of defiance remained in his gaze. “I understand why you did it,” he said, his voice low. “But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Ichiro inclined his head slightly, accepting Kenta’s words without protest. “No, Kenta. You don’t have to like it. But you do have to accept it.”


The tension in Ichiro’s office hung thick in the air, the finality of his words still echoing as Kenta stared at him, his jaw clenched with unspoken resentment. Their confrontation over Sato’s death had ended in an uneasy truce, but Kenta’s frustration lingered, barely contained beneath the surface. For a moment, the room was silent, the only sound the distant hum of the city below, a reminder of the empire they fought to protect, however fractured it might be.

Then, suddenly, the door swung open with a force that broke the silence like a gunshot. Tatsu Otome strode into the office, his expression unusually tense, his posture rigid with urgency. Ichiro and Kenta turned to him, immediately sensing that something was wrong. Tatsu’s usual calm was nowhere to be seen; instead, he looked almost shaken as he approached Ichiro’s desk.

“What is it, Tatsu?” Ichiro asked, his voice even, though his eyes narrowed in suspicion. For Tatsu to come in with such urgency, the news had to be severe.

“One of the girls from the league,” Tatsu began, his tone clipped, “was ambushed an hour ago.”

Ichiro’s brow furrowed, and Kenta’s expression shifted to one of mild irritation, clearly assuming it was a trivial matter. “An ambush?” Kenta scoffed, dismissively waving a hand. “Some low-level street thugs, no doubt. She should have been able to handle herself.”

“Indeed,” Ichiro added, leaning back in his chair with a skeptical look. “Most of the girls in the league have been through enough fights to handle a few pests on the street. Who was it? Melissa? Alyx?”

Tatsu shook his head, his face grim. “It was Tae-Yeung.”

That gave Ichiro and Kenta pause, but only for a moment. Ichiro raised an eyebrow, but his demeanor remained indifferent. “Tae-Yeung?” he repeated, as if testing the weight of her name. “She’s resilient. She can recover from a rough encounter.”

Kenta nodded in agreement, brushing it off with a smirk. “Tae-Yeung’s tougher than most. If she can last as long as she has against El Diablo in the ring, a few alleyway thugs should be no problem.”

Tatsu’s expression darkened, and he took a steadying breath before continuing. “It wasn’t street thugs, Ichiro.” His voice dropped, carrying a weight that made both Ichiro and Kenta sit up, their casual dismissal vanishing. “It was Tekken Force. And Jin Kazama himself was there.”

A stunned silence fell over the room, as the severity of Tatsu’s words settled in. Kenta’s eyes widened, the smugness wiped clean from his face. Ichiro’s expression turned cold, his jaw tightening as he processed the news. Tekken Force—the Zaibatsu’s elite soldiers. And Jin Kazama… directly involved.

“What?” Kenta’s voice was a mix of disbelief and anger. “Jin Kazama ambushed one of our fighters? This wasn’t a random act, then.” His voice trembled with restrained fury. “It was a calculated message.”

Tatsu nodded, his face grave. “Yes. Tae-Yeung wasn’t physically harmed too badly, but… it’s clear that Jin wasn’t there just to intimidate her. He left her completely broken, mentally. From what I’ve gathered, she’s shaken to her core. Whatever he said, whatever he did—it wasn’t just about frightening her. It was about showing us that he can reach any one of us, anywhere, whenever he chooses.”

Ichiro let out a slow, steady breath, his mind racing as he took in the implications. Jin Kazama targeting one of their fighters, sending a message through a direct encounter—that was no small move. It wasn’t just a show of power; it was a warning. Jin was letting them know that the Mishima Zaibatsu had eyes on every corner of their organization, even the fighters in their combat league.

Ichiro’s eyes narrowed, a steely determination replacing his earlier calm. “If Jin wanted to frighten us, he’s succeeded. But we cannot let this slide. We can’t afford any more vulnerabilities. Our fighters are now his targets, pawns in a game he’s orchestrating to keep us under his thumb.”

He turned to Tatsu, his voice firm. “Increase security around all the fighters in the league, effective immediately. If Jin sees them as fair game, we must be ready.”

Tatsu nodded, his stance shifting to one of readiness, his usual calm returning as he prepared to follow Ichiro’s orders. “Understood. I’ll see to it that additional protection is arranged for each of them. We’ll make sure they’re escorted to and from every match, and that no one is left vulnerable.”

Ichiro’s gaze drifted to Kenta, who was still processing the news, his face a mixture of anger and lingering resentment. “Kenta,” Ichiro said, his tone carrying an authority that left no room for argument, “I need you to oversee Eliza Sturgeon’s security personally. She’s one of our most valuable fighters—her reputation in the league alone draws significant attention, and if anything were to happen to her…”

Kenta scowled, but he knew Ichiro’s request was no small matter. Eliza was essential to the league’s allure, a figure who held her own in the ring and commanded respect from both fans and fighters alike. Losing her to an ambush like this would be a devastating blow to their image, one that would send a message of weakness to the Zaibatsu and to their own ranks.

Kenta gave a sharp nod, his voice laced with reluctant acceptance. “Fine. I’ll make sure Eliza is protected. I’ll personally handle her security detail and ensure that there’s no chance for the Tekken Force—or anyone else—to get near her.”

Ichiro’s expression softened, a hint of respect in his eyes as he nodded. “Good. I’m trusting you with this, Kenta. Eliza’s safety is paramount, and I know that if she’s under your watch, she’ll be in capable hands.”

Though still bristling from their earlier argument, Kenta inclined his head, a silent acknowledgment of the trust Ichiro had placed in him. Despite his lingering frustration, he understood the importance of the task at hand. The threat posed by Jin Kazama was too great to let personal grievances cloud his judgment.

As Tatsu and Kenta turned to leave, Ichiro’s voice stopped them, carrying an edge of warning. “Remember this, both of you—this is no longer about pride or territory. This is survival. Jin has made it clear that he’s watching us, that he can reach us whenever he pleases. We have to protect what’s ours, not just for the sake of the league, but for the survival of everyone tied to it.”

They nodded in unison, each man fully aware of the weight of Ichiro’s words. The situation had escalated, and now they faced an enemy who saw them as little more than pawns in his game. But Ichiro knew they had no choice but to play along, to safeguard their fighters, their assets, and their territory from further incursions.

As Tatsu and Kenta left the room, Ichiro’s gaze drifted to the cityscape beyond his window, his mind already calculating the steps they would need to take to stay one step ahead.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


Eliza Sturgeon held her phone close, her voice soft and laced with concern as she spoke to Tae-Yeung Park. “Are you sure you’re alright? I still can’t believe they’d go that far. The Tekken Force… and Jin Kazama himself? That’s more than just intimidation.”

On the other end, Tae-Yeung’s voice was steadier than Eliza expected, though a faint tremor revealed the lingering unease. “I’m… I’m okay, really. They’ve put a couple of guards on me, just as a precaution. And, well, Larissa is here, too. She showed up out of nowhere and… she’s kind of stuck around.”

Eliza frowned, a hint of skepticism creeping into her voice. “Larissa? She’s… well, let’s just say she’s not exactly the first person I’d expect to come to anyone’s rescue. Her, uh, eccentricities don’t exactly scream ‘bodyguard material.’”

Tae-Yeung chuckled softly, though there was an undercurrent of uncertainty. “I know what you mean. She’s… different. A little unsettling sometimes, but she was there when I needed someone. I don’t understand her entirely, but in a strange way, her presence has helped. It’s comforting, even if I don’t completely get why.”

Eliza paused, letting out a soft sigh as she processed Tae-Yeung’s words. She wanted to be supportive, but the thought of relying on someone as unpredictable as Larissa made her uneasy. “Just… be careful, alright? I get that she helped you, and I’m grateful for that, but there’s something about her that doesn’t sit right with me. I wouldn’t want her to make things… complicated.”

Tae-Yeung’s voice softened, her tone filled with understanding. “I’ll keep that in mind, Eliza. But for now, she’s been a huge help, and I feel safer with her around. It’s hard to explain, but I feel like she has a way of keeping the darkness at bay. Even if just for a while.”

There was a momentary silence as both women reflected on the strange circumstances that had brought them to this point. The world around them had become dangerous, their lives entwined in a web of violence and power struggles that left them constantly on edge. Yet, in that shared understanding, they found a small spark of solidarity.

“Take care of yourself, Tae-Yeung,” Eliza finally said, her voice softening. “Let’s get through this in one piece, yeah?”

“You too, Eliza. Be safe.”

The call ended, and Eliza lowered the phone, letting out a sigh as she stared into the dimly lit room, her mind heavy with the weight of their conversation. She wanted to believe that Larissa’s presence was a blessing for Tae-Yeung, a steady hand in a tumultuous time. But the unpredictability that surrounded Larissa made her uneasy, and Eliza couldn’t shake the feeling that relying on someone like her was a gamble.

Lost in her thoughts, Eliza glanced over to see Kenta Hinamura sitting nearby, his expression weary, the lines on his face deeper than usual. The past twenty-four hours had taken their toll on him. Managing the fallout from Jin’s ambush, handling the increased security around the fighters—he looked as though he hadn’t had a moment’s rest.

Eliza offered him a small, sympathetic smile. “Rough day, huh?”

Kenta looked up, nodding slowly. “You could say that. It’s been… exhausting.” He ran a hand through his hair, the frustration evident in his voice. “Trying to make sure everyone’s safe, while knowing full well that the Zaibatsu could strike again any moment. It’s… well, it’s been a lot.”

Eliza tilted her head thoughtfully. “Care for a drink? Might help take the edge off.”

He hesitated for a moment before offering a small, appreciative nod. “Yeah, that actually sounds… really good. Whiskey, if you’ve got it.”

Eliza chuckled, giving him a knowing look. “Whiskey, huh? You sure know what you like.” She moved over to a cabinet, opening it to reveal a small but curated collection of bottles. After a brief glance, she pulled out a bottle of Hibiki.

Pouring two glasses over ice, she took her time, savoring the small, soothing ritual of it. She handed one glass to Kenta, who accepted it with a nod, a faint glimmer of appreciation flickering in his eyes. They clinked their glasses in a quiet toast, and Kenta took a long, slow sip.

After a moment, he let out a contented sigh, the tension easing from his shoulders as the whiskey warmed him from within. “You know,” he began, his tone more relaxed, “there’s something about Japanese whiskey. It’s got this… elegance to it. Smooth, almost refined, like it’s crafted with an artist’s touch.”

Eliza took a sip, watching him thoughtfully. “Oh? And how does it compare to the whiskey you’re used to?”

Kenta leaned back, cradling the glass as he spoke, his voice thoughtful. “American whiskey… it’s bold, heavier. There’s a smokiness, an edge that grabs you, like it’s not afraid to make a statement. Japanese whiskey, though… it’s different. It’s subtle, complex. It doesn’t demand your attention—it just… it draws you in, makes you appreciate it slowly.”

He paused, a small, almost nostalgic smile crossing his face. “It’s kind of funny, really. There’s something about the quiet strength in it that reminds me of… resilience. Holding your ground without making a scene.”

Eliza smiled, appreciating the rare moment of introspection from him. “I never would’ve taken you for a whiskey connoisseur, Kenta.”

He chuckled, shrugging slightly. “There’s a lot about me you don’t know.” He raised his glass again, savoring the taste with a quiet satisfaction, letting the calm settle between them.

After a moment, Eliza leaned back, her gaze drifting to the darkened window. “How long do you think we’ll need the extra security?”

Kenta’s expression sobered, the levity of the moment fading. “That’s up to Ichiro, really. But if I had to guess, maybe a few weeks. Just until things settle with the Zaibatsu… if they ever do.”

She nodded, understanding the gravity of his words. The days ahead would be challenging, and the uncertainty of Jin Kazama’s intentions loomed over them like a shadow. Yet, for now, they had this small reprieve, a moment of shared understanding and quiet resilience.

Eliza took a sip of her whiskey, her gaze thoughtful as she looked over at Kenta. The brief moment of camaraderie they’d shared had eased the tension in the room, but a question still lingered in her mind, one that she could no longer hold back.

“Kenta… do you really think this added security is going to make a difference?” she asked, her voice tinged with skepticism. “I mean, we’re talking about the Mishima Zaibatsu here. If Jin Kazama decides he wants something, we both know a few extra guards won’t stop him.”

Kenta exhaled, acknowledging the weight of her question. He swirled the whiskey in his glass, looking down at it as he gathered his thoughts. “You’re right,” he admitted, his tone somber. “If Jin Kazama decided to attack us with the full force of the Zaibatsu, there’s no way we’d survive. We’re talking about an empire with resources that dwarf ours. They have military-grade technology, intelligence networks, and soldiers who make our street-level enforcers look like kids playing cops and robbers.”

He glanced up at her, his eyes hardened with a quiet resolve. “But that doesn’t mean we’d just roll over. We may not be able to match their firepower, but we’re not without our own strengths. We fight for each other, protect our own, and we’d go down swinging if it came to that. Loyalty means something here, Eliza. We don’t abandon our people, no matter the odds.”

Eliza regarded him silently, hearing the pride in his voice. Kenta’s loyalty to the Yakuza ran deep, she knew that, but it didn’t ease the nagging worry at the back of her mind. “That loyalty is admirable,” she said, her tone softer. “But you have to admit, the Zaibatsu’s on another level. They could crush us like an afterthought.”

Kenta nodded, conceding the point. “True. But the Zaibatsu has its own limitations. They’re stretched thin right now, fighting on too many fronts. They’re dealing with G Corporation, the United Nations, and… other enemies within their ranks. An open conflict with us would be a distraction Jin can’t afford at the moment. It’s all a delicate balancing act, really. Jin has to prioritize his resources, and while he’s powerful, even he can’t be everywhere at once.”

Eliza considered his words, her skepticism easing slightly as she realized the truth in what he was saying. The Zaibatsu wasn’t an unstoppable force—it was still vulnerable, constrained by the same limitations of power that affected any organization, no matter how vast. “So, what you’re saying is… we’re stuck in a sort of stalemate?”

Kenta gave a grim smile, nodding. “Exactly. Both sides are watching each other, waiting. The Zaibatsu can’t commit fully to us without weakening themselves elsewhere, and we can’t provoke them without risking everything. It’s an uneasy truce, really. Neither of us wants to make the first move that would push this into an all-out war.”

The realization settled over Eliza, and she took another sip of her drink, her mind turning over the implications of this delicate balance. It was a tense peace, one that could shatter with the smallest misstep. “So that’s what’s holding Jin back. Not fear of us… but the fear of spreading himself too thin.”

Kenta nodded. “Precisely. He’s smart enough to know that taking us out wouldn’t be worth the cost right now. But that doesn’t mean he won’t remind us of his reach, like he did with Tae-Yeung. It’s a power play, nothing more. A warning that he can get to us whenever he wants, even if he chooses not to for now.”

A wry smile tugged at Eliza’s lips as she mulled over Kenta’s explanation. “Funny, isn’t it? The only thing keeping us safe is that neither side is willing to fully commit. So much for loyalty or protection—it’s all just a game of convenience.”

Kenta didn’t argue. He could see the cynicism in her eyes, the way she looked at their world with a mixture of understanding and bitterness. She was a fighter in their ring, a prized asset, and she knew better than most the realities of her position.

“And we’re just… assets to them, aren’t we?” Eliza continued, her voice carrying a hint of sardonic amusement. “All of us, really—me, Tae-Yeung, the other fighters. We’re here to put on a show, to keep the league profitable, to entertain the wealthy and the depraved. We’re valuable, but not as people. Just as… pieces in their game.”

Kenta met her gaze, his expression serious. “I won’t deny it, Eliza. I know how this must look. To the Yakuza, you and the other fighters are assets. This league is built on violence and spectacle, and that means using people as tools. But we don’t just cast you aside. We protect those who belong to us because that loyalty is what holds us together. Without it, we’re just as lost as anyone else.”

Eliza chuckled bitterly, raising her glass in a mock toast. “To pain and profit, then,” she said, her voice laced with irony

Kenta watched her for a moment, then raised his own glass in response. “To pain and profit,” he echoed, a hint of respect in his eyes. He knew the sacrifices she made, the toll that life in the league took on her and the others. Despite everything, she faced it all with resilience, her bitterness a reflection of the brutal honesty she brought to their world.

They clinked their glasses, a toast born out of a shared understanding of the sacrifices they each made. For Kenta, it was the loyalty he bore to an organization that demanded everything from him. For Eliza, it was the resilience to endure the Yakuza’s games, to navigate a world that saw her as little more than a tool for entertainment.

 

[anotherguttersnipe]

Edge of Pain: Interlude 8.0 - Rest


In the dim warmth of Melissa Shammel's apartment, she and her cameraman, Steven Huxley, were seated around her laptop, engrossed in the photos from her latest match against El Diablo. Steven, dressed casually in his usual attire—a plain white hoodie with the hood down, dark jeans, and a pair of worn red sneakers—leaned forward, his face illuminated by the screen's glow. His slightly tousled black hair and thick-rimmed glasses gave him a reserved, almost bookish look, but there was an intensity in his gaze as he evaluated each image with an exacting eye.

Melissa, in contrast, was all energy. Each photo, every captured frame, seemed to fuel her enthusiasm, and she offered commentary on every shot that caught her eye. Her smile was self-assured as she scrutinized her own performance with a mix of pride and vanity. She relished the power these images conveyed—moments where she stood defiant against the hulking menace of El Diablo.

“Look at this one,” she murmured, tapping the screen. “You can see the tension, the struggle. My fans are going to eat this up.”

Steven gave a small nod, his focus as sharp as ever. “Yeah, it’s a powerful shot,” he said, though his tone was more measured. His gaze drifted occasionally toward the window, where the silhouettes of two Yakuza guards stood outside. With Tae-Yeung Park’s recent ambush by Jin Kazama, the Yakuza had placed guards around their fighters, and though Melissa hadn’t been targeted, the threat felt palpable. Steven’s unease with the Yakuza was clear—his eyes frequently flicked to the window, the tension in his posture betraying his discomfort.



Melissa noticed his shifting gaze and shrugged. “They’re just doing their job, Steven. After what happened to Tae-Yeung, I’d rather have them around than not. It’s a messed-up world, but at least we know someone’s got our backs.”

Steven sighed, his jaw tightening. “I get that they’re here for protection, but it doesn’t make me any less uncomfortable. The Yakuza watching our every move… it feels invasive.”

Melissa chuckled softly, her voice carrying a hint of sympathy. “I get it, really. It’s not ideal. But you and I both know that without them, things could be a lot worse.” She paused, a rare flicker of empathy crossing her expression as she thought of Tae-Yeung. Despite their rocky relationship, she couldn’t shake a small pang of sympathy for her fellow fighter. The ambush was a brutal reminder of just how high the stakes had become.

They fell into a comfortable silence, the soft click of the trackpad filling the space as they continued scrolling through the photos. Steven adjusted his glasses, taking in one particular image that showed Melissa staring directly into the camera, her expression intense, almost defiant. He pursed his lips, hesitating before speaking up.

“There’s something I wanted to mention,” he began, carefully choosing his words. “Your tendency to make direct eye contact with the camera… it’s a bit jarring.”

Melissa raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Jarring? That’s kind of the point, isn’t it? The league, my OnlyFans—it’s all about pushing boundaries. My fans are here for something darker, something… unsettling. They love that ‘creepy’ factor.”

Steven shook his head, clearly trying to find a delicate way to explain his point. “It’s not the ‘creepy’ factor that’s the issue. It’s that the direct eye contact disrupts the immersion. When you stare at the camera like that, it reminds the audience they’re watching a performance. If you kept your focus on the match instead, they’d feel like they’re intruding on something raw, something real.”

Melissa rolled her eyes, but there was a hint of curiosity beneath her dismissive expression. “So, you’re saying I should pretend the camera isn’t there? Just ignore it?”

“Not ignore it,” Steven clarified, leaning forward, his tone growing more animated. “Let them feel like they’re witnessing something private. If you stop acknowledging the camera, it’ll draw them in more. They’ll feel like they’re peeking into a real moment, not a performance. That’s where the power comes from—the illusion of vulnerability.”

Melissa considered his words, crossing her arms as she mulled it over. “I get what you’re saying, but isn’t that a bit risky? My fans are used to me staring them down, like I’m daring them to keep watching. They want that intensity.”

Steven met her gaze, undeterred. “Trust me, you can still have intensity without staring down the camera. It’s all about the subtleties. If they feel like they’re watching you struggle, like they’re seeing something they shouldn’t… it’ll resonate on a whole different level.”

She huffed, though there was a thoughtful glint in her eyes. “You’re such an artist, Steven,” she teased, smirking. “Always so serious about this stuff. Meanwhile, I’m just here to give the fans what they want.”

Steven chuckled, his expression softening. “Maybe, just maybe, they don’t know what they really want until you give it to them. Think about it—they’ll feel like they’re part of something raw, something primal. That’s what makes content memorable.”

After a moment, Melissa relented, nodding slowly. “Fine. I’ll give it a try. But if it doesn’t work, I’m going back to glaring at them. They need to know I see them watching.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Deal. Just try it for one match. I think you’ll be surprised by the reaction.”

She laughed, finally letting her guard down. But as the idea settled in her mind, she felt a spark of curiosity, wondering what it might be like to approach a match differently. Her mind wandered to the possibility of doing a session in "The Dungeon"—a raw, stripped-down training match with El Diablo, without the presence of an audience. The idea intrigued her, and she wondered if it might help capture that elusive feeling Steven was talking about.

“You know,” she said, her voice thoughtful, “maybe I should book a session in ‘The Dungeon’ with El Diablo. No crowd, no distractions—just him and me.”

Steven’s eyes lit up at the suggestion, clearly intrigued. “That could be perfect. If I’m not around, you can’t look for the camera. It’ll force you to stay in the moment.”

She gave him a sidelong glance, a smirk playing at her lips. “Alright, Mr. Perfectionist. I’ll think about it. But remember, if this experiment doesn’t work, you’re buying me dinner.”

Steven laughed, nodding. “Deal. But I have a feeling you’ll like the results.”

They shared a moment of mutual understanding, each recognizing the value the other brought to their strange partnership. Steven’s eye for detail and dedication to authenticity balanced Melissa’s bold, performance-driven approach, creating a blend of raw intensity and polished spectacle.

Outside, the Yakuza guards remained vigilant, their silhouettes a silent reminder of the danger that lurked beyond the walls of Melissa’s apartment. But in this moment, she felt a rare sense of camaraderie, knowing that whatever the future held, she and Steven would continue pushing the boundaries of their craft, creating something that resonated on a deeper level.

In the end, it wasn’t just about the league or the attention. It was about capturing something genuine, something that would linger in the minds of those who dared to watch. And as they returned to the photos, each lost in their thoughts, they both knew that together, they were crafting something unforgettable.


__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


In the soft glow of their modest apartment, Reika and Kana Matsumoto lay comfortably on the couch, bodies entwined in a familiar, sisterly embrace. Kana was stretched out, her head nestled on Reika’s shoulder, her arms wrapped around her older sister in a gesture of comfort. Reika, relaxed and calm, absently stroked Kana’s hair as they watched a Netflix series together. The gentle hum of the television filled the space, the cozy quiet a stark contrast to the chaos and pain of their recent match with El Diablo.

The room was warm and inviting, cluttered with small tokens of their shared life—photographs of their family, colorful cushions scattered across the couch, and a soft blanket draped over their legs. Here, in the privacy of their home, they weren’t fighters or public personas. They were just sisters, finding solace in each other’s presence, the shared laughter of the series on screen offering a much-needed escape.


As they lay together, wrapped in the quiet comfort of the moment, Kana hesitated before breaking the silence, her voice barely more than a whisper.

"Hey sis… have you ever thought about leaving wrestling? Going back to being an idol?"

Her question lingered in the air, and Reika felt its weight. She didn’t answer immediately, instead taking a moment to let the thought settle. She knew Kana’s question came from a place of genuine concern, a shared understanding of the toll wrestling had taken on them both. The bruises, the exhaustion, the constant cycle of training and recovery—it was relentless.

Reika sighed softly, staring at the ceiling. "I have thought about it," she admitted, her tone reflective. "Sometimes, when the pain gets to be too much, or when I see you struggling, I wonder if things would’ve been easier if we’d just stayed in the idol world. But then I remember why we left."

Kana nodded, leaning into her sister’s embrace as she listened, her eyes thoughtful.

"Being an idol… it wasn’t exactly what everyone thinks," Reika continued. "The industry treats people as disposable. You’re just a face, an image to be molded, and if you can’t keep up, they’ll replace you in a heartbeat. There’s no room for mistakes, no room for growth. It’s… shallow. They demand perfection but don’t care about the person behind it." Her gaze drifted as memories resurfaced, some of them bitter, others just painfully disappointing.

Kana nodded, understanding. "I know, but it was different, wasn’t it? I mean, no one was trying to break our bones, at least."

Reika laughed softly at that, though it was tinged with sadness. "True, but they were still breaking us in other ways. I remember the constant dieting, the hours of rehearsals, the pressure to look a certain way, act a certain way. Everything was about maintaining an image. No one cared if we were tired or unhappy. And we weren’t even making that much money for all that effort. Just enough to get by and keep ourselves locked in that endless cycle."

She paused, her gaze softening as she looked at Kana. "At least here, as brutal as the Ryona Combat League is, the Yakuza make sure we’re compensated. We’re given time to recover, and we know exactly what we’re getting into. There’s honesty in the brutality, in a way."

Kana bit her lip, thinking over her sister’s words. She’d felt the same struggles in the idol world—the expectation to be perfect at all times, the constant pressure, and the fear of being forgotten the second she slipped up. "I guess that’s true," she murmured. "And… I suppose the Yakuza aren’t so different from the agencies. They control everything too, but… they treat us better, in a weird way."

Reika nodded thoughtfully. "Exactly. As much as people see the Yakuza as cold or ruthless, they’re upfront with us. We know the risks, and they don’t sugarcoat it. And unlike the idol agencies, they won’t toss us aside if we need time to heal. They understand that we’re assets, sure, but they respect what we bring to the table."

Kana looked away, her expression pensive. "It’s strange to think that. But I feel… safer here than I ever did in that world. Even if we’re putting our bodies on the line, at least we’re doing it on our own terms. The idol industry just felt like a trap we could never escape from."

Reika gave her a gentle squeeze, feeling a shared sense of understanding settle between them. "You’re right. It’s ironic, but it’s true. We’re putting ourselves through hell, but at least we chose this path. In the idol world, it never felt like we had any choice at all."

They fell silent again, both lost in their own thoughts. The irony wasn’t lost on either of them—that they had left the idol world, an industry praised for its glitz and glamour, only to find a strange sense of respect and stability within the walls of an underground fighting ring. The Yakuza might be feared, but they were nothing if not practical, and in their own way, they had given the sisters more support and freedom than the idol industry ever had.

Kana shifted slightly, looking at Reika with a small, thoughtful smile. "Do you think… maybe they have a hand in the idol industry too? I mean, they seem to have a hand in everything around here."

Reika chuckled, shaking her head. "I wouldn’t be surprised. I’m sure they have ties everywhere. But here, at least, we know where we stand. They need us, and we need them. As much as they might exploit that, they’re not going to cast us aside if we stumble."

Kana nodded, the tension easing from her face as she settled back against Reika’s shoulder. "I guess I can live with that. It’s not perfect, but it’s something."

"Yeah," Reika murmured, her voice soft. "It’s something."


As the soft glow of their apartment lights filled the cozy room, Reika, with a mischievous glint in her eye, broke the silence. "Hey, Kana," she said, tilting her head toward her sister. "Have you ever thought about… you know, getting with El Diablo?"

The question hung in the air, playful yet laced with genuine curiosity. Reika’s tone was lighthearted, but Kana could sense there was more to it than just teasing. Despite the beatings they’d endured from him in the ring, El Diablo’s intense, almost mythical presence had a strange allure. For women who thrived on physical strength and unbreakable wills, someone like him could easily become an object of fascination.

Kana raised an eyebrow, feigning shock. "Are you serious?" she scoffed, though her cheeks flushed slightly. Before she could answer, a Yakuza henchman stationed discreetly by the door shifted uncomfortably. Catching on that this was veering into personal territory, he quietly excused himself, slipping outside for a smoke. His silent exit added a dash of humor, as if he’d had enough of the sisters’ “pillow talk” and wanted no part in their confessions.

After a pause, Kana smirked and shot the question back at her sister. "I don’t know, Reika. Have you?"

Reika’s cheeks flushed as she bit her lip, hesitating before giving a shy nod. "Maybe… once or twice," she admitted, a little sheepishly. "He’s… well, he’s intimidating, but there’s something thrilling about it, you know? He’s like this untouchable force of nature, and when you’re in the ring with him, it’s… electrifying. Even if he’s putting you through hell."

Kana chuckled, nudging her sister. "So, you’re saying you’re into monsters who make a habit of breaking people in half? That’s quite the kink, sis."

Reika rolled her eyes, swatting Kana’s arm lightly. "Oh, come on! I didn’t mean it like that," she laughed. "There’s just… something about him. He’s different from anyone else we’ve ever met. But, you know," her tone softened, "we both know it’s not like it’d ever happen. Not with Alyx around."

At the mention of Alyx Sharpe, both sisters’ expressions turned serious, though there was a hint of amusement in their eyes. Alyx’s fierce, almost possessive attitude toward El Diablo was well-known within the league. There was an unspoken understanding that whatever bond they shared—be it rivalry, respect, or something more—wasn’t something to meddle with lightly.

"Yeah, Alyx would rip us apart if we even thought about it," Kana muttered, a wry smile on her lips. "That woman is fierce. It’s like she’s got him all marked out as her territory, in and out of the ring."

They both laughed, acknowledging the truth of it. El Diablo and Alyx Sharpe were a force of their own, intense and nearly untouchable in the strange world they inhabited. Whatever connection they had was theirs alone, and neither Reika nor Kana had any interest in crossing that line.

After a brief silence, Kana let out a sigh, her gaze drifting thoughtfully. "You know… it’s hard enough to even consider dating someone. Who’s going to understand this kind of life? The constant training, the bruises, the pain? Most guys don’t get it."

Reika nodded, a note of sympathy in her eyes. "It’s not just that they don’t get it, Kana," she replied, her voice laced with a hint of frustration. "They don’t match up. We work so hard to stay in shape, to be at our peak. And then we meet these guys who can’t even handle a regular gym routine. It’s… disappointing."

The sisters exchanged a look, both of them feeling the familiar frustration of trying to balance their unique lives with the desire for connection. They had met plenty of people, sure, but so few who truly respected their dedication—or matched it.

Kana leaned back, exhaling. "It’s like… I don’t even want a guy unless he can at least appreciate what we put ourselves through. But they just don’t get it. They see a couple of bruises, and they’re either grossed out or acting like we’re fragile. Meanwhile, we’re the ones facing El Diablo in the ring."

Reika sighed, a resigned smile on her lips. "And it’s not like we’re asking for a miracle. Just someone who puts in the same effort, you know? Someone who understands what it means to push yourself to the limit."

A shared understanding passed between them, and for a moment, they both let out a soft laugh, acknowledging the irony of their situation. Here they were, women who’d fought tooth and nail to carve out their place in a brutal world, only to find that same strength had made it nearly impossible to find someone who respected it. In the end, maybe that’s why they found comfort in each other’s company more than anything else—knowing that at least they shared the same standards, the same commitment.

"Maybe," Kana joked, a mischievous glint in her eye, "the closest we’ll ever to the guys we want is through those beatings we take in the ring."

Reika snorted, laughing. "You might be right. Perhaps there's something about pain and pleasure being separated by a thin line."

The two burst into laughter, finding a strange humor in their predicament. Their standards, shaped by the harsh realities of the league, seemed absurd when applied to anyone outside it. But they couldn’t help it—that intensity, that raw passion for what they did, was too ingrained to ignore.

As the laughter faded, Reika looked over at her sister, a playful smirk forming on her lips. "Maybe a little bit of Alyx in both of us, huh?"

Kana laughed, nodding in agreement. "Yeah, maybe. We might be crazy for it, but at least we’re in it together."

The sisters sat in companionable silence, the night settling around them as they contemplated their lives, their standards, and the strange, unbreakable bond that had kept them side by side through it all. In the end, they realized, it was that bond—their mutual understanding and shared resilience—that mattered most. They had each other, and maybe that was all they truly needed.

 

[anotherguttersnipe]

Edge of Pain: Interlude 9.0 - Training


The air in The Dungeon was thick with the smell of iron and sweat, and determination. This underground gym, a private domain for the league’s fiercest fighters, was as brutal and unrefined as its purpose. The walls, a dull shade of gray with patches of exposed concrete, seemed to soak in the energy of every punch thrown, every body slammed. Rows of weights, battered training dummies, and ropes for grappling lined the periphery, while the center space was left clear for hand-to-hand combat. It was a place of pure, unfiltered strength and endurance—a sanctuary for those who lived by the violence of the league.



Tonight, the space carried an added tension. Outside, several Yakuza guards were stationed at the entrance, their presence a recent development following the ambush on Tae-Yeung Park. The extra security was there for El Diablo’s protection—a clear reminder of his value to the league. However, they respected his privacy, staying outside as he trained with Alyx, allowing the two fighters their intense and personal practice session in isolation.

Inside, in full wrestling gear, both of them embodied the raw power and readiness. The gear highlighted the taut muscles in their arms, the bruises and scars earned through countless fights. This wasn’t a light spar; it was a rehearsal for the real thing, as close to a brutal match as one could get without an audience. Every move, every hold they practiced was laced with the same intensity and psychological demands of a fight in the ring.

At that moment, El Diablo had Alyx trapped in a seated double arm stretch, his thick arms locked around hers, pulling them back and upward as she knelt before him. He held her firmly, applying steady, unyielding pressure that forced her muscles to strain against him. Alyx gritted her teeth, a thin sheen of sweat forming on her forehead as she resisted the pull. The position was agonizing, designed to test her limits, and El Diablo knew exactly how far to push her. Yet, her eyes gleamed with a fierce pleasure; she relished this challenge, this dance of pain and power.

From her vulnerable position, Alyx tilted her head slightly, her voice low but steady. "So, how’s the arm?"

Her question caught him off guard, though his expression remained impassive. The injury she was referring to was a recent one—a calculated assault from Jin's bodyguard that had nearly cost him his strength in the ring. It had left his left arm weakened, though he’d downplayed it in front of others. Here, alone with Alyx, he couldn’t entirely hide the way it affected his grip.

El Diablo’s reply was dismissive, almost arrogant. "Good as new," he said, tightening his hold just a fraction, as if to prove a point. His confidence radiated in his words, as though he were challenging her to believe otherwise. "Takes more than a cheap ambush to slow me down."

Alyx, despite the strain, managed a smirk, though her voice took on a measured, almost clinical tone. "That right?" she replied, her breathing controlled. "Because it feels to me like your left arm’s pulling with just a little less strength than the right."

Her words hung in the air, cutting through his confidence with a precision that startled him. He paused, the smallest flicker of surprise passing over his face as he glanced down at her. She had noticed a difference in his strength, something no one else had seemed to pick up on.

"And how would you know that?" he asked, curiosity creeping into his voice. His grip remained firm, but he was undeniably intrigued by her perceptiveness. It wasn’t often that anyone caught him off guard, and Alyx had done so with a single, carefully chosen observation.

Alyx let out a labored breath, her muscles still tensed against his hold. "After everything we’ve been through in the ring? My body’s learned to recognize when you’re at your full strength… and when you’re not."

Her words carried a weight beyond the physical struggle, hinting at the unique connection they shared, forged in countless matches and training sessions. Their bond wasn’t one of words or sentiments but of raw endurance and mutual respect, built on understanding each other’s limits—and pushing those limits.

He tightened his grip reflexively, testing her response, but her gaze remained steady, unwavering even in discomfort. There was no doubt in her eyes, no question of her assessment. She knew him, inside and out, as well as anyone could. The way his muscles tensed, the shift in his stance, the subtle differences in his holds—she could read them all, like an unspoken language between fighters.

"Your right side’s compensating," she continued, her tone matter-of-fact despite her strained position. "You might fool the audience, but not me."

For a moment, El Diablo held her there, processing her words. She wasn’t taunting him; this was simply Alyx, perceptive and unfiltered, sharing an insight that few others could offer him. Her attention to detail, her ability to read him like an open book, stirred something in him that bordered on admiration—though he’d never admit it outright.

Still, he wasn’t one to back down easily. "Think you know me that well, huh?" he muttered, a trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Alyx smirked back, undeterred. "Better than most. You might want to ease up on the arrogance. I can feel when you’re not giving it your all… and it doesn’t do you any favors."

There was a slight challenge in her tone, as if daring him to prove her wrong, to dig deeper and bring his true strength to the surface. It was that challenge—the way she continuously demanded more of him—that had always set Alyx apart from the others. She pushed him as hard as he pushed her, and she relished the intensity as much as he did.

He narrowed his eyes, his grip tightening just a fraction more, testing her reaction. Her jaw clenched, but she refused to show any sign of giving up, her resilience as fierce as ever. In that moment, as they remained locked in the double arm stretch, he felt a surge of respect, acknowledging the depth of their connection—a connection grounded in the brutal honesty of their shared pain.

For now, though, he kept her there, trapped in his grip, curious to see how long she could endure. Alyx, with her stubborn resolve, didn’t give him the satisfaction of a struggle. She held her ground, her breathing steady, her muscles tense against the relentless pressure. Their training session was more than just physical endurance; it was a test of will, a silent acknowledgment of the rare bond they shared as fighters.

With a practiced, almost surgical precision, he released Alyx from the double arm stretch, only to guide her body forward, transitioning smoothly into a camel clutch. He slid one leg on either side of her, planting his knees firmly into the mat. His hands locked around her chin, pulling her head and torso upward as he sank his weight onto her lower back. The adjustment was fluid, unhurried—a demonstration of his complete control over her movements, his hands pressing just so, increasing the strain on her spine and shoulders.

Alyx’s body tensed, her muscles straining against the unrelenting force. Every inch of her spine felt the stretch, her lower back arching as she gritted her teeth, refusing to let out a sound. She was trapped, the pressure unyielding, but she knew it was all part of his meticulous approach—keeping her locked down and testing her limits.

He smirked, his voice low and taunting as he held her steady in the hold. "See? I don’t need to be at a hundred percent to put you in your place," he remarked, the cockiness in his tone unmistakable. "Just a little weakness in my arm won’t change anything. I’ll still come out on top."

His words carried an edge of arrogance, as if dismissing the injury entirely, brushing off the notion that it could affect him. For him, victory was certain, inevitable. The weakness in his arm was, in his mind, nothing but a trivial inconvenience.

Alyx took a shaky breath, her body fighting against the strain of the hold. Yet despite the pain, she managed a defiant smirk, her voice steady even as her neck ached from the pressure. "That’s not good enough for me," she replied, her words carrying a weight that matched his own bravado. "I need you at your best. When we're in that ring, I want all of you."

El Diablo paused, momentarily taken aback by her response. He pulled a little harder, as if to test her resolve, but she held firm, her body resisting without faltering. Her words echoed in his mind, an unexpected challenge. Most would have accepted his declaration of dominance, but Alyx? She demanded more, refusing to be satisfied with anything less than his absolute strength.

"I’m serious," she continued, her voice a mix of pain and determination. "If you’re holding back, it’s not a real fight. I want to feel everything you’ve got… no excuses, no injuries, no half-measures." She tilted her head slightly, catching his gaze as best she could. "That’s the only way I can really know how strong I am. I need that intensity."

There was something raw in her words, an unfiltered honesty that mirrored the way they fought. She didn’t just want his strength for the sake of victory or defeat; she wanted it to push herself, to test her own limits. In her eyes, the brutality they shared in the ring was a form of truth—a way to peel back the layers and confront who they were at their core. Holding back, even due to an injury, would undermine that truth.

El Diablo tightened his grip on her chin, leaning in as he held her in place. "You don’t get it, do you?" he sneered. "I’m always going to be stronger than you, no matter what. This is all a game to me." Yet, even as he spoke, a flicker of something else crossed his mind. Her unwavering demand for authenticity had touched a nerve, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

But Alyx wasn’t deterred by his bravado. She took another breath, her body adjusting slightly under the pressure, trying to find any fraction of relief. "This isn’t about winning or losing, D," she said, her voice steadier. "This is about what we bring out in each other. I want that brutal honesty—no masks, no holding back. It’s the only thing that matters in that ring, the only thing that’s real."

Her words hung in the air between them, her gaze defiant despite the pain she endured. In the intimacy of the hold, with their bodies locked in a battle of endurance and power, there was a mutual respect brewing, an understanding forged through pain and perseverance.

El Diablo hesitated, his grip loosening slightly as he processed what she was saying. Here was someone who didn’t see the match as mere spectacle, as a means to dominate or be dominated. She saw it as a test of her own limits—a way to find strength through his strength. It was a perspective he rarely encountered, one that demanded as much of him as it did of her.

"Fine," he murmured, the arrogance in his voice tempered by a rare seriousness. "If that’s what you want, then you’d better be ready. I’m not going to hold back. And when you can’t handle it… don’t say I didn’t warn you."

With that, he leaned back into the hold, pulling her head and shoulders higher, increasing the tension until every nerve in her back screamed in protest. Alyx clenched her teeth, her hands gripping his wrists as she fought against the pain. This was what she wanted, what she demanded of him—a brutal, uncompromising display of his strength.

But even as he exerted his power over her, she held firm, finding a strange satisfaction in the unyielding pressure, in the raw honesty of the pain he inflicted. In this moment, there was no audience, no performance—only the truth of their shared resilience, an unspoken acknowledgment of what they offered each other.

Trapped in the camel clutch, Alyx took another labored breath, feeling every pull and strain as he tested her resolve. She knew this was far from over; she knew he was going to push her further, test every limit she had. But that was what she craved—the brutal honesty of his strength, unfiltered and unforgiving. And as she looked up at him, her eyes still defiant despite the pain, she saw a flicker of recognition in his gaze, a silent acknowledgment of the strength she demanded from him.


With a decisive movement, El Diablo released Alyx from the agonizing camel clutch, allowing her a brief moment to catch her breath. But just as she began to adjust, he pulled her to her feet, his grip never truly loosening. Before she could react, his powerful arms wrapped around her, locking her into a full nelson. His fingers interlaced behind her head, pulling her shoulders back, forcing her spine to arch and exposing her to his unyielding control.

The full nelson held a different energy—less of an overtly painful submission and more of an immobilizing restraint, a hold that emphasized his sheer physical dominance. Alyx felt the intensity of his grip, the strength radiating from him as he held her firmly in place. Every slight shift she made to free herself was effortlessly countered. His presence was all-encompassing, his breath steady and controlled behind her as he reinforced the subtle power he held over her.

For a moment, they remained silent, their breathing in sync, a testament to the level of physicality and mutual respect that defined their interactions. Finally, Alyx broke the silence, her voice slightly strained but edged with a familiar taunt. “So… don’t you want to get back at the bitch who jumped you?” she asked, her tone both mocking and curious, testing his reaction to her bold question. She was referring, of course, to the woman who had ambushed him—a clear sore spot for him but one she couldn’t resist poking at.

El Diablo’s hold tightened briefly, almost reflexively, as he absorbed her question. His face remained impassive, yet there was a flicker of something in his eyes—a thoughtfulness that Alyx rarely saw from him. For a long moment, he said nothing, as if weighing his words carefully. She knew he wasn't one to shy away from confrontation, especially when it came to personal challenges or threats to his pride. But the ambush had been different, and he knew it.

Finally, he spoke, his tone quieter, more contemplative than usual. “Revenge sounds nice,” he admitted, his voice carrying a restrained intensity. “The idea of making her pay, breaking her… it’s tempting.” He paused, as if savoring the thought, his grip on her shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. “But I know my limits. Going after someone like her wouldn’t be wise.”

Alyx raised an eyebrow, surprised by the level of restraint in his response. She expected him to be more impulsive, more eager to dive into the idea of retaliation, especially after the humiliation of that encounter. But his answer reflected a level of maturity, an understanding of the unspoken rules of the hierarchy they lived within. He was aware of his place, of the brutal reality that even he had a ceiling when it came to power.

“You’re admitting she’s stronger than you?” Alyx teased, though her tone was softer, curious rather than antagonistic.

He tightened his hold again, a silent reminder of the strength he currently held over her. “Strength isn’t the issue,” he replied curtly. “It’s access, and influence. People like her—they’re protected by something bigger than raw power. She’s got connections I don’t. Skills I can’t match.” There was no bitterness in his voice, just a cool acknowledgment of the reality he faced. “She’s Jin’s personal bodyguard for a reason. Whatever advantage I have here in this ring, she has it out there.”

Hearing him openly acknowledge the power imbalance was unexpected. For someone as prideful as El Diablo, she knew it couldn’t have been easy to accept, let alone articulate. But it was clear he wasn’t viewing the situation as a simple matter of strength versus strength. His words showed a pragmatic understanding of his world—one that extended beyond the ring’s boundaries and into the darker, more complex underbelly of their society.

Alyx’s expression softened as she processed his words. For all his brutality and unrelenting dominance, here was a man who knew when to restrain himself, who understood the limits imposed upon him by forces larger than himself. She felt her respect for him deepen. It wasn’t just his physical power that made him formidable—it was his self-awareness, his ability to recognize his place in the broader scheme without letting it diminish him. His restraint wasn’t a mark of weakness; it was a testament to his survival instinct, to his ability to navigate the dangerous world they inhabited with calculated precision.

“You’re not just a brute, are you?” she murmured, half to herself, though she knew he’d hear it. There was a new layer of admiration in her voice, an appreciation for the depth he rarely showed.

His grip relaxed slightly, but he kept her securely restrained. “I never claimed to be a brute,” he replied, a hint of humor creeping into his tone, though his voice remained as steady and unyielding as ever. “I know how things work. There’s no point in throwing myself against something I can’t break.” He leaned in closer, his voice low in her ear, carrying a note of finality. “But when I can… nothing will stop me.”

Alyx smirked, even as her muscles protested against the strain of his hold. “Good,” she replied. “Because when you go all out, that’s when you’re at your best.” She drew a slow breath, feeling the full weight of his grip, every inch of his control over her in that moment. “And I want the best. I don’t need you picking battles that are just going to get you killed.”

There was a moment of silence as they absorbed each other’s words, their shared understanding solidifying between them. Her respect for him had deepened, not because of his raw strength, but because he wielded it with purpose. In a world that demanded constant brutality and survival, he knew when to unleash his power and when to rein it in—a trait that few in their world valued or even understood.

El Diablo didn’t reply, but she felt his grip tighten again, not as a threat, but as a silent acknowledgment of her words. They both knew the risks, the stakes involved in their lives. But here, in this private arena, they could push each other, reveal parts of themselves they kept hidden from everyone else.

For now, she was content to stay locked in his hold, the strength of his arms around her a reminder of the balance between them—a balance of power, respect, and understanding. It was a relationship defined by raw, unfiltered honesty, forged in the crucible of shared pain and resilience. And as he held her in the full nelson, she felt a strange sense of peace, knowing that, for better or worse, she was exactly where she belonged.

 

[anotherguttersnipe]

Edge of Pain: Interlude 10.0 - Necessity


Inside the dimly lit limousine, the hum of the engine and the occasional crackle from the Tekken Force APC radios filled the silence. The convoy cut a striking path through the main road, flanked by two armored vehicles that emphasized the high-profile nature of its passenger. Jin Kazama sat in the back of the limo, a figure of stoic authority, his expression as unreadable as ever. Across from him sat Wallace Hartley, who had been summoned for a conversation that had already begun to weigh on his mind, though it had yet to truly start.

Wallace took in the scene around him, momentarily lost in thought. He had only recently been informed that his assignment within the Ryona Combat League was not only ongoing but required even more diligence. The decision to keep him embedded there seemed excessive after the brutal example Jin and his bodyguard had made of Sato Yagami, sending shockwaves through the league. Wallace’s presence, in his mind, now felt redundant, a notion that blended uneasily with his frustration at being sent back to a place he’d grown to resent.

Finally, he broke the silence, carefully choosing his words. “If I may ask, sir, given the… display of force at the last event, is my assignment really necessary? It seemed your message was delivered loud and clear.”

Jin didn’t look at him directly but glanced out the window, watching the APCs glide alongside them, his face cast in a mix of shadows. After a moment, he replied, his voice as blunt as it was cold. “The Yakuza are like rats, Hartley. They scurry away when confronted, but they’re quick to return the moment you let your guard down. They exploit any vulnerability they can find.”

Wallace considered this, noting the slight disdain in Jin’s tone. “I see,” he replied. “But it seems they’d be unlikely to take further action, at least for the time being.”

Jin’s eyes narrowed, his gaze sharp as he turned to Wallace. “You underestimate them, Hartley. Discipline among their ranks is only as strong as the last reminder we provide. They might be lying low now, but given time, they’ll inevitably test their boundaries again.”

Wallace nodded, though a flicker of resistance remained in his expression. He’d witnessed the Yakuza’s ruthlessness firsthand, and he understood the necessity of vigilance. Yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a different driving force behind Jin’s insistence.

Seeming to sense his reluctance, Jin’s tone softened, if only slightly. “I understand your perspective. This league isn’t exactly a place I find commendable, either. But you should understand more than most, Wallace, that sometimes… continuing a mission is necessary. Even if it isn’t pleasant.”

Wallace’s lips tightened, and he gave a faint, humorless smile. “Necessary,” he echoed. “It’s a word I’ve come to question, even mistrust. Many things were ‘necessary’ the night the Titanic went down. They insisted it was ‘necessary’ to keep the speed despite warnings of icebergs. It was ‘necessary’ to keep the lifeboats half full, out of fear that overloading would lead to panic.” His voice grew colder, his gaze distant. “Those were all deemed ‘necessary’ at the time. Hindsight has a way of re-evaluating ‘necessity,’ wouldn’t you agree?”

The reference lingered in the air, thick with a weight Jin didn’t immediately respond to. He observed Wallace with an expression that betrayed the faintest flicker of respect. Wallace’s calm retort, laced with the quiet authority of someone who’d seen death and disaster, made Jin pause. He could see that Wallace wasn’t simply challenging him out of defiance but speaking from a place of deep-seated wisdom.

Breaking the silence, Wallace pressed forward, his tone measured. “Forgive my questioning, but was it truly ‘necessary’ to ambush that woman in the alley?” His voice remained respectful, yet his probing words revealed a genuine curiosity, as well as unease, about Jin’s motives.

Jin remained silent for a moment, his face expressionless, though his eyes drifted to the road ahead as if he were looking through time itself. After what felt like an eternity, he finally spoke, his voice softened by an unexpected nostalgia. “She reminded me of someone,” he admitted. “Someone I once fought—a rival, if you will.”

Wallace tilted his head, intrigued by the uncharacteristic vulnerability in Jin’s tone. There was a distant look in Jin’s eyes, as though he were seeing a memory from another lifetime, a moment frozen in the past. “He used Taekwondo, just as she does.” Jin continued, his voice low. “Our battles were… intense. He was one of the few who could match me, who could push me. I thought… maybe I could find a shadow of that in her.”

Wallace leaned forward slightly, his curiosity deepening. “Did you?” he asked gently, sensing that Jin was on the edge of sharing something deeply personal.

Jin’s expression darkened, his gaze hardening as he shook his head. “No,” he said, almost to himself. “She wasn’t him. She didn’t have his fire, his strength. Her techniques were… lacking. She couldn’t hold a candle to what he was.” There was a faint tone of disappointment in his voice, a rare display of emotion from a man usually so controlled. It was clear that he’d hoped for something in that encounter—something he hadn’t found.

Wallace regarded him with a mix of sympathy and understanding. In that moment, he saw a side of Jin that was both powerful and painfully human. This was a man haunted not by ghosts, but by the absence of them, by the hollow ache of a rivalry that could never be rekindled. Wallace, having experienced his own longings for times past, for comrades lost in the Atlantic’s icy grip, felt a surprising kinship with Jin. In their own ways, both men were adrift, searching for fragments of a world that no longer existed.

The silence between them was finally broken as the convoy began to slow, the gleaming lights of a private airfield coming into view. The runway stretched out, bathed in artificial light that glinted off the polished steel of the plane awaiting them. The quiet serenity of the airfield stood in stark contrast to the tension within the limo.

As the vehicle came to a halt, Jin turned to Wallace, his gaze returning to its usual steeliness, though a flicker of that earlier vulnerability remained. “Report to Nina on a weekly basis,” he instructed, his tone slipping back into one of authority, almost mechanical. “You are to maintain your cover and ensure that nothing goes unchecked. If you find even the faintest sign of betrayal, Report it immediately.”

Wallace nodded, the weight of his duty settling back onto his shoulders. “Understood, sir.”

Jin studied him for a moment, then gave a final nod. Without another word, he opened the door and stepped out, his Tekken Force guards moving in to flank him as he made his way toward the plane. Wallace watched him, his gaze thoughtful, observing the way Jin carried himself—powerful, isolated, and haunted by the burdens he chose to bear alone.

As Jin walked away, his figure receding into the glow of the runway lights, Wallace felt an unexpected pang of sympathy. Despite all his power, Jin seemed trapped, imprisoned by his memories, his responsibilities, and his unyielding vigilance. It was a fate Wallace understood all too well—the curse of those who carry the weight of the past into the present, haunted by echoes of things lost and never found again.

With a heavy sigh, Wallace leaned back in his seat, the stillness of the limo contrasting sharply with the lingering tension in his chest. He was left alone with his thoughts, the faint hum of the engine and the distant roar of Jin’s departing plane the only sounds to fill the void.

 

[anotherguttersnipe]

And now we come to the second event of the evening. 4 matches. Maybe it's just a normal night of brutality. Or maybe not?

Prelude 2.0 - Portents


In the exclusive VIP booth overlooking the brutal stage below, the atmosphere was tense yet buzzing with quiet anticipation. Ichiro Sakazaki, the grizzled Yakuza leader, leaned back, his gaze steady and calculating as he looked over the bustling arena. Beside him sat his trusted lieutenants: Kenta Hinamura, stoic and mild-mannered; Tatsu Otome, ever observant and keen; and the newest addition to the inner circle, Ryota Takeuchi.

Ryota’s presence added a different energy to the group tonight. Dressed in a striking red suit that contrasted sharply with the subdued hues of the booth, he carried himself with a confident, almost cocky demeanor. His black shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, giving him a relaxed but dangerous look. His hair, sleek and dark, framed his face in a way that highlighted his intensity, while his sharp gaze missed no detail in the arena below. Though a lieutenant before, his recent elevation to Ichiro’s inner circle had granted him a rare authority—one he clearly intended to wield with flair. Ryota’s reputation for quick wit and a calculating mind was as notorious as his brutal efficiency when violence became necessary.



The night’s lineup of fighters was no less intriguing than the gathering of Yakuza elites in the booth. Ichiro’s fingers tapped rhythmically on the armrest as he reviewed the list of tonight’s challengers for El Diablo, the league’s dominant and near-unbreakable champion. They went through the lineup in order, discussing each fighter with a mix of speculation, familiarity, and seasoned insight.

“First up,” Ichiro began, glancing down at the notes on his tablet, “we’ve got Xhen Fang. That Baji Quan practitioner. Fierce, disciplined—she’s got that intensity that can light up a room. Or a bar.”

A chuckle spread through the group as Tatsu leaned forward. “Xhen’s no stranger to the ring or to pouring a mean drink. She’s been serving up her fair share of bruises, as well as cocktails, down at her bar in Dotenbori. She knows how to handle herself—and the crowd.”

Ryota smirked, a glint of amusement flashing in his eyes. “I’ve been to her place. She’s got the moves, alright. Knows how to read a person just like she reads a fight. El Diablo might find her a refreshing change of pace, but how long do you reckon she’ll last against him?”

Kenta rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Xhen’s resilient, but we all know El Diablo. He’s not just here to entertain; he’s here to break them down, make them feel it. Xhen might give him a challenge, but…” He trailed off, exchanging knowing glances with the others.

“Ten minutes,” Ichiro declared, his voice carrying a tone of finality. “I’ll wager ten minutes before he gets her into a hold she can’t escape. She’s tough, but El Diablo has a way of wearing them down, especially the ones with too much pride.”

The others nodded, each placing their own bets. Ryota, ever the contrarian, wagered twelve, his eyes gleaming with a hint of mischief as he noted the way Xhen’s bartending experience might lend her unexpected endurance.

Their conversation shifted to the next opponent: Larissa Chatlion. The mere mention of her name brought a different energy to the room, as though the air had thickened slightly with an unspoken reverence or trepidation. Unlike the others, Larissa was more than just a fighter—she was an enigma, a woman cloaked in mystery and religious fervor. Dressed in austere attire adorned with crosses, she often muttered scripture before and even during matches, adding an unsettling aura that seemed to both unsettle and captivate those around her.

“Larissa…” Kenta began, his voice trailing off as he tried to encapsulate the unusual fighter. “She’s… different. Mysterious. I’ve seen her unsettle men twice her size before she even threw a punch.”

Tatsu nodded. “She speaks like she’s reciting from some ancient book. The scripture, the old-English phrasing—it’s like she’s in her own world, channeling something beyond just strength. She’ll last the full thirty.”

There was a unanimous nod of agreement, each of them certain Larissa would withstand the full thirty-minute bout, not out of physical prowess alone, but from sheer willpower and whatever haunting convictions drove her.

“Agreed,” Ichiro said. “El Diablo might toy with her, try to break her down, but she’ll hold on. Whatever shadows she walks with, they make her stubborn—unbreakable, even.”

With Larissa’s endurance assumed and their bets set aside, the men shifted to the night’s third challenger, Kasumi Shidare. A newcomer to the league, Kasumi was tough and scrappy, with a background in boxing. But she was still finding her footing in the brutal world of the Ryona Combat League. As they discussed her, a playful tension arose between Tatsu and Ryota.

“Kasumi,” Tatsu drawled, giving Ryota a sidelong look. “If memory serves, she used to be one of your cabaret girls, didn’t she, Ryota? Before I, ah, successfully poached her.”

Ryota rolled his eyes, though a smirk tugged at his lips. “You got lucky, Tatsu. She’s got a bit of fire, sure, but she’s still rough around the edges. She might pack a punch, but she’s not quite prepared for what El Diablo’s going to bring. Not yet.”

“Maybe,” Tatsu replied, a teasing lilt in his voice. “But she’s learning fast. And if she’s smart, she’ll last longer than you think. I say fifteen minutes.”

Kenta chimed in, “She’s got heart, that’s for sure. She might not be fully adjusted to the league’s… unique demands, but she’ll give it her all. I’ll say twelve.”

Ryota shrugged, leaning back in his seat with a confident grin. “I’m betting on eight. She’s tough, but she’s still new. El Diablo will find a way to dismantle her in no time.”

Finally, they arrived at the last challenger of the night: Kana Matsumoto. The room quieted for a moment, each man aware of Kana’s history with El Diablo. In her last match, she had teamed up with her sister, Reika, against him, only for the encounter to end in humiliation and defeat. This time, Kana was stepping into the ring solo, driven not just by the desire to prove herself, but by a personal grudge simmering from her previous encounter.

“She’s got fire, that one,” Ichiro mused. “More so since her last fight. I’d say this one’s personal.”

Ryota nodded, his expression thoughtful. “There’s a resilience in her—she’s the type that the crowd loves, but that same fire can make her reckless. If she charges in too fast, she’ll get broken quickly.”

Kenta added, “True, but if she’s learned anything from her last match, she might pace herself. She has the stamina. I’ll put down fifteen minutes on her, if she can control that temper of hers.”

Tatsu gave a slight grin, his eyes gleaming. “Kana’s got spirit, but El Diablo knows how to exploit that. I’ll go with ten. She’ll last a bit, but he’ll wear her down piece by piece.”

With all predictions set, each man finalized his bet for the night’s matches, their calculations reflecting both respect for El Diablo’s unmatched dominance and a seasoned understanding of the fighters who dared challenge him.


The four men raised their glasses, a quiet toast to the brutal reality of the league and the unyielding resolve of the fighters within it. As the first match was announced and Xhen Fang entered the ring to a roaring crowd. Her athletic frame was clad in a sleek turquoise wrestling leotard that accentuated her toned physique and fluid strength. The color, vibrant yet understated, contrasted sharply with the dark atmosphere of the arena, drawing the eye to her like a beacon of quiet intensity amidst the chaos.

Her jet-black hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, emphasizing the sharp features of her face, her expression calm and focused. Black wristbands adorned her arms, complementing the sturdy black kneepads and laced-up wrestling boots that grounded her stance. Every detail of her attire spoke to her no-nonsense approach—simple, practical, and efficient, yet undeniably powerful.



From their vantage point, the Yakuza leaders watched as the arena came to life, the crowd’s excitement rising as they awaited El Diablo’s entrance. Tonight, shadows of rivalry, ambition, and resilience would play out in the ring, and for the men seated in the VIP booth, it was all part of the spectacle—a harsh reflection of the power they held and the lives entwined in their control.


__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

In the dimly lit restroom, Wallace Hartley adjusted his collar with trembling hands. Tonight, he knew, would once again test his endurance, his moral limits, and his dedication to the assignment Jin Kazama had personally bestowed upon him. This cover identity—“Joseph Carmichael,” —was both his shield and his burden. He closed his eyes, repeating the lines of his cover story silently, willing himself to focus. This wasn’t the time to lose composure; he had a duty, a role in the shadows, one that only he could fulfill under the watchful eye of the Zaibatsu.

With a deep breath, Wallace pushed down his nerves, steeling himself for another night of haunting melodies juxtaposed against brutal violence. As he reached for the door, his mind drifted to the lingering taste of doubt—how long could he maintain this facade, watching as lives were shattered for sport?

Stepping into the hallway, Wallace nearly froze when he saw her standing there. Larissa Chatlion, dressed in her ring attire, waited with an aura of unsettling calm. Her piercing gaze met his, as if she had been waiting for him all along. Clad in a stark black wrestling leotard adorned with a bold white cross across her chest, she looked like a warrior monk, a figure bound by a solemn purpose. The simplicity of her attire was striking—no unnecessary embellishments, just the powerful, iconic symbol that captured her deeply religious aura.

Her arms were wrapped in black and white armbands, adding a subtle touch of ritualistic symbolism, while her black wristbands and kneepads provided a practical complement to her look. Tall, white laced-up boots completed the ensemble, creating a sharp contrast against her otherwise dark attire. Her long blonde hair fell loosely over her shoulders, a stark cascade framing her face, which bore a serene, almost meditative expression.



Wallace’s mind raced. He had never spoken to Larissa directly before. In fact, he had gone out of his way to keep a low profile, ensuring that his presence remained as unobtrusive as possible. So why was she here now, standing before him as if she knew something he didn’t?

“Ah, good even’, Master Carmichael,” she greeted, her voice soft yet edged with a strange authority, each word enunciated with the rhythm of a bygone age. “I had wondered when our paths wouldst finally cross beyond mere glances in yon shadows.”

Wallace stiffened. Her tone was cordial, yet something in her manner suggested a knowledge far beyond what he had intended for anyone to see. How could she possibly know him, let alone recognize him by name? He swallowed, searching for words.

“Miss Chatlion,” he replied, keeping his tone polite, if slightly guarded. “It’s… unusual to be greeted so directly. We’ve not had the pleasure before.”

“Aye,” she replied, tilting her head slightly, her pale, unblinking gaze never leaving his. “Yet doth familiarity not bear strange roots, forged beyond the ken of mortal minds?”

Wallace felt a cold shiver ripple through him. Larissa spoke in riddles, yes, but there was an undercurrent to her words that felt almost tangible. He wondered if she was toying with him or if, somehow, she truly saw beyond his cover. He reminded himself of his carefully rehearsed story, holding onto it like a lifeline. “Joseph Carmichael,” he repeated internally.

“Tonight,” Larissa continued, her voice dropping to a near whisper, “holdeth the scent of trial and reckoning. Dost thou feel it, Master Carmichael? The shadows stretch long, and faith—aye, faith—is oft our sole companion when we tread upon such tremulous paths.”

He wanted to ask her what she meant, but something held him back. Her words, cryptic as they were, seemed to dig beneath the surface of his disguise, chipping away at his carefully constructed shell. Her gaze held an unsettling clarity, as though she looked straight past the facade he wore.

“I’m… afraid I don’t understand,” he managed, his voice quieter than intended.

“Mayhaps understanding doth not come through words,” she replied, her eyes narrowing slightly, as though she were appraising him, peeling back layers with each flicker of her gaze. “But through truths, whispered by the soul.”

She paused, and in the silence, Wallace felt a weight settling over him, a heaviness that seemed to echo with unspoken truths. It was as if she had glimpsed something of his real self—his real history, the life he thought he had left behind.

“Thou art a man of olde songs and silent sorrows, art thou not?” Her voice softened, a strange compassion threading through her words. “I sense a weight upon thee, like that of a captain lost amidst a storm. The tide is dark, yet still thou sailest, though the waves doth rise fierce and foreboding.”

Wallace’s heart raced. How could she know—how could she sense the burden he bore, the memories of a life left behind in the chill of the Atlantic? He caught himself, carefully masking his surprise, but it was too late. She had seen the flicker of recognition in his eyes, that brief, vulnerable slip.

“Sometimes,” he replied, attempting to regain control of the conversation, “duty requires us to endure the storm, even when the waters grow treacherous.”

“Aye,” Larissa nodded, her gaze softening, though her intensity never wavered. “Duty bindeth us, as chains upon a soul, a shadow that followeth wheresoever we go. But remember this, Master Carmichael—chains, though made of iron, are breakable when tempered by the fires of conviction.”

For a moment, silence settled between them, weighted and contemplative. Wallace felt a strange kinship, though he resisted it, unsure of the ground he stood upon. Her words stirred something within him, a long-buried sense of purpose entangled with regret.

He attempted to steer the conversation, hoping to ground himself. “You speak as though you see something beyond the present. As though… there’s more you understand about this world than meets the eye.”

Larissa’s lips curved in a faint, enigmatic smile. “There is much unseen, Master Carmichael, that walketh beside us, as shadows on an autumn eve. Some souls carry burdens unspoken, yet their eyes betray them to those who know how to look.”

Wallace felt her gaze sharpen, as if she peered directly into his soul, past the layers of lies and half-truths. She knew, he realized—at least a part of her did. Perhaps not the full truth, but enough to sense the weight he bore.

Before he could formulate a response, she took a small step back, her gaze drifting down the dim hallway. “Trials, Master Carmichael, are not meant to crush us but to shape us, like stones under the river’s embrace. Faith—true faith—standeth firm when all else falleth away.”

With those words, she offered him a final, piercing look, as if imparting some unspoken understanding, and turned, her figure disappearing down the corridor, leaving Wallace standing in stunned silence.

The hallway felt emptier in her absence, yet her presence lingered, an echo of something old and hauntingly familiar. Wallace clenched his fists, feeling the weight of her words press upon him. Faith. Duty. Chains. Her message, cryptic though it was, struck at something deep within him—a call to endurance, to hold steady in the face of shadows.

As he gathered himself and prepared to rejoin his octet for the evening’s performance, he found himself feeling both exposed and strangely bolstered. Larissa had seen through his facade, and while she hadn’t unraveled him, her insight had left an imprint on him, a reminder of who he truly was beneath the borrowed name.

“Faith in times of trial,” he murmured to himself, her words resonating in his mind. Tonight, as he played, he would hold onto that thought. He would endure, as he always had, and weather the storm ahead—whatever it may bring.

 

[anotherguttersnipe]

Edge of Pain: Match 6 - Xhen Fang vs El Diablo


Xhen Fang’s breathing remained steady, each inhale and exhale precise, disciplined. She was already in the center of the ring, hands raised in calm preparation, her stance rooted in the principles of Bajiquan. She moved with a practiced elegance that carried the weight of her training, each stretch and shift of her limbs highlighting the years she had devoted to refining her skills. Her eyes remained focused, glancing occasionally toward the entryway but never straying from her own rhythm. This was her ritual, a private moment of readiness, undisturbed by the noise and tension surrounding her.

Her presence, so centered and composed, was a stark contrast to the electric energy building throughout the arena. From the fringes of her consciousness, she could feel the crowd waiting, their collective excitement simmering as they anticipated the arrival of her opponent. The Elite Underground Arena was alive with the fervor of spectators who were as invested in the spectacle as they were in the combat. It wasn’t just a match to them—it was theater, raw and visceral, with Xhen Fang and her soon-to-be-opponent as the evening’s main attraction.

Then, the lights dimmed, and the arena’s collective attention pivoted to the entrance ramp. The silence that followed was almost reverent, broken only by the sound of footsteps—heavy, measured, purposeful. And then, as if on cue, the crowd erupted, cheers mingling with gasps as El Diablo entered, his presence commanding. He towered over the arena, his frame a solid mass of muscle and intimidation, every step calculated, his eyes locked onto Xhen from the moment he crossed the threshold.

His attire was stark, dressed in his usual black trunks and boots, accentuated by his trademark black mask. There was a dark, foreboding quality about him, a stillness in his movements that contrasted with the power his mere presence radiated. As he walked, he surveyed the crowd with a calm, almost dismissive gaze, his face devoid of emotion except for the faintest hint of amusement at their reactions. Their adoration and awe only fueled his confidence, a fact he carried openly, tauntingly.

Xhen watched his approach with unwavering composure, her focus shifting entirely to the figure before her. She had faced El Diablo before, experienced his brute strength, the unyielding aggression he brought to every match. Yet here she stood, ready once more, her mind clear, her spirit unbroken. El Diablo, for all his overwhelming force, was a challenge she had prepared herself to confront, a challenge that sharpened her resolve rather than weakened it.

As he ascended the steps and entered the ring, the crowd’s noise swelled even further, an echo of his reputation, his legacy of dominance within the league. Once inside, he took his time, his eyes never leaving Xhen, his posture both relaxed and intimidating, exuding a confidence that bordered on arrogance. He stepped into her space with a subtle yet unmistakable challenge, as if to say that the very ring they stood in belonged to him alone.

The two stood just a few paces apart, their contrasting forms capturing the attention of everyone in the arena. Xhen, poised and disciplined, her movements fluid and calculated. El Diablo, a looming figure of brute strength and controlled menace. He observed her with a bemused smile beneath his mask, noting her stance, her calm, the careful, almost reverent way she held herself. She was ready. He could see it, and he respected it in his own way.

“So, you think you’re ready this time, Xhen?” His voice was low, carrying a mocking edge. “Think you’ve finally figured out a way to handle me?”

Xhen met his gaze evenly, her own voice steady, unwavering. “I know what I’m capable of. I don’t need to prove that to you.”

Her words carried a quiet confidence, a subtle defiance that didn’t go unnoticed by him. His smile widened, a hint of something almost resembling admiration flickering in his eyes before it vanished, replaced by the cold focus that defined him in every match. He enjoyed a challenge, and she was offering him exactly that—a challenge that made this moment more than just another match in his career.

“Capable? I guess we’ll see about that,” he replied, his tone dripping with condescension. “But remember, Xhen… strength isn’t something you pretend to have.” He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “It’s something you either bring, or you don’t.”

Xhen didn’t flinch, her eyes steady, reflecting a determination that spoke of more than just physical readiness. This was her arena too, her battle to fight, and she refused to let his words undermine her resolve.

The bell rang, signaling the start of the match. The crowd’s anticipation reached its peak as Xhen shifted into her fighting stance, her body angled with practiced precision. Her focus was absolute, every fiber of her being tuned to the fight at hand. She didn’t make the first move, her stance speaking for her, a silent invitation for El Diablo to test her, to see if he could shatter the calm she wore like armor.

El Diablo took her silence as a challenge of its own, his posture loose yet poised to strike. He extended an open hand, a mocking gesture, beckoning her forward. “Go ahead, Xhen. Show me what all that training’s worth. Or are you just going to stand there, hoping I’ll go easy on you?”

Xhen’s gaze remained unbroken, her stance unshaken. She knew better than to take his bait, to be drawn in by his provocations. She would act on her terms, not his, her movements dictated by her own discipline, not the taunts of a man who thrived on his opponents’ fear.

The audience held its collective breath, their excitement simmering as they watched the silent standoff between them. Xhen Fang and El Diablo, two forces embodying vastly different styles and strengths, each preparing to face the other head-on. And though no blows had yet been exchanged, the tension was palpable, the promise of the struggle ahead hanging heavily in the air.


Xhen’s muscles coiled, her mind focused on the task ahead as she took a single, measured breath. Then, with a swift step forward, she launched into her offensive, her strikes precise, calculated, aimed at points she knew could disrupt even the most solid opponent. Her hand shot forward, driving into El Diablo’s side just below the ribs, a strike honed by her Bajiquan training. The crowd watched in silence as she struck again, each blow snapping into him with sharp precision, targeting weak points and aiming to chip away at his defenses.

But as her knuckles connected, she felt an unsettling resistance. Each strike, meant to unbalance, barely seemed to make him flinch. His body remained grounded, immovable, as if her attacks were little more than an annoyance. A faint smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth, his eyes gleaming with a taunting light.

“Is that it?” he murmured, his voice a dark, mocking whisper that cut through the silence.

Xhen didn’t respond. She ignored the taunt, her face impassive as she adjusted her stance and prepared to shift her strategy. She circled him, her feet barely touching the ground as she moved with calculated speed, her intent to slip around his guard, to find an angle he wasn’t prepared to defend. Her movements were fluid, each step a calculated effort to get behind him, where she could unleash her strikes from an unprotected angle.

But El Diablo’s eyes tracked her every step, his body subtly shifting, his guard never truly dropping. Just as she moved in for another strike, his arm shot out with unexpected swiftness, wrapping around her head and yanking her sideways into a headlock. His forearm pressed down against the side of her head, his grip iron-clad, cutting off any room for her to maneuver.

The audience erupted into cheers, the noise deafening as El Diablo tightened his grip, his strength on full display as he held her firmly in place. Xhen’s hands went instinctively to his arm, her fingers digging into the muscles in an attempt to pry him off, but his hold was unyielding. She shifted, trying to position herself for an escape, but each small movement she made only seemed to deepen his control.

“Did you really think that would work?” he murmured, his tone dripping with condescension. His breath was hot against her ear, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down her spine. “All those fancy moves, and here you are… stuck.”

Xhen gritted her teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. Instead, she focused on her breathing, on conserving her strength as she felt his grip tighten. She would need to wait for an opening, any slight loosening of his hold, to break free. But El Diablo had no intention of granting her such an opportunity.

With a calculated twist, he transitioned from the headlock, shifting his hold into a painful armbar that wrenched her arm backward, forcing her to bend to avoid dislocation. His grip remained unforgiving, each adjustment he made sending a fresh wave of pain shooting through her joints.

“Come on, Xhen,” he taunted, twisting her arm further. “All that preparation, and you’re still this easy to control? I expected more from you.”

She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to ignore the throbbing pain in her arm. Drawing from her training, she attempted to twist out of the hold, angling her body to leverage herself free. For a split second, she felt his grip shift, just slightly, and she seized the moment to pull her arm down and away.

But El Diablo was ready for her. Just as she began to slip out, he twisted, catching her off-balance, and before she could react, he wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her effortlessly off the ground. Her eyes widened, but there was no time to prepare as he drove her down with a brutal slam, the impact jolting through her entire body as she hit the mat. The crowd’s cheers spiked again, a roar of approval that echoed through the arena.

“See?” he sneered, leaning down to meet her gaze, his expression one of barely-concealed amusement. “You can’t handle me.”

Xhen forced herself to breathe, ignoring the throbbing ache that spread across her back and shoulders. She wouldn’t let him get into her head, wouldn’t let his words distract her from the fight. She tightened her fists, pushing herself up onto her elbows, her eyes narrowing as she locked onto his smug expression.

“You talk a lot for someone who still hasn’t seen my best,” she replied, her voice steady despite the pain.

El Diablo’s smirk grew, his eyes glinting with amusement as he looked down at her. “Your best, huh?” He chuckled, a low, taunting sound that grated against her nerves. “I’ve seen your best, Xhen. And it wasn’t enough then… it won’t be enough now.”

Before she could respond, he moved with surprising agility, wrapping her in another hold, transitioning smoothly into a side control that left her trapped beneath him. His weight pressed down on her, his arm braced across her chest, effectively pinning her to the mat.

Each shift in his grip, each subtle adjustment, was designed to reinforce his control, to keep her locked down, unable to break free. Xhen struggled, her muscles straining as she tried to push him off, to find a gap in his defense, but every move she made was countered, every attempt blocked with ruthless efficiency.

El Diablo leaned in closer, his face inches from hers, his voice low and mocking. “This isn’t just about strength, Xhen. It’s about control. And right now… you have none.”

She glared up at him, her breaths coming faster, frustration mounting as she realized just how tight his hold was, how meticulously he had anticipated her every move. But she wasn’t about to give up. She couldn’t. Not here, not like this.

With a sudden burst of energy, she managed to shift her weight, twisting her hips in a last-ditch effort to throw him off balance. For a moment, it worked—his grip loosened slightly, giving her just enough room to start pushing herself up. But before she could fully escape, his arm looped around her neck again, yanking her back into the headlock.

He laughed, a low, dark sound that echoed in her ears as he tightened his hold, his arm a vise around her neck. “You’re just making this harder on yourself,” he murmured. “But if you’re that determined to fight back, I’ll gladly keep showing you what real strength looks like.”

From there, he transitioned smoothly into a series of chain wrestling holds, each one more punishing than the last. He wrenched her arm, then shifted into a wrist lock that twisted her hand at an agonizing angle. Every hold was calculated, designed to sap her energy, to break down her resistance bit by bit. And between each hold, he delivered sharp strikes—a knee to her side, an elbow to her shoulder, each one targeted to maximize the pain.

The crowd’s cheers rose and fell in time with his movements, their excitement building as he continued his brutal display of dominance. And through it all, Xhen fought to hold on, to push back against the tide of pain and exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm her. She knew she was outmatched in sheer power, but she refused to let that be the end of her fight.

“Is that all you’ve got, El Diablo?” she gasped, her voice strained but defiant as she glared up at him, her eyes blazing with determination. “Because I’ve survived worse than you.”

His smirk faltered, just for a moment, before he tightened his hold once more, pulling her closer until their faces were inches apart. “Then I’ll just have to try harder, won’t I?”

With a sudden, brutal twist, he transitioned into a new hold, locking her arm behind her back in a hammerlock that forced her face-down onto the mat. His weight pressed down on her, pinning her in place, his grip unyielding as he leaned down, his voice a low, mocking whisper in her ear.

“Face it, Xhen. You can’t win this. Not against me.”

But even as the pain radiated through her body, she clenched her fists, forcing herself to breathe, to ignore the agony, to focus on the fight that wasn’t over yet. She may have been trapped, outmatched in strength, but her spirit remained unbroken. And as long as she had that, she would keep fighting, no matter how many times he knocked her down.


El Diablo kept Xhen’s arm twisted behind her back, wrenching it higher as she struggled beneath his weight, face pressed against the mat. The hammerlock was merciless, his hand clamping down hard on her wrist, preventing any chance of slipping free. Each subtle twist and adjustment forced more pressure through her shoulder and into her arm, eliciting a grimace of pain that she fought to suppress. His calculated control over her movements left no room for escape, every shift a testament to his methodical precision.

“You’re a stubborn one, I’ll give you that,” he muttered, his voice a low growl near her ear as he pressed his weight down, emphasizing his control. “But that’s only going to make this more painful for you.”

Xhen grit her teeth, her voice low but defiant. “You’ll have to do a lot more than this if you think you’re going to break me.”

A faint smirk crossed his lips as he applied more pressure, enjoying her tenacity even as he worked to crush it. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m just getting started.”

With a sudden jerk, El Diablo transitioned smoothly from the hammerlock, maneuvering her with practiced ease. Before Xhen could react, he shifted his grip, twisting her body up from the mat while keeping her arm pinned, and then transitioned into a crossface hold, his forearm pressing against her face as he wrenched her neck back. His arm wrapped around her head, holding her firmly, his body weight leaning into the hold with merciless efficiency.

Xhen let out a sharp hiss of pain, the strain on her neck forcing her to arch awkwardly beneath him. She clawed at his forearm, her fingers scrabbling for any kind of leverage, but his grip was like iron, unyielding, allowing her no freedom. The crowd roared in approval, feeding off the sheer dominance he displayed, each hold a brutal showcase of his control over the match’s pace.

“Still think you can fight back?” he taunted, his tone mocking, the amusement evident in his voice as he tightened the hold just enough to drive his point home.

Xhen didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response. Instead, she focused on her breathing, pushing past the discomfort, her mind racing for a way to escape. But every time she adjusted her stance, trying to leverage herself free, he countered, shifting his weight to keep her trapped, demonstrating his mastery over chain wrestling. He kept her movements in check, allowing no chance to slip out of his hold.

After a few moments, he released the crossface, only to roll her over and capture her in a grounded body scissors. His legs locked around her torso, his powerful muscles pressing in on her ribcage, restricting her breathing with every squeeze. The grip was tight, unrelenting, as he added a further insult by hooking her chin with his hand, wrenching her head back in a painful arc, showcasing his control as the crowd’s cheers intensified.

“Come on, Xhen,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper but filled with a taunting edge. “Show them that fight you’re so proud of.”

Xhen’s breath came in short, pained gasps, the pressure on her ribs making it difficult to draw in air. But despite the agony, she managed to lift her head, her gaze locked on his with fierce determination. “You’re… going to regret… underestimating me,” she managed, her voice strained but defiant.

El Diablo chuckled, loosening his grip just enough to keep her suspended in pain, letting her feel the extent of his control. “Underestimating you? Hardly.” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “I’m just enjoying every moment of watching you struggle.”

He released her chin and, with a sudden twist, rolled her onto her side, transitioning seamlessly from the body scissors into a side armbar. His legs remained locked around her, his hands now wrenching her arm in a way that sent fresh waves of pain radiating through her shoulder. Xhen gritted her teeth, refusing to cry out even as he twisted her arm further, his grip as relentless as ever.

The audience was captivated, the brutal rhythm of his holds and strikes fueling their excitement as El Diablo continued to assert his dominance. Each hold he applied, each strike he delivered, showcased his control over the match, his ability to shift between grappling and melee with a ruthless efficiency that left Xhen struggling to keep up.

But El Diablo wasn’t done. With a practiced ease, he unhooked his legs and pulled her upright, forcing her to her feet as he transitioned into a front facelock. His arm wrapped around her neck, pressing her head down, his grip tight enough to keep her immobilized, but loose enough to make her aware of his intent—to set her up for something even more punishing.

Xhen tried to push against him, her hands braced against his chest as she struggled to free herself, but he only tightened his hold, leaning in close enough that his breath brushed against her cheek.

“You’re resilient, I’ll give you that,” he murmured, his tone dark, almost admiring. “But resilience won’t save you here.”

Then, with a sudden lift, he hoisted her up into the air, her body suspended vertically as he prepared for the final, devastating move. He held her there, showcasing his strength, allowing the crowd to marvel at his control, his ability to lift her with such ease. The cheers of the audience reached a fever pitch, the anticipation thick as they waited for the inevitable impact.

Xhen’s body hung in the air, her arms dangling helplessly as she felt the blood rush to her head, the disorientation adding to the overwhelming pressure that had been building throughout the match. She struggled, her hands searching for any kind of grip, but El Diablo’s hold was unwavering, his balance unshakeable as he kept her suspended.

“Get comfortable up there,” he taunted, his voice a cold murmur as he looked up at her. “It’s a long way down.”

With a powerful snap of his hips, he brought her crashing down in a delayed vertical suplex, driving her into the mat with a force that sent a shudder through the arena. The impact jarred every bone in her body, the pain radiating from her back as she lay sprawled on the mat, momentarily stunned from the sheer force of the slam.

The audience erupted, their cheers filling the space as El Diablo stood over her, his presence a looming shadow as he took a moment to bask in their adulation. He looked down at her, his expression one of satisfaction, his smirk returning as he watched her struggle to catch her breath.

“Now that,” he said, his voice loud enough to carry over the roar of the crowd, “is what real strength looks like.”

Xhen lay on the mat, her chest heaving as she fought to regain her bearings, the toll of his relentless assault evident in the way her body moved with visible effort. The pain radiated through her limbs, each breath a reminder of the punishment she’d endured. But as she looked up at him, her gaze hardened, a flicker of defiance sparking in her eyes despite her worn-down state.

El Diablo noticed the look, his smirk widening as he crossed his arms, his stance relaxed, almost mocking. “You’ve got spirit, I’ll give you that,” he said, tilting his head as he regarded her with an air of condescension. “But spirit only gets you so far.”

Xhen’s response was barely above a whisper, her voice laced with exhaustion but carrying a steely resolve. “This… isn’t over yet.”

He chuckled, shaking his head as he took a step back, giving her just enough space to attempt to rise if she dared. “No, I suppose it isn’t,” he replied, his tone dripping with mock amusement. “But you’ll realize soon enough—there’s no escaping the inevitable.”

he world tilted around Xhen as she lay on the mat, every muscle screaming from the relentless punishment El Diablo had unleashed. The crowd’s cheers echoed around her, a dull roar that blended with the pounding of her own pulse in her ears. But she wasn’t done—not yet. She gritted her teeth, pushing back against the ache that radiated through her spine and limbs, and fought to sit up.

Her efforts didn’t go unnoticed. El Diablo, who had been basking in the adulation of the crowd, glanced down at her, his eyes glinting with amusement as he watched her struggle to rise. Without a word, he leaned down, wrapping an arm around her chin and pulling her up into a seated position. Before she could react, he locked her in a tight chinlock, his forearm pressing hard against her jaw as he wrenched her head back.

Xhen’s hands flew up, grasping at his arm as the pressure intensified, her neck straining painfully. She fought to breathe, the tension in her neck and shoulders sending spikes of discomfort down her spine. Every muscle in her body tensed, instinctively resisting the hold, her face contorted with the effort to escape. El Diablo’s grip was like steel, unyielding, his forearm pressing harder as if he was daring her to break free.

“Starting to feel it now, aren’t you?” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the noise of the crowd. His tone was mocking, filled with a cold satisfaction as he leaned down, applying even more pressure. “Not so tough now, are we?”

Xhen’s only response was a muffled gasp, her eyes narrowed as she glared at him from the corner of her vision. She refused to give him the satisfaction of a verbal answer, pouring every ounce of her focus into the struggle, into finding a way out of his iron grip. Ignoring the pain, she slowly began to maneuver her body, shifting her weight to the side as she braced her feet on the mat.

Bit by bit, she angled herself, pressing into his forearm, not to escape but to use his hold as leverage. She shifted her weight forward, bending her legs, the strain in her muscles screaming in protest. El Diablo’s grip tightened as he sensed her movement, his arm pressing down harder in an attempt to keep her in place. But Xhen’s determination was unbreakable. Gritting her teeth, she managed to push herself up onto her knees, her body trembling with the effort.

“Oh, so you’re still trying,” he muttered, sounding almost impressed. But there was an undercurrent of irritation there too, as if her resilience was an inconvenience he hadn’t expected. He adjusted his stance, pressing down harder, yet she continued to rise, her expression hard with concentration, the strain evident in the set of her jaw.

The crowd’s cheers rose again, a rumble of anticipation as they watched her inch her way upward, defying the odds as she fought against the overwhelming force that held her down. Even in the face of his brutal control, her spirit remained unbroken, a spark of defiance that fueled her every movement.

But just as she managed to get her knees fully under her, El Diablo shifted tactics. Realizing that she wasn’t going to give up easily, he released the chinlock and instead pulled her to her feet, his arm looping around her neck to lock in another side headlock. He tightened his grip, pressing her head down, keeping her firmly under his control as he began marching her toward the corner.

Xhen’s vision blurred slightly, the force of his grip making it difficult to see anything but the blur of the mat beneath her feet. She fought to keep her balance as he guided her toward the turnbuckle, each step a struggle as she felt his strength press down on her, forcing her to move at his pace. Her hands gripped his arm, pulling, twisting, searching for a way to break free, but his hold was unyielding, his intentions clear.

Just before they reached the corner, Xhen spotted an opening, a fleeting moment where his grip shifted ever so slightly. Summoning every ounce of strength left in her, she pushed hard against his back, breaking the headlock and stumbling backward, putting a brief gap of space between them. She didn’t waste a second; with a swift step forward, she drove her fist toward his back, aiming to capitalize on his brief moment of distraction.

But El Diablo was quicker than she anticipated. He pivoted on his heel, his hand shooting out to catch her wrist in mid-strike, his grip tightening around her arm with a strength that sent a fresh jolt of pain radiating through her shoulder.

“Nice try,” he muttered, his tone dripping with disdain as he twisted her arm, pulling her closer. “But you’ll have to do better than that.”

Before she could react, he turned sharply, dragging her with him as he drove her face-first into the corner. The turnbuckle collided with her forehead, the impact dazing her as she slumped forward, her vision swimming from the sudden jolt. The crowd’s cheers reached a fever pitch, feeding off his display of dominance, their excitement mingling with her sense of frustration as she struggled to regain her bearings.

El Diablo wasted no time, locking her arm in another hammerlock, pressing her wrist up against her back as he leaned in, using his weight to pin her against the corner. His breath was hot against her ear, his tone mocking as he tightened the hold.

“Did you really think that was going to work?” he taunted, his voice laced with amusement. “You’re making this too easy.”

Xhen gritted her teeth, the frustration mingling with the pain that radiated through her shoulder and back. She braced her free hand against the turnbuckle, pushing back against his weight in a futile attempt to break free, but he only pressed harder, reinforcing his control.

She hissed through clenched teeth, her voice low but defiant. “I’m not… giving up that easily.”

He chuckled, his tone a mixture of admiration and condescension. “I didn’t expect you to,” he replied, his voice soft, almost a murmur. “But that doesn’t mean you’ll win.”

He shifted his weight, forcing her further into the corner as he twisted her arm higher, the pressure on her shoulder intensifying with each subtle movement. Xhen’s body trembled with the strain, her breaths coming in sharp, shallow gasps as she struggled to endure the hold.

The audience was enraptured, their cheers growing louder as they watched him assert his dominance, each movement a showcase of his control over the match’s pace. To them, this was theater, a spectacle of strength and resilience, and El Diablo knew exactly how to command their attention.

Xhen felt the sweat trickle down her temple, her focus narrowing as she ignored the pain, forcing herself to stay grounded in the moment. Her body was reaching its limits, the relentless assault taking its toll, but she wasn’t about to let him see her break. Not here, not now.

Sensing her resistance, El Diablo leaned in closer, his voice a low whisper in her ear. “You’re tough, I’ll give you that. But this fight was over before it even started.”

Her only response was a strained breath, her fingers curling into fists as she braced herself, refusing to let his words shake her resolve. She wasn’t done—not as long as there was even a shred of strength left in her.

El Diablo smirked, clearly enjoying the defiance that flickered in her eyes. With a sudden twist, he reinforced his hold, pressing her harder against the corner, his grip unyielding, his strength absolute.

The crowd’s cheers reached a fever pitch, their excitement feeding into the intense atmosphere as they watched Xhen struggle, her every effort met with brutal efficiency. And in that moment, it was clear that El Diablo was in complete control, his dominance over the match undeniable, his every movement calculated to break her spirit as much as her body.


El Diablo’s grip tightened, pinning Xhen against the turnbuckle as he kept her arm locked in the unrelenting hammerlock. Her cheek pressed against the cool padding, every muscle in her shoulder and back strained as she felt the pressure intensify. Her breaths came in short, labored gasps, the relentless pain clouding her thoughts, but her resolve remained. She knew the cost of a fight like this, and she wasn’t about to back down now.

El Diablo leaned in, his voice a low rumble. “You’re still standing. Impressive.” The words were taunting, laced with a chilling amusement. “But I wonder how long that’ll last.”

With a swift, punishing movement, he drew back and drove his fist into her exposed side, a powerful body blow that sent shockwaves through her ribs. Xhen gasped, her body jolting from the impact, but she clung to her focus, forcing herself not to show the pain. Her free hand gripped the top rope, knuckles white as she fought to remain upright.

But El Diablo was relentless. His fist slammed into her side again, and then again, each hit driving deeper, targeting her ribs and lower back with a brutal precision. The crowd roared with each blow, feeding off the spectacle of her resilience and his raw power. El Diablo knew exactly how to command their attention, and he reveled in it, his strikes deliberate, unhurried, a display of his dominance over her.

Xhen’s vision blurred as she absorbed each hit, her body screaming in protest as her defenses began to falter. She could feel her strength waning, each blow chipping away at her reserves, but she forced herself to hold on, to stay present, even as the pain throbbed through her like a second heartbeat.

“Still hanging in there, huh?” El Diablo’s voice cut through the haze of pain, dripping with disdain as he watched her struggle. “You’re only making this harder on yourself.”

But Xhen didn’t respond. She kept her focus inward, grounding herself against the agony as she braced for the next strike. Her silence seemed to amuse him, and with a dark chuckle, he delivered one final blow, his fist slamming into her kidney with a force that left her breathless, her body sagging against the turnbuckle.

He stepped back, releasing the hammerlock, only to grab her by the waist and hoist her onto his shoulders. The crowd roared as he lifted her, the spectacle intensifying as he paraded her around the ring, her body draped over his shoulders in a show of absolute control. Xhen’s vision spun as she was raised high, her mind racing as she struggled to brace herself for what was coming next.

With a sudden, powerful movement, El Diablo dropped backward, slamming her down in an electric chair drop that reverberated through the mat. The impact was brutal, the shock radiating through her spine as she hit the ground with a force that left her dazed, her body lying sprawled on the mat, chest heaving as she fought to catch her breath.

The crowd’s reaction was immediate, a mixture of cheers and gasps as they watched her struggle to rise. She lay there, her body limp, each breath a battle as she forced herself to keep moving, to prove to herself and to him that she wasn’t defeated. Slowly, painfully, she pressed her palms against the mat, pushing herself up, inch by inch, until she managed to lift her head, her gaze focused and unwavering despite the toll her body had taken.

El Diablo stood over her, his expression shifting between amusement and irritation as he watched her struggle. He had expected her to stay down, to acknowledge his dominance, but Xhen’s defiance remained, a flicker of resilience that refused to die.

He shook his head, letting out a dark chuckle as he glanced around at the audience, playing to them with a smirk. “Look at this,” he announced, loud enough for the crowd to hear. “She still thinks she can get up. Thinks she can keep going.”

The audience cheered, feeding into his performance, but Xhen didn’t look away, her eyes locked on his, filled with a stubborn determination that cut through the haze of pain. She dug her fingers into the mat, forcing her body to obey, even as every muscle protested, her spirit unbroken despite the punishment she had endured.

El Diablo’s expression hardened, the amusement fading as he took a step forward, his boot connecting with her midsection in a sharp, deliberate stomp. Xhen’s body jerked, the air driven from her lungs, but she held on, her hands clenching into fists as she braced herself for the next blow.

Another stomp followed, his boot landing with brutal precision, driving into her stomach with a force that left her gasping. The pain was overwhelming, her vision blurring as she fought to keep her focus, but her will remained unbroken, a testament to her resilience as she endured his assault.

“Come on, Xhen,” he murmured, his voice laced with mock sympathy as he ground his heel into her abdomen, pressing down with a force that sent fresh waves of agony coursing through her. “Just stay down. Save yourself the trouble.”

Xhen’s jaw clenched, her breathing ragged as she looked up at him, her gaze filled with defiance even as her body lay broken beneath his heel. “You’re… going to have to do better than that,” she managed, her voice barely a whisper but filled with a fierce resolve.

El Diablo’s eyes narrowed, his smirk fading as he pressed down harder, the sole of his boot grinding into her midsection, drawing a choked gasp from her. He leaned forward, his voice a low, dangerous murmur as he spoke just loud enough for her to hear. “I don’t think you understand, Xhen. This isn’t a game you can win.”

But her gaze didn’t waver, her lips curling into a faint, defiant smile as she met his eyes. “Maybe not,” she replied, her voice strained but unbroken. “But I’m still here, aren’t I?”

He sneered, his irritation evident as he shifted his weight, pressing down with even more force as he aimed to break her spirit along with her body. The crowd’s cheers intensified, the noise rising to a fever pitch as they watched him assert his dominance, his control over the match absolute.

But Xhen’s spirit refused to yield. She could feel the pain radiating through her with every second that his heel pressed into her, but she held onto that flicker of determination, that sense of purpose that had brought her here in the first place. She wasn’t just fighting for survival—she was fighting to prove something, to herself as much as to him.

El Diablo tilted his head, regarding her with a mixture of frustration and grudging respect. “Still fighting, even now. You’re a stubborn one, I’ll give you that.”

Xhen forced herself to take a slow, shaky breath, her eyes blazing with defiance. “You… haven’t won yet.”

He scoffed, the sound filled with disdain, but there was a hint of admiration in his gaze, a subtle acknowledgment of her resilience. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

With a final, punishing grind of his heel, he stepped back, giving her just enough room to attempt to rise, to force her battered body off the mat if she dared. It was a taunt, an invitation, a display of his confidence in his inevitable victory. He knew she was at her limit, that the damage he had inflicted was wearing her down, but he wanted her to feel every second of it, to understand the hopelessness of her struggle.


The ring was a haze of pain and exhaustion, but Xhen’s resolve remained a single, unbroken thread that kept her from surrendering to the agony rippling through her body. El Diablo stood above her, his gaze dark and unwavering, as he allowed her only a moment to gather her breath before reaching down. His hands gripped her shoulders firmly, fingers digging into her as he pulled her up with brutal force, lifting her off her feet as if she weighed nothing.

Her legs dangled helplessly as he transitioned smoothly into a powerful bearhug, wrapping his massive arms around her torso. With one swift motion, he squeezed, pulling her close and locking her in a vice-like grip that sent fresh waves of pain radiating through her already battered ribs. Xhen’s breath hitched, her eyes widening as the pressure intensified, every inch of her midsection screaming in protest under his crushing hold.

El Diablo’s face was mere inches from hers, his expression one of cold amusement as he tightened his grip, relishing the control he held over her. “This is the end for you,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper but filled with an unmistakable confidence. “You know it as well as I do.”

Xhen clenched her teeth, her hands coming up to push against his arms, her fingers digging into his biceps as she tried to pry them apart. She could feel his muscles under her hands, unyielding, each effort to break free meeting an immovable wall of strength. Her breaths came in sharp, ragged gasps, the pressure around her ribs making it impossible to draw in a full breath. But even in the face of this overwhelming force, her resolve remained, her spirit refusing to break.

“You… won’t… win,” she managed, her voice strained but filled with defiance.

El Diablo’s grip tightened in response, his smirk widening as he lifted her slightly higher, emphasizing his dominance. “You’re still fighting?” He chuckled, his voice filled with mocking admiration. “Then let’s see how long that lasts.”

He adjusted his hold, pulling her closer and squeezing harder, his forearms pressing into her sides with a merciless intensity. Xhen’s head tilted back, her mouth open in a silent cry as the pain reached an unbearable peak, her ribs feeling as though they were being crushed under his unrelenting grip. She writhed in his hold, her body twisting and struggling, but every movement only seemed to strengthen his resolve, his grip unbreakable as he kept her suspended in the air.

The crowd watched with bated breath, their cheers rising in a wave of anticipation as they saw her struggle, her every effort a testament to her resilience. But with each passing second, her strength waned, her resistance growing weaker as the toll of the match bore down on her. Her arms began to drop, her fingers losing their grip on his arms as exhaustion seeped into every fiber of her being.

El Diablo’s smirk widened as he felt her resistance fade, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he gave her one final, crushing squeeze. Xhen’s body jerked, a choked gasp escaping her as the pressure reached its peak, her vision swimming as her strength gave out. And then, with a dismissive flick of his arms, he released her, letting her body collapse onto the mat in a heap.

She lay there, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, her limbs heavy as she struggled to regain her bearings. The pain radiated through her, each beat of her heart echoing the agony she had endured. But even as she lay there, her resolve remained, a flicker of defiance that refused to die.

El Diablo stepped back, giving her a moment to catch her breath, his eyes scanning the crowd as he raised a hand, signaling for their attention. The audience responded immediately, their cheers rising to a fever pitch as he gestured toward her, his intent clear: the next move would be something they wouldn’t want to miss.

Turning his attention back to Xhen, he reached down, gripping her by the ankles and lifting her legs into the air. For a brief, disoriented moment, Xhen thought he was setting up for a Boston crab, the familiar submission hold she had seen him use countless times before. But as he raised her legs higher, leaving her almost vertical with her head, neck, and upper back still on the mat, she realized with a sinking dread that he had something else in mind.

With a calculated, almost cruel precision, El Diablo stepped over her arms, trapping her wrists beneath his feet, effectively pinning her to the mat. Then, with a twisted smirk, he reversed his grip on her ankles, pulling her legs apart in a painful, humiliating stretch that left her completely at his mercy. Xhen’s eyes widened, a strangled gasp escaping her as the pain shot through her body, her muscles screaming in protest as he forced her into the degrading submission hold.

The crowd’s cheers reached a crescendo, their voices mingling in a chaotic symphony as they watched him hold her in the agonizing position. Xhen’s face twisted in agony, her resolve finally beginning to crack as the pain became unbearable, every inch of her body stretched to its limits, her strength all but drained.

“Stop… please…!” she gasped, her voice breaking as she cried out in submission, the sound filled with desperation and defeat. The words fell from her lips involuntarily, her pride shattered in the face of the unrelenting torment he inflicted upon her.

But El Diablo merely chuckled, his grip unyielding as he ignored her pleas, holding her in the brutal stretch with an almost sadistic satisfaction. His gaze shifted to the crowd, feeding off their energy, their cheers and jeers fueling his own sense of dominance as he kept the hold locked in, refusing to release her despite her submission.

“Did you really think it would be that easy?” he murmured, his voice low and taunting as he looked down at her, his tone filled with a dark amusement. “This is what happens when you step into my ring, Xhen. This… is what defeat feels like.”

Xhen’s body trembled, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps as the pain overwhelmed her. She writhed beneath him, her wrists pinned, her legs stretched to the breaking point, but there was no escape, no relief. Every second he held her there was a testament to his control, his power, the brutal, unyielding force that had brought her to her knees.

“Please… just… stop…” she whispered, her voice barely audible, the words slipping out in a moment of utter helplessness. She could feel her spirit faltering, the agony breaking down the walls of her resolve, leaving her exposed and vulnerable.

But El Diablo only smirked, his grip unwavering as he kept the hold locked in, drawing out her suffering for the crowd’s entertainment. He reveled in her desperation, in the way her body trembled beneath him, the sound of her gasping breaths, her voice breaking with each plea.

“Begging already?” he taunted, his voice a cruel whisper that cut through her like a knife. “Where’s that strength you were so proud of? That defiance?”

The crowd’s cheers grew louder, their voices merging into a cacophony that seemed to fill the entire arena, their excitement feeding into the brutal spectacle unfolding before them. El Diablo played to them, his expression a twisted mask of satisfaction as he drew out every second of her torment, his hold unyielding, his dominance absolute.

Xhen’s resolve finally shattered, her voice breaking as she let out a raw, agonized cry, her body writhing in the painful stretch, every inch of her strength drained. She could feel her spirit slipping away, the humiliation and pain overwhelming her, leaving her a shadow of the fighter she had been when she stepped into the ring.

And still, he kept the hold locked in, refusing to release her, savoring her suffering, drawing out every last ounce of her endurance as he crushed her spirit along with her body. For him, this was more than just a victory—it was a display of dominance, a demonstration of his unbreakable control, his unyielding strength, his absolute power over her.


The arena filled with the sounds of her suffering, her pleas mingling with the cheers of the crowd, each second stretching into an eternity as he held her there, suspended in her own agony.


El Diablo kept his unbreakable hold on Xhen, her legs stretched wide in a brutal submission that left her writhing helplessly on the mat. Her voice broke into a hoarse, agonized cry as she pleaded, but he ignored her, his eyes fixed on the crowd as they cheered and chanted, their voices rising in appreciation of the spectacle. He relished every second, drawing out her suffering as the crowd’s fervor fed into his sense of victory.

Then, with one final, vicious jerk, he pried her legs even wider, pushing her body beyond its limits as she let out a scream that reverberated through the arena. Satisfied at last, he released her, dropping her legs and letting her collapse onto the mat in a trembling heap. Xhen lay there, chest heaving, her face pale as she fought to breathe through the waves of pain crashing through her body. Every muscle, every bone felt the brutal toll of the match, her strength sapped by his relentless assault.

El Diablo, however, was far from finished. He looked down at her, a smirk playing on his lips as he reached down, grabbing a fistful of her hair and yanking her to her feet. Xhen barely had the strength to stand, her legs wobbling beneath her, but he kept her upright, his grip unyielding as he positioned himself behind her. In one swift motion, he hoisted her up onto his shoulder, locking her into a Canadian backbreaker that left her body arched painfully over him, her torso stretched as he paraded her around the ring.

The crowd’s roars of approval filled the arena, a thunderous sound that seemed to echo through every corner as El Diablo walked a slow, deliberate circle around the ring, his dominance on full display. Xhen’s body hung limp over his shoulder, her voice coming out in broken, defeated cries as he adjusted his hold, each movement amplifying her pain and showing off his absolute control. His face remained a mask of calm satisfaction, his eyes glinting with the thrill of victory as he fed off the energy of the audience.

“Take a good look!” he shouted, his voice carrying over the roar of the crowd. “This is what happens to anyone who thinks they can challenge me!”

The audience erupted in cheers, their voices merging into a single, deafening roar as they absorbed the spectacle. For them, this was more than just a fight—it was theater, a visceral display of strength and dominance that had captivated them from the start. El Diablo held her in place, allowing the crowd to take in every second of her defeat, every tremor of her exhausted body as she lay draped over his shoulder.

Xhen could feel the humiliation seeping into her, her spirit trembling under the weight of the defeat. Her mind was clouded with pain, her body no longer responding to her will, but somewhere deep inside, a spark of defiance remained, a determination that refused to die even in the face of overwhelming force. But for now, she could do nothing but endure, her cries drowned out by the crowd’s cheers, her body utterly at his mercy.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, El Diablo dropped her unceremoniously to the mat, letting her fall in a heap at his feet. She landed on her side, her body curling instinctively as she fought to catch her breath, her chest rising and falling in shallow gasps as she lay there, utterly spent. El Diablo took a step back, lifting his arms high above his head in a gesture of victory, his gaze sweeping over the crowd as he basked in their adoration.

The crowd’s energy reached a fever pitch, their cheers a resounding affirmation of his status as the league’s brutal champion. He stood in the center of the ring, absorbing the praise, his presence a powerful reminder of his dominance, his control, his unshakable position at the top. To them, he was invincible, an unstoppable force that none could hope to match, and he played the part perfectly, his expression one of calm, unshakable confidence.

As he reveled in the victory, Xhen lay on the mat, her body aching, her mind a blur of exhaustion and pain. But as the crowd’s attention shifted to their champion, she took the opportunity to gather what little strength remained, forcing herself to move. Slowly, painfully, she rolled onto her stomach, her hands pressing against the mat as she struggled to push herself up, her body trembling with the effort.

Her breaths came in shallow pants, her muscles screaming in protest, but she ignored the pain, focusing only on the simple task of getting to her feet. She could feel the bruises forming, the ache in her ribs, the sting of humiliation, but she wouldn’t let this defeat break her spirit. Not here, not now.

With a grunt, she managed to get to her knees, one hand reaching for the ropes as she used them to pull herself up, her grip white-knuckled as she steadied herself. Her legs felt like lead, her body swaying slightly as she held onto the ropes, her gaze fixed on the exit as she prepared to leave the ring with whatever dignity she had left.

As the crowd continued to cheer for El Diablo, Xhen made her way toward the ropes, each step a struggle, each movement a testament to her resilience. She refused to let the defeat consume her, refused to let him see her broken. With one last glance back at the ring, she muttered under her breath, a faint smile tugging at her lips despite the pain.

“After this, I think I’ve earned a drink… maybe even two.”

She climbed out of the ring, gripping the guardrails for support as she staggered toward the exit. Her body protested every step, but her spirit remained unbroken, her mind already steeling itself for the next time she’d step into the ring. She knew the path she had chosen, knew the risks, the pain, the sacrifices, but she would face them all head-on, just as she always had.

As she made her way up the ramp, the cheers faded, the lights dimming as the spectacle came to an end. El Diablo remained in the ring, his arms still raised in victory, his gaze sweeping over the crowd as he took in their admiration, their devotion to the champion they had come to worship. And in that moment, he was untouchable, a force of nature, the undisputed king of the league.

But as Xhen disappeared behind the curtain, a faint, determined smile lingered on her face, a reminder of the fire that still burned within her, the resolve that refused to fade, even in the face of defeat.

 

[anotherguttersnipe]

Edge of Pain: Interlude 11.0 - Conflict


In the plush confines of the VIP booth, Ichiro Sakazaki, Kenta Hinamura, Tatsu Otome, and Ryota Takeuchi lounged comfortably, basking in the aftermath of a night filled with blood, sweat, and fierce competition. The men’s faces were illuminated by the flickering lights from the ring below, though their expressions bore a satisfied calm after the match had ended. Their conversations were punctuated with low laughs and the clinking of glasses, and at this moment, all attention was on Ryota, the night’s victorious bettor.

“Well, Ryota,” Ichiro said, lifting his glass with a smirk, “looks like you’ve got quite the knack for predictions. Twelve minutes exactly, just like you said.”

Ryota grinned, leaning back into the velvet cushioning of his seat. “What can I say? I know how to pick em,” he replied, his tone dripping with a mix of confidence and playfulness. “Xhen’s got spirit. I figured she’d push just enough to keep him entertained without collapsing too early. Twelve minutes seemed right for her… but barely.”

Tatsu raised his glass, chuckling. “I admit, I thought she’d last a bit longer, given her training. But I guess El Diablo’s got a way of breaking even the toughest of them down. He’s relentless.”

Kenta nodded thoughtfully, swirling his whiskey as he remembered the end of the match. “It wasn’t just that he won—it was how he ended it. That leg split submission hold… humiliating and crowd-pleasing all at once. The audience ate it up, cheering him on as she writhed in pain.”

“Not to mention the Canadian Backbreaker he followed up with,” Ichiro added, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “He knows how to please the crowd. That man understands performance as much as he does dominance. His style is brutal, yes, but it’s calculated. Every move has a purpose—to thrill, to conquer, and to leave them wanting more.”

The men exchanged knowing nods. El Diablo’s matches were as much about entertainment as they were about asserting his dominance, and tonight had been no exception. His ability to control not only his opponents but the crowd’s emotions was part of what made him such an irreplaceable asset to the league. There was a sense of respect, even admiration, for the man’s craft—even if it was a craft rooted in cruelty.

As the conversation ebbed, their attention drifted to the next opponent on the night’s lineup: Larissa Chatlion. The atmosphere in the booth subtly shifted, a contemplative quiet settling over the men. Unlike most fighters, Larissa brought with her an air of mystique and an intensity that was, in some ways, unsettling even to them.

“Now, Larissa,” Kenta began, his voice laced with intrigue. “She’s… different. There’s something about her presence in the ring that’s hard to put into words.”

“She’s undefeated against El Diablo so far,” Ichiro said, his tone measured. “No woman has gone as many rounds with him without submitting, aside from Alyx Sharpe. It’s not just physical endurance—it’s something else entirely. Something deeper.”

Tatsu nodded slowly, a look of reminiscence crossing his face. “I remember when she approached me. It wasn’t me recruiting her, mind you; she came to me, claiming she needed to join the league as part of some ‘personal journey of atonement.’”

“Atonement?” Ryota raised an eyebrow, incredulous. “Who in their right mind seeks out El Diablo for… spiritual purposes?”

“That was my thought exactly,” Tatsu replied, chuckling dryly. “She spoke in riddles, quoting scripture, talking of sins and redemption. I didn’t know what to make of her, honestly. But there was something about her conviction… It was unnerving. I was curious, so I decided to test her with El Diablo in the Dungeon.”

Kenta narrowed his eyes. “And how did El Diablo respond?”

“That’s the strange part,” Tatsu said, a hint of amusement mixed with puzzlement in his tone. “He called me afterward and confirmed that she was ready for the league. But he made one request—insisted, really—that she never return to the Dungeon. He didn’t say why, but there was something in his tone… almost as if she unnerved him.”

The men shared a look, each one turning the thought over in his mind. It was rare for El Diablo to be unsettled by anyone, let alone a female fighter. The notion that Larissa, with her cryptic mannerisms and intense faith, had left such an impression was both curious and, in a way, impressive.

“There’s a stark difference between her and Alyx Sharpe,” Kenta remarked, breaking the silence. “Alyx takes a perverse joy in her matches with him. She revels in the pain, makes it part of her… enjoyment. But Larissa? She endures. It’s not pleasure she seeks—it’s something else, something… I don’t know.”

“Redemptive, perhaps?” Ichiro suggested. “As if the suffering is a way for her to cleanse herself, to test her faith.”

Ryota smirked, taking a sip of his drink. “Whatever it is, it makes for one hell of a show. She's one of a few fighters the crowd really gets behind.”

Tatsu nodded, leaning back as he contemplated Larissa’s effect. “I’ll admit, she’s become one of the few fighters I look forward to seeing against El Diablo. There’s a… ritualistic quality to her matches. Every move, every blow she takes, it’s as though she’s reliving something, working through some unseen weight.”

“Faith,” Ichiro mused. “It’s a powerful thing. People do unthinkable things in the name of it. For Larissa, perhaps each fight is an act of worship, a way to confront her demons. I can’t say I understand it, but I can’t deny its intensity.”

Kenta raised his glass in a quiet toast, a gesture of respect. “To faith, then. Whatever it may mean to her. She’s a reminder that this league isn’t just about strength—it’s about what drives a person to endure. For her, that drive comes from somewhere… beyond the physical.”

The men clinked their glasses, a rare moment of solemn respect permeating their celebration. In a league filled with brutality and dominance, Larissa’s presence was a reminder of the myriad reasons people willingly subjected themselves to such violence. For some, it was fame; for others, power. But for Larissa, it seemed to be something deeper, a quest only she truly understood.


__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


As the final note of the interlude faded, Wallace Hartley lifted his hand, signaling to the rest of the octet to take a short break. The musicians dispersed quietly, retreating to the corners of the alcove, leaving Wallace momentarily alone. He leaned back against the wall, exhaling slowly as the quiet settled around him. Tonight’s match was about to reach its crescendo with Larissa Chatlion, the fighter who had unnerved even the league’s most brutal men—and, Wallace realized, himself.

His thoughts drifted back to his recent encounter with Larissa in the hallway, her strange, enigmatic words hanging in his memory like a dark melody. She had addressed him with an insight that felt too personal, as though she’d peeled back the layers of his carefully constructed facade with a mere glance.

“Thou art a man of olde songs and silent sorrows, art thou not? I sense a weight upon thee, like that of a captain lost amidst a storm. The tide is dark, yet still thou sailest, though the waves doth rise fierce and foreboding.”

Wallace felt a chill even now, recalling her words. How could she know such things about him? The alias “Joseph Carmichael” had been meticulously crafted, Yet Larissa had spoken to him as though she’d glimpsed the truth, as though she understood him beyond the surface, touching on the life he’d left behind long ago.

He was left wondering if he’d been compromised. If she truly knew who he was—not just the identity the Zaibatsu had provided, but the man he had been before all of this, the man who had played his final song as the Titanic sank into icy waters. But Larissa’s words had been veiled, cryptic. She hadn’t named him outright, nor had she revealed any specifics. Perhaps it was just her way, her peculiar manner of speaking that gave an illusion of depth, making him feel seen even when he was still hidden.

Yet the doubt lingered. Should he report the encounter? The Zaibatsu was uncompromising when it came to secrecy, and if he informed them of Larissa’s cryptic remarks, the consequences could be dire—not only for her but potentially for him as well. Reporting the interaction might be interpreted as a sign of weakness, a hint that he was allowing his emotions to interfere with his mission. But remaining silent meant he would have to navigate the uncertainty alone, hoping that Larissa’s words were nothing more than poetic musings rather than genuine insight.

As he stood there, wrestling with his thoughts, he found himself unexpectedly drawn to the way Larissa spoke of faith. Her devotion was evident, manifesting in every word and gesture, in the strange, otherworldly composure she carried into the ring. For her, this brutal spectacle was not simply a battle but a form of penance, a path of atonement. Her faith was woven into the fabric of her very being, guiding her through the trials she faced night after night.

It made him uncomfortable. Not because he didn’t understand devotion—he did, in his own way—but because her brand of faith forced him to confront his own relationship with belief. His “resurrection,” if it could be called that, hadn’t come from divine grace or spiritual conviction; it had been orchestrated through cold, scientific intervention. NiCO and the Zaibatsu had brought him back from death not out of kindness or salvation, but as part of an experiment, a testament to their technological prowess. His existence in this new world was owed not to miracles but to machines.

A bitter irony twisted within him as he pondered this. To the world, Wallace Hartley had died honorably in 1912, a musician lost to history, remembered for his final act of courage as he and his band played on to comfort the doomed passengers. Now, here he was, resurrected as a shadow of that man, beholden to an organization that held no sentiment, no reverence for the past—only a ruthless commitment to power and control.

And yet… he felt bound. Not by faith, as Larissa might be, but by a sense of duty he could not fully understand. Duty, loyalty, perhaps even habit—all mingled in a complex web that kept him tethered to the Zaibatsu despite the bitterness it stirred within him.

Larissa’s words echoed in his mind, piercing the murkiness of his thoughts. “Duty bindeth us, as chains upon a soul, a shadow that followeth wheresoever we go. But remember this, Master Carmichael—chains, though made of iron, are breakable when tempered by the fires of conviction.”

She’d spoken of duty as if it were a burden, a weight that could be cast off. Could he break these chains? The question made him uneasy, yet he could not ignore it. Was his loyalty to the Zaibatsu born of conviction, or was it merely an iron chain he had accepted because it was easier than defiance? He had sacrificed his freedom, his identity, even his integrity, to carry out a mission that felt increasingly hollow with each passing day. But what was the alternative?

What did faith mean to him, truly? He had once believed in music, in the purity of his art, in the solace it could bring to others even in the face of death. But now, in this twisted world of violence and exploitation, that belief felt distant, like a faint echo reverberating from a past life. He was no longer the musician he had been; he was a construct, a vessel molded to serve the interests of a powerful syndicate. And yet, that part of him—the part that had once played for the souls of the doomed—still lingered, a ghost haunting his every step.

A wave of frustration washed over him, mingling with a profound sense of loss. What was he supposed to believe in now? The Zaibatsu, with its merciless ambitions, its cold manipulation? Or something deeper, something he had yet to define? He thought of Larissa again, her words haunting him like a hymn from another world. She, too, was bound by duty, but hers seemed self-imposed, a choice made out of faith rather than fear. In her eyes, duty was not a chain but a fire, a force that could both bind and liberate.

The contrast between them was stark. She moved through this brutal world with a grace and conviction he found both baffling and admirable. Her faith, whatever its source, gave her strength—a strength he envied, though he would never admit it aloud. His own conviction felt feeble by comparison, a brittle thing easily bent and broken.

And yet… here he was, still carrying out his mission, still bearing the weight of his orders, even as doubts gnawed at his resolve. Was that not a form of faith in itself? Perhaps, though he suspected it was a poorer, weaker faith than the one Larissa carried.


As Wallace looked out from the alcove, the muted hum of the arena shifted, the crowd’s energy rising in anticipation. His gaze settled on the arena entrance, where Larissa Chatlion emerged, calm and resolute, her movements measured and unhurried. Dressed in her fighting gear—black with a single white cross emblazoned across her chest—she seemed almost untouched by the harsh lights and the roar of the audience, an otherworldly presence in a place of raw brutality.

For a moment, their eyes met. She looked up at him, her gaze steady, unfaltering, as if she knew he was watching. There was a quiet acknowledgment in her expression, a depth that unsettled him even as it drew him in. It was as if she understood something within him, something he hadn’t yet put into words. He felt a connection, fragile yet profound, as if her glance held the answer to a question he hadn’t dared to ask.

An instinct stirred within him—an urge to warn her, to tell her to turn back. He knew the fate that awaited her in the ring, the brutality she was about to face, and he wished, in some irrational corner of his mind, that she would simply leave. But he knew she wouldn’t turn back. Her resolve was like iron, her spirit unbreakable. Larissa had chosen this path, whatever her reasons, and nothing he could say would sway her. Wallace was left feeling a helplessness he wasn’t accustomed to, as though watching a solemn ritual he could not interfere with. He’d seen countless fighters step into that ring, but none had carried the same quiet defiance as Larissa, the same unyielding conviction that spoke of purpose beyond mere survival.

What drove her, he wondered, as she continued her walk to the ring. What gave her the strength to face this violence without hesitation? Was it peace she sought? Redemption? Or was it something else entirely, something that transcended the earthly plane he himself felt bound to?

Wallace couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy, a longing for that certainty. Watching her felt like looking at a mirror reflecting something he had once possessed—a faith in music, in solace, in purpose, before all of this. Her determination stirred an ache within him, a reminder of a life left behind, a life where belief was simple, untainted by deceit and espionage.

Larissa climbed into the ring, her movements calm, almost reverent. The crowd murmured with anticipation, sensing the gravity of the moment. She looked utterly at peace, as though she had already accepted whatever outcome awaited her, a serenity that only deepened Wallace’s unease. If he could reach across that distance, if he could tell her anything, he would ask her what it felt like to walk with such certainty, to hold onto faith even in a place like this.

As he watched her prepare, he felt a conflict within himself, one that had been simmering ever since he’d taken on this assignment. Loyalty to the Zaibatsu weighed heavily on one side, a duty he could not shirk, a duty that had brought him back from death. Yet as he watched Larissa, he felt something shift within him, a flicker of defiance he hadn’t allowed himself to acknowledge until now.

Her presence, her resolve—it was challenging him to question his own purpose, his own convictions. Did he serve merely out of obligation, out of gratitude for this twisted second chance? Or was there something more, something deeper, waiting for him if he dared to embrace it?

The arena seemed to grow quieter, the air thick with anticipation, as Larissa took her place in the ring. Wallace could see El Diablo standing at the opposite end, watching her with an expression that was as much curiosity as it was intimidation. The bell had not rung yet, but already, the tension between them crackled like static, a promise of the storm to come.

And as Wallace looked on, he found himself at a crossroads. He could continue as he was, a silent spectator bound by chains of duty and fear. Or, perhaps, he could search for his own conviction, his own faith—not in the Zaibatsu, not in the life he’d once known, but in something uniquely his own.

 

[anotherguttersnipe]

Edge of Pain: Match 7: Larissa Chatlion vs. El Diablo

The Elite Underground Arena fell into a tense silence. In one corner, El Diablo stood, his towering form radiating an almost palpable menace. Across from him, Larissa Chatlion knelt in silent prayer, her head bowed, hands clasped gently before her. In contrast to the intense stares around her, she was an island of calm—a stark, solemn presence amidst the heavy atmosphere.

El Diablo watched her, a sneer curling his lips beneath the dark mask. This one again, he mused, noting her unyielding posture. Larissa had yet to yield to him in any of their previous encounters. Her faith had shielded her from nothing, yet she clung to it with unbreakable resolve. In his eyes, it was a fool’s armor, a flimsy defense against his ruthlessness.

He stepped forward, letting his boots fall with a calculated, heavy thud that seemed to echo across the dim arena. His voice was a low, mocking growl as he taunted, “Once more you kneel, expecting your God to save you from the punishment I’m about to deal.” He paused, watching her intently. “Funny, isn’t it? Your prayers never spared you a single blow.”

Larissa lifted her head, her calm gaze meeting his with unwavering steadiness. She slowly rose to her feet, a quiet dignity in each movement. Her voice, carrying a soft but resolute edge, answered him in a tone that seemed to reach each corner of the arena. “I seek not salvation, nor to be spared thy wrath,” she replied, her Old English lilt accentuating each word. “Mine faith bids me only to endure. Strength, not rescue, is all I seek.”

El Diablo’s sneer deepened, her calm defiance setting a spark in his cold, unyielding gaze. The bell sounded, signaling the start, and Larissa stepped forward, her eyes never leaving his, her expression serene but fierce, signaling her readiness to face whatever he had in store for her. She raised her hands in an unexpected gesture—a direct challenge for a test of strength.

A murmur rippled through the crowd, incredulous at the audacity. Larissa was dwarfed by El Diablo’s massive frame, her slender form seemingly fragile in comparison. But her stance was resolute, her fingers splayed, inviting him to meet her hands.

El Diablo’s eyebrows arched, amusement glinting in his eyes. Accepting her challenge, he stepped forward and locked his hands with hers. The moment their palms met, he pressed down with relentless force, driving her back. Larissa braced, her muscles tensed as she leaned into his power, her face a mask of concentration. Every fiber of her being seemed to resist the force pressing against her, but El Diablo’s strength was immense, each ounce of pressure he applied enough to overwhelm.

Slowly, inevitably, Larissa’s arms began to give way, her knees bending as he forced her down. She dropped to one knee, grimacing, but her gaze remained defiant, even as her body succumbed to the strain.

El Diablo leaned in, his voice a dark murmur. “Still think your God gives you strength?”

But she answered with a steady voice, her lips curling in the faintest hint of a smile. “Aye, for here I remain—unbroken.”

The crowd’s anticipation grew, murmurs of amazement weaving through the stands. But for El Diablo, her resilience was nothing more than a futile gesture. With a sudden, brutal jerk, he pulled her to her feet, driving a knee into her stomach. Larissa gasped, her breath stolen, but her resolve didn’t falter. Her grip on his hands loosened, though, and he took full advantage, wrenching her arm into a painful twist, transitioning effortlessly into a brutal armwrench.

“Let’s see how much endurance your faith buys you this time,” he taunted, his voice dripping with cruel amusement as he twisted her arm, forcing her body to angle painfully to the side.

Larissa gritted her teeth, her expression contorting with the pain, yet she refused to cry out. Her resolve was unwavering as she tried to twist free, but El Diablo only responded by twisting harder, forcing her into his pace, his rhythm, his control.

Without letting up, he transitioned into a hammerlock, trapping her arm behind her back, pressing his weight into her shoulder to keep her immobilized. Larissa’s breathing grew labored, the strain evident, but still, she did not relent. Instead, she whispered, half to herself, half to him, “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil… for thou art with me.”

El Diablo leaned closer, the smirk in his voice clear as he replied, “Then your God can witness your suffering firsthand.”

With a brutal precision, he released the hammerlock only to whip her around, catching her with an underhook. He lifted her slightly before bringing her down hard, forcing her into an armlock on the mat. Larissa’s back hit the ground with a thud, and El Diablo didn’t waste a second, bearing down to wrench her arm further, aiming to wear her down. The crowd watched, spellbound as Larissa twisted, her face a mask of fierce concentration.

Still, she refused to scream. Her body tensed under the strain, her every muscle taut, but she endured, muttering a low prayer between labored breaths.

El Diablo chuckled darkly, tightening the hold until her arm was stretched painfully, her shoulder straining against the lock. “Endure all you like,” he growled, “but your endurance has limits. And when I find them, you’ll wish your God had spared you from this ring.”

Larissa’s lips parted, a shaky breath escaping, but her gaze found his once more, her voice trembling yet defiant. “Thou may’st bring forth thy wrath and fury,” she murmured, her old English tones rising above the dull roar of the crowd, “yet shall I remain—until the last breath leaves mine lips.”

El Diablo's gaze darkened, her unyielding words fueling his aggression. He transitioned to yet another hold, twisting her arm behind her back and pressing his weight into her spine. Each wrench of her arm, each press of his weight was calculated to test the very limits of her endurance. Yet, through the searing pain, she clung to her resolve, a living testament to her faith’s strength.

As the final lock tightened, her breaths came in shallow gasps, but her gaze held the same unwavering determination. El Diablo’s smirk faded as he observed her, a grudging respect in his eyes. Though he’d bound her, broken her body to his will, her spirit remained as steady as it had in prayer.


El Diablo’s eyes narrowed as he shifted his grip, moving seamlessly from the hammerlock into a front headlock, his fingers entwining tightly around Larissa’s neck and head. He rotated his body with brutal efficiency, facing her directly now, his powerful arms locking her in place. The grip was unyielding, each muscle taut with intent as he kept her immobilized, trapping her within his relentless hold.

With a slight jerk, El Diablo pulled her to her feet, his unbreakable grip around her neck holding her steady. As she steadied herself, he wasted no time and drove his fist down, targeting her spine with heavy, deliberate blows. Each strike landed with a resounding thud, his knuckles pressing deep into her back, seeking to dismantle her bit by bit. Her body buckled under each impact, yet the headlock held her upright, forcing her to endure every punishing hit without respite.

Larissa’s eyes narrowed, her jaw clenched as each blow forced her body to bear the brunt of his strength. She didn’t falter; she didn’t cry out. Instead, she steeled herself, gritting her teeth as his fists rained down on her with unrelenting force. Her endurance, her resolve, seemed limitless, and the crowd began to murmur in astonishment at her refusal to yield to the pain.

El Diablo’s grin widened as he observed her resilience, a twisted satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. She was still standing, still bearing his assault. But he had plans to test the true depth of her endurance. Keeping the headlock firm, he began to shift his weight, maneuvering them both toward the corner. Each step backward was measured, calculated, and his grip never wavered.

Larissa sensed the movement, her eyes catching the approaching corner out of the corner of her vision. Desperation flickered across her face as she struggled, her body twisting, her hands pressing against his arms in an attempt to break free. Yet his hold was iron, his strength unyielding. Each effort only served to highlight the growing tension, her vulnerability increasing with every passing second.

With one last tug, he yanked her body upward and, with a powerful twist, pulled her into a suplex. Her body arced in the air, her back aimed directly at the unforgiving top turnbuckle. She crashed into it with bone-jarring force, her spine bending on impact as a shockwave rippled through her frame.

For a moment, she hung there, draped over the top turnbuckle, her breathing ragged but steady. Her eyes blinked, dazed, but they quickly sharpened with resolve. Pain was etched across her features, yet her spirit remained unbroken. Even now, after such a vicious impact, she was conscious, aware, her gaze still defiant.

El Diablo rose to his feet, barely winded. He smirked, turning to the crowd with a confident flourish, his arms raised to bask in their cheers. The audience roared in response, their voices blending into a wild cacophony of anticipation. They knew more was coming—they could feel the merciless intent in his every move.

Satisfied with the crowd’s reaction, El Diablo turned back to Larissa, his eyes glinting with cruel intent. He stepped forward, lifting her legs one at a time, draping them over the ropes until her body hung upside down from the turnbuckle. He arranged her carefully, almost methodically, ensuring her full exposure as he positioned her into the Tree of Woe. Her arms hung limply, her face pale, her breaths shallow, but her eyes… her eyes remained sharp, braced for whatever was to come.

Without a word, El Diablo lifted his boot and drove it into her midsection with a precise, brutal kick. Larissa’s body jerked, the impact reverberating through her core. He stepped back, only to repeat the motion, each strike targeting her abdomen, each blow designed to break her down, to strip away the remnants of her endurance.

Larissa gritted her teeth, refusing to let a single sound escape her lips. Each kick landed with a hollow thud, testing her resilience with merciless consistency. Yet she absorbed each strike, her body tensing under the impact, but her silence becoming a testament to her defiance. The crowd watched, a mixture of awe and horror in their eyes, as she bore the onslaught without surrendering her composure.

El Diablo leaned closer, his voice a taunting murmur. “Does your God feel your suffering now? Does He see how easily I dismantle His so-called strength?”

Larissa’s eyes flickered, her voice a hoarse whisper, but steady as she spoke. “Thine words are but hollow sounds,” she rasped, each word laced with pain yet unbowed. “Strike as thou wilt, for my strength lies not in the body alone.”

Her quiet defiance sent a ripple through the crowd, her unwavering faith striking a chord even as her body betrayed the toll of the punishment. El Diablo’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second before he scowled, doubling down on his assault with a renewed vigor. Each stomp was harder than the last, each one aiming to break her, to strip away that resolute defiance from her eyes.

But Larissa endured, her body twisted in agony, her breaths shallow, yet she remained silent, her resilience a quiet defiance in the face of his cruelty. Even as her limbs trembled, even as pain rippled through her core, she held onto her composure, her eyes focused ahead, braced for whatever he planned next. The Tree of Woe was designed to punish, to break her will—but her silence, her endurance, were a challenge of their own.

El Diablo stood over Larissa, her body still hanging limply from the Tree of Woe. His eyes gleamed with a sinister satisfaction as he reached down, gripping her waist firmly. With a display of sheer strength, he lifted her off the turnbuckle, hoisting her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing. The crowd erupted into a mix of cheers and gasps, their anticipation building as they sensed the impending devastation.

He paraded her around the ring, each step deliberate, showcasing his dominance to the roaring audience. Larissa's arms dangled behind him, her eyes blinking rapidly as she tried to regain her bearings. The arena lights glared down, casting sharp shadows that accentuated the intensity of the moment. El Diablo shifted her position, draping her across both shoulders to set up for the Samoan drop.

"Behold your fallen angel!" he shouted to the crowd, his voice dripping with contempt. The spectators responded with a thunderous roar, the atmosphere electric.

With a powerful motion, he propelled himself backward, driving Larissa into the mat with a crushing Samoan drop. The ring shook upon impact, the sound echoing throughout the arena. Larissa's body arched briefly before settling motionless on the canvas. The audience erupted, impressed by the sheer force and precision of the move.

For a few moments, both wrestlers lay on the mat—El Diablo reveling in his dominance, Larissa fighting the waves of pain coursing through her body. Summoning her inner strength, she began to move, slowly pushing herself up onto her hands and knees. Each movement was labored, her muscles protesting, but her spirit refused to yield.

"Still not staying down, I see," El Diablo sneered as he rose to his feet. "You truly are a glutton for punishment."

Larissa lifted her gaze to meet his, her eyes reflecting a steadfast determination. "Thou may'st strike me down, yet I shall rise anew," she replied softly, her voice carrying the weight of her resolve.

Before she could fully regain her footing, El Diablo lunged forward. He seized her arms, wrenching them back as he positioned himself behind her. Locking her into a camel clutch while she remained on her knees, he pulled back sharply, forcing her spine into a painful arch. His grip tightened around her chin and neck, exerting pressure that threatened to overwhelm her.

"Let's see how long that resolve lasts," he hissed into her ear.

Larissa's hands grasped at his fingers, trying to alleviate the strain. She closed her eyes, focusing on steadying her breath. The pain was intense, but she grounded herself, refusing to let it consume her.

El Diablo increased the pressure, pulling her head back further. The crowd watched intently, the tension palpable as they witnessed her struggle. Larissa's knees trembled under the strain, her body wavering.

"Do you submit?" he demanded, his voice cutting through the noise of the arena.

"Nay," she gasped, her voice barely above a whisper. "My spirit is beyond thy reach."

Her knees finally gave out, and she collapsed forward. El Diablo adjusted seamlessly, settling into the proper camel clutch position. He sat firmly on her lower back, wrenching her upper body upward. Her spine curved unnaturally, and a pained expression crossed her face.

He leaned back, maximizing the pressure. "Stubbornness can be so unbecoming," he taunted.

Larissa's breathing grew ragged, beads of sweat forming on her forehead. Despite the agony, she refused to cry out. Inside, she repeated a silent mantra: Strength in endurance, fortitude in faith.

The crowd's murmurs grew louder, a mix of awe and concern. Some began to clap rhythmically, a show of support for her unyielding spirit.

El Diablo scowled, frustrated by her silence. "Why won't you scream?" he barked, pulling back even harder.

She opened her eyes, gazing out beyond the ring as if seeing something far away. "Pain is but a fleeting shadow," she whispered. "It shall not command me."

"Perhaps I need to remind you of reality," he snarled.

After several long moments, he released the hold abruptly, allowing her to slump to the mat. He stood over her, arms raised triumphantly as he soaked in the mixed reactions from the crowd—boos intermingled with scattered cheers.

Larissa lay on the canvas, her body aching, but her mind remained sharp. I must rise, she told herself. Placing her palms flat on the mat, she began the arduous task of pushing herself up once more.

El Diablo glanced down, disbelief flashing across his face as he saw her movement. "You just don't know when to quit," he muttered.

Reaching down, he grabbed her by the arm and shoulder, hauling her to her feet. She swayed slightly, but steadied herself, meeting his gaze with unwavering eyes.

"Thy efforts are in vain," she said softly. "I shall not be broken."

"We'll see about that," he replied coldly.

Swiftly, he maneuvered behind her, locking his arm through hers and securing the abdominal stretch. He twisted her torso, applying pressure to her side and core. The hold was expertly executed, targeting her already battered midsection. Pain radiated through her body as he wrenched the hold tighter.

He leaned in close. "How does that feel, hm? Ready to concede?"

She grimaced but managed to speak. "Thy hold tests my flesh, but not my will."

Annoyed by her defiance, El Diablo drove his elbow into her exposed side. The sharp impact elicited a strained gasp from Larissa. He struck again, each blow deliberate, aiming to wear down her resistance. After several strikes, he ground his elbow into her ribs, twisting it to amplify the pain.

A few pained cries escaped her lips, but still she did not submit. The crowd watched in rapt attention, some cheering her resilience, others enthralled by the display of dominance.

El Diablo's eyes narrowed. "Perhaps a different approach," he mused.

Maintaining the abdominal stretch, he shifted his position slightly, twisting her torso further. He raised his free hand, contemplating his next move. With calculated precision, he delivered a series of sharp strikes to her side, each one designed to jolt her defenses.

Larissa gasped, her face flushing from the combined strain and impact. Yet, despite the intensified assault, her spirit remained unbroken.

"Still so silent?" he taunted. "What will it take to break that stubborn pride?"

She turned her head as much as the hold allowed, her eyes meeting his. "Thou may'st try all thy cruel devices," she whispered, "but my resolve is forged in fire."

His frustration mounted. Tightening his grip, he poured more strength into the hold, twisting her body to its limits. Her breathing became more labored, sweat dripping down her temples.

The crowd leaned forward, the air thick with anticipation. How much more could she endure?

Inside, Larissa centered herself. Endure. Persist. This pain is temporary; my spirit is eternal. She focused on her breathing, each inhale and exhale a testament to her resilience.

El Diablo could feel her muscles tensing, resisting his efforts even now. "Why fight it?" he growled. "No one would think less of you for surrendering."

She closed her eyes briefly before reopening them, a calm serenity washing over her features. "Yielding is not in my nature," she replied. "I stand not for myself alone, but for those who believe in endurance."

He scoffed. "Then you choose unnecessary suffering."

"Perhaps," she conceded softly, "but 'tis my choice to make."

He adjusted his grip once more, applying maximal pressure. The strain was immense, her body pushed to its breaking point. Yet, even as tremors coursed through her, she did not capitulate.

The crowd's energy shifted, a growing respect for her tenacity spreading among them. Chants of her name began to rise, a rhythmic echo that filled the arena. "La-ris-sa! La-ris-sa!"

El Diablo glanced around, his expression darkening. "They cheer for a fool," he spat.

"Or perhaps they cheer for hope," she countered between strained breaths.

He shook his head, determination hardening his features. "Enough of this."

He delivered another sharp elbow to her side, followed by another. Each strike was met with a pained gasp, but still, she remained steadfast.

"Why won't you break?" he demanded, exasperation seeping into his voice.

She managed a faint smile. "Because some things are unbreakable."

He held her there, both of them locked in this fierce contest of wills. Time seemed to slow, the noise of the crowd fading into the background. All that existed was the struggle—the clash between relentless force and indomitable spirit.

Sweat dripped from El Diablo's brow as he maintained the hold, his muscles straining. Larissa's breaths were shallow, her body aching, but her eyes remained clear.

The crowd's chants grew louder, their support galvanizing her. She drew strength from their voices, letting it bolster her waning energy.

El Diablo sensed the shift, his frustration boiling over. "This ends now," he declared.

He intensified the abdominal stretch to its utmost limit, every sinew in his body contributing to the hold. Larissa's face contorted in pain, a low groan escaping her lips.

Yet, even now, she whispered, "Thou canst not claim victory over my spirit."

He held her there, both of them reaching the peak of their endurance. The entire arena seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see who would falter first. El Diablo's eyes burned with a mixture of frustration and incredulity. He tightened the abdominal stretch even further, his muscles bulging as he poured every ounce of strength into the hold. Larissa's body twisted under the immense strain, her torso contorted in a way that seemed almost unnatural. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, and a sheen of sweat covered her skin, but still, she refused to submit.

"Just give up!" El Diablo snarled through gritted teeth. "No one would fault you for ending this."

Larissa's quiet defiance began to waver, her soft cries growing louder as the pain intensified. Her face was etched with agony, eyes squeezed shut, yet her spirit remained unbroken. "I... shall not... yield," she whispered between strained breaths. "Mine faith... sustains me."

Her refusal only fueled his irritation. With a growl, El Diablo released the abdominal stretch abruptly. Before she could collapse, he scooped her up in one swift motion. The crowd gasped as he lifted her effortlessly, her body limp in his arms.

"Let's see how much more you can endure," he hissed.

In a brutal display of strength, he drove her down onto his knee in a vicious backbreaker. Larissa's spine arched violently upon impact, a visceral cry tearing from her throat. The sound echoed throughout the arena, a haunting testament to the torment she endured. Not satisfied, El Diablo pressed down on her chin and thigh, bending her backward over his knee. The position was excruciating, her body forming a tortured arc as he applied relentless pressure.

"Feel that?" he taunted, leaning over her. "That's the sound of your body breaking."

Larissa's cries grew louder, each one more desperate than the last. Her fingers clawed at his arm, her nails digging into his flesh as she fought against the overwhelming pain. Tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

"Submit!" El Diablo demanded, pressing down even harder. "End this now!"

She shook her head weakly, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Nay... I shall endure... till the end."

The audience watched in a mix of awe and concern. Some cheered for El Diablo's dominance, but many found themselves silently rooting for Larissa's unyielding spirit. Frustrated by her stubbornness, El Diablo abruptly released her from the backbreaker. She slid off his knee, crumpling to the mat. But he wasn't finished. Grabbing a fistful of her hair, he yanked her to her feet, forcing her to stand on shaky legs.

"Your defiance is pointless," he spat.

Before she could respond, he hoisted her upside down, lifting her into position for an inverted suplex. The blood rushed to her head, the world spinning as she hung helplessly. With a ferocious roar, he slammed her down, the impact reverberating through the ring. Larissa's body bounced slightly before settling, her eyes glazed yet still flickering with determination.

El Diablo didn't pause. Driven by a need to break her, he pulled her up again. This time, he lifted her onto his shoulders, setting up for a powerbomb. The crowd held its collective breath.

"Stay down!" he shouted as he slammed her onto the mat. The force was immense, the ring shaking under the impact. Larissa lay sprawled, her chest heaving, but her gaze remained defiant.

"Why won't you just quit?" he growled, exasperation creeping into his voice.

She coughed, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "Because... 'tis not in my nature."

Snarling, he yanked her up once more. Locking his arms around her waist, he executed a German suplex, flinging her backward. Her shoulders struck the canvas hard, a grunt escaping her lips. Still unsatisfied, El Diablo pulled her to her feet again, his movements almost frantic. He positioned her for a spinebuster, lifting her before driving her down with all his might. The audience winced collectively at the devastating move.

Larissa lay motionless for a moment, her body screaming in agony. But slowly, she began to move, her fingers curling as she summoned the strength to continue.

"Impossible," El Diablo muttered, a hint of disbelief in his tone.

He decided to end it once and for all. Grabbing her leg, he hoisted it over his shoulder, locking her into a stretch muffler hold. The submission move targeted her leg and lower back, twisting her body into a painful arch. Larissa's scream was immediate and piercing. The pain was searing, shooting up her spine and through her limbs. She clawed at his leg, desperation in every movement, but his grip was unyielding.

"Submit!" he commanded, leaning forward to increase the pressure. "There's no escape."

Her voice cracked as she cried out, her face contorted in anguish. Yet, even amidst the torment, she shook her head. "I... refuse," she gasped. "My will... is stronger... than thy cruelty."

El Diablo's eyes flashed with frustration. He twisted her leg further, causing her back to arch painfully. "You're only hurting yourself," he snarled. "No one will think less of you for ending this."

She bit her lip until it bled, her breaths coming in short, ragged bursts. The world around her blurred, but her resolve remained clear. "I fight... not just for me," she whispered. "But for those... who believe... in perseverance."

The crowd began to stir, murmurs of admiration rippling through the stands. A chant started softly at first, then grew louder. "La-ris-sa! La-ris-sa!"

El Diablo glanced around, his irritation mounting. "These fools can't help you," he spat. "Their cheers are meaningless."

But the chant only grew stronger, fueling Larissa's waning strength. She closed her eyes, drawing upon the energy of the crowd. Despite the excruciating pain, a calm settled over her.

"Thou art wrong," she said softly. "Their faith... empowers me."

"Enough of this!" he roared.

He pulled back sharply, maximizing the torque on her spine and leg. Larissa's scream echoed like a siren, raw and filled with suffering. Yet, even as tears streamed down her face, she did not tap out.

"Why won't you break?" El Diablo's voice was strained, a mix of anger and desperation.

She opened her eyes, meeting his gaze with surprising clarity. "Because... my spirit... is unbreakable."

He shook his head, disbelief etched on his features. "You're a fool."

"Perhaps," she conceded, her voice barely audible. "But a fool... who will not surrender."

The crowd's chant swelled, the arena pulsing with their collective will. El Diablo could feel the momentum shifting, his confidence wavering.

He leaned forward again, applying every ounce of strength he had left into the hold. "This is your last chance," he hissed. "Submit, or I'll make sure you never fight again."

Larissa's body trembled violently, the pain reaching a crescendo. For a moment, it seemed as though she might finally give in. But then, from somewhere deep within, she found a final reserve of strength.

"Do as thou must," she whispered. "But know... thou canst not... break what is eternal."

Her words hung in the air, a quiet defiance that resonated beyond the physical. El Diablo's grip faltered, uncertainty flickering in his eyes.

He released the pressure slightly, his frustration boiling over. "You're insane," he spat. "No one can endure this."

She managed a weak smile. "And yet... here I stand."

"Fine!" he snapped. "Suffer then."

He wrenched the hold once more, but the earlier intensity had diminished. His muscles ached, his energy waning.

Larissa sensed the shift. Though still trapped, a spark of hope ignited within her. The crowd's support enveloped her, their voices a balm to her weary soul.

"Larissa! Larissa!" they chanted, the sound reverberating through the arena.

El Diablo looked around, the collective will of the audience pressing in on him. Doubt crept into his mind. No matter what he did, she refused to break.

He glared down at her. "Why do you continue this charade?"

She met his gaze steadily. "Because... I fight for more than victory. I fight... for faith."

He released the hold abruptly, letting her leg drop. She crumpled to the mat, her body exhausted but her spirit shining brightly.

The crowd erupted into applause, a standing ovation for her unyielding courage. El Diablo took a step back, momentarily at a loss.

"You're not worth it," he muttered, though the words lacked conviction.

Larissa lay on the mat, her breaths shallow but steady. She had endured the worst he could offer and remained unbroken.

The match hung in a delicate balance, the atmosphere charged with anticipation. Both wrestlers were pushed to their limits, but it was clear that this battle was as much about willpower as it was about physical prowess. As the crowd continued to chant her name, Larissa summoned the strength to lift her head. Her eyes met El Diablo's, a silent challenge passing between them.

El Diablo glanced up at the clock looming over the arena entrance—only three minutes remained. A flicker of frustration crossed his face as he realized time was slipping through his fingers. He had thrown everything at Larissa, yet she stood unbroken. His eyes narrowed with grim determination; he needed to end this, decisively.

Recalling the punishing hold that had finally broken Xhen Fang in his previous match, a sinister smile played on his lips. If that hold could dismantle her, it will surely break Larissa, he thought. Without wasting another moment, he moved with swift precision.

Grabbing Larissa's legs, he lifted them, initially positioning her as if setting up for a Boston Crab. But then he hoisted her higher, elevating her body almost vertically. Trapping her wrists beneath his boots, he reversed his grip on her ankles. The crowd hushed, sensing the severity of the hold he was applying.

As the pressure intensified, Larissa's scream tore through the arena—a raw, visceral sound that echoed off the walls. Her face contorted in sheer agony, eyes clenched shut as her body was stretched to its very limits. The excruciating pain was evident, her normally serene expression shattered.

El Diablo leaned back, pouring every ounce of strength into the hold. "Submit!" he roared, his voice filled with a mix of command and desperation.

Through gritted teeth, Larissa began to whisper softly, her voice barely audible. "Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum..." She prayed in Latin, the ancient words flowing as a mantra against the onslaught of pain.

"What are you mumbling about?" El Diablo sneered, wrenching the hold tighter. "Your God can't save you now!"

"Adveniat regnum tuum, fiat voluntas tua..." she continued, her voice wavering but resolute. Each word was a lifeline, anchoring her to something beyond the physical torment she endured.

El Diablo's frustration grew. With only a minute left, he could feel victory slipping away. "I said submit!" he bellowed, veins bulging in his arms as he increased the pressure.

"Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie..." Larissa's tears streamed down her face, mingling with sweat. Her vision blurred, but she clung to her faith, the words of her prayer her only refuge.

"Why won't you break?" he shouted, disbelief creeping into his voice. "Everyone has a limit!"

"Et dimitte nobis debita nostra, sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris..." Her voice cracked, the pain nearly overwhelming her, yet she persisted. The crowd watched in rapt silence, many on the edge of their seats.

Thirty seconds remained. El Diablo's eyes darted to the clock, panic seeping in. "This is your last chance!" he threatened, pulling with all his might.

"Et ne nos inducas in tentationem..." Larissa whispered, her strength waning. Her body trembled violently, every muscle screaming in protest.

"Five! Four! Three!" The crowd began the countdown, the arena electrified.

"Sed libera nos a malo," she gasped out, the final words of her prayer.

"Two! One!" The bell rang sharply, signaling the end of the match. The referee stepped forward, indicating that time had expired. Half the crowd erupted in cheers for Larissa's endurance, while the other half groaned in disappointment.

El Diablo held the lock a moment longer, his face a mask of frustration and disbelief. With a heavy, frustrated sigh, he released her legs, letting her collapse onto the mat. She lay there, body curled slightly, her breaths shallow and ragged.

He stepped back, leaning against the ropes as he surveyed her. His chest heaved, sweat dripping from his brow. How could she have withstood that? he wondered, a mix of anger and grudging respect swirling within him.

Larissa remained motionless for several moments. Then, slowly, she placed her palms flat against the mat. Every movement was a monumental effort, her muscles protesting vehemently. She pushed herself up to her knees, pausing to steady the dizzying spin of the arena around her.

With a deep, shuddering breath, she placed one foot flat, then the other, rising unsteadily to her feet. Her legs trembled, but she stood tall, lifting her chin with quiet dignity. Her eyes met El Diablo's, a flicker of serene defiance still burning within them.

"I have endured another trial," she declared softly, her voice carrying through the silent arena. There was no boast, no challenge—just a simple statement imbued with profound conviction.

El Diablo scowled, unimpressed. "Get out of my ring," he spat coldly, turning away from her. His words dripped with contempt, but beneath the surface, a shadow of doubt lingered.

Larissa inclined her head slightly, a gesture of respect. "May peace find thee," she replied, her old English mannerisms lending a timeless grace to her words.

She turned and made her way toward the ropes, each step measured and deliberate. As she exited the ring, the crowd began to applaud—a ripple at first, then swelling into a standing ovation. Their claps and cheers washed over her, a testament to the resilience she had displayed.

Pausing at the foot of the ramp, Larissa glanced toward the alcoves where the octet played. Her gaze settled on Joseph Carmichael, the violinist whose haunting melodies had underscored the evening's events. Their eyes met briefly, a silent exchange passing between them. A faint smile touched her lips—he didn't understand why she subjects herself to this. Perhaps he might someday.

She continued up the ramp, disappearing behind the curtains. The weight of exhaustion pressed upon her, but her spirit felt light. Another trial endured, she thought. Another testament to faith.

Back in the ring, El Diablo remained standing, his expression a storm of conflicting emotions. He rolled his shoulders, attempting to shake off the lingering frustration. The crowd's attention shifted, murmurs filling the arena as anticipation built for the next match.

He cast a final glance toward the entrance ramp, where Larissa had vanished. She may have endured, but next time will be different, he vowed silently. Clenching his fists, he centered himself, channeling his focus toward the next challenger.