Everything is too loud.
The crowd. The sound of steel clashing. My own heartbeat slamming in my ears.
I should be thinking.
But I'm not.
I lunge, not out of strategy—out of instinct.
Contact. Easy.
A hand grasps mine. A firm shake. A blur of a face. The ref announces the result, but I barely hear it. Not that I couldn't.
But because I'm already moving. Already leaving.
My steps are steady. No hesitation.
The second I step into the waiting area, my coach is on me. "Good win," he says, arms crossed.
"You alright?"
I nod once. "Yeah."
Lying is easy. It's almost automatic now.
I catch my breath, pretending to listen as he talks strategy for the next bout. He doesn't notice how stiff I stand, how my fingers twitch at my side.
The second he steps away, I move. Bathroom. Locker. Anywhere out of sight.
I fish the pill bottle from my bag, twist the cap off with practiced ease.
Two down the hatch. Dry.
I close my eyes, exhaling slow.
Just one more match. Then another. Then another.
I sigh.
My thoughts are running on damn near lightspeed. Everything feels so fast, and yet so slow at the same time. It's disorientatingly disgusting.
I've lost count of how many I took, but anything to keep that nagging pain away. The first time, it was just one. Just for one match. Just to push through.
Now?
Now, I don't know how to fight without them.
It doesn't enhance my strength, it doesn't make me endure. Doesn't increase my stamina. It just nullfies the pain I've had from my body for the longest.
I cough slightly, and yeah, whatever that is too.
It's supposed to help, supposed to keep me going. And for once, I can feel the world slowing down after rapidly increasing and decreasing for the past few moments.
A faint smile tugs at my lips. Like I earned this. Like this is my reward. Just for one more match, and then…then I can finally rest.
My fingers grip the edges of my mask. My heartbeat is slow. Steady. Perfect.
I'm fine. I'm fine.
The body doesn't matter.
The only thing that matters is winning.
I exit the bathroom, and then make way for the waiting room. Elbows on my knees.
The fluorescent lights buzz above me. A dull, grating hum. Or maybe that's just in my head.
This is it. One more match. One more fight. I make it through this, and I qualify.
My body is screaming at me to stop.
Too bad.
Even my thoughts are scattered. Disjointed.
My goal is still there. Or should be there.
I can't think much, and the more I focus on my body, the worse the pain gets. I wouldn't wish this pain on anyone. But I'm not some noble hero, acting like this is my only path. Not pretending this is some great burden I have to bear.
…because, then again.
I put myself in this situation.
Now, I have to get myself out of this.
No saviors. No luck. No miracles.
Just me.
Just skill.
A knock at the door. My name is called.
Semi-finals.
I stand up, every muscle in my body protesting. Doesn't matter.
One more fight. One more win.
Just…work with me here. Please.
I exit the waiting room, and lo and behold. The world around me blurs, then sharpens.
The strip is in front of me. Bright lights. Distant crowd. One opponent waiting.
This is it.
I lift my blade. Steady. Cold.
One more fight.
One last fight to the death.
I take one sharp, breath, and it almost hitched. I silence my cough with a grunt.
There's an odd taste. Metallic. Nickel. Iron. Blood?
I exhale, slow. Breathe.
It's in my head. Just a placebo. Just a–
It doesn't exist.
En garde.
I barely hear it.
Prêt.
I steady my blade. My grip feels too tight. Too loose. I don't know which.
Allez!
I move. Too fast. No, just fast enough.
He lunges. I read it. My body lags behind my mind. Not fast enough. Contact.
The light flashes red.
His point.
I exhale and walk back. Again. Focus.
En garde. Prêt. Allez.
Footwork. Balance. I've done this a thousand times. I can do this blindfolded.
So…then why does it feel like I'm drowning?
Another attack. I parry. Steel scrapes steel. I counter.
Contact.
White light. My point.
I reset. Blink. Harder. Again.
Damn world won't sit still.
Keep moving. Keep fighting.
My grip is loose.
I tighten it. No time for mistakes.
I step. No–stumble. I recover. Quick. Mask it.
But he sees it.
Lunge. Parry.
Too slow. Again.
Contact.
Red light. His point.
I clench my jaw. Not now. Not yet.
Allez.
I didn't even notice the prior two callouts. Whatever.
I move. Quick. But not quick enough.
His blade scrapes mine. I step back, too late.
Contact. His point.Red light.
I blink hard. My vision lags for a second. The world sharpens a second too late.
I grit my teeth. Ignore it. Ignore it.
I roll my shoulders, flex my grip. The ref watches. I exhale slow, force my body still.
No shaking. No hesitating.
Again.
En garde.
Prêt.
I lunge before the call.
No, I didn't mean to–
Allez!
I correct mid-motion. Adjust too late.
He parries clean. I overcorrect, put too much force in the next strike.
A mistake.
He sidesteps. Punishes me.
Contact. Red light.
Another one.
I exhale. Tighter this time. My frustration seeps through. I can't mask it. The ref hesitates before calling the next point.
I can feel them watching me now.
En garde.
Prêt.
I shift, but my knees lock up. My legs feel like stone.
My chest is tight. Too tight. I force my breath out in short bursts.
Allez.
I push forward. No choice. Keep moving. Keep attacking.
Steel meets steel. My arms feel slow. Heavy.
I parry. No–I try to. My wrist gives out.
Contact.
Red light.
Again.
I stagger back too hard. Catch myself too late. My foot skids.
I hear murmurs now. My opponent hesitates before resetting.
The ref takes a step forward.
Not yet. I straighten up too fast, force my mask to stay high.
I pretend the room isn't tilting.
No saviors. No luck. No miracles.
Just me.
En garde.
Prêt.
I can't feel my fingers.
I can't feel my arms.
Doesn't matter.
Allez.
I read the attack. I still see it. My brain moves faster than my body. This one rare moment. But for once–just once–it's enough.
Steel clashse. I react, purely on instinct.
Parry. Riposte. Contact.
White light.
I exhale. Sweet.
My point.
And then–
I drop.
One knee slams into the strip. My blade clatters beside me.
My body won't move.
Get up.
Get up.
MOVE.
I try. My muscles scream. My breath is gone. My body–completely out of my control.
I grit my teeth. A growl slips out. No, a scream.
The ref moves toward me. My opponent takes half a step back.
The world is spinning.
My hands tremble, pressing against the strip.
I push–
Nothing happens.
The ref signals something. I don't care.
I need to move.
I try again.
I make it halfway up.
The lights blur. My ears ring.
My legs give out again.
I hit the ground.
The ref is waving.
Medical staff rush in.
No. No. NO.
I shake my head. I try to force out words, but my breath is gone.
My body lost. I lost. But I didn't lose. I'm still here.
This isn't how it's supposed to end.
Noise. Too much noise.
Footsteps. Hands on my arms. Voices calling my name.
I don't move. Not because I don't want to–because I can't.
The ref is waving again. Match over. My match is over.
No. No. NO.
Right after I got a point. Are you serious?
I try to lift my head. Too heavy. My fingers twitch. That's all I can manage.
"Lucien, stay still."
A medic. A hand on my shoulder. More hands. Checking my pulse, my breathing.
I tripped a few times, a bit overdramatic for this, huh?
Let the match resume. Please. I beg of you.
I need this win.
I can hear the crowd. They aren't cheering. Just watching.
I need to stand up.
I need to keep fighting.
I force my breath out. Try to speak. Nothing comes.
A stretcher appears. How did it get here?
I shake my head–barely. They don't care. My body doesn't care.
The stadium lights are too bright. My ears ring. I want to fight.
But my body already surrendered.
They help me up, and that's all I needed.
I shove them off. My mouth moves–maybe I say I'm fine. Maybe I don't.
My legs betray me. A lifetime of exhaustion crashing down all at once.
I feel the wind rushing at my ears as I fall back.
The stadium lights burn into my vision. Too bright. Too much. They surround me, pressing in from all sides.
The voices blur. Stretched thin.
Move. Just one more time.
Please.
Then–
Nothing.
I couldn't move anything.
I stare one last time at the light.
I don't know if I scoffed, or chuckled.
But I could really use a miracle right about now.
Light. Too bright. Too harsh.
It doesn't flicker. Doesn't shift. Doesn't dance like the stadium lights.
It's constant. Unwavering. Suffocating.
I try to move—nothing.
I try to breathe—something tugs at my face. My arm. My skin.
A sound. Not the roar of the crowd. Not the sharp clash of steel.
It's distant at first. A slow, rhythmic beep. Like it doesn't belong here.
The noise rises. The beeping grows clearer. More persistent.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The silence in between stretches too long.
The air smells wrong. Too clean. Too still. No sweat, no metal, no electric hum of anticipation.
Just cold air and something sterile. Like alcohol.
Like chemicals.
I exhale. My throat feels dry. Tighter than it should be.
Something is pressing against my hand.
Something small. Thin. Like a wire.
I blink. Once. Twice.
The light stays the same. But now, it's not stadium lights. It's something else. A white ceiling. A fluorescent glow.
I know where I am.
I don't want to be here.
But I am.