Seattle

When we crossed over to Seattle on Friday, the director told us to rest through Sunday.

“He probably said that because of the rain.”

“Right? He comes off nice, but the kid’s got a mean streak.”

“A little pretty-crazy, maybe?”

That was the locker room’s verdict on Casey.

“Different direction, but she’s a lot like that one.”

“Facts.”

The “that one” they meant was me.

“So what are you doing?”

“Just soak in some hot water, maybe catch Smash Down.”

“I was thinking a can of beer.”

These people really had no idea how to enjoy a rainy day.

“Mizuki! Meguri! Want to go grab some okonomiyaki and a round of sake?”

“Oh! For real?”

“Yes. Absolutely yes. You know a place?”

I’d already cleared it with Selma, so I put it to the Japanese girls.

“Hey! Where are you guys going?”

“Okono? Saket? What’s that?”

“Japanese-style pizza and Japanese booze. We won’t go hard. About two hundred milliliters a person?”

“I’m coming too.”

“No way I’m missing that.”

“Wait. Charina’s buying?”

A few more perked up at that, and we poured out of the hotel in a pack.

I’d scouted a Japanese izakaya near the hotel ahead of time, and we claimed a table. The rain had kept the place empty enough that seating ten was no problem at all.

The owner clocked Vianna and Nadia on sight. Meguri and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the others, supposedly famous back in Japan, drew a blank. He didn’t recognize my face either, so he’d probably only watched WWO in passing years ago.

“Since when do you drink, though? You barely even touch beer.”

Selma was genuinely startled that I’d been the one to suggest a night out with alcohol.

“I don’t know. Rain’s coming down, and I just suddenly wanted some.”

That was all it was. It had simply reminded me of family nights—sitting around a table with pajeon and makgeolli.

“Yeah? Well…”

“You on ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠your period?”

Nadia’s question nearly made me spit out my oolong tea.

“It is not that.”

I’d gotten comfortable enough by now to talk casually with Nadia and Vianna.

“Lucky you, then. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Once that day hits, some of the girls get all sensitive and moody and start throwing fits for no reason.”

“Really?”

Selma jumped in from the side, and before long we were deep into a full period-cramp conversation—right in front of a male server, which was mortifying.

True to a Japanese izakaya, the menu was packed with things we didn’t usually get—fish cakes, skewers, the works—and we sat in little clusters, conversation blooming everywhere.

“They still haven’t announced a winner, right?”

“They probably have. They’re just not telling us.”

“If it’s not Nadia, it’s Vianna.”

“We don’t even know who number sixteen is. Could be Charlotte. Could be Asuna.”

“No way…”

And then the talk turned to something no one had quite dared say out loud before—Chris Jacob.

“After that match, he’s basically living at the fitness center.”

“I saw him too. Hammering the treadmill.”

“He looked fine for the first five or six minutes, then just fell apart. Once you’ve gotten that weak, can you even build the stamina back?”

“Who knows. But he didn’t look like he had much left.”

“Even holding on at that level is impressive. He’s what, fifty-six? Fifty-seven?”

Me? I just listened. It wasn’t that I was deliberately staying out of the gossip. I’d watched him up close. If I opened my mouth, I’d say something harsher than anyone else—and he’d been a wrestler I’d genuinely loved once.

Still, everyone wrapped the night in good spirits and headed back to the hotel.

The weekend, Selma and Vianna dragged me out shopping. Monday and Tuesday’s dark matches were built around the wrestlers booked for Wednesday’s show and the ones who’d been eliminated the week before. Both nights, all I did was greet the crowd and sign autographs.

Then came Wednesday’s show.

Six matches before the round of sixteen were set to go.

The crowd’s attention locked onto Adolf Ziggler, making his first real WWO appearance in a long time—but ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mine was fixed on Selma’s match. Mina Keynes and Meguri’s bouts had me curious too.

After a pair of short men’s and women’s singles matches, each running about seven or eight minutes, Selma’s match kicked off.

Similar height, similar build—even the moves they favored were nearly the same. Lilac held the edge in technical polish; Selma had the speed. That was the matchup.

Selma spent the first five minutes or so beating Lilac down, then spent everything after that getting kicked, thrown, locked up, and thoroughly worked over. She snuck in a DDT and a surprise roll-up at one point, but that was as far as it went. After eating Lilac’s Samoan Drop—branded the Night Wing—Selma took a Frog Splash and went out in a blaze of glory.

When she came back to the locker room, her expression looked fine.

“Good work out there.”

“Yeah. How was it?”

“Clean. The two of you looked solid together.”

“Yeah? You’re not the type to blow smoke, so I’ll take it.”

Andrea versus Kames followed—Kames’s total domination, over in eight minutes. Then Meguri against Diane.

They’d booked two wrestlers of similar size again. Most of us clustered around the same height as Selma and me. Mizuki was small at about a hundred sixty centimeters; Vianna, Mariah, Olivia, and Nadia cleared a hundred seventy. Everyone else sat between a hundred sixty-four and a hundred sixty-eight.

But the shape of this match was nothing like Selma’s. Powerhouse versus powerhouse. Not choke-slam territory, but suplexes and slams came thick and fast.

“I caught a little of them practicing, but she’s really bringing it in a live match.”

“Right? I thought she was early-Asuna style. Not even close.”

I’d heard that after Asuna and Miyu’s massive success, a lot of Japanese wrestlers took those two as their models.

“Either of them against you would be fun.”

“Against you too. You can lift seventy kilos.”

“Only if I get the bounce.”

“Diane, maybe not—but Meguri will sell. Japan drills the fundamentals harder.”

“Hmm. You think?”

Neither of us knew the finish, so Selma and I both figured Meguri would win.

Diane won.

“Whoa! Tonight’s winner picks are getting wrecked!”

“Tell me about it. I got it wrong too! Ah—my jersey!”

Even we, the wrestlers, had been in on it. Winner picks. Tournament champion picks. The problem was that we didn’t know either. Maybe the person booked to become champion already knew their own path—but even they wouldn’t know the men’s side, so nailing the whole board was basically impossible.

“Last week Mizuki Miho lost to Hailey, so I figured a Japanese wrestler would take one this time. Lost again. Japanese fans are going to be screaming.”

I had to agree with Selma. What was Casey—what was WWO—thinking, booking both of them to lose their debuts?

Hank Ledger won the next match, and then Vianna Belair versus Mina Keynes got underway.

Vianna Belair. Elite track-and-field athlete turned gorgeous Black powerhouse. Strength and speed both elite. By now, compared to her early and mid-career days, her technique had fully matured—the kind of wrestler who almost never made a big mistake. That was why Selma and I had both picked her as Women’s World Champion.

Vianna made her entrance whipping that long braid around. Mina Keynes, on the other hand, was a joint-lock and striking specialist—Asuna’s type.

After a brief early scramble for control, Vianna sent Mina off the ropes and went for a dropkick. Mina, as if she’d seen it coming, grabbed the rope and killed her momentum. Vianna’s kick sliced empty air and she crashed to the canvas. In that split second, Mina scrambled onto Vianna’s back, hooked an arm around her throat, and clung on like a cicada.

Vianna fought to pry the arm free, then gave up and just flopped backward.

Thud.

Vianna clutched her neck, catching her breath; Mina grabbed the back of her own head, hurting. Vianna worked her throat with one hand and set up for a spear. The moment Mina got to her feet, Vianna fired—and Mina dodged that one too, like she already knew. Vianna’s shoulder slammed into the ring post and she spilled to the floor. Mina bounced off the far ropes and launched herself onto Vianna outside.

“Nice plancha.”

“Rina. Be honest—doesn’t Rebellion have a higher skill level than Law or Smash Down?”

“Maybe, but the marquee name value’s a little thin. Law’s got Vicky Lynch, Rhea Ripley, Miyu Sky, Stephen Barker. Smash Down’s got Charlotte, Alicia, Tashani Strackton. We’ve only got two at that level.”

“When you list it out like that… yeah. Vianna and Nadia are the only ones we’ve got in that tier. Makes number sixteen even more interesting.”

“Yeah. Someone at that level is definitely coming over. Who, though?”

Selma and I traded theories for a bit, but with zero hints, there was no way to guess right.

Meanwhile the match pushed into the late stages. Vianna locked onto Mina’s waist from behind and went for a German suplex; Mina whipped an elbow back to break the grip, seized Vianna’s neck, and sat down hard. After the stunner, she climbed the top rope. Vianna barely slipped the moonsault, then hoisted Mina face-up to the sky, spun her, and drove her into a facebuster.

Vianna’s finish—the KOD—landed clean. That was the match.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Selma was applauding.

“That was a good one, right?”

“Yeah. Both of them looked great.”

Last up, the main event: Obama Femi versus Adolf Ziggler.

His first real match in a long time after the injury. He’d done a brief referee stint before, but this was the first time back in a bout. And Selma and I got it wrong again. We’d assumed that because it was Adolf’s return, he’d obviously win.

Through the middle and late stages, Adolf hit the right moves at the right times and controlled the match. But for a guy in the low hundred-eighties centimeters and the ninety-kilo range, a two-meter, hundred-forty-kilo giant like Obama Femi was simply too much. The weight class gap was already huge—and then there was the age gap, twenty-nine against forty-seven.

As the match crossed the midpoint, Adolf started showing fatigue. One European uppercut—forearm to the jaw—and he staggered. Obama locked onto his waist from behind, fell back, and dumped him with a back suplex, and just like that the momentum was gone for good.

Everything Obama had been holding in while he’d been on the defensive erupted from that point like a volcano. Another back suplex. A spear. Cover.

Adolf barely kicked out at two.

Obama planted a powerbomb, added a standing splash for good measure, and covered again. This time Adolf didn’t get up.

Ding. Ding. Ding.