PRESSURE

I.

Rose, listen to me. Please, just this once.

She brushes me aside, like always. A mental flick, dismissing me as nothing more than a fleeting worry. But I'm her protector, the part of her that sees what she refuses to acknowledge.

I watch as she goes about her day, smiling at her daughter and making breakfast. Her movements are smooth but have a brittleness that only I can see—fragments spider-webbing through her calm facade.

Rose, you're in danger. Can't you feel it? The walls are closing in. I've been trying to warn you, but you keep pushing me away. Your smile doesn't reach your eyes anymore. You're slipping away, bit by bit.

I remember when you first started to ignore me. "I'm fine," you'd insist. "I don't need help." But I knew better. I've always known better.

Now, as you kiss your daughter goodbye, I try again. Rose, please. You can't keep going like this. The weight you're carrying, it's too much. Let someone in. Let me in.

But my pleas fall on deaf ears. She's gotten so good at tuning me out, this voice of reason, this harbinger of uncomfortable truths.

Time is running out. I can feel it, a countdown ticking away. By the time she realizes she needs help, it might be too late. And then where will we be? Where will her daughter be?

I'll keep trying because I love her because I am her. Rose, please. Listen to me.

Before it's too late.

II.

The acrid smell of sweat and disinfectant hung heavy in the near-empty Boise gym. Rose's bandaged fists connected with the heavy bag in a steady rhythm.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Each impact sent tremors up her arms, but Rose welcomed the pain. It paled compared to the frustration burning in her chest since Tropical Turmoil.

Her words to Nate Colton at ReVival 51 echoed in her mind, a constant, grating reminder. "Step up and do something." She was pleased they hadn't been brushed aside. Rose's next punch rattled the chains. She could still see Nate rushing to the ring, playing hero. Still hear Ivan Stanislav's dismissive tone as he mentioned her father, brushing her off like an annoying fly.

The heavy bag became Ivan's smug face, and Rose unleashed a flurry of strikes.

Left hook. Right cross. Uppercut.

Her lungs burned, but she pushed through. She had to be better. Stronger. Faster.

Her phone's buzz cut through the haze of exertion. Rose stumbled back, chest heaving. Trembling hands fumbled with the device: PRIME booking office. Time slowed. Her eyes widened as she read the message.

A match against Brandon Youngblood.

The world seemed to tilt. Panic gripped Rose's chest, squeezing the air from her lungs. Youngblood? This had to be punishment. Punishment for going after Ivan, for pushing Nate the way she did. She'd gotten too close to the upper crust, to the money makers, and now Lindsay Troy was out to put her in her place.

Disheartening thoughts flooded her mind. Anyone else with three straight victories would be receiving a title shot. But not her. Lindsay didn’t intend to give her a fair shake -- wanting to embarrass her much like she tried to embarrass her father for years.

The panic morphed into fury, a white-hot rage that burned away the fear. Rose returned to the heavy bag, her strikes coming faster, harder. Each impact thundered through the gym, matching the storm brewing inside her.

As she unleashed combination after combination, a single thought crystallized: She would rise to this occasion. She would prove her worth, show everyone – Lindsay Troy, Ivan, Youngblood, everyone – that Rose wasn't to be underestimated.

Heaven save anyone who dared to get in her way.

III.

The lock clicked as Rose's key turned. She pushed the door open, and Adeline burst past her like a pink whirlwind. The familiar scent of salt and lavender enveloped them, a bittersweet reminder of home.

The weight of her upcoming match with Brandon Youngblood momentarily lifted from Rose's shoulders. This was home. This was family.

"Mom! Mom!" Adeline's voice carried through the house. "Can we go to the beach now? Did Uncle David water Mr. Leafy? Will Lorelai come over?"

Rose knelt, cupping Adeline's face. "Whoa there, tornado. Let's take a breath, okay? We've got time for everything."

As Adeline nodded, Rose felt a pang of guilt. How much had she missed? She pushed the thought aside. "Why don't you go check on Mr. Leafy?"

Adeline took off down the hallway. Rose's smile faded as her eyes drifted to the empty driveway, hoping to see her father’s car when they pulled up. The knot in her stomach tightened.

Rose moved through the immaculate house. "Damn, David," she murmured, grateful yet concerned about her father's injured protégé.

She rifled through the mail in the kitchen—nothing from her father. Disappointment tasted bitter in her mouth.

Her feet carried her to her father's bedroom door almost of their own accord. Rose's hand hovered over the doorknob, trembling slightly. She took a deep breath, steeling herself, and pushed it open.

The room was a time capsule, untouched and unyielding. The bed lay perfectly made, hospital corners crisp as if they'd just been tucked. Undisturbed, a fine layer of dust coated every surface. The air felt stale, heavy with absence.

Rose's eyes were drawn to the dresser, to a photograph that seemed to glow in the fading afternoon light. Her father stood proudly in the wrestling ring, his arms wrapped around a much younger version of herself. The sight hit her like a physical blow, memories flooding back in a tidal wave of emotion.

She picked up the frame, her thumb brushing her father's face. "Where are you, Dad?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Why won't you answer my calls?"

As she set the photo down, something caught her eye—a small folded letter where the frame had been. Rose pulled it out with trembling fingers, her breath catching as she recognized her father's bold handwriting.

Her heart pounded, a war drum of hope and fear. She was about to unfold the note when another object on the dresser stopped her cold. A small, worn cassette player sat there as if waiting for her.

In the distance, she could hear Adeline's laughter, a reminder of the joy and life that filled their home. But here, in this room frozen in time, Rose felt the total weight of her father's absence pressing down on her.

With a deep breath, she grabbed the player as memories flooded her.

IV.

In the hushed confines of the hotel room, time seemed to stretch and warp like taffy pulled thin. For Rose, each second was an eternity, each minute a lifetime lived without her mother. The world had become a muted watercolor; all its vivid hues bled away, leaving only shades of gray in their wake.

She sat cross-legged on the rough carpet, a coloring book before her. Rose gripped a crayon, watching color bloom across the page in haphazard strokes. The act of coloring anchored her to the present when every fiber longed to drift into memories of her mother's smile and laughter. The recollections were a bitter comfort, like picking at a scab—painful yet impossible to resist.

Across the room, Johnny and Sam hovered like distant satellites. Their whispered conversations reached Rose as unintelligible murmurs. She felt the weight of their gaze but couldn't acknowledge their concern. But addressing their concern felt like a betrayal of her grief, an admission that this new, motherless reality was indeed real.

Sam approached, her voice soft. "Rose, sweetie. We thought you might like some music while you color."

She held a small cassette player, its plastic casing scratched and worn. Rose nodded, not trusting her voice to remain steady if she spoke. She reached out to take the player, feeling the cool plastic surface against her small hands. She scrutinized it, wondering what secrets it contained. She found the button to open the tape deck and pressed it, revealing a cassette already nestled inside. Though she couldn’t read the label, it read "Hallelujah - Jeff Buckley" in neat handwriting.

Rose pressed play.

Gentle guitar chords filled the room, delicate and melancholy. As the opening melody unfolded, Rose felt something stir within her, recognizing the emotion carried in those simple, repeated chords, its notes hanging in the air like delicate spun glass.

A low, reverent voice joined the guitar, speaking of secret chords and broken Hallelujahs. Though the meaning eluded her, the raw emotion wrapped around her like a comforting blanket.

Her crayon moved in time with the music, the melody, as her young heart was overwhelmed by grief. It was as if the music had reached Rose's chest and plucked her heartstrings, playing the very tune of her sorrow.

Rose returned to her coloring with renewed focus. The crayon in her hand became an extension of her grief, filling the page with chaotic swirls and angry scribbles. Colors bled into one another; a cacophony of hues mirrored her emotions' tumult.

Time slipped by, measured in changing songs. Each melody peeled away Rose's composure. The crayon slowed, then stilled as her emotions began to crack.

The first tear fell silently, a glistening betrayal that splashed onto her coloring book. It blurred the lines she had so carefully filled, smudging the boundaries just as grief had smudged the edges of her world. Another tear followed, and another, until they flowed freely, each one carrying a fragment of her shattered heart.

Rose's shoulders shook with the force of her silent sobs, her small frame a vessel barely containing the enormity of her loss. She hunched over her drawing, brown curls forming a curtain around her face as if she could hide from the reality of her pain.

Rose truly felt her mother's absence – a vast, echoing emptiness. Yet, as she cried, a tiny spark of resilience flickered in the depths of her sorrow.

The player played on, accompanying Rose's grief. And in allowing herself to cry, she took her first tentative step on the long path of healing.

V.

Rose's fingers trembled as they closed around the cassette player, its weight a sudden, tangible connection to the past. Vivid and bittersweet memories flooded back.

She remembered clutching this player as a young girl, tears streaming down her face as she struggled to comprehend the loss of her mother. The music had been her lifeline then, a thread of comfort in a world suddenly bereft of warmth.

More recently, she had rediscovered the player after her husband's death. The familiar melodies had helped her navigate the stormy waters of grief, providing a soundtrack to her pain and, eventually, her healing.

Now, standing in her father's room, Rose felt the weight of those memories pressing down on her. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, drowning out everything but Adeline's voice drifting from down the hall.

She stood frozen, the unread note in her left hand, the cassette player in her right. With a shaky exhale, Rose set the player back on the dresser. With trembling fingers, she unfolded the note:

Rose-- 

If you're reading this, I haven't been able to tell you myself. I've gone on an adventure—something I've been putting off for too long. Don't worry about me, I'll be fine. I just needed to feel the wind in my hair again and follow where it leads without any plans. Take care of our home and keep filling it with laughter. I'll be back before you know it.

Love -- Dad The words blurred as tears welled in Rose's eyes. She sank onto the bed, relief warring with hurt, worry tangling with anger. How could he just leave? Why hadn't he told her?

"Mom?" Adeline's voice cut through the fog of Rose's thoughts. "Can we have ice cream?"

Rose blinked rapidly, forcing back the tears. "Coming, sweetheart," she called, surprised by the steadiness in her voice. She tucked the note into her pocket, its edges sharp against her thigh, a constant reminder of the mystery at hand.

In the kitchen, Adeline sat perched on a chair, legs swinging. The scrape of metal against ceramic filled the air as Rose scooped strawberry swirls into bowls; the mundane task starkly contrasted with the turmoil in her mind.

"Mom, are you okay?" Adeline asked softly. "You look sad."

Rose met her daughter's concerned gaze. "I'm just thinking about Grandpa," she admitted. "I wonder what kind of adventure he's on now."

Adeline's spoon clinked against the bowl. Rose watched a shadow pass over her daughter's face, realizing the ache of absence wasn't hers alone to bear.

"Oh, sweetie," Rose murmured, kissing Adeline's forehead. "I'm sure he's having a wonderful time wherever he is."

Adeline looked up, a forced brightness in her voice. "Can we go to the beach? Please? We can watch the sunset like we used to do with Grandpa."

"That's a wonderful idea, my love," Rose said, grateful for the distraction. "Go find your sandals, and we'll head out."

Hand in hand, they made their way to the shore. As Adeline tugged her towards the water's edge, Rose made a silent vow. She would face whatever challenges lay ahead, just as she had before.

For now, she will be present. She will create new memories to fill the void left by absence, starting with the simple pleasure of a sunset walk with her daughter. The warmth of Adeline's hand in hers, the kiss of sea spray on their faces, and the promise of tomorrow's sunrise painting the sky with hope were the things that truly mattered.

VI.

The clash of metal echoed through the gym as Rose racked the barbell, the weights clanging in protest. Sweat glistened on her skin, her chest heaving with exertion.

The creak of the gym door cut through the silence. Four figures filed in, their presence electric, charging the atmosphere. David Noble led the pack, his eyes immediately locking onto Rose. Concern etched deep lines around his mouth, a shadow of worry darkening his gaze.

"Well, well," Rose grinned, a fierce light in her eyes masking the storm brewing within. "My boys grace me with their presence."

Cory's booming laugh shattered the tension like glass. "The conquering hero returns!"

Rose embraced each member of KING, drawing strength from their presence. As she pulled away from David, she sensed his unspoken concern.

Jamaal's accented voice cut through the momentary calm. "Heard about your match, boss. Youngblood's no joke."

Rose's smile faltered, a flicker of something—fear? anger?—flashing in her eyes. "Yeah, I know. It's a punishment booking."

David stepped forward, his brow furrowed so profoundly it seemed carved in stone. "Rose, about that—"

"Don't start, David," Rose snapped, her voice sharp enough to draw blood. She paced like a caged tiger, nervous energy radiating from every movement. "I should have a title shot against Kerry or Diamonds, not fighting Youngblood. Not being fed to the lion."

David gently gripped Rose's arm in stark contrast to the intensity blazing in his eyes. "Rose, your choices are putting you in these spots. You want to go after Ivan? This is the big leagues now. The air up there? It's razor-thin."

Rose wrenched her arm free. "So what, I'm supposed to roll over and die? I'm not my father, but he taught me to fight for what's right!"

"I'm worried you're not ready for this," David pressed, his voice low and urgent. He stepped closer, his eyes worried for her. "The talent gap you've faced... Rose, it doesn't prepare you for Youngblood. He's a different beast entirely."

Rose's laugh was bitter, bordering on hysterical. "Youngblood's a legend, I know that. He's got more experience in his little finger than I have in my whole body. But that doesn't mean I'm going to back down."

She spun to face her team, her eyes blazing with determination. "Everyone expects him to win. There's no pressure on me. But Youngblood? He's got everything to lose. If he falls to someone like me, people will think twice before giving him another shot at the Universal Title."

The fire turned to molten steel. "I respect Youngblood’s work in the ring, I do. He's earned every accolade he's got. But I'm not here to roll over for anyone, legend or not. I'm going to push him to his limits. I'm going to make him work harder than he has in years. And maybe, just maybe, I'll shock the world."

Her fists clenched. "I don't intend just to compete. I'm going to prove I belong in the ring with the best. I will show everyone that Rose isn't just a name; she's a force to be reckoned with. And I will do it by giving Youngblood the fight of his life."

David's expression softened slightly, a mix of pride and worry in his eyes. "Rose, there’s something else I need to talk to you about. Privately."

Curiosity flickered across Rose's face for a heartbeat, but she glanced at her watch, her jaw clenching so tight a muscle twitched. "Come by my place later—nine o'clock. Bring alcohol. We'll talk then."

Rose grabbed her bag, pausing at the door, knuckles white on the handle. "Byrd said Youngblood was supposed to fight monsters, not create them. Maybe the problem is that he fought them for so long that he became one. This is my chance to fight a monster and prove I belong at the top. And I intend to take it, even if I have to tear that arena apart brick by brick. There’s more than one way to create diamonds other than declaring you are one."

The door slammed behind her with a finality that echoed through the gym. Rose's determination hung in the air like the ozone after a lightning strike - electric, dangerous, and impossible to ignore.

VII.

The setting sun painted the sky in hues of amber and crimson as Rose's car screeched to a halt in the driveway. Her body thrummed with residual adrenaline from her workout; muscles coiled tight like springs ready to unleash. In her mind's eye, she saw Brandon Youngblood -- pontificating on his accomplishments while letting monsters destroy PRIME. Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel, and her knuckles were white with suppressed fury while she considered buying Youngblood’s one kryptonite- a cowboy hat.

Stepping out of the car, something caught her eye. An unfamiliar vehicle sat in front of the garage, its presence like a jolt of electricity through her system.

Her heart stuttered, then began to race. "Dad?" The word escaped her lips, barely a whisper, hope and disbelief warring in her voice.

In an instant, all thoughts of Youngblood and title matches evaporated. Rose sprinted to the front door, her gym bag forgotten on the driveway. Her hands shook as she fumbled with her keys, the metal clinking a staccato rhythm that matched her pounding heart.

Muffled voices and laughter drifted through the door. Adeline's high-pitched giggle mingled with deeper, adult tones. Rose's breath caught in her throat. How long had it been since she'd heard her father's laugh?

Memories flashed through her mind: her father's proud smile, his comforting embrace, the empty room she'd found upon returning from Europe.

Rose's hand hesitated on the doorknob, her entire body trembling with anticipation. The anger that had fueled her earlier now transmuted into a different kind of energy – a desperate, almost painful hope that threatened to burst from her chest.

She took a deep breath, steeling herself. Then, with a surge of courage, she turned the key and opened the door wide.

"Dad, I—" The words died on her lips, the greeting morphing into a sharp intake of breath.

The scene before her was like a painting of domestic bliss—but with all the wrong players. Adeline sat surrounded by LEGO bricks. On the couch, Lorelai's face registered surprise. And there, beside Adeline, were David and Margaret—her in-laws—their expressions shifting to welcoming smiles.

But no father. No graying hair, no weathered hands, no eyes crinkling with joy.

The realization hit Rose like a physical blow, driving the air from her lungs. The hope that had buoyed her just moments ago now turned to lead in her stomach, dragging her down into a pit of disappointment so profound it made her knees weak.

She stood frozen in the doorway, one hand still gripping the knob, as the weight of her father's continued absence pressed down on her shoulders. At that moment, all her concerns – Youngblood, the non-title match, her career – seemed trivial compared to the gaping void left by her father's disappearance.

Rose blinked, struggling to reconcile the scene before her with her imagined reunion. The ache in her chest had nothing to do with her grueling workout. Her in-laws rose to greet her, their smiles warm and oblivious to her inner turmoil; Rose felt a wave of emptiness wash over her, threatening to pull her under.