SETBACK

NOW

You know those moments when your entire life becomes a cosmic joke, and you're not just the punchline – you're the whole damn setup? Yeah, welcome to my Tuesday night, where I'm sitting in a locker room that smells like broken dreams and cheap air freshener, holding a knee brace that might as well be my career's obituary.

(Spoiler: When they say, "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger," they're full of shit. What doesn't kill you just leaves you sitting in a locker room, wondering if you can fashion the athletic tape into a noose.)

"This is fine," I snarl at my reflection, which has the audacity to look concerned. Soft. Weak. Like the old me. "Everything is absolutely fucking fine." The woman in the mirror – the one I used to be – looks back with those understanding eyes I've grown to hate. She's still in there, that version of me who believed in happy endings and playing fair. Pathetic.

I trace my fingers over the brace's straps while my reflection silently judges my choices. Funny how life's biggest "fuck you" moments come gift-wrapped in the most mundane packaging. A simple twist, a pop, and suddenly your whole world resembles a Rice Krispies commercial – snap, crackle, goodbye everything you've built.

"Just breathe," my reflection seems to say, and I want to punch the glass, shatter that look of concern into a million pieces. "It's not like you've completely fucked everything up."

The brace hits the wall with a satisfying thunk, but it doesn't drown out the voice of reason trying to break through. Nothing does anymore. My reflection watches me with those maddeningly gentle eyes – that version of myself I thought I'd buried, the one who still believes in redemption. The one I'm trying so hard to silence.

(Trust me, if you think this looks bad, wait until you see what comes next. Sometimes, the real monster isn't the one you're becoming – it's the one you're leaving behind.)

THEN

2 AM. Hotel lobby. Drinking tequila.

Is this going to fix my life choices?

Probably not, but fuck it.

The Sydney Hilton's lobby is trying way too hard to be fancy, all marble and mirrors and judgment. The bartender keeps giving me these concerned looks, signaling he's one sob story away from calling my nonexistent emergency contact. (Spoiler: The only emergency contact in my phone is "Pizza Delivery," and I'm pretty sure they blocked my number after that incident in Vegas.)

"Double shot of failing my father's legacy," I tell him, pushing my empty glass forward. "Neat. And maybe a chaser of career suicide if you're feeling generous."

He doesn't laugh. No one laughs at my jokes anymore. Except my reflection in the bar's mirrored backdrop, and she's kind of a bitch. Though lately, she's been giving me these looks that suggest she's planning a hostile takeover of my consciousness. (Spoiler alert: Not anytime soon, bitch.)

"You left without me."

Arina's voice cuts through my pity party like a Soviet ice pick. She materializes next to me --  KGB apparition style -- in her finest pantsuit (which may be from Goodwill? I’ll have to ask).

"Fascinating observation," I drawl, watching the bartender pour liquid amnesia into my glass. "Did Ivan teach you those detective skills, or did they come naturally?"

Arina's sigh could wither plants. "Have you been drinking?"

I gesture to the very obvious glass in front of me. "No, I've been collecting tequila for my rare spirits museum. Coming along nicely, don't you think?"

She picks up my glass, takes a sip, and her face does this fantastic thing where it tries to maintain Russian stoicism while tasting what I'm pretty sure is paint thinner with a lime garnish. "What are you even mixing this with?"

"Failure and regret," I say, reclaiming my glass. "It's a house specialty."

"About match with Kerry—" she starts, sliding onto the stool beside me like we're about to have a heart-to-heart. How adorable. "We must discuss what happened."

"Unless the end of that sentence is 'Alexei has sacrificed himself,' I'm not interested." I signal the bartender for another round. He pretends not to see me, the coward.

"You had him." Arina's voice carries that remarkable condescension that only Russians and my ex-mother-in-law have mastered. "You had him dead to rights, ready to put him into the ground—"

"And then your pet gargoyle decided to play Soviet Space Program with my career trajectory." The words taste bitter, or maybe that's just the tequila. "Funny how that works."

"You are being dramatic—"

"Oh, I'm sorry, did you somehow miss the part where I was winning?" I turn to face her fully, letting her see all the pretty colors Kerry painted across my face. "Or were you too busy plaiting Ivan’s nose hairs to notice?"

"Ivan expects—"

"Oh, why don't you take that opinion, fold it into a nice little origami swan, and shove it so far up your vagina it'll tickle your tonsils, Arina." The tequila's making me honest. Or mean. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference. "I had Kerry beat before your favorite guard dog decided to stick his nose in my business." I take another sip of my drink, savoring the burn. "Though I guess that's what happens when you keep a rabid animal as a pet – eventually, it bites the hand that feeds it. Or, in this case, something not as morbid."

(Fun fact: Talking shit about Alexei is the equivalent of saying Beetlejuice three times, except instead of summoning Michael Keaton, you get six-foot-something of Soviet murder in a terrible brown coat.)

"That mindless attack dog of yours," I continue, because apparently, I've decided to speedrun my own demise, "couldn't handle seeing Ivan's new toy succeeding without his help. I mean, what kind of small-dick energy—"

The temperature drops about twenty degrees. The bartender suddenly remembers he has very important things to do literally anywhere else. And my reflection? She's trying to warn me, but like everything else in my life lately, I'm really good at ignoring the obvious.

"Do go on," his (you know who) voice makes my soul try to exit through my feet. "I find your analysis... fascinating."

Well, fuck.

THEN THEN

You remember when I sat in Ivan’s office? And Alexei showed up? I know you do, come on.

Well, when he showed up the expensive furniture, Ivan's presence, even Arina's quiet gasp – it all faded to white noise. There's just me, him, and the violence dancing between us.

"Ah, the ghost who visits children's bedrooms." My voice carries a sweetness that could rot teeth. "Tell me, do you practice that creepy entrance in the mirror, or did it come with the coat?"

Alexei's face remains impassive, which somehow makes it worse. His silence sends threat alarms up my spine, and suddenly, I'm back in my house, feeling that helpless rage as he towered over me.

Not this time.

I cross the space between us like a missile seeking its target. "What's wrong? No midnight visits? No threats in the dark?" Each word is a blade aimed at his throat. "It's different when your prey can actually fight back, right?"

His eyes narrow – the first crack in that marble façade. "You speak of things you do not understand, little Rose."

"Oh, I understand perfectly." I'm close enough to smell his cologne – that same Eastern European scent that haunted my nightmares. "You're not the boogeyman. You're just a sad little man who gets off on threatening women and children. Ivan's own personal attack dog, desperate for scraps of approval."

His hand moves like a cobra, but this time, I'm ready. My fingers lock around his wrist before he can connect, and for one beautiful moment, I see genuine surprise flash across his face.

"What's wrong, Alexei?" I purr, my grip tightening. "Not used to your victims fighting back?"

"You want fight?" His accent thickens with rage. "I give you fight. Show you why they call me—"

"What? The Nightmare? Please." I twist his wrist just enough to make him feel it. "The only nightmare here is that coat. Did you mug a homeless person for it, or is looking like a rejected Bond villain part of your charm?"

"ENOUGH!"

Ivan's voice is a Soviet shockwave, overpowering Arina in the process. Arina's managed to press herself against the wall, trying to become one with the expensive wallpaper. I grit my teeth -- willing myself to look away from Alexei. The promise of violence between us is too enticing.

"This stops. Now." Ivan rises from his chair with all the menace of an approaching storm. "You think you are so smart? I see the game you play." That accent is grating. "You want excuse to fight? To prove something?"

He moves between us with surprising speed for a man his size, and suddenly, the spell is broken. I release Alexei's wrist, but my smile remains razor-sharp.

"Since you have so much... energy," Ivan's voice carries the weight of Siberian winters, "Alexei will be your shadow in ring. Arina everywhere else." His eyes lock onto mine. "You learn our way. Our discipline. Or you learn nothing at all."

The laugh that bubbles up from my chest sounds unhinged even to my ears. "So that's your play? Put the two people who want to kill each other together and hope... what exactly?" I cock my head, studying Ivan as if he’s a particularly fascinating specimen. "That we'll work out our differences through the power of Russian bonding?"

(Fun fact: Sometimes when you're cornered, the smartest thing to do is bare your teeth and go for the throat. And right now? My teeth are feeling particularly sharp.)

"You had chance," Ivan's voice carries the weight of every Russian winter. "You step in ring with me, and what happened? You lost. Like all others." His smile is a glacier moving across the landscape. "Alexei will ensure victory against Kerry. Will make sure you do not... waste opportunity."

Somewhere in my head, a voice that sounds suspiciously like reason is screaming at me to shut up. I tell it to fuck off.

"Let me make something crystal clear." I turn to Alexei, my smile all teeth and promise. "You get in my way during that match? I'll bring Ivan back a souvenir. Something small." My eyes drop pointedly below his belt. "Though I hear that won't be much of a loss."

I'm at the door before anyone can respond, my hand on the handle when Ivan speaks again.

"We shall see."

(Spoiler: I'm probably going to die in Russia. The only question is whether it'll be by Alexei's hand or my own stupidity. Place your bets now. And if you're wondering if I just signed my own death warrant? Well, sometimes the best way to play chicken is to cut your own brake lines.)

THEN

Okay, I caught you up. Now, back to the bar.

People like to say that time heals all wounds. I call bullshit. They've clearly never had a staredown with a Russian murder machine in a hotel lobby at 2 AM. The tension from our little office confrontation hadn't exactly mellowed with age – like a fine wine, it had fermented into pure, weapons-grade hostility.

My glass feels too light in my hand, too delicate for what's about to happen. But then again, the best weapons are often the ones you don't plan for. The tequila arcs through the air like liquid amber, a beautiful trajectory that ends with a very satisfying splash across Alexei's perpetually brooding face.

(Fun fact: The look of pure murder in his eyes? Totally worth the waste of average tequila.)

My hand's already found the knife tucked into my waistband before the glass hits the floor. The steel feels cool against my palm, a familiar friend ready for some unfamiliar violence.

But before this little drama can evolve into a full-blown international incident, Arina materializes between us, channeling Olivia Pope-crisis negotiator levels even though I know she’s never seen Scandal. "Not here," she hisses, her voice void of warmth. "Not ever."

She drops the equivalent of Russia's GDP in cash onto the bar, fixing the bartender with a stare that could freeze vodka. Poor guy's probably already writing his memoir about the night the crazy American tried to stab a Russian in his bar.

"Starshy Praporschik," Arina says, making the words sound like both a threat and a promise, "is waiting."

Of course he fucking is. My night’s not going to get any better, is it?

STILL THEN

I'll spare you the stone-cold silent elevator ride up to the penthouse suite of the Sydney Hilton. Trust me, watching Alexei try to maintain his murder-face while wiping tequila from his eyes isn't exactly Emmy-worthy entertainment. However, I did consider hitting every floor's button just to extend his suffering. (Spoiler: Arina's death glare suggested that would've been my last act as a functioning human being.)

The penthouse door opens to reveal what I can only describe as the world's most depressing family reunion. Ivan sits in… wait a minute; is that his chair from his office in Russia?

You’ve got to be shitting me.

Sorry, got distracted. He looks simultaneously pleased and ready to ship someone to Siberia. Max Kael lurks in one corner like a Hot Topic manager who got lost on his way to the food court, while Kenny Freeman radiates the smugness of someone who actually managed to win a match at ReVival 61 – though given his competition, that's like bragging about beating a toddler at arm wrestling.

"Ah, the gang's all here," I drawl, spreading my arms wide. "Should we sing Kumbaya or go straight to the trust falls?"

Ivan's expression could freeze hell. "Sit."

Not 'please sit' or 'would you kindly take a seat.' Just 'sit.' Like I'm a particularly disobedient puppy at obedience school. (Given the company, maybe that comparison isn't far off.)

"We face wars on all fronts," Ivan begins, his accent thicker than usual – always a sign he's either really pissed or really excited. Sometimes both. "This is season of Red Army. No more disgraceful losses." His eyes lock onto Kenny, who suddenly finds the carpet fascinating. I can hear Max’s teeth grinding with daggers shooting out of his eyes. "Culture Shock will not happen again."

The mention of Culture Shock makes Kenny shrink further into himself, if possible. Poor guy looks like he's trying to develop spontaneous invisibility.

"And now," Ivan continues, "we have Bryan Dawkins. Chandler Tsonda. Timing could not be worse."

Max steps forward from his corner, all dramatic flair and eyeliner. "Dawkins is taken care of." The way he says it sounds less like a statement and more like a promise written in blood.

Ivan nods, turning his attention to ReVival 62. "I team with Jonathan-Christopher Hall against Coral Avalon and Cecilworth Farthington." His smile turns predatory. "Perfect opportunity to show who real Universal Champion should be."

The name 'Farthington' makes my eye twitch. There's a conversation there – a violent, probably career-ending conversation – but that's for another day. Instead, I find myself saying, "I'll handle Tsonda."

Ivan's laugh could curdle milk. "Like you handled Kerry?"

Something snaps. Before I know it, I'm across the room, dropping into the chair opposite Ivan. "Give me a chance to make tonight right." I lean forward, meeting his gaze. "Tsonda would be the perfect first big victory in my career."

Ivan studies me like I'm a particularly interesting chess piece. "Your father. He knew Tsonda well?"

"Had his poster in my bedroom." I flash a smile that's all teeth. "Just to piss off Dad. He always said Tsonda was a dick." A pause. "Turns out Dad was right about that. Like he usually was."

"Good you are so eager for match," Ivan's voice carries a note of amusement that makes my skin crawl. "Because you already have one. Against Tsonda. ReVival 62." His expression hardens. "Do not disappoint. There will be... consequences."

I stand, heading for the door, but stop before Alexei. "Keep your dog away from my matches." The words taste like victory and stupid decisions.

"Agreed," Ivan says, moving to my side. "But he watches. Just in case." He lowers his voice, meant for my ears only. "You showed what you are capable of – against Youngblood, against Cancer. But Tsonda?" His breath is warm against my ear. "You must be out for blood."

"Thanks for the pep talk, coach," I mutter, yanking open the door. I can hear Arina's heels clicking behind me as I escape, but all I can think about is blood, victory, and the growing certainty that I'm either about to make my career or end it spectacularly.

Either way, it'll be one hell of a show.

NOW

Alright, well, we bring you back to… yeah. Karma has caught up with me, kicking me square in the teeth. The chickens have come to roost, except they’re not chickens. They’re fucking vultures circling above me.

Welcome to my Friday night.

The knee brace mocks me from its new home against the locker room wall, a trophy of my own hubris. I should probably pick it up, but that would mean acknowledging its existence, and I'm still pretty committed to this whole denial thing I've got going on. My reflection in the mirror – that judgmental bitch – keeps giving me these looks like she knows something I don't. (Spoiler: She usually does.)

The door creaks open, and I almost laugh – it's Arina, thank god. We've seen enough of Alexei tonight to last several lifetimes, and if I never see that brown coat again, it'll be too soon. I bet you thought this scene would have more Alexei, though, didn’t you?

(Just imagine he’s a bug on the wall, listening in because… he probably is. Asshole.)

Arina moves through the room like she owns it, retrieving the brace, holding it up like evidence in a trial. "Doctor says you must wear it."

"A souvenir from my dance with Tsonda," I mutter, watching her examine the brace with clinical detachment. "Though I guess that's what happens when you try to tango with someone who only knows how to mosh."

And here's where I should probably come clean about something.

You know how sometimes you tell a story, but you mess with the timeline a bit? Like when you're trying to make sense of things that don't make sense, so you pretend you're still in the "now" when you're really in the "future"? Yeah, about that…

FUTURE

Sorry, I know I told you this was ‘Now’, and you were thinking, ‘Oh damn, what happened to Rose at ReVival 61?’

We're not actually in Sydney anymore. That ship has sailed, crashed, and sunk to the bottom of the ocean. All that build-up, all that anticipation about facing Tsonda? Already happened. The knee? Already screaming. The match? Well, that's a story for another time, but let's just say it didn't go according to plan. (Does anything in PRIME ever go according to plan?)

Funny how memory works, isn't it? You think you're living in the present, but really, you're just in the future, thinking of the present and reflecting on the past. Fuck, I hurt my head like when you get a brain freeze from drinking a 7-11 Slushie too fast (fuck 7-11 pizzas, though). Time's a flat circle, or whatever pretentious shit philosophers say when they're trying to sound profound.

Arina settles beside me on the bench, close enough that I catch the hint of her perfume – something that may have been a free sample that fell out of a magazine. "This means you'll be sidelined until after Culture Shock."

"Sitting on the bench never ends well for me." My fingers trace patterns in the condensation on my water bottle, drawing little maps to nowhere. "You know what the worst part is? I won't get to wrestle in Japan." I try to laugh, but it seems hollow, like everything else lately. "My favorite place in the world, and I'll be watching from the sidelines as some kind of well-dressed cheerleader."

Her smile carries a hint of something I can't quite read – a secret that's dying to escape. "Just because you cannot wrestle in Japan doesn't mean you won't have significant impact." She stands, smoothing her immaculate suit with the precision of someone who measures their life in perfectly pressed creases. "In fact, you may have the most important role to play in what comes next after what happened tonight."

I look up at her, intrigue cutting through my self-pity as quickly as a knife through butter. There's something in her tone – a promise of chaos to come – that makes my darker half stir with interest.

I bet you’re wondering what happened on ReVival 62 now, aren’t ya?

Maybe sitting on the bench won't be so dull after all.

(Though let's be honest – with The Red Army, 'boring' isn't really in the vocabulary. Unless you count Kenny Freeman's promos, those are pretty boring. But that's another story entirely.)