NOT LIKE US

You know those moments when victory feels like a hangover? Welcome to the Tokyo Presidential Suite, where The Red Army's triumph is devolving into a Russian tragedy.

(Spoiler: When you orchestrate the downfall of PRIME's greatest champion and it still feels like a funeral, the universe is clearly having a laugh.)

The suite – charged to my card because Ivan's wallet is stuck in the Soviet era – unfolds like a Dostoevsky novel. In one corner, Ivan and Alexei perform their two-man show "Death of a Dynasty," with Ivan cursing in Russian while processing Farthington's challenge, and Alexei spitting Lindsay Troy's name like poison.

Kenny and Randall have fled to the bar, losing themselves in a ramen debate to forget Kenny's loss to Colton. Bryan Dawkins, our surprise recruit, sits questioning his life choices in a leather armchair. Meanwhile, Arina clutches the Universal Championship like it might bite her, looking as composed as someone who's run a marathon in heels.

The night's been chaos – losing Max Kael (good riddance), gaining Dawkins, eating Coral's boot, and watching half of PRIME's roster finally grow spines. The crown jewel? Ivan standing tall over Avalon, even if victory came messier than planned.

I stand here, knee brace in hand (sorry not sorry about that misdirection), watching what should be a celebration dissolve into a powder keg of tension.

(Fun fact: Sometimes winning just gives you a better view of the next battle. And this one's about to explode.)

Time to work – starting with what's shaping up to be the world's most dangerous therapy session.

"Kto on, chert voz'mi, takoj?" Ivan's voice carries the weight of Siberian winters. "Who does he think he is? To march onto my stage, to declare himself worthy of MY title at Culture Shock?"

Note to Self -- When Ivan switches between Russian and English, it's usually time to check your life insurance policy and make peace with whatever deity you believe in.

Alexei's laugh is a knife in the dark. "Arrogance, Ivan. Pure British arrogance. We think Americans are bad? Ha! Where do you think they learned such ego?"

"The spotlight burns him," Ivan spits, pacing like a caged bear. "He cannot stand shadow. What has Farthington done to deserve this chance? Nothing. Nichego."

“We both know who is in charge,” Alexei says with a dangerous purr. “Who runs this show.”

“I know you think–”

“Troy,” Alexei interrupts. It’s a rare moment where the two Russians have differing opinions. “Her fingers are everywhere, this phantom in the dark, playing her games.”

This would be the part where David Attenborough whispers about danger while hiding behind a plant.

“Alexei…” Ivan starts, squeezing his knuckles hard enough they pop.

“Nyet!” Alexei steps closer, his words an avalanche. “She mocks any goodwill you offer! From the Murder Rumble to now, she can’t stand your success. The moment gold is yours, she sends her British lapdog to snatch your glory!”

The temperature in the room drops about twenty degrees. I resist the urge to check for frost forming on the windows or penguins setting up camp in the corner.

“Would she dare this with Avalon?” Alexei’s accent thickens. “Not even Jiles! She sees you as a toy, Ivan. Time to show her error of ways.”

Ivan’s smile is frigid. “First I break her pet, Farthington, then she crawls on her belly.”

“Precisely.” Alexei’s eyes gleam. “Farthington will be a message written in blood.”

The conversation is like a slow-motion car crash. They’re not just plotting revenge- they’re architects of chaos, and Lindsay Troy has given them the blueprint.

These two aren’t their most dangerous when they’re shouting, it’s when they’re discussing destruction like it’s a dinner party. And these two? They’re already choosing the wine.

Relief floods through me as Ivan and Alexei's murderous duet reaches its crescendo. Finally, they're dancing to my favorite tune: "Farthington's Downfall in D Minor." But before I can savor the moment, I catch snippets of Kenny and Randall's mind-numbingly banal ramen debate. These two exist in their own special dimension where the biggest crisis is whether to add a second egg to their bowl.

(Spoiler: When the world's burning down around you, some people just want to discuss noodle firmness.)

I slide away from Murder Planning 101 and find myself opposite Bryan Dawkins, our newest comrade in questionable choices. Something's eating at him – probably his conscience, that pesky little parasite. I should ignore it, let him marinate in his regret, but Ivan and Alexei's newfound bloodlust has me feeling generous. Time to play therapist.

"Quite the career pivot tonight," I offer, watching him squirm. "Joining The Red Army, replacing Max, securing Ivan's victory – all very efficient."

His laugh sounds like it's being strangled. "Not exactly how I drew it up…"

"You played Kael's part better than Kael ever did," I say, and mean it. "Though that's a pretty low bar to clear."

"That doesn't help." His voice carries the weight of someone realizing they've just signed a deal with the devil – and forgot to read the fine print.

Oh fuck. Abort mission. Red alert. But my mouth, ever the traitor, keeps going.

"What's really eating you? Jiles and his merry band of idiots were going to do exactly what we did." I suppress a gag. "There's no 'rising above' in PRIME anymore. There's just survival."

"Tom, Sebastian, Crash..." Each name falls from his lips like a funeral bell. "They are…were my friends. God, I just saw red and—" He winces at his own unintended pun.

"Really, Bryan?" The words taste like gunpowder. "Let's blow past blaming me for your injury and the barbwired pineapple incident – which, by the way, what the actual fuck? This path? You've been skipping down it since before tonight. Your little adventures with Kael against Crash weren't exactly "good guy" work." I do the air quotes because sometimes you need to be a little extra.

This seems to jolt Dawkins alive as he fires back, “You and I both know I had good reason for that. Max took Violent Purple and now…”

You don’t justify your actions in The Red Army, you blame someone else. The rookie needs a lesson, and Dr. Rose is here to school him. “Gold used you. Jackson used you. And Tom?” I snort. “I’ve wasted enough breath on that particular waste of space.”

Something's building in the air – that electric charge before a storm breaks. I lean forward, drawn in despite myself. "What do you want from this, Bryan? What's your endgame with The Red Army?"

His eyes – there's something trapped there, something desperate and raw. The words catch in my throat as he whispers:

"Kai... I gotta get Kai back..."

Before I can untangle that particular knot of what-the-fuck, he's gone, fleeing to the bar where Kenny and Randall are, making a drink of his choice (I assume it's something fruity and pineapple, but I don't give a fuck to actually find out). Those other two are still debating the merits of various ramen establishments like they're choosing the next pope.

Sometimes the most dangerous people aren't the ones plotting murder in the corner. They're the quiet ones with desperation in their eyes and ghosts in their past.

And I'm left wondering just what kind of powder keg we've invited into our already explosive family.

You know that moment in nature documentaries when a gazelle suddenly realizes it's about to become lion lunch? That's exactly how it feels when Ivan's shoulder connects with mine. The momentum nearly sends me into a Chris Farley-esque pratfall through the table, the floor of the room, and into the room below us.

(Spoiler: When you almost get bulldozed by the Russian Bear, your life doesn't actually flash before your eyes – just a series of increasingly creative Russian curse words.)

Once I've confirmed all my limbs are still attached, I spot Ivan cornering Bryan by the bar. His hands are on Dawkins' shoulders in that special way that could either mean "welcome to the family" or "let me introduce you to the space outside of this top floor window" and we would all be treated to Dawkins falling to his untimely death like Alan Rickman in Die Hard.

Given recent events, I'm genuinely fine with either outcome.

Across the suite, Arina and Alexei are having what appears to be the world's most intense whisper-fight. Part of me wishes I could split into two people – one to decode their Russian soap opera, and one to watch whatever intervention Ivan's about to perform. But since my cloning experiment is still in beta testing, I focus on the immediate drama.

"You did well tonight," Ivan's voice carries that special mix of pride and threat that he's perfected over the years.

Bryan swallows hard. "Thanks…I think?"

"This doubt you feel?" Ivan's accent thickens like plot armor. "Is normal. You have been poisoned by American thinking, by capitalist lies. Lindsay Troy – she used you like tissue paper, da? Disposable."

"I don't know if—"

"But you do know." Ivan's grip tightens slightly. "Tonight, you chose truth. Kept Bandits away. Justice, real justice."

I watch Bryan's resistance crumble like a poorly constructed Soviet apartment block. "When you put it that way..."

"Da! You will be pride of Red Army!" Ivan's enthusiasm could power a small city. "First, crash course in Communism, Stalin's greatest hits. Must learn Russian – very important. Will cleanse capitalist thoughts from mind."

That son of a– I thought I was special with his communist book club and language tutors. Next thing you know, he'll be forcing Bryan to write essays about the glory of the proletariat.

At least the crisis seems averted, though I'm disappointed Ivan hasn't noticed Kenny and Randall's ongoing ramen utensil debate of chopsticks or spoon. (Chopsticks, you cultural heathens. It's not quantum physics.)

Then I spot it – my opening. Alexei disappears into a side room, probably to add fresh brown paint to that tragic coat of his, leaving Arina alone. Time for some girl talk, Red Army style.

Sometimes the most dangerous conversations start with "Hey girl."

"Hey girl."

The words taste like artificial sweetener in my mouth. Someone gag me.

“Oh, Rose,” Arina sighs, her voice heavy. “My thoughts are… clouded…”

When a Russian says their thoughts are clouded, trouble’s coming. Likely for me.

“What’s eating you?” I realize she doesn’t understand the phrase and correct myself. “Why?” I stay calm, but my mind races with disaster scenarios. Alexei, that walking fashion disaster, just had her ear, and chaos reigns in his wake.

“I thought…” She looks lost, which is scary for someone who’s managed The Russian Bear for so long. “Tonight should be celebration. It should feel..”

I look around. No celebration here. Kenny and Randall might as well be discussing ramen in another world. Bryan looks sick to his stomach. And Ivan? He’s ready to explode.

“You expected champagne and caviar instead of this?” I gesture at the somber atmosphere.

“Why did he ruin everything?” I’ve heard venomous Arina, and she’s back. “To steal Ivan’s moment? He worked so hard…”

“Cecilworth is as mature as a cranky toddler. He craves attention like plants need water.”

“Alexei says…” She hesitates, and my alarm bells ring. “Ivan’s considering refusing Farthington title shot. Says he must earn it.”

The world stops. “What?”

My vision tunnels. That disaster in a coat is in the next room, probably whispering more poison to Ivan. But then I see Ivan, settling down in his throne like a storm cloud finding the perfect moment to ruin a picnic.

"Excuse me, Arina. I need to perform some emergency damage control."

I watch my plan unravel like a sweater in a wood chipper. One step forward, three steps back, with complications looming like a Russian winter.

In The Red Army, plans falling apart isn’t like a house of cards collapsing; it’s like a nuclear meltdown in slow-motion. Either way, protective gear is advisable.

Suddenly, I’m face-to-face with Ivan, the tension between us enough to power Tokyo. My heart drums with panic, but I do my best to hide it.

“Ivan.”

“Ah, Rose!” His smile could freeze hell. “Great victory, tonight! You played part perfectly. Knee brace, eh? Smart! DYAAHAAHAA!!”

Note to self: don’t stand within five feet of that laugh if you want to preserve your hearing.

“Thanks.” The word tastes bitter. “Glad it worked out.”

“Finally, PRIME has true champion.” His barrel chest expands. “Unlike your father. Politics worked against him. Never got the chance. But you forced their hand.”

Mentioning my father sends lightning through me. The violence inside of me feels like a living thing, clawing to get out.

“Yes, his dream.” Each word feels like glass. “But now you have Cecilworth–”

“Ami Troy’s ‘Uncle!’” Ivan’s words could curdle milk. “I do not subsidize nepotism. I tell Lindsay Daytona Diamonds, or Clay Byrd. Destruction of any cowboy in Tokyo would be fun.”

“Ivan–” My voice cracks.

But he’s already rising, a mountain moving on. “Is fine, Rose. You proved loyalty tonight. You’ve come far by listening to me. Made Red Army proud.”

I watch him lumber away, his mood lifting with each step – in exactly the wrong fucking direction. Not only that, he’s humming his national anthem. Fuck! The scream building in my chest threatens to tear me apart from the inside. Everything's unraveling, threads snapping one by one, and I'm watching months of planning dissolve like sugar in acid.

Because if this can happen, if I can get him on board, it means I can get her back sooner. I need her back. I can feel the desperation from the other me.

My phone trembles in my hand as I type out a message – a desperate Hail Mary into the abyss. The pressure behind my eyes feels like a dam about to burst, but I can't break. Not here. Not now. Not when everything's balanced on a knife's edge.

When your carefully laid plans start disintegrating, that moment of clarity right before you do something monumentally stupid? That's not wisdom. That's your last brain cell waving a white flag while your impulse control goes on vacation. And right now? I'm booking that vacation first-class.

The text sends with a soft whoosh that sounds like a death knell. I've just lobbed a grenade into my own foxhole, and all I can do now is wait for the explosion.

I lunge to follow Ivan, but Kenny and Randall materialize like the world's most oblivious roadblock. The pressure in my skull reaches critical mass.

"Hey, we're putting in our ramen order—" Kenny starts, as if we're at a casual dinner party and not in the middle of my carefully constructed plans imploding.

"Thought it'd be proper to ask if you want in," Randall adds, absolutely missing the murder in my eyes. "You'll need to cover your portion though. We're a bit skint."

"Yeah, that too. So what do you—"

Something inside me shatters. You know that moment when your last thread of sanity snaps and suddenly you're moving in slow motion, watching yourself do something spectacularly stupid? Welcome to my Ted Talk on impulse control failure.

When the pressure cooker explodes, it's never pretty. But it is spectacular.

I snatch Kenny's phone like a cobra striking its prey. "FUCK YOUR RAMEN!" Then throw it as hard as I can.

The phone arcs through the air in what feels like slow motion, a beautiful trajectory that ends – because the universe has a particularly twisted sense of humor – in what appears to be the world's most expensive glass display cabinet.

The sound of shattering glass is like a symphony of poor life choices. Tiny crystal daggers rain down in a glittering cascade of "you've really done it now."

And suddenly, every eye in the suite is locked on me like I'm a bomb that's just announced its countdown. Ivan. Alexei. Arina. Bryan. Kenny and Randall, their ramen dreams lying in shards at their feet.

Sometimes the best way to get everyone's attention is to do something so catastrophically stupid that they have no choice but to notice. Though usually, property damage isn't Plan A.

Cool. Cool cool cool. This is fine.

Everything's fine.

You know that moment when the spotlight hits and you have two choices – shrink away or set the whole damn stage on fire? Yeah, time to break out the matches.

"I get it," my voice carries enough venom to kill a horse. "This should be a celebration. Instead, we're all acting like we’re at our funeral."

I zero in on Bryan -- desperately trying to find the eject button. "You didn't expect this, did you? Didn't plan on betraying your buddies and turning it into Fight Club? Well, buckle up, buttercup, because here's a truth bomb: When my husband died? Crickets. When my father passed? Tumbleweeds. Those people aren't your friends. They proved that when they snatched your title first chance they got. No 'poor Bryan' – just a knife in your back and a 'thanks for playing.'"

His face darkens like he's about to unleash some pineapple-based revenge, but my phone's perfect timing saves us from that particular produce-related violence.

Sometimes the universe throws you a bone. Usually right before it kicks your teeth in.

"Catch." I toss my phone his way. "Read it and weep."

Bryan fumbles it like a rookie – clearly football scholarships aren't what they used to be. "We’ve got a match. Ivan, Rose, and yours truly against The Anglo Luchador, Sebastian Gold, and Crash. In Osaka. ReVival 63."

Bingo, motherfucker.

"Well, isn't that perfect?" My smile could cut glass. "For three years, I've watched these self-righteous pricks talk about 'rallying the troops' and 'defending PRIME.' Youngblood, Sykes, Colton, Tsonda – a parade of failed heroes. Now they finally grow spines? Too little, too late. They're about to learn what happens when you poke the Russian Bear."

I turn to Ivan, because sometimes you need to dangle the perfect target while stroking an ego the size of Siberia. "You want to prove The Red Army runs this place? Here's your chance. You just decapitated the eGG Bandits."

My fingers snap like a gunshot. "Coral Avalon? Extinct. The Bandits without him? Just Cancer and his circus of mediocrity. Two weeks, we crush this 'good guy' rebellion. Bury them in Hiroshima if you want. And then..."

I move in close enough to smell Ivan's cologne – a scent I'm pretty sure is called "Eau de Soviet Winter." "We march into Culture Shock. You versus Farthington. Universal Title. And when – not if – you destroy him, he'll fold faster than Russian democracy. Daddy's boy running home with his tail between his legs. Three shows, three groups, all crushed under The Red Army's boot."

The fire in Ivan's eyes tells me he's hooked, but I'm not done. Time to go nuclear.

"You owe me." I see his eyes, and in typical fashion Ivan tries to argue back. Not this time big boy. I silence him before he gets started. "This was my endgame. Destroying Farthington and his precious Glueminati. I couldn't do it with KING. I needed the baddest motherfucker on the planet to right a three-year wrong. I've bled for this – faced Tsonda, ate Coral's boot, yanked Elvis Nixon away from that three-count. Everything my father stood for, I've burned it all for you. Sometimes the unworthy need to be destroyed just to prove they never deserved consideration."

I wait for the rebuttal -- instead Dawkins moves next to me, certainly to ensure my downfall, but instead he comes at Ivan like a monkey with a machine gun.

“You know why I joined, Ivan? Because I’ve spent too long in this industry trying to play nice, follow the rules, and get my ass kicked. You’ve been fighting Glue and the Bandits for years, Ivan. I want to end these ‘Heroes’ before they’re even two weeks old!”

The moment is destroyed when Randall Schwartz initiates a slow clap, but no one takes the bait. The silence I started -- and Bryan finished -- engulfs me.

“I can’t be the only one with balls and courage around here. Get. It. Together.” I mutter before escaping to the balcony.

There, the Tokyo lights blur as my lungs try to remember how breathing works -- just like the moment when I watched the Farthington-financed Atken and Phil bounce my father’s head off the canvas.

Then the door opens, and every cell in my body screams danger. I fight the urge to test if Alexei bounces when he hits the pavement.

"Not only one with grand plans," his voice slithers through the night air. "Very convincing. Ivan will do what you ask. Proved yourself tonight."

He moves close – too close – and I feel his hand hover near my shoulder before thinking better of it. Smart man.

"You should be proud."

The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the Tokyo skyline. Proud isn't the word I'd use.

But then again, the devil probably doesn't feel proud when he makes a deal either.