(WO)MANHUNT

I.

You know those moments when the universe decides to remind you that no matter how hard you try, you're still just a cosmic joke with daddy issues? Welcome to my Friday night in Osaka.

The hotel room door slams behind me with a finality that would be satisfying if I weren't vibrating with barely contained rage. Everything hurts — my body from the match, my pride from the loss, my soul from Farthington's words. I stand motionless, letting the air conditioning blast my sweat-dampened skin while the match replays in excruciating detail behind my eyes.

"It's not our fault that her father's brain cremated itself before the rest of his body," Farthington had said loud enough for me to hear, right before I missed my Thorn Prick finisher completely, launching myself into nothing but empty air.

I peel off my jacket, wincing as the fabric catches on fresh bruises. My phone lights up with messages I already know I don't want to read. Ivan. Arina. Probably Alexei gloating in that silent, menacing way of his. I hurl the phone onto the bed where it bounces harmlessly against the duvet — too soft, too gentle for what I need.

"Fuck this entire night," I mutter, pacing the length of the room. Six steps there, six steps back. A prison cell would be more spacious than the walls closing in around me.

The mini-fridge hums its siren song. Inside, tiny bottles promise temporary relief. I grab one, then another, downing them in quick succession. The burn does nothing to soothe the acid in my veins.

"He never even saw me wrestle," I tell the empty room, my voice hollow. "Dad died before he could see me fail spectacularly on international television. Small mercies, I guess."

The lamp catches my eye — an ugly, mass-produced monstrosity bolted to the nightstand. My fingers curl around its base, feeling the cheap metal warm beneath my touch. I yank it sideways with such force that something in my shoulder pops, the cord ripping from the wall with a satisfying snap of electrical surrender. The momentary resistance only feeds the beast clawing inside my chest as I swing it overhead like a baseball bat before launching it across the room.

The crash is fucking glorious. The ceramic base explodes against the wall like a badly-timed firework, jagged shards bouncing off the desk, the floor, the pristine white bedspread. The lightbulb pops with an electric hiss, a tiny death rattle before darkness claims its corner of the room. A sizzle of broken filament. The acrid smell of electrical burn.

It's not enough. Not even close to enough.

My eyes dart around the room, hunting for the next victim. The ice bucket. Perfect. I snatch it up, water and all, hurling it at the TV. The plastic cracks but holds; the water sprays across the screen in a mocking parody of tears.

"Fucking Farthington," I snarl at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. She looks back with eyes I barely recognize — wild, feral things swimming in pools of mascara and rage. Makeup streaks war paint down her cheeks. My cheeks. Whoever the fuck owns this face now.

(Spoiler alert: When someone jokes about your father's brain cancer during a match, it fucking works. Congratulations on finding my self-destruct button, asshole.)

The minibar door comes off its hinges when I wrench it open, the cheap plastic cracking in my hand. I don't even pause, just start grabbing bottles — whiskey, vodka, some weird Japanese liqueur — and launching them one after another at the far wall. Each one creates its own unique destruction: the whiskey a dull thud and crack, the vodka a musical shatter that sprays the wall with glass confetti, the liqueur a sticky explosion that paints the wallpaper in amber streaks.

"He had no right," I whisper, my knuckles whitening around a heavy crystal tumbler before it too becomes a projectile. It spins through the air, catching the light before exploding against the closet door. "No fucking right."

The desk chair follows, flipping end over end before crashing into the dresser. The armchair cushions sail across the room like demented frisbees. I tear the art from the walls — generic landscapes that nobody would miss — and slam them against the floor until the frames splinter and crack.

Each destruction is a heartbeat of relief followed by a tsunami of renewed rage. The crash and tinkle of glass. The splintering of wood. The dull thud of fabric hitting drywall. A symphony of violence that does absolutely nothing to quiet the hurricane in my chest.

Ivan's face floats through my mind — that look of cold disappointment worse than any screaming tirade. The Red Army doesn't tolerate failure. Neither does my father's legacy.

I storm into the bathroom, my breath coming in jagged gasps. The woman in the mirror is a stranger, a feral thing with bloodshot eyes and trembling hands. My fist connects with her face before I can think twice, knuckles meeting glass with a sickening crunch. The mirror spiderwebs outward from the impact point, fracturing my reflection into a thousand broken versions of myself. Blood blooms across my knuckles, warm and slick, dripping crimson constellations into the pristine white sink. The pain is clarifying, real, somehow comforting in its simplicity.

"Is this what you wanted, Dad?" I ask the empty room, my voice a broken thing. "Your daughter, bleeding in a foreign hotel room because she couldn't keep her fucking emotions in check?"

The silence is interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. I grab the hotel phone, yanking it from its cord, and hurl it with all my might.

"FUCK OFF!"

The door opens anyway, revealing Ivan Stanislav standing in the hallway. His expression shifts from annoyance to cold assessment as he surveys the destruction around me, his eyes finally landing on my bloodied hand.

"Car is waiting downstairs," he says, his accent thicker than usual. Not a request – an order. "You are coming with me. Now."

His tone leaves no room for argument, and somehow that makes me even angrier.

II.

You know those moments when your rage-fueled tantrum gets cock-blocked by seven-foot-one of Soviet-bred murder showing up at your door? Welcome to the after-party. Now I'm trapped in the backseat of a luxury sedan with a man who could liquefy my organs with a fucking thought, while my blood is still singing its cocaine-grade high from demolishing half a hotel room. Turns out smashing expensive shit doesn't fix what's broken inside you. Who knew?

The sleek black Mercedes slices through Osaka's neon-vomited streets like a fucking hearse, carrying what's left of my dignity to its final resting place. Ivan sits beside me, a goddamn mountain of muscle stuffed into a gray t-shirt with that hammer and sickle bullshit emblazoned across his chest, those ridiculous red suspenders stretching over his massive frame like they're holding back an avalanche. Each breath he takes is measured, controlled—the exact fucking opposite of the chaos tornado that just destroyed my hotel room. His neatly trimmed beard does nothing to soften the hardness in his face. My shredded knuckles throb like a second heartbeat, crimson still seeping from where the mirror won our disagreement. The pain pulses in perfect sync with the traffic lights—red for blood, green for the sickness churning in my gut, yellow for the coward I apparently became the moment Farthington opened his fucking mouth.

"So," I venture, because apparently my survival instinct took the same fucking vacation as my ability to hit a goddamn finisher, "are we going to discuss my spectacular failure, or is this one of those silent car rides that ends with me feeding the fucking fish in Osaka Bay?"

Ivan's profile could be carved from battle-scarred granite. The streetlights strafe across his features like searchlights hunting escaped prisoners, highlighting the thick beard covering his jaw, the perpetual scowl that seems etched into his face by years of Soviet winters. The hammer and sickle on his shirt gleams dully under the passing lights – a reminder of allegiances that never died, even after the Wall fell. There's a twitch at the corner of his mouth that might be barely contained rage or might be the prelude to an aneurysm. With Ivan, it's always a coin toss between "you're fucked" and "you're absolutely fucked."

"Seriously? Nothing?" I press, shifting to face him more directly, ignoring how the movement sends fresh threads of pain through my battered body. "Not even a 'you disappoint Mother Russia' speech? I had money on that one."

The car takes a sharp turn, and I have to brace myself against the door. My reflection in the window looks like absolute hell – mascara trails mapping my descent into madness, hair a wild tangle of post-match chaos, a bruise blooming across my cheekbone like some grotesque flower. Behind me, Ivan remains immobile, his massive shoulders and bull neck barely moving as the car jostles over a pothole. Those suspenders look like they're fighting a losing battle against the sheer width of his chest. His attention remains fixed on the road ahead as if I'm not even here.

"Fine. Great talk. Really productive." I slump back in my seat, watching the unfamiliar streets slide by. We're heading away from the hotel district, away from the tourist traps, into a part of Osaka that feels decidedly less welcoming. Industrial buildings loom like concrete monoliths against the night sky. "Where are we going? Because if this is your idea of a Japanese cultural experience, your TripAdvisor reviews are going to be terrible."

Ivan's knuckles whiten almost imperceptibly on his knee. The only sign he's heard a word I've said.

"I get it," I continue, because apparently I've developed a death wish to go along with everything else. "The silent treatment. Very mature. Very effective. I'm positively quaking." I hold out my hand, making a show of examining my trembling fingers. "Oh wait, that's just the adrenaline crash from wanting to murder Farthington with my bare hands. My mistake."

Finally, finally, his head turns a fraction of an inch in my direction. Not enough to actually look at me – heaven forbid – but enough to acknowledge my existence. Progress, I suppose.

"That," he says, his accent thick and cold as Siberian ice, "is problem."

The car slows, turning into what looks like an abandoned warehouse district. Great. Absolutely nothing murdery about this location. The headlights catch on a squat, utilitarian building with no signage and blacked-out windows. The Mercedes rolls to a stop, the engine cutting off with a soft purr that seems obscenely gentle in the oppressive silence that follows.

"Out," Ivan says, already moving, already dismissing any possibility of non-compliance.

I follow because what other choice do I have? The night air hits me like a slap, heavy with humidity and the metallic tang of approaching rain. Ivan moves with purpose toward the unmarked building, keycard appearing in his hand like a magic trick. The door beeps, a sharp electronic sound that feels jarringly modern against the decrepit exterior.

Inside is... not what I expected. Polished hardwood floors gleam under industrial lighting. A professional wrestling ring dominates the center of the space, surrounded by weight equipment, heavy bags, and various training apparatus. The walls are lined with mirrors, creating the illusion of infinite space – infinite opportunities for failure.

"What is this?" I ask, following Ivan's imposing form across the gym floor. His black dress pants and work boots create an almost comical contrast with the tight-fitting gray shirt and red suspenders – like some Soviet propaganda poster come to life. "Some kind of Red Army black site where you disappear wrestlers who embarrass you in public?"

"Is training facility," Ivan replies, not bothering to remove his tight gray shirt with its communist insignia or the suspenders that somehow make him look even more intimidating. His massive arms cross over his chest, the fabric straining against biceps that look like they were forged in some Soviet super-soldier program. "I tell you many times. I train you. Make you better. You do not listen."

"I listen," I snap, bristling at the accusation. "I just didn't think 'training' meant being dragged to some secret location in the middle of the night after I've already had my ass handed to me."

Ivan's laugh is a dry, humorless thing. "When else best time to learn? When victory make you soft? No. You learn now, when defeat still fresh. When pain make lessons stick."

Something moves in the shadows at the back of the gym. At first, I think it's a trick of the light, a reflection in the endless mirrors. Then another movement. And another. Figures begin to emerge, stepping into the harsh light with eerie synchronicity.

Men. Dozens of them. Some Japanese, some not. All wearing identical black shorts and boots. All wearing identical masks.

Farthington masks.

"What the fuck is this?" I whisper, taking an involuntary step backward as the parade of Farthingtons continues, surrounding the ring, dead eyes staring through perfectly crafted latex renditions of that smug British face.

I'd recognize that face anywhere – that fucking face that haunts my professional nightmares. The chiseled jaw that screams "I'm a sixth-generation heir who's never had calluses that weren't from a rowing machine." The perfectly symmetrical features carved by whatever aristocratic British gene pool spawned this smug motherfucker, begging for me to introduce some delicious asymmetry with my fist. Those perpetually amused eyes that dissect you like you're a lab specimen, a particularly entertaining cockroach he's watching squirm before the killing blow. That artfully tousled hair that probably costs more to maintain monthly than most people's rent. Cecilworth Fucking Farthington – the living embodiment of every privileged asshole who's ever looked down their nose at someone who actually had to work for a living – now multiplied like some nightmare cloning experiment designed specifically for my psychological torture. One Farthington is a cancer; this many in one room is a goddamn pandemic.

"This," Ivan says, gesturing toward the masked army with something almost like pride, "is your therapy."

"Therapy?" I echo, unable to tear my eyes away from the grotesque spectacle. "This isn't therapy. This is some kind of twisted psychological warfare."

"Is both," Ivan corrects, moving toward the ring. "You have... obsession with Farthington. Cannot hear his name without losing control. Cannot see his face without rage. This weakness." He slaps his hand against the ring apron for emphasis. "He use your weakness against you. Cost us match. Cost Red Army victory."

"So your solution is... what? Exposure therapy via nightmare fuel?" I gesture at the masked men who have begun to circle the ring like sharks, silent and menacing.

Ivan's smile is cold enough to give frostbite. "You fight. One by one. Until you no longer see Farthington. Until you see only opponent to be defeated."

"This is insane," I mutter, but I'm already moving toward the ring steps, already feeling that familiar burn of anticipation cutting through the ache of my abused muscles. "How many of these knock-off Farthingtons am I supposed to go through?"

"As many as it takes," Ivan says simply, holding the ropes open for me in a gesture that would be gentlemanly if it weren't so clearly an invitation to my own personal hell. "Until lesson is carved into your soul."

I slide between the ropes, feeling the canvas rough beneath my still-booted feet. I haven't even had time to change out of my ring gear, still crusted with the sweat and failure of tonight's match. The metallic tang of blood – mine and maybe someone else's – mingles with the familiar smell of canvas and cheap disinfectant. The first Farthington clone is already climbing into the ring, moving with a predatory fluidity that screams "I'm not just some random body in a mask." His shoulders have the width of someone who could fucking deadlift a Volkswagen. This isn't going to hurt – this is going to be a goddamn autopsy, and I'm the corpse.

As the man turns to face me, the Farthington mask catches the light, those hollow eyes somehow managing to look smug even in molded latex. The perfect fucking replica of the man who just hours ago casually joked about my father's brain cancer like it was a punchline at a roast. My fists clench automatically, the scabs on my knuckles cracking open like fault lines during an earthquake. Fresh blood mingles with the dried remnants from the hotel mirror, creating a macabre war paint across my fingers.

"Begin," Ivan barks from somewhere beyond the ropes, his voice hitting me like a bucket of Siberian ice water, final as the sound of a coffin lid slamming shut.

The Farthington doppelganger circles left with a cocky, loose-limbed swagger that perfectly mimics the real thing, and I mirror his movement, a shark scenting blood. A slow, feral smile spreads across my face as I size him up, calculating just how much of tonight's nuclear-grade rage I can pour into making this poor stand-in regret every life choice that led him to wearing that mask.

Turns out, it's a fucking lot. Enough to paint the canvas red. Enough to make even Ivan Stanislav think twice about what monster he's unleashed.

Let the therapy begin.

III.

Blood and sweat form a macabre watercolor on the canvas as I lean against the turnbuckle, chest heaving like I've been waterboarded. My lungs burn. My knuckles scream. The metallic tang of blood coats my mouth where I bit through my own lip. How many Farthingtons have I slaughtered now? Ten? Twelve? They blur together in a montage of brutality, their bodies scattered around the gym like casualties of war.

Some lie motionless on the floor beside the ring. Others have dragged themselves to corners of the gym, masks askew, nursing injuries they never saw coming. One sits propped against the wall, ice pack pressed to his ribs where I'd driven my knee with enough force to make something audibly crack. The Farthington Factory apparently has unlimited supply.

Because here comes another one.

This one's bigger than the others—a proper heavyweight with shoulders like a fucking bulldozer. He slides into the ring with a grace that belies his size, the latex Farthington face gleaming under the harsh lights. Behind the mask, his eyes calculate, hunting for weaknesses in my battered frame.

He thinks I'm tired. He thinks I'm done.

He has no fucking idea what's awakened inside me.

The thing clawing beneath my skin isn't fatigue—it's a feral, snarling beast that's been dormant too long. Each Farthington I've dismantled has fed it, made it stronger, hungrier. My vision tunnels until all I see is that smug latex face—the perfect target.

We circle each other, boots squeaking against blood-slick canvas. From somewhere beyond the ropes, I can feel Ivan's eyes boring into me, assessing every movement, every labored breath. This isn't just a test of endurance—it's a dissection of my soul.

The Farthington clone strikes first, feinting with his right before launching a left hook that would have taken my head off if it connected. I slip under it, driving my shoulder into his midsection, feeling the satisfying whoosh of air leaving his lungs. His moment of shock is my opportunity—I hook his leg, using his own momentum to send him crashing to the canvas with a sound like a tree falling.

Something primitive takes over. I'm no longer fighting with technique or strategy—I'm all instinct and rage and violence distilled into human form. My elbow finds his temple with a sickening thud. Again. Again. His pathetic attempts to block only fuel my frenzy. I stomp his chest, grind my heel against his throat, my ears deaf to whatever sounds might be escaping from behind that mask.

Ivan's voice penetrates the blood-haze, a distant thunder from the far shore of consciousness: "Enough."

But I'm too far gone. I've crossed into some dark territory where commands no longer reach. The Farthington clone stumbles to his feet, blood leaking from behind his mask. I charge like a bull, clotheslining him over the top rope, his body crashing into the gymnasium floor with a sound that should satisfy me but only makes me hungrier.

Another masked figure approaches the ring. This one hesitates on the apron, seeing what happened to his predecessors. Smart man. I bare my teeth in what might technically be a smile but feels more like a death rictus.

"ENOUGH!"

Ivan's voice cracks like a whip across the gym. The approaching Farthington freezes, then retreats into the shadows at the edges of the room. The Russian Bear himself steps over the top ropes, those red suspenders marking him like warning signs on a dangerous predator.

My brain short-circuits, failing to process the command. All I register is another opponent in my ring. Before reason can catch up to instinct, I've already launched myself forward, a missile of flesh and bone and blind fury. My forearm connects with Ivan's jaw with a crack that reverberates through the gym, snapping his head back.

Time freezes. The universe holds its breath.

Blood—bright, accusatory red—trickles from Ivan's nose, splitting around his beard before dripping onto the canvas like a grisly metronome. One drop. Two. Three.

Oh fuck. Oh FUCK.

Reality comes crashing back. I've just struck Ivan Stanislav. The Russian Bear. The Soviet Giant. My boss. My would-be mentor. The man who could end my career—and possibly my life—with a single word.

My body tenses to run, but where? There's nowhere on this planet I could hide from what I've just done. Instead, I stand paralyzed, watching blood continue its crimson path down Ivan's face, waiting for the retribution that will surely be biblical in proportion.

The sound that comes from Ivan isn't the roar of rage I expected. It's a low chuckle, starting somewhere deep in his chest before growing into full-throated laughter that bounces off the walls of the gym. He brings a massive hand to his face, fingers coming away bloody. He stares at them with something almost like approval before turning those glacier-blue eyes on me.

"Good," he says, the word dropping like a stone in still water. "Very good."

He begins a slow, deliberate clap, each impact of palm against palm like a gunshot in the silent gym.

"You see now?" He gestures toward the fallen Farthingtons with a sweep of his bloody hand. "You no longer see his face. No longer hear his words." He takes a step closer, towering over me, close enough that I can smell copper and sweat and something uniquely Ivan—like gunmetal and winter. "You see only opponent. You heard only blood in your ears. This is how you win."

My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape. I manage a small nod, still expecting the other shoe—or more likely, Ivan's boot—to drop at any moment.

Instead, he says, "I have job for you."

I blink, wondering if I've suffered a concussion without realizing it. "A... job?"

"Da. I train you." He gestures at his bloody nose with something like pride. "Now you train someone for me."

Before I can ask who the fuck he thinks I should be training when I can barely keep my own shit together, the gymnasium door opens. The click of heels against hardwood announces her arrival before I see her.

Arina enters, dressed in form-fitting athletic wear instead of her usual garb. Her hair is pulled back in a severe ponytail, her face devoid of makeup. She looks younger, more vulnerable—and absolutely terrified.

Ivan's smile widens as he watches comprehension dawn across my face.

"You," he says, "will make her into fighter worthy of Red Army."

Arina's eyes meet mine across the carnage of the gym, filled with the same dawning horror I feel crawling up my spine. Around us, the fallen Farthingtons begin to stir, gathering themselves up like the aftermath of some apocalyptic event.

The beast inside me, momentarily sated, begins to purr.