Misunderstood

I. 

The door to Ivan's makeshift command center slams against the wall with enough force to rattle the cheap paintings. Not open. Explodes. My fury the detonator.

Bang. Crack. Splinter.

Inside: the unholy trinity. Ivan behind the desk, imperial and unimpressed. Alexei lurking like death's own shadow. Arina, pristine and calculating, frozen mid-sentence by my entrance.

Cheap hotel art trembles on the walls. Good. Let everything shake.

My hands find the nearest chair, some pathetic beige monstrosity that costs more than its materials deserve. A heartbeat later it's airborne, whistling past Ivan's left ear before crashing against the wall. Plaster dust cascades. A declaration of war in furniture form.

Alexei rises, all coiled violence and terrible fashion choices.

Ivan's hand shoots up. "Nyet."

One syllable to leash his dog. How efficient.

"If I intended to hit him," I sharply tell Alexei, "the chair wouldn't have missed." My smile confirms I’m not lying. "Though I can't say the same for your fashion sense. That coat still looks like something an unhoused person would reject."

Arina remains motionless. Smart girl.

Two strides and I'm at Ivan's desk, palms cracking against polished wood. "Where exactly do you get off cornering a twenty-year-old woman?" Each word lands like a hammer blow. "Throwing her against walls? Playing Russian Bear with someone half your size?" My voice is dangerously low, through with this bullshit.

Ivan's expression barely shifts. "Jasmine Jeong, I presume?"

"No, I'm talking about your other hobby of assaulting young women." The sarcasm burns my tongue like battery acid. "Yes, Jasmine fucking Jeong."

"She wants to be wrestler, she better get used to it. Besides, she knocked out my tooth first."

"Congratulations on finding the victim in this scenario." My laugh sounds like breaking things. "You stand there, seven-foot-something of Soviet menace, making excuses like a six-year-old, and can't comprehend why a young woman might panic? You have zero concept of what it means to be a woman in this industry, especially while being cornered by you and your discount Halloween costume sidekick."

Closer now, invading his space. "Remember cornering me last year? Remember your pet gargoyle showing up at my house? With my daughter just down the hall?"

Alexei stirs. "I never—"

I pivot so fast the air hisses. "If you finish that sentence, I'll take whatever serrated wire you keep in that unhoused-looking trench coat and finish what the KGB couldn't." My voice drops to something arctic. "The only reason you're still breathing is I'd hate for Arina to see what your insides look like."

"Enough!" Ivan's voice ricochets off the walls. "It is us versus them. All or nothing. I tried to be diplomatic. They did not want it! We are Red Army and all enemies, be it primary, secondary, or tertiary, are fair game. And you? You will conduct yourself accordingly."

"Then act like a leader worthy of The Red Army!" The words rip from somewhere primal. "Stop throwing tantrums. Stop terrorizing women who have nothing to do with your precious Soviet agenda."

Ivan's eyes narrow to glacial slits. "Nothing to do with me? Your foolish ideas cost me Universal Title to Cecilworth Farthington."

The accusation lands like a physical blow, stopping my momentum cold.

"Your grandiose schemes," he continues, each syllable precision-guided, "have cost me far more than you comprehend. Stay. In. Your. Lane."

The room contracts. Expands. My heartbeat thunders in my ears.

"I expected better from you." My voice finds its edge again, sharper for having been momentarily lost. "If you corner Jasmine—or any woman—again, that chair won't miss. That's not a threat. It's a fucking guarantee."

I turn, blood pounding against my temples. The door beckons—escape, air, anything but this pressure cooker of toxic masculinity and wounded Russian pride.

"I expected better from you." Ivan's voice cuts through my retreat. "I thrashed you at Colossus I will do it again if I must. It will make Jasmine Jeong look like border skirmish!”

I hear the chair beneath his bulk groan. He’s standing now, but I keep my back to him. “How long do I have to carry you around, Rose, before you start pulling your weight? The Red Army does not require wins. It requires results and so far, you have been quite negligent in that regard. Have you forgotten my order?"

I don't turn. "No."

"Stop playing with your food. Finish the job."

My fingers whitening around the doorknob. "I'll take care of it."

"And Scott Hunter—"

"What about him?" The words snap like winter branches.

"ReVival 69. You face him." I hear the smirk without seeing it. "I expect victory."

A laugh tears from my chest—strange and jagged. "Go fuck yourself, Ivan."

I start to step through the threshold of the door. Freedom. Almost.

One last glance back, catching Alexei in my crosshairs. "Hope you choke on a dick and die. It would be the most useful thing you've done in years."

The door slams behind me with enough force to shake the building's foundation.

II.

Scott --

They've got you all wrong, you know.

The fans, the locker room, probably even Troy herself. They see the awkward pauses in interviews, the fumbled promos, the earnest but unpolished exterior. They've missed it completely—the depth beneath that surface. The technique in your movements. The precision when you lock in a hold. The glint in your eye when you spot an opening no one else saw.

You're a fucking sleeper cell of talent. Silent until activated.

I've watched your matches. Not the casual way people half-pay attention while scrolling through their phones, but studying the way my father taught me. Looking for patterns, transitions, the millisecond decisions that separate the good from the great.

Your technical prowess is craftsman-like. Old school excellence without the desperate need to announce itself. You don't perform moves; you execute them with the clean efficiency of someone who respects what they do.

And that's the thing about you, Scott—the respect. It radiates from how you conduct yourself both in and out of the ring. No grandstanding. No politics. No childish games. Just the work, done well, with integrity.

I envy that sometimes.

Everyone looks at me and sees a "Karen." The angry woman with the stick permanently lodged up her ass and a chip on her shoulder that people do double takes. They see the fury, the outbursts, the rage—as if it materialized from nothing, a personality defect I cultivated for fun.

Let me paint you a timeline, Scott:

In one year, I lost my husband and my father. My father was brutally attacked by Phil Atken. Atken, financed by Cecilworth Farthington.

Now I walk the backstage corridors and see Farthington—just existing, taking up space, breathing the same air. His money paid for violence against someone I loved, yet I'm the unreasonable one for not smiling at production meetings?

Tell me, Scott—what's the appropriate response there? Should I be sending Cecilworth fucking gift baskets? Writing him thank-you notes for only destroying part of my life? "Dear Cecilworth, thanks for not killing my father completely. XOXO, Rose."

Is there some proper etiquette handbook I missed for how to behave when the architect of your trauma gets to share catering with you?

My father would have liked you, though. He had this uncanny ability to see through people, past all the noise, straight to their core. He would've seen what I see—someone who tries their hardest. Someone who sometimes gets confused or twisted up but whose moral center remains intact. A good person.

You're a Hufflepuff, Scott. And I mean that as the highest compliment. Loyal. Hardworking. Fair. Underestimated. In an industry of people desperate to be seen as Slytherins or Gryffindors, there's something remarkable about your steadiness.

I wonder sometimes if Dad would be proud of where I am now. Of the choices I've made. Of the woman I've become. Or would he be disappointed? Would he look at me with those eyes—the ones that could see straight through bullshit—and find me wanting? Would he recognize me at all, or just see the shadow of who I was?

Sometimes I wake up in hotel rooms across the world, and for just a moment, I'm not sure which version of me is going to open her eyes. The one who still believes in justice. The one who thinks violence is just a means to an end. The one who—

III. 

The pen stills mid-sentence. A shadow falls across the page.

"What are you doing at airport?" Arina's voice slices through the ambient terminal noise. "We not leave until tomorrow."

I don't look up. The world's most depressing airport bar has become my sanctuary—sticky surfaces, overpriced drinks, and the blessed anonymity of travelers passing through. My drink is theoretical whiskey cut with actual whiskey. The ice cubes gave up and died twenty minutes ago.

"Writing a letter," I mutter, flipping the notebook closed. "To my dear friend Scott. Perhaps you've met? Oh wait, he doesn't spend time with people whose hobbies include 'fascism' and 'enabling megalomaniacs.'"

Arina slides into the seat across from me, pristine in a world of rumpled travelers. Not a hair out of place even at—I check my phone—Jesus, 5:47 AM.

"How long have you been tracking me?" I ask, swirling what remains of my drink. "The hotel concierge? Bribed the Uber driver? Or just good old-fashioned microchips in my food?"

"Ivan was concerned."

"About what? I'd fling myself from the plane before completing his little errand?"

Arina's perfect fingernails tap against the lacquered table. "About you storming out like that."

A laugh escapes me, rough-edged and bitter. "I'm touched by his concern. Truly. Someone alert Hallmark—we've found the sentiment for their new 'Sorry Your Soviet Boss Is An Asshole' line of greeting cards."

"You misunderstand him." Arina signals the bleary-eyed bartender. "He knows you hurt. He believe match with Hunter will be good for you."

I drain my glass, the liquor burning all the way down. "Right. Because Ivan is renowned for his emotional intelligence and compassionate leadership style."

"He cares more than you realize."

"Ivan Stanislav cares about three things: Ivan Stanislav, The Red Army, and whatever weird power trip he gets from watching people suffer." I push my glass toward the edge of the table. "In that order."

"Is not true." Arina's voice softens, almost imperceptibly. "His mother—"

"His mother." The words hang between us. I examine Arina's face, searching for cracks in the perfect façade. She doesn't know. Of course she doesn't.

The bartender deposits a fresh drink in front of me—apparently Arina ordered me another. Smart woman.

"If Ivan cared," I say, fingers tracing condensation patterns on the glass, "he wouldn't have sidelined me since ReVival 64. Wouldn't keep throwing me to the wolves. I've been reduced to his errand girl, delivering Dear John letters to people he's done with."

Arina's brow furrows. "Who is John? I don't—"

"Figure of speech." I wave it away. "The point is, I haven't won a match in 2025. Not one. And now he's set me up against Scott Hunter, probably hoping I'll embarrass myself further."

"This is ridiculous. He wouldn't—"

Her voice trails off, the denial hollow even to her own ears. A flight announcement crackles overhead, momentarily drowning the lie.

I lean back, suddenly exhausted beyond measure. "What am I even doing here, Arina? What is all this for?" My hand sweeps the air, encompassing everything and nothing. "I came to PRIME with this single-minded focus—destroy Cecilworth Farthington. And look where that's gotten me."

The overhead lights catch in Arina's eyes, reflecting something almost like compassion. Almost.

"My crusade. My sacrifices. The hatred from the fans. For what?" The question hangs in the stale airport air. "My father would be so disappointed in what I've become."

Arina's hand twitches, as if considering reaching across the table but thinking better of it. "Your father was proud man who loved his daughter. Complicated, complex as you are. Fathers are supposed to love their daughters."

There it is—the smallest crack in her armor. I lean forward, my voice dropping. "And what about your father, Arina? Does he love his daughter?"

Her expression freezes, a perfect Soviet mask sliding into place. "Of course. He is very proud."

The lie hangs between us dangerously. I see through it. She knows I see through it. And for just a moment, we're not captor and captive, handler and asset—just two women carrying wounds no one else can see.

"Drink up," I say finally, nodding at the untouched glass. "The departure board says your flight back to fantasy land leaves in twenty minutes."

Arina's perfectly shaped lips twitch with displeasure. "This 'woe is me' act not suit you. It is beneath you."

"Go fuck yourself." The words fly out automatically, no thought required. "Better yet, go back to Ivan and tell him I'm busy wallowing. I'm sure he'll appreciate the detailed report."

"I drag you from airport bar back to the hotel if necessary." Her voice hardens to something approaching menace, but she’s speaking from shaky ground. "Ivan expects—"

My hand moves before I can think better of it, fingers clamping down on her shoulder with calculated precision. She winces, trying to mask the reaction but failing. Right where the bruises are.

"We both know how you got these," I whisper, voice pitched for her ears only. "And we both know you're not dragging me anywhere against my will."

Her eyes widen slightly—the first genuine reaction I've seen from her. My grip loosens, but the message lingers between us.

"Ivan sent me because he is concerned," Arina insists, rubbing her shoulder with affected casualness.

"Concerned I might embarrass myself without him there to watch and laugh?" The bartender slides another drink across the sticky surface. I didn't order it. Maybe my face did.

"That's not true." Arina's voice drops, something almost like earnestness creeping in. "The Farthington situation was... a misstep. But he not blame you for it." A pause. "Any longer."

I turn to fully face her, searching her features for the lie. The manipulation. The angle. But there's nothing—just a woman relaying what she believes to be true.

My head tilts, recalibrating. "You actually believe that."

It's not a question. The realization sits between us, unexpected and oddly disarming.

"Fine." I reach for my notebook, flipping it back open to the half-finished letter. "I'll go back to the hotel with you. After I finish this."

Arina nods, something like relief flickering across her face. "I wait."

I return to my letter, pen hovering over the paper as I try to remember where I left off. Something about my father. Something about versions of myself.

IV.

Where was I? Probably not important.

I just had the most fascinating conversation with Arina. I know about those bruises she hides. About her late-night "errands" that leave her exhausted and hollow-eyed the next morning. I know more than I can share in this letter—more than would be safe for either of us if I put it to paper.

The world is full of women carrying secrets like undeclared weapons.

You, on the other hand, Scott Hunter—you're right where you're supposed to be. Aligned with Vae Victis. Standing shoulder to shoulder with Kerry Kuroyama. I've watched that friendship transform you both, though you've changed Kerry more than he's changed you. You've anchored him. Given him something beyond the violence and the victories.

Kerry seems... lighter somehow. More human. Less the relentless combat machine and more someone who actually laughs occasionally. That's your influence—your superpower. You make people better just by orbiting their lives.

I wonder what it would be like to have a friend like that. Someone who sees the mess of contradictions beneath my skin and stays anyway. Someone who doesn't turn critical eyes to my flaws and failures. Someone who doesn't want anything from me except my presence.

I suspect Lindsay Troy put this match together just to needle Ivan a bit further. To twist the knife she's had lodged in his side since day one. If I had time, I’d tell you about our verbal explosion from a few years back. A real doozy that one was. 

This match, Scott—I'm looking forward to it in a way I haven't anticipated wrestling in months. Not because I think you're easy prey. The opposite, actually. I want to test myself against the version of you that exists now—the one who's found his footing. The one who belongs.

I need you to understand something, though. In that ring, I'll do what I have to do to win. Not because I bear you any ill will, but because victory is the only language Ivan understands. The only currency that matters in the economy of The Red Army.

I've become who I've become because grief rewired my nervous system. Because anger was easier than sorrow. Because revenge offered direction when nothing else made sense. I don't expect you to understand that. I'm not sure I understand it myself most days.

We're more alike than either of us realizes, I think. Two souls perpetually misunderstood—viewed through lenses ground by other people's expectations and assumptions. You're the awkward guy who can't quite get his words right. I'm the angry woman who can't stop letting her feelings explode all over everyone.

Both caricatures. Both incomplete.

I'm not sure why I'm even writing this letter. It's not like you'll ever read it. Perhaps it's just the desperate act of someone trying to remember who she was before the world took a wrecking ball to her life. Or maybe it's just the whiskey talking, giving voice to thoughts better left buried.

Either way, I'll see you in the ring.

V. 

I fold the letter, creasing the edges with my thumbnail before sliding it into my jacket pocket. Somewhere in the distance, a gate agent announces another delay in another life. The dregs of my whiskey glint amber under the fluorescent lights—half an inch of bad decisions and worse memories.

Fuck it. I drain the glass in one swallow, welcoming the burn.

"Let's go do this thing," I announce, tossing some Canadian bills on the sticky counter. Too much, probably, but airport bartenders deserve hazard pay for listening to everyone's problems at 6 AM.

Arina rises with that infuriating grace—the kind that makes normal humans look like newborn giraffes trying to walk. "Finally. Ivan will be pleased."

"Oh, well, if Ivan will be pleased," I drawl, shouldering my bag, "then my day is complete. Maybe he'll give me a gold star. Or perhaps a tiny hammer and sickle pin for my collection."

Arina's brow furrows. "We not give out hammer and sickle pins anymore."

"That was a joke, Arina."

"It was not very funny."

"Says the woman whose idea of comedy is probably watching dissidents get their passports confiscated."

We weave through the terminal, an odd pair—me with my disheveled rage and her with her polished restraint. The morning crowd parts around us like we're radioactive.

"You know what I don't understand about you Russians?" I ask, not waiting for permission to continue. "Your complete inability to appreciate American breakfast food. Have you ever even had a proper waffle? With real maple syrup? Or are you just committed to that weird kasha stuff on principle?"

"Kasha is nutritious and provides sustained energy," Arina responds, dead serious. "Your waffles are just sugar delivery systems."

"That's the entire point! It's not breakfast if you don't risk diabetes."

A smile almost—almost—touches the corner of her mouth. "I tried pancakes once. They were... acceptable."

"Acceptable?" I clutch my chest in mock horror. "Pancakes are a religious experience. They're little circles of joy in a world full of hell."

"You are very dramatic about breakfast foods."

"I'm very dramatic about everything. It's part of my charm."

We reach the terminal exit, sunlight slicing through the glass doors in harsh geometric patterns. People rush past us, trapped in their private bubbles of urgency.

"After you," I gesture with exaggerated formality. "Wouldn't want you to lose sight of your charge. Ivan might deduct points from your 'Babysitting Americans' merit badge."

Arina's eyes narrow. "I am not a babysitter."

"Handler? Warden? Glorified prison guard?"

"Security advisor."

"Right. And I'm Mother Teresa."

She stares blankly. "Who?"

"Never mind. Just... lead the way, O Security Advisor."

She turns and walks through the doors. I follow, pausing for one last look at the departure board.

The airport doors slide shut behind us. Outside, Ottawa waits—all government buildings and muted Canadian politeness.

Somewhere behind us, in the terminal we've just abandoned, the PA system crackles to life.

"Paging passenger Rose. Please make your way to your departure gate. Your flight to San Diego is about to depart. Final boarding call for San Diego."

The message repeats, echoing through empty corridors, chasing ghosts of choices not made and paths not taken.