THE GIRL IN THE BLACK DRESS

I.

That mountain called to you. It summoned you. Begged you to climb. To ascend. To the point it became consuming.

To scale that peak has become your existence—to stand atop it and glimpse what lies beyond.

The trouble is, you’ve never truly lived in the mountain’s shadow. You haven’t felt the crushing weight of its presence as it obscured not just the sun and moon, but the stars as well. So immense it swallowed everything you thought you knew.

Living in that shadow is cold. It’s painful. Constantly yearning, never satisfied.

You believed the mountain was just a challenge to conquer—a means to be the best. You failed to see it is your legacy. The peak you're aiming for? It moves. It's never fixed.

The mountain is not your ally. It is not some hurdle to clear.

Because the brutal truth? It’s a revolving door. A loop of perpetual disappointment.

Tchu reached the top. Jason Snow reached the top. Lindsay Troy, the list goes on. They all claimed the summit and declared themselves the best.

And then, it vanished in a blink. Someone else toppled them. Someone else stole what was theirs.

This sport, as you well know, remakes us—for better or worse. It reshapes our core. Erodes our sense of direction, of what’s right and wrong. Forces here are tearing and twisting every last one of us, all chasing legacy.

I have observed the mountain up close. I’ve witnessed every triumph, endured every collapse. Not as a spectator behind a screen—I stood in its shadow.

And I learned something my father never did.

So I ask you, Hayes.

Do you genuinely believe it will be worth it in the end?

Or do you already know the answer?

II.

Hours after Revival 78

My heart hammers like it's tied to a drum beat. I’ve searched everywhere for her—the locker room, the Red Army office, the hotel bar, her hotel room. Nothing.

My mind replays that awful moment. Ivan on one side. Alexei on the other. Jared in the middle. Whatever they had in mind for Jared didn’t matter to me.

Except they didn’t lay a hand on him.

They made her do it. I watched it all on that monitor, helpless. Flagpole in her hand, she was the trap they’d set for Jared. She did what they told her—no, commanded—her to do. She brought that rod down against the back of his skull. He crumpled. They urged her on, and she kept hitting him again and again as he curled into himself.

They didn’t see it. They couldn’t.

I did. I saw her eyes. I saw what it did to her.

It shattered me.

My anxiety claws its way up my throat, threatening to choke me, but I push through. For her. Texts ignored, calls unanswered.

It scares me.

I decide to retreat to my room and consider other places she could be. As I open the door, I hear something I didn't expect.

Hushed sobs. My head snaps to the right, and there she is. Curled in the corner, knees to her chest, face hidden.

“Arina,” I whisper, rushing to her, wrapping my arms tight. She buries her face in my chest and lets everything pour out—all the pain, all the hurt.

“It’s okay,” I murmur into her ear. “Let it all out.”

Let it all out. Let me have it.

I’ll carry it for us both.

III.

As a child, you watched PRIME on television, dreaming of becoming one of them.

As a child, I watched PRIME on television, praying he would come home.

Did you cheer for my father, Hayes? Watch him battle Wade Elliott and Tony Gamble, imagining one day you’d hold the Intense Title just like he did? Did you place him on a pedestal, up on that shelf, convinced he could do no wrong?

I watched him walk out the door, swept up once more in the PRIME whirlwind. Week after week, they were in a new city—fulfilling media duties, training in stolen moments, leaving any trace of personal life as the last priority.

Sometimes, he brought me along. I got to see your stars up close. Nova. Lindsay Troy. Chandler Tsonda. I watched them all claw their way up the mountainside, desperate to make their mark, to reach the summit and see what lay beyond.

You idolized them.

I despised them.

Because they stood between my father and the peak. Because I was certain—utterly certain—that once he reached the top, it would be enough. He would come home. He would stay. He would choose me over the chase.

Every time he fought in a main event, every shot at the Universal title, every time he fell short—it shattered me. Because you know what comes next, don’t you? You tumble all the way down and start that climb over again.

He made that climb so many times, Hayes.

And I was just there. In the background. In the shadow of it all. Growing older while he chased something he would never capture.

He sacrificed moments with me for that pursuit. They all did.

But you—you realized you couldn’t make that climb alone. You saw the setbacks were too significant. So you took a shortcut. You turned your back on everyone. Stabbed them in the back. All to play a supporting role in the Glueminati.

You hurt the people closest to you to reach higher. Ivan did the same thing—he used Arina as a tool for his climb. Both of you decided that the mountain was worth the people you had to destroy to get there. I found her broken because of that decision. I saw up close just how much the mountain corrupts.

This is what the mountain does. It doesn't just take from you. It makes you take from others. It corrupts you into thinking that's strength.

And when I looked at her—when I saw what choosing the mountain cost—I understood something you'll never understand. The people aren't sacrifices on the way up. They're the whole point. And if you have to destroy them to climb, then the climb was never worth taking.

I know why you climb, Hayes. You think the mountain is the only thing that won't leave you. People fail. People break. People abandon you. But the climb? The climb is eternal. The climb won't betray you like everyone else has.

And I understand that. I really do. Because my father believed the same thing.

But here's what he never learned, and what you need to understand: The mountain doesn't save you from abandonment. It IS abandonment. Every time you reach for the peak, you're leaving first. You're proving to yourself that they will go, because you're creating it.

Let’s be perfectly clear, Hayes. You will never be on the level of Farthington or FLAMBERGE. You will always be seen as the weak link, the one who needs carrying. And Fontaine? He’s already accomplished more in that group than you ever will.

You had a chance to do something real. To build something on your own terms. Instead, you swung for the moon and hit into a double play. You decided living in Farthington's shadow was safer than standing on your own.

My father told me about the newcomers in PRIME when he came home. He believed Julien was destined for greatness, that Nate was the future. He had faith in people. Real faith.

About you, Hayes, he told me you would let everyone down.

And he was right.

IV.

I step out of my bedroom and into the kitchen. San Diego. Home. The place I ran from and regretted.

The coffee pot is warm, freshly brewed. I pour a cup and walk out to the back patio, where the Pacific stretches out as if it’s been waiting. November air hits me—salty, sharp, cold—and for a breath, it’s like the last year never happened.

Then I see her.

Curled up in my favorite chair. Legs tucked under, mind miles away. A mug balances on her thigh, forgotten.

That night still haunts her.

I walk behind her, my right hand wrapping around her mug before it tips. I press a kiss just below her ear.

"Good morning," I whisper.

I feel her body soften. Her eyes close. The tightness in her shoulders slightly eases.

Her right hand rises, finds the back of my neck. Fingers gentle, searching, tracing skin like she’s making sure I’m real.

"доброе утро," she says, voice carrying something private, as if Russian is safer territory than English right now. "I didn’t sleep much."

I don’t ask why. I know why. The aftermath of that night is fresh on my skin, verbally going toe-to-toe with Ivan until I left the Octane, knowing what I'd do if I didn't.

I wasn’t expecting her when she appeared on my doorstep two days later. No call. No warning. Just her, a bag, looking like she’d been travelling far longer than she wanted to.

I sit beside her, and she stretches her legs across my lap. A quiet act of trust. Proof that says I’m safe here.

"The house is coming together," she says softly, gaze fixed on the water.

"Thanks." I rub the arch of her foot, feeling the tension coiled in her calf. "I forgot how much I love this place."

She’s quiet for a beat. "It’s beautiful. Peaceful."

"Yeah." I pause. "Far from everything."

She understands. Far from Ivan. Far from PRIME. Far from the choices that left us both here, sitting on a patio watching the ocean like we’re the only two people left.

"Adeline has a school thing today," I offer. "You could come, if you want."

She tilts her head. I see the answer before she speaks.

"Too many questions," she murmurs. "If I show up, people will talk. Wonder."

"Let them wonder."

"Not yet." Her eyes drift back to the sea. "Let me stay here a little longer. Let me just… be quiet."

I nod and keep rubbing her feet, and we sit as the sun climbs. Coffee cools. The ocean churns. For a moment, the silence between us feels like the safest place either of us could be.

In that moment, I consider what coming home could really mean.

V.

Hayes, you've chased a moment that will leave you hollow. A crown of ash the second you set it on your head.

You laid down your freedom, your honor, your promise, all for what? To be the fourth best in a faction of three? Did the idea of failing and being forgotten terrify you that much?

I watched a man who will always be your better scale that mountain repeatedly. Despite the titles he didn’t claim. Despite the big moments that slipped through his fingers. Despite the simple truth that he never made it all the way to the peak.

And you know what? The fans never cared if he stood at the summit. They didn’t give a damn whether he seized what others said he deserved. They loved him. That’s what fueled him to keep climbing, to keep throwing himself back into the fire even if it meant losing.

Because they never saw it as a loss. They saw themselves in him. They saw their own struggle up that slope, understood the stumbles and setbacks all the way. They knew not everyone makes it. But they could climb high enough—and be proud of the climb.

You? You could never be satisfied. Their devotion would never fill you. You never realized that when you held the title and lost, they still cheered you on, supported you. You took it for granted. They now see you for what you truly are. To use a word Julien prefers, a bimch.

Because you built a world of fantasy, not fact. You dreamed yourself at the summit—the best PRIME has ever seen. But you never understood the goal.

Let me tell you a secret, Hayes. I want you to know what waits on the other side of that mountain when you finally reach the top.

Nothing at all.

You gave up everything for nothing.

VI.

Sitting in the school auditorium, I’m wearing a 'suit' I haven’t worn in a long time. It doesn’t feel quite like me, but it’s more comfortable than I remember.

My foot won’t quit tapping on the tiled floor. The invite came from Adeline herself, backed by her grandparents. School assembly, we think you should be there. The idea of a school assembly made my stomach churn, but if Adeline wanted me, I had to show.

Dr. Westin’s voice rings in my head too: You need to show up. Not the other Rose. You.

But I feel like an impostor here, out of place. I’m trying to remember how to be the mother I was before I became everyone’s cautionary tale. I scan the crowd for Adeline, but I can’t find her. My palms are slick with sweat. I wipe them on my thighs, but it doesn’t help. Get it together. You perform for tens of thousands.

But this is different. It shouldn’t be, but it is. Terrifying, because I’m laid bare. The thoughts that usually ricochet in my mind have gone quiet, as if they’ve retreated.

Before I can untangle any of it, the principal—Ms. Chen—steps up to the mic. It screeches, making the whole room flinch.

"Thank you all for coming," she begins. I force myself to stay here, to not get pulled under by the what-ifs. "We’re here to celebrate our students’ creativity in our annual essay competition."

An essay competition? Other parents seem to know. I must be the only one who left her child with grandparents and fucked off. I remember Adeline curled up beside me most nights, a book or notepad in hand. Sometimes both. People called her precocious. She was an oddity—my oddity. She loved writing, capturing her thoughts. Sometimes she let me read them, and I was stunned by the person she was becoming, convinced an old soul lived inside her.

"This year’s prompt was: ‘Who is your hero and why?’" Mrs. Chen says, and the words hit me like a punch. "We received remarkable submissions. Essays about parents, teachers, firefighters, doctors, astronauts—"

Hero. The word lodges in my throat. I think of my father, the mountain he spent his life climbing. How I watched him walk out over and over, chasing something at the summit he never reached. How I hated everyone in his way, so sure that if he made it, he’d come home to me.

He never did. The mountain took everything from him. Then it came for me.

I think of who I became in that mountain’s shadow, the version who sent her daughter away so she could keep climbing, keep sacrificing, chasing a legacy that was never mine.

"And now, the winner of our fourth-grade division." Mrs. Chen smiles wide. The world shrinks to a single point. "Adeline Griffin."

Time stops.

My daughter—my baby—walks onto the stage, and something inside me cracks open. When did she get so tall? When did her hair grow past her shoulders, the same hair I used to braid every morning?

Ten months. It’s been ten months since that rainy driveway, since I watched her disappear. Ten months when I wasn’t really there—when someone in my skin made calls and promises while I was lost in the shadow of a mountain I should never have tried to climb.

"Find yourself again, Mommy," she whispered that night. I thought she meant heal from grief. I didn’t realize she meant come back from wherever you’re going. Come back to me. Step out of the shadow.

Now she stands at the microphone, a paper trembling in her hands. She scans the crowd, and for one breathless moment, she finds my eyes.

She doubted I’d come. She was right to. I hadn’t stepped up. I hadn’t been her mother, her confidant, her best friend. I abandoned her. I don’t deserve her.

But I’m here. I’m here. Not the ghost climbing my father’s mountain, vengeance on my back. Not the one who sent her daughter away, shattering us both in the process. Just me. Rose. The one who made silly faces at breakfast and danced in the kitchen, who believed maybe something worth having waited at the bottom of the mountain, not the top.

The one fighting her way back to this moment.

Adeline’s face shifts through emotions I can barely follow: shock, joy, hope, and something that breaks my heart—caution. Like she isn’t sure which version of her mother is sitting in this tiny chair.

I’m me, I want to shout. I’m back. I’m here. I’m yours. I’m done.

Mrs. Chen lays a gentle hand on Adeline’s shoulder, nodding. Other parents shift, restless with the pause, but I can’t look away.

She’s beautiful. Grown. So much taller than the girl I said goodbye to in the rain, clutching her stuffed giraffe like it could shield her from the storm coming.

The storm that was me. The storm my father left. The mountain that swallowed us both.

Adeline looks down at her paper. Her hands steady. She takes a breath—I can see her chest rise even from here—and I breathe with her, synced across the distance I put between us.

The distance I carved while trying to reach a peak that kept shifting, demanding more than I had.

She begins to speak. I lean forward in my tight chair, heart in my throat, hands gripping my knees, every part of me given to this moment.

To my daughter.

To the essay about heroes.

To whatever she is about to say, while realizing that the real summit isn't what's at the top of some impossible mountain. It's right here, in a school auditorium that smells like pizza, watching my daughter speak about who her hero is.

For the first time in forever, I’m exactly where I need to be.

Watching my little girl, all done up in her black dress.

VII.

I spent so long wanting to climb high enough to pull Farthington down. To make him pay for what he did to my father, to me, to all of us. But when I looked at Adeline—when I realized I was about to abandon her the same way my father abandoned me—I understood: I can't chase two mountains. I can't chase Farthington if it means losing her.

I have to sacrifice everything for her.

You can have the mountain. Maybe being in Cecilworth's proximity will rub greatness onto you. Perhaps you'll get your moment and, for that second, feel like you matter.

I want what's at the base of the mountain.

Because that's where my heart is, that's where I belong. I'm tired of chasing after revenge. I want to chase love. I want to chase memories. I want to chase the person I was before any of this began.

Because there's a little girl who still sees me as her hero.

My daughter stood on a stage and read words about what it means to be brave. About what it means to keep climbing when everything inside you is breaking. She talked about watching someone she loved get lost in the dark—really lost, Hayes. The kind of lost where you don't know if they're coming back.

But she wrote about how that person didn't give up. How even when the world was swallowing them whole, when the shadow was all there was, they chose to fight their way back and would always fight their way back to the light. Back to her.

She called me her hero for that.

Not for championships. Not for titles, rankings, or legacy. For showing up. For sacrificing. For showing her what resilience looks like.

That's what she sees when she looks at me.

That's what real heroism looks like to a child—not reaching the top of an impossible mountain. It's coming home.

Because the mountain doesn't give you what you think it does. It doesn't make you whole. It doesn't heal your wounds. It doesn't prove you matter. It just takes.

You'll have no one cheering for you, Hayes. Not when it matters. Not when the lights dim and the crowd disappears. You'll have your titles, your mythology, your blue necktie—and you'll be alone with all of it. No one will give a shit about you.

And I will have everything.

You and I are nothing alike.

You turned your back on that little boy in the blue tie.

I choose the little girl in the black dress.