The media room was packed.
Not with students.Not with fans.
With handlers.
Brand reps. League officials. Quiet men in suits who smiled too politely and sat with their hands folded like they'd never punched a wall in their lives.
Aara sat at the center of it all.
A single chair. A single mic.
Two cameras.
One broadcast — going out live to Rae Jin's entire underground network.
This wasn't an interview.
It was a presentation.
And she was supposed to read a statement.
The one they wrote.
The one she hadn't looked at.
Not once.
Beside her, a girl from PR smiled too wide.
"Just keep it light. We've positioned you as a story of survival and reformation. No need to bring in the heavy stuff. You're a role model now."
Aara blinked.
"A role model."
"You're in a very unique position to inspire other girls to—"
"To get bought?"
The woman laughed, awkward.
"No. To rise."
A red light clicked on.
The room hushed.
The camera fed went live.
And the voice in Aara's ear said:
"We're rolling in 3… 2…"
Aara leaned into the mic.
Smiled softly.
And tore the script in half.
"This isn't what they wanted me to say."
Silence.
She didn't stop.
"I was supposed to thank the league. Say I was honored. Say I found family here. That I was proud to wear this hoodie."
She held it up — the knockoff "ASH" brand hoodie they'd given her after the Vega fight.
Then let it fall to the ground.
"But none of that's true."
The camera techs flinched.
One of the reps moved to cut the feed —but Haru's voice crackled in their earpieces before they could.
"You cut her feed, I cut your network."
Aara kept going.
"This isn't about fighting. Not really. It's about selling pain. My pain. And girls like me — we bleed easy. That's what they're banking on."
She looked directly into the camera.
No smile now.
Only flame.
"They tried to own me.And when I said no,they made a copy."
In the back of the room, someone cursed under their breath.
Too late.
The story had already shifted.
"There's a girl out there wearing my scars like makeup.And I don't blame her.I blame the men who put her there.Who used my silence to invent a version of me they could market."
She paused.
The room was silent.
The red light still burning.
"So let me be clear."
"I'm not your symbol."
"I'm not your redemption arc."
"I'm not here to teach you anything about strength or healing."
"I'm here to remind you that girls like me don't owe you our pain."
One of the reps stood now, visibly sweating.
"Cut it."
"We can't," the tech whispered."Haru looped the feed directly. It's out there. Unfiltered."
Aara stood.
Left the mic live.
And walked out of the frame without looking back.
It aired for eight minutes.
Uninterrupted.
Unapproved.
Unstoppable.
The video spread in less than an hour.
Not on public platforms — Rae's team scrubbed it instantly.
But in encrypted messages.Private forums.Fan pages that knew how to preserve a legacy they weren't supposed to see.
That night, the media called her:
"The Girl Who Burned the Script."
But Aara didn't care.
She wasn't doing this for a headline.
She was doing it because they tried to erase her with a smile.
And she'd rather destroy herself on camera than let them write the ending.
Back at the apartment, Haru sat beside her in silence.
She hadn't said a word since they got home.
Just stared at her hands.
Still bruised.
Still shaking.
Still hers.
"They'll come after you now," Haru said quietly.
"I know."
"I can disappear us."
She shook her head.
"Not yet."
"Why not?"
She looked up — and in her eyes, there wasn't fear.
There was clarity.
"Because for the first time, they're afraid of me.And I want to see what that looks like up close."
Haru didn't argue.
He just reached over and took her hand —not as a promise.Not as a possession.
But as a tether.
To remind her she wasn't burning alone.
She wrote one line in her journal that night:
"Gods don't sign contracts.They sign declarations."