It was raining.
Not the kind of poetic drizzle movies love.No gentle droplets dancing on windows.
This was real rain.
The kind that turned alleyways into rivers, and regrets into echoes.
And Aara walked through it like she didn't feel a single drop.
Because she didn't.
Not anymore.
Her boots slapped through puddles.
The flyer was folded twice in her back pocket — the one the stranger dropped off at the bookstore three days ago.
She hadn't meant to keep it.
Had almost burned it.
But something in her hands had hesitated when the lighter clicked.
Now she was walking toward the address printed on the corner.
No invitation.
No promise.
Just curiosity.
And the gut feeling that if something dark was rising again, she'd better see it before it saw her first.
The building didn't look like much.
An abandoned church in the south district — roof half-collapsed, rusted chains on the front doors, graffiti bleeding down the side like ink from a throat slit too fast.
She stepped through the side entrance.
No one stopped her.
That worried her more than if they had.
Inside was nothing like Rae's fight clubs.
No polished concrete.No branded spotlights.No cages or thrones or front-row elite with bodyguards and champagne.
This wasn't a ring.
It was a pit.
Dug out, soaked in old blood, lit by hanging bulbs and battery-powered cameras duct-taped to the ceiling.
She recognized three faces immediately.
Not from the Rae days.
From the streets.
People who used to run messages and place bets, now standing like security.
But this wasn't Rae's resurrection.
This was something uglier.
Hungrier.
She stayed near the edge, arms crossed.
Watched two fighters trade punches like rabid animals — no technique, no rules, no respect.
The crowd didn't cheer.
They growled.
Chanted.
Like they were watching a punishment, not a match.
And when one fighter went down and didn't get up?
No one blinked.
Just tossed in the next one.
Like meat.
Aara turned to leave.
She'd seen enough.
This wasn't a league.
It was a graveyard.
But then — a voice behind her.
Low.
Dry.
Unimpressed.
"Didn't think you'd show."
She turned slowly.
He wasn't tall.But he didn't need to be.
His presence filled the doorway like rot.
Leaning against the wall, hoodie down, smile crooked in a way that had seen things.
And in his hand?
A photo.
Of her.
"You've been quiet, Ash."
Her eyes narrowed.
"Don't call me that."
"Right," he smirked. "You're Aara now. Rebranded. Soft. Civilized. I heard you work in a bookstore."
She didn't respond.
Didn't flinch.
"You didn't bring Haru," he said, circling slowly."Guess he's finally done being your leash."
"He was never a leash."
"Right. He was the one who stayed behind when it got messy."
She didn't take the bait.
But her fists clenched just enough for him to notice.
"Why am I here?" she asked.
"Because I wanted you to see what's coming.And because they already started whispering that you got soft."
"I don't fight to prove something anymore."
"No," he said. "But they do."
He pulled something from his jacket.
Another flyer.
This one blood-streaked.
Handwritten.
A single name:
"Ash"
And below it:
Return to the pit or forfeit your name.
"You didn't sign up for this," he said."But someone already entered you."
"Then tell them I said no."
"Can't. It's public now.If you don't show… you're finished.And worse — they'll send someone to fight in your name."
Her jaw locked.
She knew what that meant.
They'd find someone weaker.Dress her up.Let her bleed.
And call it a warning.
"Why me?"
"Because you made yourself unforgettable."
"So what? This is revenge?"
"This is what happens when you walk away without burning it all the way down."
The crowd behind them roared again — someone else hit the floor.
No medics.
No mercy.
Aara looked at the pit again.
Then back at him.
"I'm not stepping into that."
"You don't have to."
"Good."
"You just have to train someone who will."
Silence.
Heavy.
More dangerous than the roar.
"You want me to build a weapon?"
"No," he said, smiling slowly."I want you to build a mirror.Someone sharp enough to carry your name — if you're too afraid to carry it yourself."
Her blood went cold.
Because for the first time in years,she didn't know if she wanted to fight —or disappear completely.
But she knew this much:
She wasn't going to let someone else bleed for her legacy.
Not again.
Not ever.
She took the flyer.
Didn't speak.
Just walked out into the rain.
And this time?
She felt every drop.
That night, her journal entry was sharp:
"They want Ash back.But I don't resurrect ghosts.I make new monsters."