The headlines were already rewriting her.
"ASH: The Comeback Queen""BLOOD IN THE RING — BUT WHO OWNS HER NAME?""DAECORP'S FALLEN PRODIGY STRIKES BACK?"
They called her a legend. A threat. A weapon.But not a person.
Not Aara.
She sat alone on the apartment floor, back against the wall, feet still bandaged. The city hummed outside the window like it always did — too loud to ignore, too far to matter.
A bottle of antiseptic lay next to her. Half-used.She hadn't touched it in hours.
Her ribs were still bruised.Her fists were raw.Her body was wrecked.
And yet…
"I feel nothing," she whispered.
Haru stood in the doorway.
He'd watched her long enough to recognize the stillness for what it was — not rest.
Readiness.
She was already thinking about the next fire she'd need to walk through.
"They're holding a press conference tomorrow," he said finally."DaeCorp. Sori's team. They're spinning the loss as an accident — a medical risk. Trying to invalidate the fight."
Aara didn't flinch.
"Let them try."
"It's not just about invalidating you. It's about controlling your name."
She looked up.
"They can't trademark what I bled for."
"They can if they bury it first."
He stepped closer, crouched in front of her.
"I've already leaked the footage. The real footage. The hits. The round data. The rigging reports. Everything."
She blinked slowly.
"You're moving against your father?"
"No," he said, voice quiet."I'm moving through him.If he's going to keep using us like weapons, I'll be the one to load the last bullet."
Aara reached out and took the antiseptic. Poured some on the rag. Cleaned her own wounds.
Then looked Haru straight in the eye.
"Don't do this for me."
"I'm not."
"Good."
Pause.
"Because I don't need saving."
"I know," he said."But I do."
Elsewhere in the city, Jin sat on the rooftop of an old training hall. The pin she'd been given glinted in her hand — black metal, etched with a symbol of a phoenix curled around a broken ring.
The note was still folded in her pocket:
"When the systems that crown you are the same ones that crush you — choose fire."
She'd been offered a spot.
Not on a team.
On a movement.
Underground. Anti-corporate.Fighters who used their stories like knives — not just to survive, but to cut through lies.
And they wanted her.
She didn't say yes.
Not yet.
But she hadn't said no either.
And that silence felt dangerously close to a promise.
The next day, the press conference began.
Rows of journalists. Flashbulbs. Sori's team lined up in pristine blazers and neutral expressions.
Daehyun Shin did not appear — not in person.
But his signature was on every statement handed to the cameras.
"We regret the confusion surrounding the fight," one spokesperson said."There were medical complications. The athlete's loss does not reflect her ability."
It was cold. Strategic. Sanitized.
And everyone knew it was a lie.
What they didn't expect…
…was for the screens behind the podium to flicker mid-speech.
Static. Then video.
Not promotional footage.
Raw fight data. Unedited.
Haru's leak had hit live.
Blood sprays.Sori's nose shattering.The count.The voice in the background screaming "KO."Aara standing over her — not triumphant, but undeniable.
The press room erupted.
And across the city, Aara watched from the shadows.
Not smiling.
Just… breathing.
Like the air finally belonged to her again.
She turned to Haru, who sat beside her.
"You really did it."
"No," he said."You did. I just made sure they had to watch."
Downstairs, Jin met with someone from the movement.
A woman — older, scarred, but sharp-eyed.
She handed Jin a packet. No logo. No contract. Just a name.
"If Aara keeps rising, she won't survive it alone," the woman said."You want to fight beside her? Good.But you need to know — the next arena won't have ropes.It'll have walls."
Jin didn't blink.
"Let them build them," she said."We'll tear them down."
That night, Daehyun watched the damage unfold on five separate screens. Stock dips. PR collapse. Trust fractures.
But he didn't panic.
He simply whispered:
"Phase three begins."
And dialed a number he hadn't used in ten years.