Post-Warzone

The camera finds James Collins outside Morales's locker room, microphone in hand, standing beneath the flat fluorescent light of the backstage corridor. Rook occupies one side of the door, arms folded across his chest. Graves stands opposite him, scrolling through his phone.  Something heavy crashes inside the room. Collins glances at the door. Graves glances back at his phone. A second impact follows, accompanied by the sharp, unmistakable sound of glass breaking. Somewhere behind the door, something metallic hits the floor and continues rattling long enough to suggest it has lost several pieces.

Collins slowly raises his microphone.

“Gentlemen, following another difficult result for Morales, I was hoping we could get a few words about his current state of…”

Rook lifts one finger to his lips.

“Shh.”

Collins lowers the microphone.

From inside comes a tremendous bang, a scraping noise, and one final crash. Then silence. Graves locks his phone and slips it into his pocket. Several seconds pass before the handle turns. Morales steps into the hallway wearing a dark suit, his expression composed, though a fine sheen of sweat still catches the light across his forehead. He adjusts one side of his collar, then the other, smooths the front of his jacket, and notices Collins waiting with the microphone.

Morales clears his throat.

“Next.”

He walks past.

Rook follows immediately. Graves lingers just long enough to ease the locker room door shut behind them, leaving Collins staring after the three men.

Two Days Later- 4 a.m

By the time the camera finds Morales again, his shirt has been abandoned beneath a weight bench, his hand wraps are dark with sweat, and the clock above the gym floor has crept well past the hour when most people begin inventing reasons to go home. The building has settled into its late-night sounds. Fluorescent lights hum above the ring. An old ventilation unit rattles somewhere behind the exposed ductwork, pushing around air that smells of canvas, disinfectant, and hard work. Beyond the ropes, a standing fan turns with a faint mechanical click, reaching the same stubborn point in its rotation every few seconds. Morales barely seems to hear any of it.

He is too busy trying to keep Rook from folding him in half. The larger man has him crowded against the ropes, one thick arm hooked behind his neck while the other fights for control of his wrist. Morales braces a forearm beneath Rook's jaw, shifts his feet, and tries to turn out of the pressure. Rook follows him, planting his boots and squeezing until the tendons stand out along Morales's shoulders. Outside the ring, Graves sits backward on a folding chair with a tablet resting against his knees. His suit jacket hangs neatly from a nearby equipment rack. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, and there is a paper cup beside his shoe that stopped containing anything worth drinking about an hour ago.

“You know, some people respond to a bad week with a vacation.”

Morales digs for an underhook before responding to Graves.

“Some people lose their luggage and spend four days arguing with a woman at the airport.”

“Some people book first class.”

“Some people still get their luggage lost.”

Rook shifts his weight, turning Morales's attempted escape into a grinding side headlock. Morales's answer becomes a breath forced through his teeth as he widens his stance and reaches around the larger man's waist. Graves watches over the top of the tablet.

“Personally, I was thinking somewhere with a beach.”

“Go ahead.”

“I was including you.”

“Then you should've led with that.”

Rook wrenches down another inch before joining the conversation.

“You two finished planning your honeymoon?”

Morales plants a hand against Rook's hip, works his head free, and slips behind him. He gets both hands locked briefly around Rook's middle before a heavy hand drops across his knuckles and begins peeling them apart.

“Jealousy's ugly on you, big man.”

“So's this waistlock.”

Rook breaks the grip and turns, catching Morales around the body before driving him backward. Morales hits the corner pads hard enough to shake the ropes. The air leaves his lungs in a sharp grunt, but he immediately frames against Rook's shoulders and starts working for space.

Graves winces sympathetically.

“There's the luggage.”

They separate on Rook's clean break. Morales steps out of the corner, rolls his neck, and returns to the middle of the ring with his hands raised. Rook watches him for a moment before meeting him there. Neither man is smiling now. Their next exchange is quicker. Morales catches a wrist, turns it over, and steps beneath the arm. Rook follows the pressure instead of fighting it, closing the distance to deny Morales the leverage he wants. A shoulder bumps into Morales's chest. Morales circles away, drops his weight, and reaches for a leg, only for Rook to pull it back and press a broad palm against the back of his head. The attempt ends with Morales on one knee and Rook leaning heavily across his shoulders.

“Again"

Rook releases him.

Graves lowers the tablet.

“That's the sixth time you've asked for that position.”

“Then I should be getting good at it.”

“You're getting very familiar with the floor.”

Morales rises without looking toward him.

“Floor hasn't beaten me yet.”

“Your relationship seems complicated.”

They reset. This time Morales changes the entry. He touches the wrist without committing, gives Rook a small tug, then circles toward the opposite side when the bigger man steps to square up. For half a second the opening is there. Morales gets his shoulder beneath Rook's arm and starts to turn. Rook catches his hip. The mat hits Morales's back with a thick, flat report. For a moment, all he does is stare at the lights.

Rook stands over him, breathing hard.

“You had it.”

Morales sits up.

“Apparently not.”

“You had the turn. You rushed the finish.”

Graves sets the tablet on the apron.

“He's been doing that.”

Morales looks between them, one hand resting on his bent knee.

“Wonderful. We holding office hours now?”

Rook offers him a hand.

“You want us to lie?”

Morales studies the hand, then takes it.

“No.”

Rook pulls him to his feet.

“Then quit getting pissed when we answer.”

That earns a short laugh from Graves. Morales throws him a look, but there is little heat in it. He walks to the ropes, takes the water bottle waiting on the apron, and drinks while Rook loosens his shoulders behind him.

Graves gets up from the chair.

“Fiona. Then this. You've got every right to be annoyed.”

Morales lowers the bottle.

“Annoyed?”

“I was choosing a polite word.”

“You should try another one.”

“Deeply fucking annoyed.”

Graves rests his elbows against the apron. Up close, the humor in his expression softens without disappearing completely.

“Look, I watched the matches. I watched them again when you decided watching them once wasn't miserable enough. There are things getting better.”

Morales screws the cap back onto the bottle.

“The results aren't.”

“No.”

The answer comes without hesitation.

For a few seconds, Morales says nothing. He watches a bead of water run from the bottle onto his thumb, then places it carefully beside the ring post.

Rook crosses the ring and leans against the opposite ropes, giving him room.

“That's what keeps sticking. Everybody can find something nice to say after you lose. Great effort. Tough opponent. Hell of a fight. You hear enough of that shit, you start feeling like a little kid coming home with a participation ribbon. I know what I said after Fiona. I meant it, too. You change things, there's going to be a period where everything doesn't fit right. Timing's off. You see something a second too late because your body's still reaching for the old answer. I understand all that. I also understand that understanding it doesn't make getting your ass beat feel any better.”

The gym is warm enough that his skin has never quite dried between rounds. Sweat gathers at his jaw and falls to the canvas. There is a faint abrasion across one shoulder, and the muscles along his back tighten when he reaches behind his neck.

Graves notices.

“How many hours did you sleep?”

“Enough.”

“That's a beautiful number. Very flexible.”

“I slept.”

“Between watching the match, lifting, and sending me messages at four in the morning?”

Morales rests both hands on his hips.

“You answered.”

“I was awake.”

“So was I.”

“I was at a bar.”

“Then it sounds like we were both working through some shit.”

Rook lets out a low chuckle.

Graves points at him.

“Don't encourage him. And for the record, I was building relationships.”

“Her husband know that?”

“He seemed supportive.”

Morales laughs properly this time, head tipping back for a moment. The sound hangs in the empty gym before settling into a quieter smile. Graves lets him have it, then taps two fingers against the apron.

“You're allowed to be mad, boss. You're allowed to hate every second of this. But if the plan is to work yourself stupid until you can't tell tired from ready, I'm going to start being irritating.”

“Start?”

Rook steps toward the center.

“One more round. Then you listen to him.”

Morales turns his head.

“You setting my schedule now?”

“You asked me to make you work.”

“And?”

“You're working.”

There is no challenge in Rook's voice, no need to prove anything beyond what he has already been proving for the last hour. He stands waiting, hands loose, shoulders broad enough to blot out part of the far wall.

Morales studies him, then walks forward.

“Fine. One more.”

Graves retrieves the tablet but leaves its screen dark.

“Try leaving him with the same number of arms he started with. We have plans for those.”

Rook raises his hands.

“I'll be gentle.”

Morales's grin returns.

“That's sweet. I won't.”

They meet in the middle, hands touching, breaking apart, touching again. Rook reaches for the collar tie. Morales slips the first attempt and catches the second at the wrist, turning his body as he draws the arm across. Rook squares up before Morales can get around him. This time, Morales does not force it. He lets the grip go, steps back, and makes Rook follow. Graves watches the exchange with more interest than his casual posture suggests.

“There. That's better.”

“Thought you were giving us privacy.”

“You'd miss me.”

Morales ducks beneath Rook's reaching arm and comes up against his side. A brief struggle for position follows, forearms braced, boots scuffing against the mat. Rook tries to turn into him, and Morales gives ground in small, measured steps, staying balanced instead of trying to win the entire exchange at once. Graves walks slowly along the apron.

“You keep talking like every loss reaches backward and cancels everything you did before it.”

Morales's cheek is pressed against Rook's shoulder.

“Little busy.”

“You're always busy. I have to fit these things in.”

Rook tries to pull Morales into another headlock. Morales keeps his elbow tight and circles clear.

Graves continues.

“You beat people who mattered. You won championships. You got within reach of something bigger, and then it went to shit. That happened. So did the good stuff.”

Morales catches Rook's wrist again.

“Good stuff doesn't get me the next win.”

“No. But neither does acting like you've forgotten how.”

Rook advances, forcing Morales to move.

For several seconds, there is only the sound of their breathing and the low scrape of wrestling boots. Morales pulls at the arm, lets Rook resist, and changes direction when the pressure comes back.

Graves leans against the corner post.

“You know what they say. Always darkest before the dawn.”

Morales glances toward him.

“Who's they?”

“People who put inspirational quotes over pictures of mountains.”

“Those people ever take a powerbomb?”

“Probably why they moved to the mountains.”

Rook snorts, and Morales nearly loses his grip laughing.

He recovers before Rook can capitalize, slips away, and shakes out his hands.

Graves spreads his own.

“I'm serious.”

“You just admitted you're quoting somebody's aunt's Facebook page.”

“Wisdom travels.”

“So does food poisoning.”

“Fine. Stay miserable. I'll get a mountain with a different quote.”

Morales circles Rook, his expression easing even as his eyes remain fixed on the larger man's shoulders.

After a moment, he answers more quietly.

“I get what you mean.”

Graves waits.

Morales catches Rook's lead hand and pushes it aside.

“I just don't like the part where people act like morning shows up because you've suffered enough. Like you hit some magic number and the universe finally owes you something.”

Rook gets a hand behind Morales's neck. Morales frames against his chest and keeps moving.

“I've been miserable before. Didn't make me special. Didn't make the next guy lay down for me. Bell rang, and he still wanted to knock my fucking head off.”

 Rook closes the distance and forces him into another clinch. Morales's feet slide half a step before he settles beneath the pressure. His face tightens with the effort, but he holds his position. Graves watches him work.

“The point is, you don't know how close you are while you're in it. You could spend tonight convincing yourself nothing's working, then walk in next week and finally put the whole thing together.”

Rook starts to turn him. Morales goes with it. The movement is small at first, almost another concession of ground. He keeps hold of Rook's arm, changes his angle, and steps close enough that the larger man has to adjust his stance. Rook recognizes the danger and begins pulling his elbow back. Morales moves before he can clear it. He rolls through sharply, drawing the captured arm with him. His hips turn beneath Rook's center of gravity, one leg swinging into position as the momentum tips the bigger man forward and carries him down to the canvas. The ring shudders beneath their combined weight. Morales follows the roll without losing the wrist. He settles across the arm, knees pinching tight, heels drawing in as he aligns Rook's elbow against his hips. There is no wild wrenching at the finish. His grip closes, his body tightens, and the remaining space disappears. Rook taps lightly against Morales's thigh twice. Morales releases immediately. He rolls away onto his back, arms falling open against the canvas, and draws a deep breath that expands his chest before leaving him in a long, exhausted rush. Beside him, Rook sits up and flexes his hand.

“Better.”

Morales stares at the ceiling.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Graves nods toward the position they have just left.

“And look at that. Didn't need to rip it off to know you had it.”

Rook checks his elbow once more.

“Appreciated that part.”

Morales turns his head toward him.

“You're welcome. Put it in my review.”

“Three stars. Management's a pain in the ass.”

“Three?”

“Parking's terrible.”

Graves laughs and finally sets the tablet down. He reaches for two clean towels, tossing one to Rook and laying the other over the bottom rope near Morales. For a while, nobody speaks. Rook gets to his feet first, taking his time as he rolls his shoulder. Morales stays on the canvas, breathing through his nose now, watching the fan turn beyond the ropes. His pulse is still loud in his ears, but the frantic edge that brought him into the building has finally begun to recede. When he sits up, the expression on his face is quieter.

“I'd be lying. If I sat here and told you these losses weren't leaving a sour taste in my mouth, I'd be lying. I can stand in front of a camera and take responsibility. I can give somebody their credit. Shake their hand if they earned it. Go back, watch the footage, find where I fucked up. I can do all of that. But I still have to walk back through that curtain knowing I lost. Still have to sit down and take these boots off with that shit replaying in my head. Every opening I missed. Every time I should've moved sooner. Then somebody tells me I looked good out there, and I have to figure out how to thank them without sounding like an asshole.”

Morales reaches for the towel and drags it over his face.

“I hate it. I fucking hate it. With a burning passion.”

He lowers the towel into his lap.

“I hate hearing the three count when I'm the one underneath somebody. Hate getting that close and feeling it slip. Hate knowing I've got more in me and having to wait until the next match to prove it. And I know what I look like when I'm angry. You both saw enough of that tonight.”

Graves glances briefly toward Rook.

“The chair had it coming. The mirror, though, seemed neutral.”

“Wrong place. Wrong time.”

The smile lasts a few seconds before Morales looks down at his hands again.

“I needed a minute. Took my minute. Now I've got to do something useful with the rest of it.”

He begins unwinding one hand wrap, slowly pulling the damp fabric away from his knuckles.

“Because I can go back to the hotel and keep being pissed off. Stare at the ceiling, watch the match another twenty times, make myself sick over something that already happened. Then I wake up tomorrow, and I'm still the guy who lost.”

He looks toward Rook.

“Or I come here. Find out why you keep catching me on that turn. Let you throw me on my ass until I stop giving it to you.”

Rook nods.

“Stopped giving it to me.”

“Eventually.”

“Still counts.”

Morales looks toward Graves next.

“And I listen when you tell me something I don't feel like hearing.”

Graves lifts a finger.

“I'd like that in writing.”

“Don't push it.”

Morales drops the loosened wrap beside him and begins working on the other.

“But the anger's still there. All this work, all this talking, I'm still mad as hell. So I'm going to take it where I've always taken it. My next opponent. I'm going to take every ounce of this anger, every bit of hate I've got for how these last few matches ended, and do the only thing I know how to do with it. Take it out on whoever gets in that ring with me.”

He finishes removing the wrap and sets it beside the first.

“And I'm going to take my fucking time.”

Morales plants a boot beneath him and stands. His legs are heavy, and he gives himself a moment before walking to the ropes. Rook offers the water bottle. Morales takes it, drinks, then rests his forearms along the top rope in front of Graves.

Graves is already reaching for the tablet.

The screen lights his face as he opens a file.

Morales watches him, breathing steadily, the towel hanging loosely from one hand.

“Scouting report finished?”

“Finished enough to make this interesting.”

Graves turns the tablet around. Rook leans over his shoulder.

“She looks pleasant.”

“Carol Doll. The Marionette. Salem, Massachusetts. Five-nine, one-forty-eight. This will be her second match.”

Morales takes the tablet.

“Second?”

“Second. Which means the report comes with a little humility. We have limited footage, her listed offense, and what she's shown of her temperament. I can give you tendencies. Anyone promising you a complete psychological profile is stealing your money.”

“Good thing you work cheap.”

Graves looks down at his watch, then back up.

“We should discuss that.”

“We just did.”

Rook chuckles as Morales begins scrolling.

The smile on Morales's face gradually changes. His thumb slows over the screen, and he moves back to the beginning of the notes. Graves watches him reread the section on Carol's offense, then return to the description of her in-ring behavior.

Graves starts to grin before speaking.

“Something familiar?”

“Maybe.”

“Come on.”

Madd glances at him.

Graves gestures toward the image.

“Dark entrance. Crawling out of somewhere nobody was looking. Wants you thinking about what’s wrong with her before you start thinking about what she can do. Then she starts moving, and suddenly you’ve got somebody throwing herself at your head while trying to pull your shoulder out.”

Rook’s mouth begins to curl.

Graves continues before Madd can answer.

“High-flying offense. Mean little submission game underneath it. More interested in making somebody regret getting in there than making friends.”

Madd looks back at the tablet.

“You trying to tell me something?”

“I’m saying if she starts talking to a reflection, I’m calling your lawyer.”

Rook laughs.

Madd shakes his head, but the corner of his mouth lifts.

“Fuck off.”

“Should I check whether she has a little mask in her luggage?”

“Keep talking. I'll put you in one.”

Graves raises both hands.

“There he is.”

Morales shakes his head and opens the available footage. The three men gather near the ropes as the clip plays, Graves standing outside the ring while Rook watches over Morales's shoulder.

At first, Morales follows Carol's movement without comment. Then he drags the footage back and watches again.

This time, he smiles.

Graves notices immediately.

“What?”

Morales turns the screen slightly.

“I know that feeling.”

“Which feeling?”

“When you're right there, and you think you can beat somebody to the next thing.”

He lets the footage continue, watching Carol move.

“You've got speed. You know you can get your body somewhere theirs won't go. You start seeing openings everywhere because you're used to making them.”

Rook studies the screen.

“And sometimes they aren't there.”

Morales nods.

“Sometimes the other guy's letting you think they are.”

He pauses the footage and holds the tablet out to Graves.

Graves takes it.

“You've seen enough?”

“No. I just know where I want to start.”

Morales steps back toward the middle of the ring and motions to Rook.

The larger man stares at him.

“We had an agreement.”

“Come here.”

“One more round, you said.”

“This is educational.”

“My insurance cover education?”

“Depends how well you listen.”

Rook pushes away from the ropes with a theatrical sigh. Morales waits until he is in front of him, then settles into a loose stance.

“Carol and I aren't worlds apart. I still go up. Still use speed. Still want somebody wondering whether I'm going over their head or taking their shoulder apart.”

Graves rests the tablet against the apron.

“So?”

“So I've had people solve that problem before.”

Morales offers Rook his wrist.

“Grab it.”

Rook does.

Morales starts turning beneath the arm, stepping lightly as though preparing to move around the larger man. Rook follows for a moment before Morales stops him.

“Hold your ground.”

Rook plants his feet.

Morales tries the movement again. This time, the anchored grip checks him before he can finish.

“There.”

Graves tilts his head.

“Nothing happened.”

“Exactly.”

Morales looks at Rook's hand around his wrist.

“I used to get so pissed off at that. Somebody wouldn't follow me. Wouldn't let the match get moving. I'm trying to build speed, get a rhythm, and they keep dragging me back into something ugly and close.”

He gestures toward their joined hands.

“Now I've got to get this bastard off me before I can do anything pretty.”

Rook tightens his grip slightly.

“Language.”

“You're a beautiful bastard.”

“Better.”

Morales works his wrist free and steps away.

“Guys who gave me trouble weren't always faster. Some of them just made me start over. Every time I thought I had space, there was a hand on me. Every time I wanted a clean run, they made me turn.”

Graves begins typing.

“Interrupt the setup.”

“Yeah. Before she gets to the part that looks impressive.”

Morales walks toward the ropes and rests a palm against the top strand.

“People watch somebody springboard and start talking about catching them. I've been caught. Hurts like hell. But you know what used to get me worse? Getting stopped before I ever left. You're already thinking about where you're landing. Already got the next movement in your head. Then somebody gets a hand on your ankle, or bumps you off balance, or just gets close enough that you have to stop.”

He lets go.

“Now I'm irritated because they ruined my shit, and I try to make it happen anyway.”

Graves looks up.

“You do enjoy proving something can still work.”

“Enjoyed it enough to get knocked on my ass.”

“The use of past tense is ambitious.”

Morales points at him.

“Useful observation. Terrible delivery.”

“I'm refining it.”

Morales turns back to Rook.

“If I'm in position to interfere with her setup, that's where I want to be. Get contact early. Make her reset. If she still wants to force it, I need to be ready for what she tries next. That's where I can make her work. If I get control, don't throw it away because I want the next move. Make her solve the position. If she escapes, fine. Make her solve another one.”

Graves looks down at the list.

“She's got an arm drag, headscissors, satellite DDT. Plenty of ways to turn movement against you.”

“Because that's what I'd want.”

Morales grins, then gestures toward the tablet.

“What's next?”

“Targeting. Neck, arms, back. Modified octopus stretch for the submission. The Marionette's Strings.”

“If she gets something hurting, I've got to take it seriously. Protect it properly. But I can also watch how hard she starts looking for it. Does she keep her position, or does she start reaching because she thinks the finish is right there?”

Rook considers that.

“Make her reach.”

“Give her a reason to, if I can do it without getting my damn arm broken.”

Graves raises a finger.

“That qualifier feels important.”

“Put it in bold. I've had people show me something hurt, and I've gone after it too fast. Next thing I know, I'm out of position because I assumed they had nothing left except the injury.”

He accepts the towel Graves offers.

“So if she starts hunting, I want to know whether she's still watching everything else.”

Graves makes another note.

“And when you're the one hunting?”

Morales drags the towel over his face.

“Same lesson applies. I get an arm, I work it. She gets free, I don't throw a tantrum because the match didn't end on my schedule. There'll be another exchange.”

Rook gestures toward the mat.

“Like the roll earlier.”

“Yeah.”

“You waited.”

“Eventually.”

Graves smiles.

“We're building a brand around that word.”

Morales throws the towel at him.

Graves catches it against his chest, looking offended.

“This is how people quit.”

“You'd miss us.”

“I'd miss the money you keep implying exists.”

Rook's laughter rolls through the empty gym.

Morales rests his elbows across the top rope and looks down at the screen again.

“Aerial finishes. Top-rope corkscrew moonsault. Avalanche flipping piledriver.”

Rook exhales.

“That second one sounds deeply unpleasant.”

Morales studies the listing.

“Yeah. Let's avoid the personal review. I've got enough to think about without guessing what she keeps in the trunk.”

Graves locks the screen, but he does not put the tablet away.

Instead, he studies Morales.

“You know what I like about this?”

“My incredible insight?”

“Your modesty is staggering.”

Rook snorts.

Graves continues.

“You finally found a use for all those matches you keep beating yourself up over.”

Morales's expression changes.

He looks down at the canvas, at the dark patches their sweat has left near the center.

For a while, none of them speaks.

Then Morales nods.

“Yeah. Funny thing. You lose enough, you start wishing you could cut pieces out. Whole nights. Whole matches. Pretend they didn't happen because you hate how you looked. But I remember what happened to me. Remember the grip that stopped me. Remember why I got caught. Remember getting impatient because somebody wouldn't wrestle the match I wanted.”

Morales turns toward Carol's image as Graves wakes the screen again.

“She's going to want things in there. So am I. I've just had more people make me pay when wanting something turned into forcing it.”

Rook nods.

“That's experience.”

“Yeah.”

Morales gives a faint, tired smile.

“Expensive as fuck.”

Graves returns it.

“Should probably get your money's worth.”

Morales approaches the apron again, looking at the match details beneath Carol's name. Skirmish Championship contendership. His eyes settle there.

“This matters to her, too.”

Graves follows his gaze.

“Second match. Chance to get into the title picture. Of course it does.”

“I know that feeling.”

Morales rests a hand against the rope.

“Everybody else sees somebody new. You see a chance to get your name somewhere they can't ignore it. You start thinking about what beating an established guy does for you. I've been that guy. Walked in with the whole future already playing in my head. Also made me forget the guy in front of me had plans of his own.”

Graves studies Carol's picture once more before closing the report.

“So we respect what she can do.”

“Yeah.”

“And make her wrestle somebody who's had to learn the hard way.”

Morales's grin returns, small but unmistakable.

“Now you're getting it.”

He slides through the ropes and drops to the floor. His legs protest when he lands, and he gives them a second before reaching for the shirt beside the bench.

Graves steps aside.

“Tomorrow we go through it with somebody closer to her speed.”

Rook looks wounded.

“I have speed.”

“You have momentum.”

“Want a demonstration?”

Graves puts the chair between them.

Morales laughs as he pulls the shirt over his head.

A knock interrupts the room.

All three men turn toward the gym entrance.

Beyond the narrow window stands James Collins, microphone in hand. A camera operator waits behind his shoulder, shifting the equipment as Collins peers through the glass.

Graves looks back at Morales.

“Apparently ‘next' was an appointment.”

Morales smooths the shirt down over his stomach.

“Persistent little bastard.”

Rook opens the door.

Collins offers him a cautious nod, then looks past him toward Morales.

“Morales. Sorry for the late visit. I was hoping we could get that interview for the CWF website.”

Morales reaches for the towel.

Collins steps into the gym with the camera operator close behind him. Rook shuts the door while Graves retrieves his jacket from the equipment rack, slipping the tablet beneath one arm. Morales remains beside the ring, wiping the sweat from his face before draping the towel over his shoulder. His breathing has settled, though the hours of work remain visible in the rise and fall of his chest and the damp shirt clinging to his back. The camera operator finds an angle with the ring behind him. Collins waits for the signal, straightens his posture, and lifts the microphone.

“Morales, earlier tonight, we attempted to get your thoughts following another disappointing loss. Given your recent results, there are questions about whether…”

“Jimmy.”

Collins stops.

Morales adjusts the towel on his shoulder, his eyes briefly dropping to the microphone before returning to the interviewer's face.

“You came all the way down here. I respect the commitment. But I've spent enough time tonight talking about somebody who already beat me. Right now, I want to talk to the person who's going to try next.”

Collins glances toward the camera, then back at him.

“Carol Doll.”

Morales nods.

“Carol Doll.”

He turns toward the lens, settling against the apron with his hands resting loosely at his sides. Rook takes a place near the ring post while Graves stands a little farther back, leaving Morales the space. For several seconds, Morales simply studies the camera. When he speaks, the remaining humor in his expression gives way to something more attentive.

“Carol, I spent a little time getting acquainted with you tonight. Watched what I could find. Looked at how you move, what you go after, what you're willing to do when somebody's standing between you and what you want. Gave me a funny feeling. Usually, when I see that much of myself in somebody, there's a mirror involved, and the conversation gets a whole lot less pleasant.”

Graves lowers his eyes with a small smile. Morales's attention stays on the lens.

“I recognize some things. The way you make somebody keep watching you because they don't quite know what you're going to do. The willingness to leave your feet when most people would think twice. And then you get your hands on somebody, and suddenly they find out there's a whole other problem underneath all the stuff they noticed first. That was a lot of my introduction to this place. People saw the entrance. Saw the attitude. Saw some kid who could throw himself off something high and figured they'd gotten the full picture. Meanwhile, I was waiting for them to leave an arm somewhere I could reach it.”

Morales glances down at his hands, flexing the fingers once before looking back up.

“And I expected it. Before they ever opened their mouths, I expected them to look down on me. Expected the veteran speech. Expected somebody to tell me I hadn't been here long enough to be dangerous.”

His grin widens slightly.

“I enjoyed correcting them. So if you're watching this, waiting for me to tell you you're too new, too strange, too small a name to be a problem, you can get comfortable. I'm going to disappoint you.”

Collins lowers the microphone a fraction as Morales's voice carries through the quiet gym.

“This is your second match. That tells me how long you've been having matches here. It doesn't tell me how much trouble you can cause in one. I remember what it felt like to be the name somebody skimmed over while they were thinking about the next opponent. Remember walking into a match knowing the other person had prepared for an idea of me that I'd already outgrown.”

Morales's expression hardens.

“I'm not giving you that advantage. You might be a hell of a lot more dangerous than people realize. You might be the person this roster should've started paying attention to before you crawled out in front of them. I can believe that. I've been that hidden problem before. Been the guy who made somebody wish they'd taken five extra minutes to find out what they were getting into. So you're getting those five minutes. You're getting the footage watched. You're getting the work. You're getting a man who's thinking about how you can beat him while he's figuring out how to beat you.”

Morales draws the towel from his shoulder and folds it loosely between his hands.

“And I hope you understand what that means, because some people hear respect and start getting comfortable.”

He sets the towel on the apron.

“I'm taking you seriously enough to come after you properly. I know what I look like right now, Carol. I know what the results say. You'd have to be out of your damn mind to look at a man coming off these losses and not think there might be something there for you. Maybe you catch me frustrated. Maybe I reach when I shouldn't. Maybe I get so desperate to put somebody away that I give you exactly what you need.”

His jaw shifts before he continues.

“Those are fair things to look for. They've cost me before.”

For a moment, Morales's eyes drift toward the ring where he and Rook have spent the last several hours. When he turns back, the smile has returned, quieter and more assured.

“I've been looking at them, too.”

He gestures over his shoulder.

“That's what you walked into tonight, Jimmy. That's why I'm still here. Because I remember how people beat me. Remember the mistakes I made trying to prove I was faster, tougher, meaner, crazier than the person across from me. Remember how much energy I wasted trying to make somebody understand who the fuck Morales was.”

Collins stays silent.

Morales looks directly into the lens.

“And looking at you, Carol, I remember how good it felt to think nobody in the building understood what I was capable of. Dangerous feeling. Makes you hungry. Makes you bold. Can also make you walk straight into somebody who's already learned how to deal with everything you're so proud of. When I brought that attitude into the big leagues, I needed a wake-up call. Needed somebody who could take what I had, stay in front of me, and make me figure out what the hell I was going to do when being impressive stopped being enough. I got it. More than once. Some nights, I learned something right away. Other nights, I was a stubborn little bastard and had to get taught again.”

Graves gives Rook a knowing look. Morales catches the movement at the edge of his vision.

“Keep your comments to yourselves.”

Rook lifts one hand innocently. Graves smiles without answering.

Morales turns back to the camera, amusement still lingering around his mouth.

“I'm still stubborn. You'll find that out. But I've been here long enough to know what somebody can hide beneath the entrance. Long enough to know that hurting you doesn't mean I've beaten you. That getting you down doesn't mean you're staying there. That if I stop paying attention because I think I've got you figured out, you can make me pay before I finish the thought. So I'm going to keep paying attention. When you start moving, I'm going to be right there with you. When you get your hands on me, you're going to find out I've spent a lot of time in ugly positions. And when I get mine on you, I'm going to make you work for every inch you want back. You're going to have chances. I'm too experienced to stand here and pretend otherwise. You're quick, you're vicious, and you're willing to take risks. Somewhere in that match, you might find the opening you've been waiting for.”

His grin returns.

“You'd better be ready when you do. Because this is a contender's match for the Skirmish Championship. There's a title opportunity waiting on the other side of it, and I've spent enough nights walking back through that curtain with nothing except something else to think about. I want to win this match. Want that championship opportunity. Want more gold beside my name. And you happen to want something that requires going through me. That puts us in a very simple situation.”

Morales moves half a step closer to the lens. The camera operator adjusts to keep him framed, catching the sweat still gathered near his hairline and the unhurried confidence returning to his posture.

“I recognize you, Carol. Some of what you are. Some of what you might become. Enough that I'm interested in finding out what happens when somebody makes you work harder than you expected. Second match, and you've already got a chance to put yourself in the title picture. Hell of an opportunity. I'd be excited. I'd also hope the guy across from me wasn't quite so happy to be there. But I am. I'm glad it's me. Glad I get to see what you've got when the bell rings and there's nowhere left to hide the work you've done.”

He holds the camera's gaze.

“This is your welcome to the CWF moment, Carol. And I'm glad I get to do the honors.”

Behind him, Graves sets the tablet aside. Rook pushes away from the ring post, the two men stepping into place on either side of Morales.

Morales raises the horns.

“Because whatever you bring into that ring, I'm going to do what I've been working my ass off to do.”

Rook and Graves raise theirs beside him.

“Adapt. Overcome. Conquer.”

Morales holds the gesture for a moment, then lowers his hand and turns toward Collins.

“There's your interview, Jimmy.”

He retrieves his towel from the apron as the camera cuts.