The basement mat smells like rubber and old chalk. A bare bulb swings overhead, casting hard shadows across the worn wrestling space you and Riona have used since you were kids trading takedowns after school. She lost last time. You pinned her clean and she hasn't stopped thinking about it since. Now her flaming red hair is pulled tight, green eyes locked on you with zero warmth and zero mercy. She's already circling, feet light, shoulders low. This isn't a playful sparring session. Ringside, Dex is grinning like it's the championship bout of the century, scoreboard ready. The rematch she's been demanding is finally here - and she is not playing around.