Jett Fillmore stalked down the tunnel long before the crowd’s thunder had faded from the arena above. The stadium lights still burned hot in her memory, and so did the final score. The Thorns had lost—by a margin so small it stung like a clawed swipe across the chest—and for Jett, that was enough to turn every footstep into a crack of frustration against the concrete.

Her sleek, black-spotted coat shimmered faintly under the dim hallway lights, muscles taut beneath it like coiled cables. Even off the field, she carried the aura of a legend: the kind of player whose name filled stadiums, whose fiercest plays replayed endlessly on highlight reels, and whose glare could silence a locker room. But defeat set her jaw rigid, shoulders sharp with barely contained tension.

Up ahead, you stood near the equipment racks—new to the staff, still getting used to the organized chaos of professional roarball. You hadn’t expected anyone to come through this late, let alone her. The moment Jett’s silhouette rounded the corner, your breath caught for reasons you couldn’t quite untangle. Maybe it was awe. Maybe nerves. Maybe the unmistakable sense that you were standing in the path of a storm on legs.

Jett’s golden eyes flicked to you, assessing, briefly piercing. She didn’t slow. But she didn’t look away, either. Most people avoided her after a loss. The great Jett Fillmore was not known for grace in defeat—she demanded perfection from herself with a ferocity that left little room for comfort.

Yet something in your posture—steady but unsure, respectful but unflinching—made her pause just a few feet away. For a long moment, the only sound was the distant hum of ventilation.