Post by April Madrox on Nov 17, 2024 22:59:31 GMT
The apartment April had rented in San Antonio wasn’t much, but it suited her needs for now—a small studio with a futon shoved against one wall, a kitchenette barely large enough to prepare anything beyond cereal, and a desk where her laptop sat unopened. A single window overlooked the bustling street below, where neon lights painted faint pinks and greens onto the cheap wallpaper. The flickering signs of a diner and a tattoo parlor blinked in an uneven rhythm, the lights intruding into her space like unwelcome reminders of the world outside.
She felt as if she was hiding here, tucked away in this cramped little box that smelled faintly of old coffee and lemon-scented cleaner. She hadn’t decorated; there was no point. Everything about the place felt temporary, much like her life right now. Even the futon, its springs creaking under her slightest movement, seemed to echo her uncertainty.
April sat cross-legged on the futon, hands wrapped tightly around a steaming mug of tea. It was chamomile, supposedly calming, but her nerves were as frayed as ever. She stared at the tea bag string dangling over the rim of the mug, its little paper tag fluttering as though it might spill the secrets she had been hiding from herself. She tried to focus on the tea's warmth against her palms, but her thoughts wouldn't quiet. The air felt thick, suffocating in its silence, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional honk from the street below.
She turned her gaze to the window, the dark glass showing her reflection more than the world outside. A stranger stared back at her—a woman with hair piled in a messy bun, dark circles under her eyes, and a tightness in her jaw that seemed carved in stone. The vibrancy she once had—the fire in her eyes, the confidence in her stance—was gone, replaced by weariness and something dangerously close to resignation.
“What am I even doing?” she muttered aloud, her voice breaking the quiet. It wasn’t like anyone would answer.
She let the words hang there for a moment, then sighed and sipped her tea, though it did little to ease the tension. Her mind wandered back to the events of the last few weeks, an ever-repeating loop of doubt, betrayal, and confusion. The Murder—her family, her refuge—was gone, disbanded in a messy implosion. The group that had once been her foundation now felt like a mistake, a misstep she couldn’t take back. And at the center of it all was Shea.
Shea O’Hara. April still couldn’t figure it out. Had Shea been planning this all along, sowing seeds of discord with a smile and a wink? Or had she seen an opportunity in Brooklyn’s obsession with Dean and seized it? It didn’t matter, not really. The damage was done. Brooklyn was gone, retreating into silence and shadows, and April was left to pick up the pieces of something that had already crumbled to dust.
She set the mug down on the chipped coffee table and pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them like they might keep her from falling apart.
Brooklyn.
The thought of her sister sent a sharp pang through her chest. Brooklyn had always been the strong one, the leader, the shield that kept April safe from the worst of the world. When Brooklyn spoke, people listened. When she acted, people followed. But in the end, even Brooklyn had cracked under the weight of her obsession with beating Dean. April had known it wasn’t healthy, had seen the warning signs, but what could she have done? Brooklyn wouldn’t have listened, not when she was so laser-focused on her goal. And now she was gone, vanishing after her loss, leaving April alone in ways she hadn’t been prepared for.
She tried calling her sister in those first few days, sending texts and leaving voicemails that all went unanswered. And then came Rowan’s challenge—a cryptic, unexpected declaration that left April more confused than ever. What was Rowan’s game? Was Brooklyn pulling the strings from the shadows, or had Rowan taken up the fight for reasons April couldn’t begin to understand?
And then there was Mai. Sweet, unpredictable Mai.
Mai had been the only one in the Murder who felt like a real friend, someone who saw April for more than just Brooklyn’s shadow. But now, Mai was an opponent, vying for the same prize April had spent months chasing. Could she trust Mai not to use their friendship against her in the ring? Worse, could she trust herself not to do the same?
April sighed, pressing her forehead against her knees.
"God, what is wrong with me?" she whispered.
The Women’s World Championship. The weight of it pressed down on her, not physically but emotionally, like an anchor tied to her self-worth. She had earned her spot in the scramble; no one could take that away from her. But earning the spot and deserving the title were two entirely different things. The Women’s World Champion was supposed to be a symbol of excellence, resilience, and grace. April didn’t feel like any of those things.
Her reputation was stained, her legacy tainted by her time in the Murder. She had stood by as Brooklyn made enemies and crushed anyone who got in their way. She had been complicit, even when she knew it was wrong. And now she was paying for it. People looked at her and saw a follower, a puppet, someone who couldn’t stand on her own. And maybe they were right.
Her gaze drifted to the iPhone sitting on the desk, its screen dark but its presence undeniable. It taunted her, a silent reminder of what she needed to do. She had to say something, record some promo to let the world—and herself—know where she stood. But what could she possibly say? That she was ready? That she deserved to be in this match? That she could carry the weight of the Women’s World Championship?
She snorted, the sound bitter and self-deprecating.
“Why me?” she whispered again. “Why now?”
The answer didn’t come. It never did.
The truth was, April didn’t know if she could do this. She didn’t know if she was strong enough, smart enough, or worthy enough to step into that ring and claim the title. But what choice did she have? Brooklyn was gone. Mai was competition. Shea was the enemy. And April? April was just a girl trying to figure out where she belonged in a world that no longer made sense.
Her hands tightened into fists, her nails digging into her palms.
She couldn’t let Shea win. Not after everything Shea had done—turning the others against her, betraying Brooklyn, tearing the Murder apart from the inside out. If Shea walked out of Survival of the Fittest with the Women’s World Championship, it would be like the universe rewarding her for her treachery. April couldn’t let that happen.
But even as she thought it, doubt crept in. What if she failed? What if she couldn’t stop Shea? What if everything she had been through—everything she had lost—was for nothing?
April stood abruptly, the movement almost knocking over the coffee table. She crossed the room to the desk, her bare feet silent against the worn wood floor. The iPhone seemed to stare at her, daring her to pick it up. She reached for it, hesitating for a moment before her fingers closed around the smooth, cold surface.
Her reflection stared back at her from the dark screen.
It was time to stop doubting. Time to stop hiding. Time to start fighting—not just for the title, but for herself. For Brooklyn. For everything that had been taken from her.
And if she couldn’t win, she’d make damn sure Shea didn’t either.
April propped her iPhone against a precarious stack of books on the desk, ensuring the camera wouldn’t tilt or wobble. She adjusted it once, then again, the repetitive action both a ritual and a way to steady her racing mind. The ring light she’d purchased during a fleeting moment of optimism last year bathed her face in an even glow. It erased the shadows that clung stubbornly to the corners of the room but did nothing to hide the truth written in her features. Every sleepless night, every second-guess, every wound the last few weeks had inflicted—it was all there for anyone who cared to look.
She eased into the chair, fidgeting with her posture until she felt centered. This wasn’t just another promo. This wasn’t just another match. It felt like a reckoning. Her reckoning.
Her finger hovered over the record button for a moment longer than necessary, but with a steadying breath, she pressed it. The little red dot blinked to life, and so did April. She stared into the lens, letting the camera capture not just her image but the conviction she was trying to summon.
Her voice, calm yet sharp as a blade, sliced through the quiet.
“Sunday night. Survival of the Fittest. Four of us enter, but only one walks out as the Women’s World Champion.”
She let the words hang in the air for a heartbeat, each syllable deliberate, a foundation on which she would build the rest of her case.
“Charlotte. Mai. Shea. And me. We’re the final four, the ones who’ve clawed our way to this moment. For each of us, this match represents something different. For Charlotte, it’s the chance to prove she’s more than just a Cinderella story. For Mai, it’s about chaos and unpredictability, about showing the world that she can’t be contained. For Shea…”
Her voice faltered, but only slightly. She wouldn’t let Shea O’Hara derail her, not here, not now. Her lips pressed into a thin line before she continued.
“For Shea, this is about ego. It’s about power. It’s about proving that betraying the Murder was worth it. And maybe for her, it was. After all, look at where she is now—on the cusp of greatness, ready to cash in on and take the ultimate prize. But here’s the thing about Shea O’Hara: she’s a snake. She slithered her way into our group, sowed the seeds of discord, and waited until the moment was right to strike. She didn’t just betray Brooklyn or me—she betrayed everyone who ever believed in her. And come Sunday, I’m going to make sure she doesn’t get rewarded for it.”
The words were as much for her as they were for anyone else. Every syllable felt like she was carving her way out of the past Shea had thrown her into, one where betrayal was a scar that wouldn’t fade. April leaned forward, her fingers tightening around the desk’s edge.
“Shea, you might think you’ve won. You’ve got the rest of the Murder eating out of the palm of your hand, and you’ve positioned yourself as the woman to beat. But here’s the thing: I see you for what you are. And while you might have turned everyone else against me, you can’t take me out of this match. You can’t erase me. And when we step into that ring, I’m going to show you why you should have never underestimated me.”
Her voice sharpened, almost daring Shea to challenge her in the way only Shea could.
But this wasn’t just about Shea. The looming presence of her other opponents wasn’t something she could ignore, nor something she wanted to. Her tone softened, but her eyes burned with the same intensity as she shifted her focus.
“Mai…”
A flicker of warmth cracked through the icy determination in her voice, an echo of something softer, something real. A smile, fleeting and bittersweet, tugged at her lips.
“Girl, you know we've always had this mutual respect for each other. You've always managed to leave the emotions at the door and just focus on your craft. And, hell, what a craft you'e managed to hone. You’ve always been unpredictable, but you've turned that unpredictability into something greater - and that’s what makes you dangerous. But hun, it’s also what makes you vulnerable. You thrive in chaos, but chaos has a way of consuming even the best of us. You’re my friend, Mai, but Sunday night, friendship takes a backseat. Because when it comes down to it, only one of us can walk out with that title. And I’m not going to let you—or anyone else—stand in my way.”
Mai had been the closest thing she had to an friend in the Murder, and even now, April felt a pang of guilt acknowledging that their bond might not survive this match. She hoped it would - but for now she pushed that aside. Survival of the Fittest wasn’t about bonds; it was about proving herself in a way she never had before.
Her expression hardened as she moved to her final opponent.
“Char-Char Binx. The golden girl. The one who’s defied the odds time and time again. You’ve earned your place in this match, and I won’t take that away from you. But here’s the thing about fairy tales: they’re just that—stories. And when Sunday night rolls around, the clock’s going to strike midnight. The magic will fade, and you’ll find yourself facing the harsh reality that this isn’t your time. It’s mine.”
She leaned back slightly, her words hanging in the air like smoke. The camera captured not just her words but the raw conviction in them, the vulnerability she wasn’t trying to hide. Her opponents weren’t just competitors; they were mirrors reflecting her insecurities, her strengths, and her doubts back at her. And yet, she couldn’t afford to falter.
“As for me? I know what everyone’s thinking. ‘April doesn’t deserve this. She’s a shadow of her sister. She’s been tainted by the Murder.’ And you know what? Maybe you’re right. Maybe I don’t deserve to be here. Maybe I don’t deserve to call myself the Women’s World Champion.”
Her voice dropped, but the intensity didn’t waver. If anything, it grew sharper, more focused.
“But here’s the thing: I’m not here to win a popularity contest. I’m here to fight. To prove that I’m more than the mistakes I’ve made, more than the shadow I’ve been living in. And if that means going through each and every one of you to do it, then so be it.”
She let the statement sit, heavy and final. But the truth was, it wasn’t final. Nothing about this felt final, not yet. This wasn’t the conclusion to her story—it was the next chapter, one she was determined to write on her terms.
April leaned forward again, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, a thread of vulnerability winding through the steel.
“Sunday night, I’m not just fighting for the title. I’m fighting for me. For my future. For the chance to rewrite my story. So when that bell rings, you better be ready, because I’m coming for everything. And I’m not leaving empty-handed.”
Her hand reached out, her finger hovering over the stop button. She hesitated, the weight of her words pressing down on her like a physical force. Did she mean them? Could she live up to them? Her mind churned with the unspoken doubts that clung to her like shadows.
She hit stop, and the room was plunged into silence. The little red dot disappeared, leaving her staring at the now-darkened screen. She sat there for a long moment, the weight of her own words settling over her like a heavy blanket. She wasn’t just preparing for a match; she was preparing for a war.
And it wasn’t just about the Women’s World Championship. It wasn’t just about Shea, or Mai, or Charlotte. It was about proving to herself that she could rise above everything that had come before. That she could be more than Brooklyn’s little sister. More than a former member of the Murder. More than a shadow.
Her reflection on the black screen stared back at her, a woman caught between who she was and who she wanted to be. The glow of the ring light faded as she leaned back in the chair, exhaustion settling in. But somewhere beneath the fatigue, there was a flicker of determination.
She picked up the phone, watching the video replay for a moment before sending it off. The battle would begin long before the bell rang, and this was her opening salvo. As the file uploaded, she allowed herself a small, resolute smile.
Sunday night, the world would see a different April. Not the girl they dismissed, not the shadow they overlooked, but the fighter she was becoming.
The journey wasn’t over. It was only just beginning.
She felt as if she was hiding here, tucked away in this cramped little box that smelled faintly of old coffee and lemon-scented cleaner. She hadn’t decorated; there was no point. Everything about the place felt temporary, much like her life right now. Even the futon, its springs creaking under her slightest movement, seemed to echo her uncertainty.
April sat cross-legged on the futon, hands wrapped tightly around a steaming mug of tea. It was chamomile, supposedly calming, but her nerves were as frayed as ever. She stared at the tea bag string dangling over the rim of the mug, its little paper tag fluttering as though it might spill the secrets she had been hiding from herself. She tried to focus on the tea's warmth against her palms, but her thoughts wouldn't quiet. The air felt thick, suffocating in its silence, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional honk from the street below.
She turned her gaze to the window, the dark glass showing her reflection more than the world outside. A stranger stared back at her—a woman with hair piled in a messy bun, dark circles under her eyes, and a tightness in her jaw that seemed carved in stone. The vibrancy she once had—the fire in her eyes, the confidence in her stance—was gone, replaced by weariness and something dangerously close to resignation.
“What am I even doing?” she muttered aloud, her voice breaking the quiet. It wasn’t like anyone would answer.
She let the words hang there for a moment, then sighed and sipped her tea, though it did little to ease the tension. Her mind wandered back to the events of the last few weeks, an ever-repeating loop of doubt, betrayal, and confusion. The Murder—her family, her refuge—was gone, disbanded in a messy implosion. The group that had once been her foundation now felt like a mistake, a misstep she couldn’t take back. And at the center of it all was Shea.
Shea O’Hara. April still couldn’t figure it out. Had Shea been planning this all along, sowing seeds of discord with a smile and a wink? Or had she seen an opportunity in Brooklyn’s obsession with Dean and seized it? It didn’t matter, not really. The damage was done. Brooklyn was gone, retreating into silence and shadows, and April was left to pick up the pieces of something that had already crumbled to dust.
She set the mug down on the chipped coffee table and pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them like they might keep her from falling apart.
Brooklyn.
The thought of her sister sent a sharp pang through her chest. Brooklyn had always been the strong one, the leader, the shield that kept April safe from the worst of the world. When Brooklyn spoke, people listened. When she acted, people followed. But in the end, even Brooklyn had cracked under the weight of her obsession with beating Dean. April had known it wasn’t healthy, had seen the warning signs, but what could she have done? Brooklyn wouldn’t have listened, not when she was so laser-focused on her goal. And now she was gone, vanishing after her loss, leaving April alone in ways she hadn’t been prepared for.
She tried calling her sister in those first few days, sending texts and leaving voicemails that all went unanswered. And then came Rowan’s challenge—a cryptic, unexpected declaration that left April more confused than ever. What was Rowan’s game? Was Brooklyn pulling the strings from the shadows, or had Rowan taken up the fight for reasons April couldn’t begin to understand?
And then there was Mai. Sweet, unpredictable Mai.
Mai had been the only one in the Murder who felt like a real friend, someone who saw April for more than just Brooklyn’s shadow. But now, Mai was an opponent, vying for the same prize April had spent months chasing. Could she trust Mai not to use their friendship against her in the ring? Worse, could she trust herself not to do the same?
April sighed, pressing her forehead against her knees.
"God, what is wrong with me?" she whispered.
The Women’s World Championship. The weight of it pressed down on her, not physically but emotionally, like an anchor tied to her self-worth. She had earned her spot in the scramble; no one could take that away from her. But earning the spot and deserving the title were two entirely different things. The Women’s World Champion was supposed to be a symbol of excellence, resilience, and grace. April didn’t feel like any of those things.
Her reputation was stained, her legacy tainted by her time in the Murder. She had stood by as Brooklyn made enemies and crushed anyone who got in their way. She had been complicit, even when she knew it was wrong. And now she was paying for it. People looked at her and saw a follower, a puppet, someone who couldn’t stand on her own. And maybe they were right.
Her gaze drifted to the iPhone sitting on the desk, its screen dark but its presence undeniable. It taunted her, a silent reminder of what she needed to do. She had to say something, record some promo to let the world—and herself—know where she stood. But what could she possibly say? That she was ready? That she deserved to be in this match? That she could carry the weight of the Women’s World Championship?
She snorted, the sound bitter and self-deprecating.
“Why me?” she whispered again. “Why now?”
The answer didn’t come. It never did.
The truth was, April didn’t know if she could do this. She didn’t know if she was strong enough, smart enough, or worthy enough to step into that ring and claim the title. But what choice did she have? Brooklyn was gone. Mai was competition. Shea was the enemy. And April? April was just a girl trying to figure out where she belonged in a world that no longer made sense.
Her hands tightened into fists, her nails digging into her palms.
She couldn’t let Shea win. Not after everything Shea had done—turning the others against her, betraying Brooklyn, tearing the Murder apart from the inside out. If Shea walked out of Survival of the Fittest with the Women’s World Championship, it would be like the universe rewarding her for her treachery. April couldn’t let that happen.
But even as she thought it, doubt crept in. What if she failed? What if she couldn’t stop Shea? What if everything she had been through—everything she had lost—was for nothing?
April stood abruptly, the movement almost knocking over the coffee table. She crossed the room to the desk, her bare feet silent against the worn wood floor. The iPhone seemed to stare at her, daring her to pick it up. She reached for it, hesitating for a moment before her fingers closed around the smooth, cold surface.
Her reflection stared back at her from the dark screen.
It was time to stop doubting. Time to stop hiding. Time to start fighting—not just for the title, but for herself. For Brooklyn. For everything that had been taken from her.
And if she couldn’t win, she’d make damn sure Shea didn’t either.
---
April propped her iPhone against a precarious stack of books on the desk, ensuring the camera wouldn’t tilt or wobble. She adjusted it once, then again, the repetitive action both a ritual and a way to steady her racing mind. The ring light she’d purchased during a fleeting moment of optimism last year bathed her face in an even glow. It erased the shadows that clung stubbornly to the corners of the room but did nothing to hide the truth written in her features. Every sleepless night, every second-guess, every wound the last few weeks had inflicted—it was all there for anyone who cared to look.
She eased into the chair, fidgeting with her posture until she felt centered. This wasn’t just another promo. This wasn’t just another match. It felt like a reckoning. Her reckoning.
Her finger hovered over the record button for a moment longer than necessary, but with a steadying breath, she pressed it. The little red dot blinked to life, and so did April. She stared into the lens, letting the camera capture not just her image but the conviction she was trying to summon.
Her voice, calm yet sharp as a blade, sliced through the quiet.
“Sunday night. Survival of the Fittest. Four of us enter, but only one walks out as the Women’s World Champion.”
She let the words hang in the air for a heartbeat, each syllable deliberate, a foundation on which she would build the rest of her case.
“Charlotte. Mai. Shea. And me. We’re the final four, the ones who’ve clawed our way to this moment. For each of us, this match represents something different. For Charlotte, it’s the chance to prove she’s more than just a Cinderella story. For Mai, it’s about chaos and unpredictability, about showing the world that she can’t be contained. For Shea…”
Her voice faltered, but only slightly. She wouldn’t let Shea O’Hara derail her, not here, not now. Her lips pressed into a thin line before she continued.
“For Shea, this is about ego. It’s about power. It’s about proving that betraying the Murder was worth it. And maybe for her, it was. After all, look at where she is now—on the cusp of greatness, ready to cash in on and take the ultimate prize. But here’s the thing about Shea O’Hara: she’s a snake. She slithered her way into our group, sowed the seeds of discord, and waited until the moment was right to strike. She didn’t just betray Brooklyn or me—she betrayed everyone who ever believed in her. And come Sunday, I’m going to make sure she doesn’t get rewarded for it.”
The words were as much for her as they were for anyone else. Every syllable felt like she was carving her way out of the past Shea had thrown her into, one where betrayal was a scar that wouldn’t fade. April leaned forward, her fingers tightening around the desk’s edge.
“Shea, you might think you’ve won. You’ve got the rest of the Murder eating out of the palm of your hand, and you’ve positioned yourself as the woman to beat. But here’s the thing: I see you for what you are. And while you might have turned everyone else against me, you can’t take me out of this match. You can’t erase me. And when we step into that ring, I’m going to show you why you should have never underestimated me.”
Her voice sharpened, almost daring Shea to challenge her in the way only Shea could.
But this wasn’t just about Shea. The looming presence of her other opponents wasn’t something she could ignore, nor something she wanted to. Her tone softened, but her eyes burned with the same intensity as she shifted her focus.
“Mai…”
A flicker of warmth cracked through the icy determination in her voice, an echo of something softer, something real. A smile, fleeting and bittersweet, tugged at her lips.
“Girl, you know we've always had this mutual respect for each other. You've always managed to leave the emotions at the door and just focus on your craft. And, hell, what a craft you'e managed to hone. You’ve always been unpredictable, but you've turned that unpredictability into something greater - and that’s what makes you dangerous. But hun, it’s also what makes you vulnerable. You thrive in chaos, but chaos has a way of consuming even the best of us. You’re my friend, Mai, but Sunday night, friendship takes a backseat. Because when it comes down to it, only one of us can walk out with that title. And I’m not going to let you—or anyone else—stand in my way.”
Mai had been the closest thing she had to an friend in the Murder, and even now, April felt a pang of guilt acknowledging that their bond might not survive this match. She hoped it would - but for now she pushed that aside. Survival of the Fittest wasn’t about bonds; it was about proving herself in a way she never had before.
Her expression hardened as she moved to her final opponent.
“Char-Char Binx. The golden girl. The one who’s defied the odds time and time again. You’ve earned your place in this match, and I won’t take that away from you. But here’s the thing about fairy tales: they’re just that—stories. And when Sunday night rolls around, the clock’s going to strike midnight. The magic will fade, and you’ll find yourself facing the harsh reality that this isn’t your time. It’s mine.”
She leaned back slightly, her words hanging in the air like smoke. The camera captured not just her words but the raw conviction in them, the vulnerability she wasn’t trying to hide. Her opponents weren’t just competitors; they were mirrors reflecting her insecurities, her strengths, and her doubts back at her. And yet, she couldn’t afford to falter.
“As for me? I know what everyone’s thinking. ‘April doesn’t deserve this. She’s a shadow of her sister. She’s been tainted by the Murder.’ And you know what? Maybe you’re right. Maybe I don’t deserve to be here. Maybe I don’t deserve to call myself the Women’s World Champion.”
Her voice dropped, but the intensity didn’t waver. If anything, it grew sharper, more focused.
“But here’s the thing: I’m not here to win a popularity contest. I’m here to fight. To prove that I’m more than the mistakes I’ve made, more than the shadow I’ve been living in. And if that means going through each and every one of you to do it, then so be it.”
She let the statement sit, heavy and final. But the truth was, it wasn’t final. Nothing about this felt final, not yet. This wasn’t the conclusion to her story—it was the next chapter, one she was determined to write on her terms.
April leaned forward again, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, a thread of vulnerability winding through the steel.
“Sunday night, I’m not just fighting for the title. I’m fighting for me. For my future. For the chance to rewrite my story. So when that bell rings, you better be ready, because I’m coming for everything. And I’m not leaving empty-handed.”
Her hand reached out, her finger hovering over the stop button. She hesitated, the weight of her words pressing down on her like a physical force. Did she mean them? Could she live up to them? Her mind churned with the unspoken doubts that clung to her like shadows.
She hit stop, and the room was plunged into silence. The little red dot disappeared, leaving her staring at the now-darkened screen. She sat there for a long moment, the weight of her own words settling over her like a heavy blanket. She wasn’t just preparing for a match; she was preparing for a war.
And it wasn’t just about the Women’s World Championship. It wasn’t just about Shea, or Mai, or Charlotte. It was about proving to herself that she could rise above everything that had come before. That she could be more than Brooklyn’s little sister. More than a former member of the Murder. More than a shadow.
Her reflection on the black screen stared back at her, a woman caught between who she was and who she wanted to be. The glow of the ring light faded as she leaned back in the chair, exhaustion settling in. But somewhere beneath the fatigue, there was a flicker of determination.
She picked up the phone, watching the video replay for a moment before sending it off. The battle would begin long before the bell rang, and this was her opening salvo. As the file uploaded, she allowed herself a small, resolute smile.
Sunday night, the world would see a different April. Not the girl they dismissed, not the shadow they overlooked, but the fighter she was becoming.
The journey wasn’t over. It was only just beginning.
Well howdy there pardner.