ORIENTATION

THEN

You know those mornings when you wake up in a luxury Moscow hotel suite, naked except for obscenely expensive underwear, with a strange man in your bed and the vague sensation that you might have threatened to kill someone last night? No? Just me, then.

My decisions may have led me to Hell, but I might as well enjoy them along the way.

The sun is doing that annoying thing where it tries to be helpful by peeking through a crack in the curtains. It creates what some poet would probably call a "golden shaft of light," but it is more like nature's personal fuck-you to my hangover. I sit up, immediately regretting every life choice that has led to this moment—and there are many.

My feet hit the marble floor, and honestly? You haven’t lived if you've never experienced the unique joy of pressing your bare feet against ice-cold flooring while nursing a hangover and what feels like several pulled muscles. Or you have lived, just more wisely than me.

The mountain of muscles and mediocrity behind me makes his best impression of a chainsaw concerto. You know the type – looks like he could bench press a car but probably couldn't find his ass with both hands and a map. I jab his foot with my toe. He grunts. How eloquent.

(Spoiler: Knowing they were watching makes this even worse.)

"Get the fuck out of my room."

Nothing. Not even a pause in the snoring. Men, am I right? They never listen when you're reasonable, but wave a knife in their face, and suddenly, you have their undivided attention. Not that we're there. Yet.

I drag myself to the window because, apparently, I hate myself this morning. The curtains make a satisfying whoosh as I yank them open – and there it is, the money shot. Saint Basil's Cathedral, in all its Disney-princess-castle glory, looking like someone let a five-year-old design a church with crayons. Welcome to Moscow, where even the architecture is on acid.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" The mountain has finally stirred (trying to find the words in English to boot), throwing an arm over his eyes like a vampire caught in the sunrise. "Close fucking curtains!"

Oh, sweetie. Do you think Jesus has anything to do with what's about to happen here?

I start collecting his scattered clothing – designer labels- because Muscle Mountain shops at Big & Tall & Overcompensating. Each piece becomes a projectile in my one-woman assault on morning-after awkwardness. "Get. The. Fuck. Up." A sock emphasizes each word. The underwear is my exclamation point.

He sits up, and I can see the complaint forming on his lips. That's the thing about men – they always think they have the right to an opinion. Even in someone else's hotel room. Even with someone else's knife against their throat.

Oh yes, there's a knife now. Did I forget to mention that? My bad. It appears in my hand like magic, though between you and me, it's been under my pillow this whole time. A girl's got to accessorize, right?

"Let me paint you a picture," I purr, letting the blade kiss his stubble. "In about twenty seconds, one of two things will happen. Either you'll be walking out that door with all your blood still inside your body, or you'll be leaving in several designer garbage bags. Personally? I'm good with either option."

His eyes go wide – like, "just discovered there's no Santa Claus" wide. The sweat beading on his forehead really brings out the terror in his complexion.

"Want to know the best part?" I lean in close, all conspiracy and threat. "Ivan Stanislav's cleanup crew is very, very good at their jobs. They're like the Mary Poppins of murder – practically perfect in every way."

And there it is – that beautiful moment of recognition. The dots connect in real-time behind those pretty-but-vacant eyes. Last night, he thought he was getting lucky with a mysterious woman at an upscale bar. Now he's realizing he's in bed with Hurricane Rose, and the storm surge is coming.

I reach for the nightstand, producing a manila folder with the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. "Dmitri Volkov. Living with mommy dearest Natasha at 47 Nevsky Prospekt, Apartment 3B. Your favorite color is blue, you have a cat named Boris, and you still sleep with a nightlight. Okay, I made that last one up, but you believed it for a second, didn't you?"

The knife withdraws, but let's be honest – by this point, it's just window dressing. "So here's what's going to happen. You develop sudden and intense interest in your shoes if you see me on the street. If someone mentions the name Rose, you become Helen Keller – didn't see anything, didn't hear anything, can't say anything. Because if I hear even a whisper about last night..." I let the threat hang there, like the sword of Damocles, but with better manicuring.

I've never seen someone get dressed so fast. It's like a reverse strip show performed by someone being chased by bees. "Never saw you, don't know you, you don't exist," he babbles, practically throwing himself at the door.

The knife makes a satisfying thunk as I stab it into the nightstand. Dramatic? Maybe. But if you can't be dramatic in a luxury Moscow hotel room while terrorizing your one-night stand, when can you be?

Back at the window, I smile at my reflection in the glass. "Time for Orientation," I murmur, watching the morning sun paint the city gold. "Let's show these Russians what happens when they invite a Rose to bloom in their garden."

This is going to be fun. Well, for me at least. For everyone else? Let's just say Moscow's about to get a lot more interesting.

NOW

The Sydney Opera House mocks me through the floor-to-ceiling windows of this ridiculously expensive hotel room, its shells gleaming like teeth in the pre-dawn light. I've been sitting at this desk for what feels like years, surrounded by a growing graveyard of crumpled paper and murdered pens. A worn stuffed rabbit watches from the bed, its judgment somehow heavier than the Opera House's.

Another blank page stares up at me. Judgy little bastard.

"Dear..." My pen hovers, trembling slightly. How many bedtime stories started that way? Tales of heroes and monsters, before I became one of the monsters myself. The word catches in my throat like a broken promise.

I scratch it out so hard that the pen tears through the paper.

The desk lamp casts dramatic shadows across my latest failure – very noir, very brooding. Usually, I'd appreciate the aesthetics, but right now, it just reminds me how many hours I've wasted trying to find words that don't feel like razor blades in my throat. The unicorn stickers I'd absently stuck to the lamp's base mock me with their sparkly innocence.

"To..." No, too formal. Like I'm writing to a stranger, which is the last thing I want.

"Hey..." God no. This isn't a text message about missing soccer practice.

My reflection in the window looks like she's ready to commit a crime, which, fair enough. Dark circles under wild eyes, hair a mess from running my fingers through it too many times. A familiar pink hair tie around my wrist feels suddenly too tight. Moscow feels like it happened in another lifetime, to another person. Maybe it did.

The pen snaps in my grip, spraying ink across the pristine hotel stationery. Perfect. Just perfect.

"Fuck this," I mutter, pushing back from the desk. The chair makes an unholy screech against the hardwood floor – a sound that perfectly captures my mental state. I pace the room like a caged animal, which is precisely what I am. A tiger in a very expensive zoo, complete with a minibar and a collection of half-finished bottles of alcohol.

Kerry's face flashes in my mind. Not some noble warrior – a killer who's carved his path through this industry with precision and focus. The kind of opponent my father would have respected and prepared for with obsessive dedication. Kerry doesn't waste time with doubts, letters, or ghosts – he just executes, methodically, ruthlessly. The old Rose would've seen this as a chance to prove herself against a true craftsman. This Rose? This Rose just sees another body to step over on my way to...

To what? To being someone unrecognizable in family photos?

I catch my reflection again, and for a split second, I swear I see someone else looking back. Someone with my face but not my eyes. She's smiling. I'm not.

Back at the desk. New paper. Clean slate. Deep breath. A crayon-drawn heart falls from my notebook, and I must look away.

"I need to tell you..."

The pen freezes. Tell them what, exactly? About the gaps in my memory? About the voice that whispers sweet violence in my ear? About how sometimes I wake up with blood under my fingernails and no idea whose it is? About why Mommy can't just come home?

The paper joins its brethren in the wastepaper basket. The sun is rising over Sydney Harbor now, painting everything in shades of gold and promise. Somewhere in this city, Kerry Kuroyama is preparing with the same intensity that makes him one of PRIME's most dangerous competitors—no distractions, no doubts – just the calm certainty of violence to come.

And here I am, trying to write a letter I know I'll never send, to the one person who still believes in happy endings.

Maybe that's the real punchline.

THEN

The only thing worse than a hangover is one in Moscow while being led around an office building that screams, "We have too much money and questionable taste!" by a woman who clearly wants to murder you with her eyes. But here we are, my sunglasses doing their best to shield me from both the fluorescent lights and Arina's death glares. Glares that suggest a shift in our power dynamics. No longer was this the girl who stepped into her hotel room to find me ready to manipulate her into what I needed her to be.

No, I was in her territory now. More confident, more sure of herself. In Moscow, she may not have the power to fight me, but she certainly had more than enough to end me.

The thought chilled me briefly, but I didn’t dare let on. Instead, I was… me.

"This is accounting," Arina drones, gesturing to a room full of people who look like they calculate death for a living. "And here is HR." Another room, more dead eyes. I resist the urge to ask if HR stands for "Hostage Relations."

The marble floors gleam like they've been polished with the tears of the weak, and every surface screams, "touch me and die." It's like someone watched a Bond villain's lair and thought, "Needs more mahogany."

"And who are all these lovely people?" I ask, waving at a group of men in suits who look like they bench press tanks for fun. They don't wave back. Rude.

Arina's sigh could freeze vodka. "Security."

(Translation: People who will definitely be trying to kill me later. Note to self: Learn their names. It's only polite to know who's attempting to end your existence.)

Finally, we reach The Office™. Capital letters definitely required here. The door alone probably cost more than my first house. Inside, it's precisely what you'd expect if Versailles had a baby with a KGB headquarters.

"This is—" Arina starts, but I'm already sliding into the leather throne behind the desk. And oh my god, this chair? It's like sitting on a cloud made of angel tears and capitalism.

"Perfect," I purr, spinning around like a supervillain who just got their evil lair. "I could get used to this."

Arina's face does this fascinating thing where it tries to express seven different types of panic simultaneously. "Rose, you can't—"

The door opens.

You know that moment in horror movies where the teenager realizes they've just walked into the killer's house? Yeah, multiply that by about a thousand and you've got the look on Arina's face right now.

I should have -- would have -- known if I’d just taken a look around the room. Accolades from decades of wrestling -- pictures and belts hung like trophies and reminders -- and walls adorned with pictures and commendations from his military career. Hell, even when I sat in his chair, it felt different. I know it isn’t saying much, but trust me, it felt like I was being transported into another life.

If only I had paid attention. Then, I wouldn’t have been sitting in his chair when he entered the room.

Ivan Stanislav fills the doorway like darkness filling a tomb. His eyes lock onto me, sitting in his chair, wearing sunglasses indoors like the absolute idiot I apparently am.

Well, fuck.

NOW

The wastepaper basket probably qualifies as a fire hazard at this point. I should probably care about that. Instead, I'm watching early-morning tourists trickle out of their hotels like ants from a disturbed hill, all clicking cameras and morning coffee runs. They look so... normal. Like the world isn't shifting under their feet, like they don't hear whispers in the dark.

My forehead meets the cool glass with a soft thunk. Maybe if I do this enough times, the words will shake loose. Or my brain will. At this point, I'm good with either option.

Kerry's going to throw me around that ring like a ragdoll. The man's a machine – the kind that specializes in making other humans question their career choices. I've watched his matches, studied his technique. He doesn't just suplex people; he sends them on one-way trips to spinal readjustment town. First class, no stops, complimentary regret included.

And here I am, can't even write a simple fucking letter.

The sun's fully up now, turning the harbor into a mirror of fire. Beautiful, if you're into that sort of thing. My fingers trace the edge of the desk, and suddenly I'm back in that Moscow office, sitting in Ivan's chair like I owned the place, sunglasses on, every alarm in my head screaming as he filled the doorway.

I thought I was dead. Instead...

A smile creeps across my face—one that perfectly matches the stranger in my reflection. The words he spoke that day after finding me in his seat... maybe that's all the confidence I need.

THEN

Have you ever seen a shark circle its prey? That slow, deliberate movement that makes your blood run cold even when you're safely behind glass? That's what it feels like watching Ivan Stanislav enter his office. Each step is measured and purposeful, a predator assessing whether to strike or play with his food.

I slide from his throne with all the grace I can muster, which isn't much considering my hangover has a hangover—the window sill beckons – a perfect perch for a caged bird. Moscow sprawls below, a concrete jungle reminding me how far from home I am.

"I was worried you were going to lay in bed fucking one of my countrymen all day."

The words hit like ice water down my spine. I've heard worse in PRIME's locker rooms, not because of their crudeness but because of their implication. Every move, every breath, every hungover stumble – all of it monitored, recorded, and filed away.

(Fun Fact: That's the very definition of douche chills)

"Honestly?" I turn from the window, trading one view of imprisonment for another. "I might have entertained the idea if I could find one without vodka dick. Is that actually a thing? Because if so, someone should really look into that. Could be a whole medical study."

Ivan settles into his chair – my recent throne – with the weight of someone who knows precisely how much power he wields. The leather creaks beneath him, a sound that somehow manages to be threatening. Looking at him in the chair, I realize it is no more than a simple chair, but the gravitas he brings elevates it. There is a certain air that infiltrates the room because, in Russia, Ivan moves differently -- is more terrifying.

"We need to have a discussion," he says, his accent thick like honey but sharp like razor blades, "about your place here."

Oh, goody. A performance review on day one.

"Now that you are part of The Red Army," he continues, "we will put our... previous encounters behind us. The thrashing you received? Consider it teachable moment."

The worst part? He's not even gloating. To him, my defeat was as inevitable as Russian winter – just another fact of life. The bruises have faded, but my pride? That's still black and blue.

"Your Russian is terrible," he states, like he's commenting on the weather. "This must change. You will learn our language, our history, our way. Whether you believe in communist ideology or not is irrelevant – you will respect it."

Great. Communist Book Club with Ivan Stanislav -- dreams that every young girl has.

"You do not travel without Arina," he continues, each word another bar in my gilded cage. "You do not leave this building without her arrangement. Americans have habit of disappearing in Russia." His smile could freeze hell. "I would hate for you to become a statistic."

Translation: Step out of line, and they'll never find the body.

"You will report here. Daily. Train with me several times a week. And if you think to take advantage of my... goodwill?" He lets the threat hang there, unspoken but crystal clear.

I want to say something witty that would make PRIME fans cheer and Jabber light up. But the truth kills the words in my throat. Reality settles as I'm not watching Ivan spout off some wrestling promo, but that he is in complete control of my life.

My hangover? Cured.

"You have a match at ReVival 61," he says, and finally, finally, something I understand. Wrestling. My territory. "Against Kerry Kuroyama."

The Emerald Apex. Fantastic. Because my life isn't complicated enough.

"You showed yourself well against a titan," Ivan continues, his voice carrying an edge of... is that pride? No, couldn't be. "It's time for you to take the next step in PRIME. Look at what Max Kael has achieved – there's no reason you cannot reach similar heights, battling in main events and competing for top titles PRIME has to offer."

I bite back a laugh. Max Kael. Of course. Being in The Red Army means constant reminders of how well the other kids are doing. It's like being at a family reunion where your mother won't stop talking about your overachieving cousin who attended medical school.

"Kerry Kuroyama represents an opportunity," Ivan says, leaning forward slightly. "A chance to prove yourself against one of PRIME's most respected competitors. To show that you have what it takes to truly be part of The Red Army."

My fingers drum against the window sill. "And if I'm not interested in proving anything to anyone?"

The look Ivan gives me could freeze vodka. "You surrendered your personal interests when you accepted our match. You are Red Army now. Everything you do reflects on us. On me."

I feel less than sure. Ivan somehow picks up on that.

"You worry when you shouldn't. Do you know there was only one person in PRIME last year that had a singles match at every single PPV? Only one person battled the 'best' of PRIME -- Cancer Jiles, Brandon Youngblood, and, of course, me. Do you know who that person is?"

I roll my eyes.

"I don't know, Coral?" That seems like a good guess.

A chuckle escapes from The Red Army leader. "Nyet. This will even be surprise to you. That person is none other than you."

So lost in my anger and fury over the past six months I hadn't even realized that. Looking at him, I realize he has more confidence in me than I have in myself.

"Do not worry," Ivan adds, and something in his tone makes my skin crawl. "You will have someone in your corner."

A smile creeps onto my face – the first genuine one since entering Russia. "How sweet. Ivan Stanislav himself, playing cornerman for little old me?"

His head shakes slowly, deliberately, and suddenly, the temperature in the room drops so fast I expect to see my breath.

Heavy footsteps behind me -- I hadn't even heard the door open. A presence that makes every nerve-ending scream danger.

I don't need to turn around. I know who it is—the same man who invaded my bedroom, who threatened my daughter, who started this whole nightmare.

Alexei fills the doorway like death's own shadow.

And as I stare into those cold eyes, I realize that Hell isn't the end like I thought it was.

It is just the beginning.

FIN