The dojo sits under dim morning light, the windows fogged at the edges from the clash of cool air and heat inside. The faint smell of sandalwood incense lingers, cut through by sweat, leather, and the sharp bite of disinfectant on polished mats. Shadows ripple as two figures move in practiced rhythm—Hara and Kami, the Victims turned predators in their own right.
Kami snaps a kick into the heavy bag, the thud echoing like a gunshot. Her red-tape knuckles flex as she resets her stance. Hara stands nearby, arms folded, watching with that unnerving, unreadable stillness. Only his eyes move—tracking angles, tension, breath, the way he always watches her. Not possessive. Not commanding.
Protective.
Prepared.
“Bold will twist you apart if you let him,” Kami says without looking, sweat trailing down her jawline. Her tone is dry, teasing, but edged in genuine warning.
Hara’s mouth tips in the smallest smirk.
“He will try.”
He adjusts the wrist of his gi, voice steady as stone.
“A submission artist that relies on brute torque is predictable.”
She fires another kick.
“Predictable can still break bone.”
“And I have bones to spare.”
That earns him a sharp side-eye from Kami. The briefest smile—the kind only he gets to see.
Kami steps back from the bag and circles him instead, rolling her shoulders, stretching her arms as if preparing to fight him rather than Bold. She stops toe-to-toe with him, searching his face with quiet intensity.
“You’re too calm,” she murmurs.
“I am prepared.”
“Prepared isn’t calm.” She tilts her head. “Prepared is sharp. Focused. Ready to cut.”
Hara’s gaze drops briefly to her hands—wrapping and unwrapping the red tape around her knuckles with slow, deliberate precision. A ritual before violence. A ritual he knows as well as breath.
“You want the Reapers,” he says quietly.
Kami’s hands still. “I want Svetlana.”
“And I want Mikhail.”
The admission settles between them like dropping a blade into water—silent, deep, irreversible. Kami’s jaw tightens.
“Rupert will keep throwing storms at us. He thinks beating his storms will wear us down.”
Hara’s eyes narrow. “We don’t wear down.”
“No,” Kami breathes, gaze darkening, “we wait.”
Hara steps closer, invading her space the way only he’s allowed.
“Bold and Knight are distractions.”
“Obstacles,” she corrects. “Obstacles bleed.”
Their breath mingles—two predators sharpening each other without touching.
“Our matches don’t matter,” Hara says.
Kami answers instantly. “Only what comes after.”
“For them.”
“For us.”
She studies him a moment longer, then says, softer than the wind rattling the paper screens.
“When we get to them… I won’t hold back.”
“You never do.”
She smirks faintly. “Neither will you.”
“No.”
Their eyes lock, and something ancient passes between them—shared purpose, shared blood memory, shared fury. Not affection. Not comfort.
Alignment.
The dojo seems to contract around them—the stillness before war. Neither notices the footsteps outside the door at first. But both feel the presence of a heartbeat later.
Hara turns his head slightly. Kami’s chin lifts. Someone is approaching. The shoji door glides open. Colton Hurst stepped inside.
Not hurried.
Not rattled.
Just there—like he’d been waiting for his cue.
Black suit fitted. Expression unreadable. Eyes sharp and calculating as they took in the sight of his two most dangerous assets. Hara straightened. Kami’s energy sharpened. Colton shut the door behind him with a soft click and said..
“Alright,” he exhaled, looking between them.
“Let’s talk about what you really want.”
Colton stood just inside the door, the quiet weight of authority settling around him like a second skin. His presence shifted the air—sharp, strategic, calculating. He looked at Kami first, then Hara, then the space between them as if he could feel the static of their shared resolve vibrating off the walls.
Hara didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward, posture rigid, jaw locked.
“We’re done,” he said.
Colton blinked once. “With what?”
Kami rose from the tatami in a single fluid motion—graceful, deliberate, lethal. The moment she stood, the entire room seemed to sharpen around her.
“With these titles,” she answered.
Calm.
Precise.
Unshakeable.
Colton’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”
Hara stepped beside her—shoulder to shoulder, like the alignment was instinct.
“You heard her,” he said.
“We’re done. We don’t want them.”
Colton took a slow breath, hands sliding into his pockets as he studied them with the intensity of a man recalibrating an entire chessboard in real time.
“You’re both champions,” he said carefully.
“That’s leverage. Power. Visibility. Throwing that away—”
Kami cut him off with a tilt of her chin.
Small.
Sharp.
Deadly.
“Visibility means nothing when truth is blind,” she said.
“Rupert denies us because he fears us.”
Hara’s eyes flicked to hers, and in the brief second before he spoke, Colton caught it—their unity, their wavelength, the violence of their shared purpose.
“We’re not playing his game anymore,” Hara said.
“He keeps us separated, buried in singles matches, to keep us away from what he knows we can take.”
Colton didn’t blink. He let the silence stretch—calculating, observing, absorbing.
“What do you want,” he asked, “if not those championships?”
Kami answered without hesitation. Her voice was a blade.
“The Red Reapers.”
Colton exhaled through his nose—sharp, almost amused.
“Mikhail and Svetlana,” he said. “You’re serious.”
Hara stepped closer, the tension in his shoulders coiling tight.
“They tried to break her,” he said. “They failed.”
His voice dropped, dark and steady.
“And they won’t walk away next time.”
Kami’s eyes didn’t leave Colton’s.
“Svetlana poisoned me,” she said, tone flat—almost eerily calm. Hara’s hand flexed subtly at his side—the only sign of the storm under his skin.
“They didn’t just attack her,” he added. “They hunted her.”
Colton’s expression shifted—barely—but enough. A subtle tightening in his jaw. A glint behind the eyes. He knew all of this. He knew the history, the damage, the blood.
But he wanted to hear it.
To confirm the line they were crossing.
Kami stepped forward—closer to him than anyone else could safely stand.
“I will break Svetlana” she whispered.
“Her breath. Her balance. Her spine.”
Hara’s voice followed, a low growl layered beneath hers.
“And Mikhail…”
He paused, eyes darkening.
“I want him. I want his throat between my hands.”
Colton lifted a brow. Even for him, their unity was unnerving.
“You’re asking me,” he said slowly, “to bypass rankings. To toss away two active titles. To disrupt the entire division’s balance. To ignite a feud Rupert will absolutely try to bury.”
Kami didn’t flinch.
Hara didn’t look away.
They spoke together—different words, same soul.
“Make it happen.”
Then Hara added, voice dropped to a lethal promise.
“At any cost.”
There was silence. Not awkward. Not hesitant. Just… pivotal.
Colton looked between them—seeing not just two champions, but a force that never should’ve been separated. A weapon Rupert was foolish enough to scatter instead of forge.
The strategist in him stirred.
A leader.
A Hurst.
He stepped closer, meeting both of their gazes with equal weight.
“Alright,” he said quietly.
“I’ll get you the Red Reapers.”
Hara’s jaw tightened.
Kami’s breath deepened.
“But,” Colton added, raising a finger, “if I throw down this match? There’s no going back. No excuses. No safety nets. You lose your titles, you lose your leverage. You step into that ring as hunters—and hunters don’t get protected.”
Kami spoke first.
The smallest smile—cold, beautiful, lethal.
“We are not prey.”
Hara’s voice followed like thunder rolling behind lightning.
“We never were.”
Colton nodded once.
Decision made.
“I’ll set it up,” he said. “And when the time comes—”
He looked between them, eyes narrowing with almost feral approval.
“—you tear the Reapers apart.”
Colton moved deeper into the dojo, his boots making no sound on the polished wood. The afternoon light poured through the high windows, striping the mats in gold as if the room itself leaned in to listen.
He didn’t sit. He didn’t pace. He stood like a man preparing to rewrite a kingdom.
“Kami. Hara.”
His tone shifted—quiet, but edged with command sharpened by responsibility.
“You want the Red Reapers. Fine. But here’s the truth: Rupert will never give you that match willingly.”
Hara crossed his arms, expression flat.
“No surprise.”
Kami said nothing—her eyes were already dissecting Colton’s posture, predicting the direction of his strategy.
Colton continued.
“Right now, the Reapers are Rupert’s shield. His pets. He puts the belts on them because it keeps the division predictable. Controlled. If you two get near the tag titles, you don’t shake the division—”
His eyes hardened.
“—you flip it on its spine.”
A faint chill rolled through the room. Kami’s silence deepened. Hara’s shoulders squared. Colton exhaled.
"And that’s exactly why we’re going around him.”
Hara’s brow lifted. “Around?”
A slow, dangerous smile ghosted across Colton’s face.
“You’re still champions for one reason only: Rupert needs you busy. He needs you occupied long enough for the Reapers to get comfortable on top.”
He stepped closer.
“So we’re going to use that.”
Kami’s voice was a whisper of steel.
“How?”
Colton didn’t break eye contact.
“By making your title defenses impossible for Rupert to ignore.”
Hara frowned slightly. “Explain.”
Colton raised two fingers—one for each of them.
“Kami, you’re in a fatal four-way. No DQ. That means chaos.”
His tone dropped.
“Lean into it. Don’t win clean. Don’t win decisively. Win violently. Make it a message.”
Kami didn’t blink. The corner of her lip lifted—feral approval.
Colton turned to Hara.
“And you—Chuluun Bold keeps telling the press you’re beneath Kami.”
A flicker crossed Hara’s eyes. Restraint. Rage. Colton caught it. Used it.
“So you’re going to break him. Not beat him. Break. Him.”
Hara’s voice lowered.
“Gladly.”
Colton nodded.
“Good. Because the moment both of you walk out of Empire’s End still holding your titles—but in ruins—you shift the entire narrative. You stop being ‘champions Rupert tolerates’ and become ‘problems Rupert can’t control.’”
Kami understood immediately.
“You want chaos.”
Colton smirked.
“I want inevitability.”
He stepped even closer, lowering his voice.
“Once both of your matches end in carnage, I file a grievance—on your behalf—about unsafe working conditions. Unfair separation of tag partners in a division that relies on chemistry. Rupert’s been splitting you two on purpose. For months.”
Hara’s jaw tightened.
“He has.”
Colton nodded sharply.
“And now we expose him for it.”
He held up his phone, tapping the screen.
“I’ve already gathered footage. Interviews. Internal memos. Rupert thinks he’s clever—but the board won’t like the idea that he sabotaged his own champions to keep you away from the Reapers.”
Kami’s eyes narrowed—not in anger, but precision.
“You’re weaponizing the board.”
Colton’s proud grin finally surfaced.
“Absolutely. And once the board sees the pattern, they’ll force Rupert to put you where you belong: the number-one contenders spot.”
Hara exhaled, something like a dark laugh escaping him.
“And that puts us directly in front of the Reapers.”
Colton finished with a razor-sharp nod.
“Yes. And when Rupert realizes he’s been cornered? He’ll have no choice but to sanction the match. Because denying you after the board’s ruling makes him look guilty.”
He lowered his phone.
And then? The second that bell rings?”
He looked at Kami.
“You take Svetlana.”
He looked at Hara.
“You end Mikhail.”
The silence afterward felt like pressure building behind a dam. Kami stepped forward, her eyes glowing with something ancient and volcanic.
“And if Rupert interferes?”
Colton didn’t blink.
“He won’t.”
Then, quieter—just for them.
“He fears the two of you more than he fears losing control.”
Hara moved beside Kami, shoulder brushing hers.
“And when we get the Reapers,” he asked, voice low, “what do you expect us to do?”
Colton’s expression didn’t change.
“I expect you to finish what they started.”
Colton’s phone vibrated—once, sharp, insistent. His expression didn’t shift, but his eyes flicked briefly to the screen. A name flashed across it, one that even he couldn’t ignore.
He exhaled through his nose.
“I need to take this.”
Kami’s brow twitched—not suspicion, not concern, but calculation. Hara simply nodded once.
Colton stepped back toward the shoji door, phone already rising to his ear.
“This is Colton,” he said, voice snapping into that clipped professional tone he saved for people he couldn’t afford to dismiss. “Walk with me.”
He slid the door open, stepped through, and pulled it shut behind him with deliberate care—quiet, controlled, but not soft.
Even outside, his voice carried in faint fragments through the paper panels.
“—no, that’s not what we agreed—”
“—push it up the chain—”
“—I don’t care what Rupert wants.”
Kami watched the door for one breath longer, shoulders squared, eyes narrowed—not because she doubted Colton, but because she saw the battlefield expanding.
Then she turned back toward Hara.
He reached for the hanging gi jacket, sliding it off the hook with a calmness that felt almost ceremonial. He shrugged into it, tightened the belt around his waist, then stepped onto the center mat.
Kami mirrored him—silent, efficient, fluid.
Red tape flexed as she adjusted her grip, rolling her shoulders before settling into a loose southpaw stance.
“Again?” she asked.
“Again,” Hara confirmed.
They didn’t count.
They didn’t need to.
Hara moved first—quick, clean steps, closing the distance before the air could catch up. Kami intercepted with a forearm block, spun, and snapped a kick toward his ribs. He caught her shin mid-air, but she rotated through the momentum, using the grip to vault upward and drag her elbow toward the crown of his skull.
He ducked, letting her momentum carry her past him. She landed in a crouch, hair spilling over one shoulder.
“You’re faster today,” Hara said.
“Anger is efficient.”
He didn’t smile this time. He struck.
A palm-heel thrust shot toward her sternum. Kami deflected, but he followed with a low sweep that clipped her ankle and forced her into a roll. She hit the mat, sprang up, and launched forward with a flurry of strikes—precise, surgical, each one a message rather than an attack.
Hara blocked two, absorbed one, sidestepped the fourth.
“You’re thinking about Svetlana,” he murmured between movements.
Kami’s eyes sharpened. “And you’re thinking about Mikhail.”
Hara’s expression didn’t shift, but the next strike he delivered carried weight. Not sloppy anger—focused violence.
Kami absorbed the blow to her shoulder, twisted with it, and countered with a spinning back fist that stopped just shy of his jaw.
Their breath mingled again—this time with heat from exertion.
“I know how Mikhail fights now,” Hara said, stepping back only far enough to reset his stance.
“He hides behind power. Behind size. Behind the illusion of dominance.”
Kami circled him, movements light on the tatami. “He hides behind Svetlana.”
Hara’s jaw flexed. “But he won’t hide when he’s choking.”
Kami didn’t disagree.
She lunged.
Hara pivoted, grabbed her wrist, and attempted to flip her—but Kami hooked her leg behind his and forced them both into a controlled crash onto the mat. She rolled first, ending up on top, forearm pressing against his throat.
“You’re hesitating here,” she said quietly.
Hara didn’t push her away. “Not in the match.”
“Better not,” she warned, leaning in. “Bold won’t give you the luxury.”
He shifted his weight, catching her hip, and reversed the position, pinning her wrists above her head—more tactical than dominant.
“Bold is a stepping stone.”
Kami smiled—not soft, not playful.
Predatory.
“Everything is a stepping stone until we reach the Reapers.”
Hara released her wrists, rolled away, and rose to his feet. Kami followed instantly, barely breathing harder than before. The tension in the dojo had shifted—this was no longer warm-up, no longer ritual.
This was sharpening the blade.
“Rupert won’t sanction it easily,” Hara said, circling again.
“He’ll have to,” Kami answered. “Colton will corner him.”
Hara nodded once. “Rupert fears losing control more than he fears us.”
Kami snorted softly. “Then he hasn’t been paying attention.”
She lunged again—this time aiming high, forcing Hara to defend his head. He parried the strike, but Kami drove her knee toward his ribs. He caught the knee, spun, and attempted a shoulder lock—she slipped free like smoke and struck him across the back with a knife-hand.
The impact echoed in the dojo—sharp, clean.
Hara inhaled, the only sign he’d felt it. Then he turned, eyes cold, focused.
“You’re fighting harder,” he said.
“I’m imagining Svetlana’s skull,” Kami replied without hesitation.
He didn’t need to ask why. He remembered the poison. He remembered the aftermath. He remembered the way Kami refused to fall even when her vision blurred and her lungs seized.
“You want to break her,” he said.
Kami shifted into stance. “I want her to understand fear. I want her nightmares flooded by the sound of her skull being crushed by my hands”
Hara stepped closer, their stances mirroring as they prepared to clash again.
“And Mikhail?” Kami asked.
Hara’s voice dipped low, controlled but volcanic underneath. “He won’t ever want to touch you again.”
Kami tilted her head. “If he tries?"
“He won’t succeed.”
Their eyes held—dark mirrors reflecting the same storm.
Then they crashed into each other again.
Strikes and blocks, parries and counters—each faster than the last. Sweat formed at their temples, rolled down jawlines, dripped from knuckles taped for war. Their training accelerated, movements blurring, breath mixing with the faint incense still clinging to the air.
Kami ducked under a strike, swept Hara’s knee, but he caught himself on one hand, spun, and kicked upward toward her ribs. She leapt back, hands up.
“You’re thinking too loudly,” she muttered.
“You’re pushing too hard.”
“You like it.”
“Yes.”
They clashed again. And again. And again.
Not sparring. Not practicing. Not preparing.
Becoming.
Their movements grew harsher, closer to what they would unleash in the ring. Kami landed a blow to Hara’s abdomen that forced a grunt out of him. Hara shoved her back into the heavy bag hard enough to make it swing.
Neither apologized. Neither softened.
The bag swung back toward Kami. She struck it—hard—then struck it again, the impact reverberating through the entire room.
Hara watched her for a breath, chest rising and falling.
“They’ll fall,” he said finally.
Kami didn’t stop hitting the bag. “Both of them.”
“And Rupert,” Hara added, stepping beside her, “will watch it happen.”
Kami let the bag swing to stillness.
“Good,” she whispered.
The shoji door slid open again. Colton stepped inside, expression sharpened by whatever call he’d just ended.
But Kami and Hara didn’t stop training.
And Colton didn’t tell them to.
Colton watched them move for a few seconds—just long enough to understand that interrupting would be wasting breath. Hara’s strikes were hammer-precise, Kami’s counters sharp as falling glass. They weren’t sparring anymore; they were speaking a language he knew better than to translate.
Still, he cleared his throat.
Kami stopped first, foot braced on the mat, chest rising in controlled rhythm. Hara straightened a beat later, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist.
“You two,” Colton said, stepping forward, “are going to make the board very nervous.”
Kami arched a brow. “Good.”
Hara said nothing—only waited.
Colton slipped his phone into his jacket.
“That call was about the event layout. Rupert is already making adjustments. He knows something’s coming. He doesn’t know what, but he feels it breathing down his neck.”
“Let him suffocate,” Kami said.
Colton smirked. “Tempting, but we’re sticking to the plan.”
Hara crossed his arms. “Is it done?”
Colton nodded. “The paperwork is in motion. When Empire’s End ends, the board will review my grievance. I have more leverage now than I expected.”
Kami’s eyes narrowed. “Meaning?”
“Meaning Rupert’s behavior is finally catching up with him.”
He gave a small shrug. “He’s made too many enemies. Too many manipulations. Too many policies targeting you specifically.”
Hara’s jaw tightened. “He fears us.”
“As he should,” Colton replied. “But his fear isn’t your concern. The Reapers are.”
Kami stepped forward, the light glinting off her red-taped knuckles.
“They’re always our concern.”
Colton inhaled, then exhaled slowly. “I need you both to understand something. When this hits the board… when the match becomes official… there won’t be any forgiveness on their side. The Reapers won’t come to compete. They’ll come to end careers.”
“They’ll try,” Hara said.
Kami didn’t blink. “They failed before.”
Colton studied them—their unity, the quiet intensity binding them, the violence simmering beneath their stillness. Something like respect flickered across his expression.
“I believe in both of you. But belief doesn’t stop bones from breaking.”
He lowered his voice, serious now.
“Be ready for collateral. Be ready for blood. Be ready for it to cost something.”
Hara stepped forward, shoulders set. “We are ready.”
Kami added, “We were born ready.”
Colton nodded once.
Decision accepted.
Fate set.
“Good. Then I’ll see you both soon. Stay sharp.”
He moved toward the door, paused with his hand on the frame, and looked back over his shoulder.
“And whatever happens in those matches—do not give Rupert anything less than utter, undeniable destruction.”
The shoji door slid shut behind him with the soft finality of a sealed fate.
For a few moments, silence returned to the dojo. The afternoon light softened into amber, stretching long shadows across the mats. The faint sway of the heavy bag echoed like a heartbeat slowing after a sprint.
Kami breathed in slowly. “He’s right about the cost.”
Hara stood beside her; eyes still fixed on the door. “I know.”
She moved toward the center of the dojo, the tatami warm beneath her bare feet.
“Bold is strong. Reckless. Comfortable in violence.”
“And Knight thrives in chaos,” Hara added.
“Rupert built these matches to break us.”
“He miscalculated.”
Kami’s gaze slid over to him. “You think we can walk out with our titles?”
“I think,” Hara said, stepping toward her, “that the titles are already irrelevant.”
She considered that a moment, then nodded. “You’re right.”
He moved to stand directly in front of her, posture steady and grounded.
“Bold will throw everything at me. Every insult, every trick, every ounce of arrogance. But I won’t be the man he fought before.”
Kami lifted her chin, studying him with that same unwavering focus she gave enemies before dismantling them.
“What will you be?”
Hara’s voice lowered to a quiet rumble. “Lethal.”
A small, approving smile touched her lips. “Good.”
“And you,” Hara continued, “are walking into a match with three people who will tear at you from every angle. They’ll see a champion standing alone.”
“I’m never alone,” Kami said.
Hara’s eyes softened—just barely. “I know.”
Kami stepped closer, close enough that their breath mingled again. “Svetlana will try to twist the narrative,” she said.
“She’ll try to paint me as weak. Poisoned. Broken.”
“You’re none of those things.”
“She tried to kill me,” Kami murmured, “she tried to break us apart..and that was her mistake.”
“And mine,” Hara added, “was letting her walk away afterward.”
Kami’s hand rose, fingers brushing the fabric at his shoulder—light, barely-there, but grounding.
“We’ll fix both mistakes.”
He covered her hand with his own, his palm rough from training, warm from exertion.
“When the Reapers fall,” he said quietly, “it won’t be for revenge.”
“No,” she whispered. “It’ll be for truth.”
Hara nodded. “For us.”
Kami drew in a slow breath. “We’ve been fighting alone for too long.”
“Yes.”
“Separated. Controlled.”
Her voice dipped lower. “Rupert tried to turn us into weapons pointing in opposite directions.”
“He forgot we were forged together,” Hara replied.
Kami stepped closer again, their bodies almost touching.
“When we face the Reapers, they won’t see champions. They’ll see inevitability.”
“They’ll see what happens when survivors stop running,” Hara said.
“And become hunters.”
A hush settled between them—warm, heavy, intimate. Not the tension of battle. Something older. Softer. A truth they rarely touched, but always felt.
Kami’s hand slid from his shoulder to his jaw, fingers resting against the line of stubble there. Hara leaned into the touch without hesitation, eyes half-lidded.
“You’ve always stood beside me,” she said.
“Always,” he answered.
“And when the Reapers fall… when Rupert’s games collapse…”
Her voice thinned with emotion she rarely allowed.
“I want you beside me then too.”
Hara exhaled slowly, the breath trembling just once. “I will be.”
Kami’s forehead met his, a gentle press, steady and sure. Their breathing aligned, slow and synchronous, the kind of quiet connection they never showed the world because the world didn’t deserve it.
Hara’s arms slipped around her waist, drawing her in with care that matched the ferocity he carried everywhere else. Kami’s hands rose to his back, fingers curling into the fabric of his gi, pulling him closer.
The storm outside them quieted.
The world shrank to warmth, breath, heartbeat.
Kami whispered, almost too soft to hear, “We end this together.”
Hara held her tighter. “Together.”
Their bodies pressed fully into an embrace—not desperate, not fragile.
A promise.
A vow.
A beginning.