Tokyo Dome
Backstage — 20 Minutes Before the Press Conference
The room wasn’t quiet by design—it was just the last one no one had needed yet.
A single bulb swung overhead. The floor tiles smelled like alcohol wipes and old tape glue. Somewhere, a hand dryer buzzed and cut off mid-cycle. Maki Nishimura sat alone on a folding bench beside a row of unopened ice packs and electrolyte bottles, one arm braced across her knees, the other unwrapping a roll of Ricky’s wrist tape.
Her fingers were slow, careful, reverent.
The tape wasn’t pristine anymore. It had curled a bit at the edges, touched by heat and sweat from the last match they ever wrestled together. She kept meaning to throw it out—then didn’t. Each week it made it into her bag again, tucked between her thigh wrap and her tape scissors like a silent stowaway.
She stared at it now like it might say something.
A gentle knock came at the steel door. Maki didn’t flinch.
A junior staffer poked her head in, badge lanyard clinking.
“Five minutes, Nishimura-san. Press is loaded in.”
Maki nodded once. The woman lingered, unsure whether to say something more—then left with the door half-open behind her. Maki stayed still. She rolled the tape into a tight coil, then slid it into her jacket pocket. She looked down at her hands. One of her knuckles had reopened in training. The scab flexed like old leather.
She let out a breath.
Maki: Ricky... I’ve got this.
Her voice didn’t echo, but it filled the space anyway.
Then she stood, tightened the sleeves of her warm-up jacket, and stepped into the long hallway lit by overhead fluorescents that led to the press room.
There was no music in the air. No crowd. No opponent. Only a room full of questions. And a woman who already had all the answers.
The press room under the Tokyo Dome had hummed like a beehive in a storm. Fluorescents buzzed, cameras blinked red, and every chair leg scraped concrete in nervous little stutters. Security cordons split the room into tight lanes; everyone wore the pale blue wristbands of the BLOVID-13 closed loop. A rain-wet banner sagged behind the podium: TOURNAMENT FINAL — ULTIMATE WRESTLING TAG TEAM CHAMPIONSHIP.
Maki Nishimura stood at the lectern in a zippered team jacket, tape already snug around her wrists. She didn’t tap the mic. She didn’t smile. The wall of lenses drank her in, and somewhere far above, the Dome breathed like a sleeping animal.
NHK Reporter: Maki-san, confirmation that Takuma Sato will appear inside the loop tomorrow? Fans worry about his availability.
Maki: Call time was set. He’ll make it. You’ll see two names on the graphic and two shadows on the canvas.
Tokyo Sports: You chose Sato after your original partner’s death from BLOVID-13. Was that a strategy or a statement?
Maki: Both. The strategy is winning the belts. The statement is that my partner’s last bracket doesn’t end in a hospital. It ends with gold.
Asahi: Sato is double-booked. Does that help the Russians? They can grind him early and cash it in later.
Maki: Only if I let them. I control the clock. I carry the long minutes. He gets the clean windows.
Yomiuri: Have officials asked you to limit his ring time for his second bout?
Maki: Officials can ask. I’ll manage what keeps us champion.
Reuters: Your first reads on Tsar’s Tormentors—Chernyy Kostyor and Chyornaya Vedma?
Maki: Kostyor is leverage and pressure—claw, crossface, ankles until the lungs beg. Vedma is altitude and angles—she makes you look up, then takes your neck. We keep Kostyor’s hands off our faces and keep Vedma’s feet on the floor. Simple doesn’t mean easy.
TBS: Specific counters?
Maki: Iron Claw—thumb peel, jaw turn, shoulder walk-out. Crossface—hand fight the top wrist, knee to hip, roll through the near arm. Mandible Claw—bite on the molars, two-on-one, post and shuck. If she leaves air under her ribs, I take it.
Nikkan Sports If security routing delays Sato at call-time, do you work handicapped or forfeit?
Maki: I don’t forfeit anything. If I have to start alone, I start alone. The bell doesn’t wait for stories.
Tokyo FM: You’ve hinted at “outside noise.” Any concern about off-camera interference tomorrow?
Maki: Concern is for people who plan to be surprised. We’re not surprised.
Mainichi: Fans fear an “ambulance finish.” Your response?
Maki: Ambulances are for civilians. We walk out.
A freelancer with a TASS badge stood and didn’t bother hiding the smirk.
TASS: Late-formed pairings lack chemistry. The Russians are 4-0. Do you concede the belts are traveling to Moscow?
Maki: Chemistry is a crutch for people who need excuses. We have timing, tape, and purpose. They have a record. Records break.
Flashes popped like lightning on a timer. Maki let the noise settle, then leaned in just enough to own the frame.
Maki: For the avoidance of doubt—tomorrow is the Tournament Final. You’ll get Kostyor’s hands hunting skulls, Vedma throwing glass from the top, and you’ll get me cutting their ring in half until there is nowhere left to stand. Sato will make his window. I will make the finish. Anyone planning to “help” the outcome should save their breath; I’ll take it from them in the tunnel.
She stepped back from the mic, eyes flat, hands at her sides. Security opened the lane. The cameras kept blinking, hungry and red, as Maki walked out into the concrete hush that led toward the ring, the rain, and a belt that weighed exactly as much as a promise kept.
She stood, slid the towel from her shoulders, and stepped off the tape-scarred concrete into the corridor that led toward the tunnels. The practice ring thunked once more behind the curtain, ropes singing a low note like a bow across a cello string. The room exhaled; the cameras kept blinking.
The service tunnel thrummed like a throat clearing. You could feel the bass of the house track through the concrete—eight counts rolling toward bell time. Gorillas was two doors down; a belt cart waited under a canvas tarp, plaques taped with gaffer that read FINALS. The air smelled like chalk, hot lights, and rain that had followed everyone in on their jackets.
They had moved the scrum to a narrow choke point. Security kept the aisle open; cameras rode on shoulders; scribes balanced notebooks on flight cases. Maki stood in front of a cinderblock wall stenciled with EXIT, laces double-knotted, knee sleeves already warmed to a shine. Her face was calm in the way of someone who had already made all her decisions.
MOX Sports Japan: Final check—who starts?
Maki: I start.
NHK: Why you, not Sato?
Maki: Because I can drag their lungs into deep water and still talk on the surface. He arrives fresh when the distance matters.
Tokyo Sports: What minute does he tag in?
Maki: When their shape breaks. Not before.
Asahi: Kostyor says he will close the night with “Tsar Bomba” on Sato to soften him for his singles match. Response?
Maki: He’ll be lucky to find the altitude. The only bombs I allow in my ring are short and defused at the hips.
TASS: Vedma told us you “fear the sky.” True?
Maki: I fear wasted time. If she climbs, it’s a schedule problem I solve on the second rope.
Nikkei: You’ve mentioned “math” a few times. What’s the math of tonight?
Maki: Four corners, five counts, two legal and two illegal seconds to multiply pain. Add pressure, subtract space. Divide a team until their answers don’t match.
Mainichi: If interference comes from outside, what then?
Maki: Cameras see everything. So do my elbows.
Proresu Weekly: Your original partner died from BLOVID-13. What do you carry for him into this match?
Maki: The last thing he said to me was “finish the bracket.” I brought a pen.
Yomiuri: How is your gas tank compared to theirs?
Maki: I ran stairs while they ran their mouths.
Tokyo FM: What’s the call if Sato is late to gorilla by thirty seconds?
Maki: We wrestle thirty seconds longer. The belts don’t care who’s on the apron—they care who’s on the mat at three.
Sports Nippon: Double-teams—you exploit the full five?
Maki: Every legal second is a gift. I don’t leave gifts unopened.
TV Tokyo: Specific answers—Spectral Slam? Kremlin Cross? Volga Vengeance?
Maki: Spectral Slam—you turn, post, make his chest eat the canvas. Kremlin Cross—top wrist peels, knee rides the hip, head to the hands. Volga Vengeance—chin tucked, hands meet, bridge into the buckle. After that, it’s all housekeeping.
TBS: Are you worried about the ambulance rumor?
Maki: Ambulances take the beaten where they’re going. That’s not us.
A hush rode the tunnel for half a beat. Far off, pyro tested, coughing sparks that smelled like copper. The moderator lifted a hand—last two.
Reuters: If you win, what’s the first thing you do with the belts?
Maki: Breathe once. Then start the clock for the first defense.
NHK: Final word to the Russians?
Maki: Half a ring is enough to crown champions. I’ll see you in the half you can’t escape.
A runner leaned in, finger to headset.
Runner: Two minutes to cue.
Maki nodded, slid past the tape line, and brushed her palm across the tarp that hid the plates. The cart rattled as a stagehand pushed it toward the light. She didn’t look back at the cameras. The tunnel narrowed, the music grew teeth, and the floor began to shake in time with the crowd. Then she was gone, folded into the cadence of steps that led to the curtain, a promise tucked under her ribs and a finish already living in her hands.