Judo Arena – Individual Event
The crowd in the indoor arena quieted as the next match neared. Sunlight filtered in through high windows, casting long rectangles across the mat. The light made the floor look like glass—fragile and sharp.
Shoes scuffed against tile. Referees moved in practiced rhythm.
Zane stood at the edge of the mat, barefoot. His gi was slightly wrinkled, belt tied a bit too hastily, like he’d thrown it together two minutes ago. He scanned the arena like it was normal for him to get this much attention.
Across from him, a burly guy bounced from foot to foot—bigger, heavier, belt a shade lighter, full of twitchy bravado.
Off to the side, Celeste watched. Arms crossed. Gi flawless. Silent.
They’d taken judo lessons together when they were kids. Zane used to cry the first time he got thrown. Now, he met her eyes. She gave him a quick, uncertain look—part concern, part faith.
The referee raised a hand.
His opponent charged, grabbing for the collar.
Zane ducked, pivoted, gripped the sleeve.
His feet shifted—one move, one throw.
And with a clean twist and tug—
The guy slammed into the mat like a dropped kettlebell.
No fist pump. No celebration. Just a calm turn off the mat and a single glance toward Celeste—grin just sharp enough to be smug.
She didn’t say anything.
But a small smile played at the corner of her mouth.
As he started down the steps to the common area—
Zane’s foot caught the last step. His arms flailed. He hit the ground with a noise that made half the gym turn.
Celeste sighed. Covered her face. Shook her head.
He stood quickly, brushing off his shoulders like it was all part of the plan.
Next Match – Another Bracket
Celeste stepped onto the mat, tying her belt with deliberate, practiced movements. Her posture was upright, shoulders relaxed—sharp from years of training.
This wasn’t about a score. Or even the aptitude test.
This was about proving she hadn’t lost her edge.
The referee raised his hand.
Taller. Lean. Dark eyes. Sharp features. Face unreadable. Not a word. Not a glance.
The moment the match began—
Celeste didn’t even have time to react.
Her back hit the mat hard, breath punched from her lungs. Over.
It had lasted less than five seconds.
The gym murmured—shock cutting through the usual cheers.
Celeste sat up slowly, stunned. She looked up—
But the girl was already walking off.
Didn’t look back. Didn’t say a word.
Just flicked invisible dust from her shoulder and made her way toward a small group of well-dressed girls waiting at the edge of the gym. They swarmed like satellites, orbiting her without a word of command.
She didn’t speak to them.
They followed anyway.
The scoreboard flickered:
Winner: Serena Caldwel
Shooting Range – Individual Test Zone
The pistol range was set behind the east wing of the campus sports complex—quiet, disciplined, and heavily supervised. The students lined up along a row of shooting booths, each divided by glass barriers. At the front desk, staff members handed out sleek semi-automatic practice pistols—standardized models, rubber-gripped, cold to the touch.
Franz, Emphera, and Iris walked up together, their names called for the same rotation. The weapons were already prepared and tagged. One per student. Safety first.
Each of them picked up their pistol.
Franz checked the chamber, clicked it into place with a soft snick, and held it with familiar weight. His fingers curled around the grip with the ease of old habits.
Beside him, Iris adjusted the strap of her gloves and tested the trigger tension with a few slow dry pulls. Calm. Controlled. Professional.
Emphera pointed the gun sideways with both hands like she was in a spy movie.
"Say hello to my little friend," she whispered, grinning.
"Don’t... do that," Franz muttered without even glancing at her.
She flipped the pistol upside down and inspected the magazine like it might give her a horoscope. "So, uh... where does the bullet come out again?"
Iris sighed. "Remind me again why we’re all in the same group?"
"Fate. Karma." Franz replied.
Emphera twirled the pistol once, almost dropping it. "Oh come on. I’m a natural. You’ll see."
Franz’s eyes narrowed.
As I stepped into the booth, the familiar tension in my spine tightened.
I looked at Iris. She was adjusting her stance like she was lining up a world record.
Then at Emphera, who—no surprise—was still holding the pistol sideways.
"You are going to shoot the ceiling."
"Hey, if it looks cool, it counts."
She said Ignoring me, lifting her pistol in both hands, aiming upwards like she was starring in a low-budget action movie. "I always wanted to try this."
I frowned at her. "Now ,You’re going to shoot the glass."
"What does that even mean?"
[ I think you should focus on her more I think she will shoot either her self or someone else]
Iris glanced at them both and sighed. "Just don’t point it at anyone and we’ll survive this.
"Alright, shooters," came the staff member’s voice. "Three targets per student. Different distances. Five seconds per shot. Score based on accuracy."
Feet set. Elbows tucked. Breath in.
No tension. No nerves.
The world narrowed into metal and distance.
Three perfect bullseyes.
Three red lights turned green on my panel. I stepped back.
Just the crisp, efficient pace of someone who had practiced precision for the sake of perfection moved into her own stance. Calculated. Precise. As if trying to—not just succeed, but exceed.
Third shot—just barely clipped the outer ring.
She clicked her tongue and lowered the pistol with a slow exhale.
She stood with her legs apart, arms out, face scrunched up like she was about to launch a fireball.
Closer to the edge, but still counted.
The crowd actually clapped.
"Wait. Holy shit, I did it?" she said, stepping back. "Hell yeah. Maybe I was a cowboy in a past life."
I sighed in relief at least she didn’t shoot anybody.
She looked at the pistol like it had whispered sweet nothings to her..
"You’re not bringing that into the team event," I said, adjusting my glasses.
"I might. I think it likes me."
The final rankings lit up on the digital scoreboard behind them:
1st Place: Franz Kafka – 300/300
2nd Place: Iris Fontaine – 294/300
8th Place: Emphera Calloway – 260/300