The noise is there. Loud. Booming.

  People are talking. The crowd is growing restless. None of it matters.

  I’m not nervous. I don’t get nervous anymore. But there’s a moment, right before the match, where everything slows. It’s not fear—it’s awareness.

  This is my moment. My stage.

  I have to capitalize on it, and if I don’t…

  I shake my head.

  There is no, don’t.

  It’s, I have to.

  14-14. I glance at Randle, exhaling through my nose. This should’ve been over already. I should’ve finished him ages ago. A lot of factors brought us here.

  If I had to pick just one reason? It’d be him.

  Randle.

  The other national finalist.

  The one who has been against me since the start of the tournament. I wouldn’t call him an ‘arch-rival,’ but he’s been a petty thorn in my side for way too long. A thorn to be unplucked, and find out it’s plucked again somewhere else.

  I call that annoying.

  I scan the stadium, taking in the atmosphere—electric, restless, on the edge of eruption.

  The air in the stadium is charged—anticipation, tension, maybe even a little desperation. The crowd’s noise hums in the background, a constant wave beneath the bright lights and polished platform, piste.

  I stand at the edge of the strip, rolling my shoulders, adjusting the grip on my blade. It’s not nerves—just routine. This moment isn’t new to me. I’ve been here before. I’ve been in tight moments like these.

  Not every match went my way. But if I let hope decide my fate, I wouldn’t be here.

  I need to take control of this with my own damn hands.

  "So, here we are again," Randle mutters, rolling his shoulders. His comment took me right out of my thoughts, and there he was. I didn’t even hear his footsteps amongst the crowds.

  His blade resting at his side, lips pressed into a thin line. His posture is tense—too tense. He’s wound up, forcing himself to look relaxed.

  I barely glance at him. "Yeah. Here we are."

  He scoffs. "You think you got this in the bag already?"

  I don’t respond. I eye his strap. The one on his shoulder. Colors of black, yellow, and red. He can’t see my face, but I know where he’s trying to get at.

  He’s been doing it all game. Every single round. And every single tournament before this one.

  That…that fucking Belgium bastard.

  How they even let him into Nationals to begin with is beyond me. Must be purely cosmetic, though. I haven’t heard of any news regarding his nationality…yet.

  I noticed the flash of irritation on his face when I didn’t respond to his earlier remark. Randle is different. He’s not here to win the final. No. He’s here to beat me, specifically.

  Someone of his caliber would have no trouble reaching the finals. I knew that much. One wrong move here, and it spells disaster for me in a heartbeat.

  I couldn’t underestimate it, not at all. I can’t underestimate him…but he tests every single bone in my body. He’s a very, very weird dude.

  14-14. Again.

  This should’ve been over already. But fine—what’s one more point?

  I glance at the referee. Thanks to Coach’s reset and a brief moment in the locker room, I got exactly what I needed. A minute. Just a minute.

  That’s all it takes.

  "Lucien’s reset is complete. Priority will now be determined."

  Randle and I step back to our starting marks in sync. This is it. The moment that could make or break everything we’ve fought for.

  The referee retrieves a small device. One press. One decision. Everything hangs on it.

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  I inhale slowly, closing my eyes for half a second. Funny. After all this time, after fighting for every point, here I am—asking for luck to be on my side.

  I don’t rely on luck. I never have. But I need that priority.

  Randle isn’t known for attacking, much less pushing forward. He’s a defensive fencer. Against me? That means he’ll turtle, force me to play his game. That means I’ll have to keep him in check for one minute.

  But if I don’t get priority? Then it’s a whole different battle.

  A 50-50. A coin toss. Playing minesweeper with a blindfold. You get the point.

  The stadium stills. The crowd leans in, waiting. The air is thick with anticipation.

  "Priority is awarded to Randle."

  The reaction is immediate—cheers, murmurs, an uproar that swallows the air. My ears drown in the noise.

  Oh.

  So, that’s how it is.

  My eyes open slowly, and for a second, I catch something in his stance. A flicker of hesitation. As if he didn’t expect to be in this position. As if he expected priority to be handed to me.

  What soon came after was Randle letting out a sharp breath, rolling his neck like the weight has shifted in his favor. Even he knows if that priority was handed to me, it’d be a different story.

  I guess I’ll have to revise the draft right here, right now.

  Priority means nothing if you can’t hold your ground. Maybe, Randle is a pretty good defensive fencer. But against me?

  Against me?

  “One minute of fencing. Randle holds priority. If no touch is scored before time expires, Randle is the winner by default.”

  One minute. That’s all I have to work with. If time runs out, he wins without lifting a finger.

  I roll my wrist, feeling the weight of the blade settling comfortably within my grip. I can feel the air in the stadium tighten.

  As Randle put on his mask before me, I could see the look on his face. Frustration? Resentment? I’ve seen it many times before. On different faces here, across multiple tournaments. The goal that resides within their heart is all the same.

  They all want to prove something. But Randle? He makes it personal. The sport itself doesn’t matter to him—beating me does.

  “Finals bout. Fencers, to your positions!”

  We are both already on the piste, and to be frank, neither of us could know how this turns out. Here? It could play into anyone’s favor. It could be any outcome out of the two of us.

  But I’m not worried about that, am I?

  I’m focused on the one outcome I see before me.

  And that’s getting that damn last point.

  “En garde!”

  The crowd’s noise fades out. Randle takes his stance, and it takes me even less to analyze. Knees bent, blade raised.

  Too stiff. Too forced.

  I could see it, Randle.

  “...Prêt!”

  I can see your hesitation.

  And I can see your nervousness.

  On a big stage like this.

  There’s no room for nervousness.

  Only action.

  With this, I simply breathe. Both loose and balanced. My blade poised like an afterthought. I’m not getting excited from this. I’m not getting some last-minute adrenaline rush.

  I exhale. Slow. Controlled.

  I’m not waiting for an opening.

  I’m creating it.

  “...Allez!”

  Randle doesn’t move immediately. If I were him, I wouldn’t either. No need to. Makes my job harder, but not impossible. Someone like him? Probably counting the seconds. The same way you count it down on the microwave.

  To him, victory is just a minute away.

  He’s watching me, waiting for me to make the first move. He just needs to survive. A coward’s way to win, but who am I to blame? Next time, there won’t be a game where it has to go to priority.

  I shift forward, measured, careful. I won’t give him an opening he can punish.

  I feint left, and he flinches. Blade flickering defensively.

  He’s too eager, he’s feeling the pressure already. It’s laughable, almost.

  But I can’t laugh just yet.

  I test his reactions more, small, calculated movements. Baiting him. Randle falls for it every single damn time, and in a moment like this was no different.

  More seconds tick away, and I can hear the murmurs in the crowd. The tension thickens here.

  “Thirty seconds remain.”

  Randle exhales sharply. He knows he can’t just stand there forever, and neither can I.

  He lunges, fast, but sloppy.

  Our blades clang as I parry it effortlessly, stepping just out of reach.

  He resets himself too fast, too anxious.

  That’s how I knew it.

  That’s when I knew I got him.

  “Fifteen seconds.”

  I see the moment he realizes it. He’s trapped. His breath shortens. He shifts uneasily.

  He doesn’t know what I’m going to do. All he knows is that he has less than fifteen seconds to come up with some defensive tactic. He knows I love leaving it late.

  His second guessing, his anxiety, his hesitation, his doubting.

  They make a pretty good blender combo. I don’t even have to attack yet. The fool is going to break himself.

  He could never read the cues as well as I do.

  Ten seconds left, and he moves. Quick, reckless. I hold my breath in. It’s now, or never ever again.

  Another attack, I see it before he even starts. Too wide, and damn too ambitious.

  Doing moves we’ve never practiced before, huh Randle?

  My body shifts to the side.

  In that fraction of a second. Where everything gets quiet. Everything slows. The world holds its breath. And it feels like where I’m stuck in the moment.

  My blade moves before my mind catches up.

  Faster than thought.

  Faster than hesitation.

  And that’s.

  Contact.

  “Touché! Match, Lucien!”

  I exhale upon hearing those words. The scoreboard locks in. 15-14.

  For a second, there’s nothing, and then, there’s uproar. Cheers. The crowd explodes.

  I exhaled again. Lowering my blade. It’s over.

  Randle’s mask stays on longer than it should. He doesn’t look at me. Maybe he’s processing. Maybe he doesn’t want to show his face. Maybe…he already knew how this would end. Like…some inevitability.

  Not my problem.

  I raise my hand, and wave. It only grows louder.

  “Finally, it’s done.”

  I look over at Randle one more time. He’s there, standing. Probably dumbfounded or amazed.

  I wait. And I wait. And I wait.

  I feel my heart twist. But it doesn’t feel as bad as it should.

  It didn’t jump.

  Did I imagine it?

  I finally got to finish what I should’ve done all these months ago.

  Maybe it would’ve been better had I told him from the start.

  But I didn’t.

  I think that makes me the bad guy.

  I hope I’m not the bad guy.

  I hope I learn from this.

  I hope I’m not hollow.

  So, please.

  Please let me feel something.

  Even if it’s pain.

  Even if it’s guilt.

  Just to prove I’m not hollow.

  I sigh, and look towards him. He looks back at me, mask off. His hair was matted by the helmet. He softly grins.

  I take my mask off.

  And I stare.

  The crowd’s still cheering. They won’t stop for a while.

  But I don’t raise my blade again. I don’t bow. I don’t celebrate.

  I just stand there—hoping the noise will drown out whatever’s missing inside me.