Chapter 2:
Seika's pre-fight interview followed, sending shockwaves through the MMA world, and when I watched it, it felt like a personal attack designed to burrow under my skin. Her eyes narrowed with disdain as she spoke into the microphone, her voice laced with venom and a steely resolve honed from years of disciplined training.
"Dakota Ditcheva? She's turning our sport into a beauty pageant. Wearing makeup in the cage? Strutting in like a model in her little sports skirt and thong? It's disgusting. She's making it too girlie, too soft. She's like a prissy dog prancing around, thinking her looks make her a fighter. I hate her for that. She's disrespecting the warriors who bleed for this. Tonight, I'll show the world what a real fighter looks like. I'll humiliate her, strip away that pretty facade, after I beat her leave her naked and leave her exposed for the fraud she is."
The clip exploded across social media, going viral within hours, with fans buzzing with anticipation and dissecting every barbed word. Seika's vow, complete with the cutting "bitch" insult that cut deep into my persona, hung in the air like a promise of destruction, fueling debates about style versus substance in women's MMA. I replayed it over and over, each time feeling a knot in my stomach—how dare she call me a "prissy dog"? It was jealousy, pure and simple, but it ignited something fierce in me.
Watching the interview from my luxurious hotel room in Tokyo, I felt a surge of fury mixed with defiance, my perfectly manicured nails digging into the plush comforter as I replayed the clip on my phone. "That jealous little bitch," I snarled to my team, my cheeks flushing with anger and my athletic frame tensing with indignation. "Calling me a bitch? She's just envious of my body, my style—everything she lacks. Fine, if she thinks I'm too girlie, I'll show her." "Get a shorter skirt and skimpier pants for the MMA outfit," I told my management. "Let’s make her eat her words when I knock her out looking like a beauty queen." Fueled by spite and a burning need to assert my dominance, I doubled down on my provocative image, vowing to make Seika regret her words with every sway of my hips and flash of skin.
But as the fight would prove, this decision would become my deepest regret, amplifying my humiliation tenfold in a spectacle that would haunt my career. Adding to the stakes, both of us had agreed to a special clause under Japan's RIZIN rules: no judges' decision allowed—the fight would end only by submission or knockout, ensuring a definitive, brutal conclusion with no room for controversy. I loved the idea; it meant I could end it quick with my strikes, no drawn-out points game where her grappling might wear me down. Yet, as I lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, a flicker of unease crept in— what if her ground game was as good as they said? I shook it off; I was taller, heavier, stronger. This was my fight to win.
Entering the Arena – The Neon-Lit Battlefield
Now, in the neon-lit underbelly of Tokyo's sprawling arena, the air hummed with electric anticipation, thick with the scent of sweat, adrenaline, and a palpable undercurrent of arousal from the packed crowd.
The venue pulsed with energy, spotlights cutting through the haze like blades, illuminating the octagon where destinies would collide. The crowd, a sea of fervent Japanese fans mixed with international thrill-seekers and celebrities, roared as the announcer's voice boomed over the speakers, his tone dramatic and echoing off the rafters. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the ultimate showdown in the flyweight division!
Defending her homeland title, the undefeated Japanese sensation, Seika Izawa—five foot two of pure, unyielding fury at one hundred eight pounds!" I watched from the tunnel as Seika stepped into the ring, her lithe, toned frame coiled like a venomous serpent ready to strike, every movement precise and purposeful. Her black hair was tied in a tight ponytail, framing her sharp, angular features that radiated focus and intensity. She wore simple black fight shorts and a sports bra that clung to her small, perky breasts, her compact muscles rippling under smooth, olive skin like a well-oiled machine. Every inch of her screamed discipline and raw power, her dark eyes burning with the fire of her pre-fight vow, scanning the crowd with a quiet confidence born from national championships in wrestling and sumo. She looked so small, so manageable—I couldn't wait to tower over her.
"And her challenger, flying in from across the seas, the British bombshell, Dakota Ditcheva—five foot eight, one hundred twenty-five pounds of seductive striking power!" I sauntered in, my long, athletic legs striding with cocky, hip-swaying grace that turned heads and elicited whistles from the audience. My blonde hair cascaded in glossy ponytail down my back, my full lips painted a bold red that matched my fiery spirit, eyes shadowed with smoky makeup that accentuated my sultry gaze and added to my aura of untouchable allure. But it was my outfit—the sexiest MMA ensemble ever seen in the cage—that drew gasps and cheers: a barely-there black micro-skirt that rode high on my thighs, paired with a strappy cropped top that barely contained my ample, heaving breasts, the fabric so thin and tight it left little to the imagination and hugged my curves like a second skin. Beneath the skirt, a lacy black thong hugged my hips, the strings visible and teasing my firm, rounded ass with every sway. I blew a kiss to the crowd, my confidence radiating like a spotlight, then locked eyes with Seika, mouthing, "Jealous yet?" Towering over her by six inches and outweighing her by seventeen pounds, my body a vision of erotic allure meets fighter's physique—long limbs perfect for devastating strikes, a toned midsection from years of Muay Thai training. In my mind, this was a mismatch—a quick payday against a pint-sized opponent, my ultra-sexy style a deliberate flaunt to rub Seika's jealousy in her face. But deep down, as the bell rang and the crowd's roar reached a fever pitch, a flicker of regret stirred; this outfit would only heighten my impending shame, turning every moment of vulnerability into a public spectacle. The clause echoed in my head—no decisions, only finish. I had to end it fast.
