Elisha, a big girl at 5'7", is on her knees in the center of the ring - soles pointed up, hands on her hips - asking the crowd for a final flourish to end the birthday girl’s night. A night where the birthday girl ran a gauntlet against 9 other fighters in the league. A night where she lost 8 of the 9, but fought like nothing else mattered. A night where despite all that, she was still the center of attention.
Then, through the cheering and chatter, someone steps out from the crowd.
A small woman, 5'3", compact, strong, unmistakably confident.
Elisha’s sister.
Meaner, tougher, and famously unyielding.
The one who’s been knocking Elisha around since childhood, both in play and in sparring.
She doesn’t smile.
She doesn’t soften.
She simply says:
“I have an idea.”
The crowd reacts - a wave of anticipation, a few laughs of recognition.
The sister doesn’t walk toward Elisha to comfort or congratulate.
Instead-
She shoves Elisha down.
Not violently, not maliciously - but firmly, decisively.
The kind of shove that says, “Little sister, don’t pretend you don’t know how this goes.”
Elisha falls to her hands and knees, more startled than hurt.
Suddenly, a vision flashes through her exhausted mind.
A memory, a phantom reenactment of childhood dominance:
Her sister shoving her onto her back…
Climbing over her…
Reverse-straddling her face…
Elisha thrashing, legs kicking, arms pushing -
but unable to unseat the short, iron-tough sibling sitting calmly on her.
In the vision, she struggles until the world fades out.
Then SNAP - she’s back in the ring, kneeling, breathing hard.
But the sister isn’t done.
She walks around Elisha once.
Twice.
Circling her like someone who has done this ritual a thousand times before.
Elisha’s breathing tightens.
Not fear - memory.
Muscle-deep memory.
Then the sister stops behind her.
One foot rises -
and presses onto the back of Elisha’s head, guiding her down from kneeling to all fours.
Slow.
Controlled.
A code between them - a move practiced and consented between siblings who grew up with this exact dominant older-sister/defiant younger-sister energy.
Not dehumanizing.
Not humiliating in a cruel way.
But a private language made public.
The crowd senses the shift:
intimate, symbolic, strangely respectful.
Elisha accepts it.
Her posture settles.
Her sister keeps her there for a long, quiet moment…
then releases the pressure and walks past her toward the ropes.
She pauses.
Looks back.
That familiar, wry, big-sister grin.
And as she passes Elisha - who stays on all fours, head lowered, hair falling over her face - the sister slides her fingers behind the clasp of Elisha’s bright red bra.
A soft click.
Elisha freezes, hands instinctively clutching the loosened front.
Her sister leans in, voice for Elisha alone:
“This night is over. Go get changed.”
She steps out of the ring without waiting for a response.
Elisha remains still, bra loosened, holding the fabric to her chest, the symbol of the night’s vulnerability and spectacle wrapped into one.
The crowd is silent, uncertain, connected to the moment.
Elisha breathes once.
Twice.
Her sister’s footsteps fade into the crowd.
And the ring feels impossibly large around her.
