Anya Taylor-Joy's eyes burned with teats as she crawled up the ramp. The sting of defeat was burning, like salt in an open wound. She'd lost, but not just any fight—a battle of fists and claws in the middle of a ring in front of thousands of people, a catfight that had left her pride bruised and her body aching and naked.
Elizabeth Olsen's victory was still echoing in her ears. Her fans erupting in a storm of cheers and flashing cameras—it was like a knife twisting in Anya's gut. This wasn't just a match; it was personal now. The sacrifices, the blood, sweat, and tears—all for nothing.
In the back, the rage inside her was a living, breathing entity. Anya could almost feel it pulsing through her veins as she thought about Elizabeth, standing tall and proud. She clenched her fists so hard her nails dug into her palms, drawing blood. It was in that moment she swore an oath to herself, a promise—she would not rest until she had crushed Elizabeth.
The fight coordinator approached her, his face a mix of concern and respect. "Looks like you've tasted the bitterness of loss," she said gruffly. "You want a rematch?" The words hung in the air, heavy with the promise of redemption. Anya's eyes snapped up to meet hera a spark of determination igniting in her gaze. "Yes," she hissed, her voice hoarse from the screams of battle.
The coordinator smirked, revealing a glint of mischief in her eye. "Good. But next time, we're taking things up a notch. It'll be a ladder match," he announced, the crowd's murmurs growing into a frenzied buzz. You'll have to climb and fight, not just on the ground, but in the air." She paused for effect, allowing the gravity of her words to sink in. "Are you ready for that?"
Elizabeth Olsen sauntered in, her victory still fresh, a smug smile playing on her lips. She was dressed in street clothes now, a stark contrast to the bruised and battered gladiators leaving the arena. She leaned against the ropes, crossing her arms over her chest. "I heard you're looking for round two," she said, her voice a blend of sweetness and sarcasm. "You think you have what it takes to dethrone me?"
Anya didn't bother with words. She shot to her feet, ignoring the pain that screamed through her body. She stomped through the dust and debris, every step a declaration of war. She stopped right in front of Elizabeth, so close that their noses almost touched. The smell of sweat, blood, and adrenaline hung between them—a heady scent of challenge and defiance. "I'm ready," she spat out, her voice a low growl. "I'm going to make you regret ever stepping into my world."
The fight coordinator, sensing the tension spiraling out of control, stepped between them, her hands raised. She was smaller than both women but had a commanding presence that demanded respect. "Hold your fire, ladies," she said firmly. "The next time you meet in the arena, it'll be under my terms. And those terms are going to be epic." She paused, her eyes flicking between the two of them, the smirk back on her face. "A ladder match. More danger, more thrills. Can you handle that?"
Anya and Elizabeth locked eyes, the air around them crackling with animosity. Without breaking eye contact, they both nodded in agreement. "Yes," they said in unison, the word echoing through the now silent arena. The crowd erupted in excitement, knowing that the next battle between these two would be a spectacle like nothing they'd ever seen.
