Tomás Ferreira vs. Luong Chun - Before the Fall

[BlackAkuma]

Luong had never liked pain, though not for the reasons most would suspect. She had a reasonably decent pain tolerance. Nothing spectacular, but it wasn’t like she would faint if she had to take a decent punch. Her body wasn’t built for damage, but she wouldn’t immediately fold if that was what it came to, and she wouldn’t lose her when someone made contact.

No, what troubled her about pain was what it meant. If she was hurting, it was because she had failed in some aspect. She had underestimated her opponent, fallen for one of their tricks, let them in when she should’ve kept them at a distance. It was a stark reminder that she wasn’t perfect, that she had room to improve, and she loathed such notions when they came from actual people, let alone her own body.

She was meant to be on the outskirts, playing him, not the other way around. Tomas was skilled, which was clear, but if he thought he could outmaneuver her, he would learn a lesson in futility. His best bet was to take her blows and find an opening, but he seemed not to want that. An excess of pride, perhaps.

She would deal with that. Right now.

She came at him from above, aiming a stomp at him while he was still down. With both her legs and her bodyweight driving it home, it was destined to be a devastating attack, and she could see the flicker in his eyes. Panic?

Whatever the case, he moved with all the speed he could muster, narrowly avoiding her descending strike. Her feet slammed into the canvas instead, hitting with an impact that rattled the ring and floor beyond. The crowd seemed impressed, but she wasn’t in a mood to coddle to them - she was hunting.

With Tomas on the retreat, she eagerly followed, closing the distance with hurried steps. He stayed low, which suited her just fine, saving her the trouble of stretching too far. She brought her leg up straight up with her foot cocked, looking like she intend to smack him with a snap kick, only to pivot, twist her body around and come at his side instead with a roundhouse.

[GoingBananas]

Tomás knew the difference between speed and control. He’d seen plenty of fighters move fast, react fast, strike fast—but few could do all that without leaving something behind. A weakness. A vulnerability. Luong didn’t. Rarely, anyway. She measured every motion, even when urgent. Even when violent. That stomp hadn’t been reckless—it had been purposeful, meant to break him in body and rhythm alike. And it nearly had.

The canvas still trembled beneath his feet from the impact of her missed stomp, the sound of it a thunderclap that had ripped through the crowd. But Tomás wasn’t thinking about the audience. He was thinking about her eyes. The focus behind them. The clarity of intent. This wasn’t just about outmaneuvering him anymore. This was personal. She hated he had made her miss.

He could see it—not in an overt expression, but in the precision of her pursuit. Luong didn’t lunge. She closed the distance like a sharpened needle, a hunter tightening the coil around her prey. Tomás stayed low, baiting perhaps, or simply trying to stay beneath her reach long enough to find his footing. It didn’t matter. She adjusted effortlessly.

And then came the kick.

It started vertical—her foot chambered like a textbook snap kick, and he recognized the angle immediately. She wanted him to think high, to block high, maybe even duck under. But he’d seen enough deceptive setups in his time, and her weight was wrong for a pure upward strike. Too much torque in the hip. Too much tension building in her planted leg. His instincts screamed before his mind caught up. This wasn’t a snap. It was a pivot.

She spun, body turning on the ball of her foot in a fluid arc, and the roundhouse came slicing toward his flank with elegant, lethal intent. Tomás didn’t back away. He didn’t have time. Instead, he surged forward—not into the path of the kick, but under it. He dropped into a low crouch, one knee kissing the canvas as he tucked tight, his arms hugging his ribs to shield the strike zone. He felt the wind of the kick pass just overhead, its force tugging at his hair like a passing blade. Had he been half a second slower, she’d have folded him in half.

He didn’t let the moment pass. From the crouch, Tomás sprang—not vertically, but diagonally, rising into a driving clinch. One arm aimed to wrap behind her knee just as it descended, not to trap it, but to delay her recovery. His other forearm drove across her midsection, pushing toward her hip to check her balance. The goal wasn’t to overpower her—it was to disrupt. To buy space. A heartbeat of imbalance was all he needed.

Whether the clinch held or she twisted away, he kept his weight forward, denying her the clean retreat her footwork typically afforded. This wasn’t domination—it was grit, clawing for the inches that meant survival.

He didn’t speak. There was no room for words now. Only breath. Only motion. Only war.

[BlackAkuma]

Tomas still hadn't said anything. While Luong didn’t much care for conversation during her matches, most wrestlers she had come across had a habit of saying every little thing that came to their mind, as if this was some movie and they were appealing to an audience who could actually hear them. She found it irritating, but like the buzzing of a fly that she couldn't get rid of, she had grown accustomed to it.

As such, she found its absence oddly haunting and offsetting. Tomas was a difficult man to read, and she couldn't shake the impression that he wasn’t always so taciturn. Something was behind this demeanor. A point to prove, perhaps.

It would not be at her expense, whatever the case. She lashed out with confidence, full expecting her strike to find its home against his face and put him down. He was fast, but she was faster. Reach and speed were firmly her advantages.

But Tomas had his own strengths. With this disqueting silence must have come focus, the kind that could allow one to see things that others would scarcely note. She couldn't imagine what slight movements gave away her game, but they were just enough for him to avoid her blow altogether, dodging the roundhouse as it came slice through the air. Even worse, he did so by ducking, which meant he was in her range, her personal space. The last place she wanted him to be.

Luong tried to retreat, but he was up and on her before she had the opportunity, wrapping her up into a clinch, pressing her thin frame against his taut body. She hissed at the sensation and ground her teeth, resigning herself to the annoying reality. She was here, she would deal with it.

He was close, her danger zone, and he likely thought that a safer spot spot for him. He wasn’t wrong, but ‘safer’ and ‘safe’ had different meanings. While her style of fighting specialized in kicks, her other two limbs weren’t wholly ignored, and Luong proved that as she raised her arm and brought her elbow crashing down, trying to strike him square on the top of his skull.

[GoingBananas]

He still hadn’t spoken. Not a word, not a grunt, not even the cathartic sigh most fighters gave when their strikes landed or missed by inches. It wasn’t an affectation. It wasn’t pride. He just had to focus. Silence can be a weapon, it was sharper than any strike he could throw. He could feel how it unsettled her, the way Luong’s eyes lingered too long between attacks, like she was searching for something in his expression that he refused to offer.

That suited him just fine.

He had already felt the rhythm of her movement—long, swift, sweeping. Precision and reach over power. She was fast, no doubt, but she telegraphed just enough when she was sure of herself. The roundhouse had been beautiful in form, but not deceptive. Tomás had seen the twist in her hip, the way her shoulders squared just before the pivot. He dipped low, sweeping under the kick’s arc in a motion honed from countless hours in the heat and dust of a Thai ring. Her leg passed over his shoulder like a gust of wind. He was in.

Before she could recoil, he was already upright, stepping in tight and coiling his arms around her waist, locking them behind her back in a clinch that grounded her. The contact was sudden and total—shoulder to sternum, his forearms pressing into the curve of her back. Her body was lithe, but within his grasp, it was still firm, capable. She hissed, muscles tightening in protest. He could feel her teeth grit through the tension in her jaw as she twisted slightly, likely calculating the quickest route out—or the most painful one for him.

And then, it came. Her elbow. Sharp, unflinching, trained. It rose fast and came down faster, angling toward the crown of his head. A less prepared man would have eaten it—skull compressed, neck jarred. But Tomás wasn’t idle in the clinch. He had already begun shifting his frame the moment she tensed. He turned with her, rotating his torso just enough that the elbow glanced off the side of his scalp instead of landing flush. Pain bloomed, hot and immediate, but manageable. A cut, maybe. Bruising, definitely. But not enough to break the hold.

In response, Tomás pulled her closer—not as an act of dominance, but of control. He let one arm slip low around her waist while the other slid higher, past her ribcage, up to the back of her shoulder. He angled his hips to press hers off-center, limiting her balance. Her legs were her strength, and here, he would deny them the space they needed. With that established, Tomás would seek to drive a few knees, some coming wide and inside to smash at the side of her thighs. It wasn't much, especially from this angle. But it was something. A step forward.

[BlackAkuma]

More than anything, Luong hated being touched like this. Touched at all, really, but this way in particular. She had never been one for this personal contact, even as a child. She had always hated being hugged. Having someone so close, their body odor sticking to her, their heat against her skin, it made her stomach churn in something approaching nausea.

Luong would concede that there were many men, even in LAW, that she would’ve hated clinching with even less. Tomas was reasonably attractive, kept his body in good shape, and his odor wasn’t too onerous - no more than she would expect from a man with mild perspiration, at least.

It made no difference. She wanted him off, needed him off, and she had hoped the elbow would accomplish that. It was hardly the best move in her arsenal, but an unprotected shot to the skull was more than most wanted to deal with. Even if it was a glancing blow, the warning should’ve been enough to make him rethink the situation.

However, Tomas was not quick to give up such an advantage, clamping on far past the time she expected him to and riding out her struggles. She was impressed and irritated, though she couldn't say which one took precedence at the moment.

Either way, it was a problem she would have to deal with, as he continued to hound her in the hold and pull her in even closer. To make matters worse, he brought his legs up and sent a sharp strike into her legs, targeting her best instruments. An obvious strategy, but an effective one.

Luong was low on options, and could only see one that was viable, as much as it loathed her to even attempt it. Gritting her teeth, she brought her head back, then jerked it forward, attempting to crack their skulls together with a vicious impact.

[GoingBananas]

The clinch had a rhythm most couldn’t understand; a subtlety hidden beneath the sweat and exertion of the grapple. It’s not really a contest of strength, but of patience, angles, and breath measured in inches. Within the coil of muscle and momentum, Tomás felt that Luong’s body had tightened not from resistance alone, but from something deeper. Aversion.

She hated this.

It registered in the subtle recoil of her hips, the tension in her spine. Tomás didn’t take pride in it. This wasn’t a moment for cruelty, but he filed it away with the discipline of a man who made a study of his opponents. Every discomfort mattered. He could capitalize on every flicker of hesitation.

She was still fighting. The elbow she’d snapped downward moments ago had clipped his temple, sharp enough to leave a throb pulsing just above his right eye. But pain wasn’t new to him, and it wasn’t persuasive. At least, not yet. He kept her close, adjusted the lock of his arms, and nudged his shin inside her stance. The knee came in tight and upward, striking at the meat of her thigh. A surgeon’s choice aimed not to daze, but to diminish. He could damn well feel her frustration building, even through the silence.

And then he felt her shift. Not just repositioning. This was different. Urgent. Spiteful.

Her breath hitched, and the next second, he saw it coming too late: her head rearing back. Instinct flared, but there was no room to retreat, no time to fully twist out of danger. He moved as best he could, loosening one arm and shifting the hold just enough to angle his head slightly away.

Still, impact.

Her forehead collided against the side of his skull with a thunderclap of force that sent a shock straight through his teeth. White flashed across his vision, his knees buckled slightly, and the clinch collapsed like an old structure losing its foundation. He staggered backwards, one hand rising to cradle the growing ache along his temple.

His balance held, barely, but he gave her the space she wanted. He blinked once. Twice. The crowd noise dulled beneath the ringing in his ears.

[BlackAkuma]

This was a bad idea. Luong knew it was a bad idea. Yet, she did it, anyway.

Needless to say, this was her first time doing a headbutt, a move that she would normally never have even contemplated. It was so far from her usual repertoire that it was hard to even fathom, for her. The idea of using her head as a weapon, risking the perfection that was her face? Ridiculous. To say nothing of the damage it would do to her, a woman who strove to take as few hits as possible. She was not a sturdy woman, she knew it. This move was meant for the brawlers, the ruffians that plagued LAW, the trashy hardcore wrestlers who constantly threw their bodies all over the place.

Predictably, it didn't end well. Luong’s world turned white the moment their skulls connected, wrapped up in a bright flash, her senses fleeing. By the time they came back, she was already falling, her body going limp, with no chance to stop it.

She fell on her side and hurriedly pushed up to her feet, more on reflex than anything. Stumbling back, she made her way to the ropes and leaned against them for support as she blinked, trying to make sense of her environment, resetting her brain.

The only saving grace was that her gambit had worked, more or less - she wanted distance from her opponent and now she had it, as Tomas was reeling, too. Her first instinct was to come after him, but she nixed that idea after she took a single, wobbling step. No, she needed more time, her equilibrium was off.

Defense, then. Hands raised, she began to slowly circle the ring, keeping her eyes locked on him and hoping she would have enough time to recover before he came her way again.

[GoingBananas]

White.

Not the cold clarity of surrender, but the blinding, flash-bang kind of white that stole breath and balance all at once. The headbutt wasn’t elegant, it wasn’t trained. It was pure instinct, desperation forged into bone and velocity. Their skulls cracked together with a sickening thud, and for a single staggering moment, Tomás wasn’t sure who’d come off worse. His ears rang high and sharp. Stars peppered the edges of his vision, and the rest of the world lurched sideways beneath his feet.

He didn’t fall. Not quite. His feet slipped a fraction, the mat wavering under him like the deck of a ship in rough waters, but he remained upright, just barely. The clinch collapsed around them as Luong’s body peeled away from his. He let her go, not because he wanted to, but because he had to. She’d bought herself distance, and he felt it in the space left behind: the sudden cold where her heat had been, the breath that rushed into the vacuum of contact.

He watched her stagger to the ropes, her limbs fluid and unsure for the first time since the bell had rung. She’d earned herself a moment or two, but Tomás didn’t have the luxury of feeling impressed. His head throbbed, and when he blinked, the canvas beneath his feet threatened to lurch again. But he pushed forward. Always forward. Muay Thai didn’t teach him to retreat. It taught him to stalk.

She was circling now, arms up, steps cautious. Defensive. He knew the rhythm of a shaken fighter. He’d felt it in himself. So he pressed, slow but sure, his stance tightened, elbows tucked, guard high. A quick burst of footwork brought him a step closer, just enough to test her reactions—feinting a low jab at her midsection, not to strike, but to read. He didn’t need her to drop just yet. He needed only for her to blink. When she did, he would be there. Not with anger. Not with vengeance. With purpose.

[BlackAkuma]

On the defensive. Luong hated being on the defensive.

In her mind, being in a position like this - recovering, pulling back, being mindful of her opponent’s next moves - was a sign that you had messed up, that you had mistakes in dire need of correcting. She was meant to be pressing her advantage, not cowering away like some frightened waif in need of a breather.

Yet, here she was, keeping her distance and raising her hands, wary of the next attack to come her way. As loath as she was to admit it, that had more to do with her opponent than anything. There was simply no denying Tomas’ skill at this point, but more than that, the man was fighting as if he had something to prove, as if there was some personal stake in all of this that had totally escaped her.

Thankfully, she was given a slight reprieve, as it seemed she wasn’t the only one who needed a moment to recover. But sure enough, he came her way again, focused on her with those same steely eyes, willful and determined. He moved in, tight and fast, trying to throw her off with a quick jab. She flinched and stepped back, darting away, but fought the urge to throw an attack of her own. If he wanted to spend his time testing her, let him. It just gave her more chances to find her second wind.

[GoingBananas]

Tomás could see it in her eyes—the shift, the hesitation, the quiet retreat that belied the poise she tried so hard to maintain. Luong’s guard was high, her footing measured, but she wasn’t dictating the rhythm anymore. No, she was buying time, letting distance do the work that her usual sharpness could not. He’d felt the sting of her headbutt, the scramble that followed, but now that the fog had cleared, the advantage was his to press. He wasn’t about to let her breathe easy again.

He stepped in behind the jab not to land it clean, but to probe, to gauge her reaction. The slight flinch, the darting retreat—it was all the confirmation he needed. She was wary, second-guessing, and Tomás thrived in that space between doubt and execution. His weight shifted fluidly on the balls of his feet, closing in with a predator’s patience, his shoulders square, eyes locked on her like iron sights. She could circle, she could evade, but eventually she would have to plant her feet. That was when he would strike.

Driving forward, Tomás cut the distance with a sudden burst, snapping a feint low before whipping a right cross toward her guard, his hips rotating with full intent. It wasn’t recklessness; every strike was a message, each one demanding an answer she wasn’t ready to give. As she slipped back again, he hounded her, closing the angle with a quick sidestep, launching a whipping roundhouse that cracked through the air as it chased her retreat. The rhythm was shifting in his favor, the pressure building with every beat of his advance.

And still he pressed. His lungs burned, ribs still aching from past punishment, but the fire of will drove him forward. A step, another, his frame looming closer as he threw a short elbow slash on the inside, seeking to punish her whenever she lingered too long in range. The chase wasn’t just about landing a single strike—it was about wearing her down, denying her the sanctuary of distance, forcing her to fight where he wanted: inside the storm, chest to chest, with nowhere left to run.