wrestling attire
Laxia smoothed the fabric along her side before lifting her gaze to meet her own reflection. Her defeat in her debut match had been bitter. There was little purpose in denying that. She had entered LAW intending to make an immediate and undeniable impression, only to leave the ring without the victory she had expected to claim. Yet the loss had not been without value. Laxia had never considered professional wrestling beneath her, nor had she believed that success here would come effortlessly. Even so, Bandita had shown her just how many gifted, unpredictable, and fiercely determined competitors occupied this world. Talent alone would not be enough, pedigree would not be enough. Even perfect preparation could crumble once the bell rang and another person began fighting back. It was an unpleasant lesson, but a necessary one. And Laxia von Roswell was not a woman who would be broken by a single failure. If anything, defeat had only sharpened her determination.
Her second contest had been announced as a standard match. There were no elaborate stipulations to prepare for and no unusual conditions around which she would need to restructure her strategy. Victory would be decided through the conventional means of pinfall, submission, or knockout. Straightforward rules. A clean opportunity to prove that the outcome of her debut had been no indication of what she was truly capable of. The faint smile that touched her lips suggested she welcomed it. Soon, Laxia took her place behind the curtain at the gorilla position. As the opening notes of her entrance theme reverberated through the arena, she drew herself upright, composed her expression, and stepped through the curtain into the brilliance of the stage lights. The response struck her almost immediately. The cheers were louder than before. Noticeably louder. Though she had failed to win her debut, her performance had evidently left an impression upon the LAW audience. The realization brought a small, restrained smile to her face as she proceeded down the ramp.
Perhaps some of Bandita’s infectious warmth had lingered with her as well. Laxia raised one hand and offered the audience a graceful wave. When one particularly enthusiastic spectator reached over the barricade, she paused just long enough to meet their palm with her own. A high-five. Even then, the motion possessed such measured elegance that it appeared less like an impulsive gesture and more like some minor honor being bestowed by nobility. She continued toward the ring without allowing the growing enthusiasm around her to disrupt her dignified bearing. Ascending the steps, Laxia slipped between the ropes and moved toward the center of the canvas. There, she offered the audience a composed bow before retreating to her corner.
As she stretched against the ropes, Laxia’s blue eyes settled upon the entrance stage. Tonight’s opponent was Spectre. She was no obscure newcomer. Her name had appeared across news reports, hijacked broadcasts, and countless online discussions. Larceny heists, public broadcast takeovers, fear gas riots, and streams that openly displayed the suffering of her victims had made her infamous far beyond LAW. Spectre did not hide her crimes. She turned them into spectacles and made certain the world was watching. There had been no shortage of material for Laxia to study. The footage revealed a cunning strategist with a talent for manipulation, disruption, and adapting when her plans met resistance.
Yet the more Laxia searched beyond the spectacle, the less she found. Spectre’s public persona was extensively documented. The woman beneath it was not. Whenever Sebastian attempted to trace her personal history, he encountered the same “technical difficulties.” Records failed to load, returned contradictory information, or displayed nothing but error messages. Even information obtained through less conventional channels had been obscured. Names erased. Locations removed. Entire passages blacked out and redacted.
Sebastian did not make such mistakes, nor did House Roswell’s remaining information network fail without reason. Someone had gone to considerable lengths to keep Spectre’s true identity and past beyond reach. It was not that Spectre could not be investigated. The world could simply discover only what she had chosen to reveal. Laxia ceased stretching, her fingers still curled around the upper rope as her expression hardened. Spectre had turned her public persona into a weapon, one visible enough to command attention while keeping the truth beneath it concealed. Among her many documented crimes were thefts carried out with almost theatrical audacity. Could she be connected to the elusive figure Laxia had been pursuing? Perhaps even the mysterious thief herself?
No. A history of larceny was hardly proof, and Laxia would not allow coincidence to dictate her judgment. Still, she could not dismiss the possibility entirely. Laxia released the rope and stepped away from the corner, standing tall as she waited for the stage to reveal her opponent. Whatever connection Spectre possessed to the mystery surrounding House Roswell, if she possessed one at all, Laxia would uncover the truth herself. Just then, the arena screen flickered. A burst of static rippled across the display, causing Laxia’s name to distort and tremble upon the screen. She looked up with a puzzled frown as confused murmurs spread throughout the audience. And still, the screen continued to flicker.
