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It was still 2009, the last underground match of the year. Elena Blake walked backstage, towel draped over her shoulders, sweat cooling on her skin. The booker met her there, envelope thick with cash in his hand.
"Have a good one, kiddo," he said, soft smile creasing his face.
She nodded, pocketed the money, and headed out. The usual alley was quickest home, narrow, shadowed, familiar. Halfway through, a figure stepped into her path.
Viper. Her opponent from tonight. Bruised eye swollen shut, lip split, but standing tall.
"I don't have time for this," Elena said, voice flat.
Viper said nothing. Just stared.
Elena turned to leave the other way, and froze. Viper's crew blocked the exit. Four shadows, bats and chains glinting under the streetlight.
She didn't get a chance to react. The first swing caught her square in the back of the head. The world tilted, then dropped to black.
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The first thing she felt was pain. Not the sharp sting of a good punch or a popped shoulder. This was deeper, bones grinding, lungs burning like she'd inhaled fire. Every breath pulled knives across her ribs.
Elena blinked up at a bare bulb swinging overhead. It flickered. Harsh yellow. Her vision swam. She tried to sit up; ribs screamed. A hand pressed her shoulder down, gentle, but no arguing with it.
"Easy. You'll rip the stitches again."
Rough voice. Tired. Familiar. She turned her head. Nico, her old corner-man. Hair longer, grayer stubble, eyes sunken like he hadn't slept since the fight.
"Where...?" Her throat felt lined with sand.
"My place. They dumped you in the alley behind the club. I dragged you here."
He dragged a stool over, sat heavy, rubbed his face. "I told you that fight was off. Told you Viper wasn't playing straight."
Elena tried a laugh. It came out dry, cracked. "Thought I could handle her."
"You did." Nico met her eyes. "Till the crew jumped in."
She winced, tasting copper. "How bad?"
"Cracked rib. Two busted fingers. Concussion. Face looks like roadkill. I thought you were gone for good."
Elena stared at the ceiling. "Maybe I should've been."
Long silence. Nico stood, crossed the room. A duffel bag waited in the corner. He tossed it onto the mattress beside her.
She unzipped it slow. Black gloves, shredded. Trunks, torn, blood-stiff. Boots, caked dark.
She stared at the ruins. Voice barely a whisper: "It's over."
Nico sat again. "Underground's done with you. You broke their rules. Made enemies. They'll finish the job if you ever go back there."
Elena clenched her jaw so hard her teeth ached. "Then I'll find a different ring."
"Jesus, Elena. You almost died..."
"I'm not dying in some alley like trash." She pushed up on shaking arms, pain spiking white-hot. "I'm not going out like that."
Nico crossed his arms. "Stubborn as ever."
"Help me," she said.
"With what?"
She looked at him, eyes hard, steady despite the bruises. "I need a new name. Something clean. Something they won't see coming."
Nico exhaled, long and slow. "Fine. But first, hospital. You need real stitches, X-rays, the works."
"And pay with what?" She pressed a hand to her side, wincing. "Money's probably gone. They took everything else."
Nico rubbed his neck, glanced at the bag like it held answers. "Then we figure it out. But you're not walking out of here half-dead. Not on my watch."
Elena nodded once as she let Nico throw her arm over his shoulder and leaned against him.
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The pair arrived at the local urgent care clinic in Brooklyn, not fancy, just fluorescent lights, cracked linoleum, and the smell of antiseptic mixed with old coffee. The receptionist glanced between them, smiled too wide, and said, "Father and daughter?"
Nico snorted. "Not even close."
Elena, leaning hard on his arm, didn't bother correcting her. She just wanted the pain to stop screaming long enough to think.
They were ushered into a small exam room. Elena eased onto the paper-covered table; every shift sent fresh fire through her ribs. The doctor, young, maybe late twenties, scrubs still crisp, introduced himself as Dr. Reyes and started the exam without small talk. He pressed gently along her side; she hissed through clenched teeth.
"Watch it," she muttered.
"Sorry. Deep breath if you can."
She tried. It felt like swallowing glass. Nico sat in the plastic chair against the wall, flipping through a battered notebook he'd pulled from his coat. He was already scribbling, names, crossed out, rewritten.
"How about I try joining the UFC?" Elena said between shallow breaths.
Nico didn't look up. "You remember how that went last time?"
"I remember the promoter who asked if I'd ever considered being a ring girl," she said, voice edged. "He still has the scar from where I reminded him I fight, not pose."
Nico gave a dry huff that might've been a laugh. "Point taken. But MMA's the same cage with better lighting. You'd be back in the grinder in six months."
Elena stared at the ceiling tiles. "So what, then?"
Nico tapped his pen once, twice. "Wrestling."
She let out a low, pained chuckle that turned into a cough. "You want me to do scripted fights? Choreographed drama?"
"I actually like wrestling," Dr. Reyes said quietly, not looking up from the chart he was filling out.
Both Elena and Nico turned to stare at him. The doctor's ears went pink.
"I mean... it's athletic. Storytelling. Strategy. Not fake in the way people think." He cleared his throat and went back to palpating her ribs. "Just saying."
Elena's mouth twitched, almost a smile, swallowed by pain. "Noted, Doc."
Nico leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Think about it. Wrestling's got rules, but it's still real contact. You keep the strikes, the submissions, the psychology. You just get to pick your battles. Pick your story. And the paychecks don't usually come with a side of attempted murder."
Elena closed her eyes for a second. The idea landed somewhere between ridiculous and... possible. "No more alleys," she said quietly. "No more crews waiting in the dark."
"Exactly." Nico flipped to a fresh page. "You'd need a new name. Something sharp. Something that says 'don't touch me' before you even step through the ropes."
She opened her eyes. "I'm listening."
He tapped the pen against his lip. "Valentine. Like the card, sweet on the outside, but full of sharp edges. Selina Valentine. Rolls off the tongue. Sounds dangerous without trying too hard."
Elena tested it in her head. Selina Valentine. It felt... clean. Like shedding skin.
"Selina Valentine," she repeated, softer. The name settled in her chest, right next to the cracked rib.
Nico nodded once. "And when you're ready, when you've healed, trained, built something new, you drop the mask. Become something else. Something they'll never see coming."
The doctor finished taping her fingers and stepped back. "Three to four weeks before you even think about training. Six before anything heavy. And if you feel dizzy, nauseous, worse headache, back here immediately. Concussions aren't jokes."
Elena met his eyes. "I know."
Reyes hesitated, then added quietly, "For what it's worth... if you do go the wrestling route, don't let them water you down. The business eats people who play nice too long."
She gave a small, crooked smile, the first real one since the alley. "Noted."
Nico stood, helping her off the table. She swayed once; he steadied her without a word.
As they left the exam room, Elena glanced back at the doctor. "Thanks, Doc. And... keep watching the good stuff."
He smiled, small, genuine. "I will."