Capítulo 1: Into the Arena
The roar of the crowd was a living beast, its thunderous voice shaking the very air of the arena. Neon lights flashed in dizzying patterns, casting vibrant hues across the sea of faces that chanted in unison. At the heart of this storm stood Catherine, her heartbeat steady amidst the chaos swirling around her.
She bounced lightly on the balls of her feet, the mat beneath her flexing with each movement. The scent of sweat and anticipation hung heavy, a familiar haze that sharpened her focus. Across the ring, her opponent—a muscular woman with a fierce glare—pounded her gloves together, a predator eager to strike.
The referee signaled them to the center. Catherine stepped forward, her eyes locked onto her opponent's, reading every flicker of emotion. Determination. Aggression. A hint of impatience. Good.
"Ready?" the referee barked, glancing between them. Catherine gave a curt nod, her muscles coiling like a spring. The instant the referee dropped his hand, the world narrowed to the space between her and the woman before her.
Her opponent lunged, launching a swift jab aimed at Catherine's face. Catherine reacted instinctively, weaving to the side as the glove sliced through the air mere inches from her cheek. She countered with a lightning-fast kick toward the woman's ribs, but her opponent blocked it with a forearm, the impact echoing with a sharp smack.
They circled each other, exchanging blows at a blistering pace. Fists and feet flew in a brutal dance, each strike met with calculated precision. The crowd's cheers escalated with every clash, fueling the electric atmosphere.
"That's it! Keep the pressure on!" Catherine heard Akira's voice cut through the din—a beacon amidst the frenzy. She spared no glance his way, but the edge in his tone registered. He wanted her to push harder.
Fine.
She feigned a right hook, watching as her opponent raised her guard high. Seizing the opening, Catherine delivered a powerful low kick to the woman's thigh. A grunt of pain affirmed the blow's effectiveness. Not wasting a second, she pressed forward, unleashing a barrage of punches that drove her opponent back.
But the other fighter was no novice. Recovering quickly, she swung a heavy roundhouse kick aimed at Catherine's head. Catherine dropped into a crouch, the kick sailing overhead, and sprang up with an uppercut. Her fist connected with the woman's jaw, sending a jolt through both their bodies.
The crowd erupted, a wave of sound crashing over them. Her opponent staggered but didn't fall. Instead, a fiery determination ignited in her eyes. Wiping blood from the corner of her mouth, she spat and grinned. "Not bad," she growled.
Catherine's lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile. "You too," she replied, her voice calm.
They clashed again, the intensity ramping up with each exchange. Catherine could feel the strain in her muscles, the burn of exertion—but also a flicker of something else. A spark that dared to kindle into flame.
As she moved, time seemed to dilate. Every motion was crisp, every decision instantaneous. She anticipated her opponent's next strike—a spinning back fist—and intercepted it, grabbing the woman's arm and using her momentum to flip her onto the mat. The arena shook with the impact.
Seizing the advantage, Catherine locked her into an armbar, applying steady pressure. "Tap out," she commanded, her voice steady but edged with urgency.
Her opponent struggled, teeth gritted against the pain. For a moment, it seemed she might resist, but then came the rapid tapping on Catherine's leg—a signal of submission.
The referee blew the whistle, rushing forward. "Stop! It's over!"
Catherine released her hold immediately, standing up as medics hurried in to check on the fallen fighter. A surge of applause and cheers filled the space, waves of adoration washing over her. The announcer's voice boomed through the speakers. "Victory by submission—Catherine Tanaka!"
She raised her fists to the crowd, the bright lights casting a halo around her. The exhilaration of the fight still coursed through her veins, yet beneath it lay that persistent emptiness—like a shadow lurking at the edge of her consciousness.
Stepping out of the ring, she was met by Akira, his face a mix of relief and mild frustration. "You call that a fight?" he teased, handing her a towel.
She arched an eyebrow, dabbing the sweat from her brow. "Didn't it meet your expectations?"
He chuckled. "You had me worried for a second there. Thought you might let her take the lead."
"Maybe I wanted a challenge," she retorted, a hint of playfulness in her tone.
"Is that so? Well, next time, don't keep me on the edge of my seat." He gestured toward the locker rooms. "Come on. Let's debrief."
As they weaved through the bustling backstage area, fellow fighters and staff offered nods and words of congratulations. Catherine acknowledged them with polite smiles, but her attention remained on Akira.
Once inside the relative quiet of the locker room corridor, he turned to face her. "You've been pushing harder lately," he observed. "What's driving you?"
She shrugged. "Isn't that the point? To improve?"
"Sure, but it's like you're fighting against something unseen." He looked at her intently. "You can talk to me, you know."
Catherine met his gaze, considering. Akira had been her coach for years—the closest thing to a confidant she allowed herself. But some walls were not so easily breached. "I'm fine, Akira. Just focused."
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "All right. Just remember, even the strongest fighters need a break."
Before she could respond, a commotion drew their attention. A group of fans had made their way past security, their excitement palpable. "Catherine! You're amazing!" a young woman exclaimed, holding out a program and pen. "Can we get an autograph?"
She hesitated, momentarily caught off guard. Akira nudged her gently. "Go on."
Catherine managed a genuine smile, taking the pen. "Thank you for your support," she said, signing the program with a flourish. More fans approached, and for several minutes, she engaged with them—answering questions, posing for photos. Their enthusiasm was infectious, and she found herself relaxing, if only slightly.
As the fans were ushered away by staff, Akira gave her an approving nod. "See? Not so hard to let people in."
"Don't get used to it," she quipped, though a hint of warmth lingered.
He grinned. "One step at a time."
They resumed walking, and soon Catherine stood outside the women's locker room. "I'll see you tomorrow," she said.
"Bright and early," Akira agreed. "Get some rest."
Inside the locker room, the hum of fluorescent lights provided a steady backdrop. Catherine sat on the bench, unwrapping her hands. Her knuckles bore the marks of the fight—reddened skin and the beginning of bruises. She flexed her fingers, watching the tendons move beneath the surface.
Her reflection caught her eye in the mirror across the room. Strands of dark hair had escaped her braid, framing her face. There was a flush to her cheeks, and her eyes seemed brighter. Alive.
Was this what exhilaration felt like? The thought stirred an unfamiliar sensation—a whisper of contentment. But as quickly as it came, it faded, replaced by the echo of her earlier question.
What was she fighting for?
A chime from her phone pulled her from her reverie. She checked the message—a reminder about tomorrow's schedule at the store. Duty called, as always.
Catherine stood, showered quickly, and changed into her civilian clothes—a crisp blouse and tailored pants that transitioned seamlessly from the gym to the professional world. As she left the arena, the night air greeted her with a cool embrace.
The city was alive, Tokyo's skyline a glittering tapestry against the darkness. She walked with purpose, weaving through the throngs of people that filled the streets. Snatches of conversation drifted by—laughter, animated chatter, the clinking of glasses from nearby bars.
Passing a street performer playing a soulful melody on a saxophone, Catherine paused. The music was rich, full of emotion that resonated deep within. She closed her eyes briefly, allowing herself to be carried by the notes. When the song ended, she opened her eyes to find the musician looking at her.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" an elderly woman beside her commented.
"Yes," Catherine agreed softly.
The woman smiled kindly. "Music has a way of touching the soul."
Catherine nodded, words escaping her. She reached into her pocket, leaving a generous tip in the musician's case before continuing on her way.
At her apartment building, she entered the sleek lobby, nodding to the concierge. The elevator whisked her upward, depositing her on the twenty-fifth floor. Inside her apartment, modern furnishings and minimalist design greeted her—everything in its place, orderly and untouched.
She set her bag down and moved to the floor-to-ceiling window that offered a panoramic view of the city. Lights stretched into the distance, a mirror of the stars above. Yet amidst this vastness, she felt a profound solitude.
Catherine placed a hand against the glass, the cool surface grounding her. Images from the evening replayed in her mind—the intensity of the fight, the fans' enthusiasm, the fleeting connection she felt during the music.
Perhaps there was more to this life than duty and discipline.
The thought unsettled her. She turned away from the window, shaking off the sentiment. Routine was essential. It was what kept her centered, what prevented the past from creeping in.
She headed to her bedroom, but instead of preparing for sleep, she sat at her small desk. Opening her laptop, she navigated to a familiar site—a dating simulation game she frequented in the quiet hours. Colorful characters and romantic scenarios filled the screen, a world where interactions were scripted, safe.
As the game loaded, she hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Tonight, the virtual connections felt hollow. She closed the laptop with a sigh, leaning back in her chair.
Her gaze fell upon a small origami crane perched on the desk—a relic from a distant memory. She picked it up gently, the delicate folds worn but intact. A whisper of a smile touched her lips before fading.
"One thousand cranes for a wish," she murmured.
Setting the crane back in its place, Catherine stood and finally prepared for bed. As she lay beneath the crisp sheets, she stared into the darkness, the city's heartbeat thrumming softly in the background.
Tomorrow would come, and with it, the familiar pattern of her life. Yet, amidst the certainty, something undefined lingered—a question, a possibility, a challenge to the path she had always walked.
Closing her eyes, Catherine surrendered to sleep, the echoes of the day's encounters weaving through her dreams. The fight, the music, the brief connections—they swirled together, hinting at a narrative she had yet to understand.
The journey had begun, even if she didn't know it yet.
Estado de energía semanal
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