Chapter Text
The Bright Moon Arena was usually Adora’s favorite place on earth, but tonight, the roar of the crowd sounded like white noise. Underneath the stadium lights, she felt exposed.
"One minute!" the official barked, banging on the locker room door.
Adora sat on the bench, her head between her hands. She was the Heavyweight Champion, the "Golden Girl" of the league, and she was currently falling apart. Every time she breathed, a sharp, jagged pain shot from her right shoulder blade down to her elbow.
"Adora, look at me," Glimmer said, her voice unusually sharp. She moved into Adora’s line of sight, blocking out the posters of Adora’s own face on the walls. "The tape isn't holding. You’re favoring the left side. If you go out there and throw a heavy hook, that tendon is going to snap like a rubber band."
"I have to fight, Glimmer," Adora gritted out, her jaw tight. "It’s a title defense. If I pull out now, the rumors start. Shadow Weaver is already calling the sponsors, telling them I'm 'unreliable.' I can't give her that."
"You can't give her your career, either!" Glimmer shot back.
Adora stood up, ignoring the way her vision blurred for a second from the pain. She punched her gloves together—a hollow, dull thud. "I’m fine. Just get me through the twelve rounds. We’ll fix it tomorrow."
The fight was a disaster from the third round on.
Adora was faster, stronger, and more technical, but her right arm felt like it was made of lead. In the sixth round, she saw an opening—a perfect, wide-open gap for a straight right. She took it. The punch landed, sending her opponent staggering, but Adora heard it before she felt it.
Pop.
A sickening sound, muffled by the roar of ten thousand people. Then came the fire. It felt like someone had poured molten lava into her shoulder joint. Adora’s face went white, her guard dropping for a split second as she gasped for air.
She finished the fight on pure adrenaline and stubbornness, winning by a narrow decision, but as soon as the belt was strapped around her waist, she couldn't even lift her arm to hold it up.
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The adrenaline had crashed, leaving Adora shivering on a training table while a team doctor poked at her shoulder with cold, indifferent fingers.
"Grade 2 tear," the doctor said, not even looking at her. "Surgery is an option, but you'll be out for a year. Maybe longer. We can try cortisone shots to get you through the next camp, but honestly? You’re hitting your limit, Grayskull."
Glimmer stood in the corner, her arms crossed, watching Adora’s face crumble. She waited until the doctor left before she spoke.
"We aren't doing surgery," Glimmer said firmly. "And we aren't letting those hacks touch you again. They work for the league, Adora. They just want you back in the ring so they can make a profit, even if it ruins you for life."
"Then what am I supposed to do?" Adora asked, her voice breaking. "I can't even pick up a glass of water."
Glimmer pulled out her phone and swiped to a private contact. "There’s a clinic. It’s off the grid, private, and they only take athletes who can pay the 'discretion' fee. The lead specialist is a nightmare to deal with—she’s arrogant, she hates the press, and she turns down more people than she takes."
Glimmer looked Adora dead in the eye.
"But they say she’s a miracle worker. She specializes in 'impossible' recoveries. I already sent over your charts under a fake name. She agreed to an evaluation tomorrow morning."
Adora leaned her head back against the wall, closing her eyes. "Fine. Whatever. Just... tell me she's good."
"She’s the best," Glimmer said, a weird look crossing her face. "But Adora? Be ready. This isn't a corporate office. You do what she says, or she’ll kick us out before we even sit down."
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The waiting room of Prime Therapy didn't smell like a gym. There was no scent of stale sweat, leather, or cheap disinfectant. It smelled like expensive teakwood and sterile clinical air.
Adora sat on the edge of the velvet chair, her leg bouncing a mile a minute. She was wearing her team-issued tracksuit, the "Grayskull" logo stitched in gold across her chest, but she felt smaller than she ever had in the ring. Her right shoulder was throbbing—a sharp, hot reminder that her championship defense was only eight weeks away.
"Relax," Glimmer hissed, not looking up from her two vibrating iPhones. "This place is the best. I had to pull three favors and sign a non-disclosure agreement just to get you a slot. Don't make that face."
"I'm fine," Adora lied, her knuckles white as she gripped her water bottle.
"You're not fine. You're twitching. If the press sees the champ limping into a clinic, the betting odds are going to tank." Glimmer finally looked up, her eyes softening slightly. "Just let the specialist look at you. She’s a genius. Built this place from the ground up after she left Prime."
The heavy frosted-glass door at the end of the hall clicked open.
Adora expected a man in a white coat. Maybe someone old and clinical who would look at her like a piece of meat to be fixed.
"Adora Grayskull?"
The voice hit Adora like a body blow. It was lower than she remembered, raspier, and carried an edge of professional coldness that made the hair on her arms stand up.
Adora looked up.
Standing in the doorway was a woman in a perfectly tailored black medical tunic. Her hair was just as long as Adora remembered, thick and wild but pulled back into a high, sleek ponytail that let the dark curls spill over her shoulders. A pair of dark-rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of her nose. One arm was tucked behind her back, the other held a sleek silver tablet.
The "Doctor" didn't look like a doctor. She looked like the girl who had broken Adora’s heart in a high school parking lot ten years ago.
Catra didn't smile. She didn't even look surprised. She just adjusted her glasses and stared at Adora with mismatched eyes that were as sharp as a razor.
"Exam Room One," Catra said, her voice flat. "Let’s see if you’re actually worth the hype."
She turned and walked back into the clinic without waiting for a response, her long hair swaying with the sharp, confident stride of someone who owed the world nothing.
Adora didn't move. She couldn't. The throb in her shoulder was gone, replaced by a violent, slamming heartbeat in her chest.
"Adora?" Glimmer prodded, frowning. "Go. That's her."
Adora stood up, her knees feeling like they were made of lead. She followed the scent of Catra’s spicy, familiar perfume down the hallway, feeling like she was walking straight into a trap she had been waiting for her entire life.