[ Just call me Audrey. 'Cause I'm in need of some rewrites! ]
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Hey Oskar,
Let’s grab a seat and chat about Retribution from a couple of weeks ago. Picture this: I’m here, the championship belt resting on my shoulder like an old friend—familiar, yet always ready to move on. It’s not something I cling to; I just hold onto it until the next worthy challenger comes along. I don’t admire it in the mirror; I simply keep it safe until it’s time for someone else to take the reins. You’re stepping into this ring soon, so listen up. This is the stage you’ll be on, and I’ve already figured out all its quirks.
Adam Brock threw himself at me as if he was trying to prove gravity had forgotten the man—arms flailing, chest heaving—it didn’t, but I digress. The look in his eyes was fearless, desperate; they were locked onto his championship dreams as he catapulted from the ropes, each leap screaming, “Look at me!” I clenched my teeth, shifted my weight, my boots scuffing the mat, shoulders braced against his suicidal tendencies. My fingers found his arm, twisting with a precision that nearly silenced an entire arena—a move born of instinct, turning his enthusiasm into my advantage. He almost asphyxiated, his frame wavered, and I watched as his pharyngeal, well... constricted, bent to my will. It’s not about being cruel, Oskar; it’s about seeing things clearly. I could read his weakness in the slightest movements, the subtle winces beneath his hyperactive onslaught. He might laugh it off later, nursing that arm, but I bet he saw a reflection of me in his glass.