Chapter 7: The Champion's Challenge
The antiseptic stung Willow’s nostrils, thick and cloying, as she lay face-down on the cold vinyl medical table, the trainer’s broad, calloused fingers probing the livid bruise blooming across her lower back where Sakura’s chair had connected. "Christ, that's tender," Willow hissed, her knuckles white where they gripped the table edge, her tartan trunks and boots the only armour she still wore against the room's sterile chill. The door slammed open with a force that rattled the cabinets, rebounding off the wall. Framed in the harsh fluorescent glare stood Emi Shinakawa, South Tokyo Championship belt slung casually over one shoulder, a sheaf of papers clutched in her other hand, her dyed silver home-cut hair a stark halo around her pale, intensely focused face. Without a word of greeting, Emi strode across the small room, her chunky goth boots thudding on the linoleum, and pressed the top sheet of paper flat against Willow’s bandaged stomach, the cheap paper cold and abrasive on her skin. Leaning down until her big, expressive eyes, dark with disdain, were inches from Willow’s, Emi purred a stream of rapid Japanese, her voice low and venomous; though Willow caught only the words "South Tokyo Championship" and "Bra & Panties," the meaning was chillingly clear in the predatory curve of Emi’s smile and the deliberate tap of a silver-painted nail against the contract’s stipulation clause. "Let's see," Emi switched to heavily accented, broken English, her gaze flickering dismissively over Willow’s exposed midriff and the blue waistband of her panties peeking above her trunks, a cruel smirk twisting her lips, "if Scottish lace... survive my claws."