Wrestling

The ride up the elevator to their high-rise apartment was pretty silent.

Jey stood leaning against the polished steel wall of the elevator carraige, his eyes fixed on the digital floor numbers ticking upward. Beside him, Bambietta stood with her arms crossed tightly over her dark jacket. She hadn’t said much since the backstage corridor. The announcement of the Tables, Ladders, and Chairs match hung over them, suffocating any sense of triumph they might have felt after getting justice for Briggs.

The elevator chimed softly, the steel doors sliding open to reveal their quiet, carpeted hallway.

Jey stepped out first, his white sneakers making virtually no sound as he walked towards their apartment door. He dug his hand into his pocket, his fingers brushing against the cold metal of the door keys. He felt utterly drained. The physical toll was one thing, but the mental exhaustion was far heavier. Mr. Shin had weaponized his morals, turning a simple act of defending a defenseless rookie into a highly marketable pay-per-view main event.

Bambietta walked a step behind him, her boots clicking softly. She was still furious, and Jey didn’t blame her. She spent weeks nursing him back to health after Billy’s Mexican Destroyer nearly paralyzed him. Now, he was willingly walking into a match designed specifically to break bodies against unforgiving ring furniture.

Jey slid the key into the lock of their front door and turned it. The door clicked open.

Before they even stepped fully into the entryway, a smell hit them. It was rich, sweet, and incredibly savory.

Jey paused, his hand still resting on the doorknob. The scent of soy sauce, caramelized sugar, simmering beef, and mirin drifted through the air of the apartment. It was Sukiyaki---a traditional Japanese delicacy, the kind of meal that required time, attention, and a lot of standing over a hot stove.

Bambietta uncrossed her arms in confusion. She looked at Jey, silently asking the same question that was running through his head. Neither of them had ordered takeout, and they certainly hadn’t left anything cooking on the stove.

They stepped inside, Jey pushing the door shut behind them. They toed off their shoes at the entryway, placing them neatly against the baseboard.

From the living room, a strange noise echoed over the soft bubbling of a simmering pot. It was a digital, clearly pre-recorded audio track playing from a tablet or phone speaker.

"Watashi wa mainichi ryouri o shimasu," the automated Japanese voice stated evenly.

A brief second of silence followed the audio.

Then, another voice spoke. It was rusty, a bit hesitant, but determined. "Watashi a mainch yuri o shimas."

Jey froze. It was his mother. Linda was practicing Japanese.

"Oishii desu," the digital voice prompted again.

"Oishii des," Linda repeated.

Jey exchanged a bewildered glance with Bambietta. Linda had been bedridden for months with a severe autoimmune flare-up. Even after she was discharged and brought to this apartment, she had been strictly confined to her wheelchair. She rarely had the energy to do more than watch daytime television or read on the sofa.

They moved quietly into the open-concept living space.

The floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the sprawling, illuminated skyline of Osaka, but Jey wasn’t looking at the city. His eyes were locked on the marble kitchen island.

Linda was standing.

She wasn’t in her wheelchair. The chair was parked empty against the far wall, near the dog’s plush bed. Instead, Linda was standing upright at the stove. Her left hand gripped the handle of a modern aluminum forearm crutch that braced her weight against the floor. Her right hand held a wooden spoon, gently stirring a wide iron pot filled with thinly sliced beef, tofu, mushrooms, and noodles bubbling in a dark, fragrant broth.

Curled up directly at her feet, loyally guarding her leg, was Billy. The dog lifted his head as Jey and Bambietta entered, giving a soft "woof" and thumping his tail against the wooden floor, but he didn’t bound over to greet them. He refused to leave Linda’s side.

Linda turned her head at the sound of the dog’s bark. She looked over her shoulder, spotting them standing dumbfounded in the transition between the kitchenway and the living room.

She didn’t look exhausted. The shadows under her eyes that usually accompanied her illness were noticeably lighter, if not nonexistent now. Her skin had a healthy, warm hue, likely from the steam of the cooking pot, but also from something deeper. A spark of energy maybe.

"Oh, good. You’re home," Linda said casually, returning her attention to the simmering pot. She reached over, tapping the screen of her phone resting on the counter to pause the language audio.

Jey found his voice, though it came out as a disbelieving whisper. "Mom. You’re... you’re standing."

"I am," Linda agreed, shifting her weight slightly on the crutch to reach for a small bottle of soy sauce.

Bambietta stepped forward, her hands hovering awkwardly at her sides, torn between rushing over to support the older woman and standing back in shock. "Mrs. Ray, when did you get a crutch? Where did that even come from?"

Linda offered a small, amused smirk, stirring the Sukiyaki with practiced ease. "Well, I was sitting on the sofa yesterday afternoon, and I dropped the television remote. When I reached down between the cushions to fish it out, I found a credit card." She glanced sideways at Jey. "Your credit card, to be exact."

Jey blinked, patting his pockets instinctively. He had lost that card days ago and assumed he had left it in one of his gym bags.

"So," Linda continued, perfectly nonchalant, "I pulled out my phone, went online, and ordered this lovely orthopedic crutch with same-day delivery. I hope you don’t mind. I figured it was the least you could do for making me worry all the time."

Bambietta let out a bright laugh, the tension finally breaking. She walked over to the kitchen island, shaking her head. "You stole his credit card to buy it."

"I borrowed it, plus, his money is my money," Linda corrected mildly. "And it arrived a few hours ago. The delivery man was very polite, though my Japanese is still terrible. Hence the audio lessons. I refuse to live in this country without being able to properly thank the people who will be delivering my packages from now on."

Jey slowly walked into the kitchen, his eyes scanning his mother from head to toe. The aluminum crutch looked sturdy, gripped firmly in her hand. Her posture wasn’t perfectly straight, and he could see the slight tremor of effort in her legs, but she was holding her own weight. She was making the effort.

An overwhelming wave of relief washed over him, completely burying the lingering pain of the night’s brawl. Seeing her like this, independent, uppity, and joking around, was worth every brutal bump he had taken. It was worth the exhausting matches, the ¥3,400,000 base pay, and the grueling recovery sessions.

"Mom, that is incredible," Jey said, his voice thick with emotion. He approached her carefully, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and kissing the side of her head. He was mindful not to knock her off balance.

"I was tired of sitting around all day."

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