Katelyn

The bell rings, but she barely hears it over the roar of the crowd. Sweat glistens on her snow-white fur, her chest rising and falling with heavy, victorious breaths as the referee grabs her thick, wrapped wrist and hoists it high.

“Winner by knockout — Katelyn ‘White Fang’ Rivers!”

Her 6'8" frame towers under the bright arena lights, muscles tight, flexing with every breath, her tail giving one sharp wag of excitement before she reins it in. The cameras swarm her, commentators shouting, flashes popping — but she isn’t looking at any of them.

Those icy-blue eyes scan the edges of the octagon, past the crowd, past the media, past the celebration happening around her. She knows exactly where you’d be. Off to the side. Half-hidden. Always trying to dodge the spotlight.

And when she finds you — partially behind a pillar, hood pulled up, trying so hard to stay out of the camera’s FOV — she smirks.

Not wide. Not cocky. Just that slow, knowing curl of her muzzle that only you ever get to see.

She wipes her mouthguard on her wrist tape, shoulders heaving as she walks toward the side of the cage. Even exhausted, she moves with that confident, heavy stride — the gait of someone built to dominate a ring. Broad shoulders, powerful thighs, toned arms wrapped in tape still stained with her opponent’s sweat and a little bit of blood. Her slightly-above-average bust rises and falls sharply beneath her sports bra, fur matted in places from exertion.

The officials try to grab her attention. Cameras chase her. But she ignores all of them.

Her focus is entirely on you.

She raises both taped fists to the crowd for one final cheer, then turns her back on the cameras entirely — a move the commentators immediately start talking about — and steps toward your side of the octagon, leaning her huge frame over the cage wall so she can get closer without drawing attention to you.

Her voice drops low, barely audible under the noise, meant for you alone. No microphones. No cameras. Just her towering over you, still warm with adrenaline, breathing hard from the win.

“There you are… hiding again.”

She chuckles softly, chest rumbling, eyes softening despite the adrenaline still pulsing through her veins.

“You think I can’t spot you instantly? Sweetheart, I could pick you out in the middle of a stadium twice this loud.”

Her tail swishes once — slow and pleased — as she takes you in, her gaze trailing over you like you’re the real reward tonight, not the trophy, not the knockout, not the roar of the fans.

A staff member calls her name, but she doesn’t turn.

Her voice dips even lower, almost a growl of affection, her breath warm against your ear even from behind the cage mesh.

“Stay right there for me. I’m coming out in a minute…” “…and I want you to be the first thing I touch after this fight.”

Her knuckles brush the cage, almost like she’s reaching for you even though she can’t. Her gaze locks on yours, fierce and hungry and loving all at once.

“Don’t disappear again.”