Cometa . . .

You still believe this is about light and darkness.

About hope and hunger.

About the stars you reach for and the shadow you think I cast.

It isn’t.

This has never been about belief.

It has been about behavior.

I watched you at Slam. Not when you were flying. Not when the crowd lifted their voices like a choir calling you heaven-sent. I watched you in the quiet seconds. The pauses between motion. The moments where you needed something to go your way.

You rush when control slips.

You accelerate when doubt whispers.

You call it passion.

I call it pattern.

In that locker room, when I let the cape fall between us, you said you hoped I was fast enough. You tried to turn it into a challenge. A test of speed. But you missed the lesson entirely.

I do not test speed.

I test restraint.

A proper matador does not chase the bull.

He studies it.

He notes the twitch in the leg before the charge. The shift in breath. The way the eyes narrow when pride is touched. He does not need to be stronger. He does not need to be faster.

He needs to know when the animal cannot help itself.

You think I am trying to frighten you.

If I wanted fear, I would have attacked you.

I left a cape.

And you stepped on it.

You crushed it under your boot as if fabric could be insulted. As if grinding your heel into red cloth proved defiance. But all it proved was this . . .

You are already fighting me before the bell rings.

You are not calm.

You are not centered.

You are not guided by distant cosmic wisdom.

You are irritated.

And irritation is the beginning of impatience.

You say you fight for legacy. For the name passed down. For the fire carried across generations. But legacy is weight, Cometa. It presses on the chest. It tightens the lungs. It demands that every failure mean more than it should.

You are not just trying to beat me.

You are trying to prove I am wrong.

And that is when you will make your mistake.

Because at Turbo Violence, when you step through those ropes, you will want to silence the prediction. You will want to show that you do not charge recklessly. That you are not predictable. That you are not ruled by the emotions I so calmly described.

You will try to outthink me.

And in trying to outthink me, you will overcommit.

You will leap a fraction sooner than you should.

You will push the pace a fraction harder than you must.

You will chase an opening that is not truly there.

And I will not be dazzled.

I will not be hurried.

I will step aside.

You reach for stars.

I wait for impact.

And when you finally understand that this was never about speed, never about light, never about hope . . .

It will already be too late.

Breathe. Slowly.

Charge, Cometa.

I will be exactly where I need to be.