No fucking way.
Santana.
Dread floods her chest like a punch to the sternum. The same woman who sat in her exam room three days ago with a split knuckle and bruised ego is now walking toward the ring with her hood low and gloves on.
She's taller under the lights. Bigger. Shoulders tight with tension. Her jaw's clenched. There's a dark focus in her eyes that wasn't there in the clinic. Not exactly. This version of Santana moves like something coiled. Caged.
Audrey can't breathe for a second, all possible things that could happen to Santana's hand rushing through her mind.
"That's her," she mutters, blinking. "That's my goddamn patient."
Nicole leans closer. "That's Reaper? Holy shit. She's fine as hell."
Audrey doesn't respond. Her attention is locked on the hand — the one she wrapped herself. The same one that's now laced in crimson tape, tight over raw knuckles.
She shouldn't even be punching anything right now.
Across the ring, her opponent climbs through the ropes — a stocky stud with thick arms, gold trunks, and a cocky smile. She's got a full corner: two men rubbing her shoulders, another shouting in her ear. Confidence practically drips off her.
But Santana? Alone.
She steps through the ropes without help. No towel. No water. No coach. Just her.
Audrey frowns upon noticing that. 
"Who the hell is gonna help her." She mutters.
The referee, a tall man in black with tired eyes, steps into the center.
"Ladies," he calls, motioning them forward.
Santana and her opponent walk toward the middle. Up close, the size difference isn't dramatic — both are tall, built, dangerous — but Santana's energy makes her feel heavier. Like gravity favors her.
"This is ten rounds. Two minutes each. No headbutts, no elbows, no late hits," the ref says, quick and cold. "I want a clean fight. Protect yourselves at all times."
He glances between them.
"Touch gloves."
Santana raises her fist slowly.
The other woman smirks and taps it hard.
They back away.
Ding ding.
ROUND ONE
The first second is all footwork. Santana stalks, shoulders rolled, eyes pinned on her opponent like she already knows where the openings are. Her movements are deliberate. Patient.
The other woman tests her — throws a quick jab. Santana doesn't even flinch.
Another jab, faster. Santana bobs under it, steps inside, and fires off a left hook to the ribs. A thud follows. Her opponent stumbles back.
Audrey leans forward, lips parted. She doesn't even realize she's holding her breath.
The crowd eats it up.
Another exchange. Santana takes one to the shoulder but doesn't break rhythm — she retaliates with a jab-jab-cross combo, fast as hell. Her opponent tries to clinch, but Santana shoves her off with one arm, cool and brutal.
By the end of round one, it's clear who's setting the pace.
Santana walks back to her corner — if you can even call it that. She sits on the ropes, alone, hands resting on her thighs. Her right one flexes a little. Subtle, but not invisible.