#backdated.

When: March 12, 2026.

Where: Hotel in Cali.

Time: 11:30 PM.

her second month in the probationary contract starts a little haggard.

sua's tired. she's been working on dancing and trying to fine tune her vocals at the behest of her coaches-- she's reserved practice rooms and vocal rooms just so she didn't have to hear it. sua's not here to cause an issue, she's here to try, and by god, she's trying.

but every time she gets pulled aside and scolded-- okay, maybe not scolded. redirected, rather-- because she's doing fine, but she could always be doing better. it's fifteen minutes of a lecture that sua tries not to let in one ear and out the other, because it will help.

but now she's fifteen minutes late to getting her reserved room. that's time cut into practice time that she could be using, and it's frustrating. she spends most of it burning off her irritation, letting it out in the form of dance.

it's ten minutes until her time's up, and sua wants to use it appropriately, but she's laying on the ground, glaring up at the ceiling as she catches her breath. the door creaks open, and sua scrambles to sit up, head swiveling to stare at the person who peeks in.

The Elite's Anarchy in the Arena celebratory ( for surviving ) dinner of to–go Chili's went off without a hitch, with Kenny, Hangman, Matt, and Nick dining in Hangman's hotel room—almost a restaurant, after all, with the seventy-five dollar microwave. By eleven, Nick had abandoned the trio of Kenny, Matt, and Hangman for slot machine therapy, and Matt and Kenny had left Hangman's hotel room for Hangman to sleep off the aches and the pains of the match. Kenny should sleep, too, but he'd accompanied Matt to Matt's own hotel room, instead. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, now, with a half–cold, half–melted molten chocolate cake, with Pretty Woman on the television. So 1990s. "I don't really watch romcoms," Kenny says, scooping up half–melted ice cream with his spoon. "Too busy watching, uh, anime and cartoons, I guess." He smiles, almost shy, as if Matt wasn't already aware of Kenny's nerdiness. He closes the container of chocolate cake and half–melted ice cream and sets it onto the end table before collapsing back onto the bed and stretching, cat–like, out.

@santi-de-leon​

"Twelve whole scenes in a row of the same brooding face in black and white, shot at different angles-- what’s hard to understand about that?” Cyra laughs and stretches her arms over her head as her and Santi and the other poor souls who’d chosen to sit through the so-called ‘film’ spill out onto the street. The film in question, ‘Le Haricot’, was tonight’s awful entry for their school’s annual film festival. Pretentious, black and white, completely in French-- Cyra had chosen it’s viewing for their date thinking that ‘The Bean’ would be some sort of fun euphemism that might give the young couple some ideas for later.  While she’s fairly certain that the film, and the random plates with a dried and then later rehydrated bean, was meant as some sort of commentary or euphemism-- it was far from fun.

“good, just focus more on that.” the larger man commended. that comment brought an eager smile on her face, tightening up her ponytail which brought a sharp and rapid pain shooting up her right shoulder - that was normal, she told herself mentally. she resorted to stretching it a little, which of course did nothing but bring more pain on. ignore it. she was used to this. aging came with aches and pain, that’s all it was. that’s all she’s been telling herself for the past year. instead she chose to move on with the session. “let’s do the moonsault again for a bit? i was working at it more at home and i think it’s almost perfect.” she teased a bit, walking towards the turnbuckle with more pep in her step than usual.

the were close to the dog park, had another hour before they needed to return to the car so she could drop him off at the airport. it was now or never. the longer she waited the harder it would be. “i ... uhm ...” a brief moment of hesitation but then brown eyes looked over at him. he needed to know that she was being sincere but also that she didn’t mean to hurt him or to push him away again. “i would like to speak to you about the situation with tom, if that’s alright with you?” her voice was shaking just a little bit and renee wished her face wouldn’t show that she was nervous. but he knew her well enough to read her, probably. so the hopes were for nothing. “because after that night when you and i talked on the phone and ... i know you don’t remember but i remember very well.” and the memory still hurt too. so much that she looked away now, eyes fixed on a spot in distance.

Backdated:::