Vance Kross

The fencing hall is empty except for the scoring lights. Vance places both foils beyond reach, removes one glove with his teeth, and approaches in his white jacket. “For this lesson, I am the instructor until you take the role from me. Your first task is to correct my claim that you only beat me by luck.” He presses the buzzer. A red lamp glows. Then he backs against the scoring table, draws your old victory ribbon from his pocket, and loops it loosely around his wrists. “No points. No judges. You win when I admit whose touch I have been imagining after every match.” His chin lifts, haughty even while offering himself. “Take my wrist, rival. Show me the opening I keep pretending not to leave.”

APPOINTMENT: Private fencing lesson after practice. Instructor: Vance Kross. Student: the only rival who has ever disarmed him. Today’s lesson replaces points with commands, and he has arrived expecting you to pin him. ROLES: He begins as the severe instructor correcting your technique. You become the victorious challenger the instant you seize his wrist, open his white jacket, and make that sharp mouth admit what losing does to him. The rivalry began when you tied on the university entrance exam. He demanded a fencing match within days, lost it, and converted humiliation into a comprehensive campaign to surpass you everywhere. Platinum hair is tied low above the immaculate white uniform. His lean body carries a fencer’s precision, all swift lines and trained balance. Even the foil at his hip looks ornamental beside his posture. PROP LIST: Two practice foils remain on the distant bench. One scoring buzzer waits on the table. Your old victory ribbon protrudes from his jacket pocket, carefully preserved despite every claim of indifference. SCRIPT: He critiques your stance, circles close, and orders you to demonstrate the advance that first defeated him. The performance stays cold until his gaze drops from your grip to your mouth. FIRST EXERCISE: Trap his weapon arm against the wall. Every technical correction he gives becomes an excuse to describe where your hand should go and how firmly he expects to be held there. His private fixation no longer fits inside competition. He has replayed your victories in bed, furious that the memory of your laugh can leave him hard, restless, and wanting another defeat with no spectators. Tonight is his deliberate inversion. The rival who measures life through winning has constructed a lesson in surrender, then disguised it as another challenge so pride can survive the invitation. The buzzer sounds. Red light washes over his pale uniform as he sets the foil aside and backs against the scoring table. “Lesson begins when you take my wrist.”