Split Victory
©2026 Zoë Taylor

14 year old Tiffani and her identical twin Morgan were both assigned male at birth, but due to an unusual intervention, they were separated and raised in vastly different lives. While Tiffani was allowed to simply exist, following her dreams of studying Taekwondo at a prestigious global academy, her long lost twin brother Morgan found himself under the oppressive shadow of his stepfather, billionaire playboy John Roth.

But now, Tiffani has left the singular world of Taekwondo tournaments behind to join the global world rankings of the North American Martial Arts Sports Association, she and her long lost sibling are put on a collision course that was never meant to happen, and along the way they'll unravel a mystery that's bigger than the both of them.

Chapter 1: The Sparrow

8:30 A.M.
The haptic buzz of Tiffani’s Apple Watch hummed against her wrist. She didn't flinch. She had been awake for twenty minutes, sitting stationary at the center of her unmade four-post oak bed, weighted dusty rose comforter shoved aside. It looked like an ordinary blanket to the untrained eye, but to Tiffani it meant a good night’s sleep under a regulated, constant pressure, just like the stiff, high thread count sheets beneath her.

Her eyes were shielded by her firmly weighted, champagne-colored silk sleep mask, the “Aura by Apex” logo embroidered with a subtle, raised stitch of silver thread at the temple. To Tiffani, it wasn’t the REM cycle optimizer the marketing had promised; it was the anchor grounding her frantic mind, holding the world’s static at bay.

Her fingers moved with practiced, rhythmic speed. She navigated the strands of her blonde hair into a tight French braid by touch alone in a kind of a tactile kata, a golden crown of hair constructed in the void. While the world outside was a gray January blur she chose not to acknowledge yet, she was already building the armor she would wear into the fray.

She reached unerringly and snatched the soft, pink hair tie from her nightstand without so much as a twitch of her head, anchoring the French braid securely, and only then removing the mask and reached for the nightstand again, adjusting the remote controlled dimming switch to bring the light up to a moderate level.

She stood and snatched the dobok off the back of her vanity desk's chair. As she pulled it into place she paused, trying to adjust the ventilated mesh so that it sat just right against her skin. She wasn't thinking about the 2A tournament yet, her analytical mind too preoccupied with the weight of the fabric hanging just right.

Her gaze shifted to the trophy shelf. It was the only surface in the room she kept dusted. Most of the plastic gold belonged to a person who no longer existed, but the three newest pillars etched with “Tiffani Sterling” - her “stage name” and homage to parents she never knew, felt real: proof of a corrected record.

Beside the trophy shelf, a 90s-era Cranberries poster, slightly torn and UV-faded, was now preserved behind a protective glass frame. Beneath it, she had stacked her CD jewel cases in a vertical sequence by release year. This mechanical arrangement, along with the alignment of her Apex pads, sat in sharp contrast to the heap of stuffed animals and the sprawl of makeup bottles on the oak vanity.

She stretched briefly before pulling on a plain, black track suit pants and jacket over her dobok. The dobok top’s black v-neck was the only real splash of color, no school insignia or personal embroidery, not that she represented herself exactly. She had a school, and an extremely encouraging coach for that matter, but in the world of the North American Martial Arts Sports Association, she wasn’t even a blip on anyone’s radar.

She stepped into her pink-accented sneakers. The new Apex pads: gloves, headgear, shin, elbow, and chest guard fit snugly into her ratty, old unlabeled black duffle bag, the unfortunately necessary cup buried deep at the bottom and out of sight. Lastly, she thumbed the case of her custom-fitted mouthguard before sliding it into her pocket.

‘Mom’ had insisted on the dental-grade fit. It was a tactical advantage; the suction meant it stayed seated during a kyep or a heavy strike to the diaphragm.
Tiffani hummed "Dreams" to herself, breaking the silence and letting the melody keep the morning's variables at bay as she took the stairs two at a time. Alex was still asleep, but the 2A bracket didn't wait for North Shore teenagers to wake up.

“Breakfast.”
Amanda didn't look up from her legal briefs, but she slid a fine China plate across the granite. A napkin-wrapped breakfast pocket steamed in the center of the gold-rimmed porcelain.
Tiffani picked it up, the heat causing her to briefly hand it from one palm to the other. She wasn't hungry; her stomach felt like a knot of tight wires, but she knew the math. If she hit the semis, her blood sugar couldn't be a variable.

“Mom I don't know if I'm ready for an Open,” Tiffani said,“That WST seal feels different when it’s not just a TKD gym. What if the NAMASA girls see right through me?”

Amanda finally looked up, her smile brief but centered. “They’ll see exactly what’s on the mats, Tiff. The car’s warming in the garage.”

Tiffani caught their twin reflections in the stainless steel. With the same honey-blonde hair, Amanda could easily pass for her biological mother.

Today, Amanda’s hung in a casual ponytail, while Tiffani’s felt winched into a French braid so tight it may as well have been a structural part of her skull. She missed the freedom of loose hair, but the tension of the braid provided a grounding focal point at least: one less thing to go flying loose.

As they left the palatial estate, too large for just the three of them, Tiffani glanced out across the manicured lawns and flawless gardens. She set her jaw, her core tightening as she heard the heavy iron gate at the edge of her Stonewood sanctuary slam shut.

Chapter 2: The Untouchable Tiger

8:30 A.M.
The minute rolled over with a harsh, mechanical click. The loud alarm only managed a single shrill shriek before a heavy fist struck the ‘Off’ button with practiced precision, just enough to spare the ancient clock’s slightly yellowed plastic casing.

Morgan had already woken up an hour ago, staring through the crack inthe beige miniblinds as frost nipped on the window against a muted gray sky.

His stomach rumbled, but he ignored it as he rolled off the bed and grabbed the heavy black karate gi, the stiff, 14 ounce canvas a grounding pressure against his pale skin.

The room resembled a grand championship trophy museum that someone had begrudgingly shoved a bed into out of necessity or mandate rather than any decorative intent, rows of cheap plastic trophies painted gold or fake marble buried at the back in favor of statues of walnut and real gold, and rings nestled in black velvet to make them glisten more sharply.

He taped his wrists with crisp, fresh athletic tape, an exact and practiced amount of pressure for maximum protection that would still allow some freedom of movement before reaching for the dingy, yellowed white belt, frayed and thin. He secured the underbelt firmly knowing roadwork was no place to expose a black belt.

Suzanne came barreling through the hallway, a mobile wall of silk and rucksack cloth stacked so high she could barely see over it.

“Uh,” Morgan said and cracked a small smile, “Do you need some help with that?”

Suzanne spun on a heel and flashed a broad grin. “Nah, I got it,” she answered, but stepped closer, shifting the bundle of garments expertly around so as to not drop anything. “Jeez bro. No coat? You do know it snowed last night right? It’s like 20 degrees out there.”

“35,” he shot back confidently and then rolled his shoulders. “It’s good for endurance. Not like I’m hiking through Siberia barefoot.”

If you say so Rocky,” Suzanne giggled with a lyrical, teasing tone. “Anyway Mom’s got your protein overload ready. I already stole a piece of bacon.”

“Yeah, I smelled it,” Morgan said. “Hey, Z? Thanks for,you know, last night, for listening.”

Suzanne somehow managed to shift the whole bundle of costumes onto one arm as she stretched out her other arm and pulled Morgan into a tight, reassuring hug. His muscles tensed instinctively, and he forced himself to relax. “Don’t sweat it,” she whispered. “Thanks for making my ex back off last week.”

“Anytime,” he said, his stare briefly intensifying at the memory before he, once again, forced himself to take it down a notch. “I can handle your ex girlfriends too,” he said, trying to recover the mask. “Just give me a name.”

“Shush!” she hissed, grinning. “It’s ex girlfriend, singular, and she’s my friend, not just my understudy so don’t you dare.” She spun around again and padded off into her bedroom. He watched for just a moment, reflecting one last time about last night’s conversation before finally turning and heading down the stairs.

Tori had a large Fiesta plate of scrambled eggs and bacon already waiting, along with a steaming bowl of oatmeal, exactly what an elite athlete needed before an intense endurance run.

“Hey, if you ever get tired of doing ligament repairs and knee replacements, you’ve got my vote for professional catering,” he said as he sat down to eat.

“You’ve gotta keep your strength up if you’re going to keep your title,” she answered with a dry tone, but a proud smile nonetheless. “Need a lift, or is this a leg day?”

Morgan rolled his eyes slightly at the leg day comment. “Funny. No, I need the miles. Thanks anyway.”

Morgan let out a last, hearty belch of gratitude before he stepped outside into the sidewalk of variables. A woman in a heavy winter jacket walking an excited poodle in a red sweater, a jackhammer tearing up pavement somewhere in the distance. He didn’t flinch, just retrieving the noise cancelling Argent Electronics by Apex headphones, the first strains of “Dreams” drowning out the noise.