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.
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.
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.
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.
© 2026 Zoë Taylor
In which the first seeds of the mystery are planted. A statue in a sea of chaos, and a stray remark from a coach
leaves its own unique marks on the twins despite their physical distance.
9:04 A.M.
The Chicago Civic Center roared with the assault of slamming doors, distant whistles, the odd crying child, and the hum of a thousand conversations at once.
Tiffani emergedfrom the quiet luxury of the climate controlled Lexus GX550, clenching her jaw and tightening her shoulders as she braced against the sensory assault, forcing herself to smile like she belonged. She just needed to find her registration area. She paused to toss a piece of sugar free gum in her mouth before pushing her way inside giving herself a tangible, controllable variable.
A sharp, piercing whistle drilled into her ears and straight down to the base of her spine. She flinched, the whiplash untucking the tip of her braid from her tracksuit jacket and causing the vibrant pink hair tie to come to rest across the silky black collar.
Her gaze shot left and right, expecting a NAMASA official with a clipboard and a disqualification, finding only an exasperated mom struggling to wrestle twin 7 year olds in barely-fitting white gi and matching, crisp new white belts.
Just beyond them stood a woman in an unbranded charcoal blazer and platinum blonde hair, holding a rose gold tablet in one hand, and a slim white stylus pen in the other, the pen making tiny, almost graceful micro movements. In a lobby full of blurred movement, she stood out in 8k super-res. The stillness felt wrong, and she carried a sense of deja vu.
“Wild, right?” the mother asked, giving Tiffani a weary, but friendly smile.
“Even TKD regionals weren’t this loud,” Tiffani said, trying to force her heart rate back down to earth. “Hey, do you know where black belt registrations are? I’m so late.”
The twins were staring up at Tiffani in awe. “Are you a power ranger?” one of them asked.
“Only on weekends,” Tiffani answered and winked. The mother laughed softly.
“I think black belts are being funneled into the east wing. Just past those vending machines over there.”
“Thanks so much!” Tiffani called as she practically leapt off the mark, weaving between parents. She sprang over a stray gym bag and landed with practiced agility, pivoting to avoid a bright yellow mop bucket, and the slightly haggard janitor leaning on the handle.
As she righted herself again, ready to sprint for the east wing, a hushed silence grew behind her. She turned just in time to see the swell of caffeinated parents spread like the red Sea, the quiet purr of rubber bike tires on tile.
She heard the bike, barely, before seeing it, a black skeletal frame of a Surley Bikes Karate Monkey with a mix of "held together" e-bike parts, some sleek, some extremely DIY, all shades of matched matte black with no visible logos or decals, and then she noticed the rider.
The jacket resembled a long sleeved karate gi, black denim like cloth with charcoal trim. The rider wore a full face helmet as sleek and black as the bike frame, a massively long, red braid running down their back, and as they passed Tiffani without even a tilt of the head, she noticed the embroidery work, a soaring dragon glinting in the fluorescent lights overhead, black on black that was only visible in the right circumstances, across the entire back, not a mere patch or sublimation dye, but hand stitched right into the fabric..
"Who, or what, is that?" Tiffani whispered reflexively.
The janitor finally glanced up with a grunt. “That’s the reason for the increased insurance premiums. Styles, the Iron Dragon. She’s the one you don’t want to draw in the first round.”
Styles. A girl. That was a girl.
In the black belt registration office, a lone NAMASA official stood behind a polished faux marble desk looking at his phone. She cleared her throat, sliding her folder across. “Tiffani Styles-I mean, Tiffani Sterling. Sorry,” she said, trying not to look flustered. She breathed shallow and rapid. She stopped completely when he looked at the birth certificate, still bearing her legacy name, her ‘M’ marker
She had practiced the speech, the apology she was going to give, for ten whole minutes in the shower last night. “I can explain the-”
“Kukkiwon certified,” he interrupted her.
“Yeah, but I mean the birth cert-”
“Your coach called ahead,” he said, interrupting her again. “This seal,” he said, placing his finger on the gold seal,” is the only thing I get paid to care about.”
He pushed the folder closed and shoved it unceremoniously back towards her and then stamped a badge that read ‘Sterling, T’ TKD Authorized. “You’re in group 2, center rings. Don’t be late.”
The ‘don’t be late’ hung like an accusation in her mind even after he had gone back to looking at his phone. She nodded, grabbed the folder, and rushed out into the hall again.
9:04AM
Morgan stood before the open doors to the Hidden Tiger Kenpo Academy, technically a studio, but he always thought of it as a dojo, drenched in sweat and red-faced, had it been much colder steam might have rolled off him like a dying engine pushed too hard, as he removed his shoes and passed under the “Shoushen” kanji - “Beginner’s Mind”.
“You look like a man running out of breath and out of time, Morgan,” his coach said as Morgan met his gaze. He extended Morgan a thick white towel, which Morgan accepted and began to mop the sweat from his face.
“The miles were long today, Sensei,” Morgan answered
“And your pulse is erratic,” the man answered. “You’re telegraphing your rage before you’ve even thrown a punch. Endurance training is important, but it’s good to remember your limits, too,” he said as they walked inside together He nodded toward the mat, taking a position across from him. Morgan fell into an attention stance, the lingering scent of old rubber mixed with sandalwood and bleach faintly present, calming and familiar.
Morgan was aware of a white gi in the fcorner, a large kicking bag being struck rhythmically, but he remained utterly focused on the man who stood before him. His tactical mind filtered all distractions.
“You wear the white belt of a beginner,” he said and dropped into a lead hand stance. “Fight like you have everything to learn, and nothing to protect.”
The sensei lunged in a sudden breakaway at Morgan and only stopped with his open palm an inch from Morgan’s heaving chest. Morgan flinched and put one foot behind him instinctively, but kept his guard lowered. The sanctity of self was absolute, meaning no pads, no contact.
“Better,” he said and then placed his hand on Morgan’s shoulder, a firm, grounding, fatherly gesture. “Gear up, and we’ll get a round in before you have to be at the gym.”
Morgan nodded and walked to the edge of the mat, dropping the Apex bag with a dull thud, momentarily drowning out the white noise of the other students, the background blur as he pulled the blackApex pads into place.
They sparred for a few seconds, Morgan attempting to land a light contact strike, but his every movement was blocked hanily, the clip of sharp to the tune of heavy canvas and the dull thud of hidden pads
“Your mind is in the North Shore,” the Sensei said as he checked Morgan’s leg sweep with a slight shift of his knee. “Return to the room.”
Morgan faltered at that. He had never been anywhere near the North Shore. Where had that come from? He struggled to regain his composure, but the Sensei tapped his face mask.
“Focus. You like old wuxia films right? Then empty your cup.”
Morgan groaned at the reference, even if it was good advice. His cup wasn’t the problem. It was the body that felt wrong. He reset, mentally bringing himself back to the mat, and physically returning to his mark, to try again, drowning out the blur of human furniture in the background, the white noise of conversations, whispering as others stopped to watch them spar.
He was a tiger in a cage on display for the world, and the Sensei was the Zookeeper taunting him.
“The Tiger does not dance to a rhythm. He hunts between the notes,” the Sensei said. “Try again.”
I apologize for not getting this posted yesterday. To make a long story short, I crashed hard due to a combination of my medication (Nothing serious! I'm actually on the right dose now!) and the unbelievably gray, gloomy weather.
- Zoë
© 2026 Zoë Taylor
“Hyperextended in the AAA finals,” Jade sighed, balancing her weight. “They had to carry me off like a sack of flour. Totally embarrassing. But hey, now I’m a scout. I didn't see your name on the NAMASA roster, T-Bird.”
“Late entry. Jen thought I needed to ‘expand my horizon’ beyond the TKD bubble.” Tiffani glanced at the gold ‘NAMASA #1’ pin on Jade’s jacket. It caught the fluorescent light with a mocking glint. “The 2028 Olympics are the goal,” Tiffani said softly, her eyes drifting to the crowd. “But the noise, the drama about trans girls on the mat. NAMASA is already rattling the cage, Jade. I don't know if I can hold the mask for four more years.”
If the lobby was a sea of chaos, the tournament floor was an ocean. Thirty rings spread across the civic center, an olfactory overload of floor wax and buttered popcorn with just a hint of sweat that mingled with her sugar free bubblegum in all the wrong ways..
A male competitor brushed past, trailing a tangible cloud of Axe body spray. The unrefined . assault came as a final insult that instantly made her long for the easy ozone of the e-bike, even if the rider made her queasy at the thought of being in the same ring.
“Jade!” Tiffani let out a small yelp of relief. Jade Parker stood near the 2A bracket boards, leaning heavily on crutches with her right leg locked in a splint brace. She had a black track suit not unlike Tiffani’s rather than the neon green and electric blue of the Velocity Sparrow Global Taekwondo Academy they normally wore to TKD tournaments.
“What happened?” Tiffani asked, pulling her into a careful hug.
“Hyperextended in the AAA finals,” Jade sighed, balancing her weight. “They had to carry me off like a sack of flour. Totally embarrassing. But hey, now I’m a scout. I didn't see your name on the NAMASA roster, T-Bird.”
“Late entry. Jen thought I needed to ‘expand my horizon’ beyond the TKD bubble.” Tiffani glanced at the gold ‘NAMASA #1’ pin on Jade’s jacket. It caught the fluorescent light with a mocking glint.
“The 2028 Olympics are the goal,” Tiffani said softly, her eyes drifting to the crowd. “But the noise, the drama about trans girls on the mat. NAMASA is already rattling the cage, Jade. I don't know if I can hold the mask for four more years.”
Jade’s expression softened. She reached out, her hand a grounding weight on Tiffani’s shoulder. “Empty your cup, Tiff. If you fill it with what some jerk on a podcast says, there’s no room for the joy of the hit. Don't let the dark side win.”
Tiffani managed a weak smile. “Okay, Yoda. I get it.”
“Good.” Jade unpinned her ‘#1’ badge and pressed it into Tiffani’s palm. “Loaner. For luck. Pin it on your bag. If anyone starts crap, I’m right there with you. MMA is ninety-percent psychology, girl.”
Tiffani struggled to fight back tears at the sudden and extremely unexpected gesture. Jade never let anyone ‘borrow’ anything of hers so this came as a complete shock. “Jade... Thank you,” Tiffani said, immediately bringing her bag around to pin it where it would catch the light best and hugged her again.
“T-bird! Jade found you!” Jen bounded over, her ‘cheer coach’ energy infectious, especially in her Velocity Sparrow tracksuit. Her smile wavered though. “I wish I could have shielded you from the draw, Tiff. But the brackets are locked. Your first opponent is Liberty Styles.”
Jade flinched. “Ah, crap.”
“The e-bike girl?” Tiffani’s heart raced, panic taking over. “In the first round? How is that fair?”
“Focus on the exhale,” Jade commanded. “Styles is a master of the blitz. She’ll try to overwhelm your perimeter. Keep her out of your circle. Don't hold back because she’s a girl because you are too.”
Jade gave Tiffani’s chest protector a playful, smack with her knuckle. “You’ve got this.”
A distorted megaphone cut through at that: “TIFFANI STERLING, RING 15! LIBERTY STYLES, RING 15!”
“Fast and loose,” Jadecheered. “Show her Sparrows have claws.”
The small single 1A city tournament bustled with a quiet and casual atmosphere unlike the regional/state AA tournament happening at the Chicago Civic Center. Being largely Kenpo and TKD students with one or two Wushu or forms exhibitions, and mostly underbelts or newly minted black belts hunting points, Morgan moved like a shark among guppies.
He walked past the registration desk, and, even bearing the aged, dingy underbelt, officials knew him, checked boxes, and waved him through. An intern could bring him his badge as a formality later.
“Hey, Star.”
Morgan stopped and genuinely smiled, the only flicker of humanity in an otherwise cold machine mask. Amber stood leaned casually against the bleacher wall. She had her long, blonde hair tightly braided, ready to wrap into her headgear, but her namesake amber eyes, even if they looked more hazel or brown in this light, held the same weary pre-fight calm he felt in the pit of his stomach and chest.
“Amber, hey. I thought you’d be with Liberty at the AA?” He put out his hand to her. They didn’t hug or fist bump, just a pre-fight good luck ritual, letting each other’s fingers touch as if they were touching gloves before a sparring match.
Amber shrugged her shoulders tightly. “Sometimes it’s nice to just get out of the Dragon’s shadow. Not like you’d know anything about that.” She flinched a little after she said it. “Sorry. Didn’t mean that like it sounded.”
Morgan shook his head. “No worries. I know what you meant. I wasn’t always the #1 seed though. It’s not about the journey.”
“It’s about the destination,” Amber said dryly as she finished the quote with him in a practiced droning tone.. “Yeah, yeah.” She cracked a smile as she put her head on his shoulder. “Just once. Just once I’d like to know what it feels like to not be fighting myself, my sister’s legacy. It’s never enough.”
“I get you,” Morgan said as he put an arm around her and squeezed firmly. She raised her head, their eyes meeting. “I’m dealing with a lot of not enough myself.”
Before he could say what was on his mind, a NAMASA official approached bearing a clipboard like it was the only thing that mattered, and extended a small badge that read ‘Sterling-Roth, M.’ and ‘EPAK Blackbelt’. He didn’t need it, and neither did the crowd, already gathering, but rules were rules. “You’re in ring 4 Morgan. Amber, you’ve got ring 3.”
“Domo,” they said in unison.
“Jinx,” Amber said under her breath. “You owe me a coke.”
“After you win,” Morgan shot back confidently. He put up his fist for her to bump before they formally parted ways to their separate rings. He thought about the human furniture, the sea of fellow students, and he thought about Amber, how she seemed to operate on a different, higher frequency. She saw him as more than an interesting zoo exhibit, and he saw her as more than the blonde shadow in Liberty’s orbit.
“You’ve faced this spitting viper before,” Sensei said as he helped Morgan pad up with practiced speed. “Economy of motion. Hunt between the notes.”
Morgan stepped onto the mat where his opponent stood like a coiled viper, moving fluidly, watching Morgan.
“Bow to me!” the official barked. They did so.
“Bow to each other!” They turned and bowed to each other. As more and more competitors crowded into bleachers or floor space to watch a Morgan Sterling-Roth fight, Morgan gave his opponent a slight nod of acknowledgement and respect following the required bow. He knew what it felt like. Two years ago he had been a complete nobody facing a top ranked contender. It was the first time he had successfully pulled off a phantom lead and eked out his first major win.
The crowd seemed to blur into the background, holding its breath like one massive, collective lung as the official raised a hand.