CHAPTERS
OPENING SEGMENT
EMILIA GLAZKOV & YELENA GORGO
We open tight—a shot pushed through the open slats of the blinds, through the glass of the office door. EMILIA GLAZKOV, behind her desk, already laced into her red and black leather ring gear. She’s been ready for hours. Her head is bowed, and in her hands she turns something small. Brassy. Metallic. It catches the light once.
The camera jerks and swings—YELENA GORGO has just shouldered the operator aside and shoved through the door. The cameraman stumbles in after her.
By the time the lens settles, Emilia’s hand is already closing a desk drawer. Whatever it was, it’s gone. She sits back, composed.
YELENA: I see you’re ready.
Emilia straightens, rises, crosses and shoves the office door closed behind them.
EMILIA: I am.
YELENA: You really are going to do this.
Emilia’s head tilts forward, chin dropping—a small, certain nod.
EMILIA: I am.
Neither of them speaks. Several long seconds. Two women who have known each other most of their lives, saying nothing, because there’s too much.
YELENA: Where’s Halsey?
Emilia shakes her head. She comes around the desk, slow, closing the distance to her oldest friend.
EMILIA: I told her to stay home.
YELENA: Why?…
Emilia stops. Stares up at Yelena—the height difference doing nothing to shrink her.
EMILIA: Because this is not about her. And it is not about you either, Yelena Gorgo. This is about me being disrespected. Ignored.
A beat.
EMILIA: …and forgotten.
She brushes past Yelena and the cameraman—doesn’t spare the lens a glance—and steps through the door. Then she stops. Looks back over her shoulder.
EMILIA: You can watch show in here. But if you leave—make sure to lock up.
And she walks off down the corridor, out of frame.
The camera turns, slow, back to Yelena. She’s watching the empty doorway. Her face is full of concern—the worry of someone who knows exactly how this ends and couldn’t stop it.
Hold on Yelena.
TRUE GRIT
TOURNAMENT MATCH
MARK KELLY
vs
YUNA OBSIDIAN
TRUE GRIT RULES
Ding.
Yuna Obsidian begins her hunt. Slow. Deliberate. She stalks the perimeter of the canvas, her head tilted, unblinking eyes locked on her target.
Mark Kelly holds the center. He tracks her every step. A cruel, ugly grin splits his face. He raises both hands, fingers curling inward. Begging her to step into his range.
Yuna stops. The boots plant. She slowly spreads her arms wide. The signal.
Mark’s grin vanishes. He lunges.
Yuna ducks the heavy grab. A sharp pivot. She whips a spinning back elbow flush against his jawbone.
Bone clicks. Mark’s head snaps to the side. He doesn’t drop. Dead weight just settles back on his heels. He turns his head back to her, eyes blackening with immediate rage.
Yuna doesn’t wait. Rapid-fire palm strikes. Crack. Crack. Crack. She drives Mark backward, chewing up ring space toward the ropes.
Mark eats the fourth strike right on the chin. He snarls, grabbing her by the shoulders and shoving her away with violent force. Yuna tumbles backward, catching her momentum and rolling smoothly to her feet.
She rises. Tilts her head. A toxic smirk.
Mark’s hands ball into fists. He takes a heavy, aggressive step forward.
REFEREE: Back off, Kelly!
Mark shoots a dirty look at the official, muscles coiled. He checks his temper. Breathes.
They reset. A violent clash in the center. Collar-and-elbow tie-up. Mark immediately exploits his size, wrenching Yuna down into a brutal side headlock. He grinds his forearm across the bridge of her nose, leaning all his weight on her cervical spine.
Yuna fights the grip, stepping into him and shoving him violently into the ropes. Mark hits the cables hard, rebounds, and bulldozes through her with a devastating shoulder block. Yuna hits the mat hard.
Mark drops straight down, driving a pointed elbow deep into her sternum. He hooks the near leg.
ONE—NO!
Yuna kicks out sharply, rolling her weight off the mat.
Mark grabs a fistful of dark hair, dragging her violently to her feet.
REFEREE: Break the hold, Kelly! Five! Four!
Mark shoves her away, raising both hands with a sarcastic, mocking open-palm gesture.
He snatches her wrist, whipping her violently into the turnbuckles. Mark charges right behind her, driving a thunderous European uppercut under her jaw. Her head snaps back against the top pad.
He grabs her by the wrist, yanking her out of the corner. A crisp snap suplex plants her spine against the canvas. Mark floats over effortlessly, hooking the leg for a lateral press.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Yuna pops the shoulder up.
Mark sits her up. He rears back and drills a stiff, unforgiving boot straight into her lower spine.
He drags her back to her feet, hooking the head and arm for a vertical suplex. He hoists her up. Yuna blocks the momentum, dropping her hips. She shifts her weight mid-air, wrapping his leg and crashing down into a desperate small package!
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Mark powers out with absolute authority, shoving Yuna wildly across the ring.
Both scramble to their feet. Yuna charges, launching her knee at his face. Mark sidesteps the strike. He grabs her from behind, locking his hands around her waist for a German suplex. Yuna kicks her feet off the canvas, backflipping through the air and landing squarely on her boots.
Mark spins around.
STATIC CRASH (Springboard Missile Dropkick)!
Both boots hit Mark dead in the sternum like a shotgun blast. The air leaves his lungs. He crashes flat on his back.
Yuna scrambles over the wreckage, hooking both legs tight.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Mark bench-presses her off his chest. Pure brute strength.
He sits up slowly. One hand moves to his jaw. A flicker of genuine surprise flashes in his eyes. He stares across the canvas.
Yuna is already backed into a corner. She drapes her arms casually over the top rope. She observes him with that exact same cold, amused expression. Head tilted. Breathing perfectly controlled.
Mark pushes up off the canvas. His jaw sets tight. Yuna pushes off the corner. Another slow, deliberate circle. The hunt continues.
He charges. Raw, blind aggression—and she sidesteps effortlessly. She fires a sharp low dropkick directly into his kneecap.
The leg buckles. Mark grimaces, catching his balance. He forces his weight back down onto the joint, testing it.
Yuna doesn’t give him a second to breathe. A second low dropkick. Same target. Same knee.
Mark drops to a single knee. Yuna sprints. A vicious running boot blasts him flush in the chest. Mark flattens out against the mat.
Yuna hooks the far leg.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Mark kicks out.
Yuna drags him to his feet. She whips him violently into the corner and charges hard. Corner Meteora! Both knees crash into Mark’s sternum against the turnbuckles.
He slumps down into a seated position. Yuna backs into the center of the ring. She sprints forward. A devastating shotgun dropkick straight to the face.
She scrambles into the cover, hooking a heavy leg.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Mark’s arm shoots up, shoving her off with brute force.
Yuna’s expression remains entirely unchanged. Ice cold. She stands and drags Mark out of the wreckage by the arm. She wraps her legs tightly around his torso, torquing the arm backward. A punishing hammerlock body scissors. She leans in. Her mouth hovers mere inches from his ear. She whispers.
Mark’s face contorts wildly. Rage. Pain. Impossible to tell which. He grits his teeth. He powers upward, forcing himself to his knees with Yuna still clamped onto his back.
He reaches back blindly. He grabs a fistful of hair, rips her free from the hold, and launches her across the ring. Pure, raw strength.
REFEREE: Watch the hair, Kelly!
Mark snarls at the official. He takes a half-step toward him. Muscles coiled to strike. He stops himself. He drags both hands violently down his face, trying to center the fury.
Yuna rises near the ropes. Smirking. She looks at him and raises two fingers in a mocking wave.
Mark rushes in like a bull. Yuna drops her weight, pulling the top rope down with her. Mark tumbles over the top but catches himself, boots hitting the ring apron.
Yuna springs up instantly. She fires a rope-assisted knee strike right between the cables. The bone catches Mark under the chin. He staggers on the apron, clutching the ropes to stay upright.
Yuna climbs through the ropes, stepping onto the apron. She hooks Mark, trying to haul him up for a suplex back into the ring.
Mark blocks it. He anchors his weight. He drives a brutal shoulder straight into her midsection. He hooks her head and arm, hoisting her up and deadlifting her over the top rope. He suplexes her back into the ring, crashing her hard into the canvas.
Both competitors are down.
The referee begins the standing count, but waves it off instantly as Mark rolls over onto his knees.
Mark’s breathing is heavy now. Labored. His eyes lock onto Yuna. Pure malice.
He drags her off the mat. He locks his hands around her waist, popping his hips. A crisp German suplex. He holds the bridge.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Yuna rolls the shoulder.
Mark refuses to break the waist lock. He hauls her up again. A second, violent German suplex.
He holds on. Deadlifting her for a third. Yuna kicks her legs, backflipping out of the hold and landing squarely behind him.
Mark spins.
OBSIDIAN BLOOM (Spinning Sit-Out Facebuster)!
Yuna plants Mark face-first into the canvas with sickening force. She scrambles frantically for the cover.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Mark kicks out with explosive force, launching Yuna physically forward off his chest.
Yuna doesn’t hesitate for a fraction of a second. She grabs Mark’s legs, instantly turning him over to set up the BLACK WIDOW (Crossface with Body Scissors).
Mark senses the trap. He scrambles frantically, clawing blindly at the mat. He lunges and grabs the bottom rope just before she can lock her legs in.
REFEREE: Rope break! Let it go!
Yuna releases immediately. Calm. Open-handed compliance. She backs away.
Mark uses the ropes to pull his heavy frame upward. His chest heaves. His jaw is clenched so tight the muscle twitches.
Yuna rises slowly on the exact opposite side of the ring. She spreads her arms wide.
Mark stares across the ring. He pounds the top turnbuckle once with a closed fist. Absolute fury etched across his face.
The anger sends him exploding out of the corner in a blind bull-rush. He drives Yuna back into the opposite turnbuckles, crushing his shoulder deep into her midsection. Again. And again. The wind leaves her lungs.
He snatches her wrist, whipping her with violent force across the canvas. Yuna hits the far corner hard and staggers blindly forward.
Mark catches her on the rebound. He hooks her, hoisting her high into the air.
BURSWOOD BOMB (Buckle Bomb)!
He charges the near corner, driving Yuna’s spine flush into the top turnbuckle. A sickening thud echoes off the pads. She crumples to the mat like dead weight.
Mark drags her away from the ropes by the ankle. He drops straight into the cover, grinding his forearm ruthlessly across her jawbone.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Yuna pops a desperate shoulder up.
Mark’s jaw tightens. The muscle twitches. He drags Yuna off the canvas, wrenching her head backward into a tight reverse headlock.
SOUTHERN CROSS DROP (Scorpion Death Drop)!
He drops suddenly. The back of Yuna’s skull bounces violently off the mat. Mark rolls her over instantly, hooking both legs deep.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Yuna kicks out, rolling immediately onto her side.
Mark sits up. He stares at his taped hands. Frustration bleeds away. Something darker creeps in. A sickening, cruel pleasure.
He mounts Yuna from the side, trapping her arm. He rains down heavy, repeated forearm smashes directly into her face. Bone on bone.
REFEREE: One! Two! Three!
Mark ignores the count. He keeps swinging.
REFEREE: Four!
The official physically steps in, shoving Mark backward.
Mark stands. He shoves right past the referee, eyes wide, spit flying as he screams down at the mat. “Get up!”
Yuna stirs. She pushes herself slowly to all fours, hair hiding her face. Mark measures her. A cruel, sadistic smile returns.
He steps in, grabbing her by the hair. He pulls her upright and wrenches her backward into another reverse headlock. Setting up a second SOUTHERN CROSS DROP.
Yuna spins out seamlessly. She ducks behind him and shoves with everything she has left. Mark stumbles forward, bouncing hard off the ropes.
TOXIC TRIGGER (Running Knee Strike)!
Yuna’s knee explodes into Mark’s jaw mid-stride. The impact cracks like a gunshot. Mark drops like a falling tree, instantly paralyzed.
The crowd erupts into absolute chaos.
HOLY SHIT!
HOLY SHIT!
Yuna collapses into the cover, hooking both of his heavy legs.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Mark’s shoulder surges off the canvas with violent desperation.
Yuna’s eyes widen. The first actual crack in her composure. She sits up slowly, staring a hole through the referee as he holds up two fingers.
She rises. The composure re-settles like frost. She takes a deliberate breath and drags Mark’s dead weight toward the corner.
Yuna ascends the turnbuckles, facing the roaring crowd. She perches on the top rope. She is going for the MIDNIGHT ECLIPSE (Over-the-Moonsault)!
Mark stirs. He rolls unsteadily to his feet. He charges the corner blindly and shoves Yuna’s legs out from under her. She slips, crashing face-first onto the top turnbuckle.
Mark scales the ropes, stepping onto the second turnbuckle. He hooks her from behind, wrapping his arm tight around her neck.
PINNACLE TWIST (Rolling Neckbreaker) off the ropes!
He spins wildly in mid-air. He drives the back of Yuna’s head into the mat from the elevated height. Both competitors crash down in a heap of broken limbs.
Mark is completely spent. He barely manages to drape a heavy arm across Yuna’s chest. No leg hook.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Yuna barely twitches her shoulder off the mat.
Mark pounds the canvas with a closed fist. Frustration boiling over. He forces himself to his feet, blindly dragging Yuna up with him.
He drives a vicious kick into her midsection. Yuna doubles over. Mark shoves her head between his knees, hooking both of her arms tight behind her back. THUNDER STRUCK (Double Underhook Piledriver) is locked and loaded.
Yuna fights the grip. She kicks her legs frantically, dropping her center of gravity. She drops to a single knee, dead-weighting to block the lift.
Mark growls, hoisting with pure lower back strength. Yuna uses the momentum. She shifts, kicking her legs up and flipping backward into a devastating poisonrana!
Mark spikes horribly onto the back of his neck. He rolls through the impact, crashing into the corner and clutching his skull.
Yuna rises unsteadily near the far ropes. Her chest heaves. Sweat-soaked hair clings to her pale face.
Mark drags himself up using the turnbuckles. They lock eyes across the canvas. Pure exhaustion. Absolute hatred.
Mark explodes out of the corner, sprinting for the kill.
SUCH IS LIFE (Bicycle Knee Strike)!
Yuna sidesteps at the last possible heartbeat. Mark’s knee meets empty air.
He stumbles into the ropes, catching his balance. He pivots sharply, turning back around.
VENOM PROTOCOL (Rolling Elbow Strike)!
Yuna spins, launching her elbow directly into Mark’s jawbone. The connection is sickening. Mark crumples instantly, hitting the mat flat on his back.
Yuna doesn’t drop for the cover. She stands over his unconscious body. Her chest rises and falls rapidly. Slowly, deliberately, she spreads her arms wide.
She turns away. She ascends the turnbuckles with absolute precision, facing the crowd, her back to Mark.
No hesitation.
MIDNIGHT ECLIPSE (Over-the-Moonsault)!
Yuna arches perfectly backward into the void. She crashes directly across Mark’s exposed chest with all of her weight and momentum.
She hooks the far leg, pressing her weight deep into the canvas.
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!
YUNA OBSIDIAN WINS
PINFALL VICTORY
The final bell rings. Yuna stays draped over Mark for a long moment, chest heaving, the toxic composure finally giving way to pure physical exhaustion. The referee kneels next to her, checking on both competitors before gently helping Yuna to her feet. The official raises her hand in victory. Yuna leans heavily against the ropes, catching her breath and staring down at the wreckage.
Mark Kelly remains completely motionless on his back. He lies staring blankly up at the arena lights, his chest barely moving, out cold in the center of the ring.
SEGMENT
MARISOL VILARO & TAYLOR LANDRY
The camera opens up backstage in the locker room of the Billion Dollar Champion, Marisol Vilaro. The fans greet her arrival in the locker room with loud boos; her billion-dollar championship rests on her shoulder, and she is dressed in a purple Divina Coutre dress and gold high-heel pumps from the same brand. Marisol stands in front of the monsters of Ahymest Caldwell, and Hans both look ready, after Marisol got them put in a tag team match against Alyssa Knight-Kekoa and Gina Neon.
MARISOL VILARO: Last Unleashed I was embarrassed VilaroFIT was embarrassed our whole movement was embarrassed by two lowlifes who don’t belong in our world, our presence? You saw what happened? They had to cheap-shot you, Hans, because they know, deep down, they can’t handle you. They can’t handle their failures, and they can’t handle VilaroFIT’s success.
Marisol moves her heels, clacking against the floor as she continues.
MARISOL VILARO: They want to laugh at us, all of these lowlives who belong in the gutter, and not in the light of what this brand is about? Tonight, a message needs to be sent. I want Alyssa crying for her hubby, and I want Gina beaten so bad she actually remembers she’s not in the eighties at all.
“IT GIRL” TAYLOR LANDRY: I have no doubt that Amethyst and…
Taylor sets her right hand on Amethyst’s left shoulder as she looks over at Hans.
“IT GIRL” TAYLOR LANDRY: And Hans will dispose of those two losers tonight because everyone in PCW needs to see that when #VilaroFit says something, it happens. So Alyssa and Gina can be the perfect examples that we rule this company!
Marisol paused keeping her eyes up however, it was clear she had a mission as she spoke.
MARISOL VILARO: I am so tired of dealing with them, they just keep finding ways to involve themselves in my business time, and time again. Instead of learning a simple lesson tonight I want them eliminated.
“IT GIRL” TAYLOR LANDRY: And they will be. Then we can move on and continue with our agenda of ruling over PCW.
MATCH
ALYSSA KNIGHT-KEKOA
&
GINA NEON
vs
AMETHYST CALDWELL
&
HANS RICHTERSHOFEN
TORNADO TAG MATCH
ANY INTERFERENCE BY VILAROFIT STRIPS MARISOL VILARO OF THE BILLION DOLLAR CHAMPIONSHIP
The opening synth of VilaroFIT’s entrance still echoes through the arena when Marisol Vilaro and Taylor Landry step through the curtain, all designer sunglasses and matching track suits, their bodyguards flanking them like stone pillars. Amethyst Caldwell rolls her neck at the top of the ramp—compact, coiled, a hundred sixty-five pounds of bad intentions packed into five-foot-five. Hans Richtershofen stands beside her at six-nine, a slab of a man who doesn’t so much walk as loom.
The crowd’s disdain is a low, rolling thing. Not a roar. Something meaner.
Then the camera catches movement behind them.
Alyssa Knight-Kekoa and Gina Neon clear the curtain at a full sprint, steel chairs cocked back like baseball bats.
The crowd erupts before the first shot lands.
Alyssa gets there first. She swings the chair in a flat, vicious arc—steel meets spine with a sound that cuts through the arena noise like a gunshot. CRACK. Amethyst’s back arches. Her mouth opens. No sound comes out. She folds forward and crashes to the ramp, a dead-weight collapse that leaves her clutching at the grated metal.
Gina doesn’t break stride. She swings her chair into Hans’ lower back with everything her five-foot-five frame can generate. The impact sends the giant staggering—not down, not yet, but forward. Blind momentum carrying six-nine of disoriented muscle straight toward the managers in front of him.
Landry sees it first. Grabs Vilaro by the arm and yanks her sideways. The two of them scramble apart just as Hans barrels through the space they’d been occupying, a runaway freight with no conductor.
Alyssa catches Vilaro’s eye as she runs past. A wink. Quick. Almost surgical. Gina flashes the same to Landry.
Then they’re gone, chasing their quarry.
Hans hits the ring apron chest-first, tumbles through the ropes in a tangle of limbs too long to coordinate. Alyssa and Gina slide in behind him—Alyssa under the bottom rope, Gina through the middle—and they’re on their feet before the giant can find his bearings.
Referee Stephanie Marshall calls for the bell.
Hans forces himself upright. His chest heaves. His eyes are glassy but his fists are up. Instinct. Survival.
Alyssa measures him and swings the chair at his skull.
Hans doesn’t block it. He punches through it—a massive right hand that catches the flat of the chair mid-swing, sending it ricocheting back toward Alyssa’s face. She ducks. The chair whistles past her ear, missing by inches, and clatters into the corner.
But she bought the necessary second.
Gina is already airborne.
She launches off the top turnbuckle, chair gripped in both hands, and brings it down across the crown of Hans’ skull with the full commitment of someone who knows she only gets one shot at a man this size. The sound is sick. Metallic. Final.
Hans doesn’t go down.
He turns his head. Slowly. His eyes find Gina. Something ancient and cruel flickers behind them. His hand closes around her throat—engulfs it, really—and he lifts her off the canvas like she weighs nothing at all. The crowd’s roar turns to a gasp. He raises her higher. Gina’s boots kick uselessly at the air.
Alyssa drives her chair into his exposed back. Hard.
Hans drops Gina. She hits the mat and rolls.
Gina doesn’t stay down. She grabs her chair, pushes to her feet, and swings it directly into the side of his head. CRACK.
Alyssa follows. Another shot to the back. CRACK.
Gina winds up one more. Full force. A home-run swing that catches Hans square across the forehead.
The giant’s eyes roll back.
He topples. Forward. No stagger, no stumble—just the slow, inevitable gravity of a felled tree. The canvas shakes when he lands. He doesn’t move.
Marisol Vilaro’s scream tears through the arena. Raw. Horrified. The Billion Dollar Champion stares at her unconscious bodyguard like someone just set fire to her house.
Taylor Landry is already pointing, already shouting, gesturing wildly toward the ramp where Amethyst Caldwell has dragged herself upright. She’s clutching her lower back. Her face is a mask of pain and rage. But she’s moving.
Landry’s voice cuts through the chaos.
LANDRY: Get in there! Take them out! NOW!
Amethyst staggers up the remaining ramp, slides under the bottom rope, and rises inside the ring.
Alyssa and Gina swing simultaneously—two chairs from two angles, a pincer strike meant to end this before it begins.
Amethyst drops.
Flat to the canvas. The chairs collide above her with a jarring CLANG that reverberates through both women’s hands. Fingers go numb. Grips fail. The chairs tumble to the mat. The referee kicks them both out to the apron.
Amethyst is already up. Already moving.
She explodes off the far ropes with speed that shouldn’t be possible for someone who just took a steel chair to the spine. Six strides. Maybe seven. She crosses the ring in a blink and drives her shoulder into Gina’s chest with the force of a car crash. POUNCE (Running Shoulder Block)!
Gina folds. Inside out. The air leaves her lungs in a single, wet gasp. She hits the canvas hard and Amethyst hooks the leg immediately.
ONE…
TWO—
Alyssa dives. Forearm across the back of Amethyst’s head. The pin breaks. The count dies.
Amethyst rises. Turns. Her eyes are wild now—pain and fury bleeding together into something volatile. Alyssa meets her in the center of the ring and they collide. No feeling-out. No chess match. Just two women throwing everything they have.
Alyssa fires a knee into Amethyst’s ribs. Amethyst answers with a forearm across the jaw. Alyssa staggers. Resets. Drives an elbow into the soft tissue below Amethyst’s sternum. Amethyst grunts but doesn’t retreat—she powers forward, bullying Alyssa toward the ropes with raw physicality.
Amethyst spins. SPINNING BACK FIST (Backfist to Jaw)!
The back of her fist catches Alyssa flush. The sound is sharp and ugly. Alyssa’s head snaps sideways. Her legs go soft. She drops to the canvas in a heap.
Amethyst doesn’t pause. She mounts her immediately, shoves a forearm across Alyssa’s throat, and wrenches her into a grinding CHINLOCK. No finesse. No technique. Just torque and pressure and mean intent.
Alyssa groans. The sound is involuntary—that place past endurance where the body speaks without permission. Her spine is arched at an unnatural angle. Her jaw is pressed into her own chest.
She drives an elbow backward into Amethyst’s ribs. Once. Twice. The third one finds the liver and Amethyst’s grip loosens just enough. Alyssa twists, slips free, scrambles back to vertical.
Amethyst lunges. Catches the leg. Wrenches it sideways and drops. ANKLE LOCK!
The pressure is immediate and savage. Alyssa’s ankle twists at a degree that makes the front row wince. Her face contorts. She claws at the canvas, reaching for ropes that aren’t close enough.
Gina is on her feet.
She crosses the ring in three desperate strides and throws a running forearm smash into Amethyst’s temple. The blow connects clean. Amethyst releases the hold, staggers sideways, shakes her head.
Gina charges again—all forward momentum, all heart, no plan B.
Amethyst catches her by the waist. Plants her. Drives her into the mat with authority. OKLAHOMA STAMPEDE (Running Powerslam Variant)!
Gina’s body bounces on impact. Amethyst hooks the leg and the referee drops to count.
ONE…
TWO…
Alyssa launches herself across the canvas. Fingertips connect with Amethyst’s shoulder. The pin breaks. The count dies.
Amethyst looks up. Her chest heaves. Her back screams. Hans is still unconscious behind her. The managers are losing their minds at ringside. And she is one woman against two.
But she’s still standing.
And she’s still dangerous.
Amethyst doesn’t wait for the adrenaline to catch up. She shoves herself upright, snatches Alyssa by the hair, and snaps her down with an inverted DDT that drives the back of Alyssa’s skull into the canvas. The impact is ugly. Compact. Alyssa’s body goes limp for half a second.
Gina is already moving before the echo dies.
She springs forward and cracks an elbow smash across Amethyst’s jaw. Amethyst’s head whips sideways. She stumbles. Doesn’t fall. She recovers with a snarl, pivots, and her leg is already in motion—a high-speed roundhouse kick that catches Gina flush on the temple. Gina drops like a marionette with the strings cut.
Amethyst turns back to her prey.
Alyssa isn’t there anymore.
She’s on her feet. She’s closing the distance. And she drives a jumping knee directly into Amethyst’s jaw. HER VERDICT (Jumping Knee Strike)! No setup. No windup. Just the sudden, violent punctuation of someone who learned to strike in rooms where hesitation meant something permanent. Amethyst’s head snaps back. Her knees buckle.
And now the swarm begins.
Gina is up. Alyssa is up. They come from both sides—alternating, rapid-fire, no gap between strikes. Gina fires a forearm into Amethyst’s ribs. Alyssa answers with a knee to the midsection. Gina again. Alyssa again. The sound is rhythmic and relentless, meat hitting meat, and Amethyst can’t find her footing. Every time she turns to face one, the other is already on her blind side.
Gina connects with a running forearm smash that sends Amethyst staggering backward into the ropes. The cables catch her. Bounce her forward. Alyssa meets her in the center, wraps both arms around her waist, and executes a crisp vertical suplex—Amethyst’s body arcing cleanly overhead before crashing to the mat.
Alyssa hooks the leg.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Amethyst powers out. Not desperation. Defiance. Her shoulder comes up with authority.
Gina is already climbing. Top turnbuckle. She perches for a heartbeat—that brief, theatrical stillness she can’t help—then launches. Diving crossbody. Her full weight crashes across Amethyst’s chest and she hooks both legs.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Another kickout. Forceful. Amethyst throws Gina off her like she’s swatting a fly.
At ringside, Marisol Vilaro stands over Hans’ motionless form on the apron. She’s slapping his face. Open palm. Again. Again. Harder. His head lolls. She grabs his jaw and shakes it. Nothing. The giant is dead weight, one arm draped over the apron edge, drool trailing from the corner of his mouth.
“Get up!” The slap echoes. “GET UP!”
He doesn’t.
Inside the ring, Alyssa and Gina go to work. A coordinated sequence—Gina whips Amethyst into the corner, Alyssa follows with a running knee to the sternum that folds her forward. Gina takes the rebound, springboards off the middle rope, and drives both boots into Amethyst’s chest on the return. Amethyst slumps into the corner, trapped, gasping.
Taylor Landry’s eyes go wide at ringside. She’s watching her bodyguard get dismantled in real time. Watching the numbers. Watching the inevitability.
She hops onto the apron.
One foot through the ropes.
Marisol Vilaro sees it. She leaves Hans mid-slap—just abandons him—and lunges. Her fingers close around Landry’s ankle and she hauls, dragging Landry backward off the apron. Landry hits the floor hard, shoulder first.
Vilaro is screaming. Not words at first—just noise. Then:
MARISOL: MY BELT! MY BILLION DOLLAR BELT! Are you insane?! If you step through those ropes I lose EVERYTHING!
Landry pushes up onto her elbows, chest heaving, rage and helplessness warring on her face. She stares at Vilaro. Then at the ring. Then back at Vilaro. Her hands ball into fists. She does not get up.
Amethyst pushes herself to her knees. She’s breathing hard. Sweat plastering her hair to her forehead. Her back—that chair shot from Act I—is a tight knot of pain she can’t stretch out. She looks toward the commotion at ringside. Her managers. Arguing. On the floor. Leaving her alone.
She’s still looking when Alyssa hooks her.
Arms wrap around Amethyst’s waist from behind. The world tilts. Alyssa hoists her into the seated position on her shoulders—back-to-back, Amethyst’s legs hooked, completely at her mercy. The setup is controlled. Deliberate. Almost calm.
Then Alyssa drops.
KEKOA DRIVER (Samoan Driver)! Amethyst’s head and neck drive into the canvas with Alyssa’s full body weight behind the landing. The impact is final. The kind of landing that doesn’t invite a follow-up.
Gina doesn’t care. She’s already running.
Corner. Springboard. She launches off the top turnbuckle, twists in the air, and comes down across Amethyst’s chest with a perfect moonsault. BACK TO THE FUTURE (Corner Springboard Moonsault)!
Gina doesn’t hook the leg. She just lays across Amethyst’s body. Alyssa collapses across her from the other side. Two women. One cover. Dead weight.
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!
The bell. The crowd explodes.
KNIGHT-KEKOA & NEON WIN
PINFALL VICTORY
VilaroFIT hit the ring before the echo fades. Landry goes straight to Amethyst—still motionless on the canvas, chest barely rising. She kneels beside her bodyguard, checking for signs of life.
Marisol doesn’t notice. She thinks Landry is behind her. She marches up to Alyssa and Gina, chest puffed, finger jabbing the air, and the threats start pouring out of her. Lawsuits. Revenge. Everything she’s going to do to them, everything she’s going to take from them, every connection she’s going to burn.
Alyssa listens. Head tilted. Expression unreadable.
Gina listens too. Nodding. Genuinely nodding, like she’s receiving a performance review.
Then Gina points. One finger. Past Marisol’s shoulder.
Marisol turns.
Landry is halfway across the ring. Cradling Amethyst’s head. She hasn’t been standing behind Marisol at all.
Marisol’s head doesn’t swivel back. She’s smart. She knows exactly what happens if she turns around again. She bolts—a desperate sprint for the nearest ropes, grabbing the first thing her hands find on the mat.
One of the chairs. The busted one. The one that put Hans down.
She holds it up like a shield. Chest heaving. Eyes wild.
Alyssa and Gina don’t move. They just stand in the center of the ring, side by side, and wiggle their fingers at her. A little wave. A mocking goodbye.
Then they step through the ropes, drop to the floor, and walk up the ramp. They don’t look back.
SEGMENT
MARILYN MATTHEWS
The camera fades in backstage. Marilyn Matthews is perched comfortably on the edge of a production crate, one leg crossed over the other. A vape pen lazily spins between her fingers before she catches it and flashes her trademark grin toward the camera.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: Hey everyone.
She takes a long pull from the vape before exhaling toward the ceiling.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: So… Justice Cross.
Marilyn nods to herself.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: I’ve been thinking about this one a lot, actually.
She hops down from the crate and begins wandering through the hallway, the cameraman following alongside her.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: You know, everybody always expects these things to start with me talking shit. Throwing insults around. Calling somebody a dumb bitch or whatever.
She shrugs with a laugh.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: Nah. Not today.
She points directly into the camera.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: Justice… you’re good. Like… legitimately good. You’ve earned every bit of the reputation you’ve built. You don’t get put into tournaments like this because somebody likes your smile. You get there because you’ve proven you belong.
She nods again, almost approvingly.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: And that’s exactly why I wanted this match.
Marilyn leans against a concrete pillar, folding her arms.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: I don’t need a warm-up. I don’t need some poor soul that’s gonna get fed to me in three minutes just so people can say, ‘Oh wow, Marilyn won.’
She rolls her eyes dramatically.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: Whoop-de-fucking-do. No… if I’m coming back and reminding the world exactly who I am, I want somebody that’s actually going to push me.
Her grin slowly returns.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: And Justice? I think you’re gonna do exactly that.
She pushes off the wall and resumes pacing.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: I think we’re gonna beat the absolute hell out of each other. I think people are gonna be talking about our match long after the show’s over. I think we’re gonna steal the spotlight.
She pauses, smirking.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: …and then I’m gonna beat you.
The words come matter-of-factly, almost casually.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: See, that’s the funny thing. You can respect somebody and still fully intend on ruining their night.
She chuckles to herself.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: Because this tournament isn’t just another tournament. The first Pure Grit Champion.
She lets those words hang in the air.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: There is only ever one first. You can be the second champion. The fifth. The twentieth. But nobody can ever take away being the first.
Marilyn slowly begins walking again, speaking almost to herself.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: That kind of history sticks. Years from now people won’t remember every first-round match. They won’t remember every semifinal. They’ll remember who was standing there at the end with that championship.
Her eyes drift back toward the camera.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: And I plan on making damn sure that’s me.
She stops outside a large production door and turns fully toward the lens.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: So Justice… bring everything. Bring the fight. Bring the grit. Bring every ounce of heart you’ve got. Because I promise you…
A pause.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: …I’m bringing mine.
A wicked smile spreads across her face.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: And when I beat someone as talented as Justice Cross…
She taps the camera lens with one finger.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: …every single person left in that tournament is going to realize something. They aren’t fighting to become the first Pure Grit Champion. They’re fighting for the chance…
A beat.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: …to be the last person I have to beat before I become it.
Marilyn winks, takes one final draw from her vape, and walks out of frame, laughing quietly to herself as the camera fades to black.
TRUE GRIT
TOURNAMENT MATCH
JUSTICE CROSS
vs
MARILYN MATTHEWS
TRUE GRIT RULES
The bell rings. Justice Cross and Marilyn Matthews circle the canvas. True Grit rules. High stakes. Collar-and-elbow tie-up in the center of the ring. Marilyn leverages her height, driving Justice backward. Justice drops her hips. Anchors her weight to halt the momentum. Clean break. The veterans exchange a brief, subtle nod.
Second lockup. Marilyn slips under the grip. Snap arm drag. Justice kips up immediately. Marilyn feints, catching Justice with a second arm drag, riding the momentum down into a grounded armbar. She torques the shoulder. Justice stretches, snaking a boot over the bottom rope. The referee counts to two before Marilyn releases the hold.
Marilyn feints a third tie-up and snaps a stiff European uppercut under the jaw instead. Justice stumbles back into the corner. Marilyn whips her across the ring. Justice reverses the momentum, sending Marilyn crashing hard into the opposite turnbuckles. Justice charges. Marilyn elevates both boots, catching Justice flush in the sternum. Justice drops.
Marilyn springs to the middle rope. Missile dropkick driving into Justice’s chest.
ONE!
TWO—
Justice kicks out.
Marilyn wraps Justice in a grounded side headlock. Cranking the neck. Torquing it with her weight advantage. Justice fights up to a vertical base, throws a short elbow to break the grip, and hits the ropes. Marilyn catches her on the rebound. Tilt-a-whirl backbreaker. Here’s the cover!
ONE!
TWO—
Justice kicks out.
Marilyn rolls Justice to her stomach. Dragon Sleeper. She wrenches the neck backward, murmuring something low near Justice’s ear. Justice thrashes. Scrapes her boots against the canvas. She hooks the bottom cable. The referee steps in.
Marilyn breaks clean. Hauls Justice to her feet and hurls her into the corner. Marilyn charges. Justice slips out of the way. Marilyn eats the turnbuckles chest-first. Justice traps the legs from behind. Schoolgirl roll-up.
ONE!
TWO—
Marilyn kicks out. Both scramble to their feet.
Marilyn throws a wild clothesline. Justice ducks under, hits the ropes, and drives a running forearm into Marilyn’s jaw. Another forearm. A third. Justice catches fire, backing Marilyn into the ropes.
Justice shoots Marilyn across the canvas. Justice drops for a back body drop. Marilyn reads the telegraph, driving a kick straight into Justice’s chest. Marilyn hits the ropes. Justice catches her on the rebound. Snap powerslam. Cover!
ONE!
TWO—
Marilyn kicks out.
Justice pulls Marilyn up. Crisp vertical suplex, floating over to trap the shoulders in a lateral press.
ONE!
TWO—
Marilyn kicks out again.
Justice grabs a grounded front facelock. Wearing down the neck. Methodical pressure. Marilyn claws toward the ropes, extending her leg to hook the bottom cable. Justice holds the lock just long enough to push the referee’s count, breaking cleanly right before the warning. She backs away. Resets her focus.
Justice drags Marilyn to the corner. Seats her against the bottom turnbuckle. Three measured, deliberate kicks straight into the chest. Justice backs away. Visibly exhales. She charges. Running facewash, boots scraping violently across Marilyn’s face.
She drags Marilyn out of the corner and covers.
ONE!
TWO—
Marilyn shoots a shoulder up.
Justice hauls Marilyn to her feet. Hooks the head for the DEATH DROP (Implant DDT)—
Marilyn blocks. Backs Justice into the ropes and shoves her away. Justice rebounds. Marilyn drops, rolling Justice up in a desperation pin.
ONE!
TWO—
Justice kicks out hard. The momentum sends both women tumbling across the ring.
They scramble up. Marilyn leaps, twisting for NERF THIS (Pelee Kick)—
Justice dodges. Marilyn spins wildly and crashes to the mat, kicking nothing but air.
Marilyn drags herself up to one knee, dazed. Justice sees the target. She charges.
THE VERDICT (Shining Wizard)!
The knee lands flush on the temple. Marilyn collapses. Justice hooks the leg.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Marilyn’s shoulder twitches off the mat. The crowd erupts.
Justice stares at the referee for a single beat of disbelief. She shakes it off, grabs Marilyn and pulls her from the corner to lock in a grounded cobra clutch.
Wrenching the neck dead center of the canvas. The referee drops to his knees, checking the hold. Justice keeps it completely clean. Pure leverage. She hauls Marilyn to her feet, hooking her for a vertical suplex. Mid-lift, Marilyn drops her weight, shifting her hips to counter. She traps the legs in a small package.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Justice kicks out. They race to their feet. Justice charges. Marilyn sidesteps. Justice crashes shoulder-first into the unforgiving steel ring post. She stumbles backward, clutching the joint. Marilyn measures the distance. Running bulldog. Plants Justice face-first into the canvas.
Marilyn kips up. Arms wide. She feeds off the roar of the crowd, the energy of the arena shifting directly behind her. She scales the turnbuckles, steadying herself on the top rope. She launches.
LEAF ON THE WIND (Phoenix Splash)—
Justice rolls away at the last possible fraction of a second. Marilyn crashes hard onto the mat, chest hitting the canvas with a brutal thud.
Both women are down. The referee starts the count. At six, Justice stirs. At seven, Marilyn rolls onto her stomach.
Justice finds her feet first. She drags Marilyn back to the center of the ring.
SPIDER’S WEB (Octopus Stretch).
She wraps her entire frame around Marilyn like a vise. Pulling the free arm back, cranking the neck. Marilyn’s face contorts in pain. Trapped dead-center with nowhere to go. The crowd stomps, desperately willing her toward the ropes. Marilyn shifts her hips. Drops her weight and rolls. She catches Justice’s shoulders flat on the mat.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Justice releases the hold to kick out. Both women scramble up. Justice swings a heavy forearm. Marilyn ducks under, hits the ropes.
BLITZED (Sunset Flip Powerbomb)—
Justice counters mid-motion. She flips completely through into a hurricanrana! Justice rolls through the momentum and charges. Marilyn drops. Drop toe hold. Justice goes throat-first across the middle rope. Marilyn bounces off the far cables. Running senton across Justice’s back, crushing her against the tension of the middle rope.
Marilyn pulls Justice off the ropes and hooks a leg.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Justice kicks out with authority. Marilyn hauls Justice up, whipping her hard into the corner. Marilyn charges. Justice throws a boot up, catching Marilyn flush on the jaw and staggering her backward. Justice hops to the middle rope. Missile dropkick into the chest. Cover.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Marilyn kicks out. Justice pulls Marilyn up. Whips her off the ropes. Goes for a tilt-a-whirl. Marilyn counters mid-spin. Crucifix pin.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Justice shifts her weight, reversing through into a jackknife cover.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Marilyn kicks out. Both scramble up. Marilyn swings a left hook. Justice ducks, rebounds off the ropes. Springboard bulldog plants Marilyn face-first. Cover.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Marilyn kicks out. Justice sees the opening. She drags Marilyn toward the corner, hooking the head. Eyes locked on the top rope. Setting up the KAMIKAZE (Rope-Hung DDT)—
Marilyn drives a sharp elbow into Justice’s ribs. Then a second. The grip breaks. Marilyn shoves her away. Marilyn bounces off the ropes. Diving crossbody.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Justice kicks out. Both women are slow to rise. Marilyn is up first. She hooks Justice. Northern Lights suplex. She bridges tight.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Marilyn refuses to release the grip. She flows directly into a grounded ankle lock, torquing hard on Justice’s left leg. The leg with the history.
Justice cries out. Clawing at the mat. Dragging her body weight. Her fingers brush the bottom cable. Marilyn hooks the ankle and drags her right back to center ring.
Justice rolls through the hold, the momentum flinging Marilyn stumbling into the ropes. Justice scrambles up, limping visibly on the left leg. Marilyn rushes back in. Justice catches her. Desperation inside cradle.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
The force of the kickout sends both women rolling apart.
They rise slowly on opposite sides of the ring. Breathing heavy. Chests heaving. Eyes locked. Marilyn shakes her head with a grin of genuine respect. Justice exhales.
Both women circle slowly, chests heaving. Marilyn clutches her ribs, paying the toll for the missed Phoenix Splash. Justice drags her left leg with every step.
Collar-and-elbow tie-up. Marilyn leverages her height, driving Justice backward. Justice drops her base, anchoring her weight dead center. The referee steps in. Clean break. They reset. The crowd applauds the pure sportsmanship. The veterans exchange a quiet nod.
Marilyn shoots low, targeting the damaged left leg. Justice sprawls. She catches Marilyn in a front facelock and drives a hard knee directly into Marilyn’s shoulder, wrenching the neck. Marilyn battles to her feet, backing Justice into the ropes. The referee counts. Marilyn releases cleanly at two.
Marilyn feints the back-away and snaps a stiff European uppercut. Justice staggers. Marilyn whips her across the canvas. Justice rebounds. Marilyn catches her with a deep arm drag. Then a second, grounding her completely.
Marilyn transitions straight into a grounded armbar. She torques the exact same shoulder Justice drove into the steel ring post earlier in the match. Justice grimaces, swallowing the pain, refusing to panic.
Justice rolls through the pressure. She reverses the leverage, kips up to her feet, and pulls Marilyn into a crisp snap suplex. Cover.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Marilyn kicks out immediately.
Justice drags Marilyn up, whipping her into the corner. Running forearm connects flush against the jaw. She whips Marilyn to the opposite turnbuckles and charges. Marilyn gets a boot up. It catches Justice in the face, staggering her backward.
Marilyn hops to the middle rope. Justice recovers instantly, lunging forward and shoving her off balance. Marilyn slips, crotching herself violently across the top rope. Her legs dangle awkwardly.
Justice climbs the ropes behind her, hooking Marilyn’s head. The crowd rises to its feet. Marilyn fights back, driving sharp elbows backward into Justice’s ribs. The grip breaks.
Marilyn drops off the ropes onto the ring apron. She reaches back through the cables, grabs Justice by the hair, and snaps her neck violently downward across the top rope. Justice slumps against the tension of the cables.
Marilyn slides back into the ring, dragging Justice dead center.
NIGHTY NIGHT (Koji Clutch)!
Arms and legs wrapped tight around Justice’s head. The hold is locked. The crowd gasps.
Justice rolls immediately, using her momentum to press Marilyn’s shoulders flat to the mat.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Marilyn shifts her hips, twisting entirely out of the pinfall, and wrenches Justice right back into the NIGHTY NIGHT (Koji Clutch)!
Justice is trapped dead center. Her face contorts. The hold is cinched incredibly deep. She thrashes. Her legs scramble desperately across the canvas. Her right foot extends, barely hooking the bottom cable.
The referee calls the break. Marilyn holds the clutch for a half-second longer, pushing the absolute limit, then releases at four. She breathes hard, the near-finish written plainly across her face.
Both women rise slowly. Marilyn charges. Justice sidesteps. Marilyn goes shoulder-first into the unforgiving steel ring post for the second time tonight.
Justice drags Marilyn out of the corner, hooking the head. She drops.
DEATH DROP (Implant DDT)!
Connects perfectly. Crown-first into the canvas. Cover.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Marilyn barely kicks out.
Justice stares at the referee in shock. She grabs Marilyn by the arm, dragging her back toward the corner.
Justice hooks the head, dragging Marilyn upward to drape her neck across the top rope. Setting up the KAMIKAZE (Rope-Hung DDT)—
Marilyn fights. Desperate elbows bury into Justice’s ribs, breaking the setup. Marilyn shoves Justice backward. She explodes out of the corner.
GOT ‘EM (RKO)—
Justice reads it. She shoves Marilyn away mid-leap. Marilyn crashes hard onto the mat, grabbing nothing but air.
Justice drags Marilyn right back up, hooking the head a second time.
DEATH DROP (Implant DDT)!
She spikes her again. Cover.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Marilyn kicks out again. The arena erupts in absolute disbelief.
Justice sits back on her knees. She stares at Marilyn. She stares at the referee. She runs a hand through her hair, visibly resetting her focus, and pushes herself to her feet.
Justice drags Marilyn up, whipping her violently into the corner. Justice charges. Marilyn is incredibly quick on her feet, leaping entirely out of the way. Justice crashes chest-first into the turnbuckles.
Marilyn spins Justice around, hoisting her onto the top rope. She climbs to the second rope, hooking for a superplex. The crowd stands. Justice blocks it, driving a headbutt into Marilyn’s skull. Then another.
Justice shoves her off the ropes. Marilyn lands squarely on her feet. Justice stands tall on the top turnbuckle and launches. Diving crossbody.
Marilyn catches her cleanly mid-air. She adjusts the dead weight and plants Justice with a brutal spinning sidewalk slam. Cover.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Justice kicks out.
Marilyn climbs to the top rope. Slower than usual. Her ribs are clearly agonizing. She steadies herself. Measures the distance.
SONIC SCREWDRIVER MK I (Corkscrew 630 Senton)—
Justice rolls out of the way at the last possible fraction of a second! Marilyn crashes and burns on the biggest gamble of the night.
Both women are down. The referee starts the count. At five, Justice stirs. At seven, Marilyn rolls onto her stomach. At eight, they both begin crawling toward opposite corners.
Justice hauls herself up using the turnbuckles. Marilyn mirrors her on the other side. They turn simultaneously.
Marilyn charges with a sudden second wind. Running European uppercut! Another! She spins, delivering a sickening backfist that drops Justice to one knee.
Marilyn sees the target. She charges in. Justice ducks under the clothesline at the very last instant. Marilyn’s momentum spins her completely around, leaving her off-balance and dazed in the center of the ring.
Justice drops into a ready stance. Coiled. Marilyn turns back toward her. Justice lunges, aiming for her own cutter out of absolutely nowhere!
LIGHTS OUT (RKO)—
Marilyn twists her body mid-grab. She spins around Justice’s arm, grabs her by the collar, and flips backward into a snapping Reverse STO, driving Justice face-first into the mat.
Marilyn transitions instantly. She wraps her arms and legs tight around Justice’s head.
NIGHTY NIGHT (Koji Clutch)!
Dead center of the ring.
Justice thrashes violently. Her eyes are wide. She reaches desperately, clawing at Marilyn’s forearm. She tries to roll, but Marilyn adjusts her weight flawlessly, anchoring the hold even deeper.
Justice drags herself an inch. Two inches. Her free arm stretches agonizingly toward the ropes. It’s too far. She claws at the canvas, searching for leverage that simply isn’t there.
Justice’s movements slow. Her arm drops. The referee leans in close, checking her status. Her hand hovers. Justice grits her teeth, driving her fist into the mat one more time, dragging herself another desperate inch before finally collapsing under the pressure.
Justice’s hand rises. It hangs in the air for a long, brutal moment.
She taps Marilyn’s arm three times. The bell rings.
MARILYN MATTHEWS WINS
SUBMISSION VICTORY
Marilyn immediately releases the hold. She rolls onto her back, completely exhausted, staring up at the arena lights as she catches her ragged breath. The referee steps over, raising Marilyn’s arm in victory while she winces from the brutal toll taken on her ribs. Justice remains flat on the mat, clutching her neck, slowly pushing herself up to her knees as the reality of the loss sets in.
SEGMENT
THE IRISH WAKE
with RENO NEVADA
FEATURING ALEKI KEKOA
The arena lights shift to a warm, low amber. The bagpipe strains of “Pikeman’s March” swell through the PA, mournful and grand, as the broadcast fades back to the ring.
The squared circle has been transformed. A deep green carpet swallows the canvas. Stage left, a small makeshift bar—two crystal glasses, a bottle of Irish whiskey catching the light. And there, near the ropes on a raised platform, a casket. Polished. Closed. Ominous in the way that only an unexplained coffin can be.
Center of it all: RENO NEVADA, resplendent and ridiculous in a tartan kilt paired with a sharp black suit jacket, microphone in hand. He waits for the pipes to fade, then presses a hand to his chest like a man at a graveside.
RENO: Friends… family… degenerates in the cheap seats… welcome… to The Irish Wake. A segment that’s treated like my own personal funeral ‘cause I never know when Ms. Glazkov and Ms. Gorgo are gonna realize they made a terrible mistake in hiring me.
The crowd laughs as he turns slowly, gesturing across his little kingdom of grief.
RENO: Now, where I’m from—Boston, Massachusetts, greatest city on God’s green earth,—when somebody passes, we don’t sit around cryin’ into our oatmeal. No. We put ’em in a nice box, we pour a drink, and we tell stories till the sun comes up and somebody’s uncle throws a punch at a folding chair. That’s respect. That’s love.
He pats the casket affectionately, then recoils slightly, as if remembering it’s a casket.
RENO: …Don’t worry about that. That’s—we’ll get to that. Or we won’t. It’s a vibe, alright? It’s ambiance. The boss told me I had a budget, and I said, “gimme a coffin and a fifth of Jameson,” and here we are. Democracy!
He crosses to the bar, uncorks the bottle, pours exactly two fingers into one glass, and holds it up to the hard camera.
RENO: Here’s the thing. They gave me a microphone. They gave me a headset. They stuck me at ringside next to only myself, and they said, “Reno, you’re an announcer now.” Play-by-play. A professional. A broadcaster.
He sips. Considers. Points at the camera.
RENO: And I’m takin’ it very seriously. That’s why I’m dressed like I lost a bet at a Highland Games.
The crowd laughs. He soaks it in, then sets the glass down and straightens his jacket. Grabs the mic with both hands.
RENO: But every good wake needs a guest of honor. And tonight—tonight—I got a big one. And I mean that literally, this guy’s a house.
He turns toward the stage.
RENO: He’s your PCW Asylum Champion. He doesn’t say much, he doesn’t ask for much, and God help you if you’re standing across the ring when the lights go down. Ladies and gentlemen—pour one out and get on your feet. The Asylum Champion… ALEKI… KEKOA.
The amber wake-lighting cuts. The house lights drop. And the opening of “Born to Rule” begins to breathe through the arena…
VO WILLIAMS & UNSECRET – BORN TO RULE
The opening moves through the speakers. Sparse. Intentional. Building. The house stays dim—one hard shaft of light waiting at the top of the ramp.
The curtain parts.
ALEKI KEKOA steps through. No entrance gear tonight—a plain black shirt stretched across the frame, jeans, and the PCW Asylum Championship slung over one shoulder. Head down. Shoulders squared. The spotlight finds him and he lets it hold, unhurried, letting the music breathe before he gives it a single step.
Then he begins to walk. Slow. Measured. The gold catches the light before his face does. Halfway down the ramp he lifts his head, scans the arena once—present, never performing—and gives the crowd a single, brief nod. And they roar for it.
Back in the ring, Reno watches him come, mic lowered, nodding along with an exaggerated, approving smile.
Aleki climbs the steel steps without breaking stride. Steps through the ropes. The wake-lighting warms back up around him—amber and green washing over the carpet, the bar, the casket—and for a moment the sheer absurdity of the set frames the most serious man in the building.
He walks to the center of the ring. Stops. Rolls the belt off his shoulder, catches it by the strap, and lets it hang at his side.
One beat of stillness. Eyes on Reno. Then—the faintest glance around at the green carpet, the whiskey bar, the coffin—one eyebrow lifting a quarter inch. The only tell that he finds any of this ridiculous.
The music fades. The lights come up. He is already home.
RENO: (off the look) Yeah, I know. I know. We’ll get to the box.
Reno lets the crowd settle. He crosses back to the bar, pours a second glass—two fingers—and carries both over, offering one to Aleki. Aleki looks at the glass. Looks at Reno.
TAKE THE DRINK!
TAKE THE DRINK!
TAKE THE DRINK!
The crowd roars as Aleki snatches the glas with an easy nod of thanks. Reno grins, clinks his own against it, and they both drink.
RENO: There he is. See, this is a wake. You gotta drink at a wake, it’s practically the law. Alright. Down to business. First things first, congratulations—new PCW Asylum Champion. That’s a hell of a thing. So let me ask you the question everybody at home’s dyin’ to know… how’s it feel?
Aleki sets the glass down on the bar, considers the microphone for a moment before he answers. When he speaks, it’s low, even, unhurried.
ALEKI: It feels like a Tuesday.
RENO: …A Tuesday.
ALEKI: People keep asking me that. “How’s it feel.” Like something happened to me. Like I got struck by lightning and woke up champion. I was already a champion. The PWE Prestige Champion. I only added to the collection. So to answer your question, Reno—nothing happened to me. I did what I was always going to do. The belt didn’t change my life. The belt caught up to it.
RENO: See, that’s—that’s a very cool answer, and I hate it, because now I look stupid for askin’.
The crowd laughs. Aleki doesn’t. But there’s the faintest tell at the corner of his mouth.
ALEKI: You asked a fair question. I’m giving you a real answer. Everybody wants to make the title the story. The title is not the story. The title is a receipt.
He lets that sit. Turns the belt slightly so the camera catches the plate.
ALEKI: My great-grandfather built rings with his hands. My grandfather won twelve of these across territories most of these people couldn’t find on a map. My uncle Tasi taught me what all of it was for. Four generations. And every one of them lived by three words before a single one of them held gold.
He raises three fingers. Sets them down one at a time.
ALEKI: Excellence. Grit. Legacy. The Kekoa Standard. That’s not a t-shirt. That’s not a catchphrase. That’s the rent I pay to carry this name. And when you live like that—when you get up every single day and you pay it, in full, no excuses—the championships aren’t the goal. They’re just what happens. They’re the byproduct. You don’t chase the ceiling. You become it, and the ceiling comes to you.
RENO: So what you’re tellin’ me is you didn’t win the title. The title finally got its act together and showed up.
ALEKI: Now you’re getting it.
Big pop. Reno throws his hands up—there it is—and takes a satisfied sip.
RENO: Alright, but here’s what I gotta press on, ’cause it’s my job now, I’m a journalist. You come out here—no crew, no manager, no muscle. Every other guy in that locker room’s got an entourage, a hashtag, a group chat. You got a t-shirt and a bad attitude. So who exactly is in your corner, big man? ‘Cause from where I’m standin’, you’re the loneliest champion I ever met. Not countin’ Alyssa Knight-Kekoa, of course. I mean in this ring. Right now.
Aleki goes still—one beat, then he steps toward the camera. Not for Reno now. For them.
ALEKI: Lonely. That’s what people see. A man standing by himself. No stable. No numbers. No one to hide behind.
He shakes his head, slow.
ALEKI: But I’m not standing here by myself, Reno. Look around. I never have been.
He lifts his head, scanning the arena—the wide shot finds the whole building.
ALEKI: There’s a name for people who don’t need to be convinced. Who don’t need me to dance, or beg, or promise them anything. They saw it before the gold ever showed up, and they’ll see it long after. I don’t have fans. I have believers. And it’s time you people had a name.
A beat. He raises a single index finger, high, straight up. Holds it.
ALEKI: From tonight—you are My One Nation.
He holds the finger up. Around the arena, it catches—one, then a hundred, then thousands—index fingers rising into the air across every level. The hard camera pulls to a wide shot: an entire building answering him with one raised finger. No chant. Just the gesture. Unified. Quiet, then thunderous.
Reno slowly lowers his glass, looking out at it, genuinely a little stunned by the visual.
RENO: …Okay. Yeah. That’s—that just gave me the chills, and I’ve been drinking, so that’s a real accomplishment.
Aleki lowers his hand. The crowd noise swells and holds.
RENO: So let me ask you the last one, and then we’re gonna get to the—(he gestures at the casket, catches himself)—no. Later. Later. Focus, Reno. Asylum Championship. That means Asylum Rules. That means you never know what the match is gonna be until you’re standing under these lights. Could be a submission match. Somethin’ on a pole match. Bra and panties…
Someone whistles loud enough to break through the cheers and laughs.
RENO: Maybe we take that one off the wheel. Anyway. (swings back to Aleki) Point being, it’s chaos. Maybe weapons. Maybe guys jumpin’ out the gawdamn rafters. That’s what makes the Asylum championship unique. It’s unpredictable. Does that not worry you even a little?
Aleki almost smiles. Almost.
ALEKI: You say chaos like it’s a problem. Reno—chaos is where pretenders drown. Asylum Rules means no one to save you. No bell to hide behind. Both wrestlers enter the ring in the dark, ready for anything but prepared for nothing. You strip away knowledge, and all that’s left in that ring… is who you actually are.
He presses one fist to his chest. The Chest Press.
ALEKI: I’ve spent my whole life being exactly who I am. So bring me the chaos. Bring me the weapons, the numbers, the ambush, the dark. Bring me whoever thinks unpredictable is the same thing as dangerous. Asylum Rules don’t threaten me.
He looks dead into the hard camera.
ALEKI: Asylum Rules are just the rest of you finding out what I already know. Whatever comes next—I’m not waiting for it. I’m ready for it. And it should be afraid of me.
He steps back, belt at his side, fist on his chest, eyes forward. The crowd roars.
RENO: Alright! That’s fuckin’ great!
Inside Reno breaks out—the Boston Outlaw. He starts clapping, thumping the microphone against his palm.
RENO: For real! That’s some… that’s some fuckin’ T’Challa speech right there! Makes me wanna drink some space liquor out of a purple flower! Oh—oh! Or switch it up! Go hop in a prop plane and ram it up some alien mothership’s fuckin’ bunghole!
Reno jumps, dropping the microphone as he reaches up to the IEM in his right ear. Clearly someone is yelling at him.
RENO: (quietly) Okay! Okay!
He bends down and picks up the microphone.
RENO: (to himself) The casket, the casket…
He goes back into character. He slams his hand down on the casket lid. Aleki tries very hard to hide his amusement.
RENO: Come check out what I got in the casket.
He nods Aleki over. The crowd starts to chant.
OP-EN IT!
OP-EN IT!
OP-EN IT!
Reno wrestles with the lid, comically—it won’t budge, he’s yanking, bracing a knee against the platform, the whole thing a bit. Aleki drifts a step closer, arms folded, watching the spectacle with the faintest shake of his head.
And behind him—from the crowd—a shape climbs the barricade.
CHRIS MOSH.
The boos start to rise, but they’re swallowed by the laughter at Reno’s hijinks. Aleki doesn’t see him. Reno’s still fighting the casket. Mosh slides in under the bottom rope with a steel chair in his hands, comes up behind the champion, and —
CRACK.
The chair folds across Aleki’s back. He staggers forward, crashing into the casket—and Reno latches onto it like he’s saving a baby, throwing his whole body against the platform to keep it from tipping. The Asylum belt slips off Aleki’s shoulder and hits the green carpet.
Aleki turns around into a headshot—the chair coming back the other way across his skull. He goes down.
The crowd HATES it. Real heat now, no laughter left.
Reno steadies the casket, gets it upright, then steps forward, mic still in hand, furious.
RENO: WHAT ARE YA DOIN’, PAL?! You’re disrespectin’ my wake!
Mosh ignores him completely. His eyes are locked on the Asylum Championship on the carpet. He drops the chair and bends down to pick it up.
Reno’s eyes move from Mosh, down to the belt, then back up.
Reno acts.
The Outlaw comes out—and somewhere behind it, the memory of two weeks ago, of being held back by Mosh’s mall-cop security squad in their matching North Face jackets as the VIP boxed poor American Moderator’s face in. Reno lunges, snatches the belt out from under Mosh’s hand, and yanks it away.
Mosh takes a step toward him.
Reno holds the belt away, out of reach.
RENO: It ain’t yours! Now go…
Reno takes a step of his own. Doesn’t back up. Squares to him.
RENO: …or pick up the chair and try your luck on someone who sees you comin’.
A long beat. Mosh weighs it. Then he turns, kicks the downed Aleki once, hard, out of pure frustration—and points at the belt in Reno’s hands.
MOSH: That’s going to be mine. See you around, champ.
Mosh exits the ring to his music and backs up the ramp, chair swinging at his side, eyes never leaving the gold in Reno’s hands. Mosh clears the stage and disappears into the tunnel, wearing the boos like a coat.
Reno watches him go for a second, jaw tight. Then the Outlaw drops away and he’s just a guy at ringside with a hurt man at his feet. He sets the belt down, kneels beside Aleki, one hand on the champion’s shoulder, the other waving frantically toward the back.
RENO: Hey—hey, we need some help out here! Somebody get out here!
He glances up the ramp where Mosh vanished, then back down to Aleki, and mutters, low, off-mic, all the melodrama finally gone:
RENO: …Some wake, huh.
The hard camera pushes in. On Aleki, stirring, a hand pressed to the back of his head. On Reno, crouched over him, calling for help.
And behind them—the platform, the long casket set across it, untouched through all of it.
And the casket remains closed.
MATCH
HELEN BECK AS
HELENA HANDBASKET
vs
PCW MANAGER GENERAL
EMILIA GLAZKOV
NO DISQUALIFICATIONS
The bell tolls.
Not a frantic clang. A single, deliberate ring that hangs in the arena air like smoke in a cathedral.
Helena stands in their corner. Arms loose at their sides. No bounce. No shuffle. Just the flat, unblinking study of a predator gauging distance. Their head tilts a fraction of an inch—cataloguing, computing, filing away everything they see.
Across the ring, Emilia is none of those things.
Her hands are clasped behind her back—a portrait of composure from the neck down. But above the jawline, the mask is cracking. Her nostrils flare. The muscles along her jaw bulge and release in a rhythm that has nothing to do with breathing. Her eyes are wet glass. Not tears. Not yet. Just the kind of heat that builds before something shatters.
She raises her chin. Defiant. Regal. A queen daring the executioner.
And then she steps forward.
One stride. Deliberate. The kind of step that makes the front row lean back in their seats.
She extends her right hand.
EMILIA: Ca în tinerețe, da?
The microphones catch it clean. The words ripple through the arena, and within seconds the translations are lighting up phones across the building. Romanian. Like the old days, yeah?
The crowd doesn’t need the translation. They understand the gesture.
SHAKE HER HAND!
SHAKE HER HAND!
SHAKE HER HAND!
Helena’s eyes drop to the offered hand. They stay there for a long, cold beat. Then they rise back to Emilia’s face. Nothing in their expression moves. Nothing concedes.
They reach out.
Fingers close around Emilia’s palm.
CRACK.
Emilia’s left hand comes from nowhere—a blur of black lacquer and bad intentions. The brass knuckles catch Helena flush across the jawline. The sound is wrong. Too sharp for flesh. Too wet for metal.
Helena spins on their ankles. Not dramatic. Not theatrical. Just physics doing what physics does when a loaded fist meets bone. They stumble once. Twice. Then gravity wins. They collapse face-down on the canvas with the dead-weight finality of a body that forgot how to fall.
The crowd erupts—not cheers. Not boos. A raw, collective gasp that sucks the oxygen out of the building.
Emilia smirks.
It’s not a big expression. It doesn’t need to be. It’s the smirk of someone who has been waiting months to feel this particular flavor of satisfaction. She struts over—two steps, no hurry—and drops to her knees beside Helena’s motionless form. She rolls them onto their back like she’s turning over a piece of furniture.
She hooks the leg.
Referee Grade Garrett hits the canvas.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Helena’s shoulder snaps off the mat. Not a kickout born of strength. A kickout born of instinct. The body remembering it’s not done before the brain gets a vote.
Emilia sits up on her knees. Both hands curl into fists. She throws her head back and screams —
EMILIA: NO!
Not a word. A wound. She beats both fists against the canvas—once, twice, three times—a tantrum stripped of dignity. The sound is swallowed by fifteen thousand voices raining down judgment.
Helena stirs.
They push up onto their knees. Slow. Heavy. The cold disinterest that marked their entrance is gone. In its place: focus. Sharpened. Narrowed. The kind of attention you give something you intend to break.
A gash splits their left cheek—not a scratch, a wound. Blood spills down in thick lanes, tracing the jawline, dripping from the chin onto the canvas in coin-sized drops.
Helena’s hand shoots out and seizes Emilia’s left wrist. They yank it upward, exposing the brass knuckles still wrapped around her fingers. The metal catches the light. Ugly. Glinting. Irrefutable.
Helena’s other hand clamps down, prying at the weapon. Emilia’s free hand flies to the rescue—scratching, clawing, trying to keep the knuckles seated.
Helena throws their head forward.
The headbutt connects with Emilia’s forehead with a sound like a door slamming. Emilia’s grip fails. The brass knuckles slide off her fingers and into Helena’s palm.
Helena rises to their feet. No stagger. No rush. They thread their fingers through the knuckle holes one by one. Deliberate. Ceremonial.
Emilia backpedals on the canvas. Her face shifts—the snarl softening, eyebrows lifting, jaw going slack. Pitiful. Disarming. A mask she’s worn a thousand times. A mask that works.
Until it doesn’t.
Helena rushes in.
Emilia’s boot snaps up and drives into their kneecap. The joint buckles sideways—not a full collapse, but enough. Helena’s momentum dies. They stumble. Emilia scrambles upright and spears them into the mat with every ounce of her body weight.
The canvas shudders.
Now it’s a brawl. Not wrestling. Not ritual. Two bodies tangled on the mat, grappling for a weapon. Emilia’s nails rake across Helena’s knuckles. Helena’s forearm presses into Emilia’s throat. They roll—once, twice, toward the ropes—a knot of limbs and fury and twenty years of silence finally breaking.
They crash into the corner. Emilia claws. Helena wrenches. The brass knuckles seesaw between them.
Emilia bites down on Helena’s wrist.
Hard.
Helena’s shout is sharp and involuntary—the first real sound they’ve made all night. Their grip fails. Emilia rips the knuckles free.
Helena’s other hand doesn’t hesitate. A punch—clean, direct—snaps Emilia’s chin back. Her arm goes wide. The brass knuckles sail from her grip, arcing over the top rope, spinning end over end into the crowd. A lucky fan. A dangerous souvenir.
Helena grabs Emilia by the back of the neck and hurls her under the bottom rope. Emilia hits the floor outside shoulder-first, body flattening, limbs splaying like a dropped marionette.
Helena slides out after her. No celebration. No pause. They drop to one knee beside the apron, reach into the darkness under the ring skirt, and pull.
Two steel chairs clatter onto the floor.
Then the Singapore cane. Rattan. Worn. Whippy.
Helena grips it and rises.
Emilia is pushing up to her hands and knees, breath ragged, back exposed. She doesn’t see Helena coming. She doesn’t need to.
The cane cuts a arc through the air and cracks across her spine.
CRACK.
The sound is obscene. Emilia’s back arches in a violent, involuntary spasm. She collapses flat. The crowd howls—half horror, half something uglier.
Helena advances. Cane in hand. Blood still trailing down their jawline in slow, thick rivulets. Emilia scrabbles backward on the floor, palms slipping against the concrete, legs tangling beneath her. The predator and the priestess. The hunter and the hunted. For now.
The cane swings again.
This time it cracks across Emilia’s ribs—a sharp, splintering report that echoes off the barricade. Emilia’s body folds sideways. Her mouth opens. No scream. Just a wet, hollow gasp as the air abandons her lungs.
Helena winds up for a third.
The cane comes down—and stops. Emilia’s forearms cross in front of her face. The rattan shudders against bone. Blocked.
Emilia’s fingers lock around the shaft and she yanks. Hard. Helena stumbles forward, pulled off their center. Before they can reset, Emilia’s forearm slashes upward—a blind, desperate strike that catches Helena flush across the bloody cheek.
The impact spins Helena sideways. They crash into the barricade, shoulder-first, the metal moaning under their weight.
Emilia rips the cane free.
She swings it across Helena’s thigh. The meat of the quadricep quivers on impact. Helena winces—a tight, controlled grimace—and grabs the barricade with both hands to keep from dropping.
Emilia swings again.
Lower this time. Across the small of the back. The cane wraps around the body, biting into the soft tissue just above the kidneys. Helena’s spine arches. Their mouth opens. A sound escapes—thin, strained, involuntary. They drop to one knee.
Emilia grabs a fistful of hair and drags.
The walk to the apron is ugly. Helena’s boots scrape uselessly against the floor. Emilia marches them forward like a prisoner to the block. She stops at the edge of the ring and slams Helena’s face into the apron.
Once.
Forehead meets steel-reinforced canvas. The sound is a dull, sick thud.
Twice.
The gash on their cheek splits wider. Fresh blood smears across the apron skirt.
Three times.
Helena’s legs buckle. Emilia releases the hair and shoves their limp form under the bottom rope. She follows them in, dragging the Singapore cane behind her. Then she reaches back out and pulls one of the steel chairs in with her.
The crowd buzzes—a low, uneasy hum. Something bad is cooking.
Emilia wedges the chair between the middle and top ropes in the corner. She presses it flat against the turnbuckle, metal legs splayed, backrest facing outward. A trap. Set and waiting.
She turns.
Across the ring, Helena is pulling themself up on the far ropes. Their legs don’t want to cooperate. Their hands shake. But they rise. They always rise.
Emilia charges.
Full sprint. No subtlety. No ritual. Just velocity and malice, aimed at crushing Helena against the propped steel.
Helena sidesteps.
Emilia’s chest hits the chair at full speed. The metal folds inward with a sound like a car accident. Emilia staggers backward, arms pinwheeling, her body trying to process the impact. Her ribs. Her sternum. The air she can’t find.
Helena’s arms lock around her waist from behind.
Release German suplex. No bridge. No follow-up—just the violent, whipcrack arc of Emilia’s body being torn off the mat and spiked onto her shoulders and neck. She rolls through the impact, momentum carrying her to the center of the ring. She ends up on her side. Motionless save for the shallow rise and fall of her chest.
Helena doesn’t wait.
They haul Emilia up, hook the arm, and explode —
WEIRD BETTY (Exploder Suplex)!
Emilia is launched across the ring like a shot from a cannon. She crashes into the far corner, spine meeting turnbuckle pads with none of the give she needs. She slumps forward, then sideways, collapsing into a heap on the mat.
Helena drops into the cover.
ONE…
TWO…
NO!
Emilia’s shoulder lurches up. Slower now. Much slower. The kickout costs her something.
Helena doesn’t argue. Doesn’t pound the mat. They simply pull Emilia up and wrench her into a standing headlock. The grip is tight. Grinding. Forearm pressed against the carotid, restricting, compressing. Emilia’s face darkens. Her blood—still leaking from her nose—smears across Helena’s skin, mixing with theirs. The hold goes slick.
Emilia’s hands work. Prying. Digging. Looking for a seam. Her hips shift. The slickness of blood and sweat does what strength couldn’t—she slips free, twisting out of the headlock like a shadow escaping its owner.
She shoves Helena into the ropes.
On the rebound, Emilia drives a knee into their gut—the kitchen sink, perfectly timed, brutally placed. Helena folds in half. Their feet leave the canvas for a half-second. The air leaves them in a single, percussive grunt.
Emilia hooks the head. Seizes both wrists.
PALE COMMUNION (Double Wrist-Clutch Knee Strike to the Chest)
The knee drives into Helena’s sternum. Not a glancing blow. Not a partial connection. Dead center. The sound of kneecap meeting breastbone is dull and deep—the kind of impact that travels outward, rattling everything in its path.
Helena staggers backward. Hands clutching their chest. Mouth open, gasping. They hit the ropes and hang there, fighting for air that won’t come.
Emilia covers.
ONE…
TWO…
NO!
Helena’s shoulder rises. The crowd exhales.
Emilia pounds the mat with both fists—once, twice—then snatches Helena by the arm and whips them into the corner. She charges. Shoulder driven deep into the midsection. Helena’s body jackknifes around the point of impact.
Emilia backs up. Charges again.
Helena’s boot comes up and catches her flush on the jaw.
Emilia reels backward, hands flying to her face. The crowd’s noise shifts—approval bleeding into anticipation. Helena climbs. Second rope. They leap.
Missile dropkick. Both boots catch Emilia square in the chest. Her feet leave the canvas. She hits the mat flat, arms thrown wide, and doesn’t move.
Neither does Helena.
They lie on their back, chest barely moving, one arm draped across their stomach. Emilia is sprawled a few feet away, face-up, eyes half-lidded and unfocused, blood pooling in the hollow of her throat. The missile dropkick took everything from both of them.
The crowd fills the silence for them—a low, rolling hum that builds into something restless. No count. No urgency imposed from outside. Just two bodies on the canvas and ten thousand people waiting to see which one gets up first.
A camera cuts to Helena’s face. Their eyes are open. Staring at the lights. Blinking slow. The cold calculation is still in there somewhere, buried under exhaustion.
Cut to Emilia. Her lips move. No words. Just the shape of something—a prayer, a curse, indistinguishable.
Helena’s hand twitches. Then their arm moves. Slow. Heavy. They roll onto their side, plant a palm against the canvas, and push. The rise is ugly—no grace, no ceremony, just a body answering demands it doesn’t want to answer. One hand finds the middle rope. They pull themselves upright.
Emilia stirs a beat later. She rolls toward the ropes, grabs the bottom cable with both hands, and hauls herself up in stages—knees first, then feet, then the long, wobbling climb to vertical. When she finally stands, her eyes don’t quite track. Her balance is a suggestion her body keeps ignoring.
Helena charges.
Big boot to the face. Emilia’s head snaps back. Her body follows—a clean, vertical collapse that plants her flat on the canvas.
Helena doesn’t cover.
They roll to the outside. Drop to the floor. Reach under the ring skirt. And pull.
A folding table. Wood. Heavy. Unforgiving. Helena slides it under the bottom rope, climbs in after it, and leans the table upright against the top turnbuckle in the corner.
The crowd rises. Tables mean endings.
Helena pulls Emilia up by the wrist and scoops her. Heading for the corner. Heading for the wood.
Emilia slips off the back. Lands on her feet. Shoves Helena forward.
Helena’s hands shoot out and grab the top rope. They stop inches from the table. Wood creaks. The crowd gasps.
Emilia grabs Helena from behind. Twists. Tries to suplex them through the table. Helena’s base drops. They block it. Reverse—Helena tries for a suplex of their own. Emilia blocks.
Stalemate.
Two bodies locked in the center of the ring, each trying to lift, each refusing to be lifted. Muscles strain. Sweat flies. The table looms behind them—patient, waiting.
Emilia’s knee comes up fast and sharp. It collides with Helena’s spleen—a soft target, poorly guarded. Helena’s grip loosens. Their body bends forward, betrayed by pain.
Emilia hooks the head and drops.
Snap DDT. The top of Helena’s skull drives into the canvas with no mercy and no follow-through—just impact, clean and cruel.
Emilia rolls them over. Hooks the leg.
ONE…
TWO…
NO!
Helena kicks out. Emilia’s eyes go wide. Her jaw tightens.
Her gaze finds the Singapore cane lying near the apron. She snatches it off the mat. Rises. Measures Helena as they stand.
She swings.
Helena rolls. The cane misses by inches and smashes against the propped table with a deafening CRACK—wood splintering but holding.
Emilia swings again.
Helena catches it.
The struggle is primal. Two pairs of hands wrapped around rattan. Two bodies pulling, twisting, refusing. The weapon that started between them now threatens to end between them.
Helena rips it free.
They crack it across Emilia’s hip. The bone-deep report cuts through the arena noise. Emilia drops to one knee, a cry tearing from her throat.
Helena cracks it across her back.
Emilia flattens. Face-down. Arms splayed. The cane clatters away as Helena tosses it aside.
They pull Emilia up. Hook the arm. Lift.
HEXADECIMAL (Wicked Stepsister)
The stomp facebreaker drives Emilia’s face into the canvas with sickening finality. Her body bounces off the mat—a ragdoll bounce, all dead weight and physics—and rolls onto her back.
Blood pours from her nose in dark, steady streams. It pools in the hollow of her throat. It stains the canvas beneath her.
Helena covers. Hooks both legs. Garrett’s hand slaps the mat.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
The shoulder comes up. Last possible instant. Last possible molecule of consciousness.
Helena sits up. They stare down at Emilia. The look on their face isn’t frustration. It isn’t anger. It’s something colder. Disbelief. Calculation. The predator encountering prey that simply refuses to die.
They pull Emilia up by the hair. Drag her to the ropes. Set her against them.
Helena backs up. Five steps. Enough for a full head of steam. They charge.
Emilia drops and pulls the top rope down.
Helena’s momentum carries them over. They tumble to the outside, rotating in the air, landing hard on the floor with a sound like a side of beef hitting concrete.
Emilia doesn’t celebrate. She doesn’t even stand. She rolls to the outside on the opposite side of the ring—a survivor fleeing the wreckage—and reaches under the ring skirt.
She pulls out a plastic container. Clear. Unassuming.
She rolls back into the ring. Sits up. Unscrews the lid with bloody, trembling fingers. And upends it.
Hundreds of thumbtacks spill across the center of the canvas. They scatter like a constellation of teeth—gold and silver and catching the arena lights in a thousand tiny glints. They spread. They settle. They wait.
Helena pulls themself up on the apron. Their eyes find the tacks. They stop.
For a long, frozen moment, the two of them exist in opposite worlds—Emilia inside, kneeling, blood dripping from her chin onto the tacks below, chest heaving—Helena outside, one hand on the ropes, face unreadable, the cold calculation back in full force.
Emilia raises one hand. Points at the tacks. Then at Helena.
Helena stands on the apron.
Their chest rises and falls in slow, deliberate rhythm. Their eyes sweep across the carpet of thumbtacks—hundreds of them, scattered like shrapnel across the canvas. The arena lights catch the steel in a thousand cold pinpricks.
Inside the ring, Emilia points. Blood trails from her nose, over her lips, down her chin. Her finger wavers between the tacks and Helena. The gesture is ragged. Defiant. An invitation and a threat folded into one trembling hand.
Helena’s eyes narrow. Nothing else moves.
They step through the ropes. Carefully. Methodically. Boots finding gaps between the tacks like a dancer navigating broken glass. Their focus never leaves Emilia.
Emilia charges.
Helena sidesteps. Grabs the arm. Hip toss.
Emilia’s back hits the tacks.
The sound isn’t one sound. It’s hundreds—a chorus of tiny, awful crunches as steel points pierce fabric and find skin. Emilia’s spine arches off the mat. Her mouth opens and what comes out isn’t a scream so much as a rupture—raw, guttural, torn from somewhere deeper than lungs. Her hands claw at the canvas. Her heels drum uselessly.
Helena pulls her up by the hair.
Tacks fall from Emilia’s back like metal rain. They ping against the canvas. Dozens more stay embedded—silver freckles dotting the black of her gear, the pale of her exposed skin. She’s a portrait of suffering, and Helena studies it without expression.
They hook her.
WEIRD BETTY (Exploder Suplex)
Emilia is launched. She lands not on clear canvas—Helena angles the throw, and she crashes down onto the tacks again, shoulder-first, hip-first, the steel greeting her body with fresh, eager cruelty. She writhes. Rolls onto her side. Tacks stud her arms, her shoulders, the back of her neck.
Helena covers.
ONE…
TWO…
NO!
Emilia’s shoulder rises. The crowd exhales—disbelief and relief in equal measure.
Helena doesn’t react. No frustration. No shock. Just patience. Cold and bottomless. They pull Emilia up by the wrist and march her to the corner. Drive her face-first into the top turnbuckle. The pad absorbs some of the impact. Not all of it.
They pull her back. Second turnbuckle. Face-first again.
Third turnbuckle. Emilia’s legs give way. She slumps against the ropes, held up by tension and memory.
Helena backs up. Three steps. Charges.
Running European uppercut. Forearm meets jaw. Emilia’s head snaps sideways. She staggers forward—two steps, three—and collapses onto the tacks again. The steel welcomes her back like an old friend.
Helena covers.
ONE…
TWO…
NO!
Emilia kicks out. The shoulder comes up and the crowd, against all logic, finds its voice—not a chant, not a roar, just a low, uneasy murmur of something bordering on awe.
Helena pulls her up. Sets her in a standing headscissors. They lift.
WITCH KICK (Inverted Stomp Facebreaker)
Emilia’s face is driven directly into the tacks.
The impact is sickening. Her skull bounces off the steel carpet and she rolls onto her back. Her face is a ruin. The blood from her nose has been joined by a dozen smaller wounds—pinpricks dotting her forehead, her cheeks, her chin. She looks up at the lights and her eyes don’t quite focus.
Helena covers.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Shoulder up. Barely. A millimeter of defiance. The crowd erupts—not a chant, just a wave of disbelieving noise.
Helena sits up. Their jaw tightens. The first crack in the cold facade.
They pull Emilia up. Hook both arms. Double underhook. They lift—looking to drive her into the tacks one more time.
Emilia’s knee drives upward. Between the legs. No disqualification. No rules left to break.
Helena’s eyes go wide. Their grip dissolves. They drop to their knees, hands clutching at nothing, mouth open in silent agony.
Emilia crawls. Dragging tacks still embedded in her skin across the canvas. Each inch is a war. She reaches the ropes. Pulls herself up. Turns around.
Helena is rising.
Emilia lunges. Sliding forearm smash. The strike catches Helena in the throat—no padding, no protection, just knucklebone against trachea. Helena’s eyes bulge. They drop flat on their back onto the tacks.
Emilia covers. Blood dripping from her ruined face onto theirs.
ONE…
TWO…
NO!
Helena kicks out. Emilia’s head drops forward. Her shoulders sag. Then her hand shoots out and grabs a fistful of tacks.
She tries to press them into Helena’s face.
Helena catches her wrist. Twists. Emilia yelps—the sound high and sharp—and rolls away, clutching her hand.
Helena rises. Tacks fall from their back in a shimmering cascade. They stalk. No rush. No wasted motion. The predator reasserting control.
They pull Emilia up. Set her.
EMOTIONAL DAMAGE (Paulverizer)!
Emilia is spiked onto the thumbtacks. The impact drives the steel deep—into her upper back, her shoulders, the base of her neck. She lies motionless. Face-down. Arms splayed. A body that has forgotten it’s alive.
Helena rolls her over. Covers.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
The shoulder lifts. A fraction. A heartbeat before three. The crowd doesn’t know what to do with the noise that comes out of them.
Helena doesn’t move. They kneel over Emilia’s body, chest heaving, blood dripping from their own gash—slower now, the flow beginning to clot. They stare. Not at the crowd. Not at the referee. At the thing that won’t die beneath them.
They pull Emilia up again. Hook the head.
HEXADECIMAL (Wicked Stepsister)!
The stomp drives Emilia’s face into the tacks once more. Her body bounces and settles.
Helena covers.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Emilia kicks out. Somehow. Some way. The crowd goes silent—not respectful silence, but the hollow quiet of people who have run out of words.
Helena rolls off. They lie on their back beside Emilia, staring up at the lights. Two bodies. Side by side. Blood mixing. Tacks scattered around them like a steel halo.
Garrett stands between them.
Helena rolls onto their stomach. Pushes up. Their arms shake.
Emilia hasn’t moved.
Helena pulls her up. One more time. They hook both arms again. Another EMOTIONAL DAMAGE—but this time they keep the grip. Roll Emilia onto her back. Lay across her chest.
ONE…
TWO…
Emilia’s shoulder shifts. Weak. Instinctual. Not a kickout—just enough movement to roll Helena down her body. Emilia’s arm reaches into the air, grasping at nothing. Then it drops to the canvas.
Garrett sees the shoulders flat.
ONE…
TWO…
He never reaches three.
Helena’s head snaps up. They see it before anyone else.
Emilia’s shoulder is already off the mat. Her hand didn’t fall from exhaustion. It fell to grab.
A fistful of thumbtacks. Clenched so tight the steel bites into her own palm.
She screams—a raw, guttural, animal sound—and crushes the tacks into the side of Helena’s face.
Helena reels. They roll away, hands flying to their cheek, and stumble upright. They fall backward into the corner, chest heaving, boots slipping on scattered tacks.
A camera on the apron catches the close-up. The broadcast feed holds it for three full seconds. Dozens of steel circles embedded in Helena’s skin. Needles of metal dug into the flesh of their cheek, their temple, the soft tissue beneath their eye. They blink. The tacks don’t fall.
Helena’s eyes roll down. They see it.
The steel chair. Resting next to their boot. The one Emilia wedged into the corner what feels like a lifetime ago.
Helena bends down. Slowly. Deliberately. The crowd knows what’s coming. The heat builds—a low, rising tide of revulsion and anticipation.
Their fingers curl around the leg of the chair.
They stand. The chair unfolds slightly in their grip—still folded, but held like a weapon. Like a verdict.
Emilia tries to get up. Her boots slip on blood and tacks. She turns over. Crawls for the ropes. Fingers reaching. Desperate. Blind.
Helena drives the top of the chair into her knee.
The joint buckles sideways. Emilia’s scream cuts through the arena like a siren.
HELENA: Holy water cannot help you now. See, I’ve come to burn your kingdom down.
Their voice is low. Flat. The words fall like stones into still water. No threat. No rage. Just fact.
Another chair shot. The knee again. Emilia screams and clutches her leg, rolling onto her side, body curling into a fetal comma of pain.
Helena stands over her. They yank the chair open—just enough. A narrow gap between seat and backrest. They thread Emilia’s leg through. Up to the shin. The steel presses against skin.
Helena plants a boot on top of the chair. The pressure increases. Emilia yelps—a sound that’s half fear, half pain.
HELENA: I wanna hear you say. I wanna see you beg.
A pause. The crowd holds its breath.
HELENA: And power doesn’t care how you feel. As long as you learn how to kneel.
The words come out different this time. Softer. The edge is gone. What’s left isn’t a threat.
It’s a request.
Please quit. Please give up. Please don’t make me do this.
Emilia stares up at them. Blood and steel and twenty years of abandonment written across her face. Defiant. Even now. Even broken. The jaw sets. The eyes burn.
Helena’s boot rises.
Begins to drive down.
EMILIA: I QUIT! I QUIT!
The words tear out of her—not spoken, expelled. Helena’s boot stops. A fraction of an inch before the steel folds shut. The chair would have crushed bone and sinew like a bear trap. Would have ended more than the match.
Garrett signals for the bell.
DING DING DING.
Helena’s boot comes off the chair. They step back. The tension drains from their shoulders. The chair remains locked around Emilia’s leg—a steel shackle, a monument to what almost was.
Garrett carefully works the chair open and slides it away. Emilia doesn’t move. She lies on the canvas, tacks still embedded in her skin, blood drying on her face, chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged gasps.
Helena stands in the corner. The tacks are still in their face—dozens of silver dots, glittering under the lights like ritual piercings. They don’t pull them out. They don’t acknowledge them. They just stand there, staring at the wreckage they’ve made.
Garrett raises their arm.
HELENA BACK WINS
VERBAL SUBMISSION VICTORY
Helena’s arm is raised. They don’t celebrate. No smile. No pose. Just a slow, deliberate turn toward the hard camera. The tacks in their cheek catch the light. The blood has stopped dripping. Their expression is unreadable—not cold, not warm, just… done.
Emilia rolls onto her side. Then her stomach. She pushes up to her hands and knees. Tacks fall from her back in a steady patter. She tries to stand. Her leg buckles. She collapses against the ropes and hangs there, clutching the middle cable for support. Her face is a mask of blood and ruin. Her eyes find Helena across the ring.
She doesn’t speak. Neither does Helena.
The silence between them is heavier than any words.
Helena turns and exits through the ropes. They drop to the floor. No backward glance. No final gesture. They walk up the ramp slowly—not limping, but heavy. Each step a deliberate, exhausted act of will. The tacks remain in their face. They’ll deal with them later. Or they won’t.
Back in the ring, Emilia has slumped to a seated position against the bottom rope. Medical personnel rush past her—she waves them off with a bloody hand. Her eyes are fixed on nothing. Her lips move, but no sound comes out.
The camera holds on her face as the broadcast fades.
Helena looks down.
The chair is still in their hand—loose now, fingers barely curled around the steel. They let it fall. It clatters against the canvas, a graceless punctuation mark. Their chest heaves. The tacks in their cheek catch the light in a dozen tiny winces.
Then something shifts.
The cold mask—the one that held through the headbutts and the blood and the ruin—it doesn’t crack. Not exactly. But something moves beneath it. A flicker. A ghost. The kind of look you don’t see on faces that are certain of what they’ve done.
Regret. Or something adjacent to it.
They look at Emilia—crumpled against the ropes, leg still trembling from the chair, back studded with steel. They look at their own hands.
And then the lights go out.
Not the house lights dimming for a dramatic entrance. Not a spotlight cutting to black. Everything. Every bulb. Every screen. Every LED. The emergency lights in the tunnels. The ambient glow spilling up the aisles from the concourse. The cell phone screens that should be dotting the crowd like a constellation of anxious stars.
Nothing.
Total. Pitch. Black.
Ten thousand people hold their breath. Not a squeal. Not a murmur. The kind of silence that presses against your eardrums and reminds you what darkness actually is. Two seconds. Three. Four. No music. No announcement. No explanation.
The lights return.
YELENA GORGO is kneeling next to Emilia.
The crowd erupts—a raw, guttural release of tension that borders on hysterical. Yelena. The owner of PCW. The Eternia Black Garnet Champion. Helena’s half-sister. She wasn’t there a moment ago. She wasn’t announced. She simply… appeared. Like the darkness delivered her.
She holds Emilia’s hand. Her lips move—a whisper too soft for the microphones, too private for the cameras. Emilia’s eyes are closed. Her chest still rises and falls. She’s conscious. Barely.
Yelena’s head rises.
Her eyes search the ring. They find Helena—still standing a few feet away, still frozen in the aftermath of what they’ve done. Their eyes meet.
Whatever vulnerability Helena allowed to surface in the darkness is gone now. Buried. Entombed. The cold descends again—harder this time, more deliberate. Armor sliding back into place.
Helena walks toward the ropes.
They don’t limp. They don’t rush. Their joints ache and their gear is stiff with dried blood and the tacks are still in their face, but none of it matters now. Their eyes remain locked on Yelena. Yelena’s eyes remain locked on them.
Their heads turn. Tracking. As Helena steps through the ropes, neither blinks.
Yelena’s face is bone white. Not pale. Not ghostly. The color of something that stopped bleeding a long time ago. No anger. No sadness. No accusation. Just… nothing. The absence of everything Helena might have hoped to find there.
Helena stands on the apron. They shrug. The gesture is small. Almost casual. A conversation between two people who’ve said everything that matters and have nothing left but echoes.
HELENA: She told me not to step on the cracks. I told her not to fuss and relax. Pretty little face stopped me in my tracks.
The words float across the ring—familiar lyrics delivered as an epitaph. Yelena rises from the canvas. The arena goes quiet. Not the manufactured quiet of a crowd waiting for the next beat. The real kind. The kind that happens when ten thousand people collectively realize they’re watching something they weren’t meant to see.
Helena’s fingers find a thumbtack embedded in their cheek. They pluck it out. A thin bead of blood follows. They hold it up—a tiny silver star between thumb and forefinger—then flick it over the top rope. It lands somewhere near the center of the ring, lost among its brothers.
HELENA: But now she sleeps with one eye open.
They turn. Hop down to the floor. “INKO” kicks on—cutting through the silence like a blade. Helena walks up the ramp. No strut. No victory pose. Just the slow, heavy tread of someone carrying more weight than they showed.
Yelena never takes her eyes off their back.
She stands in the center of the ring—one hand still reaching down, fingers brushing Emilia’s shoulder—and watches. The camera holds on her face. The bone-white mask doesn’t move. But something in her eyes burns.
The broadcast fades on Yelena Gorgo, kneeling again beside Emilia, whispering words no one else will ever hear.
SEGMENT
TIGRESS
THE FOLLOWING WAS RECORDED EARLIER IN THE DAY.
Jenna Jillian Walker and Hope Levitt are each warming up for their Voodoo Pact match when the door to the Tigress locker room opens and Hope Russo walks in. A big smile comes over the three ladies’ faces as Hope Russo walks in. She shares a hug with Hope Levitt. Russo then goes over to Jenna and the two also share a hug.
JENNA JILLIAN WALKER: I’ve missed you, friend…
Hope continues to hug Jenna for longer than Jenna expected.
JENNA JILLIAN WALKER: Hope…Hope!
A big smile comes over Hope’s face as she lays the side of her head on Jenna’s chest and Hope’s left hand begins to slide down Jenna’s back. Hope’s hand gets to Jenna’s lower back but Jenna stops Hope’s hand before it goes any lower.
JENNA JILLIAN WALKER: Oh Hope! Still as thirsty as ever.
Jenna takes a step back from Hope as she is holding Hope’s hands.
JENNA JILLIAN WALKER: I shouldn’t expect anything less from my randy little Russo.
Jenna says chuckling.
Hope Russo: What? I was just showing you how much I missed you!
She chuckles and winks at Hope Levitt. She sits on the bench and looks at each teammate.
Hope Russo: So, ladies are we ready to kick some Black Rainbow ass and take those belts?
JENNA JILLIAN WALKER: Damn right we are. A couple weeks ago we beat one cult, now we’ll do the same to another and take those Voodoo Pact championships!
Hope smiles and nods
Hope Russo: I can’t stand Black Rainbow, especially Selene Pyr…that bitch….I’m gonna hurt her, bad tonight.
Her ears turn slightly red at the thought of Selene.
JENNA JILLIAN WALKER: Please be our guest, girl, because none of us can stand anyone in the Black Rainbow! So we’ll hurt them by taking those Voodoo Pact championships on top of the ass kicking we’re going to give them.
MAIN EVENT
TIGRESS
HOPE LEVITT
HOPE RUSSO
JENNA JILLIAN WALKER
vs
THE BLACK RAINBOW
DATURA
SELENE PYRE
LILY BRIAR
THE VOODOO PACT CHAMIONSHIP
The arena lights are drowned in the unnatural, corrupted wash of Black Rainbow’s entrance. Datura, Lily Briar, and Selene Pyr step through the ropes, the PCW Voodoo Pact Championships in tow. They do not get a second to breathe.
Hope Russo snaps.
She shoves past Jenna Jillian Walker. Past Hope Levitt. Russo lunges across the canvas, and the ring explodes into violence. Fists flying. Bodies colliding. Referee Grade Garret waves his arms, shouting blindly into the chaos. He has no control. It is a street fight. Tigress swarms the champions. Russo is a blur of elbows and sheer fury. Levitt and Walker join the fray, driving the champions back against the ropes. Black Rainbow spills out under the bottom rope, scrambling onto the arena floor to create distance. The ring belongs to Tigress.
Levitt grabs Russo by the shoulders. Walker steps in front of her. They talk her down. Breathing heavy. Chests heaving. Garret regains control and signals for the bell.
Ding. Ding.
Hope Levitt and Lily Briar circle the center of the canvas. Briar darts in, looking for a quick, opportunistic strike. Levitt ducks under. A lightning-fast arm drag sends Briar crashing to the mat. Levitt stays on her. She drags Briar by the wrist to the Tigress corner. A hard slap to the turnbuckle. Jenna Jillian Walker steps through the ropes.
Walker is clinical. She backs Briar into the steel ring post. A relentless volley of heavy boots drives the breath from Briar’s lungs. Walker doesn’t waste motion. She stomps the champion down to a seated position and slaps Levitt’s outstretched hand.
Levitt vaults over the top rope. She unleashes a rapid-fire succession of kicks directly into Briar’s chest. CRACK. CRACK. CRACK. Briar absorbs the punishment. She grits her teeth. Levitt charges the ropes for momentum. Briar anticipates the angle, drops her shoulder, and explodes forward. A massive shoulder tackle folds Levitt in half. Dead weight hits the canvas.
Briar scrambles to her corner. She slaps Selene Pyr’s hand. Pyr barely steps in before slapping Datura’s shoulder.
Datura glides through the ropes. She locks eyes on Levitt. No hesitation. Datura swarms the Star Dragon, completely overwhelming her. Brutal, stiff uppercuts snap Levitt’s head back. Short, chopping elbows crush her collarbone. Levitt is trapped against the ropes, taking heavy fire. She blindly swings back, creating a frantic inch of space. She dives. A desperate tag to Walker.
Walker hits the ring like a freight train. She meets Datura head-on in the corner. An ugly, grueling brawl ensues. Forearms to the jawline. Datura answers back with stinging open-hand strikes. Walker eats them. She shifts her weight, outmaneuvers the champion, and sweeps the leg. Datura crashes hard to the mat.
Datura scrambles up, wild and frantic. She throws a desperate backhand, rocking Walker just enough to stumble into the Black Rainbow corner. A slap to the chest. Selene Pyr is legal.
Pyr charges directly into the teeth of the storm. She wraps her arms around Walker’s waist, grunting and straining to lift the powerhouse for a suplex. Walker plants her feet. She drops her center of gravity. Blocked. Walker wrenches Pyr’s grip free. She hooks the neck. A devastating vertical suplex of her own drives Pyr flush against the canvas.
ONE…
TWO…
TWO—NO!
Pyr kicks out, gasping for air.
Walker tags Hope Russo. Russo steps in, eyes wide with aggression. She traps Pyr in the neutral corner and unleashes a heavy offensive burst. Rapid strikes target the midsection. She drags Pyr toward her corner. Tag to Levitt. Russo and Levitt hook Pyr simultaneously. A tandem vertical suplex sends Pyr crashing violently to the mat.
Tag to Walker. Walker doesn’t break stride. She winds up and delivers a piston-like right hand directly to Pyr’s jaw. Pyr drops to a knee, eyes glassy.
Tag to Russo. Russo grabs Pyr by the hair. She drags her to the ropes. She rakes Pyr’s face maliciously back and forth across the top strand. Referee Garret issues a harsh verbal warning. Russo releases at four.
Tag to Levitt. Levitt targets the midsection. Sharp, calculated kicks dig deep into Pyr’s ribs, wearing her down and keeping her pinned far away from the Black Rainbow corner.
Tag to Russo. The Italian Angel steps in to anchor the assault. She systematically batters Pyr in the corner, driving her boots into Pyr’s thighs. Russo hooks the arms, dragging Pyr to the dead center of the ring for a major offensive sequence, ending in a lifting FULL NELSON SLAM that rattles Pyr’s teeth.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Pyr gets a shoulder off the mat.
Wasting no time, Russo hooks Pyre by the wrist, whipping her hard toward the opposite ropes. Pyre reverses the momentum. Russo goes flying into the Black Rainbow corner. Lily Briar is waiting. A blind, snapping kick over the top rope cracks Russo directly in the back of the skull. THWACK.
Russo stumbles forward, eyes completely glazed. Pyre lunges. A running pump kick caves in Russo’s chest. Dead weight hits the canvas. The momentum shifts in a heartbeat.
Tag to Datura. The Green Witch glides into the ring. She immediately drops to the mat, mounting Russo and raining down a brutal, closed-fist ground-and-pound. Methodical. Cold. Datura drags Russo to her feet, rattling her jaw with heavy forearms, then charges, crushing her into the turnbuckle with a driving knee.
Tag to Briar. The Sweet Assassin darts in. She targets the compromised neck, snapping Russo down with a high-angle neck twist. She unloads short, rapid knee drops to the crown of the head, wearing the Italian Angel down with sharp, calculating bursts of offense.
Tag to Pyre. The brawler steps in to escalate the violence. Pyre drags Russo up. A vicious strike exchange erupts. Chops blister chests. Forearms crack against jaws. Russo eats a heavy blow, ducks a wild swing, and fires back with a desperation enzuigiri. The kick rocks Pyre, but she doesn’t fall. Pyre catches Russo on the rebound, hooking the leg and dumping her with a bridging suplex.
ONE…
TWO…
TWO—NO!
Pyre drags Russo up by the hair. She hurls her into the neutral corner. Brutal shoulder thrusts dig deep into Russo’s gut. Driving the wind from her lungs. Pyre grabs the wrist, looking for a cross-ring whip. Russo drops her center of gravity. She anchors her free hand onto the top rope. Pyre pulls. Russo uses the momentum to yank Pyre directly into a short-arm clothesline. CRACK. Pyre goes down hard. Russo crawls blindly. She slaps Levitt’s outstretched hand.
Levitt springs over the ropes. She scales the turnbuckle with terrifying speed. Pyre scrambles to her feet. Levitt launches. A picture-perfect missile dropkick detonates against Pyre’s chest. The impact sends Pyre tumbling backward, crashing through the middle ropes and spilling out to the arena floor.
Pyre stumbles around ringside, clutching her sternum. Russo slides out from the bottom rope. She stalks Pyre, hammering her from behind with heavy double-axe handles. Referee Grade Garret rushes to the ropes. He leans out, screaming at Russo to return to her corner. He has completely lost the ring.
Walker and Levitt watch the chaos from the apron and the center of the ring. It is a fatal mistake.
Datura and Briar swarm the ring. Datura obliterates Levitt with a running back elbow. Briar sprints, launching a dropkick that catches Walker flush in the chest, sending the powerhouse crashing down to the ringside mats.
The double impact draws Garret’s eyes back. He panics, inserting himself between Datura and the fallen Levitt, barking orders. Datura smirks, ditching out under the bottom rope. Garret forces Briar back to her corner.
Outside, Datura sneaks up on Russo. A stiff clubbing blow to the spine drops the Italian Angel. Pyre and Datura coordinate. A double-team suplex dumps Russo brutally onto the exposed concrete.
Pyre rolls back under the bottom rope. She stalks Levitt. A swift combination of snap suplexes rocks the rookie. Levitt creates an inch of space, kicking Pyre away. She dives for her corner. Nothing but empty air. Walker and Russo are still scraping themselves off the floor. Pyre grabs Levitt by the hair. She whips her violently into the Black Rainbow corner. A rising knee strike crushes Levitt’s jaw.
Tag to Briar. She focuses purely on the ribs. Sharp, isolated kicks to the midsection. Levitt gasps, folding over.
On the outside, Walker and Russo finally drag themselves onto the apron. They pound the turnbuckle, screaming encouragement at the rookie.
Tag to Pyre. She steps in, trapping Levitt against the bottom pad. Pyre digs the sole of her boot directly into Levitt’s throat. She leans her entire body weight against the ropes for leverage. Choking the life out. Garret jumps in, screaming the count. Pyre breaks at four.
Tag to Datura. The Green Witch zeroes in on the shoulder. She wrenches Levitt’s arm behind her back, dropping to the mat with a grueling hammerlock. Torquing the joint. Levitt screams. The Star Dragon fights to her knees. She throws a wild, desperate elbow. Datura catches the strike mid-air. She twists the wrist, steps through, and drives Levitt face-first into the canvas with a devastating arm-trap flatliner.
Datura hooks the leg.
ONE…
TWO…
Russo dives across the ring, stomping Datura’s back to break the count.
Pyre doesn’t wait for a tag. She hits the ring like a missile. A heavy lariat catches Russo under the chin, sending her sprawling back through the ropes and crashing to the floor.
Datura holds the corner. Pyre steps through the ropes, tagging herself in legally. She stalks the broken Levitt, driving heavy stomps into her ribs. Pyre turns her back on the rookie. She points directly at a furious Walker on the apron, laughing, demanding she step in.
Levitt finds a reserve of pure adrenaline. She pushes off the mat, throwing a blind, desperate kick that catches Pyre flush in the side of the head. Pyre staggers. Walker beats her fists against the steel steps.
Levitt swings her arm wide, and Walker—blind with adrenaline—slaps the palm. The hot tag is live.
Walker surges through the ropes, a tidal wave of pure momentum. She intercepts Datura mid-stride with a heavy clothesline, then spins to catch Briar with a devastating thrust kick to the sternum. The tide has turned. Walker tracks down the legal competitor, Selene Pyr. She grabs Pyr by the waist and plants her into the mat with a thunderous scoop slam. Briar charges in to break it up, but Walker is ready. She meets Briar with a rapid-fire series of stiff, measured forearms that drive the challenger back into the ropes.
Walker stalks Pyr, using her significant height and weight advantage to smother the brawler’s movement. She hauls Pyr up for a cover.
ONE…
TWO…
Pyr kicks out. Walker drags her up immediately for another, forcing Pyr’s shoulders back into the canvas.
ONE…
TWO…
Pyr kicks out again. Pyr, gasping, pulls herself up. She stumbles toward Walker, throwing a desperate, low kick into the powerhouse’s midsection. Walker doesn’t even flinch. She stares at Pyr, her expression shifting from focused to predatory. She takes one, two measured, heavy steps forward. Her jaw is set. Her eyes are pure ice.
Pyr freezes, holding her hands up in a frantic gesture of surrender. It is a calculated lie. As Walker closes the gap, Pyr explodes forward, driving a desperate, heavy right hand toward Walker’s temple. Walker sees it coming. She catches the fist mid-air. She retaliates with two rapid, violent shots to Pyr’s ribs, then grabs her by the neck and hurling her over the top rope like a sack of dead weight.
Briar slides into the ring, hoping to capitalize on the chaos. Walker pivots. She catches the smaller woman completely off-guard with a staggering, high-impact forearm that echoes throughout the arena. She hooks Briar, hoisting her high before slamming her back-first into the canvas to keep her anchored.
Datura rushes the ring to save her partner. She never makes it.
Russo screams, sprinting into the frame. She tackles Datura to the mat, turning the canvas into a personal war zone. Fists fly in a furious ground-and-pound assault until Russo drags Datura to the ropes and dumps her over the side.
Pyr, still on the apron, takes flight. She leaps, locking her legs around Russo’s head for a snap hurricanrana that sends the Italian Angel reeling. Pyr hits the floor, but Levitt is already there. The Star Dragon vaults over the top rope, a blur of motion, colliding with Pyr in a high-risk aerial strike that leaves both women splayed on the ringside mats.
In the ring, Walker has Briar cornered. She hooks the waist, snaps her high into the air, and catches her.
ALL THE WAY UP! (Pop-Up Powerbomb)
The impact is sickening.
On the outside, Datura finds her feet just in time to intercept Levitt. She drives a brutal, high-impact suplex directly onto the unforgiving floorboards. Levitt goes limp.
Walker doesn’t hesitate. She rolls out of the ring, pivots, and grabs Datura by the shoulder, spinning her around. She unloads a barrage of heavy, thudding rights that drop the Green Witch to her knees. Walker hauls the reeling Pyr up, shoves her violently under the bottom rope, and rolls in after her to continue the slaughter.
Walker’s chest heaves. She grabs Selene by the ankle, dragging her dead weight into the center of the canvas. She drops her hips over the joint, trapping the knee. PROCESS LOCK (Ankle Lock)! Walker violently torques the foot past its natural breaking point.
Pyre’s scream cuts through the arena noise. Referee Grade Garret drops to his stomach, screaming in her face.
GARRET: Do you submit?
Pyre shakes her head violently, tears of pain cutting through the sweat. Her free hand hovers over the mat. Trembling. Ready to tap.
On the outside apron, Lily Briar is a mess. She was left for dead minutes ago, but hearing Pyre scream jolts her awake. She drags herself up by the middle rope, clutching her ribs, pushing through pure physical agony to save her partner. She vaults the top rope, throwing her battered body into a desperate, spinning strike. LILY LASH (Spinning Roundhouse Kick)! The boot connects flush with Walker’s temple. Walker collapses, releasing the ankle.
Hope Russo sees the save. She slides under the bottom rope like a viper. Briar turns on wobbly legs. Russo hits the ropes, springing backward. HALO EFFECT (Springboard Cutter)!! Briar’s face bounces sickeningly off the canvas. She rolls, spilling lifelessly out to the apron.
Datura stalks in from the blindside. She grabs Russo by the arm, ripping her backward into a straight-jacket grip. LADY DEATH (Straight-Jacket Bullhammer Forearm)!!! The impact echoes like a gunshot.
The ring is a graveyard. Garret is screaming, completely losing control. The crowd is deafening.
Hope Levitt slips in behind Datura. She hooks the waist. DRAGON SUPLEX (Dragon Suplex)! Datura is launched backward, crashing onto the crown of her neck before skidding under the bottom rope.
Pyre is up, but she can barely stand. She heavily favors the destroyed ankle. Levitt turns. Pyre spins the rookie around, driving a desperate knee deep into her gut. She hooks both arms, hoisting Levitt up with nothing but adrenaline, pausing for a fraction of a second. WINTER SOLSTICE (Double Underhook Brainbuster)!!!
Walker fires back into the ring, sliding under the ropes and popping to her feet. Pyre spins, throwing a wild, exhausted right hand. Walker catches it. She leaps, using her full weight to drag the champion down, locking the arm and leaning back. DISMANTLE (Fujiwara Armbar)!!!
Pyre is trapped again. Briar forces her eyes open. Seeing her partner and lover in agony again snaps something in her. She drops to the floor, blindly searching under the apron. She yanks out a steel folding chair, dragging it into the ring. She doesn’t swing it—she violently jams the steel edge directly into Walker’s ribs.
The hold breaks instantly. Garret waves for the bell.
TIGRESS WINS
DISQUALIFICATION VICTORY
THE BLACK RAINBOW REMAINS VOODOO PACT CHAMPIONS
The bell rings over and over, but Briar doesn’t care. She stands over Walker, her chest heaving, eyes wide and manic. She raises the dented steel chair high above her head, locking onto Walker’s exposed knee.
The pop from the crowd hits before the music does.
A massive, deafening roar erupts from the entrance stage. Briar freezes, snapping her head toward the ramp. Thaïs Empristikí bursts through the curtain. The leader of Tigress doesn’t pause. They don’t play to the crowd. They sprint down the steel ramp, sliding under the bottom rope. Briar swings the chair in a wild, panic-driven arc. Thaïs ducks under the steel, hooks Briar around the waist, and hoists her into the air.
SIGN OF FIRE (Michinoku Driver II)!!!
Thaïs doesn’t celebrate. They don’t play to the screaming crowd. The leader of Tigress immediately drops to their knees beside Jenna Jillian Walker. Walker is clutching her shattered knee, her face twisted in pure agony.
Thaïs grabs Walker’s shoulder, shouting at Garret to get the medical team out here. They look across the ring. The realization sets in. Hope Russo is face-down on the canvas. Hope Levitt is barely moving near the ropes.
From the timekeeper’s area, two figures vault the barricade. Marisol Vilaro and Taylor Landry. VilaroFIT didn’t come from the back—they were lying in wait. They slide into the ring from the blindside, clipping Thaïs behind the knees. The snobby heels double up, ruthlessly stomping the number one contender down into the canvas with a flurry of cheap, synchronized shots.
Landry pivots, locking Thaïs in a bearhug from behind and pinning their arms to their sides. Marisol steps in close, sneering as she holds a fist high, savoring the moment before the strike. She leans in to talk trash, but Thaïs refuses to be a victim; they snap a sharp kick into Marisol’s midsection, sending the heel doubling over.
Thaïs fights out out Landry’s grip then spins around to clock her across the jaw. But Marisol isn’t done. She pulls out a small arousal can. The moment Thaïs twists around, they receive a faceful of LOTUS by VILARO, an aromatic bodyspray available now on Shop.Vilaro.com.
Thaïs, half-blind, turns around just as Landry leaps over their head.
TAY DROP (Code Red)!!!!
Thaïs crashes to the mat. Taylor and Marisol celebrate, laughing and jumping like queens of the ring as the arena rains down boos on the women.
That momentary jubilation is interrupted by a thunderous commotion in the stands.
Sprinting down the concrete steps, tearing right past the front row of fans, come Alyssa Knight-Kekoa and Gina Neon. They hit the ring like a freight train. Alyssa and Gina launch themselves at VilaroFIT, tackling them off Thaïs. It isn’t a wrestling match anymore. It’s a bar fight. Fists fly blindly. The four women tangle up against the ropes, their collective weight sending them all tumbling over the top strand and crashing onto the floor. The brawl doesn’t stop, spilling violently over the barricade and out into the sea of fans.
The ring clears just enough to reveal the wreckage left behind.
In the center of the canvas, Levitt drags herself forward inch by inch. Her body is entirely spent. She reaches out, desperately trying to check on Thaïs.
Datura slithers back under the ropes. She scoops up the discarded chair. A brutal, sickening swing cracks directly across Levitt’s spine. The rookie folds into the mat. Datura steps over her. She raises the steel high above her head, locking her cold eyes on the recovering Thaïs.
Russo pushes up from the canvas. Blood in her teeth. She charges, grabbing Datura from behind. She hooks the arm, lifting the Green Witch into a fluid, spinning arc.
FALL FROM GRACE (Blue Thunder Bomb)!!!
Datura bounces violently off the mat. The chair flies from her hands, skittering across the ring and stopping dead at the feet of a staggering Pyre. Completely out of Russo’s line of sight.
Pyre snatches the steel. She hobbles up on her bad ankle. Russo turns around.
CRACK.
Steel meets skull. Pyre leaves the bent chair wrapped around Russo’s neck for a twisted, agonizing second before yanking it away. Russo’s legs turn to jelly. She drops to her knees. Her eyes roll back, and she collapses face-first into the canvas.
Thaïs sees their wife broken on the mat. Pure, unadulterated red vision. Thaïs attacks Pyre, their own blood cousin, unleashing a furious barrage of strikes. Thaïs hoists the injured champion into the air.
SIGN OF FIRE (Michinoku Driver II)!!!
The arena is unglued. The crowd demands more.
ONE MORE TIME!
ONE MORE TIME!
ONE MORE TIME!
Thaïs nods. They hold up one finger. One more time. They bend down, grabbing Pyre by the hair, dragging her lifeless weight up from the mat.
CLICK.
Pitch black. The arena lights cut out instantly.
A sea of cell phone flashlights dot the darkness, swirling like fireflies in the void.
An angelic, unaccompanied voice cuts through the silence. Soft. Haunting.
VOICE: Somewhere… over… the… rainbow…
The lights snap back to full brightness.
Standing directly behind Thaïs is…
BIA
The PCW UNLEASHED Champion is a hulking mass of muscle, and she looks like she just crawled out of a war zone. Fresh off a brutal scaffold match the previous night, Bia is an absolute mess. Black stitches track across her face. Her jaw is visibly swollen, surrounded by dark, heavy bruises and raw friction burns. The physical damage doesn’t hinder her—it makes her look even more terrifying. She is grinning ear to ear. The entire building realizes it in a horrifying instant. Bia is the new member of Black Rainbow that has been teased all week.
Bia grabs Thaïs by the shoulder. She spins them around, immediately hoisting the number one contender effortlessly onto her massive shoulders.
MAELSTROM (Fireman’s Carry Facebuster)!!!!
Thaïs is driven face-first into the canvas, completely unconscious.
Bia sits up. She smiles. The camera zooms in tight. Her eyes lock onto Thaïs. The focused, burning hate for her former friend, the number one contender, radiating through the lens as the broadcast fades to black.