CHAPTERS
OPENING SEGMENT
Backstage. The concrete hallway hums. Venue monitors glow. Helen Beck and Helena Handbasket stand inches apart. In the background, the arena crowd roars at the sight of the twins on the screens.
Helena breaks eye contact. She glances down at her boots. A long, heavy sigh. She lifts her eyes back to Beck.
HELENA: Dude… I’m sorry. I was hurt and… you didn’t want to be part of the thing anymore. I tried to give you space and lost myself in the process.
That awkward, inner glance of her bared soul melts. A sudden seriousness takes over. The mask slips back into place.
HELENA: And yeah… I’m gettin’ really pissy with this ‘you attackin’ me’ thing.
Helen Beck stares back. Their eyes are dark. Unsettled. Void of warmth. They deliver their response in a chilling, rhythmic cadence.
BECK: You want a revelation. You want to get right. But it’s a conversation. I just can’t have tonight. You want a revelation. Some kind of resolution.
Beck slowly drags their gaze up and down Helena’s frame.
BECK: You want a revelation.
CRACK.
Beck slams a heavy hand flush into Helena’s jaw. Helena reels backward. Beck follows up. Driving relentless, heavy fists into Helena’s ribs.
The brawl is on. They spill wildly down the corridor. Crashing blindly into a makeshift interview set. Play-by-play announcer Reno Nevada stands off to the side. Oblivious. He swirls a glass of something suspiciously like whiskey. Muttering to himself as he struggles to pronounce the name Empristikí. He never sees them coming. Beck and Helena bulldoze straight through the aluminum backdrop. Reno is violently swept aside as collateral damage in a tangle of canvas.
NEVADA: THERE’S A BEVERAGE HERE, MAN!
The fight violently spills into catering. Chaos. Staff, workers, and other wrestlers scatter. Beck grabs Helena by the back of the neck. They step forward and hurl her. Helena crashes spine-first into a buffet table. Splintering plastic. Metal platters and hot food scatter across the concrete.
Helena rebounds off the wreckage. She steps in, firing a desperate European uppercut. The strike catches Beck under the chin. Snapping their head back.
Beck absorbs the blow. Unfazed. They stalk forward with silent, terrifying precision. Clinch. Beck drives a brutal knee straight into Helena’s midsection. Driving the wind from her lungs.
Beck grabs a heavy glass coffee pot from a nearby station. They swing it with sickening force. Helena ducks under the arc. The pot sails past and shatters violently against the concrete wall. Glass raining down.
Helena capitalizes on the miss. She snatches a heavy metal serving tray off the floor. Gripping the edge, she swings it like a baseball bat. CLANG. The steel cracks directly over Beck’s skull.
Beck staggers. Dropping to one knee. Helena discards the dented tray. She lunges. Unleashing a frantic flurry of boxing lefts and rights, burying knuckles into Beck’s face.
Beck reaches up. They catch one of the incoming punches. Gripping the wrist. Beck twists Helena’s arm, torquing the joint. With a violent shove, they launch Helena backward. Helena crashes hard into a towering stack of metal folding chairs. Clattering steel.
Both competitors drag themselves out of the wreckage. Breathing heavy. They are covered in a grotesque mix of sweat, spilled food, and blood.
Helena charges back in. Pure adrenaline. But her boot catches on the slick mess of spilled food coating the linoleum. She slips. Her arms windmill as she desperately scrambles to regain her balance. She straightens up.
Walking right into Helen Beck’s trap.
Beck leaps with mechanical precision. A fast, theatrical twirl.
SCREW U (Spinning Knee Strike)!
The strike connects flush to Helena’s jaw. She folds. Going down hard onto the concrete.
Beck stands over her. Chest heaving. They look down at Helena, unable to contain the sick excitement of having laid Helena out with her own move.
EMILIA: HEY!
Beck slowly lifts their head.
The sharp clack of heels echoes over the shattered plastic and scattered ice. Emilia Glazkov, the self-proclaimed Manager General of PCW, marches straight into the wreckage. Right behind her: Selene Pyre and Thaïs Empristikí.
Thaïs spots Helena motionless on the concrete. They immediately break into a sprint, rushing in to check on their battered friend.
Emilia stops short. She tries to maintain a shred of executive professionalism. Seeing her girlfriend laid out cold by her own twin shatters it completely. Her face flushes with rage.
EMILIA: What is meaning of this!
She steps up. She jabs a stiff finger violently into the center of Beck’s chest.
Beck doesn’t flinch. Their eyes are hollow.
BECK: The violence brings me around. It’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever found.
Beck steps forward. Pressing their chest directly into Emilia’s extended finger. Daring her. Emilia stands her ground. Defiant. Refusing to yield a single inch.
Selene steps into the gap. She shoves her hands hard into Beck’s shoulders, pushing them backward. Breaking the physical standoff.
Beck stops. Their cold gaze shifts. From Selene. To Emilia. Down to the floor where Thaïs is struggling to pull Helena back to her feet.
Total silence. Beck turns. They walk away, disappearing down the wrecked corridor without another word.
Emilia steps around Selene. She takes Helena’s weight, taking over from Thaïs.
EMILIA: I have this. You have match to prepare for. Do not disappoint me.
Selene and Thaïs stand in the ruin of the catering area. They watch Emilia slowly help Helena away.
SELENE & THAÏS: I won’t.
The words overlap perfectly. Their heads snap toward one another. Glares lock. Furious that they said it at the exact same time.
MATCH 1
JUSTICE CROSS
versus
MARILYN MATTHEWS
versus
JOSSLYNN SPENCER
The bell rings. The crowd is deafening, a massive wave of noise split straight down the middle for Justice Cross and Marilyn Matthews. Justice steps to the center. Marilyn steps up to meet her. They acknowledge the roar. Josslynn Spencer does not move. She leans back in the corner, elbows hooked over the top rope, calmly watching the veterans burn their adrenaline.
Marilyn and Justice lunge into a collar-and-elbow tie-up. The trap is sprung. Josslynn explodes from the corner, darting in to blindside Marilyn. It fails. Justice and Marilyn break the hold instantly. They catch the incoming teenager. Double snap suplex. They drive Josslynn hard into the canvas. Marilyn pops up. She points to the rafters, soaking in the surge of cheers. Justice stays cold. She just watches Josslynn scramble blindly toward the ropes. Marilyn sprints. She drops into a baseball slide dropkick. The strike catches Josslynn flush, launching her off the apron and violently down to the arena floor.
The ring is clear. Justice and Marilyn circle. They engage. Justice clinches a tight, methodical side headlock. She grinds her weight down, forcing the high-flyer to carry the burden. Marilyn shifts her base. She uses her agility, flipping backward to break the grip and whipping Justice down with a sharp arm drag. Marilyn keeps the pressure. She rolls through, maintaining wrist control, and bridges beautifully into a Northern Lights suplex.
ONE… TWO… Justice powers out at two.
Justice sits up. She stares down at the canvas for a heavy beat, centering herself, before pushing to her feet. Marilyn charges hard. Justice waits. She exhales visibly. Marilyn lunges. Justice drops, rolling cleanly over Marilyn’s back and hooking both legs in a lightning-fast trap.
OVER AND OUT (Sunset Flip)
ONE… TWO… Marilyn wrenches her shoulder off the mat.
Justice rolls up to her feet. A quiet smirk spreads across her face. She turns. Josslynn Spencer is already there. She slides under the bottom rope and immediately launches into a cartwheel kick. The boot cracks flush against Justice’s jawline. Dead weight. Justice’s momentum carries her completely over the top rope, crashing heavily to the floor outside.
Josslynn stands over Marilyn. A small, dead-eyed smile ghosts across her face. She lifts a heavy boot and stomps the heel directly into Marilyn’s ribcage. Josslynn grabs a fistful of Marilyn’s hair, hauling her up and snapping her into an applied armbar. She violently wrenches the shoulder joint, trying to tear the high-flyer’s wing.
Marilyn grinds her teeth. She fights up, clutching the damaged arm, forcing herself to a kneeling position. Josslynn releases the hold, rebounds off the ropes, and drives a running blockbuster directly into the kneeling Marilyn. The impact spikes Marilyn’s forehead into the mat. Josslynn hooks the leg.
ONE… TWO… Marilyn kicks out.
Josslynn shows absolutely nothing. No anger. No frustration. She patiently waits. Marilyn struggles to her feet. Josslynn steps in, whipping a heavy clothesline. Marilyn ducks the arm. She plants her hands and launches backward.
NERF THIS (Pelee Kick)
The backflip kick connects against the side of Josslynn’s temple with a hard crack. Both women collapse to the canvas.
On the floor outside, Justice Cross is already moving. She methodically picks herself up. Her face is a mask of complete composure. She reaches up, grips the middle rope, and slides onto the ring apron.
Justice Cross steps calmly between the ropes. She eyes the wreckage. Marilyn and Josslynn are both down, gasping for air on the canvas. Justice selects her target. She stalks toward Josslynn and unleashes a series of measured, deliberate stomps directly to the back of the neck. Marilyn rolls desperately under the bottom rope, dropping to the ringside floor to find her lungs.
Justice hauls Josslynn up by the hair. She drags her to the center of the ring. Justice traps an arm. She hooks her leg firmly behind Josslynn’s knee. She pulls the free arm back and cranks the neck sideways, locking in her trap.
SPIDER’S WEB (Octopus Stretch)
Josslynn’s dead-eyed calm instantly shatters. She shrieks, completely immobilized, frantically clawing at empty air as the pressure threatens to tear her joints apart.
On the apron, Marilyn pulls herself up. She scales the turnbuckles. She balances on the top rope, spots the target, and leaps. Missile dropkick. Marilyn’s boots crash flush into Justice’s spine. The impact explodes the submission, sending Justice rocketing forward to crash neck-first into the middle turnbuckle.
Justice slumps in the corner. Marilyn doesn’t pause. She immediately targets the reeling Josslynn. She leaps onto Josslynn’s back, hooks the arms tight, and violently flips forward.
BLITZED (Sunset Flip Powerbomb)
Marilyn drives Josslynn down and bridges tightly into the cover.
ONE… TWO… Justice violently breaks the pin, burying a stiff, precise forearm directly into the back of Marilyn’s skull.
Justice does not waste movement. She snags Marilyn by the hair, hauling her up, and brutally throws her through the middle ropes. Marilyn slams hard against the ringside mats, instantly curling up to protect her ribs.
Justice turns. She walks toward Josslynn with a look of quiet certainty. She reaches down. Josslynn’s eyes snap open. She plays possum, whipping a sudden thrust kick directly into Justice’s gut. Josslynn immediately underhooks the arms and drops her weight.
BLACKLISTED (Snap DDT)
Justice’s face bounces off the canvas. Josslynn stares at the lights with that same calculating, emotionless look. She hooks the leg.
ONE… TWO… Justice thrashes her shoulder off the mat.
Josslynn drags Justice right back to her feet, looking to end it. Justice fires back. A desperate, blistering open-hand slap cracks across Josslynn’s jaw. The strike sends the teenager tumbling backward, spilling through the middle ropes and crashing to the floor. Josslynn staggers to her feet on the outside. Inside the ring, Marilyn blitzes past Justice, building terrifying speed. Tope Suicida. Marilyn torpedoes through the ropes, wiping Josslynn completely out on the arena floor.
Marilyn pops up, slapping the barricade and hyping the screaming crowd. She slides back under the bottom rope and immediately charges Justice in the corner.
Justice is waiting. She plants her lead foot directly onto Marilyn’s charging thigh, using the momentum as a springboard. She whips her back leg around in a vicious arc.
LAST CALL (Step Up Enziguri)
The boot connects flush against the back of Marilyn’s skull. Marilyn crumbles face-first into the canvas like her strings were cut. Justice drops down for the cover.
ONE… TWO… Marilyn kicks out on pure instinct.
Justice pushes herself up to her knees. She stares blankly at the canvas for a long beat. She exhales visibly. A slow, knowing smirk spreads across her face. The ring is hers. Marilyn is motionless on the mat. On the outside, Josslynn is still clutching her ribs against the barricade.
Justice stands over Marilyn. She hauls the veteran up, underhooking the arm for a suplex. Marilyn drops her center of gravity. She sharply sweeps Justice’s legs, sending her crashing to the mat. Marilyn instantly grapevines Justice’s legs. She seizes both of Justice’s arms, violently pulling them backward, and plants a boot firmly between her shoulder blades.
SUNDERING OF NARSIL (Wicked Step Sister)
Marilyn forcefully stomps, driving Justice’s face straight into the canvas. She covers.
ONE… TWO… Justice barely thrusts a shoulder off the mat.
Marilyn scrambles toward the corner. She scales the turnbuckles, positioning herself for the high-risk finish. On the outside, Josslynn Spencer recovers. She leaps onto the apron and violently shoves Marilyn off the top rope. Marilyn plummets. She crashes ribs-first into the unyielding steel steps, crumpling into a lifeless heap on the arena floor.
Josslynn slides under the bottom rope. She stalks the groggy veteran. Justice struggles to her knees. Josslynn lunges, grabbing Justice from behind and driving both knees squarely into her spine.
DEAD END (Backstabber)
Josslynn hooks both legs. Cold. Emotionless.
ONE… TWO… Justice thrashes wildly, kicking out at the absolute last millisecond.
Josslynn hauls Justice to her feet. She violently whips her toward the ropes. Justice plants her foot, reverses the momentum, and snatches Josslynn into a tight front facelock. No hesitation. Justice drops her dead weight straight down.
DEATH DROP (Implant DDT)
Josslynn’s crown spikes into the mat. Justice hooks the leg.
ONE… TWO… Josslynn kicks out.
Outside the ring, Marilyn is barely moving. She blindly clutches the back of her head. Inside the ring, Justice and Josslynn drag themselves up. They trade heavy, exhausted strikes in the center of the canvas. Bone on bone. Justice gains the edge. A blistering open-hand slap rattles Josslynn’s jaw. Justice Irish whips her. Josslynn hurdles a back body drop, flipping elegantly over the top rope and landing perfectly on her feet on the outside apron.
Justice turns. Josslynn instantly drives a shoulder thrust between the ropes, aiming for the ribs. Justice anticipates it. She catches Josslynn in a guillotine grip around the neck. A massive roar rips through the arena. The crowd knows the setup.
In the background, stepping entirely in Justice’s blindspot, Marilyn crawls under the bottom rope. She pushes herself to her feet, silently waiting.
Justice violently yanks Josslynn inward. She drags the teenager through the ropes until the insteps of Josslynn’s boots hook perfectly on the middle strand. Justice pauses. She exhales visibly, soaking in the deafening crowd reaction. She drops.
KAMIKAZE (Rope Hung DDT)
Josslynn’s skull bounces off the canvas. She is out cold. Justice pops right up to her feet. The confident smirk forms. She turns. Marilyn is right there.
Marilyn grabs Justice, spins her, and hooks the neck. Reverse STO. Marilyn violently flatlines Justice face-first into the canvas. She rolls smoothly through the impact, twisting her body around. She grapevines Justice’s head and neck with her legs, hooking the arms and wrenching backward.
NIGHTY NIGHT (Koji Clutch)
Dead center of the ring. Justice is trapped. The smirk vanishes. Panic sets in. Justice claws blindly at the mat. She drags herself, inch by agonizing inch, desperately fighting toward the bottom rope. Marilyn refuses to yield. She torques the neck at a sickening angle, screaming as the pressure burns her own exhausted muscles. The pain is absolute. Justice frantically slaps the canvas.
REFEREE: Ring the bell!
DING. DING. DING.
MARILYN MATTHEWS WINS
SUBMISSION VICTORY
Marilyn immediately releases the hold. She collapses backward onto the mat, staring up at the arena lights. Her chest heaves. She is brutalized and utterly exhausted. The referee kneels, grabbing Marilyn’s heavy, limp arm and raising it high in victory. Justice rolls onto her side, gasping for air, clutching her twisted neck in defeat. Near the ropes, Josslynn remains completely motionless.
SEGMENT
SAM TOLSON
Samantha Tolson lies on a blanket, covering the sand of the beach she happens to be enjoying. Across the bottom of the screen, words fade in.
TWENTY FOUR HOURS AGO.
She’s in a small purple bikini, the kind a woman looking for a golden tan would wear, meaning maximum skin exposure with enough coverage to avoid a public indecency charge. On her face are a pair of oversized and polarized wraparound sunglasses, reflecting the camera in them.
The Pretty Little Murder Machine is propped up on her elbows as she speaks, legs crossed near her ankles.
TOLSON: Ahh, the joys of a warm beach. The simplicity of warm sand, a comfortable beach towel, and the sun washing over your skin.
Samantha smirks, cognizant of the image she’s presenting.
TOLSON: Oh, I’m sorry, Evan. Am I showing too much skin for you? Are my tits distracting you? You seem to be extremely focused on my appearance, given you’re going to try to kick my ass.
She tilts head her back, sending hair spilling over her shoulder.
TOLSON: Evan Carmine, the latest in a long, sordid line of people who have tried to use my looks against me. It’s kind of tiring at this point, eleven years into professional wrestling, having to continue to address this topic. Oh, Sam, you can’t be a serious wrestler! You post too many thot pics! You’re just a pretty face! You’re just a great set of tits and an ass that makes men and women write checks their asses can’t cash!
Her tone is, obviously, sarcastic, punctuated by the look on her face visible below her shades. She laughs briefly, a simple yet pointed chuckle.
TOLSON: You see, Evan, you want to make your name at my expense. Those are your own words. Why do you want to do that? Is it the boobs, or the butt? Maybe the golden skin? No. It’s the legacy. It’s the multitude of championships. It’s the global name brand. It’s the fact that, should you be lucky enough to beat me, people will sit up and finally take notice of you. You win this match, and your name gets bigger. You know it, and I know it. The world at large is already watching, wondering if you can back up your social media bravado with a superior performance.
Samantha crosses her legs in the opposite fashion, right over left instead of left over right.
TOLSON: Thing is, Evan, the world already knows that they’ll see that superior performance from me. They know they’ll bear witness to the kind of exhibition that has put me at the very top of this sport. Point blank, I’m one of the best in the world. Some might dispute that, but those that do are just like you. They see the pictures, they see the acting gigs, and they can’t reconcile those with the decade plus of wrestling excellence and success.
Her eyes cast down at herself, then back up.
TOLSON: This body? It’s been hard earned through work that makes most wrestlers weak. Ask anyone who’s ever gotten in the gym with me. Almost every one of them has struggled to match my pace and effort. That’s why I told you that no one outworks me. There are a handful that can match me, but there is no one that surpasses me. Not even Yelena Gorgo herself, and the evidence of her effort is just as easily visible as mine.
Her body shifts, leaning to the other hip as a brow arcs over her eye.
TOLSON: That’s why I respect Gorgo. In the ring, yes, we’re absolutely rivals that would sooner rip off a limb or snap a joint. We’ve beaten each other black, blue, and bloody more than once. It’ll always be that way between her and I. But outside the ring, there’s respect, and it’s because of the work done to consistently and constantly be at the top of the game.
She leans forward, arms across her knees.
TOLSON: And that, Evan, is what built this body. That is what made me a global star in this sport. Not the photoshoots. Not the multiple acting roles. Not the homes in Vegas, California, and NYC. The effort and the success is what has given you this opportunity. My effort, my success, my litany of championships.
Tolson leans her head back for a moment, shaking her long, golden brown hair.
TOLSON: You want nothing more than to make your name on all that. None of that comes to me without massive effort. None of that is available for your benefit if I don’t do the work. None of that is quantum physics, but yet you still fall into the trap of swinging at the low-hanging fruit.
Her head shakes.
TOLSON: You aren’t ready, Evan. You aren’t ready to take on the best of us, because your mindset dwells in the gutters of the worst of us. Consider this an education. A lesson in the levels of this, delivered expertly and learned painfully. I am the Pretty Little Murder Machine for a reason. I’m the Missouri River Amazon for a reason. So meet me in the ring, Evan, eyes wide open and a mind ready to assimilate information. Because I’m going to give you a harsh lecture in reality, using a curriculum of suplexes, chops, and kicks.
She leans back, letting everyone see what they wish they could touch. Perfection.
TOLSON: I’m going to beat you, Evan Carmine. And I’m going to do it by any means I deem necessary.
Samantha lies back down on her towel, face turning back toward the sun.
MATCH 2
GINA NEON
versus
THE BILLION DOLLAR CHAMPION
MARISOL VILARO
NON-TITLE MATCH
Marisol Vilaro stands center ring, arrogant and glaring at Gina Neon. Down at the floor stands Taylor Landry, Amethyst Caldwell, and Hans Richtershofen. Hans clutches the Billion Dollar Championship tightly to his chest.
It seems like the deck is staked against Marisol’s opponent, Gina Neon. The Winnah is still stretching, readying herself for the bell.
But before the match even begins, chaos erupts. Alyssa Knight-Kekoa vaults the barricade. She launches a dropkick into the small of Taylor’s back. Taylor’s face crunches into the hard edge of the ring apron. THUD.
Amethyst charges blindly. Alyssa raises her hand. A stream of mace hits the bodyguard directly in the eyes. The hulking enforcer shrieks, stumbling backward and clawing at her face. Hans freezes. He sees the canister. Panic overtakes him. He backpedals blindly and violently trips backward over the steel steps, tumbling into a pathetic heap.
Inside the ring, Marisol leans heavily over the top rope. She screams down at the chaos, furious at the disruption to her spotlight.
The referee signals for the bell. Marisol is too distracted to notice.
Gina Neon strikes. A flash of neon pink zips across the canvas. She grabs Marisol from behind, dragging the Fitness Queen backward into a tight schoolgirl roll-up.
ONE… TWO… THR—NO!
Marisol kicks out violently. She rolls to her feet with panic in her eyes. Marisol lunges, swinging wildly. Gina drops under the arm. Marisol charges again. Gina grabs the top rope, defying gravity with a quick skin-the-cat maneuver, pulling herself up and over Marisol’s head. The crowd pops for the retro-fueled agility. Marisol turns. Gina hooks the arm. Deep arm drag. Marisol scrambles up. Another arm drag. Marisol charges like a bull. Gina jumps, wrapping her legs tightly around Marisol’s neck. A spinning headscissors takedown whips the Billion Dollar Woman across the ring. Marisol rolls frantically to the outside floor to regroup, clutching her head.
CROWD: GIGI! GIGI! GIGI!
Marisol slowly climbs onto the ring apron. Gina steps forward, grabbing Marisol by the hair to drag her back inside the hard way. Marisol drops her dead weight. She yanks Gina forward, dropping her throat-first across the top rope. The stun-gun rattles Gina’s spine. Gina staggers backward, gasping for air.
Marisol slides between the ropes. She traps the babyface in the corner. Marisol drives her heavy boot straight into Gina’s windpipe.
REFEREE: One! Two! Three! Four!
Marisol backs off at the final warning, flashing a smug grin. She grabs Gina by the hair, dragging her out of the corner, and executes a crisp snap suplex. Gina’s back slaps the canvas. Marisol ignores the pin. Instead, she drops into a plank position right next to Gina’s groggy face. One. Two. Three. Perfect, mocking push-ups.
CROWD: BOOOOOOOOO!
Marisol pulls Gina to her feet. She hooks Gina’s wrist and whips her violently into the ropes. Marisol drops her head, waiting to execute a back body drop. Gina hits the brakes. Marisol looks up just in time to eat a brutal running lifting knee flush to the jawline.
CRACK.
Marisol drops like a stone, staring blankly at the ceiling. The burst of adrenaline costs Gina. Her legs turn to jelly. She collapses to her knees next to her opponent, clutching her throat and gasping for air. Both women are down.
CUT TO:
THE CONCOURSE.
Taylor Landry and Alyssa Knight-Kekoa are engaged in a wild, ugly brawl right in front of a concession stand. Fists fly. Taylor ducks a wild right hand. She grabs a fistful of Alyssa’s hair. With vicious momentum, Taylor shoves Alyssa’s face deep into a glass popcorn machine. Hot, buttery popcorn shatters and spills everywhere. Alyssa drops to the concrete floor, coughing and grasping blindly. Taylor stands over her, mercilessly stomping a heavy boot repeatedly into Alyssa’s ribs and back.
BACK IN THE RING.
Both women are just clawing their way back to a vertical base. Marisol strikes first. Her fingers dig viciously into Gina’s eyes. The blindside rake immediately stalls Gina’s momentum. Gina stumbles backward, hands covering her face, the neon speed completely neutralized.
Marisol circles her prey. She kicks Gina in the back of the knee, dropping her to the mat. Marisol steps over, hooking both legs and pulling back sharply into a brutal Bow and Arrow stretch. Gina’s spine bows at an unnatural angle. Marisol arches her own back, adding torque.
Who wants to sign up for the VilaroFit app?! Marisol screams at the crowd, wrenching Gina’s limbs tighter.
MARISOL: Only twenty-nine ninety-nine a month to stop looking like this pathetic loser!
CROWD: SHUT THE FUCK UP! SHUT THE FUCK UP!
Gina grinds her teeth. She pushes off the canvas, rolling her body weight forward. She claws blindly toward the bottom rope. She grasps the bottom rope, forcing the break.
Marisol releases the hold but keeps her grip on Gina’s wrist. Marisol lifts her boot, aiming to crush it into Gina’s jaw for the VilaroFit Facial. Gina blinks through the stinging pain. She catches the boot mid-air on the very first attempt. Gina pivots her hips and sweeps Marisol’s standing leg out from under her. Marisol hits the mat hard.
Marisol scrambles to her feet. Gina meets her with a wild, wide-arcing right hand. Then a left. Then another right. The over-the-top, classic punches back Marisol directly into the corner. Gina winds up her arm like a windmill and delivers one final, theatrical punch that rattles Marisol’s skull. Gina charges from the opposite corner, aiming for a full-body splash.
Marisol panics. She reaches out and yanks the referee directly into Gina’s path.
Gina slams on the brakes. She stops inches from crushing the official. Marisol uses the distraction. She steps out from behind the referee and delivers a blistering spinning back elbow flush to Gina’s temple.
Marisol hooks Gina’s arm and leg, setting up the Vilaroizer. She tries to lift, but Gina shifts her hips, dropping her weight to block the fisherman suplex. Gina quickly loops her arm around Marisol’s neck. Desperation DDT.
CRACK.
Marisol’s forehead spikes directly into the canvas. The momentum sends Gina crashing down as well. Both women lie completely flat on their backs, staring blankly up at the arena lights.
CUT TO:
THE CONCOURSE
Outside Fat Boy’s Pizza, the momentum has completely flipped. Alyssa Knight-Kekoa grabs Taylor Landry by the back of the head. She drives Taylor’s face violently into the hard pizzeria counter. Taylor crumples into a heap on the concrete floor.
Amethyst Caldwell finally stumbles into the frame. Her eyes are bloodshot and watery, but her vision is clearing. The hulking enforcer winds up a massive overhand right. Alyssa ducks. Amethyst’s fist shatters the plexiglass sneeze-guard.
Alyssa grabs a steaming hot, fresh large pizza directly off the warmer. She hurls the metal pan, scalding cheese, and boiling sauce directly into Amethyst’s face.
Amethyst screams in absolute agony. She stumbles blindly and crashes backward into a stack of chairs.
Alyssa stands over the stirring Taylor Landry. Her hair is completely matted with greasy popcorn.
ALYSSA: YOU AND ME. TWO WEEKS. THE TERRORDOME. And if you don’t accept? We’ll do this EVERY SHOW until you do!
Alyssa punctuates the threat with a stiff, unyielding kick directly into Taylor’s ribs.
BACK IN THE RING.
The camera cuts back to the squared circle. The arena buzzes with leftover adrenaline from the backstage violence. Gina Neon and Marisol Vilaro drag themselves up from the canvas. Gina feeds off the roar of the crowd. Marisol feeds off pure spite.
They meet in the center. Fists fly. A gritty exchange of right hands rattles both women. Marisol loads up and swings a wild clothesline. Gina ducks underneath. She hits the ropes, rebounds with blinding speed, and launches her body into a lightning-fast flying crossbody. Marisol’s spine slaps the mat.
Marisol scrambles up, eyes wide and completely flustered. She lunges, grabbing at Gina’s neck to lock in the HOSTILE TAKE OVER (Ground Cobra Clutch). Gina slips the grip instantly. She shoves the Billion Dollar Woman hard back to the canvas. Gina struts backward, executing a flawless moonwalk across the ring. She twirls, strikes a pose, and lets out a piercing shout.
GINA: Wooo!
She drops to the mat, driving an elbow straight across Marisol’s sternum to execute the THRILLER (Standing Elbow Drop).
Marisol rolls toward the edge. She uses the middle rope to drag her dead weight back up to a standing position, staggering blindly toward the center. Gina backs herself into the corner.
GINA: NEON POWERRR!
Gina charges like a missile. She drives a devastating front kick right into Marisol’s chest for the NEON KICK (Running Kick).
The impact rocks Marisol, but she doesn’t fall. The Fitness Queen is completely out on her feet, swaying back and forth with jelly legs. Gina extends a finger, pointing directly at the champion.
GINA: STOP! GINA TIME!
Gina grabs Marisol by the hair and whips her violently into the ropes. As Marisol rebounds, Gina bursts into the Hammer Dance directly in her path. She twirls, carrying the momentum into a sickening rolling elbow that rattles Marisol’s jaw. Marisol folds like wet cement, crashing flat onto her back. Gina immediately leaps, snapping down a split-legged leg drop directly across Marisol’s throat to complete CAN’T TOUCH THIS (Rolling Elbow/Split-legged Leg Drop Combo).
Gina hooks the leg tight.
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!
GINA NEON WINS
PINFALL VICTORY
The bell rings. The crowd explodes into a deafening roar. The referee grabs Gina’s wrist and raises her hand high into the air. Gina celebrates, her chest heaving, a massive grin plastered across her exhausted face as she officially secures her title shot at The Terrordome. Down on the mat, Marisol Vilaro remains completely unconscious, her body motionless under the arena lights.
MATCH 3
SAM TOLSON
VS
EVAN CARMINE
The atmosphere inside the arena is thick, suffocating even, as referee Grade Garrett stands in the center of the ring holding a large black duffle bag. The low murmur of the crowd is heavy with anticipation, aware of the violence that is about to unfold.
Freddie Hayes Jr. brings the microphone to his lips, his voice cutting through the tension.
HAYES: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is an ASYLUM RULES MATCH! Tonight, Samantha Tolson and Evan Carmine will compete… in a DOG COLLAR MATCH!
Garrett reaches into the duffle bag and produces the gruesome apparatus: two thick leather dog collars, connected by a heavy, unforgiving steel chain that clinks menacingly as it hangs between his hands. The crowd pops with a mix of excitement and grim realization. Referee Stephanie Marshall enters the ring to assist. Marshall secures the collar around Evan’s neck, while Garrett fastens the other around Tolson’s. Marshall quickly exits, leaving the two competitors tethered together like gladiators. Garrett checks both collars, then calls for the bell.
Evan Carmine stares across the ring at Samantha Tolson. He understands the gravity of the situation; the chain completely neutralizes the speed and agility advantage he typically relies on. He refuses to let the doubt creep in, setting his jaw and narrowing his eyes, focused purely on the fight. Tolson meets his gaze with a calm, almost predatory confidence. This stipulation heavily favors her raw strength, her willingness to get dirty, and her technical experience. She likes this. She flashes a wicked smirk.
Garrett signals the bell, but neither rushes in. They circle one another, the heavy steel chain swaying slack between them. Tolson decides to test the waters first, giving the chain a sharp, sudden tug. The force jerks Evan forward half a step, disrupting his balance. Tolson’s smirk widens into a grin.
Evan responds with a sudden charge, closing the distance to lock up in the center of the ring. Immediately, the chain becomes the defining factor of the match. It tangles between their arms, restricts their movement, and pulls at their necks, preventing either competitor from executing any clean grappling or technical holds.
Tolson capitalizes on the chaos, winning the initial exchange by using the chain to wrench Evan forcefully toward her. She steps into a short-arm lariat, and as she strikes, the chain wraps tightly around Evan’s throat on impact. She doesn’t release her grip. Using her superior strength, Tolson drags Evan across the canvas by the chain, choking him as she pulls him into the corner.
Tolson wraps the chain tighter around Evan’s throat from behind, planting a knee viciously into his back for leverage. She pulls back, wrenching the chain until Evan’s face begins to turn a deep, concerning shade of red. Evan’s vision starts to blur; the lack of oxygen is fading him fast. Desperate, Evan reaches back, clawing blindly at Tolson’s grip. His hand finds her knee, and he drives a sharp elbow right into the joint.
Tolson’s stance buckles from the strike, and the pressure on the chain loosens just enough. Evan violently rips the chain free from his throat and rolls forward, gasping for air. As Tolson stumbles, Evan catches her with a desperate drop toe hold, sending her face-first into the second turnbuckle with a sickening thud.
Tolson stumbles backward out of the corner, clutching her jaw, while Evan remains on the mat, coughing heavily as he drags air back into his lungs. The chain between them goes taut. Tolson, showing her incredible stamina, recovers first. She measures the kneeling Evan and delivers a series of stiff, punishing kicks directly to his ribs.
Evan, calculating and persistent, catches one of the kicks. He uses the chain to pull Tolson off balance, shifting his weight to hoist her up for a Northern Lights Suplex. The move is awkward and ugly, with the chain tangled precariously between their bodies, but it is effective. He bridges for the cover, but Tolson forcefully kicks out at one.
Realizing the technical game is moot, Evan begins using the chain offensively. He whips the heavy steel across Tolson’s back. A loud crack echoes through the arena. He whips her a second time. Then a third. Tolson arches her back in pain, but incredibly, she grins through the punishment, practically daring him to keep going.
Evan doesn’t hesitate. He wraps the chain tightly around his right fist, measures Tolson, and lands a blistering, chain-wrapped forearm directly across her brow. The impact splits Tolson’s forehead open, drawing first blood. The crimson begins to leak down her face as she staggers backward into the ropes.
Tolson, now bleeding, wipes her eyes, looks at the blood on her hand, and lets out a dark, chilling laugh. Evan charges her again, but Tolson is waiting. She catches him on the move, dropping him with a devastating snap DDT that drives his skull squarely into the canvas.
With Evan down, Tolson grabs the chain and wraps it heavily around both of her hands. She mounts Evan and begins raining down repeated, chain-wrapped elbow strikes to his forehead. The relentless, brutal assault busts Evan open. The canvas begins to stain a dark red. The tone of the match has fully shifted from a wrestling contest to a desperate fight for survival.
Tolson drags a bleeding Evan to the ropes by the chain. She slingshots him forward, and Evan crashes chest-first into the turnbuckle. As he stumbles backward out of the corner, Tolson catches him around the waist, executing a picture-perfect German suplex and bridging immediately into a pin.
ONE… TWO… THR—NO!
Evan manages to kick out just in time. Tolson stands over him, blood dripping steadily from her brow. She looks past the top ropes, her gaze fixing on the stage at the top of the ramp where a glass box sits ominously on a pedestal. She knows exactly what she needs. She gives the chain a violent tug, pulling Evan toward the ropes as if she is preparing to drag him to the outside.
Tolson hits the floor first and never gives Evan a second to reset. The instant his boots touch the ringside padding, she jerks the chain with both hands and yanks him forward like a hooked animal, dragging him off balance toward her. Evan plants, fights upright, blood running down into his eyes, but Tolson is already moving, already lined up.
She whips him hard into the steel steps. Not a glancing blow. Full-body collision. Shoulder, ribs, and cheekbone smashing off the edge as the chain snaps and rattles against the metal with a violent clatter that turns the front row inside out.
Tolson reaches for him immediately, threading an arm around his waist and trying to muscle him up for a suplex onto the steps. Evan blocks it on instinct, dropping his hips, widening his base, and hammering a forearm into her side before reversing the leverage in one fast motion. He hoists her and drops her with a snap vertical suplex on the floor. Concrete. No give. Both bodies bounce and go limp, still linked by that ugly length of steel.
Garrett leans through the ropes, shouting at both of them to move, while the crowd rises in a wave. Evan rolls first, clutching the back of his head and dragging breath into his lungs. Tolson turns onto one hip, one hand pressed to her lower spine, teeth bared. Hurt. Not finished.
They fight their way back into the ring with the chain scraping after them. Evan sees an opening and heads for the top rope, maybe out of instinct, maybe out of desperation, but the second he starts climbing, the tether snaps tight around his throat and jerks him backward. Tolson has been waiting for exactly that. She keeps both hands on the chain, braces, and rips him off his balance point.
Evan lands awkwardly, one boot still caught on the middle strand for half a second too long. Tolson is on him before he can untangle. She climbs to the second rope, chain looped in her hands, then launches herself forward and down, whipping the steel across his neck mid-air before driving him face-first into the mat with a chain-assisted bulldog. THUD.
Tolson sprawls into the cover, pressing her forearm across the bridge of his nose as Garrett slides in beside them.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Evan jerks a shoulder up with almost nothing to spare. Two and three-quarters. Maybe less than that. Tolson does not waste time arguing. That would not fit her anyway. She just nods once, hair hanging in bloody strands across her face, and hauls him up by the collar.
She marches him into the corner and unleashes the Machine Gun Kicks. Shin to ribs. Instep to sternum. Heel to the side of the jaw. Fast. Nasty. Rhythmic. The chain swings with each strike, flashing silver between them, sometimes slapping against Evan’s chest, sometimes snapping back against Tolson’s wrist as she keeps the barrage going.
The crowd starts counting with the kicks, then loses the count entirely when the pace turns savage.
Evan folds in the corner, breathing in ragged pulls, but even now his hands are working. Studying. Timing. Tolson grabs a wrist and tries to yank him out for another throw, likely looking to plant him before he can recover, but Evan blocks the setup, shifts behind her, hooks the leg and shoulder, and explodes through with GARDEN STATE SLAM (Angle Slam).
Tolson crashes flat on her back and the chain whips across the canvas beside them like a live wire. Evan does not go for the pin. Smart. He knows a near-fall does not get him closer to the key on the stage, and he is still thinking through the blood loss and the punishment. He grabs the chain in both fists and starts dragging Tolson toward the ropes.
Tolson sprawls and catches the bottom rope with both hands. Dead weight now. Pure resistance. Evan leans back and pulls harder, his boots slipping on the stained canvas, shoulders straining, neck marked raw by the collar. Tolson refuses to give him an inch. Superior conditioning. Veteran patience.
So Evan changes the equation.
He wraps the chain around his fist again, backs up half a step, and drives forward with a running knee strike that smashes straight into Tolson’s face. The steel gives the blow extra bite. Her grip breaks. Her head snaps sideways. Blood sprays off her brow and down onto the bottom strand.
The building comes unglued.
CROWD: THIS IS AWESOME!
Evan drags her back to center and turns her onto all fours. The crowd recognizes it before he even hits the ropes. He is calling for the kill shot. TOMMY EGAN (Curb Stomp). He sprints off the ropes, but Tolson stays aware through the fog. At the last possible second, she snatches the chain with both hands and yanks.
Evan gets ripped out of stride and crashes face-first into the mat. No graceful spill. Just a brutal wipeout. Tolson immediately pounces, mounting Evan’s back. She wraps the chain under his chin, using it as a bridle to violently snap his head back, trying to concuss him enough to drag his body to the stage. Evan fights out of pure survival. He bucks his hips, rolling Tolson over, and mounts her in return. He wraps the chain around his own forearm and throws a desperate, downward strike. Tolson catches his arm, blocking the steel from her face. They are locked in a vicious, grinding struggle on the canvas—neither willing to give an inch, completely draining whatever stamina they have left until they both just roll away to breathe.
Now both are exhausted.
They use opposite sides of the ropes to pull themselves upright. Tolson is glassy-eyed and bleeding from the forehead. Evan is slumped, chest heaving, one eye half-shut, his face painted red. The chain hangs between them, heavy with sweat and blood, almost dipping to the canvas as they stagger into another collision course.
Tolson charges first.
Evan meets her. He ducks under, powers her onto his shoulders despite the exhaustion chewing through his legs, and drops with CARMINE DRIVER (Death Valley Driver). Tolson gets spiked high across the upper back and shoulders. Nasty landing. Evan rolls through into the cover as the arena swells to a roar.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Tolson survives by a fraction. Two-and-nine-tenths. Evan stays on her for half a second, stunned, then pushes through it because there is no time to sulk in a fight like this. He gathers the chain, drags Tolson under the bottom rope, and starts hauling her up the ramp toward the stage and the glass box waiting on its pedestal.
Evan drags Tolson up the steel ramp. Hand over hand. Pulling her like heavy luggage. The crowd is on their feet, screaming for the violence. Tolson drags across the grating, her knees scraping the steel. But she refuses to stay down. She fights to her knees, then plants her boots and rises.
The chain snaps taut between them. Face-to-face on the ramp. Tolson steps in and violently headbutts Evan. Bone meets bone. CRACK. Evan stumbles backward toward the top of the stage, his eyes rolling. Tolson charges blindly. Evan shifts his weight, sidesteps the bull-rush, and launches his momentum forward. A blistering SHINING WIZARD (Running Knee Strike) catches Tolson clean on the jaw. She crumples into a heap.
Evan climbs the remaining steps onto the stage. He spots the pedestal. The glass box. The wrought-iron key sitting inside. He staggers toward it, chest heaving.
Behind him, Tolson recovers. Unnatural stamina. She grabs the slack of the chain in both hands and rips it backward. Evan is jerked off his feet, dragged by the neck across the unforgiving stage floor. The heavy steel links scrape against the metal grating. Evan chokes. He claws desperately at the leather collar cutting off his air supply. Tolson keeps pulling, backing her way toward the prize.
Evan refuses to be choked out. He fights to his knees. Then to his feet. Now he is standing right behind her. He attacks blindly. Clubbing, heavy forearms batter the back of Tolson’s head. Meat on bone. She stumbles forward, losing her grip, careening directly toward the pedestal and the glass case.
Evan stays right on her heels. He grabs the glass case directly off the pedestal, lifting it high before smashing it directly across Tolson’s face. CRASH. Tolson goes down hard, collapsing into the wreckage. The case shatters across the stage floor, leaving the wrought-iron key sitting amid a sea of broken, jagged shards.
Evan drops to his knees. He reaches out. His fingers are inches from the key.
Tolson yanks the chain. Violently.
Evan gets ripped backward off his feet, sliding helplessly across the steel stage by his neck. Tolson is already up. Bleeding heavily. Furious. Completely locked in. She grabs the scrambling Evan by the neck, dragging him into a standing position, and traps his head. She twists her hips, lifting his weight and accelerating the rotation. BEAUTIFUL OBLIVION RENDEZVOUS (Cross Rhodes) directly onto the steel stage. Evan’s face bounces off the metal grating with a sickening thud.
He goes entirely limp. Dead weight.
Tolson stands over his motionless body. Blood runs down her face, dripping from her chin onto her chest. Her breathing is labored. She turns away from the carnage, walking deliberately back to the shattered glass. She bends down, ignoring the cuts on her hands, and picks up the wrought-iron key.
Grade Garrett urgently signals for the bell.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
SAM TOLSON WINS
KEY RETRIEVAL
Tolson holds the wrought-iron key high above her head. Her hands and face are coated in crimson. She stares at the black metal like it is the most important thing she has ever possessed. The arena explodes into a deafening roar, a visceral mix of cheers and raw respect for the sheer brutality they just witnessed.
Evan lies completely motionless on the steel stage, still tethered to the victor. Garrett and Marshall rush out from the back, fumbling with keys to finally unlock the blood-soaked collars.
Tolson does not even look down at Evan. Her eyes are fixed forward, staring past the curtain toward the back. Toward Aleki Kekoa. Toward the Terrordome. Toward the PCW Asylum Championship. Leaving Evan and the broken glass behind, Samantha Tolson walks out alone.
SEGMENT
THAÏS EMPRISTIKÍ
Thaïs sits at the end of a pier in San Diego, the Pacific stretching endlessly before them. The sun is just beginning to rise behind them, casting streaks of gold across the water. They sit quietly for a moment, elbows resting on their knees, watching the waves roll in beneath the wooden planks.
THAIS: Failure is no longer an option.
The words come out low and thoughtful. Thaïs nods to themselves before continuing.
THAIS: That’s what I told myself after I came so close to winning that battle royal but ended up losing to Bia. Somebody who holds against me my only crime: loving her as a friend should. Of being unwilling to let her sacrifice herself out of sheer stubbornness and hatred.
They shake their head, frustration briefly flashing across their face.
THAIS: And I went in there knowing the stakes, knowing the build, knowing if I got to Yelena I’d be close to putting down the Black Rainbow for good.
Thaïs looks down at the water below, their fingers tightening together.
THAIS: Instead, I lost. I lost my shot.
A long pause follows.
THAIS: And lately…
They sigh heavily.
THAIS: I feel a bit like I’m losing my mind.
The admission hangs in the air as the first rays of sunlight begin peeking over the horizon. Thaïs closes their eyes for a moment before opening them again.
THAIS: Then Helena asked me a favor. And for all our ups and downs, I can’t say no to a friend in need.
A faint smile appears as they stand and slowly walk toward the edge of the pier, resting their hands on the railing.
THAIS: This match is going to come with renewed purpose and power for me. With proof that even in defeat, I can rise up like the firebird.
The smile grows into something more confident as they look out toward the sunrise.
THAIS: Because that’s what I do. I get knocked down, I get burned, I get written off, and somehow I keep finding my way back.
Thaïs turns back toward the camera, determination replacing the earlier disappointment.
THAIS: Selene claims to be my second cousin, but she looks more like my evil twin.
A small scoff escapes them.
THAIS: Helping the Black Rainbow, the same people we’ve been fighting for over a year.
They shake their head.
THAIS: There’s no way you’d ever see me on that team of frauds.
The rising sun now sits directly behind them, creating a fiery halo around their silhouette.
THAIS: Selene, you may have my face, but you don’t have my fire.
Thaïs points toward the camera.
THAIS: You might have your moments. You might even convince yourself that you’re something special.
They lower their hand and stand tall, confidence returning fully.
THAIS: But you’ll never be Ílios.
The camera catches the sunlight reflecting in their eyes as they glance back toward the horizon.
THAIS: You’ll never be the Sun.
Thaïs allows themselves one final smile as they watch the dawn break over the ocean, no longer focused on the loss behind them, but the fight ahead.
MATCH 4
THE VIPs
versus
THE BLACK RAINBOW
The bell rings, and the massive frame of Chris Mosh steps out of the VIPs’ corner to meet Lily. The size discrepancy is immediately apparent; Mosh towers over his opponent, bringing his collegiate athletic pedigree into the collar-and-elbow tie-up. He doesn’t even let her establish a base, instantly muscling her to the mat with a brutal headlock takeover. Lily scrambles, trying to utilize her speed, but Mosh effortlessly snatches her ankle for a single leg takedown, immediately transitioning back to a front headlock to grind his forearm into her jawline.
Lily finally forces her way to her feet, breaking the grip with a series of quick elbows to the midsection. She hits the ropes to build momentum, but Mosh tracks her trajectory perfectly. He steps in, wrapping his arms around her waist, and launches her overhead with a massive belly-to-belly suplex. Lily crashes hard against the canvas, the impact driving the oxygen from her lungs. Mosh smirks, taking his time to stroll over and tag in Vance Isaac Parker.
Parker enters with methodical precision. He immediately drops into a grounded side headlock, twisting Lily’s neck at a harsh angle. With referee Stephanie Marshall checking Lily’s shoulders, Mosh takes the opportunity to lean through the ropes and deliver a cheap, stiff forearm right across Lily’s exposed temple.
The VIPs begin a clinical clinic in cutting the ring in half. Quick tags keep Lily isolated in the hostile corner. Parker takes the legal spot again, cutting off a desperate crawl with a sharp drop toe hold that drives Lily’s face squarely into the mat. He sits out, locking in a punishing chinlock and wrenching her head back.
PARKER: Chinlock City!
CROWD: BOOOOOOOOO!
The crowd’s rhythmic clapping tries to breathe life back into Lily. Feeding off the energy, she fights to a vertical base, driving elbows into Parker’s ribs until the hold breaks. Parker lunges, but Lily ducks, utilizing her agility to hit a lightning-fast arm drag. Before Parker can recover, Lily rolls through, springs off the middle rope, and connects with a twisting springboard crossbody that sends him reeling.
The crowd roars as Lily scrambles toward her corner. Datura leans over the top rope, her hand outstretched, desperate to make the tag. Just as Lily’s fingertips are inches away, Mosh sprints along the apron and delivers a blistering forearm strike squarely between Datura’s shoulder blades.
The cheap shot completely shatters Datura’s saint-like patience. Enraged, she slips through the ropes and charges Mosh. Referee Stephanie Marshall immediately intercepts, throwing her arms out and shoving the furious competitor back.
REFEREE: Not on my watch! Get back to your corner, right now!
With Marshall’s attention entirely consumed by Datura, Mosh slides into the ring. He and Parker immediately swarm Lily, delivering a ruthless double-team beatdown. Mosh drives his boots into Lily’s ribs while Parker chokes her against the bottom turnbuckle with his shin. The moment Marshall turns back around, Mosh and Parker scatter, throwing their hands up in mock innocence.
Now the legal man again, Mosh stands on the apron and blows a mocking kiss to a seething Datura. He turns his attention back to the ring, dropping into a lateral press and hooking Lily’s leg.
ONE…
TWO…
TW—NO!
Lily kicks out, a desperate surge of adrenaline keeping her in the fight. Mosh’s smirk vanishes into a scowl. He grabs Lily by the hair, violently dragging her back toward his corner, and slaps Parker’s hand. The isolation continues.
Mosh has Lily grounded in the center of the ring, twisting her body with a punishing crossface. Lily’s breathing grows ragged as the air is forced from her lungs. Recognizing that she is fading, Mosh breaks the hold, hauling her limp frame upright. He hooks her head and secures the leg, perfectly setting her up for the MOSHPLEX.
As Mosh begins the backward arch, Vance Isaac Parker stretches over the top rope and slaps Mosh’s shoulder—a blind tag. Unaware, Mosh executes the flawless bridging suplex, his shoulders pressing Lily’s to the mat.
Stephanie Marshall immediately waves it off, refusing to count. Mosh breaks the bridge, turning to the official in disbelief. Marshall points directly to Parker, confirming he is the legal man.
The realization hits Mosh, and he is furious. He abandons Lily and marches directly into Parker’s face. The two begin arguing nose-to-nose in the center of the ring, their egos clashing as loudly as the crowd’s response.
CROWD: Fuck you, Parker! Go drink bleach! Fuck you, Parker! Go drink bleach!
Parker glares at Mosh and violently shoves him backward. Mosh immediately shoves back, his collegiate temper flaring. Referee Marshall has to physically step between the massive frames of the VIPs to restore order.
The chaos provides Lily with exactly what she needs: time. As Parker turns away from the argument to grab his opponent, Lily explodes upward, dropping him with a desperate sitout jawbreaker.
Parker stumbles backward, clutching his jaw, and Lily shifts into overdrive. She rebounds off the ropes, connecting with a blistering running forearm smash. Parker staggers, and Lily immediately spikes him headfirst into the canvas with a snap DDT. The corporate heel staggers to his feet, groggy and disoriented, only to be caught in a spinning hurricanrana that sends him flying across the ring.
Lily is moving incredibly fast now. She scales the ropes and launches herself into a springboard crossbody, but Parker catches her mid-air. Using her own momentum against her, he twists and drives her violently into the canvas with a pop-up spinebuster.
ONE… TWO… TW—NO!
Lily kicks out, a testament to her high pain tolerance. Parker sneers, immediately dragging her toward the ropes and locking in his signature 7 LAYER STRETCH. He applies the abdominal stretch with vicious torque, grabbing the top rope for illegal leverage every time Marshall checks Lily’s condition.
Lily screams, her ribs bearing the brunt of the pressure. On the apron, Datura is pounding the turnbuckle, her hand outstretched. Refusing to quit, Lily grits her teeth and begins dragging Parker’s dead weight toward her corner. She gets inches away, but Parker violently pulls her back into the center of the ring, reapplying the torque. Lily fights through the agony, surging forward once more, throwing her entire body weight toward the ropes.
Her fingertips graze Datura’s hand.
HOT TAG TO DATURA!
The Green Witch explodes through the ropes like a coiled spring. Parker charges her, but Datura ducks his clothesline and nearly takes his head off with a brutal discus lariat. Mosh hops onto the apron to intervene, but Datura greets him with a stiff Yakuza kick squarely to the jaw, sending him crashing to the floor.
Datura turns her attention back to Parker, her focus narrowing strictly on his neck. She grabs him by the waist, launching him backward with a brutal Saito suplex. Before Parker can process the impact, Datura hauls him up again, bridging backward into a pristine Regalplex that folds him onto his neck.
Datura tags Lily back into the match, and Black Rainbow functions as a perfect unit. Datura hoists Parker into a backbreaker position, and Lily comes flying off the ropes, driving a running knee strike directly into Parker’s exposed face.
ONE… TWO… TW—NO!
Parker barely kicks out. Black Rainbow keeps the pressure on, executing quick, fluid tags. Datura’s methodical limb work softens Parker up, allowing Lily to hit her high-flying offense with maximum efficiency. Lily hits a slingshot crossbody, immediately tagging Datura back in.
Datura targets the softened arm, snapping Parker down into a vicious Fujiwara armbar. She wrenches the limb back, pulling the joint to its absolute limit. Parker screams, but his sheer size and the proximity to the ropes allow him to drag both his own body and Datura toward his corner. He lunges with his free hand, slapping Mosh on the chest.
TAG TO MOSH!
Mosh climbs through the ropes with clear reluctance, glaring at Parker. He squares off with Datura, the two exchanging holds in a tense technical battle. Mosh quickly leverages his strength, stepping behind Datura and launching her with a massive release German suplex. He rolls through, holding onto her waist, and hits a second. Then a third, completing a trio of rolling German suplexes that rattles Datura’s spine.
ONE… TWO… TW—NO!
Datura kicks out. Mosh, still irritated, tags Parker back in. The VIPs attempt to salvage their teamwork, catching Datura and hoisting her up for a devastating double suplex. Marshall quickly herds Mosh out of the ring, while Parker transitions into a grounded headlock to wear Datura down.
Datura refuses to be contained. She forces herself to her knees, driving sharp elbows into Parker’s midsection to break the grip. She scrambles toward Lily, her hand outstretched for a tag, but Parker lunges, grabbing a handful of her hair. He violently yanks her backward, hooks her arms, and spikes her with a straight-jacket DDT.
ONE… TWO… TW—NO!
Datura miraculously survives. Parker springs to his feet, furiously arguing with Marshall about the speed of the count. Behind him, Datura continues her agonizing crawl toward her partner. Parker turns back, slowly stalking her across the canvas.
Parker snatches Datura’s ankle, intent on dragging her back to his corner, but Datura violently kicks him off, her heel catching him in the chest. Parker snarls and charges forward, but Datura pivots, catching him squarely under the jaw with LADY DEATH. The brutal straight-jacket bullhammer forearm drops Parker instantly.
Both competitors are down in the center of the ring. The crowd rises to their feet, their cheers crescendoing as Datura begins an agonizing crawl toward her corner. Lily pounds the top turnbuckle, screaming for her partner. On the opposite side, Parker slowly drags himself toward Mosh.
Both competitors lunge.
SIMULTANEOUS HOT TAGS!
Lily springboards over the top rope, launching herself into a massive missile dropkick that sends Mosh stumbling back into the corner. Before he can recover, Lily unleashes a barrage of rapid-fire corner strikes, staggering him with forearms and palm strikes before crushing him against the turnbuckles with a running knee.
Mosh shoves her away and reverses an Irish whip, sending Lily crashing into the opposite ropes. She rebounds fast, and Mosh perfectly times a massive superkick, but Lily ducks underneath the boot. In one fluid motion, she hooks Mosh’s head, locks her legs around his neck, and sends him tumbling over the top rope with a tilt-a-whirl headscissors takedown.
Mosh crashes hard onto the floor. Lily turns back to the crowd, feeding off the noise. She hits the ropes, gaining maximum velocity before launching herself over the top strand, crushing Mosh with a flawless slingshot crossbody. The arena erupts as both competitors are laid out on the ringside mats.
Mosh slowly drags himself up using the steel steps, his face contorted in pain. He manages to stumble back to the VIPs’ corner, draped over the apron. Lily scales the apron first, shaking the cobwebs from her head.
As Mosh finally makes it to his corner, Parker reaches out and aggressively slaps his partner’s hand, tagging himself in. Mosh glares at him, furious at the disrespect, but drops off the apron to recover on the floor.
The moment Lily steps through the ropes, Parker grabs her around the waist and launches her backward with a vicious release German suplex. The impact folds Lily in half. Parker immediately pulls her back to her feet and locks in a standing sleeper hold, wrenching her head and neck back to cut off her air supply.
Lily is fading fast. Marshall checks her arm.
On the apron, Mosh is back on his feet, reaching over the top rope and desperately slapping the turnbuckle pad for a tag. Parker sees him out of the corner of his eye. Deliberately, he turns his back on his partner, completely ignoring the tag. Mosh screams at him, furious at the dismissal, but Parker refuses to acknowledge him.
The disrespect gives Lily an opening. She fires three sharp elbows deep into Parker’s gut, breaking his grip. Parker snarls and charges at her with a wild lariat, but Lily sidesteps perfectly. Parker crashes shoulder-first into the steel ring post between the turnbuckles. Lily collapses from exhaustion, then begins the slow, agonizing crawl toward her partner.
She leaps, slapping Datura’s hand.
HOT TAG TO DATURA!
Datura leaps onto the top rope, springing off the top strand. Parker stumbles out of the corner and turns directly into a devastating step-up knee strike that nearly unhinges his jaw. Parker staggers into the center of the ring, completely out on his feet.
Datura doesn’t stop. She sprints across the ring and slaps Lily’s outstretched hand, tagging her back in immediately. Datura hits the floor, leaps onto the apron, and rapidly scales the top turnbuckle.
Lily, now the legal woman, waits for Parker to wobble toward her. She springs off the middle rope, launching herself into the CANDY CRUSH. The springboard missile dropkick catches Parker directly in the chest, sending him flipping backward violently onto the canvas.
Lily hooks both legs.
Mosh slides through the ropes to break up the pinfall. But he stops. He looks down at Parker’s unconscious body. He looks up at the entrance ramp. He smirks, slowly slinking backward onto the apron, leaving his partner to his fate.
ONE… TWO… THREE!
THE BLACK RAINBOW WINS
PINFALL VICTORY
The bell rings, and Datura slides into the ring, pulling Lily into a celebratory embrace as the Black Rainbow theme hits. Parker remains laid out in the center of the ring, staring blankly up at the arena lights.
Mosh is already halfway up the entrance ramp. He stops, turning back toward the ring to look down at the wreckage of the VIPs.
MOSH: There is only one VIP… and THAT’S ME!
Mosh smirks, turns on his heel, and heads to the back. In the ring, Parker slowly sits up, his eyes locked on the ramp. The physical toll of the match is nothing compared to the rage and pure betrayal etched across his face.
Behind him, Datura and Lily climb the turnbuckles, soaking in the adulation of the crowd.
Suddenly, the arena lights go completely black. A hollow, echoing void fills the arena, cutting through the cheers.
SINISTER VOICE (over PA): You thought the Black Rainbow could silence Uncle Sinister? You are about to learn a lesson… in what happens when the weak… meet… the EVOLVED.
The lights snap back on.
Two men are already standing in the ring, steel chairs gripped tightly in their hands. The crowd recognizes them instantly—The Prodigy, Michael Shaw, and his partner, Sam Steele!
Vance Isaac Parker has rolled completely out to the floor, leaving the two women alone, standing confused in the middle of the ring. The rising, panicked noise of the crowd forces them to turn around. Before they can react, each woman eats a sickening chair shot directly to the skull. They barely manage to get their hands up to block the brunt of the impact.
Datura crumples into a heap against the ropes. Lily collapses lifelessly in the center of the ring.
Shaw and his partner stand tall over the fallen members of Black Rainbow, casually resting the dented steel chairs across their shoulders. The camera zooms in on their matching t-shirts, lingering on the single word printed across their chests: EVOLVE.
The camera cuts to black.
SEGMENT
SELENE PYRE
The camera opens on a wrought-iron balcony overlooking the French Quarter of New Orleans. Music drifts faintly through the humid night air below. The streets are alive, but high above them sits Selene alone, perched on the railing. The silver glow of a full moon washes over her dark features, casting long shadows behind her.
For a moment she simply stares out over the city. Her jaw clenches.
SELENE: Failure is no longer an option.
The words come out low and venomous.
SELENE: My partner’s pride in me was something I lived to experience. When Lily and Yelena were so happy for me… in that moment I was happy to be at the center of that.
A small smile flickers across her face before disappearing completely.
SELENE: But the Black Rainbow is so much more than the three of us.
Her fingers tighten around the balcony rail until her knuckles whiten.
SELENE: It is a movement taking over wrestling and burning down everything that stands in our way.
Suddenly she slams her fist into the iron railing. The loud metallic bang echoes through the night.
SELENE: Everything!
She rises to her feet and begins pacing across the balcony like a caged predator.
SELENE: That includes you, dear cousin.
Selene stops and slowly turns toward the camera.
SELENE: You may not know me… but I know all about you.
She laughs once. A humorless, bitter sound.
SELENE: So proud. So inspiring. You’re such an amazing story, they all say.
Her expression twists with disgust.
SELENE: But that’s all you are.
She points directly into the camera.
SELENE: A story. A slogan. Something pretty and shiny but never real.
The anger grows again. She grabs a nearby glass candle lantern and hurls it against the brick wall. It explodes into fragments.
SELENE: You know what is real?
Her voice drops to a dangerous whisper.
SELENE: Pain is real.
A step forward.
SELENE: Darkness is real.
Another step.
SELENE: That thing that kept me locked away for months was real.
For a moment the rage fades. The memory hangs heavy in the air.
Selene slowly lifts her eyes toward the moon overhead.
SELENE: Until Yelena saved me from that existence.
The frustration disappears from her face. The tension melts away.
What replaces it is somehow far worse.
A smile.
Cold.
Certain.
Cruel.
She walks back to the railing and rests her forearms upon it, gazing down at the glowing streets below as if looking upon a kingdom that already belongs to her.
SELENE: Making it halfway through a battle royal isn’t enough.
She shakes her head.
SELENE: It isn’t going to define my rookie year.
The moonlight catches her eyes as she looks back into the camera.
SELENE: So as I’m representing my in-law in this match…
Her sinister smile widens.
SELENE: …just to spice things up.
Selene spreads her arms toward the city below.
SELENE: The moon will take you to hell and back.
She points upward toward the full moon hanging over New Orleans.
SELENE: And when it’s done with you…
A soft laugh escapes her lips.
SELENE: …you’ll finally learn the difference between a story and reality.
The screen fades to black as Selene continues staring at the moon above the French Quarter.
MATCH 5
ROXIER RIPPER
versus
BIA
BEYOND THE BLACK RAINBOW DEATH MATCH
The bell rings. The house lights cut out, plunging the arena into total darkness. An instant later, ultraviolet light floods the space. The plain white paint covering both women ignites into violent, neon rainbows stretching across their faces, bodies, and gear. The ropes and turnbuckles hum with glowing intensity. Around ringside, scattered light tubes, steel chairs, and a glass table wait in the shadows. Roxie spins in a slow circle, admiring the neon streaks on her own arms, letting out a piercing cackle. Bia stands perfectly still. Her eyes lock onto the clown. A stunned hush falls over the crowd before swelling into an electric, chaotic buzz.
They clash center ring. The lock-up is brutal. Bia immediately drives Roxie backward on sheer horsepower, boots scraping the canvas. She transitions, trapping Roxie in a side headlock, wrenching the neck at an awful angle. Roxie pushes blindly against the powerhouse. The wall of muscle holds firm. Bia yanks Roxie down into a bruising takeover. Upside down on the mat, Roxie kicks her legs and flashes a jagged grin. She arches into a high bridge, twisting her weight, spinning completely out of the hold. Both women pop to their feet. Roxie wags a scolding finger. Bia stares right through her.
Second lock-up. Roxie ducks low, slipping under the arms for a go-behind. Bia snatches the reaching limb, spins on her heel, and whips the clown into the turnbuckles. The impact is a sickening thud. Smears of neon paint stain the pads. Bia charges. She buries her shoulder deep into the midsection. Once. Twice. Three times. Each thrust folds the clown deeper into the corner. The grin flickers. Bia grabs a fistful of hair, dragging her out. She hoists Roxie into the air for a stalling vertical suplex. Roxie hangs suspended, blood rushing to her head, arms dangling lifelessly. Bia holds the dead weight for a grueling five-count, then drops her flat onto her spine.
ONE…
TWO—
Roxie kicks out, a breathless laugh already bubbling from her throat.
Bia hauls her up for another power spot. Roxie suddenly goes entirely limp. Dead weight. Bia shifts her grip to compensate. Roxie snaps upward, driving a stiff, no-hands headbutt directly under the jaw. The bone-on-bone crack echoes. Bia’s head rocks back. Roxie pounces, unleashing a rapid-fire flurry of open-palm strikes to both ears. Bia stumbles, equilibrium shot. Roxie hits the ropes. She rebounds with terrifying speed, launching a running Yakuza kick that connects flat against the side of Bia’s face. The West Australian War Goddess staggers backward, bouncing off the glowing ropes. Roxie dives for the lateral press.
ONE…
TWO—
Bia shoves her off with terrifying authority, throwing the clown into the air.
Roxie lands and scrambles right back to the attack. She leaps on top of the powerhouse. Pound Town. She rains down clubbing forearms and elbows, giggling maniacally with every strike. She alternates targets with erratic rhythm: the crown of the skull, the floating ribs, the jawline. Bia covers up, absorbing the punishment. Then, she explodes. A violent two-handed shove launches Roxie halfway across the ring. Both women scramble upright. Bia touches her jaw. She checks her fingers. Clean. Her eyes darken.
Roxie slides under the bottom rope, dropping to the arena floor. She snatches a long glass light tube from the ringside barricade. Bia stalks forward, reaching through the glowing ropes to grab her. Roxie wheels around. The tube is already swinging.
CRACK.
The glass shatters across Bia’s skull. A cloud of jagged shards and UV-reactive dust explodes into the air. Bia twists violently away, shielding her face, exposing her back to the outside. Roxie springs up onto the apron, leaping onto Bia’s back. Her legs lock tight around the powerhouse’s waist. Roxie clutches the jagged, broken half of the tube in her fist. She reaches around and jams the jagged rim directly into Bia’s forehead. She grinds the broken glass deep into the skin. Blood begins to run. It streaks down Bia’s face, glowing a sickly pink where it mixes with the neon paint. Bia unleashes a primal, deafening roar. She throws herself backward with reckless abandon, crushing Roxie squarely between her spine and the hard edge of the ring apron. The air leaves Roxie’s lungs. Her grip shatters. She tumbles backward in a heap on the floor.
Bia spins around. Blood pours freely down her forehead, dripping off her chin, shining under the ultraviolet lights. She reaches up, feeling the warm liquid, staring at the red smears on her fingers. She looks down at Roxie. Something fundamentally shifts in her posture. The restraint is gone. Bia drops to the floor, snatches Roxie by the hair, and yanks her to her feet. With a guttural shout, she hurls the clown head-first into the solid steel ring steps. Roxie violently flips completely over the metal stairs, crashing into a crumpled pile on the other side.
Bia stalks around the steps. She grabs Roxie by the ankle, dragging her dead weight across the floor and tossing her under the bottom rope. Roxie lets out a wheezy, breathless giggle, a dark bruise swelling on her forehead. Bia slides in, grabs her around the waist, and hoists her high into a military press. She holds the clown suspended center-ring. Roxie flails wildly, still laughing through the pain. Bia steps forward and launches her across the ring. Roxie bounces hard off the canvas, rolling all the way to the apron, desperately clutching the bottom rope. Bia drags her back by the leg for the pin.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—
Roxie shoots a shoulder off the mat. For half a second, the grin vanishes. Then it stretches wider than ever.
Bia stands over her broken opponent. Her chest heaves with heavy, labored breathing. The deep gash on her forehead continues to seep, painting her face in crimson and neon. Roxie pushes herself up. First to her knees, then wobbling onto her feet. Blood leaks from the corner of her mouth, mixing with the chalky white and neon paint smeared across her chin. The two women lock eyes across the glowing canvas. Roxie tilts her head and spreads her arms wide.
Bia moves in for the kill. Roxie explodes from a crouch. GORE! A spear out of nowhere. Roxie’s shoulder buries deep into Bia’s midsection with bone-jarring force. The powerhouse folds in half and crashes hard to the canvas. Roxie pops right back up, arms spread wide, shrieking with wild laughter. She hooks the leg.
ONE…
TWO—
Bia kicks out with force, throwing the clown off her. Roxie doesn’t care. She’s already moving.
Roxie hits the ropes, leaps high, and extends a leg—Giggle Guillotine. The diving leg drop crashes across Bia’s throat. Bia gags, clutching her neck in the glowing light. Roxie rolls through, springs up, hits the opposite ropes, and leaps again. Second Giggle Guillotine. The meaty thud echoes. Bia’s body jolts on impact. Roxie scrambles for the cover.
ONE…
TWO…—
Bia gets a massive shoulder up. Roxie slaps the mat in frustration, then begins to giggle. She pulls Bia up by the hair and violently shoves her into the corner.
Fender-Bender. Roxie peppers Bia with a flurry of rapid-fire slaps and elbows. Bia slumps, sliding down the turnbuckles until she sits trapped against the middle pad. Roxie retreats to center ring, spins theatrically, and charges full speed. She leaps, twisting at the last second, and slams her hips directly into Bia’s face, crushing it against the padded steel. She grinds her weight once, then bounces away. Bia slumps sideways. Roxie drags her out for the pin.
ONE…
TWO…—
Bia kicks out again. Roxie’s head tilts at an impossible angle. She licks her lips.
Roxie grabs the powerhouse, hooking the leg and draping Bia’s head over her shoulder for the Cradle of Filth. She strains, trying to lift, but the weight disparity is too much. Bia shifts her weight mid-lift, drops solidly behind Roxie, and lands on her feet. Roxie spins around. Bia steps into a brutal discus clothesline that turns the clown inside out. Both women crash to the mat. The crowd roars.
Both women struggle to their feet. Roxie charges blindly. Bia catches her with a Spear of her own, the impact echoing through the arena. Bia doesn’t go for the cover. She rises slowly, her breathing labored, and stares down at the twitching clown. Bia rolls out of the ring. She reaches underneath the apron and yanks out a black tote bag. A murmur ripples through the crowd. Bia rummages inside and pulls out an industrial staple gun. She holds it up high. The UV light glints off the heavy metal.
Bia slides back into the ring. Roxie is on her knees, dazed and vulnerable. Bia grabs her by the hair and yanks her head back, exposing her forehead.
THWACK.
The first staple sinks deep into Roxie’s flesh, just below the hairline. Roxie screams—a genuine, piercing shriek of agony. Bia’s expression is entirely stone.
THWACK.
Second staple, right beside the first. Roxie’s scream chokes into a wet, sickening laugh.
THWACK.
Third staple. Blood wells around the jagged metal. Roxie is laughing and crying simultaneously, her eyes wild, dark mascara running thick into the neon paint. Bia shoves her away in disgust. Roxie slumps to the mat, reaching up to touch the metal embedded in her forehead. Feeling the staples, her laughter grows into something unhinged and chilling. She rolls onto her back, arms spread wide like a snow angel, giggling up at the blacklight ceiling.
Bia stalks forward. Roxie, still flat on her back, suddenly snaps a kick directly into Bia’s left knee—the surgically repaired MCL. Bia’s leg buckles instantly. She stumbles, desperately catching herself on the glowing ropes to stay upright. Roxie kips up in an explosion of chaotic energy. She spins, whipping a backfist that catches Bia flush behind the ear. Bia drops to one knee. Roxie’s eyes lock onto the open tote near the ropes.
Roxie lunges for the giant velvet bag spilling out of the tote. She tears the fabric open with her teeth and shakes it violently. Thousands of silver thumbtacks cascade across the canvas. They form a glittering, crunching river under the UV light, covering a massive six-foot radius in the center of the ring. Roxie scoops a handful, letting the sharp metal trickle through her fingers like sand, a rapturous look on her blood-streaked face.
Bia rises behind the clown. She locks her arms tight around Roxie’s waist and hits a massive German suplex. Roxie goes over, but Bia deliberately aims her toward the edge of the tack field. Roxie’s shoulders hit the canvas inches from the metal. Bia bridges.
ONE…
TWO…
Roxie kicks out. Bia pulls her right back up. Another German suplex. This time, Roxie’s upper back crashes directly into the outer edge of the tacks. Roxie screams. Bia bridges again.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—
Roxie kicks out. Frustration flickers across Bia’s blood-stained face.
Bia drags Roxie up for a third suplex, aiming deeper into the tacks. Roxie goes completely dead weight, dropping to her knees, and sinks her teeth right into Bia’s thigh. Bia yells in pain, her grip breaking. Roxie springs up, driving a sharp, dirty low blow between Bia’s legs. The powerhouse doubles over. Roxie hooks the front facelock, grabs the leg, and hits a sitout piledriver straight into the center of the tacks. Bia’s head and shoulders crash violently into the metal points. Bia cries out, rolling onto her side, hundreds of tacks embedded deep into her back and shoulders. Roxie scrambles for the cover.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—
Bia shoots a shoulder up. The crowd gasps.
Roxie stares at the ceiling and laughs—a hollow, disbelieving sound. She rolls under the bottom rope and out to the arena floor. Reaching under the apron, she pulls out a small compact mirror and a tube of green-and-yellow swirl lipstick. Inside the ring, Bia is stirring, wincing as she pulls handfuls of tacks from her shoulder. She rolls out to the floor, stalking toward the clown.
Bia grabs Roxie by the shoulder, spinning her around. Roxie already has the lipstick smeared thick across her mouth. She lunges.
Roxie plants her lips directly onto Bia’s. The kiss is grotesque, intimate, violating. Bia shoves Roxie backward, furiously wiping her mouth with her forearm. Then, the Dizzy Whizz hits. Bia’s pupils dilate instantly. Her legs turn to rubber. She stumbles sideways, arms out, desperately trying to find her balance. The world spins uncontrollably. She reaches for the barricade, misses completely, and staggers like a sailor on a sinking ship. Roxie watches with her hands clasped under her chin like an adoring child. Bia pitches forward, catches the ring apron, and slides to her knees. She can’t get up. She can’t find level ground.
Roxie grabs Bia by the hair, dragging her heavy, unresponsive body across the floor to the glass table. With immense effort, she rolls the powerhouse onto it. Bia’s arms flail weakly in resistance. Roxie mounts her, straddling her chest. She drives a stiff elbow into the face. Bia’s head rocks. Another elbow. Bia’s arms drop. Another. Another. Another. Bia’s arms fall completely limp. She stops squirming.
Roxie hops off the table, admiring her work. Bia lays spread across the glass, UV paint smeared, blood pooling under her head. Roxie yells out to the crowd: KEEP YA KNICKAS ON! Roxie will be RIGHT BACK! She scurries to the ring, slides in, and climbs the turnbuckle with deliberate, showy steps. At the top, she raises both arms to the blacklight sky, pausing to milk the moment, drinking in the crowd’s horrified anticipation. It is her show. She soaks it all in.
She takes too long. On the glass table, Bia’s fingers twitch. The drug is still in her system, but the extra seconds of showboating allow the absolute worst of the dizziness to fade. Bia’s eyes flutter open. The world tilts wildly, but she can see the blur of the clown perched high above. Roxie leaps. The Big Top elbow drop descends from the sky. Bia can’t execute a crisp dodge, but she summons her last shred of motor control, desperately flopping her body off the edge of the table. She hits the floor just as Roxie crashes completely through the glass. The explosion is massive. Shards spray across the floor. The metal frame splinters. Roxie disappears into a terrifying crater of broken glass. Both women lie entirely motionless. Bia rests face-down on the floor beside the wreckage, still fighting off the drug. Roxie is buried deep in the shattered remains.
CROWD: HO-LY SHIT! HO-LY SHIT!
The referee rushes to the outside, checking both competitors, and begins his count. Neither woman stirs.
The referee’s count reaches four. Five. Bia stirs. The dizzying poison fades just enough. She pushes to all fours, shaking her head, blinking rapidly to clear her vision. Six. She uses the ring apron to pull herself upright. Her left knee is stiff. The surgically repaired MCL throbs. Blood leaks from the deep wound on her forehead. Tacks cling to her back and shoulders. She looks down at the glass crater. Roxie is a bloody, neon mess, glass fragments glittering in her hair and skin. Seven. Bia limps forward. She grabs the clown by the wrist, dragging her dead weight from the wreckage. Eight. Bia rolls her under the bottom rope. Nine. Bia slides in. The referee waves off the count.
The ring is a minefield of silver tacks. Bia rises slowly. Roxie stirs. She rolls onto her back, glass falling from her gear. She is grinning. Even now. Bia snatches her up. She hoists the clown high and charges forward—a massive running powerslam directly onto the tacks. Roxie’s back and shoulders crunch audibly into the metal. She screams, arching her spine.
ONE…
TWO…
Roxie kicks out. Bia does not hesitate. She hauls Roxie back up. OLYMPUS HAS FALLEN (Over the Shoulder Facebuster). Roxie’s face bounces violently off the canvas. Tacks stick to her cheek. Bia hooks the leg.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—
Roxie’s boot finds the bottom rope. Bia stares at the rope. She stares at the boot. A long, heavy breath leaves her lungs.
Bia knows it is time. She hauls Roxie up and onto her shoulders, prepping for the finish. Roxie violently rakes her own stapled forehead directly across Bia’s face. The embedded metal bites deep into Bia’s open wound. Bia yells, dropping the weight. Roxie scrambles frantically. She crawls through the sea of tacks toward the ropes, leaving a thick smear of blood and paint across the canvas. She reaches the corner and grabs a steel chair.
Bia moves in. Roxie swings wildly. Bia ducks under the steel. She grabs Roxie around the waist for a suplex. Roxie sharply drives the chair edge straight into Bia’s ribs. Bia doubles over. Roxie swings again, catching Bia flush across the back. Bia stumbles forward. Roxie shrieks, winding up for a third swing.
CRACK.
The steel wraps across Bia’s spine. Bia staggers, staying on her feet.
CRACK.
The chair smashes into the back of her skull. Bia drops to one knee. Roxie raises the mangled steel high above her head. She brings it down with both hands.
CRACK.
The chair crushes Bia’s upper back. Bia crashes face-first into the tacks. Roxie flings the weapon away. She drops to her knees and hooks the leg.
ONE…
TWO…
THRE—
Bia kicks out. Roxie’s head snaps toward the referee. The grin collapses. For the very first time, the clown looks genuinely shaken. She stares at the powerhouse lying face-down in the tacks, covered in blood. Roxie’s expression flickers. She is out of ideas.
Roxie scrambles back. She waits for Bia to push up. Bia rises agonizingly slow. Tacks fall from her chest and arms. She gets to her feet, wobbling, unsteady. Roxie lunges, throwing a sharp kick to the gut. Bia catches the foot.
Bia snatches the clown up onto her shoulders. She sets up for THE WAR HAMMER (Side Sitout Powerslam). Roxie hangs across the shoulders, facing the hard camera. Bia twists, ready to run. Roxie’s hand darts down. A vicious, tearing claw assault directly between Bia’s legs. Bia’s eyes go wide. Her legs tremble. Roxie slithers free, tumbling to the canvas. Bia doubles over, clutching herself in blinding pain. Roxie rises. She turns her back to Bia, facing the hard camera. Slowly, deliberately, she licks her palm, drawing her tongue up between the middle and ring fingers. A vile grin stretches across her face. The Vile Vixen.
Behind her, Bia straightens up. The pain passes through her and out. She has endured worse. Electrocution. A torn knee. Staples. Light tubes. Glass. A cheap shot to the groin is nothing. Bia’s face hardens to stone. She rises to her full height. Roxie turns, expecting a wounded, vulnerable target. She sees the War Goddess.
Bia grabs her. She hoists the clown onto her shoulders in one fluid motion. Roxie’s eyes go wide with sudden terror. MAELSTROM (Fireman’s Carry Facebuster). The F-5 drives Roxie back-first into the center of the tack field. The impact is sickening. Tacks explode outward. Roxie’s body bounces once, hundreds of metal points embedding deep across her back and shoulders. Bia collapses into the cover, hooking the leg.
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!
BIA WINS
PINFALL
The bell sounds. Bia rolls off. She sits up slowly, breathing in ragged, heavy gasps. Blood, neon paint, sweat, and silver tacks coat her body. She stares at Roxie, completely motionless in the metal shards, staples glinting in her forehead, glass still trapped in her hair. Bia turns her gaze directly into the hard camera. She holds the stare. A silent, violent message sent ahead of Terrordome and Yelena Gorgo. The UV lights pulse. Once. Twice. The image of the battered, victorious War Goddess amidst the wreckage fades as the arena lights slowly rise.
INTERRUPTION.
Bia’s music suddenly dies.
A laugh echoes throughout the arena. A maniacal cackle that could only belong to one person.
Bia turns to face the ramp. All eyes follow her to see Yelena Gorgo’s face spread across the LED screen stretching across the stage.
Filling the gaps between her wide-eyed, mouth hanging hacks, another sound crackles in the background. A sound like hydraulic hissing, and metal grinding.
Then comes the clapping. Below frame, but the pop of hands slowly crashing together is unmistakable.
YELENA: I KNEW YA HAD IT IN YOU, B!
She sucks in a lungful of air, then gives one final Ha!
YELENA: Roxie did her best to tear you apart. And as much as I love that murder gremlin, I knew she would fail. I knew she couldn’t beat you. And yet, I sent her anyway. Ha! I put her in your path knowing she would be lying there, covered in blood, staring at the backs of her fuckin’ eyelids. Why?
The camera pulls back. A warehouse sits behind her, swarming with workers in hardhats milling about. It’s darker than it should be for modern safety standards, but every few seconds, violent flashes of light spark against the side of her face.
YELENA: Because I needed to see you. The real you.
In the ring, Bia holds her arms out and shouts.
BIA: WELL, HERE I AM, MATE! You got what you bloody wanted!
On the screen, a massive structure of black steel and heavy gauge chains emerges. Four sides riding twenty feet into the air, crawling with workers spitting sparks when their torches make contact with the steel.
YELENA: Yup. There you are. And here I am, standing in a warehouse not two miles from the Municipal Auditorium. The fine ladies and gentes of Boudreaux Construction are putting the final touches on what will serve as a defining moment in both of our careers. Behold. The Terrordome.
She turns and holds out her arm like a demented Willy Wonka.
The camera cuts to a sweeping, wide-angle shot of the structure. It is a grotesque monument to theatrical sadism. Thick iron grating forms the walls, bound together by heavy-duty industrial chains and reinforced with beams of steel. It does not look like a wrestling cage; it looks like the skeleton of a meat grinder. At the very apex, suspended by a solitary wire, a ring hangs through a central opening in the roof.
YELENA: No time limit. No disqualifications. Weapons? Encouraged. Hell, look at it. The whole fuckin’ thing is a weapon. The PCW UNLEASHED championship hanging at the top of the cage, twenty feet in the air. But ya can’t just climb-climb-climb up a fuckin’ ladder and grab it. A wrestler can’t claim the belt until they’ve pinned the other person.
In the ring, Bia smirks, shaking her head as the crowd erupts into a low, rumbling murmur of anticipation. She rolls her shoulders, projecting a defiant, heroic optimism.
Yelena’s face snaps back onto the screen. Her hacksaw grin vanishes, replaced by an expression of cold, predatory clarity. Her voice drops into a quiet, craggy whisper, grinding like rage forced through a sieve.
YELENA: That’s right, sweet thang. You think this is just a procedurally generated fantasy land where the Final Boss always loses? You think climbing a ladder is just a mechanic? Hit start and advance to the next level? Not only do you have to beat me in my father’s match, not only do you have to put me down long enough to climb that ladder and take my belt—you can’t even do that unless you PIN ME FIRST. Now, do you see why I sacrificed Roxie?
The camera locks on her face again. The warehouse dips to pitch black behind her, isolating her features in the suffocating dark.
YELENA: Because it was at the altar of the AUSTRALIAN WAR GODDESS. And I needed to know that I HAVE HER ATTENTION.
The crowd blows up. Bia smiles slowly, pounding a fist against her chest.
Yelena tilts her head. Her eyes go dead.
YELENA: (girly falsetto) See ya in two weeks, kiddo…
The lights clack. Her face disappears into the void.
But she speaks one last time. The voice now in the gutter of her register, ground into shrapnel.
YELENA: Bring the War for me… or bring the bodybag for yourself.
FADE TO BLACK.
SEGMENT
LILY BRIAR
Lily walked onto the balcony after Selene finished her promo with a smile, Willow comfortably in her arms.
LILY: I know Willow, that was wonderful wasn’t it.
LILY: Seli, agápi mou, take a deep breath. You’ve got this.
Lily softly placed Willow down in the balcony chair nearby and reached one hand out to Selene softly bringing them off the railing and into her arms.
LILY: I know how much noise is in your head right now and we will work through it all together.
Lily smiled kissed her cheek.
LILY: You are notre Lune, Seli and tonight, you are going to eclipse her completely. Not just for us and Black Rainbow but for you.
Willow gave a little meow.
LILY: Yes Willow for you and Khonsu too.
She winked towards Selene. Lily turned Selene to look back towards the moon and wrapped her arms around her comfortably and pointed a hand up to the sky.
LILY: So when you step through those curtains and that crowd erupts, let it fuel you. Think of all of us behind you. Like the stars around the moon.
She makes a gesture to the stars in the sky.
LILY: Leave everything out there. Yelena and I are going to be watching and cheering you on.
Willow hopped off the chair and rubbed up against Selene’s legs.
LILY: Yes Willow i’ll tell her.
Lily chuckled.
LILY: Go show Thaïs, and the rest of those off brand cheetah girls, exactly why you are the baddest woman in that ring.
Lily smiled, placing a soft kiss to her girlfriend’s cheek.
LILY: Мы тебя любим. Now go tear the house down.
MATCH 6
SELENE PYR
versus
THAÏS EMPRISTIKÍ
The bell rings. Selene and Thaïs circle the canvas. No cautious feeling out. They step deliberately. Helen Beck’s chosen against Helena Handbasket’s. Estranged cousins fighting a proxy war for estranged twins. Blood against blood. The distance closes. They collide in a collar-and-elbow tie-up that shakes the ring.
A brief struggle for leverage. Thaïs uses their speed. A quick slip under the arm into a wristlock. Selene twists out, but Thaïs rolls, kips up, and fires a crisp dropkick right into Selene’s sternum. Selene stumbles backward against the ropes. Thaïs backs away instantly. Hands raised. A clean break.
CROWD: “Yay!”
Selene just stares. Unblinking. Measuring the distance.
They lock up again. Selene overpowers, forcing Thaïs backward until their shoulders pin against the turnbuckle pads.
REFEREE: “Break it! One… Two…”
Thaïs complies. They drop their hands and step backward to reset. Big mistake. Selene doesn’t step back. She steps in. A brutal short-arm lariat catches Thaïs flush across the throat. Thaïs folds instantly. Crumpling to the mat holding their trachea.
REFEREE: “Hey! Back off!”
Selene doesn’t even acknowledge Marshall’s existence. She drops to her knees. Forearms rain down across the spine. Hard, dull thuds against the vertebrae. She transitions, driving a knee squarely between Thaïs’ shoulder blades and cinching in a grounded rear chinlock. Wrenching the neck backward. Thaïs gasps, pawing at the mat. Selene drags them up. Snap suplex. She holds the waistlock. Rolls through. Second snap suplex. Holds it again. A third snap suplex plants Thaïs hard against the canvas. No posing. No flexing. Just methodical punishment.
Thaïs crawls. Pushes up. Selene approaches, but Thaïs fires a desperation forearm. Another. A third rocks Selene’s jaw. Thaïs hits the ropes to build momentum. Rebounds. Selene pivots. A spinning backfist connects with the bridge of Thaïs’ nose.
Thaïs drops to one knee, eyes glassy. Selene doesn’t rush. She watches. Waiting for the exact moment Thaïs tries to bear weight on their legs. As soon as Thaïs shifts, Selene drives a heavy boot into their ribs.
Selene drags Thaïs up by the hair. Backs them into the corner. A hard whip sends Thaïs crashing into the opposite turnbuckle. Thaïs staggers forward. Selene charges. Thaïs drops out of the way. Selene hits the pads chest-first, but she absorbs it, turning immediately. Thaïs retreats to the opposite corner, gathers speed, and charges back for a shoulder block.
Selene sidesteps. Empty air.
Thaïs crashes shoulder-first into the unforgiving steel ring post. CRACK. The impact echoes through the arena. Thaïs falls to the apron, clutching the joint in agony.
Selene retrieves them. Dragging the limp arm. She drops to the canvas, trapping the injured limb. LUNA LOCK (Fujiwara Armbar with Facial Grind). She hyperextends the shoulder joint while violently grinding her palm into Thaïs’ face. Suffocating them. Thaïs thrashes blindly. Extending a leg. The boot grazes the bottom rope.
REFEREE: “Rope break! Let it go! One… Two… Three… Four…”
Selene releases the hold. Slowly. Deliberately. She stands. Looking down at Thaïs, who clutches their ruined shoulder. She tilts her head. Studying her cousin like a puzzle missing a piece. Unbothered.
Thaïs fires a desperate palm strike. Smack. Another. A third connects flush against Selene’s jaw, snapping her head back. Selene staggers. Thaïs doesn’t hesitate. They hit the ropes, accelerating, and launch into a running dropkick. The impact rockets Selene backward into the corner.
CROWD: “Yay!”
The pain in Thaïs’ shoulder is visible. They wince, clutching the joint, but push through. They close the distance, overwhelming Selene with a rapid-fire sequence of spin kicks. Selene tries to block, but Thaïs ducks under her guard and delivers a blistering Yakuza kick. Selene’s knees buckle. Thaïs grabs the waist, struggling with their bad arm, but muscles Selene up. Fisherman Suplex. They bridge, wincing as the shoulder bears weight.
ONE… TWO… THRE—NO!
Selene kicks out. Thaïs is already moving. Selene pushes up to her knees, and Thaïs leaps, connecting with a sharp Pele Kick to the side of her head. Selene drops to her hands. Thaïs bounces off the ropes and drives a running knee directly into Selene’s temple. Selene crashes flat onto the mat. Thaïs scales the turnbuckle. They balance, fighting through the shoulder pain, and launch backward. SOLAR ECLIPSE (Moonsault). They crash down across Selene’s chest with perfect precision. Thaïs hooks the leg.
ONE… TWO… THRE—NO!
Selene powers out. Thaïs doesn’t show frustration. They transition seamlessly into targeting Selene’s left arm. Thaïs wrenches it over the top rope, applying sharp, localized pressure. They pull Selene in, executing a Northern Lights Suplex, cranking the trapped arm on the bridge. Thaïs follows up with repeated, snapping arm wringers, systematically breaking down the limb.
Thaïs drops to the canvas, trapping Selene’s arm. NEA KAMENI (Cross Armbreaker). Thaïs locks it in dead center of the ring, hips elevated, hyperextending the elbow.
Selene’s eyes go wide. Not fear. Recognition. The pain grounds her. It makes it real. Selene lets out a guttural, terrifying howl that echoes through the arena. She drags herself, inch by agonizing inch, toward the ropes. Thaïs adjusts, trying to pull her back to the center, but Selene is relentless. She stretches out, planting a boot firmly on the bottom rope.
REFEREE: “Rope break! One… Two… Three… Four…”
Thaïs releases the hold. They pull Selene up, hooking both of her arms. SUMMER SOLSTICE (Double Underhook DDT). Selene’s head spikes violently into the mat. Thaïs rolls her over, hooking the leg.
ONE… TWO… THRE—NO!
Thaïs is feeding off the energy now. The crowd is deafening. They drag Selene up, securing the front facelock, looking to end it with the Michinoku Driver.
Selene’s hand shoots up. Her fingers dig ruthlessly into Thaïs’ eyes. A deliberate, vicious rake across the corneas. Thaïs screams, dropping Selene and staggering backward blindly. Selene doesn’t wait. She steps into the blinding pain and fires a short-arm lariat with a sickening snap.
Both competitors collapse to the canvas. Marshall immediately begins the double count.
Selene rolls slowly toward the corner, using the ropes to drag herself upright. Thaïs is slower, blinking through the pain, but pushes to their feet. They lock eyes across the ring. Breathing heavy. Exhausted. The violence has just begun.
Selene reverses an Irish whip, sending Thaïs crashing into the corner. Selene charges. She drives her boot directly into Thaïs’ throat, pinning the windpipe against the turnbuckle pads.
REFEREE: “One! Two! Three! Four!”
Selene presses harder. Marshall physically shoves Selene back, getting directly in her face.
REFEREE: “One more time and you’re done!”
Selene stares through the referee. Unblinking. Blank.
Thaïs explodes from the corner. A spear cuts Selene in half, driving her spine-first into the canvas.
CROWD: “HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!”
Thaïs mounts. Rains down right hands. Selene catches a wrist, rolling through the momentum. They scramble to their feet. A chaotic brawl erupts. Forearms. Elbows. Bone on bone. Neither yields an inch. Selene creates a half-step of distance. She pivots. A high-arcing reverse roundhouse aimed at the temple. Thaïs ducks. The boot sails past.
It connects flush with Marshall’s skull.
CRACK.
Marshall crumples instantly. Dead weight. Unconscious. The arena shifts. The law is gone.
Selene and Thaïs freeze. They look down at the motionless referee. Then slowly, they look up at each other. Locking eyes. Reflections in the violence. Two broken origins standing in the same ring. No one left to stop them.
Thaïs’ expression hardens. The empathy vanishes. They step forward and slug Selene across the jaw. A heavy, sickening thud. Selene stumbles backward into the ropes. All restraint is gone.
Pure street fight. Thaïs unloads. Vicious punches. Forearms bludgeoning Selene’s neck. Thaïs hits the ropes and throws a massive lariat. The momentum sends Selene tumbling over the top rope, crashing to the arena floor. Thaïs follows. Grabbing Selene by the hair, dragging her toward the steel ring post. Selene blocks. Shifts her weight. Reverses the momentum. Thaïs goes head-first into the steel post.
THUD.
Thaïs staggers blindly, clutching the barricade to stay upright. Selene drops to her knees. Rips the ring skirt back. She drags out a steel chair. Steps up behind Thaïs and swings. The steel bends across Thaïs’ spine. Thaïs drops to both knees. Selene swings again. A sickening metallic crunch across the shoulder blades. Thaïs collapses to all fours. Selene brings it down a third time. Thaïs flattens out on the floor. Trembling. But they refuse to stay down. Hand over hand, Thaïs crawls to the ring apron, pulling themselves up on shaky legs.
Selene rears back for a fourth strike. Thaïs fires a desperate boot into Selene’s midsection. Selene gasps, lowering the chair, but Thaïs is too broken to follow up. Selene recovers, gripping the steel, and swings for the head. Thaïs ducks. The momentum pulls Selene forward. The chair slips from her sweaty grip, sliding under the bottom rope and resting in the center of the ring.
Thaïs closes in. A closed fist to Selene’s orbital bone. A second shot, harder. A third, throwing their entire body weight behind the knuckles. Selene stumbles backward. Thaïs grabs her by the neck, hurling her under the bottom rope, then slides in right behind her.
They stand in the center of the ring. Trading pure trauma. Thaïs throws a spin kick. Selene absorbs it, spinning back with a brutal rolling elbow. Thaïs eats the strike, bounces off the ropes, and drives a running pump kick into Selene’s chest. Selene doesn’t drop. She lunges back with a high-angle Yakuza kick directly under Thaïs’ chin. Neither stays down.
Selene grabs Thaïs by the hair. She violently pulls them close and drives her forehead directly into the bridge of Thaïs’ nose.
CRACK.
Sickening. Thaïs staggers, hands flying to their face. Thick, dark blood spills over their mouth and chin. Selene stands trembling, a smear of crimson painting her own forehead from the impact. She snarls. An animal baring its teeth. She grabs the staggering Thaïs. Hooks the waist. Hoists them upside down. Thaïs’ head dangles inches from the canvas. Right above the discarded steel chair.
Selene drops to a seated position. BLOOD MOON (Sitout Tombstone Piledriver).
Thaïs’ skull drives directly into the steel chair. Thaïs goes entirely limp.
Selene rolls Thaïs over. Hooks the leg. Six feet away, Marshall blinks. Barely conscious. Dragging herself across the mat. She sees the cover. From her stomach, she raises a heavy hand and drops it to the canvas.
ONE…
TWO…
Thaïs twitches. A limp shoulder pushes off the canvas. But Marshall is blinded by the angle.
THREE!!!
The bell rings.
SELENE PYRE WINS
PINFALL VICTORY
Selene Pyr sits up in the center of the ring. The referee slowly crawls over, shakily raising Selene’s arm in victory. Selene doesn’t celebrate. She sits surrounded by the wreckage, chest heaving, blood smeared across her forehead, staring blankly out into the arena. Beside her, Thaïs remains completely motionless, bleeding onto the steel chair.
Selene pushes herself to her feet. The arena rains boos down on her. She ignores the venom. Blood still smears her forehead. She raises her arms toward the rafters and lets out a raw, tearing scream. No joy. No triumph. Just the visceral confirmation of violence. She felt it. This was real.
She looks down at Thaïs’ motionless body. She looks at the dented steel chair.
Selene bends and scoops the steel back up. The boos swell into a deafening, hostile roar. Marshall weakly reaches out from the canvas, pleading with her, but the referee’s voice cracks—her body too shattered to physically intervene.
Movement from the front row. A woman vaults the barricade—Hope Levitt. She slides under the bottom rope and drives a heavy strike into the back of Selene’s neck. The chair clatters to the canvas. Selene stumbles forward, crashing into the ropes.
Hope darts to the opposite side, rebounds off the cables, and launches herself into the air. DRAGON KICK (Slingshot Single Leg Dropkick).
But the target isn’t there. Selene doesn’t rubberband off the cables. She grips the top rope with both hands, anchoring herself in place. Hope’s dropkick catches nothing but empty air, sending her crashing onto the canvas. Selene immediately slips through the ropes, dropping heavily to the ring apron before rolling out to the arena floor to escape.
Selene backs slowly up the ramp. Her chest heaves. She scowls down at the ring, lifting a single finger and pointing it directly at Hope. A silent, chilling warning.
Hope ignores her. She scrambles up and immediately drops to her knees in the center of the ring, urgently checking on Thaïs.
Selene turns and disappears through the curtain. In the ring, Hope carefully cradles Thaïs’ bleeding head, urging them to wake up. The crowd’s hostility melts into a steady, rhythmic wave of support for the fallen Flame Bringer. The driving tempo of “Geronimo” by Sheppard blasts through the arena speakers, washing over the wreckage left behind.