Bad Juju

The Bad Juju theme, "Find Out the Hard Way" by Enter Shikari, crashes in hard. The tron lights up with rapid-fire cuts from the previous episode.

goldFISH stepping onto the entrance ramp, arms sweeping wide in full swimming motion, and the right foot going out from under them entirely. The hard thwack of a knee on ramp. Then the bow.

Elvis Hunt coming through that curtain with a lit cigarette burning in the corner of his mouth, the JXL remix detonating across The Bayou, and three hundred and one pounds of man thrusting his pelvis twice at the beat before he'd even started down the ramp.

Scarlett Vice walking into Daisy Mae DuPris's interview like she'd been invited. Tilting Daisy Mae's chin up with one finger. *That has never been a country girl in a checkered apron.* The silence after it.

Gruff Veracity tearing the shroud from his own body at the top of the ramp and rising from the crouch with controlled violence, then slapping himself hard across the face. Once. Twice. The sound reaching the back row.

Vivienne Vance in the corridor, gold-trimmed folder against her forearm, Los Mares Mortales del Golfo filling the hallway behind her like a pressure system. Her voice absolutely level. *We are a permanent, structural change to what Spinebuster PRO is going to be from this moment forward.*

Gritsenko posing over a downed Harry Balkin Jr. with both arms raised, the whole match right there waiting to be covered. The crowd screaming. Balkin already starting to stir. Gritsenko still posing.

Daisy Mae taking a calm sip of sweet tea while Scarlett Vice waited for a reaction that was not coming.

Hunt sprawled across Veracity's back with the running senton, all that weight dropping clean, the camera barely catching the technical precision behind the setup. The crowd not expecting it. The crowd feeling it.

La Sirena stepping up so close to the camera the lens had to adjust, her voice cracking off the corridor brick. *¡Les juro por lo que más quieran que eso no va a terminar bien para nadie!*

Marcus Vance pointing directly at BookFace's tablet with the flat certainty of a man who means exactly what he says. *You flash that thing in my face, I will break it over your head my own self.* BookFace looking at the tablet. Looking at Marcus Vance. Tucking it under his arm.

Daisy Mae looking directly into the lens, voice still honeyed and completely steady. *Bless your heart, let's wrestle.*

Veracity launching off the top rope with the Truth Bomb and Hunt going horizontal beneath him. Veracity hitting nothing but canvas. The sound of it traveling through the whole building.

Tiburón Coral dropping off a road case and landing without a sound. Running his thumb slowly along the white shark teeth of his mask, end to end, before he turned and disappeared around the corner.

A forearm battle in the center of the ring. Neither man moving. Neither man flinching. The shots ringing out across the Bayou in pairs, the crowd counting along, nobody going down. Then the bell. Hunt pointing one slow finger across the ring. Veracity giving the smallest possible nod back.

Then the footage cuts cold.

The arena going quiet as the dial tone plays through the PA. Vox Null sliding under the bottom rope. Marcus Vance looking at him. Looking at the size of him. Taking one step to the side. Gritsenko, still oblivious, clipboard raised, pointing a statistic at the largest man in the building. Vox Null looking at the clipboard. The kick. Gritsenko's head snapping sideways. His body dropping straight down. The clipboard clattering off the ropes to the floor.

The final image holds.

Harry Balkin Jr. reaching down. Picking the clipboard up. Reading the statistics written on it. Folding the top sheet once, carefully, and tucking it inside the waistband of his tights. Dropping the bare clipboard back to the canvas. Not looking at Gritsenko's body. Looking directly into the hard camera.

For the record.

The Bad Juju logo detonates across the screen.

The Bayou erupts as the pyros go off on stage.

The Bad Juju theme hits hard. Guitars and something swampy underneath it, a sound that belongs to this building and nowhere else. The lights in The Bayou drop, and the screen above the entrance erupts into a fast-cut highlight reel from the last three weeks.

We see it all in rapid succession. The triple threat womens match from last week, bodies flying, the crowd losing their minds on every near-fall. Two teams punching their tickets in the tag tournament. Media Trial celebrating with that particular brand of smug satisfaction they have made their calling card. THRØNEBREACH DISASTER earning their spot with something that looked less like wrestling and more like a natural disaster with a grudge. The highlights keep coming. Vox Null, and what he did to Ike Gritsenko, and what that cost Second-Wind Syndicate. That image hangs a half-second longer than the rest. Then Los Mares Mortales del Golfo. Vivienne Vance at the center of it. The message they sent. The one this entire promotion is still digesting.

The sequence crashes hard into the Bad Juju logo, all black and red and mean-looking, slamming down on screen like a closed fist.

The lights come up. The Bayou is loud and full and ready. The camera sweeps the crowd and finds the commentary desk, where MORTON MURPHY in a clean collared shirt sits beside a masked man in a toast-brown luchador mask who looks entirely too comfortable for someone wearing that at a professional broadcast desk.

A portion of the crowd reacts with something that is not quite boos and not quite curiosity. A little of both. The energy shifts.

The camera pulls wide on the Bayou crowd, noise filling every corner of the building, and settles on the empty ring lit up in the center of it all.

The arena is quiet for just a moment. Then the lights shift.

The arena drops into a deep, velvety maroon wash. A low-frequency hum vibrates up through the floorboards of The Bayou, rattling the cheap plastic cups on the guardrail. Then the opening thump of an acoustic guitar hits the PA, followed by the unmistakable crack of rhythmic handclaps.

April Monday steps through the curtain in a perfectly tailored black three-piece suit, the gold lion embroidery catching the maroon light. Heavy pocket chains sway as she walks. Her fiery red hair moves in a single composed wave. She carries the vintage chrome microphone in her right hand, fingers stacked with those heavy family rings. The crowd in The Bayou is on its feet.

April climbs the steel steps without breaking stride. She walks the apron, steps smoothly through the middle rope, and stands dead center in the ring. She doesn't pose. She doesn't wave. She simply stares into the hard camera with those icy green eyes and lets the silence build until the crowd settles on its own.

She lets that sit.

She raises the microphone slowly.

The crowd buzzes.

April stands firm, letting the crowd noise ride. She raises one hand slightly, not a wave, just a signal, and the crowd dials back enough for her to continue.

She barely finishes the sentence before music hits.

The arena lights snap into blinding magenta-pink and pastel-purple. The bass-heavy pop trap beat of Ariana Grande's "7 Rings" floods The Bayou. Amber Rizzoli struts through the curtain, holding her gold smartphone on its glowing ring-light selfie stick, streaming her own entrance to the arena screens. The crowd boos hard.

Rizzoli glides up the steps, pauses on the apron to pose for her own camera on the beat drop, then steps through the ropes. She hands the phone to her personal assistant at ringside and turns to face April with a practised, cold-sweet smile. She pulls a bedazzled pink microphone from somewhere inside her rhinestone gear.

The crowd boos. Amber ignores them completely.

She shrugs one shoulder as if this is simply a scheduling matter.

April's expression has not changed by a single millimeter. She holds the microphone at her side, watching Rizzoli the way a judge watches a defendant who doesn't understand the room they're standing in.

Then a different sound cuts through the air entirely.

The steamy, heavy drum hit of Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar on Me" drops and the lights plunge into crimson-red and hot-pink. The crowd reacts with a complicated mix of heat and involuntary attention.

Scarlett Vice glides through the curtain in metallic crimson and hot-pink, fishnet tights catching the light. She walks with that slow, perfectly metered hip-swaying stride all the way to the ring, winks at the hard camera at ringside, and slides through the middle ropes face-down on the beat of the chorus. She rises with a lazy, practiced smile and finds herself a microphone.

She looks at Amber with an expression of absolute, affectionate contempt.

She turns to April, dropping her voice to something lower, more intimate.

She pauses.

The crowd reacts sharply.

She runs one hand slowly down her own silhouette to underscore the point.

She blows a slow kiss toward April's direction and steps back.

Then the warm, golden house lights come up and the zydeco kicks in.

The crowd erupts. Daisy Mae DuPris bursts through the curtain in her sky-blue and sunflower-yellow singlet, jumping up and down with completely unaffected joy. She bounces down the ramp, high-fiving every single kid in the front row, absolutely radiating. She slides under the bottom rope, hops up to the second turnbuckle to wave at the cheap seats, and drops down, bouncing on her toes.

Daisy takes a microphone, still smiling that enormous smile, and turns to face April Monday with genuine, almost overwhelming sincerity.

The crowd gives a warm, genuine pop.

Before the sentiment fully settles, the orchestral brass swells through the PA. The house lights shift to tropical teal.

Vivienne Vance steps through the curtain first, back perfectly straight, gold-trimmed leather folder pressed against her chest, that cold untouchable smirk absolutely in place. One step behind her and to her left, La Sirena rolls her shoulders with slow, contained menace. Her crimson mask catches the teal light. Her hands are already flexed. The crowd boos.

Vivienne ascends the steps with deliberate composure, slips through the middle ropes, and positions herself center ring with a sharp, precise authority that suggests she has prepared remarks. La Sirena stations herself just outside the ropes, pacing slowly.

She offers a thin, chilling smile.

La Sirena steps through the ropes at the word bodies, breathing slow and deliberate, her wide eyes scanning the ring like she's already decided where the damage starts.

She opens her folder and clicks her pen.

The tension in the ring is thick enough to chew. Six sets of eyes are now fixed on April Monday, who has stood in the same spot through all of it, weight even, microphone at her side, completely unruffled.

Then "Shook Ones, Pt. II" drops.

The arena dims into harsh grey and warning-yellow. The haunting vinyl hiss, then that cold baseline. Carmen Cruz walks through the curtain like she owns the mortgage on the building. Canary-yellow and charcoal-grey singlet, thick yellow wristbands, gold laces. She walks the ramp with a slow shoulder-roll swagger, and when a fan leans over the rail to shout something, she counts imaginary money directly in their face and keeps walking.

Carmen slides under the bottom rope, grabs a microphone off the timekeeper without asking, and plants herself in the middle of what is now a very crowded ring with the kind of confidence that suggests personal space is a concept invented by people who lose.

She looks at Amber.

She looks at Scarlett.

She barely looks at Daisy.

She stares at Vivienne for a half-beat longer than necessary, then deliberately looks past her at La Sirena, then back to Vivienne.

She turns to April.

The house lights die completely.

The entire arena goes pitch black for three full seconds.

Then the deep-green and industrial-rust-orange strobe ignites, and Down's "Stone the Crow" crawls out of the PA system like something dragged up from thirty feet underground.

The crowd explodes.

Roxie walks through the curtain with that unbothered, slouching, dead-eyed stride, taping her own wrists as she comes, completely in sync with the slow grind of the metal track. She doesn't look at the cameras. She doesn't play to the fans. She walks the ramp with her gaze fixed somewhere slightly above the ring and the crowd noise crashes over her like she's walked through a waterfall.

She marches up the steps, steps through the middle rope, and spits her mouthguard into the air, catching it, pacing.

She looks at the ring full of women. Then she looks at April. Then she looks at the ring full of women again.

She holds the microphone up near her jaw like it's a thing she's tolerating.

She looks around the ring, making eye contact with no one in particular and everyone simultaneously.

The crowd makes a confused noise.

She cracks her neck, one side, then the other.

She shrugs one shoulder.

She drops the microphone to her side and looks directly at April.

The ring is now at full occupancy. Amber Rizzoli is checking her angles, Scarlett Vice is examining her nails with manufactured disinterest, Daisy Mae is bouncing gently on her toes, Carmen Cruz is staring at the middle distance with her arms crossed, Vivienne Vance is pressing her folder to her chest like a shield, La Sirena is slowly rolling her neck, and Roxie Roche is pacing the ropes like a large animal in a small cage.

April Monday waits. One beat. Two. Three.

Then she raises the chrome microphone.

The ring goes still. Even La Sirena stops pacing, which is notable.

She turns slowly, making eye contact with each of them in sequence.

She looks at Vivienne specifically on that last part.

She looks at Vivienne on that last word.

She extends a hand to the timekeeper, who passes up a small remote. April clicks a button.

The big screen above the entrance flickers to life. A simple white-on-black digital interface displays six name slots. A randomizer animation spins through them, cycling too fast to read, the crowd leaning in collectively, a low sustained buzz of anticipation building as the names blur.

The first slot locks.

LA SIRENA

Vivienne Vance straightens immediately, pressing her folder to her chest, head tilting with calculated satisfaction. La Sirena rolls her neck.

The second slot locks.

AMBER RIZZOLI

Amber gasps, disappointed she has to come in at the start of the match.

The third slot locks.

CARMEN CRUZ

Carmen nods once. No expression. She cracks her knuckles.

The fourth slot locks.

SCARLETT VICE

Scarlett tilts her head slowly and lets a long, slow smile spread across her face.

The fifth slot locks.

ROXIE ROCHE

Roxie doesn't react. She just nods, like someone confirmed a delivery time.

He gestures generally at Roxie's entire existence.

The sixth and final slot spins a moment longer than the others. The crowd quietens almost involuntarily.

It locks.

DAISY MAE DuPRIS

The crowd erupts so hard the commentary desk actually shakes slightly.

Daisy claps her hands over her mouth, her eyes going wide. She looks at April with overwhelming emotion and then catches herself and straightens up, pressing both hands to her heart, nodding firmly.

Scarlett Vice does not erupt. She simmers. Her jaw tightens almost invisibly and she looks at April with a slow, burning calculation.

It's barely a whisper into the microphone. Cold and perfectly controlled.

Carmen Cruz looks at the screen, looks at Daisy, and makes a quiet, private sound that might be a laugh.

Amber is already filming the screen with her phone.

La Sirena is staring at the screen. Then she turns and looks at every woman in the ring, slowly, deliberately, one by one. She lands on Daisy last and stays there.

April Monday raises the microphone one final time.

She drops the microphone to her side, and for just a moment, underneath the composure and the suit and the authority, there is something else in her expression. Pride. The deep, private, genuine kind.

She turns and walks to the ropes, steps through, descends the steps, and begins her walk back up the ramp. Halfway up, she stops and turns back one final time, looking out over the ring full of women.

She turns and walks through the curtain.

The camera holds on the ring. La Sirena and Roxie Roche have locked eyes from across the canvas. Nobody has moved.

The lights in The Bayou shift to a cold, tropical teal. A sweeping orchestral brass arrangement rolls through the arena like a tide coming in, slow and enormous and inevitable. The crowd murmurs, confused for just a moment, because this is new. Nobody's heard this music before.

The brass swells, and then the flamenco-metal drums explode and the tempo doubles in an instant. Through the entrance curtain steps Rey Manta, and the crowd's curiosity curdles almost immediately into heat. He wears the seafoam-green cape spread wide behind him, the wingspan of something predatory, and he carries a polished gold cane raised toward the rafters of The Bayou like he's planting a flag in conquered territory. To his immediate left, Vivienne Vance moves in perfect lockstep with him, a tablet in one hand, her other hand positioned just behind his elbow, not touching, just present. Behind them both, visible now as the stage smoke parts, El Kraken looms large and silent.

Manta reaches the foot of the ramp and pauses. He turns his gaze, slowly, across the crowd that is booing him. Not reacting to it. Surveying it. His chin stays up, the cane stays raised. He walks up the steel steps as though they were cut just for him. He steps through the ropes in one fluid, unhurried motion. Vivienne moves behind him, unclamps the seafoam cape with practiced efficiency, and drapes it over the corner post. El Kraken stations himself at ringside without being told, arms folded, expression blank.

Manta climbs the second turnbuckle. He looks out at the booing Bayou crowd, and on his face is a smile of pure, undiluted condescension. He raises the cane once more.

Manta steps down from the turnbuckle slowly, already disinterested in them.

The teal fades and the arena lighting returns to its standard warm gold as the next track begins.

"Sharp Dressed Man" by ZZ Top rips through The Bayou speakers and the crowd absolutely unleashes a wall of boos. Dense gray stage smoke pours from the entrance and through it, unhurried and unwelcome, comes The Haughty Troupe. Bullseye Kid strolls with his hands in his jacket pockets. The Mammoth occupies an enormous amount of stage real estate. And between them, slightly forward, his jaw already clenched tight enough to crack a walnut, is Munchy Man. The neon-green lightning bolt face paint blazes against the gold house lights. His maroon velvet vest sits over the black and green singlet. He doesn't look at a single fan. He stares at the ring. Just the ring.

Munchy Man hits the ring apron and doesn't bother with the steps. He drives himself under the bottom rope with pure aggressive momentum, slides to the center of the ring, and is back on his feet in one savage motion. He turns immediately toward Danny Vance, gets directly in the young referee's face, and starts shouting. Danny doesn't blink. He holds eye contact and points firmly toward the corner.

Munchy Man sneers and turns away, pacing the ring perimeter like something caged, his eyes cutting toward Manta, who is watching him from across the ring with a vaguely amused expression. Manta leans one forearm on the top rope, utterly unbothered.

The Mammoth and Bullseye Kid post up at ringside on the far side from El Kraken. Vivienne Vance takes her position near the neutral corner, tablet down, eyes on the ring. Danny Vance moves to center ring, looks at both men to confirm they're ready, and calls for the bell.

They come out of their corners and Munchy Man immediately closes the distance at a hard angle, not waiting for a lockup. He drives a closed fist punch straight at Rey Manta's jaw before any collar-and-elbow can form. Manta's head snaps to the side and he staggers back into the ropes. The crowd pops for the immediate aggression.

Munchy Man doesn't hear it or doesn't care. He grabs Manta by the wrist, locks in a short-arm lariat setup, yanks him forward off the ropes, and swings his forearm arm in a wide, clubbing arc.

Manta ducks. He drops low and the forearm sails through empty air above him. Manta rolls to the side, lets Munchy Man's momentum carry him a step forward, and as Munchy Man turns to find him, Manta drives a spinning heel kick that catches him flush across the chest.

Munchy Man lurches backward. He doesn't fall, but his back hits the ropes and he bounces off them involuntarily. Manta is already in motion. He runs at Munchy Man, springs off the middle rope, and hooks his arm coming around in a fluid, clean springboard arm drag that sends Munchy Man across the ring and deposits him on the canvas.

Munchy Man scrambles to his feet. His jaw is set and there's a flash of something dangerous in his eyes. That was not part of his internal script. He straightens his vest and moves in again. They lock up this time, a proper collar-and-elbow, and Munchy Man's twenty-odd-pound advantage lets him press Manta back toward the turnbuckles. He gets him into the corner and drives a knee into Manta's midsection, then a heavy forearm across the chest.

Danny Vance is already at Munchy Man's shoulder, one hand extended, not touching but present.

Munchy Man backs off at two and a half, arms raised in mock innocence, his eyes still locked on Manta with burning hostility.

Manta rolls his neck and pushes out of the corner. Munchy Man charges in and locks him in a front facelock, looking for a gutwrench. He shifts his arms down around Manta's ribs and gut, trying to lock the gutwrench grip. Manta fires a quick elbow to Munchy Man's ribs before the gutwrench can be fully seated. Then another. Munchy Man grunts and his grip slips. Manta threads behind him fast, locks both arms around Munchy Man's waist from behind, plants his hips low, and arches.

Munchy Man goes up and over, his neck bridging hard to the canvas, and Manta bridges his own body into the pin, his shoulders back, his hips driven high. Danny Vance is on the mat in a flash.

Munchy Man kicks out with authority, shrugging Manta's bridge apart and rolling free. Both men come up. Munchy Man is breathing harder than he'd like. There's a dangerous glare on his face.

Munchy Man wipes a hand across his face paint and charges in again. This time he fakes a collar-and-elbow and drops down, going for Manta's knees with a low tackle. He gets partial contact, disrupting Manta's base and driving him down to one knee. With Manta momentarily grounded, Munchy Man wraps both arms around his chest from the side, heaves, and sends him over and down with a belly-to-belly suplex that shakes the canvas.

Munchy Man doesn't cover. He plants an elbow into Manta's sternum as he rises, then grabs Manta's wrist and hauls him to his feet. He shoots him hard into the corner turnbuckles back-first. Manta hits and his spine arches on impact. Before he can recover, Munchy Man comes running in and delivers a running elbow drop to Manta's chest as he slumps in the corner.

He drags Manta out of the corner by the arm. Manta is moving slower now, and there's a slight wince when he expands his chest.

At ringside, Vivienne Vance takes one quiet step forward. Not calling out, not panicking. Just watching. Her eyes are calculating.

Munchy Man locks in a front facelock on Manta, driving his head under his armpit, looking to take him down or set up something heavy. He grinds down on the neck. Manta's knees bend slightly but he doesn't drop. He uses both hands to push against Munchy Man's hip, creating space, then drops to one knee and threads the outside leg with his arm, hooking it at the knee. He comes back upright and the combination of leverage and position lets him execute a fisherman's carry, lifting Munchy Man up and over and bridging him to the canvas with a northern lights suplex.

Munchy Man forces the shoulder up with real effort. Both men separate and rise. Manta rolls his shoulder, feeling the work of that last suplex. Munchy Man is on his feet but he's slower.

Manta looks down at Munchy Man, who is pulling himself up using the middle rope. There's something calculating in Manta's expression. He glances at Vivienne, who gives a tiny, deliberate nod. Manta walks to the far ropes, turns, gets a running start, plants his foot on the middle rope, and launches himself off the top with the missile dropkick. Munchy Man is rising and the two feet of Rey Manta connect with his chest dead center.

Munchy Man goes off his feet and lands flat on his back in the middle of the ring. The crowd reacts to the impact.

Manta lands on his feet, rolls through, and is upright in a single motion. He looks at Munchy Man flat on the canvas. He rolls him over, covers him, and places one arm across his chest with an almost insulting casualness.

THR-Munchy Man gets the shoulder up. He's breathing hard and there's a fury in his eyes, but he's not done.

Manta rises and doesn't look frustrated. If anything he looks more interested. He walks to the corner and mounts the turnbuckles, one foot, two feet, all the way up to the top rope. He stands with complete balance, looking down at Munchy Man below. Munchy Man is beginning to stir. Manta waits. He waits until Munchy Man is halfway up, unsteady on his feet.

Then Manta launches himself off the top rope, reaching forward to hook the sunset flip position in midair, and when his hands find Munchy Man's body, the full momentum and the leveraged spring from the top rope drive Munchy Man backward and down into a thunderous powerbomb position, the Abyssal Wing exploding on impact with the canvas.

The Bayou erupts.

Munchy Man is flat. Completely, entirely flat. Rey Manta rolls through the momentum, rises, and plants both hands across Munchy Man's chest in a cover. Danny Vance slides in.

Danny Vance taps Manta on the shoulder and raises his hand with efficient, professional precision. Manta allows the hand raise for exactly as long as he decides to, then withdraws his arm and turns away, rolling his neck.

El Kraken steps onto the apron and over the top rope. Vivienne Vance slides the seafoam-green cape back over Rey Manta's shoulders, reclasping it at the collar. Manta accepts this as his natural due. He retrieves his cane from the corner, moves to the center of the ring, and raises it high.

The crowd boos loud and long. Manta looks out at them with that same cold, aristocratic smile.

At ringside, Bullseye Kid helps drag Munchy Man to the floor. Munchy Man shakes the hands off him almost immediately, shoving Bullseye Kid's arm away and yelling something unintelligible at nobody in particular. He's furious. He's embarrassed. He stares back at the ring where Manta stands at the center, and the expression on Munchy Man's face is genuinely unhinged.

In the ring, Rey Manta descends the turnbuckle and walks to the ropes, leaning over them to look down at Munchy Man, who is still arguing with nobody on the floor. Manta says nothing to him. He simply watches with complete disinterest and then turns away.

The camera cuts backstage. The hallway outside the locker rooms is narrow, lit by overhead fluorescents that hum faintly. A thick pink phone case mounted on a glowing ring-light selfie stick comes into frame first, then the hand holding it, then Amber Rizzoli herself, walking the corridor with the practiced, hip-forward stride of someone who has spent years performing for a lens. She is fully dressed for her appearance on the show, rhinestones catching the fluorescent light in a way that probably does not translate well on the live stream but she does not care because she adjusts the angle constantly, chasing it.

She pauses, checks the screen, tilts the ring light a half-inch to the left.

She glances at the monitor on the phone screen showing the live viewer count.

She winks at herself in the lens.

Footsteps. Harry Balkin Jr. rounds the corner first, blazer on, moving at the brisk professional pace of a man who genuinely believes he is on a deadline at all times. BookFace walks beside him, tablet in hand, the screen brightness cranked, head tilted toward it at an angle that would give a chiropractor nightmares.

Harry spots her. He does not slow down immediately. He takes two more steps, makes a small calculation, and then stops. BookFace stops when Harry stops, the way a satellite dish stops when someone parks the truck.

Amber lowers the ring light maybe three inches, which is the backstage equivalent of giving someone her full attention.

BookFace finally glances up from the tablet.

He tilts the screen toward her briefly to show her something.

He straightens his collar.

He pivots slightly so he is addressing her and the camera simultaneously, which he does with the ease of long habit.

He lets that sit for exactly one beat.

Amber makes a face. It is a very specific face. The face of someone who is weighing something they find mildly repulsive against something they find mildly interesting.

She says the word with genuine consideration rather than enthusiasm.

He glances at the ring-light.

BookFace replies without looking up.

He taps the screen. Amber immediately lifts the ring light back up and points it at herself.

She re-finds her angle.

She says this the way someone might say they are potentially open to trying a restaurant they fully expect to hate.

Harry gives a small, businesslike nod.

He pulls his blazer cuff straight.

He says it without drama.

BookFace finally looks up from his tablet staring at her with the mild blankness of someone who has spent so long looking at a screen they have had to re-learn how to look at people.

Amber looks at both of them. She looks at the phone screen. She looks back at them.

Harry Balkin Jr. gives her nothing but a faint, satisfied look, the kind that means he considers this conversation closed in his favour. He starts walking again. BookFace pivots without ceremony and falls back into step beside him, the tablet already back in front of his face.

Amber watches them go. She brings the ring light back to prime position and tilts her head to find her light again.

She gestures vaguely in the direction they walked.

She rounds the corner and disappears. The fluorescent hum fills the empty hallway for a moment before the camera cuts.

The house lights drop. On the Titantron, fake engagement counters scroll and spike. Corporate glitchcore synth pulses through The Bayou.

BookFace emerges from the curtain first, tablet raised at eye level, screen blazing with fabricated engagement metrics. Ten thousand watching. Thirty thousand. The numbers climb and climb. He walks the ramp without once looking at the crowd, which draws loud boos from every corner of the room.

BookFace pays them no mind. He slides under the bottom rope and immediately raises the tablet to his face like a shield.

The Dylan kicks in. The arena shifts to that cold white and blue. The crowd gets louder and nastier.

Harry Balkin Jr. steps through the curtain in his newspaper-headline tights and tailored blazer, microphone already in hand. He looks at the fans with the patient disdain of a man who has already won.

He drops the microphone to the ramp, lets it bounce, and walks to the ring at a deliberate pace. He steps through the ropes, straightens his blazer, and hands it to a ringside attendant with two fingers like he is passing off a contaminated garment.

The music cuts. A beat of silence. Then from somewhere in the back of the crowd a BAAAA soundbite erupts over the PA and "Adrenaline" by Wombat and Devlin hits hard and fast.

The crowd turns. A sea of phone lights come on. Kid Koala bursts through the back doors of The Bayou wearing the Bullseye Kid's graffitied hoodie, the one he stole on Episode One, now covered in dripping anarchist slogans and the circle-A sprayed in red across the back. He vaults over a guardrail section, slapping hands as he goes, weaving through fans toward the ring.

Kid Koala vaults the barricade near ringside and turns to look back up the aisle. Drop Bear is there. He comes through the main entrance at the top of the ramp, no music, no acknowledgment of the crowd, hand-stitched leather koala mask catching the light as he walks. Three hundred and eleven pounds of deliberate, unhurried menace making his way toward the ring.

Drop Bear rolls under the bottom rope and stands. He and Kid Koala exchange a look. Nothing is said. Nothing needs to be.

Marcus Vance stands in the center of the ring, arms at his sides, jaw set, looking at both teams with the same expression a man uses when he is deciding which section of road he is going to dig up first. He points at Media Trial, points at the Marsupials of Mayhem, and gives a single low grunt that serves as the entirety of his pre-match instructions.

The bell rings.

Kid Koala pulls off the hoodie and holds it up, showing it to the crowd. The crowd pops. He tosses it over the top rope to the floor outside and grins.

Harry Balkin Jr. narrows his eyes. BookFace, on the apron, types something into his tablet very aggressively.

Kid Koala and BookFace start. BookFace sets the tablet on the apron, top corner, screen facing the ring, still running.

They circle. BookFace darts in with a collar and elbow tie-up and immediately shoves Koala into the corner, following with a running knee lift that catches Koala right in the gut. Koala doubles and BookFace grabs a front facelock, snapping him over with a clean snap suplex. He floats to a cover.

Koala kicks out at one, rolling to his knees fast.

BookFace winds up and delivers a Comment Section Chop across the chest. The crack echoes.

Koala grabs his chest, staggered.

BookFace whips Koala off the ropes, drops his head for a back body drop, and Koala floats over him. BookFace straightens up and turns around right into a front dropkick from Kid Koala that sends BookFace stumbling back into the Media Trial corner.

Koala charges in and drives a second rope knee strike down across the back of BookFace's neck, hooking the ropes for leverage as BookFace crumbles down the turnbuckle to a seated position. Koala backs up, runs in, and connects with a tree of woe stomp, both feet driving into BookFace's midsection as BookFace hangs upside down in the corner.

Marcus Vance appears at Koala's shoulder.

Koala throws his hands up, not arguing, not caring, and hauls BookFace out of the corner by the arm. He tags in Drop Bear.

The crowd rises.

Drop Bear steps through the ropes.

BookFace sees him and immediately scrambles to the Media Trial corner, tagging in Harry Balkin Jr. with a hard slap to the hand.

Harry Balkin Jr. steps through the ropes, straightens up, and looks at Drop Bear. He is six foot one and two hundred and eighteen pounds and Drop Bear makes him look like a college student.

Drop Bear grunts.

Harry circles to the left. Drop Bear does not circle. He stands and watches. Harry drives in with a chop block to Drop Bear's left knee and the big man wobbles. Harry bounces off the ropes and comes back with a high-velocity running clothesline that catches Drop Bear across the chest.

Drop Bear does not go down.

He looks down at Harry Balkin Jr.

Harry looks back up.

Harry hits the ropes again. Running clothesline. Drop Bear absorbs it, staggers one step back.

Harry hits the ropes a third time. This time Drop Bear takes two steps forward to meet him and runs through Harry with a running shoulder tackle that drives Harry into the canvas so hard the whole ring shakes.

Drop Bear picks Harry up by the head, clubs him twice across the back with a forearm, then drives him headfirst into the Marsupials' corner turnbuckle. He holds Harry there, shoulder to the post, and tags Kid Koala back in.

Koala climbs to the second rope and drives a spinning elbow into the back of Harry's skull. Harry stumbles out of the corner and Koala catches him from behind, driving him face first into the canvas with a running leg drop bulldog.

Goes for the cover.

Harry kicks out.

Koala drags Harry to his feet and hooks him up for a backstabber, but Harry grabs the ropes. Koala's feet hit the canvas without the move landing and Harry, still holding the ropes, drives a back elbow into Koala's jaw. Koala staggers. Harry turns, seizes the moment, and connects with a tilt-a-whirl backbreaker, snatching Koala off the mat and driving his spine across his knee.

Koala arches and rolls to the floor, clutching his back.

Harry follows him out. He grabs Koala by the back of the head and drives his face into the apron edge. Once. Twice. Marcus Vance leans through the ropes.

Harry rolls Koala back inside and covers.

Koala gets a shoulder up.

Harry drags him to the Media Trial corner, tags BookFace, and the two of them position Koala between them. Double knee strike combo, Harry driving one knee into Koala's midsection as BookFace drives the other into his chest simultaneously.

Koala drops to both knees.

BookFace has Koala against the ropes and drives a rope-assisted neck snap, bending Koala over the top strand and snapping him back. Koala staggers to the middle of the ring and BookFace lines him up with the Algorithm Knee Strike, running at full speed and driving his knee into the side of Koala's head.

Koala goes down.

Goes for the cover.

Koala kicks out at two and the crowd exhales.

Drop Bear slaps the top rope from the apron. The whole ramp trembles slightly.

BookFace drags Koala up and whips him hard into the corner. Koala hits the turnbuckle back-first. BookFace charges in with a corner stomp sequence, foot after foot driving into Koala's gut as Koala tries to protect himself.

BookFace grabs Koala by the wrist, yanks him out of the corner, and sets up the Buffering Neckbreaker. He swings and connects, twisting Koala's neck on the way down. Koala lies flat.

BookFace stands over him and faces the hard camera, tilting his head, raising one hand like he is framing a shot.

Koala stirs. He reaches toward his corner. Drop Bear has his hand out, three hundred and eleven pounds of barely contained violence straining toward the tag. The crowd is up.

BookFace cuts it off, yanking Koala by the ankle back to center ring. He tags Harry back in. Harry drops an elbow across the base of Koala's neck, then drops another. He hauls Koala to standing, locks him in a front facelock, and hoists him for a delayed vertical suplex. He holds him up. Five seconds. Eight seconds.

The blood rushes to Koala's head.

Harry dumps him down. The impact rattles the ring.

Harry stands over Koala and speaks directly into the hard camera.

He drops into a cover.

Koala rolls a shoulder up, barely, and the crowd erupts.

Harry does not argue the count. He stands, wipes his hands together, and drags Koala back toward the Media Trial corner. He tags BookFace in and the two of them set up a tandem neckbreaker, Harry holding Koala upright while BookFace drops him. Both men execute it clean.

BookFace sets up the snap DDT, front facelock in tight, but Koala finds something from somewhere and shoves him off. BookFace stumbles into the ropes. Koala staggers, drops to one knee, finds the second rope and uses it to pull himself toward the corner.

One hand out.

Reaches.

Tags Drop Bear.

The crowd detonates.

Drop Bear steps through the ropes.

BookFace turns around.

Drop Bear runs through him with a running shoulder tackle. BookFace goes over backward like he was hit by a truck.

Harry Balkin Jr. comes off the apron and into the ring without a tag.

Harry charges and Drop Bear catches him with a short-arm lariat that nearly takes Harry's head off the top of his neck.

Drop Bear hauls BookFace up by the collar and drives him into the corner, following with a running corner avalanche splash. BookFace folds at the bottom of the turnbuckle. Drop Bear turns to Harry, who has gotten to his feet, and drives a headbutt into Harry's forehead.

Harry staggers sideways into the ropes.

Drop Bear grabs him by the wrist and launches him with a fallaway slam that sends Harry tumbling half the width of the ring.

Marcus Vance has herded Harry back to the apron and is now doing absolutely nothing about the fact that it happened.

Kid Koala is back on the apron, arm out, energized. Drop Bear brings BookFace to the center of the ring and makes the tag. The Marsupials set up their double team.

Drop Bear scoops BookFace up in a powerbomb position. Koala scales the ropes.

Drop Bear lifts. Koala launches from the top.

But Harry Balkin Jr. reaches in from the apron and grabs Koala's ankle, yanking him off the top rope. Koala crashes to the apron. The powerbomb loses its second half and BookFace slides down Drop Bear's back and rolls to the floor.

Marcus Vance turns to the apron.

Drop Bear turns toward Harry at the apron, which is when BookFace, recovered on the floor, reaches under the bottom rope and grabs Drop Bear's boot. Drop Bear looks down. Harry, still on the apron, reaches in and drives a rake across Drop Bear's eyes.

Drop Bear stumbles. Marcus Vance turns around at exactly that moment and sees nothing of use.

Harry tags himself in, properly this time, stepping through the ropes. He drives a chop block behind Drop Bear's left knee and the big man goes down to one knee.

Harry grabs a front facelock. He tries to position Drop Bear's three hundred and eleven pounds for the snap piledriver. Drop Bear's free hand shoots out and shoves Harry off. Harry stumbles back. Drop Bear plants a hand, tries to rise.

Kid Koala, back on the apron now, is screaming at Drop Bear. The crowd is screaming at Drop Bear.

Drop Bear gets to both feet. Harry bounces off the ropes and comes back with a running knee strike that catches Drop Bear flush in the jaw.

Drop Bear goes back to a knee.

Harry hits the ropes again. Running face wash. Sole of the boot dragged across Drop Bear's face.

Harry calls for the Breaking Story. He gets the front facelock, bends Drop Bear down, drives his head between Harry's thighs. The crowd is gasping. This would be a legitimate achievement.

Harry tries to lift him.

He cannot lift him.

Drop Bear straightens up out of the position, throwing Harry skyward with pure neck strength. Harry comes crashing back down to the canvas on his back.

The crowd erupts.

Drop Bear shakes his head, blood from his nose catching the light, and grunts.

Drop Bear grabs Harry by the head and lifts him straight up, military press, locking him out above his head. Harry is kicking his legs six feet off the canvas. The crowd loses its mind.

But BookFace dives in from the apron, grabbing Drop Bear's boot, and Drop Bear stumbles. Harry crashes down behind him. Before Drop Bear can reset, Harry runs the ropes and comes back with a high-velocity running clothesline, catching Drop Bear off-balance from the stumble, and the big man goes over.

Three hundred and eleven pounds hitting the canvas.

Harry drops on top.

Drop Bear rolls the shoulder. Harry slaps the mat in frustration.

Then the lights shift.

The crowd turns.

The Haughty Troupe appear at the top of the ramp. The Bullseye Kid in front. Munchy Man to his left. The Mammoth to his right. Three sets of eyes fixed on the ring. Fixed on Kid Koala specifically.

Kid Koala sees them from the apron and points. His jaw tightens.

Marcus Vance has turned to look at the ramp. His back is now to the ring.

The Bullseye Kid walks down the ramp slowly, hands in his pockets, eyes on Koala. Koala steps off the apron onto the floor to face them, holding the bottom rope.

The Mammoth goes left, Munchy Man goes right, and The Bullseye Kid walks straight ahead. They surround Koala at ringside. He throws a spinning elbow into Munchy Man's jaw and tries a bicycle kick at The Mammoth, but The Mammoth catches his leg and drives him back-first into the ringpost.

Koala crumples.

The Mammoth plants him with a strike to the back of the head. Munchy Man puts boots to him on the floor. The Bullseye Kid crouches down, picks up the graffitied hoodie from where Koala had thrown it earlier, and holds it up.

Inside the ring, Marcus Vance is turned toward the commotion at ringside. His back is still to the action in the ring.

Drop Bear sees it. Drop Bear throws the ropes and starts after them.

The Mammoth and Munchy Man meet Drop Bear at ringside. The Mammoth drives a forearm into Drop Bear's chest as he comes through the ropes. Munchy Man grabs his arm from the other side. Three hundred and eleven pounds of Drop Bear is being controlled by two very large and very motivated men.

The Bayou is chaos.

Inside the ring, Harry Balkin Jr. has watched all of this happen. He turns to BookFace on the apron. BookFace points down at Drop Bear, then at Harry, then draws a finger across his throat.

Harry Balkin Jr. walks to where Drop Bear was lying moments ago and plants himself.

Marcus Vance starts turning back toward the ring. The Haughty Troupe melt back. The Mammoth releases Drop Bear, who staggers. Kid Koala is still down on the floor.

Munchy Man rolls Drop Bear back inside the ring. Drop Bear is face down, barely moving. The knee has been worked over and now he has taken a beating on the floor.

Harry Balkin Jr. drapes himself over Drop Bear.

Marcus Vance turns back. He sees the cover.

MARCUS VANCE slides into position.

THR-

The bell rings.

Marcus Vance stands, takes Harry Balkin Jr. by the wrist, and raises his arm with the enthusiasm of a man who expected exactly this outcome.

BookFace slides into the ring and raises Harry's other arm. He angles the tablet toward the hard camera and the Titantron shows the fake live engagement numbers spiking past a hundred thousand. A million. Higher.

The Bullseye Kid stands at the bottom of the ramp, the graffitied hoodie draped over his shoulder. He and Kid Koala, who is trying to pull himself upright against the barricade, lock eyes.

The Bullseye Kid holds up the hoodie and then lets it drop to the floor, stomping it once.

Kid Koala stares at him. His jaw is working. He is breathing hard. He does not look away.

Drop Bear is sitting up on the canvas, hand on his knee, mask still intact, blood still on his upper lip. He looks at nothing.

The camera cuts backstage. The locker room is half-lit, a row of metal benches running down the centre, gear bags shoved under them. A portable fan oscillates in the corner, pushing around the smell of old tape and cheaper cologne. Elvis Hunt is parked on a bench with his Hawaiian shirt hanging open, one red high-top up on the bench beside him, the other foot flat on the floor. He has a dented hip flask tilted back. He wipes his mouth with the back of his gloved hand and stares at nothing in particular.

The door pushes open. Gruff Veracity walks in. He does not knock. He does not slow down. He finds Elvis with his eyes immediately and stops about four feet away, arms loose at his sides. The room feels smaller with both of them in it.

Gruff stares at Elvis for a long moment. Elvis does not look up immediately. He gives the flask a little shake, gauges how much is left, and recaps it slowly.

Gruff does not move.

Elvis looks up now. Tilts his head slightly. Squints like the light changed.

Elvis scratches his chest hair with two fingers, slow and thoughtful.

A beat. Elvis looks at the flask. Looks back at Gruff. A small, lazy grin slides across his face.

Elvis uncaps the flask again. Points it loosely in Gruff's direction.

Gruff stares at him. Flat. Unreadable.

He taps the side of his head.

Elvis tilts back the flask. Swallows. Wipes his mouth. Nods once, slow.

He holds the flask up like a toast.

Gruff looks at the flask. Looks at Elvis. Gives one short nod. He turns and walks back out. The door closes behind him without a slam, just a quiet click, which somehow lands heavier than a slam would have.

Elvis watches the door for a second. Then he shakes the flask again.

He leans back against the locker behind him and tilts it up again. The camera lingers for a moment then cuts back to ringside.

The opening guitar swell of "Pour Some Sugar on Me" hasn't hit yet. The ring is empty. Roxy "Patch" Malone stands at the center of the canvas, rolling her one good eye at the production crew fussing with the camera positions. She adjusts her black-and-white striped shirt, pops her knuckles, and waits.

The camera cuts to the championship belt draped over the top turnbuckle, the nameplate gleaming under the arena lights.

The house lights drop. A low, pulsing fog machine rolls mist across the entrance ramp. Deep, bass-heavy electronic tones hit the PA, and from behind the curtain steps La Sirena, the crimson mask gleaming under a single hot spotlight. She rolls her neck, cracking it audibly on both sides, and descends the ramp at a slow, predatory pace. The Baton Rouge crowd showers her with heat.

La Sirena climbs the steps with heavy, deliberate footfalls, steps over the top rope rather than through it, and plants herself in the center of the ring, spreading her arms wide and letting the crowd's hatred wash over her like warm rain. Roxy Malone does not acknowledge her entrance. She just chews her gum and watches.

The music cuts. A beat passes.

Then the lights explode into blinding magenta and pastel purple, and the bass-heavy pop trap of Ariana Grande's "7 Rings" detonates through the PA. Amber Rizzoli emerges from the curtain holding her ring-light selfie stick above her head, the mounted phone capturing her own entrance in real time as the arena screens mirror the live feed. The crowd boos instantly and loudly, which Amber acknowledges only by tilting her chin up a fraction of an inch.

Amber glides up the steps, pauses on the apron to execute a full rotation pose for the phone camera, and steps through the ropes, passing the selfie stick to her personal assistant at ringside with a look of complete dismissal. She smooths her rhinestone-encrusted ring gear and turns to face La Sirena.

The contrast is immediate and jarring. La Sirena stands six inches shorter but twenty-five pounds heavier, all of it dense and menacing. Amber looks at her the way someone might look at a piece of furniture that is not to their aesthetic taste.

La Sirena does not respond. She just stares. The crimson mask is expressionless. Amber holds up a peace sign to the camera lens, framing La Sirena's looming silhouette behind her.

Roxy "Patch" Malone steps between them, looks at both women, and drops her hand to signal the match.

La Sirena does not wait for a collar-and-elbow tie-up. She surges forward and drives a short-arm clothesline directly into Amber's chest that sends the smaller woman spinning into the ropes. Amber bounces off and stumbles forward, and La Sirena meets her with a second short-arm clothesline that puts her on the canvas hard.

Amber scrambles to her feet, clutching her sternum, eyes wide with genuine shock. La Sirena advances, grabs Amber by the wrist, yanks her into a hard short-arm shoulder thrust that drives directly into Amber's midsection. Amber doubles over, gasping.

La Sirena hauls her upright by the hair and plants a stiff headbutt directly into the bridge of Amber's nose.

Amber staggers backward into the corner, hands going to her face. The crowd pops at the impact.

Amber sits crumpled in the corner, and La Sirena descends on her with corner stomps, one after another, each one driving into Amber's ribs, her hip, her thigh. Roxy Malone leans over and begins counting.

She doesn't raise her voice. She barely seems interested.

La Sirena ignores the count completely, landing a fifth stomp before finally backing off and letting Amber slide down the turnbuckle to a seated position. The crowd buzzes. La Sirena backs to the center of the ring, then runs, throwing herself into a running double knee strike that connects flush with Amber's chest in the corner.

Amber ragdolls to the mat. La Sirena drags her to the center by one ankle, drops on top of her for the cover.

Goes for the cover...

Amber kicks out, rolling toward the ropes.

Amber uses the bottom rope to drag herself upright, and when she turns around she has a new expression on her face. The performative gloss is gone, replaced by something colder. She knows she is in real trouble.

La Sirena moves to collect her, but Amber senses the approach and drops under La Sirena's reaching arms, pivoting behind her and snapping off a hair-pull snapmare that puts La Sirena face-first into the canvas. Amber drives a sarcastic kick directly into La Sirena's back.

Amber steps away, adjusts her hair, and launches into a running spinning heel kick that catches La Sirena across the jaw as she rises. La Sirena stumbles sideways into the ropes.

Amber runs the ropes, springboards off the middle rope, and hits a springboard crossbody that connects across La Sirena's chest. Both women go down, but Amber rolls through into a lateral press.

Goes for the cover...

La Sirena shoves her off with one arm at the count of one, sending Amber sliding halfway across the ring. The crowd reacts to the force of the kickout.

Amber lands on her feet through sheer reflex, immediately clocks that La Sirena is sitting up, and drops to a seated position beside La Sirena's head, holding up a peace sign with both hands, mugging for the hard camera. The crowd showers her with boos.

La Sirena grabs Amber by the throat with one hand and hauls herself to her feet, lifting Amber with her. Amber's eyes go wide. The crowd roars at the sheer physical display.

La Sirena drives Amber into the ropes, releases the throat grab, and catches her on the rebound with a fallaway suplex, releasing at the apex and letting Amber crash to the canvas with a violent thud.

Amber lands on her back and doesn't move immediately. La Sirena kips up from the suplex, walks over, and drags Amber to her feet by the wrist. She hooks her up with a front facelock, bends Amber at the waist, and positions her between her thighs before driving her up and crashing her down with a release powerbomb in the center of the ring.

The canvas shakes. Amber bounces once and goes completely flat.

La Sirena covers.

Goes for the cover...

Amber gets a shoulder up, and the crowd is genuinely surprised.

La Sirena pulls Amber to her feet with a hair-pull mat slam that sends Amber's skull bouncing off the canvas. She rolls Amber face-down, presses a boot across the back of Amber's neck, and grinds it in while the crowd boos.

La Sirena looks at Roxy with something approaching respect for the first time. She removes the boot.

La Sirena hauls Amber upright one more time, locks in a chest-to-chest clinch, arms wrapping around Amber's ribs, and hoists her up and over with a thunderous overhead belly-to-belly suplex that deposits Amber into the far corner. Amber crumples in a heap, arms draped over the bottom rope.

La Sirena stalks toward her. She grabs Amber by the wrist, yanks her to her feet, and the moment she has Amber standing, she charges with a running spear that drives Amber into the canvas. La Sirena mounts and begins unloading forearm strikes, one after another.

Goes for the cover...

Amber's personal assistant slides into the ring to check on her, and Amber shoves them away, her rhinestone gear scuffed and her expression murderous.

She rolls under the bottom rope and storms up the ramp, pausing once to scream at a fan in the front row who had the temerity to laugh.

Roxy "Patch" Malone stands in the center of the ring with both hands on her hips, watching Amber leave with the expression of someone who has seen everything and been impressed by none of it.

The house lights drop again into a harsh grey-and-yellow tint. The cold, haunting vinyl hiss of Mobb Deep's "Shook Ones, Pt. II" hits the PA, and the crowd begins booing before Carmen Cruz even appears. She steps through the curtain with that slow shoulder-rolling swagger, canary yellow singlet under the harsh arena lights, thick wristbands and gold-laced boots. She surveys the ring, takes in La Sirena standing in the center, and smiles without warmth.

Carmen walks down the ramp at her own pace, not rushing, counting imaginary money in the face of a boo-bird in the front row. She slides under the bottom rope, comes up in a crouch, and circles La Sirena with her hands low.

The bell rings.

Carmen does not dive in. She circles. La Sirena tracks her, rotating. Carmen feints a collar-and-elbow and when La Sirena reaches for it, Carmen drops into a single-leg takedown targeting the ankle, yanking La Sirena's foot out from under her and putting the bigger woman on one knee.

La Sirena goes to her knee but immediately drives up and forward with a short-arm clothesline that catches Carmen across the ear. Carmen stumbles but keeps her feet, shaking out the cobwebs.

La Sirena grabs the wrist for a second short-arm clothesline, but Carmen reads it, ducks under the swinging arm, spins behind La Sirena, and drives a running knee strike to the small of La Sirena's back. La Sirena lurches forward into the ropes, catches herself on the top strand.

Carmen follows up quickly, grabbing the back of La Sirena's neck and yanking her away from the ropes, using the momentum to fire a European uppercut directly under La Sirena's chin. La Sirena's head snaps back. Carmen fires a second one, driving La Sirena backward.

La Sirena reaches the ropes and snaps a throat thrust directly into Carmen's larynx. Carmen gags and backs off, one hand flying to her throat.

Roxy "Patch" Malone glances at Carmen's throat, looks at La Sirena, and shrugs.

La Sirena advances, but Carmen uses the one free second the throat thrust bought her to drive a hidden eye gouge into La Sirena's right eye socket as they close the distance. La Sirena recoils, grabbing her face, stumbling.

Carmen presses her advantage, snapping La Sirena into a snap suplex that drives La Sirena's back across the ring apron. La Sirena lands in a crumpled, arched position on the apron, and Carmen rolls back inside, dusting off her wristbands.

La Sirena hangs there, back arched, one arm flopped outside the ring. Carmen lets the count climb.

La Sirena rolls off the apron to the floor at five. Carmen waits.

La Sirena grabs the apron skirt and hauls herself up, pulling herself onto the apron at eight and rolling under the bottom rope. Carmen is already there waiting, and she drives a running knee strike into La Sirena's seated position as she rolls through, connecting right below the chin.

La Sirena flattens out on the canvas. Carmen drops to a lateral press.

Goes for the cover...

La Sirena throws her shoulder up, and Carmen immediately hooks the far arm to try to hold her down, but La Sirena rolls through with pure power.

Carmen pulls La Sirena upright with a hair-pull takedown, dragging her toward the ropes, and in the process she hooks La Sirena's arms behind the top rope, using the rope for an illegal choke, pressing the cable against La Sirena's throat while Roxy counts.

Carmen releases before five, stepping back with her hands raised in innocence, smiling at Roxy.

Carmen turns back to La Sirena, who is gagging at the ropes, and hauls her upright. La Sirena snaps a stiff headbutt into Carmen's forehead in response. Both women stagger.

La Sirena grabs Carmen in a chest-to-chest clinch for the belly-to-belly suplex, but Carmen drives a knee into La Sirena's midsection to break the grip before the lift happens. La Sirena loosens, and Carmen hooks her into position and fires an elevated hangman's neckbreaker, the Newark Neckbreaker, driving La Sirena's throat across Carmen's knee.

La Sirena crashes to the canvas on her back, hands going to her throat, legs kicking.

Goes for the cover...

Carmen does not argue the count. She just looks at La Sirena with fresh calculation. She grabs La Sirena by the ankle and drops to the mat, locking in the rolling kneebar, her body weight driving La Sirena's knee against the floor in a grinding, twisting torque.

La Sirena howls. Her other foot kicks at the mat. Carmen wrenches, leaning back to increase the pressure.

La Sirena throws herself toward the ropes, dragging Carmen with her, inches at a time. The crowd builds as she gets closer.

La Sirena lunges forward and hooks the bottom rope with both hands. Roxy "Patch" Malone taps Carmen on the shoulder.

Carmen releases, slowly, making absolutely sure to wring one extra half-second of torque before letting go. She stands, rolls out her neck, and watches La Sirena with the patience of someone who knows she has already won.

La Sirena pulls herself upright using the ropes, and the moment she rises, Carmen grabs her wrist for a short-arm shoulder thrust into the midsection. La Sirena doubles over. Carmen steps around her, takes a running start from the ropes, and drives the Concrete Jungle, a shining wizard to the back of La Sirena's head as she is bent forward.

La Sirena goes face-first into the canvas like a felled tree.

Carmen pulls La Sirena over onto her back and hooks the leg.

Goes for the cover...

Carmen stands, adjusts her wristbands, and leans in the corner with her arms crossed, chewing her gum. She points one finger at the championship belt on the turnbuckle and nods slowly.

The arena dims into smoldering crimson and hot pink. The drum beat intro of "Pour Some Sugar on Me" hits the speakers, and the crowd's reaction is immediate and visceral. They hate her. Scarlett Vice steps through the curtain and takes the noise like it is applause.

Scarlett descends the ramp with that slow, exaggerated hip sway, the fishnet tights and thigh-high pink boots clicking on the ramp surface, cherry-red hair cascading behind her. She scales the steel steps, slides suggestively through the middle ropes facedown right as the chorus explodes from the speakers, and winks directly at the main camera.

Carmen Cruz watches all of this from her corner with zero visible reaction. She is still chewing her gum.

The bell rings.

The two heels circle each other with absolute mutual suspicion. Neither rushes. Scarlett puts a hand out for a test of strength and Carmen looks at it like it might be poisoned. Smart woman.

Carmen throws the first move, a European uppercut that Scarlett sidesteps, and as Carmen's arm passes her, Scarlett hooks it into a snapmare, sending Carmen rolling across the canvas. Carmen comes up on one knee, and Scarlett follows with a provocative kick to the back.

Carmen stands up slowly, and the expression on her face has changed. She is not smiling anymore.

Scarlett spreads her arms wide and drops her hands, standing completely open, the fake embrace play. She blinks slowly at Carmen, daring her to come.

Carmen is not a babyface. She does not fall for the psychological ploy. She grabs her own lapel, points two fingers at her own eyes, then points them at Scarlett, and drives a single-leg takedown directly at Scarlett's ankle instead of stepping into the open arms.

Carmen wrenches the ankle in a twisting hold on the mat, and Scarlett kicks free, rolling to the ropes. Scarlett rises and brushes her hair back, reassessing. She performs a matrix-style rope escape, leaning dramatically away from Carmen's charging European uppercut attempt, and when Carmen's momentum carries her past, Scarlett hooks her from behind with a bridging northern lights suplex.

The bridge is elegant, controlled, and deep.

Goes for the cover...

Carmen twists out, forcing her shoulder up.

Scarlett keeps pace, running the ropes and catching Carmen with a running calf kick to the chest that sends Carmen staggering into the corner. Scarlett follows with a running handstand headscissors takedown from the corner that flips Carmen across the ring. Carmen hits the canvas and rolls, using the momentum to find her feet.

Carmen rises and Scarlett is already moving. She catches Carmen coming forward with a low-blow kick while Roxy "Patch" Malone is bent down adjusting her boot.

Carmen doubles over, and Scarlett grabs her from behind, hooks both arms under Carmen's in a double underhook position, and drives her up and over with the Heartbreaker, the inverted overdrive, driving Carmen headfirst into the canvas.

Carmen crumples.

Scarlett steps over her, looks down with a lazy, seductive smile, and covers with one hand on Carmen's chest while she blows a kiss to the crowd.

Goes for the cover...

Carmen grabs the bottom rope.

Scarlett stands, puts her hands on her hips, and looks at Roxy. Roxy shrugs.

Scarlett grabs Carmen by the wrist and yanks her toward center ring, but Carmen spins with the momentum and drives a hidden eye gouge as they spin together, catching Scarlett directly in the left eye.

Carmen fires a short-arm shoulder thrust into Scarlett's gut, then locks her up for the Newark Neckbreaker, elevating Scarlett's throat across her knee.

Scarlett hits the mat hard, clutching her throat. Carmen covers, hooks both legs.

Goes for the cover...

Carmen stands and pulls Scarlett up by the hair, and Scarlett fires a slap directly across Carmen's cheek.

Carmen's head turns. She turns it back slowly. She reaches up and touches the red welt forming on her cheek. She looks at Scarlett with something approaching sincere anger.

They begin trading. Carmen fires a European uppercut. Scarlett answers with a slap. Carmen fires another uppercut. Scarlett takes it and answers with a running calf kick. Carmen absorbs it and drives a running knee strike that connects with Scarlett's midsection. Scarlett doubles but fires back up with a forearm. Carmen takes it. Another uppercut. Scarlett staggers. Another. Scarlett hits the ropes, bounces back, and walks directly into the Concrete Jungle, the shining wizard to the back of the head, that Carmen lands while Scarlett bends forward from the last uppercut.

Scarlett drops to the canvas face-first.

Carmen rolls her onto her back, covers, and hooks the leg deep.

Goes for the cover...

Carmen stands in the center of the ring and pumps her arms once, slowly. Then she rolls out her neck, shakes out her arms, and leans back into the corner. She is tired. Her chest is heaving. But she is standing.

Scarlett Vice rolls out under the ropes, sits on the apron for a moment, and then drops to the floor. She does not go to the back. She stands at ringside, running her fingers through her disordered hair, fury barely contained behind that practiced cool. Her eyes go to the entrance ramp and they stay there.

The house lights drop completely. Deep green and industrial rust-orange strobes paint the arena in a raw, grinding light show. Then the slow, heavy, down-tuned guitar riff of Down's "Stone the Crow" rolls through the PA like a wave of Louisiana heat, and the Baton Rouge crowd goes absolutely berserk.

Roxie Roche walks out with her characteristic slouch, the distressed forest-green flannel tied around her waist, taping her wrists mid-stride, completely in sync with the grinding metal rhythm. She does not acknowledge the cameras. She does not high-five the crowd. She walks with the focused intensity of someone who has been waiting all night for this exact moment.

She reaches the ring, marches up the steps, steps through the middle ropes, and spits her mouthguard into the air, catching it and pocketing it. She stares at Carmen Cruz across the ring.

Carmen Cruz stares back, still chewing her gum.

Carmen looks tired. Roxie looks hungry.

The bell rings.

Roxie moves first. She does not run. She walks forward with bad intentions and meets Carmen Cruz in a collar-and-elbow tie-up in the center of the ring. Carmen tries to turn it into a headlock. Roxie powers out, shoves Carmen into the ropes, and when Carmen bounces back she plants her feet and delivers a clubbing forearm strike to Carmen's chest.

Carmen spins with the impact. Roxie is already winding up for a second, and she drives it across Carmen's jaw, snapping her head sideways.

Carmen grabs the ropes. Breathes. Turns back around.

The forearm battle begins.

Carmen fires a European uppercut. Roxie takes it and throws a clubbing forearm. Carmen absorbs it and fires a second uppercut. Roxie takes that one too, shakes her head with a manic grin, and throws two forearms in rapid succession. Carmen staggers back into the ropes.

Roxie scoops Carmen up and drives her down with a heavy scoop slam that shakes the ring. Carmen bounces and clutches her battered back. Roxie drops an elbow, then hooks the leg.

Goes for the cover...

Carmen rolls her shoulder up.

Roxie pulls Carmen upright immediately, no hesitation, drives her backward into the corner, and plants a running big boot directly into Carmen's chest in the corner.

Carmen crumples in the corner. Roxie hauls her out of the corner by the wrist, spins, and fires an exploder suplex that drives Carmen into the opposite corner turnbuckles. Carmen bounces off the buckles and falls forward onto the canvas.

Goes for the cover...

Carmen rises to one knee, and Roxie stands over her. Carmen fires a low blow kick while Roxy "Patch" Malone is walking around to the other side of the ring.

Roxie goes to one knee. Carmen scrambles up and drives a rolling kneebar, grabbing Roxie's leg and dropping to the mat with the submission. Roxie roars, driving her free leg against Carmen's shoulder, trying to kick free. Carmen wrenches. Roxie's face contorts.

Roxie drags herself toward the ropes, but she is in the center of the ring and Carmen is using every ounce of her remaining strength to hold position. The crowd builds. Roxie inches. Inches.

Roxie lunges forward with a desperate surge, dragging Carmen three feet, and hooks the bottom rope with both hands. Roxy "Patch" Malone drops to her knee beside them.

Carmen holds for one extra second. Malone reaches for her wrist. Carmen releases.

Carmen stands on exhausted legs, grabs Roxie by the ankle, and tries to drag her to center ring, but Roxie rolls onto her back and drives both boots into Carmen's chest, sending Carmen stumbling backward into the ropes. Carmen bounces off and comes back, and Roxie is up, snapping a short-arm clothesline that turns Carmen almost inside out.

Carmen goes down hard. She gets back to one knee, slow and laboring.

Roxie watches her rise. She does not go for a quick cover. She waits.

Carmen gets to her feet.

Roxie moves. She drags Carmen into a double underhook, kicks out with her legs, drops to a seated position, and drives Carmen headfirst and shoulder-first into the canvas with the Bayou Driver, the sit-out double underhook powerbomb.

The ring shakes. Carmen folds.

Roxie covers.

Goes for the cover...

Carmen lies flat in the center of the ring. She does not move immediately. Roxy "Patch" Malone kneels beside her, checks her, and then stands and gestures to the back. A pair of production staff help Carmen Cruz to the floor as Roxie Roche stands in the far corner, breathing hard, staring at the entrance.

Roxie is standing, but she is putting slightly less weight on the left leg. She knows it. She rolls out her shoulder, resets her stance, and watches the entrance ramp.

At ringside, Scarlett Vice is still watching.

The house lights rise to a warm, golden, sun-drenched yellow. Cajun zydeco music fills the arena, and the crowd goes from anticipatory rumble to full explosion as Daisy Mae DuPris bursts through the curtain, jumping up and down on the stage with genuine, uncontainable joy.

Daisy bounds down the ramp, high-fiving every child in the front row, her sky-blue and sunflower-yellow singlet brilliant under the warm lights. She slides under the bottom rope, scales the second turnbuckle, and waves to the cheap seats with both arms, her face absolutely incandescent with excitement. She hops down, places her denim vest carefully in the corner, and bounces on her toes.

Across the ring, Roxie Roche watches her. There is something in Roxie's expression that is not contempt. It is closer to acknowledgment. Two fighters from Louisiana. Two very different fighters.

Daisy looks at Roxie and smiles wide.

Roxie does not smile back. But she nods once, slowly.

The bell rings.

They circle. The crowd is on its feet before a single move is thrown.

Roxie moves first, shooting for a collar-and-elbow, and Daisy meets it, but Roxie's weight advantage immediately puts Daisy on the defensive. Roxie drives her into the ropes, and Roxy "Patch" Malone moves in for the break.

Roxie steps back, hands raised.

They lock up again in the center. Roxie muscles Daisy into a headlock. Daisy quickly drops to one knee, hooks Roxie's near leg, and rolls through into a sunset flip pin attempt.

Goes for the cover...

Roxie sits down onto Daisy before two can count, reversing the sunset flip attempt with a seated pin. Daisy bridges up off the canvas to escape, plants her hands on the mat, and backflips to her feet.

Daisy fires a dropkick the moment she lands from the bridge, connecting flush with Roxie's chest and driving her into the ropes. Roxie bounces back and Daisy drops into a deep arm drag, sending Roxie rolling across the canvas. Roxie comes up and Daisy hits a second deep arm drag. Roxie rises again and Daisy hits a third.

Daisy stops, claps her hands three times with the crowd rhythm, and the arena answers.

Daisy runs and delivers a spinning forearm smash to Roxie as she rises, the impact snapping Roxie's head sideways. Roxie stumbles but plants her feet and stares at Daisy with that manic, unsettling grin.

Daisy smiles too, because she is Daisy Mae DuPris and she smiles at everything.

They begin a forearm and strike exchange. Roxie's clubbing forearms against Daisy's spinning forearm smashes. Back and forth. The crowd counts along with each exchange. Neither woman goes down. Roxie takes a forearm and shakes her head. Daisy takes a clubbing forearm and stumbles but finds her footing and fires right back. Back and forth until Roxie catches Daisy with a stiff headbutt that staggers her significantly.

Daisy grabs the ropes. The crowd gasps. She is dazed.

Roxie moves in and takes control, scooping Daisy up and driving her down with a heavy scoop slam that shakes the ring. Roxie drops an elbow across Daisy's chest and hooks the leg.

Goes for the cover...

Daisy rolls her shoulder up.

Roxie pulls Daisy upright immediately, drives her backward into the corner, and plants a running big boot directly into Daisy's chest.

Daisy crumples in the corner. Roxie hauls her out by the wrist, spins, and fires an exploder suplex that drives Daisy into the opposite corner turnbuckles. Daisy bounces off the buckles and falls forward onto the canvas.

Goes for the cover...

Daisy rises to one knee, shaking her head clear, and Roxie measures her from a standing position. Roxie shoots for a waistlock, looking for a German suplex, but Daisy drops her weight and twists, breaking the grip before the lift. She ducks under Roxie's arm as Roxie tries to readjust, plants herself, and snaps a tornado DDT from nowhere, driving Roxie's skull into the canvas.

The crowd erupts.

Goes for the cover...

Daisy rises and positions herself at the corner turnbuckle, climbing to the second rope. When Roxie reaches her feet, Daisy launches with a diving crossbody.

Roxie catches her.

The crowd goes wild at the sheer display of strength. Roxie has Daisy over her chest, staggering once from the impact, fighting to absorb the momentum. She hauls Daisy up and drives her over her head into an overhead belly-to-belly suplex.

Daisy lands hard, rolling toward the ropes.

Roxie comes up, left knee visibly stiff, and reaches down for Daisy, pulling her into the double underhook position for the Bayou Driver. Daisy fights it, pressing her arms out to break the underhook, dropping her weight to prevent the lift. She bursts out of the position, drops to the mat, and curls her body around Roxie's near leg in a quick headscissors that drags Roxie down to the canvas. Before Roxie can find her base, Daisy transitions directly into a rolling kneebar, wrenching back on the already-damaged knee.

Roxie howls. Her free leg drives against the mat, trying to find traction. Daisy leans back and holds.

Roxie drags herself toward the ropes with everything she has, hauling Daisy across the canvas. Daisy wrenches. Roxie inches. The crowd builds with every foot of canvas. Roxie lunges and catches the bottom rope with both hands.

Daisy releases immediately, clean, and stands. She shakes out her arms and looks at Roxie with genuine concern underneath the competition.

Roxie pulls herself upright on the ropes, and the moment she separates from them, she catches Daisy with a short-arm clothesline that snaps Daisy's neck back and puts her on the canvas.

Roxie watches Daisy rise. She does not go for a quick cover. She waits.

Daisy gets to her feet.

Roxie moves. She drags Daisy into the double underhook, lifts her from the mat, and drives the Bayou Driver, the sit-out double underhook powerbomb, directly into the center of the canvas.

The ring shakes. Daisy folds.

Roxie covers.

Goes for the cover...

The arena detonates.

Roxie sits back on her heels and stares at Daisy with genuine disbelief. She looks at Roxy "Patch" Malone. Malone holds up two fingers. Roxie runs both hands through her messy hair.

Daisy rolls to her side, pulling herself to one knee. Her legs are shaking. The crowd screams her name.

She reaches her feet. She raises both fists anyway.

Roxie comes forward with a clubbing forearm. Daisy stumbles but fires a spinning forearm right back. Roxie takes it and throws another club. Daisy takes it and answers again. They stand in the middle of the ring exchanging on pure will, neither able to put the other down, the crowd counting along with every shot.

Then Daisy catches Roxie mid-stride with a running bulldog, grabbing the front facelock and driving Roxie's face into the canvas as she runs through.

Goes for the cover...

Roxie powers out.

Daisy rises, bouncing on her toes. She positions Roxie near the corner. She climbs to the top rope. The crowd rises with her.

She launches, springboard off the ropes, spinning for the springboard Stunner.

Roxie ducks.

Daisy lands on her feet with a stumble, and Roxie is already spinning, but Daisy sees her coming and executes a reverse roll, putting Roxie between her and the ropes. She charges at the ropes, springboards off the middle rope, and this time the Swamp-Cutter connects, the springboard Stunner driving Roxie's jaw into Daisy's shoulder as she turns.

Roxie drops to the canvas on her back.

Daisy falls into the cover, barely able to hook the leg.

Goes for the cover...

Daisy lands face-first beside Roxie and lies there. Both women are on the canvas. The crowd is standing. Roxy "Patch" Malone stands over both of them, watching.

Both women rise slowly. Daisy gets there first, barely, and she drives a forearm into the side of Roxie's head. Roxie takes it and answers with a clubbing forearm that bends Daisy sideways. They stand in the center of the ring and trade, the rhythm ragged and heavy now, neither strike as clean as it was an hour ago, both women running on something past physical reserve.

Then Roxie reaches for the double underhook. The Bayou Driver. Again.

She gets the underhook on the left arm. She gets the underhook on the right. She starts to lift.

Her left knee folds.

Not a buckle. A structural failure. The knee that has been compromised since the rolling kneebar, that she has been compensating for through every exchange since Carmen Cruz let it go, gives completely under the full load of Daisy Mae DuPris's body weight. Roxie's leg goes out from under her and both women crash to the canvas in a heap, the Bayou Driver stalling halfway, the fall still driving Daisy down hard into the mat.

Roxie rolls to her side, one hand pressed flat on the canvas. She gets to one knee on the right and stays there, breathing hard, the left leg extended out to the side.

Roxy "Patch" Malone moves in immediately. She plants herself in front of Roxie, getting down to eye level.

Roxie presses the left foot flat to the canvas and drives herself upright. The leg holds. It is not comfortable and everyone watching can see it, but it holds. They are face-to-face near the ropes. Malone is still reading Roxie's eyes. Roxie has her back to the ring.

At the far turnbuckle, Daisy Mae DuPris has found the ropes and used them to climb.

She is not thinking. She is operating on something past thought. Her hands close around the top rope. She steps up. First rope. Second rope. Top rope. She steadies herself, chest heaving, sunflower-yellow gear dark with sweat, looking across the ring at the corner where she can hear Roxie arguing with Malone but cannot see past the referee's body.

She is going to fly.

At ringside, Scarlett Vice moves.

Not conspicuously. Not with urgency. Three slow, deliberate steps along the floor, bringing her to the base of the far corner. Below Daisy's feet. Out of Malone's sightline entirely. Out of Roxie's vision entirely.

The crowd sees her.

What happens next is small and quick and vicious. Scarlett reaches up with both hands and wrenches Daisy's boot sideways at the ankle, a sharp, torquing pull that has nothing accidental about it. Daisy's base goes. Her weight pitches forward off the rope. She has no time to adjust. No time to tuck. Her chin catches the top turnbuckle bracket on the way down and she lands face-first on the canvas.

The sound she makes is not the sound of a controlled landing.

The thud of Daisy's landing has turned both Malone and Roxie around. They find her face-down in the center of the ring, not moving, one arm stretched toward the ropes.

The blood comes. From the hairline where the chin caught the bracket on the way down, thin and dark, tracking through the sunflower-yellow hair.

Roxy "Patch" Malone crosses the ring in four steps and drops to one knee beside Daisy. She tilts her head gently, checks her eyes, speaks low.

Roxie Roche stands where she is.

She looks at Daisy. She looks at the blood on the canvas. She looks at the far turnbuckle. The geometry of where Daisy landed and where Daisy would have landed from a natural fall are two different places, and Roxie is a professional who has been in enough rings to understand distance.

Then she looks at the stage.

Scarlett Vice is standing at the top of the entrance ramp. She did not go through the curtain. She is standing with her arms loose at her sides, watching everything unfurl with the patience of someone who arranged the room before anyone else arrived. When Roxie's eyes find her across the arena, Scarlett holds the look without moving. The smile does not change. She does not hide from it.

Roxie says nothing. She looks back at Malone.

Roxie looks down at Daisy. Daisy's fingers are moving on the canvas. She is trying to push herself up somewhere in the fog of it, still not done. The blood runs.

Roxie lowers herself to one knee beside Daisy. She looks at her face for a moment. Whatever she reads there she keeps to herself. Then she reaches across and hooks the leg, and the motion has none of the aggression of a finish. It is careful. Quiet.

Malone drops to the canvas.

ONE.

The arena is almost silent.

TWO.

Daisy's shoulder moves. A fraction. Not enough.

THREE.

The arena finds its voice and it is not a clean sound. There is cheering for Roxie and there is grief for Daisy and there is fury aimed at the stage and all of it is happening at once. Malone presses the championship belt against Roxie's chest. Roxie takes it. She stands. She looks at it.

She looks at Daisy being helped to a seated position at ringside, a towel pressed gently to her hairline, two staff members either side of her. Daisy sits up. She is present. Her eyes are open. One of the staff says something and she nods, and she moves her own hand over the towel. She looks up at Roxie.

She nods once. That is all.

Roxie looks back at the stage.

Scarlett Vice has still not moved. Still standing at the top of the ramp, watching all of it with that same controlled stillness. Not celebrating. Not performing. Just watching the ring the way a person watches something they always knew would be theirs.

A long moment. Roxie looks at the belt. Then she raises it. One arm, slow, the nameplate catching the arena lights. She does not look up at it. She keeps her eyes on the stage. She keeps her eyes on Scarlett Vice.

Scarlett Vice turns and walks through the curtain.

The camera holds on Roxie Roche standing in the center of the ring. The championship overhead. The empty stage. The crowd finding its ROXIE chant, slow and building. Daisy Mae DuPris taking her first steps back up the ramp under her own power, one hand still pressed to the towel, chin up, the Bayou watching her go.

Roxie does not climb the turnbuckle. She does not perform. She stands in the center of the ring and holds the title in the air and looks at the place on the stage where Scarlett Vice was standing.

The Bad Juju logo detonates across the screen.