Bad Juju

"Sorry You're Not a Winner" by Enter Shikari hits, and the tron erupts.

And then the footage rolls.

Charlie Williams, standing in the center of the ring, the Spinebuster PRO Tag Team Championship raised in his right hand. The Swamp Water Energy Championship draped across his left shoulder. Four fingers pressed to his forehead, inverted downward. The Black Crown. Both titles in the same frame. The Bayou giving him everything it has.

CUT — Teddy Alexander, standing beside him, the second tag title buckled around his neck like a neck brace. His face plate gleaming under the Bayou lights. Teddy looking directly into the hard camera. One slow tap on the faceplate.

CUT — Harry Balkin Jr., both hands on the top rope, staring into the ring. Jaw set. Chest heaving. Not moving. Not speaking. That somehow worse than anything he could have said.

CUT — Gruff Veracity, fall one, the uranage landing. Harry on the canvas for three seconds in a match that lasted considerably longer. Gruff standing upright, not celebrating. Just breathing. Just waiting for the next fall to begin.

CUT — Elvis Hunt, fall two. The Strip Search grinding. The crowd counting him through it. Hunt's face, not the grin. The real face underneath. The one that remembers what he was.

CUT — Fall three. Both men on fumes. Thirty minutes of wrestling across two falls already spent. Forearm for forearm in the center of the ring, neither man's head moving far anymore, both men still swinging.

CUT — The Truth Bomb. Gruff at the top rope. The silence before it.

CUT — Hunt rolling out of the way. Gruff absorbing the landing. The crowd holding its breath for the full second that followed.

CUT — Hunt's hand raised. Gruff on the canvas, not moving. The look on Hunt's face: not triumph. Something older and quieter than triumph. Something that has been a long time coming.

CUT — Ike Gritsenko, the Dial Tone, landing clean. Vox Null on the canvas.

A pause. One beat of silence.

CUT — Then the footage cuts darker. Vox Null, face down on the canvas, not tapping. Not flinching. The referee counting. The referee stopping. Gritsenko standing over him with the clipboard raised like an exhibit.

CUT — The clipboard clattering to the mat. Harry Balkin Jr., reaching down, picking it up. Reading it. Folding the top sheet once, carefully, and tucking it inside his waistband. Looking directly into the hard camera.

CUT — R.V. Sovereign, center ring, placing the invisible crown onto his own head with both hands. The crowd at full volume against him. His expression: settled.

CUT — Adam Monday, the pop-up knee connecting. Sovereign dropping. Monday on his knees over him.

CUT — Kid Koala airborne under the Bayou lights. Rey Manta, watching from the corner, unmoved. Sovereign at the ropes, watching Manta, calculating. Monday watching all three of them.

CUT — The referee's count. One. Two. Three. The championship belt lifted. The Bayou coming apart.

CUT — April Monday at the ramp, looking into the ring. Not at the new champion. At the ring itself. At whatever the building has just become.

CUT — Roxie Roche, the Bayou Driver landing. Daisy Mae DuPris down. Scarlett Vice watching from the corner, deciding something.

CUT — The Femina Imperium Championship raised. Roxie not looking at it. Looking at the crowd. Looking at what comes next.

CUT — The Haughty Troupe in the corridor, Bullseye Kid's voice flat and deliberate. The ice age does not ask permission.

The music swells. The footage cuts faster.

CUT — The Shatter Point. The angerbash. The Bayou Driver. The Dial Tone. The Hunt Punt. The Truth Bomb. The invisible crown placed with both hands. The tag titles gleaming. The heavyweight title raised for the first time. A championship nobody had held yesterday and somebody holds now.

CUT — April Monday at her desk. Not looking up from the paperwork. The cold cup of coffee. The legal pad.

She speaks without raising her voice.

APRIL

"The legacy demands a blood price. Nobody gets a discount."

FLASH CUT — The tag titles on both THRØNEBREACH DISASTER men. Charlie's fingers splayed, Teddy's neck brace.

FLASH CUT — Elvis Hunt, pointing one slow finger at the camera, somewhere between a toast and a threat.

FLASH CUT — Vox Null in the corridor, new phone in hand.

FLASH CUT — R.V. Sovereign watching the new Heavyweight Champion from across the locker room. Not approaching. Just watching.

Pyros explode on the stage.

The crowd pops loudly.

Welcome to Bad Juju.

The house lights cut. The arena drops into a deep, elegant tropical teal wash. A single brass chord swells through the speakers, long and regal, filling every corner of The Bayou like the opening of a coronation ceremony. The crowd stirs, confused at first, then the recognition kicks in and the boos begin to build.

The orchestral brass arrangement continues its sweeping, majestic swell. Vivienne Vance appears first at the top of the ramp. She steps into the teal light with absolute composure. Back straight. Head perfectly level. The gold embroidery along her teal lapels catches the light like she was designed to be seen under it. She holds her gold-trimmed leather folder pressed against her chest like a shield. Her expression is a cold, pleasant smile directed at no one in particular.

Vivienne steps to the left. She turns back toward the entrance. One hand extends with a practiced, elegant gesture, presenting the space beside her.

The brass swells to its peak.

Rey Manta steps through the curtain.

The seafoam-green cape billows behind him, catching the teal light and spreading wide like the wingspan of something enormous rising from deep water. The Spinebuster PRO Heavyweight Championship is strapped around his waist, the gold plate gleaming. He holds a polished gold cane at his side. He stops at the top of the ramp and looks out over the crowd with absolute, unblinking contempt.

Rey Manta does not react. He raises the gold cane slowly above his head. He holds it there.

The flamenco-metal drums explode.

Rey Manta begins his walk down the ramp. It is slow. Deliberate. Every step placed with the unhurried certainty of a man who knows the building cannot start without him. Vivienne walks seamlessly at his left, leaning in occasionally to speak close to his ear. He does not look at her when she does it. He keeps his eyes on the ring.

Rey Manta reaches the steel ring steps. He ascends them without breaking stride. He steps through the ropes with fluid, effortless elegance, one hand resting briefly on the top rope. Vivienne follows through the middle rope, smooth and practiced. She moves directly to the center of the ring. With one sharp, precise flick of her wrist, she unclamps the seafoam cape from Rey Manta's shoulders. She folds it over her forearm and hands it to an attendant at ringside with the same expression she might use to hand someone a parking ticket.

Rey Manta moves to the nearest corner. He steps up to the second turnbuckle. He looks out over the arena. He holds the championship belt up with one hand, the gold cane in the other, and stares down at the audience like a man surveying something he already owns.

The music fades.

The boos fill the silence.

Rey Manta descends from the turnbuckle. He stands in the center of the ring. He extends one open hand toward Vivienne without looking at her. She produces a microphone from inside her folder and places it in his palm with practiced precision. He holds it at his side for a moment. Then he raises it slowly.

He pauses. He lets his free hand gesture slowly down the length of his own body, from the mask to the championship plate.

He holds the championship up again, then lowers it. He extends the microphone back toward Vivienne without ceremony. She accepts it, steps forward one precise step, and addresses the crowd directly.

She smiles. It does not reach her eyes.

A ripple of boos. She tilts her head slightly, acknowledging them the way you might acknowledge a car alarm going off two streets over.

She turns slightly, gesturing to the championship around Rey Manta's waist.

She opens her folder. She glances at a page. She closes it again. She does this with the energy of someone who has already read the report and already knows how bad it is.

She turns back to Rey Manta. She extends the microphone. He takes it. He looks at the crowd for a long, quiet moment. Then he speaks.

He pauses. He lets the silence sit.

He lowers the microphone. He holds the championship belt up with his free hand and stares at it.

He hands the microphone back to Vivienne. She steps forward again.

She lets that sit. The boos are immediate and loud.

Vivienne does not flinch. She raises one hand, palm out, not to silence the crowd but to acknowledge their reaction the way a professor acknowledges a student's incorrect answer.

She closes her folder.

She gestures to the title at Rey Manta's waist.

Rey Manta raises the gold cane. He holds it at his side. He looks out at the crowd with the same cold, detached expression he walked in with. He speaks one final time, slowly and clearly, not into the microphone but loud enough that the ringside mics catch every word.

Vivienne Vance moves back to Rey Manta's side. She smoothly reclaims the microphone from his hand and tucks it back into her folder. She produces the seafoam cape from the ringside attendant and steps behind Rey Manta, reclasping it across his shoulders with two precise, practiced movements. Rey Manta adjusts the championship on his waist. He does not look at the crowd again.

He walks to the ropes. He steps through them. He descends the ring steps. Vivienne follows. They walk back up the ramp at the same unhurried, gliding pace they arrived with. The teal lighting washes over them. The crowd is loud and hostile and Rey Manta gives them nothing.

Rey Manta and Vivienne Vance reach the top of the ramp. He stops one final time. He raises the championship above his head without turning around. He holds it there for a long, contemptuous moment. Then he walks through the curtain. Vivienne follows. The teal lights fade. The house lights return.

The crowd is still buzzing.

The camera focuses on the commentary desk where Morton Murphy does not look amused with the address Vance and Rey Manta gave the crowd. pain GRILLÉ is snickering and adjusting his lapel.

The lights in The Bayou drop to a deep red. A low, grinding guitar chord rolls through the PA system like a storm front moving in off the Gulf.

The guitar riff kicks into something heavier. The crowd ignites. Adam Monday walks through the curtain with zero theatrics. No posing. No pyro. He stands at the top of the ramp, auburn hair loose around his shoulders, the BLOODY MONDAY shirt stretched across his chest, eyes already locked on the ring like he has been waiting for this moment since the day he was born.

Adam reaches the ringside area. He does not slap hands. He walks the perimeter of the ring slowly, scanning the floor, the announce table, the chairs stacked at ringside. He is already mapping the battlefield. He rolls under the bottom rope, stands in the center of the ring, and raises one fist to the ceiling.

The lights return to full. Adam lowers his fist. He rolls his neck. He waits.

The PA fires up a sleazy, sun-baked guitar swagger. Something that sounds like it was recorded in a casino lounge at four in the morning by people who were not entirely sober. Elvis Hunt pushes through the curtain with his aviator sunglasses on, teal Hawaiian shirt completely unbuttoned and flapping behind him, beer gut preceding him by roughly six inches, single black fingerless glove raised in greeting to a crowd that somehow, inexplicably, absolutely loves this man.

Hunt stops halfway down the ramp. He pulls his sunglasses down his nose and surveys the ringside area with what appears to be genuine professional interest. He spots the chairs. He spots the announce table. He spots the kendo stick propped against the apron. He nods slowly, as if confirming an internal checklist.

Then he spots the camera closest to the entrance and leans directly into it.

Hunt makes his way down the ramp, slapping hands with the front row fans on both sides, stopping to wink at a woman in a Spinebuster PRO t-shirt who looks deeply unimpressed, and then climbing the ring steps with the careful deliberateness of a man whose knees have opinions. He ducks through the ropes, drops his Hawaiian shirt on the canvas, adjusts his fingerless glove, and faces Adam Monday from across the ring.

The two men stand ten feet apart. Adam is still. Hunt is rocking slightly on his heels, rolling his shoulders.

She turns and signals to the timekeeper.

Neither man moves immediately. Adam Monday's eyes are fixed on Hunt's center mass. Hunt is studying the ring, the exits, the weapons outside. It is a mutual calculation.

Then Hunt breaks it with a grin. He spreads his arms wide.

Adam does not smile. He steps forward, and Hunt meets him in the middle of the ring. They lock up in a collar-and-elbow tie-up, and the size difference is immediately apparent. Hunt is only an inch shorter but fifty-six pounds heavier, and when he plants his feet and drives forward, Adam actually slides back half a step.

Adam plants his base, redirects Hunt's momentum, and twists into a side headlock. He cranks it down hard, grinding the hold. Hunt grabs Adam's wrist, tries to peel the arm away, cannot. He shoves Adam toward the ropes instead, breaking the hold on the rebound. Adam comes back off the ropes and Hunt drops his shoulder for a body block.

Adam takes the hit but does not go down. He staggers one step. Hunt looks mildly surprised. Adam fires back immediately with a running shoulderbreaker, dropping his shoulder into Hunt's collarbone and driving him sideways into the ropes.

Hunt grabs the top rope to steady himself, rubbing his shoulder. He looks at Adam with something that might be respect and might be irritation.

Adam charges. Hunt sidesteps and catches Adam's arm on the way past, wrenching it into a short-arm elbow that snaps into Adam's jaw.

Adam's head turns. He takes a step sideways. Hunt grabs him by the wrist and fires another short-arm elbow, this one to the temple.

Adam shakes his head, pulls his arm free, and fires a forearm directly into Hunt's face. Hunt's head snaps back. Hunt fires one back. Adam takes it and fires another. Hunt takes it and fires another.

The crowd wakes up immediately.

They are standing in the center of the ring trading forearms with full extension, heads snapping on every shot. Adam takes one that staggers him a half-step left. Hunt takes one that makes his knee dip. Adam throws another. Hunt takes it, shakes his head, and fires a headbutt directly into Adam's forehead.

Hunt grabs his own forehead. Adam stumbles backward. Both men are momentarily separated, both slightly dazed. The crowd is already loud.

Hunt recovers first. He charges across the ring and delivers a running body block that sends Adam crashing into the corner turnbuckles. The impact shakes the ring. Hunt follows in immediately, drives a forearm into Adam's face, then grabs him by the arm and whips him hard to the opposite corner.

Adam hits the turnbuckles back-first. Hunt is already running. He delivers a corner avalanche body block with all three hundred and one pounds behind it.

Adam staggers out of the corner. Hunt catches him, hooks his arm and leg, and delivers a fisherman-style throw that drops Adam onto the canvas. He rolls into a cover.

Goes for the cover...

KICKOUT!

Adam kicks out and immediately rolls away from Hunt, creating distance. He gets to his feet, breathing steadily, resetting. Hunt is already pulling at the bottom rope, trying to get the kendo stick from ringside.

Hunt gets his fingers around the kendo stick and pulls it into the ring. He turns, holding it across his body like a baseball bat. Adam sees it, measures the distance, and fires a spear tackle before Hunt can swing.

The kendo stick skitters across the canvas. Both men are down. Adam is up first. He grabs the kendo stick, takes a breath, and waits for Hunt to get to his hands and knees.

Hunt pushes up to all fours. Adam drives the kendo stick across Hunt's back.

Hunt arches. Adam drives it across again.

Adam hauls Hunt up by the hair, hooks him in a front facelock, and drives him down with a Crapshoot DDT onto the kendo stick.

Goes for the cover...

KICKOUT!

Hunt powers out. Adam does not look surprised. He pulls Hunt up again, hooks the arm, and delivers a tilt-a-whirl backbreaker, bending Hunt across his knee with a sharp crack.

Adam rolls out of the ring. He walks to the timekeeper's table and picks up a steel chair, folding it deliberately. He slides back into the ring.

Hunt is on one knee, hand on the mat, pushing himself up. His back is already showing the red welts from the kendo stick. Adam measures him.

Adam swings the chair.

Hunt ducks.

The chair connects with nothing but air. Hunt comes up from the duck and drives a throat thrust directly into Adam's windpipe.

Adam drops the chair, grabbing his throat. Hunt snatches the chair off the canvas, rears back, and drives it directly into Adam's ribs.

Adam doubles over. Hunt swings again, this time across the back.

Hunt tosses the chair aside, grabs Adam by the wrist, and whips him hard toward the ropes. Adam hits the ropes, comes back, and Hunt catches him with a running senton, driving all three hundred and one pounds across Adam's midsection.

Goes for the cover...

KICKOUT!

Hunt sits up, already a little winded. He runs a hand through his thinning hair and looks at Roxy.

Hunt grabs Adam and drags him toward the ropes. He dumps Adam between the top and middle rope so that Adam's midsection is draped over the bottom rope, upper body hanging outside the ring. Hunt backs up, runs the ropes, and drops a leg across the back of Adam's neck.

Adam tumbles off the apron and hits the floor hard, landing on his hands and knees at ringside. Hunt rolls out of the ring after him, moving with more urgency than his physique suggests is possible.

Hunt grabs Adam by the back of the head and walks him toward the announce table. He looks directly at Murphy and pain.

Hunt drives Adam's face into the announce table.

Adam's head bounces off the table. He staggers sideways. Hunt grabs him again and drives his face into the table a second time.

Hunt grabs a water bottle from the announce table and takes a long drink. He looks at Murphy.

Hunt turns back to Adam. Adam has used the table to pull himself up and immediately fires a forearm into Hunt's jaw. Hunt spits. Adam fires another. Hunt fires one back. Adam grabs Hunt by the back of the head and drives him face-first into the ring post.

Hunt grabs the post to keep himself upright. A thin line of red appears above his left eyebrow where the post caught him. He turns slowly, and the camera catches the blood starting to run.

Hunt reaches up and touches the blood. He looks at his fingers. He looks at Adam Monday.

He wipes the blood on his wrestling briefs and charges Adam with a running body block.

Both men go over the barricade into the crowd.

The crowd parts around them, those in the front rows backing away to create a circle. Roxy "Patch" Malone drops off the apron and follows them over the barricade without breaking stride, completely unfazed.

Hunt and Adam are on their feet in the crowd area. Hunt grabs a folding chair from a vacated front-row seat and swings it at Adam. Adam ducks under it, the chair whistling past his head, and drives a sling blade that takes Hunt off his feet and sends him crashing into a row of empty chairs.

Fans in the surrounding area: "HOLY SHIT!" (Clap-clap-clapclapclap)

Adam pulls Hunt up from the wreckage, hooks him in a front facelock, and drags him deeper into the crowd area, walking him up the concrete steps toward the back of the arena. The fans follow, phones raised, screaming.

At the top of the steps, Adam drives Hunt's back into the concrete wall. Hunt grunts. Adam hooks him for a capture suplex, lifting Hunt off the concrete floor and driving him down hard.

Hunt is down on the concrete floor. Adam drops to a knee beside him and hooks the leg. Roxy is right there, dropping to the floor beside them.

KICKOUT!

Hunt kicks out and rolls away, clutching his back. The blood from above his eye is running freely now, mixing with sweat, dripping onto the concrete.

Adam grabs Hunt and walks him along the concourse wall. He looks for something to use. He finds a merchandise table set up along the concourse wall, t-shirts and programs stacked on it. He grabs Hunt and runs him face-first into the edge of the merchandise table.

T-shirts go flying. Programs scatter. The merchandise table collapses on one side. A Spinebuster PRO staff member scrambles out of the way.

Hunt drops to his knees against the collapsed table. Adam grabs a BLOODY MONDAY t-shirt from the floor, looks at it for a moment, then wraps it around Hunt's face and drives his head into the table again.

Adam drags Hunt back to his feet and walks him back toward the steps. They are heading back to the ring. The crowd parts again as they descend, fans screaming and reaching out.

Halfway down the steps, Hunt grabs the handrail and stops. He uses the handrail to pull himself around, reversing his position, and drives a short-arm elbow directly into Adam's face.

Adam's grip loosens. Hunt grabs Adam's head and drives it into the metal handrail.

Adam grabs the handrail to steady himself. A small cut opens above his hairline. Blood begins to track down the left side of his face, catching in his beard.

They fight the rest of the way down the steps, trading shots, both bleeding, both refusing to give ground. They spill back over the barricade to ringside. Hunt grabs Adam and drives him spine-first into the ring apron.

Adam arches off the apron. Hunt grabs him and rolls him back into the ring.

In the ring, Hunt has Adam down on the canvas. He drops a knee across Adam's midsection, then hooks him up and delivers the Strip Search, that heavy inverted facelock backbreaker, grinding Adam's upper spine across his knee and wrenching back.

Adam's face contorts. His back is already compromised from being driven into the ring apron. Hunt holds the position, grinding the backbreaker, twisting Adam's neck and spine simultaneously.

Hunt finally drops Adam off his knee and onto the canvas. He takes a moment to catch his breath, hands on his knees, the blood from his eyebrow dripping onto the mat. He looks at the cut, looks at the camera, and shrugs.

He grabs Adam by the ankle and drags him toward the corner. He climbs to the second rope, pauses to wipe the blood from his eye, and drops a leg drop across the back of Adam's neck.

Goes for the cover...

KICKOUT!

Hunt sits up, breathing harder now. He runs a hand over his face, smearing blood. He looks at Roxy.

Hunt pulls Adam up. He hooks him for a Russian leg sweep, taking them both down to the canvas in a controlled fall. He rolls over into a cover.

KICKOUT!

Hunt is up again. He is working methodically now, the blood on his face giving him a genuinely unhinged quality that the crowd is responding to.

Hunt grabs Adam and hauls him to his feet. He hooks him for a spinebuster, drives Adam down into the canvas.

Goes for the cover...

The crowd surges.

Hunt pounds the mat with his gloved fist. He gets to his feet, wipes the blood from his face with his forearm, and goes to ringside. He pulls the ring steps apart, taking the top half and sliding it into the ring. He slides in after it.

Hunt positions the ring steps in the center of the ring. He grabs Adam, who is on his hands and knees, and drives his face into the steel.

Adam slumps. The cut above his hairline reopens and blood runs freely down the left side of his face, the streak that earned him his nickname now vivid and real.

Hunt steps back. He looks at Adam, slumped against the ring steps, bleeding. He looks at the camera. Something crosses his face, something that might be the ghost of the prodigy he used to be before Las Vegas got its hooks into him.

He grabs Adam by the hair and drives a full-force pelvic thrust to the face.

Hunt drops to a cover.

Adam Monday is on his back, bleeding, chest heaving. Hunt has gone to ringside again and is pulling a table out from under the ring. He slides it in, then slides in after it.

The crowd is already on its feet.

Hunt sets the table up in the corner, leaning it between the second and third turnbuckles. He turns back to Adam, who has used the ring ropes to pull himself to his feet. The blood on Adam's face is stark under the arena lights, running through his beard, dripping off his chin.

Hunt charges.

Adam sidesteps. Hunt cannot stop his momentum and goes chest-first into the table in the corner. The table does not break. Hunt bounces off it and staggers back. Adam catches him from behind, locks in the half nelson choke suplex grip, and launches Hunt overhead.

The crowd erupts.

Adam drops to cover.

KICKOUT!

Hunt kicks out. Adam is immediately back to his feet, moving with urgency now. He grabs Hunt, hooks him up, and delivers the pumphandle suplex, swinging Hunt up and over with full extension.

Goes for the cover...

KICKOUT!

Hunt rolls to the ropes. Adam grabs him by the ankle before he can get outside the ring. Hunt kicks at Adam's grip. Adam holds on. Hunt manages to pull himself to the apron, dangling half in, half out.

Adam sees the position. He reaches over the top rope, grabs Hunt's head, and drapes him throat-first across the top rope, then steps back and delivers the guillotine leg drop, his leg driving across the back of Hunt's neck from the apron position.

Hunt drops off the apron to the floor. Adam stands in the ring, blood on his face, chest heaving, but alive with momentum. The crowd is screaming.

Adam hits the far ropes, comes back, and launches himself through the middle and top ropes with a suicide dive that takes Hunt completely off his feet at ringside.

Both men are down on the floor. Roxy leans over the ropes, watching, making no count. This is a hardcore match. There is no count-out.

Adam is up first. He grabs Hunt and rolls him back into the ring. He follows, grabs the kendo stick that is still on the canvas from earlier, and drives it across Hunt's ribs.

Hunt curls up. Adam drives it across the ribs again.

Adam drops the kendo stick. He grabs Hunt, hooks him for the inverted fisherman buster, lifting Hunt and driving him down with the inverted position, head and neck taking the impact.

Goes for the cover...

Adam sits up, blood dripping from his face onto the canvas. He looks at his hands. He looks at Hunt. He nods slowly, like something has been confirmed.

He stands. He grabs the table that is still set up in the corner and repositions it flat in the center of the ring. He hauls Hunt up, hooks him in a front facelock, and positions him for what is clearly going to be a suplex through the table.

Hunt blocks the suplex. He drives his feet into the mat and prevents the lift. He fires a short-arm elbow into Adam's ribs. Adam's grip loosens. Hunt drives another elbow into the ribs, targeting the same spot. Adam releases the facelock.

Hunt grabs Adam, hooks him, and delivers the Blackjack Backbreaker, the tilt-a-whirl backbreaker, driving Adam across his knee right at the edge of the table.

Adam rolls off Hunt's knee and lands on the table. The table holds. Hunt stands over him, blood still running from his eyebrow, chest heaving.

Hunt looks at the table. He looks at Adam lying on it. He looks at the crowd.

He goes to the corner. He climbs. Slowly, carefully, with the deliberate caution of a man who has not climbed a turnbuckle in some time and is very aware of his own weight distribution.

Hunt reaches the top rope. He steadies himself. He looks down at Adam on the table. He adjusts his fingerless glove.

He leaps.

Running senton from the top rope.

The table explodes.

Both men are buried in the wreckage of the table. Neither is moving. Roxy leans over the ropes and looks down at the carnage. She looks at the timekeeper. She shrugs.

Thirty seconds pass. The crowd is chanting.

Hunt moves first. He rolls off the table wreckage, landing on his back on the canvas, staring at the ceiling. He is covered in blood and wood splinters. He rolls to his side. He pushes up.

Adam is moving too. He gets to his hands and knees, shaking wood splinters out of his hair. Blood is running freely down his face. He looks at Hunt. Hunt looks at him.

They both start getting up at the same time.

They meet in the center of the ring, both upright, both bloody, both swaying slightly. They stand nose to nose.

Hunt fires a forearm.

Adam takes it and fires one back.

Hunt takes it and fires another.

Adam fires another.

The exchange builds, both men throwing with everything they have left, heads snapping, blood spraying with each impact. The crowd is screaming with every shot.

Adam gets staggered. Hunt throws a rapid elbow strike combination, three in a row, each one snapping Adam's head to the side.

Adam drops to one knee. The crowd holds its breath.

Then Adam rises.

He takes the next elbow Hunt throws and does not move. He looks Hunt in the eye. He fires a forearm that drives Hunt back two full steps.

Adam grabs Hunt, hooks him up, and delivers the 180 degree lifting sitout spinebuster, planting Hunt into the canvas with full rotation.

Goes for the cover...

Adam grabs Hunt and pulls him to his feet. He hooks him into the fireman's carry position, lifting all three hundred and one pounds off the canvas. The crowd is on its feet.

Adam drives Hunt down into the STO backbreaker across his knee.

Adam hooks the leg.

The crowd erupts.

Adam sits on the canvas, breathing hard, blood on his face, and stares at Hunt. His expression is not panic. It is something colder. He stands slowly. He picks up the steel chair that has been at ringside since the opening minutes. He looks at it.

He drives it across Hunt's back.

And again.

And again.

Adam tosses the chair. He grabs Hunt, hooks him for another fireman's carry. He gets Hunt halfway up. Hunt drives an elbow down into Adam's collarbone. Adam staggers. Hunt drives another elbow. Adam drops him.

Hunt grabs Adam's head and drives it down into the steel chair on the canvas.

Adam goes flat. Hunt drops to his back beside him, both men gasping.

Hunt rolls over. He grabs Adam's arm and hooks it, pulling himself on top for a cover.

KICKOUT!

Adam powers out. Hunt cannot believe it. He looks at Roxy.

Hunt grabs Adam and pulls him to his feet. He hooks him in the front facelock, drives him down with the Crapshoot DDT.

Goes for the cover...

KICKOUT!

Hunt sits back on his heels. He wipes the blood from his eye with the back of his gloved hand. He looks at Adam Monday, who is on the canvas, chest rising and falling, bloodied and spent but alive and fighting.

He stands. He backs away. He rolls his neck. He looks at the crowd. He looks at the camera.

Adam begins to stir. He pushes up to his hands and knees. He is shaking his head, trying to clear it. He gets to one knee.

He starts to rise.

Hunt charges.

The Hunt Punt connects flush with Adam Monday's face. The sound echoes through The Bayou like a rifle shot. Adam goes flat on the canvas and does not move.

The crowd is on its feet, a wall of noise.

Hunt drops to his knees, then falls forward across Adam Monday, both arms draped over him. Roxy is there.

Hunt is on his back on the canvas, staring at the ceiling, chest heaving, blood drying on his face. He does not get up immediately. He cannot. He lies there for a long moment, one arm raised toward the ceiling, fingerless glove pointing upward.

Roxy "Patch" Malone looks at both men on the canvas. She nods once, as if confirming something she already knew, and steps through the ropes and out of the ring without ceremony.

The crowd is still buzzing. Some are chanting.

Hunt finally rolls to his side. He gets to his knees. He looks at Adam Monday, who has not moved. Something passes across Hunt's face. He reaches out and puts a hand on Adam's shoulder for a moment.

Adam stirs. He blinks. He looks at Hunt.

Hunt removes his hand. He sits back. He almost smiles.

Hunt gets to his feet, using the ropes to haul himself up. He stands in the ring, bloody and exhausted, and the crowd gives him a standing ovation that he receives with the unearned confidence of a man who has never once doubted he deserved one.

He looks at the camera again. He points.

Hunt climbs the second rope in the corner, raising his fingerless glove to the crowd. Blood is dried in streaks across his face. His teal Hawaiian shirt is long gone, lost somewhere in the concourse. He looks like a man who has been through something real and survived it.

The crowd cheers him. They cheer Adam Monday too, who has rolled to the ropes and is sitting against the bottom turnbuckle, head down, breathing.

The camera cuts backstage. A narrow corridor near the visiting locker room. Fluorescent light overhead, one of the tubes flickering. BookFace stands with his tablet under his arm, back against the wall, mask catching the bad light. He has been waiting. Amber Rizzoli leans against the opposite wall, arms folded, studying her nails. Harry Balkin Jr. arrives last, rounding the corner at pace, blazer still on, jaw tight. He stops when he sees them both already there.

He sets the tablet face-down against the wall. No stream. No metrics. This is not content.

Harry says nothing. He is looking at the flickering tube above them like it personally offends him.

Harry finally looks at him. His voice stays even. Cable-anchor even. The kind of even that costs something to maintain.

A beat. Harry exhales through his nose. Smooths the lapel of his blazer.

Harry looks at him for a long moment. Then, with the measured precision of a man making a formal statement on the record.

He turns. Amber has been watching this entire exchange with the practiced patience of someone who has been waiting for their name to come up and already has the answer ready. She tilts her head slightly when BookFace's attention shifts to her. Her expression does not change.

Amber unfolds her arms. She pushes off the wall and stands up straight. She looks at BookFace with that over-sweet smile that doesn't reach anywhere near her eyes.

Amber's smile tightens by approximately one millimetre.

He looks at Harry.

Harry says nothing but there is something in his face that is not quite gratitude and not quite contempt. It is something more complicated than either.

Amber looks down at her nails again. Then back up. The smile is gone.

She pushes past them both and walks down the corridor without looking back. Her boots click on the concrete until the sound fades.

Harry watches her go.

He picks up his tablet. The screen lights up. Numbers climbing.

Harry straightens his blazer. Looks once more at the flickering light. Looks back at BookFace.

He walks. BookFace follows, already back on the tablet. The corridor is empty. The light keeps flickering.

pain says nothing. He picks up his headset cable and adjusts it unnecessarily.

The arena lights stay hot. The crowd is still buzzing from whatever came before, the energy in The Bayou not quite settled, and then the PA crackles.

The lights drop to a sharp red. A single spotlight hits the entrance.

The crowd boos immediately and with feeling. TBK walks out from behind the curtain with his chin up, the red and white bullseye mask catching the spotlight. He's got a steel chair in one hand, dragging it along the ramp, the legs scraping metal on steel with a sound that cuts through the arena. He doesn't acknowledge the crowd. He doesn't look at them. He walks to the ring with the deliberate economy of a man who has been doing this for twenty years and has stopped pretending to enjoy it.

TBK slides the chair into the ring ahead of him and follows it through the ropes. He picks the chair back up and sets it in the corner, facing the entrance, and leans against the turnbuckle with his arms folded.

The lights shift. Green lightning bolt graphics strobe across the screen.

The crowd responds with genuine heat. Jet Vessil steps through the curtain and the size of him lands differently in the arena light -- the armored black and gray mask, the green accents, the eagle tattoo visible across his chest even from the cheap seats. He carries nothing. He doesn't need to. He walks down the ramp with the patience of a man who knows the match starts when he decides it starts.

Vessil steps over the top rope rather than ducking under it. He stands in the center of the ring and the two men stare at each other across eight feet of canvas. TBK doesn't move from his corner. Vessil doesn't move from center ring.

The referee calls for the bell.

TBK comes out of the corner fast, snatching the steel chair before Vessil can close the distance, and he swings it hard at Vessil's ribs on the approach.

Vessil grunts and staggers sideways into the ropes. TBK doesn't let him breathe, driving the chair into Vessil's midsection a second time, doubling him over the top rope. TBK winds up and delivers a Quickdraw Chop across Vessil's exposed upper back.

TBK grabs Vessil by the back of the head and whips him hard into the corner, following immediately with a corner strike combo -- forearm, forearm, open palm, forearm -- rapid and precise, each shot snapping Vessil's head back against the turnbuckle. TBK steps back, measures, and drives a Deadeye Dropkick straight into Vessil's chest, pinning him in the corner for a moment before Vessil slides down to a seated position.

TBK backs up to the opposite corner, runs, and drives a boot straight into Vessil's face. Vessil's head snaps back into the bottom turnbuckle. TBK drops for the cover.

Goes for the cover...

Vessil shoves him off with authority.

TBK rolls to the apron, reaches under the ring, and pulls out a kendo stick. The crowd reacts. He slides back in and catches Vessil across the back as the big man tries to push up to his feet.

Three rapid shots across the spine. Vessil arches in pain and rolls toward the ropes. TBK tosses the kendo stick aside and grabs Vessil by the arm, trying to wrench him back to center ring. Vessil plants his hand on the bottom rope and pushes. TBK pulls. For a moment it's a genuine contest of will, and then Vessil drives himself upright with a grunt, turning to face TBK and grabbing him by the throat.

Vessil shoves TBK back into the ropes and when TBK comes off them, Vessil catches him with the Intercept Lariat, the full arm extension driving TBK completely off his feet and spinning him to the canvas.

Vessil reaches down and drags TBK up by the mask, then hoists him overhead with a gorilla press -- the crowd counts along as he holds TBK there, suspended, six foot five and nearly three hundred pounds pressing a twenty-year veteran over his head.

He throws TBK across the ring. TBK hits the canvas hard and rolls to the apron, spilling to the floor.

Vessil steps through the ropes and follows TBK to the floor. He reaches down and picks TBK up, walking him toward the announce table, and drives TBK's face into the edge of the table.

TBK bounces off and staggers. Vessil grabs him and hurls him with a Catch-and-Turn Suplex on the floor, TBK landing hard on the thin mats with a sickening thud. Vessil drops for the cover.

Goes for the cover on the floor...

TBK rolls the shoulder.

Vessil pulls TBK up and walks him toward the crowd barrier. He goes to drive TBK over it, but TBK hooks the top rail, reverses, and drives a Ricochet Kick into the side of Vessil's knee. Vessil buckles. TBK grabs the back of Vessil's head and drives him face-first into the barrier.

TBK grabs Vessil by the wrist and drags him toward the crowd. He hops over the barrier and pulls Vessil over with him. The fans scatter back. TBK drives Vessil into a row of empty chairs, metal folding chairs clattering across the concrete floor.

TBK picks up a loose folding chair from the floor and cracks it across Vessil's back. Vessil goes down to one knee. TBK winds up again.

A second shot. Vessil goes to both knees. TBK raises the chair a third time and brings it down across the top of Vessil's head.

Vessil collapses forward onto the concrete.

TBK looks down at Vessil with contempt, breathing hard. He tosses the chair aside. He rolls his neck. He looks out at the crowd around him with that familiar sneer, and then something in the corner of his eye catches him.

A fan in a TBK mask.

Red and white. Bullseye pattern. Sitting three rows back, hoodie up, completely still.

TBK stops.

TBK takes a step toward the fan, confused, maybe flattered. He points at the mask. The fan doesn't move.

TBK takes another step.

The fan stands up.

TBK stops again.

The fan launches forward and drives a straight shot into TBK's face.

TBK reels backward. The masked fan grabs him by the back of the head and drives TBK's forehead into the metal edge of a row of seat backs.

The camera pushes in and catches it. Blood, thin at first, then running freely from a gash above TBK's left eye, cutting down through the bullseye mask, dripping off his chin. TBK grabs at his face and his hand comes away red.

The masked fan grabs TBK by the wrist and the back of the head and starts dragging him down through the crowd toward the barrier. TBK is limp, barely fighting, blood streaming down the mask. The fan hauls him over the barrier and drags him down to ringside. TBK's boots drag on the floor.

The masked fan rolls TBK into the ring. TBK gets to his knees, blood dripping onto the canvas. He looks up, vision swimming, and the masked fan climbs to the top rope.

The fan pulls off the TBK mask.

Kid Koala.

TBK looks up through the blood and sees the gray koala mask looking back down at him from the top rope. His mouth moves. No sound comes out.

Koala launches off the top rope -- the Koala Killa Krusha -- the somersault leg drop, the full rotation, the impact driving across the back of TBK's neck and shoulders, driving him face-first into the canvas.

TBK is face down on the canvas. Blood pools under his mask. Koala stands over him for one moment, then looks toward the crowd, then looks down at TBK, then rolls out of the ring. He doesn't run. He walks. Deliberately. He hops the barrier back into the crowd.

Movement at ringside. Jet Vessil, stirring on the concrete where TBK left him, pushes himself up on one hand. He shakes his head once. He sees the barrier. He sees the ring. He sees TBK face down in the middle of it.

Vessil grabs the apron and hauls himself up. He rolls under the bottom rope.

Vessil stands over TBK. He reaches down and grabs TBK by the singlet, pulling him up. TBK's knees barely hold. Blood runs freely from the cut, the red and white mask now almost entirely red on the left side. Vessil looks at him for a moment. Then he hooks him.

The Vacancy.

He drives TBK into the canvas with everything he has.

The ring shakes. TBK does not move.

Got it. Here's the finish:

Vessil drops for the cover. The referee slides in.

Goes for the cover...

At ringside, a medic slides under the bottom rope. TBK is on his hands and knees, the left side of the bullseye mask soaked through, blood dripping from his chin onto the canvas. His hand comes up to wave the medic off. The medic does not listen. TBK does not have the strength to argue about it.

The camera finds the barrier where Kid Koala went over. He is gone. The TBK mask sits on an empty seat in the third row.

The Spinebuster PRO branded backdrop fills the frame. The monitor in the background is showing the tail end of the night's action, its screen flickering with the arena feed. The lighting is clean and professional. Jarvis Jolt stands perfectly straight in his royal blue paisley suit, the gold embroidery catching the overhead light, his JJ-branded microphone already raised. Beside him, Adam Monday has clearly been caught mid-exit. He is still in his ring gear, a black duffel bag hanging from one shoulder. The left side of his face carries a deep, already-purpling bruise around his eye socket from Elvis Hunt's kick earlier in the night. His auburn hair is loose and damp. He is not smiling.

Adam Monday does not answer immediately. He looks at the floor for a moment, jaw tight, the bruise on his face darkening under the studio lights. When he looks up, his eyes are steady and very quiet.

He sets the duffel bag down slowly at his feet. He does not look at the camera yet. He looks at Jolt.

He finally turns to the camera. The bruise is vivid. His eyes do not flinch from the lens.

He exhales once, controlled.

R.V. Sovereign steps into frame from the left side of the set.

He is not in a hurry. He is never in a hurry. He is still in his ring gear, black tights with the geometric neon green lines, a black towel folded over one shoulder. His slicked-back hair is immaculate. He looks at the monitor in the background for a moment, then turns his gaze to Adam Monday with the faint, unhurried expression of a man reading a disappointing newspaper.

He does not look at Jarvis when he says it.

A pause. He tilts his head slightly.

Another pause. His voice stays low, even, conversational.

The air in the set changes.

He lets that sit.

He removes the towel from his shoulder and folds it once, precisely.

Jarvis Jolt has gone very still. He is standing perfectly straight, his spine rigid, his microphone hand lowered a few inches. He looks directly into the camera with a flat expression that says he knows exactly what is about to happen and has already calculated the distance to the edge of the frame.

Adam Monday has not moved. The duffel bag is still on the floor at his feet. His hands are open at his sides. His breathing has changed. The bruise under his eye looks darker now, or maybe that is just the light, or maybe it is just that everything about him has gone very tight and very still in the way that a thing goes still right before it stops being still.

Adam Monday moves.

He crosses the two feet between them in nothing and gets both hands into Sovereign's collar and drives him hard into the Spinebuster PRO backdrop. The monitor on the background shelf rocks. Sovereign grabs a fistful of Monday's hair and wrenches sideways and Monday throws a forearm that catches Sovereign across the jaw and they go into the standing light rig together, the whole thing tilting, the overhead light swinging wild and casting the set into lurching shadow and harsh white by turns.

Jarvis Jolt has stepped cleanly and completely out of frame. He is gone. The microphone is on the floor.

That is the light rig hitting the wall. Sovereign gets a knee up into Monday's midsection and shoves him back and Monday eats two steps of the backdrop trying to stay upright and Sovereign is already raising his arm for the STFU rolling elbow--

Black Panda comes through the door at the back of the set.

He does not run. He covers the ground fast and efficiently, his irezumi tattoos vivid under the swinging light, and he gets both arms around Adam Monday from behind in a full body lock, pulling him back and away from Sovereign's swing so the rolling elbow clips nothing but air.

Sovereign stands. He straightens his collar. He breathes once through his nose. He looks at Black Panda holding Adam Monday back and he looks at the expression on Adam's face and something in his own face goes very quiet and satisfied in a way that is worse than anything he said.

Adam Monday is not struggling exactly. He is just not helping. He is staring at Sovereign with that open, unblinking attention that is not rage anymore but something colder and more durable than rage.

A beat. Two beats.

Adam Monday's hands open. He breathes out.

Black Panda does not release him yet. He watches Sovereign.

R.V. Sovereign picks up the folded towel from where it fell on the floor. He shakes it out once, refolds it, and places it back over his shoulder. He looks at the two of them for a moment, and then he looks directly into the camera that is still running, still catching all of it.

He turns and walks out of frame without looking back.

Black Panda holds his position for another three full seconds, watching the empty doorway. Then he releases Adam Monday and steps around to face him. Adam is staring at the doorway. The bruise under his eye is vivid. The backdrop behind him is half-collapsed. The light is still swinging slightly.

Adam Monday does not answer for a moment. Then he looks at Panda, and then he looks down at the microphone on the floor that Jarvis dropped, and then he looks back in the direction Sovereign exited.

He reaches down and picks up his duffel bag. He walks out.

Black Panda looks at the camera once, the black leather mask revealing nothing, and follows him.

The house lights in The Bayou are still buzzing from whatever went down earlier tonight. The crowd is restless, fanning themselves in the Louisiana heat, paper cups of Swamp Water sweating on the guardrail. Morton Murphy straightens his tie at the commentary desk. pain GRILLE adjusts his toast-shaped mask.

The crowd buzzes. A few people in the front row hold up handmade signs. Marcus Vance is already in the ring, arms folded, chewing on nothing, staring out at the entrance like a man who has seen too many of these and expects to be disappointed.

A burst of bright, twangy bayou pop music fills The Bayou. The crowd immediately comes alive.

Daisy Mae bursts through the curtain in her sky-blue singlet with the golden wildflower embroidery, high ponytail bouncing, and she is immediately waving to every corner of the room. She reaches into a small bag at her hip and starts tossing little wrapped pralines into the front row. A kid in the second row catches one and holds it up like a trophy.

Daisy slaps hands all the way down the ramp, climbs the steps, and hops over the top rope. She goes to all four corners, pointing into the crowd, getting them fired up. She settles into her corner and bounces on her heels, that big genuine smile plastered across her face.

The crowd cheers. Daisy points out at them. They cheer louder.

The music shifts. Something glossy and synthetic with an aggressive bass drop. A ring of phone-flashlight effects blinks on from the entrance.

Amber steps through the curtain in her sparkly pink and lavender bodysuit, rhinestones catching every light in the building, INFLUENCER written in cursive across her midsection. She stops at the top of the ramp, pulls out her phone, and takes a selfie with the arena behind her. The crowd boos. She turns the phone around and shows the screen to nobody in particular, admiring herself.

Amber makes her way down the ramp, completely ignoring the outstretched hands of fans, pausing twice more to angle her phone at the ring. She steps through the ropes, stands in the center of the ring, and poses with both arms out, turning slowly like she is on a runway. Daisy Mae watches her from across the ring with a polite, confused smile.

A wave of boos. Amber flips her platinum hair and retreats to her corner.

The music is hard and grinding. Industrial. No warmth in it.

Carmen Cruz walks through the curtain with her slicked-back black hair, yellow and gray singlet, and that calm, predatory smirk that never quite reaches her eyes. She does not acknowledge the crowd. She surveys the ring like she is casing a job site. She walks straight down the ramp, no detours, no wasted motion, steps through the ropes, and stands in her corner with her arms folded.

Carmen does not look at Daisy Mae or Amber. She stares at the entrance.

The music is something low and slinky, a deep synthetic pulse with a hint of lounge in it. The lights go red.

Scarlett Vice steps through the curtain and the crowd reacts immediately, a cascade of boos with a confused undercurrent of involuntary attention. She is in her glossy magenta-red halter top, the gold buckle accents on her high-cut briefs catching the red light, fishnet stockings, pink knee-high boots trimmed in gold. She walks with her chin up and her hips forward, crimson hair cascading past her shoulders. At the top of the ramp she stops, puts one hand on her hip, and smirks at the entire arena.

She lets the pause hang.

The boos intensify. Scarlett descends the ramp at her own pace, completely unhurried. She passes Carmen Cruz's corner on the way in and gives her a sideways glance, one professional appraising another. She steps through the ropes, leans back against her corner turnbuckle, and crosses one ankle over the other like she is waiting for a cocktail.

Marcus Vance moves to the center of the ring. He looks at all four women with the slow, heavy gaze of a man who has seen everything and is tired of all of it. He holds up four fingers, points at each of them in turn, and drops his hand.

He steps back. The bell rings.

The four women circle for exactly one second before everything collapses into chaos. Carmen Cruz immediately charges across the ring and drives a short-arm shoulder thrust directly into Amber Rizzoli's sternum in the corner, folding her in half. Scarlett Vice goes straight for Daisy Mae, and Daisy Mae sidesteps her, grabs the wrist, and snaps her down with a deep arm drag that sends Scarlett skidding across the canvas on her back.

Scarlett pops back to her feet, and her smirk is gone for just a moment. She rolls her shoulder and reassesses. Across the ring, Carmen has Amber in the corner and is grinding a forearm into her face, pressing down with her full body weight. Marcus Vance turns toward them.

Carmen steps back with her hands raised, the picture of innocence, and the moment Marcus turns his head she drives a hidden eye gouge into Amber's face with her thumb. Amber staggers forward, both hands going to her eyes, and Carmen catches her with a European uppercut that snaps her upright.

Daisy Mae has Scarlett Vice in the ropes and goes for a dropkick, but Scarlett ducks under the top rope and drops to the floor, and Daisy's feet hit nothing but air. Daisy lands hard on her back. Scarlett, on the apron, smirks down at her.

Daisy rolls to her feet, and Scarlett reaches over the top rope and grabs a fistful of that blonde ponytail, wrenching Daisy back toward the ropes with a suggestive hair-pull snapmare, using the leverage of the rope to whip her down to the canvas with a crack.

Daisy hits the canvas and rolls. Carmen Cruz has Amber Rizzoli bent over and is attempting to drive her face-first into the top turnbuckle, but Amber gets both hands up and blocks it. She reverses, grabs Carmen by the back of the head, and drives Carmen's forehead into the turnbuckle pad instead. Carmen staggers back. Amber takes two quick steps and hits a running aesthetic dropkick square into Carmen's back, driving her chest-first into the corner.

Amber steps back and actually pauses to check her hair in the camera lens on the hard-cam side. The crowd boos. Carmen is recovering in the corner. Scarlett Vice has climbed back into the ring and is now moving toward Daisy Mae, who is getting to her feet. Scarlett grabs her from behind and hits a snapmare, rolling Daisy forward, and then plants a provocative kick right into Daisy's spine.

Daisy arches her back and winces. Scarlett steps around her, tilts her head, and delivers a second kick, this one slower, more deliberate, like punctuation.

Daisy starts to rise. Scarlett grabs the ropes behind her, plants both feet, and launches a running calf kick directly into Daisy's chest. Daisy goes down hard.

Scarlett hooks the leg.

Goes for the cover...

Daisy kicks out with authority.

On the other side of the ring, Carmen Cruz has recovered and has Amber Rizzoli in a headlock takeover, grinding her down to the canvas, her forearm pressing into Amber's jaw. Amber's legs kick at the air. Carmen leans her full weight into it, grinding the hold deeper.

Amber works her way to her knees, then gets a foot under her, and drives an elbow into Carmen's ribs. Once. Twice. Carmen grunts and loosens the grip. Amber ducks under, grabs the ropes, and hits a springboard crossbody that catches Carmen across the chest and sends both women to the canvas.

The crowd reacts, a genuine pop for the aerial move even from a heel.

Amber is up first. She moves to the corner, climbs to the second rope, and as Carmen Cruz sits up, Amber launches a missile dropkick from the second turnbuckle that catches Carmen flush in the face.

Carmen flattens out. Amber hooks the leg.

Goes for the cover...

Carmen kicks out hard, shoving Amber halfway across the ring.

Daisy Mae has gotten back to her feet and Scarlett Vice is stalking her around the ring. Daisy turns into a slap from Scarlett that echoes through the building.

Daisy's head snaps to the side. She blinks. She touches her cheek. And then something changes in her expression. The crowd feels it immediately and begins to rise.

Daisy Mae turns back to face Scarlett. She absorbs another forearm. Her head rocks. She absorbs it. She looks at Scarlett. She fires a spinning forearm smash right back across Scarlett's jaw that staggers the Ring Vixen back into the ropes.

Daisy grabs the ropes and hits a dropkick that sends Scarlett Vice stumbling across the ring. Daisy is up immediately, grabs Scarlett's arm, and whips her hard into the corner. She charges in and hits a running bulldog, driving Scarlett's face into the canvas.

Daisy pops up, throws her arms out, and the crowd erupts.

Daisy goes for the cover on Scarlett.

Goes for the cover...

Scarlett grabs the bottom rope with both hands. Marcus Vance waves it off.

Daisy drags Scarlett up, but Scarlett rakes the eyes with her free hand, completely hidden from Marcus Vance's angle. Daisy staggers back, hands going to her face. Scarlett shakes the cobwebs loose, fixes her crimson hair, and measures Daisy with a cold smile.

Meanwhile, Carmen Cruz has gotten Amber Rizzoli in the corner and is choking her against the middle rope with a forearm, leaning her full body weight into it. Marcus Vance turns toward them.

Carmen lifts the arm, holds it up for Marcus to see, and then the moment he takes a step away she drops it right back across Amber's throat. Amber chokes and grabs at Carmen's arm.

Carmen releases the choke before Marcus gets there and transitions into a single-leg takedown, hooking Amber's ankle and driving her to the canvas. She immediately transitions into a rolling kneebar, sitting back and wrenching Amber's knee at a vicious angle.

Amber screams. Her hands slap the canvas twice, but she does not tap. She starts crawling, dragging Carmen with her, inch by inch toward the ropes. The crowd begins to count with her progress.

Amber gets her fingertips on the bottom rope. Marcus Vance is right there.

Carmen holds it for a long three count, staring at Marcus with complete contempt, before finally releasing. She stands, rolls her neck, and looks down at Amber with pure disdain.

On the other side of the ring, Scarlett Vice has Daisy Mae set up and hits a handstand headscissors takedown, using her legs to whip Daisy across the ring with impressive athleticism. The crowd is briefly impressed despite themselves.

Scarlett Vice hooks both legs, pulling Daisy into a bridging Northern Lights suplex, arching back and planting Daisy's shoulders on the canvas.

Goes for the cover...

The crowd exhales. Daisy kicks out at two and a half. Scarlett holds the bridge for a moment longer than necessary, then releases, clearly frustrated.

Scarlett drags Daisy up and attempts to wrap a schoolgirl rollup with heavy thigh leverage, but Daisy rolls through it and instead of getting pinned, she comes up in a sunset flip that rolls Scarlett over.

Goes for the cover...

Scarlett kicks out. Both women scramble to their feet. Daisy goes for a tilting headscissors takedown, but Scarlett catches her and drives her spine-first into the nearest turnbuckle.

Daisy gasps. Scarlett steps back, smooths her hair, and turns around directly into Amber Rizzoli, who has gotten back to her feet. The two heels stare at each other for a beat.

Amber extends a hand. Scarlett looks at it. She looks at Amber. She shakes it. The crowd boos. Amber immediately hits a hair-pull snapmare on Scarlett, rolling her to the canvas, and drops a sarcastic kick into Scarlett's back.

Amber takes a moment to pose with both arms out. The crowd boos. She does not care. She turns to find Carmen Cruz right behind her. Carmen drives a European uppercut into Amber's jaw that sends her staggering sideways.

Carmen follows it immediately with a running knee strike to a seated Amber Rizzoli, driving her knee straight into Amber's chest as she crumples to the canvas.

Goes for the cover...

Daisy Mae DuPris breaks it up with a diving elbow drop across Carmen's back.

Carmen rolls off Amber, clutching her back. Daisy is up and climbing to the top rope. The crowd rises with her.

Daisy Mae launches a diving crossbody off the top rope and catches Carmen Cruz across the chest, both women crashing to the canvas.

Goes for the cover...

Carmen kicks out. Daisy rolls through, gets to her feet, turns around, and Scarlett Vice is right there with a slap that rocks her back.

Daisy stumbles. Scarlett grabs her in a front facelock, hooks one leg, and bridges back with a bridging Northern Lights suplex.

Goes for the cover...

Amber Rizzoli hits a springboard crossbody that breaks the cover and takes both Scarlett and Daisy down in a pile.

All four women are down. Marcus Vance stands in the center of the ring, arms folded, watching all four of them with the expression of a man who expected this and is not impressed. He does not begin a count. In a fatal four-way there are no countouts within the ring, and Marcus knows the rules even if he does not enjoy them.

Amber is the first up. She climbs to the top rope, measures Carmen Cruz, who is sitting up holding her jaw. Amber launches a tilting hurricanrana from the top rope that spikes Carmen's head into the canvas.

Goes for the cover...

The crowd gasps. Carmen Cruz barely gets a shoulder up. Amber slams both hands on the canvas in frustration.

Amber gets up and turns directly into Daisy Mae DuPris, who grabs her wrist and sends her into the ropes. Amber comes back and Daisy catches her with a tornado DDT, swinging off the second rope and driving Amber's head into the canvas.

Goes for the cover...

Scarlett Vice drags Daisy off by the ankle and pulls her out of the ring. Daisy lands on her feet on the floor. Scarlett is right behind her, and she grabs Daisy by the hair and drives her face-first into the ring apron.

Daisy's knees buckle. Scarlett shoves her into the guardrail. The crowd at ringside backs up a step. Marcus Vance leans through the ropes and barks at them.

Scarlett ignores him. She grabs Daisy by the ponytail and winds up to drive her into the ring post, but Daisy plants both hands on the post and stops herself. She drives an elbow back into Scarlett's ribs. Scarlett grunts. Daisy spins and fires a spinning forearm smash that catches Scarlett across the jaw.

Scarlett Vice stumbles back along the apron. Inside the ring, Carmen Cruz has Amber Rizzoli on her feet and hits a snap suplex, but instead of taking her to the canvas, she positions it so Amber's spine lands directly across the ring apron.

Amber Rizzoli crumples to the floor, both hands going to her lower back. She is making sounds that are not words. Carmen Cruz steps through the ropes to the apron, drops to the floor, and stands over Amber with her arms folded.

On the other side of the ring, Daisy Mae has Scarlett Vice against the guardrail and fires a dropkick that drives Scarlett into the steel.

The crowd pops. Daisy points to the ring, clearly intending to take this back inside, but Scarlett grabs the guardrail and pulls herself up. She grabs Daisy by the wrist and whips her hard into the ring steps.

Daisy hits the steps knee-first and goes down in a heap. She grabs her knee, face twisted in genuine pain.

Carmen Cruz grabs Amber Rizzoli by the back of the singlet and rolls her back into the ring. She follows, hooks both legs, and goes for the cover.

Goes for the cover...

Amber kicks out at two and nine tenths. Carmen sits up, stares at Marcus Vance, and holds up three fingers.

Carmen stands. She grabs Amber's arm and applies a hammerlock, wrenching the shoulder back and up, then transitions into a crossface, pulling Amber's head back at a vicious angle.

Amber screams. She reaches with her free hand, straining for the ropes. She is in the center of the ring. The ropes are miles away. She starts to crawl. Carmen wrenches back harder.

Outside the ring, Scarlett Vice has pulled Daisy Mae to her feet by the ponytail and is dragging her toward the announce table. Murphy instinctively leans back.

Scarlett slams Daisy's hand down on the announce table. Daisy pulls it back. Scarlett grabs the wrist again and bends the fingers back. Daisy howls. Scarlett looks directly at the hard-cam and smiles.

Inside the ring, Amber Rizzoli has found the bottom rope with her fingertips. Marcus Vance is right there.

Carmen holds the crossface for a deliberate three-count before releasing. She stands, rolls her neck, and looks down at Amber with pure disdain.

Scarlett Vice has Daisy Mae by the ponytail at the announce table, bending her fingers back over the edge. Daisy is howling. Scarlett is smiling. Murphy has already pushed his chair back two feet.

Daisy wrenches her hand free and fires a headbutt into Scarlett's nose. Scarlett stumbles back, hand going to her face. Daisy shakes her fingers out and rolls back under the bottom rope. Inside the ring, Carmen Cruz has released the crossface on Amber and is dragging her to her feet by the wrist.

Carmen hooks Amber in a front facelock and snaps her over with a brainbuster, driving the top of Amber's skull into the canvas.

Goes for the cover...

Daisy Mae breaks it up with a running senton, dropping her full weight across Carmen's back.

All three women are down inside the ring. Scarlett Vice is on the floor, still touching her nose from the headbutt, checking her hand for blood. She finds none. Her expression suggests she is not grateful for this.

She slides back into the ring.

Daisy is up first inside and goes straight for Scarlett. Scarlett catches her coming in with a drop toehold and Daisy's face hits the middle rope. Scarlett presses her knee into the back of Daisy's neck, grinding her throat into the rope.

Scarlett releases and steps back with her arms out, completely unbothered. Daisy coughs, both hands going to her throat.

Carmen Cruz is up. She grabs Scarlett from behind and drives her chest-first into the turnbuckle, then locks in a full nelson, cranking down on Scarlett's neck and shoulders.

Scarlett drives her boots into the second rope and pushes off, rolling Carmen backward into a pin attempt.

Goes for the cover...

Carmen rolls through and both women scramble to their feet. Carmen grabs Scarlett by the arm and whips her into the ropes. Scarlett comes back and ducks under Carmen's clothesline attempt, bounces off the far ropes, and drives a running calf kick directly into Carmen's jaw on the return.

Carmen drops.

Goes for the cover...

Amber Rizzoli breaks it up with a springboard elbow drop from the second rope.

Amber pulls Scarlett up and attempts a snap DDT, but Scarlett blocks it, grabs Amber's wrist, and drives her elbow into Amber's jaw with a shortarm strike. Amber staggers. Scarlett grabs her by the hair and drives her face-first into the top turnbuckle. Amber bounces off.

Then Daisy Mae comes off the top rope.

The Swamp Splash. The top-rope crossbody. Full rotation. It connects across both Scarlett Vice and Amber Rizzoli at the same time, all three women crashing to the canvas in a heap.

Daisy scrambles on top of Scarlett.

Goes for the cover...

TH--

Carmen Cruz hauls Daisy off by both ankles and drags her to the floor. Daisy lands hard. Carmen drops to the floor after her and drives a forearm across Daisy's back. Daisy rolls away. Carmen follows. Daisy fires back. Carmen fires back harder.

Inside the ring, Scarlett Vice and Amber Rizzoli are both getting up. Scarlett grabs Amber by the rhinestone trim of her singlet and drives her into the corner. Amber grabs Scarlett's hair. Scarlett grabs Amber's hair. Marcus Vance moves in.

Neither woman breaks. Scarlett drives a knee into Amber's midsection. Amber answers with a slap across Scarlett's cheek. Scarlett answers with one back. The two women are now just trading slaps in the corner, any pretense of wrestling technique completely abandoned.

Marcus Vance physically steps between them and forces them apart, one hand on each woman's chest, pushing them to opposite corners. His jaw is tight.

On the floor, Carmen Cruz has Daisy Mae against the guardrail and is driving shoulder thrusts into her midsection. Daisy grabs Carmen's head and drives it down into the guardrail. Carmen straightens up with fire in her eyes. She shoves Daisy over the guardrail into the crowd. Daisy lands in the front row, scattering fans, an empty Swamp Water cup bouncing across the concrete.

Daisy scrambles back to her feet in the crowd and hops back over the guardrail. She goes straight for Carmen. Carmen meets her with a forearm. Daisy fires one back. They are brawling along the floor, no wrestling, no holds, just two women hitting each other as hard as they can along the ringside area.

Inside the ring, Scarlett Vice has followed Amber Rizzoli back out through the ropes and they are now brawling on the opposite side of the ring, Scarlett Vice driving Amber into the ring post. The sound of it rings through the building.

Marcus Vance stands in the center of the ring. He looks at Daisy and Carmen brawling along one guardrail. He looks at Scarlett and Amber brawling along the other side. He pinches the bridge of his nose with one thick finger. He begins to count.

Carmen Cruz drives Daisy Mae's head into the ring steps. Daisy fires back with a forearm that staggers Carmen toward the ramp. Carmen grabs Daisy by the wrist and they stumble up the ramp together, still swinging.

Scarlett Vice has Amber Rizzoli's platinum hair wrapped in both fists and is driving her toward the announce table. Amber gets a hand free and rakes Scarlett's eyes. Scarlett shrieks. Amber shoves her and Scarlett goes into the barricade.

Amber Rizzoli grabs Scarlett Vice and starts dragging her toward the ramp. Scarlett grabs Amber's hair and drags her back. They stumble in a circle at ringside, neither one able to gain ground, both unwilling to let go.

At the top of the ramp, Carmen Cruz and Daisy Mae have fought all the way to the stage. Security personnel are already moving toward them. Daisy throws a forearm. Carmen answers with one. Neither woman is thinking about the ring anymore. Neither woman is thinking about anything except the woman in front of her.

Scarlett Vice finally breaks from Amber and sprints toward the ring. Amber grabs her ankle. Scarlett goes down on the ramp. She scrambles forward on her hands and knees, fingers reaching for the apron.

Scarlett Vice's fingertips hit the apron mat a half second after the bell. She looks up at Marcus Vance with something between fury and disbelief. Marcus looks back down at her with the expression of a man who did not want to be right.

At the top of the ramp, security has physically separated Carmen Cruz and Daisy Mae DuPris, two personnel on each woman, pulling them apart. Daisy is still reaching past a security guard, trying to get one more shot in. Carmen is perfectly still in the grip of two large men, staring at Daisy with no expression at all, which is somehow worse.

At ringside, Amber Rizzoli sits on the floor with her back against the apron, one hand in her hair, staring at the ceiling of The Bayou. Scarlett Vice is on her knees on the ramp, both hands on the floor in front of her, breathing hard. She looks at the ring. She looks at Marcus Vance. She closes her eyes for one second.

She opens them and looks at Amber.

Amber looks back at her.

Neither woman speaks. Neither woman needs to.

The crowd boos. Hard and sustained. The kind of heat that has nowhere to go.

At the top of the stage, security is still holding Carmen and Daisy apart. Carmen finally stops straining toward Daisy. She straightens her singlet. She looks down at the ring one more time, then turns and walks through the curtain without a word.

Daisy Mae is still watching the curtain Carmen walked through. Her ponytail is half out. There is a red mark across her cheek from a forearm. She exhales through her nose and something crosses her face that is not the smile, not the warmth, not the bayou sunshine the crowd fell in love with. Something harder. Something that has been there underneath the whole time.

She walks through the curtain.

Scarlett Vice rises from the ramp, smooths her hair, straightens her ring gear, and walks toward the back with the careful, deliberate composure of a woman deciding how angry she is allowed to be in front of cameras. Her jaw is tight. Her eyes are working.

Amber Rizzoli is the last one. She sits on the floor at ringside for a long moment after everyone else has gone. She looks at her phone, which has been sitting at the announce table this entire time. She picks it up. She looks at the screen. She puts it back down.

She gets up. She walks up the ramp. She does not take a selfie.

The camera cuts to a concrete corridor backstage at The Bayou. Fluorescent lighting hums overhead. The hallway smells like sweat and old concrete and nobody cares. Freddy Lamb is moving with purpose down the corridor, black sleeveless shirt, blue tights, boots laced tight, heading toward the curtain for his match. He rolls his neck, shakes out his hands, muttering something low to himself.

Killian Black steps out from the shadow at the far end of the hall.

He does not move toward Freddy. He simply appears. Like he was always there. His pale face catches the fluorescent light in a way that makes him look like something that crawled out of a photograph. Slicked dark hair. Black tights. Scythe on the thigh. Wrist wraps. He stands perfectly still.

Freddy stops.

Neither man speaks for a long moment. The corridor feels smaller than it is. Freddy holds his ground, blue eyes steady, jaw set. He looks Killian up and down the way a man does when he is deciding whether something is a threat or just scenery. He lands somewhere in the middle and does not flinch either way.

Killian's eyes do not blink. He studies Freddy the way a man studies a clock, not because he cares what time it is, just counting down. When he finally speaks it is barely above a whisper. The kind of voice you have to lean in to hear, which is exactly the problem.

That is all. Two sentences. Flat. Final. Like a door closing.

Freddy lets it sit in the air for exactly one beat. He does not get loud. He does not get hot. He looks at Killian the way a man looks at something he has already thought through six times before anyone else in the room even knew there was a question. A slow, quiet smile crosses his face. Not cocky. Not nervous. Something else entirely.

He holds Killian's gaze for one more second. Then he walks. Right past him. Shoulder close enough to brush. He does not look back.

Killian does not move. He watches Freddy go. His expression does not change. His eyes track the corridor long after Freddy has turned the corner. He stands there in the hum of the fluorescent light like the hall belongs to him now.

The camera holds on Killian Black alone in the corridor. He turns his head slowly toward the lens. Stares directly into it. Says nothing. The feed cuts.

The lights in The Bayou are already buzzing with anticipation. A steel chair sits propped against the ring apron. A kendo stick leans against the barricade. The ring crew has not bothered to clear any of it. They know what this is.

The house lights cut. The arena holds its breath for a half second.

Then, from somewhere deep in the crowd, a commotion.

Fans near the back of the floor section begin turning, craning their necks. A few stand. Then more. The murmur builds into a wave of noise rolling toward the ring.

Freddy Lamb emerges from the crowd near the top of the floor section, and the crowd parts and erupts simultaneously. He is wearing Vox Null's ring gear. The black tights with the cyan waveform patterns. The black arm sleeves. He even has a cheap replica of the respirator mask pushed up on top of his head like a hat, the cyan display dead and unlit. He raises both arms to the crowd as he descends the steps.

Freddy slaps hands down the aisle, grinning wide, the tattoo sleeves catching the arena lighting. He hops the barricade at ringside, rolls under the bottom rope, and stands in the center of the ring. He pulls the fake mask off his head, holds it up to the crowd, and they pop.

Freddy holds the mask out toward the hard camera, then sets it deliberately on the top turnbuckle in the far corner. He rolls his neck and shakes out his tattooed arms. The lamb and wolf designs ripple across his skin.

Then the PA cuts everything.

Three full seconds of dead silence. The crowd knows. Some of them start to rise.

Then white noise, building from nothing, a low hiss that grows into a roar through the arena speakers, and underneath it, a single synthesised voice, flat and inhuman.

The white noise drops out. The arena goes completely dark.

When the lights snap back on, Vox Null is standing at the top of the entrance ramp.

He is not moving. He is staring down the ramp at the ring. At Freddy Lamb. At his own mask sitting on the turnbuckle. The cyan waveforms on his tights pulse slowly in the dark. His hands are wrapped in white tape, already balled into fists.

Vox Null walks. Not fast. Not slow. The measured stride of a man who has already decided what is going to happen and is simply arriving at the location where it will occur. He reaches ringside, steps up to the apron, and steps through the ropes. He stands across from Freddy Lamb. He looks at the mask on the turnbuckle. He looks at Lamb. He reaches into his tights and produces his phone, types for a moment, and holds it up.

The text-to-speech voice fills the arena through a small Bluetooth speaker clipped to his waistband.

A beat.

He pockets the phone. Roxy Malone steps between them, her one good eye moving from face to face. She is wearing her standard black referee shirt, the left side of her face carrying the scar that cost her the eye. She looks at both men with the expression of someone who has seen far worse and plans to see more tonight.

Neither man responds. Roxy looks at Freddy.

She looks at Vox Null. He does not move. She nods.

She calls for the bell.

Freddy Lamb does not wait. He darts to the ropes before Vox Null has taken a full step, slides out under the bottom rope, grabs the kendo stick leaning against the barricade, and rolls back in. The crowd reacts with a burst of noise.

Vox Null watches him come. Freddy swings the kendo stick in a wide arc, and Vox Null steps inside it, the cane whistling past his shoulder. He drives a short-range bicycle knee strike directly into Freddy's midsection. Freddy folds. The kendo stick drops.

Vox Null scoops the kendo stick off the mat. He looks at it for a moment. Then he sets it back down, almost gently, and hauls Freddy upright by the back of his collar.

Vox Null fires a knife-edge chop across Freddy's chest. The sound is a gunshot.

Freddy staggers back into the ropes. Vox Null follows with a second chop, this one to the throat, and Freddy's head snaps back.

Freddy uses the ropes to bounce himself forward, surprising Vox Null with a running elbow strike that catches him flush across the jaw. Vox Null's head snaps to the side. He takes a step back. His head turns slowly back to Freddy.

Freddy does not wait to see if it worked. He fires a second elbow, and Vox Null catches it on the forearm. Third elbow, Vox Null absorbs it and shoves Freddy backward. Freddy bounces off the ropes and comes back. Vox Null drives a running big boot directly into his face.

Freddy goes down hard, spinning on impact, and lands on his side. The crowd gasps.

Vox Null does not cover. He reaches down, grabs Freddy by the ankle, and drags him toward the corner. He places Freddy's leg across the bottom rope and drives a shoot-style body kick into his hamstring. Once. Twice. Three times. Freddy's leg jerks with each impact.

Freddy rolls away and gets a hand on the kendo stick he dropped. He comes up swinging from a kneeling position and catches Vox Null across the ribs.

Vox Null steps back. Freddy swings again, this time across the back.

And again.

Freddy gets to his feet, limping slightly on the leg that took those body kicks. He winds up and swings the kendo stick in a full overhead arc at Vox Null's head. Vox Null gets both forearms up and takes it across the wrists.

He grimaces but stays upright. Freddy swings again. Vox Null catches the stick with both hands on the follow-through, wrenches it out of Freddy's grip, and breaks it across his knee.

The crowd pops.

Vox Null drops both halves and grabs Freddy by the wrist, twisting into a front facelock. He drives a snap vertical suplex, lifting Freddy clean off the mat and dropping him with authority.

Vox Null pulls Freddy up, front facelock still locked, and hauls him into a fisherman brainbuster. The crowd reacts with a sharp intake of breath as Freddy's head drives into the canvas.

Goes for the cover...

Freddy gets a shoulder up, twisting his body to break the count.

Vox Null stands. He looks down at Freddy, who is pressing himself up on both arms, breathing hard. Vox Null steps back, measures him, and delivers a shoot-style body kick to the ribs. Freddy collapses back to the mat.

Freddy rolls under the bottom rope and falls to the floor. He needs a moment. He uses the apron to pull himself up, searching the ringside area. He spots the steel chair propped against the apron, grabs it, and turns.

Vox Null is already coming through the ropes. He hits a running big boot through the ropes that catches Freddy in the shoulder and chest and drives him back into the barricade.

Freddy and the chair both go into the barricade. The chair clatters away. Freddy slumps against the metal. Vox Null drops to the floor, grabs Freddy by the arm, and whips him hard into the ring steps.

Roxy Malone leans through the ropes, watching with her arms folded, her one good eye tracking the action on the floor. She is not counting. There are no count-outs. She just watches.

Vox Null hauls Freddy off the steps and rolls him back into the ring. He follows, hooks the leg.

Goes for the cover...

Vox Null pulls Freddy up by the arm. Freddy, on instinct, pops up and drives a pop up kick directly into Vox Null's face. The kick connects flush. Vox Null staggers backward two steps.

Freddy shakes the cobwebs loose. He sees Vox Null backed into the ropes and charges. He hits a corner dropkick that drives Vox Null's spine into the turnbuckle.

Vox Null bounces out of the corner, and Freddy catches him coming with a gut wrench suplex, lifting the three-hundred-twelve-pound man off the mat with everything he has. It is not clean. It is a grind. Freddy strains, his face going red, his tattooed arms shaking with the effort. But he gets him up and over.

The crowd explodes.

Freddy drops across Vox Null's chest.

Goes for the cover...

Freddy rolls off, breathing hard. He gets to his feet and goes to the corner, climbing to the second rope. He measures Vox Null, who is pushing himself up from the mat, and launches a swinging neckbreaker off the second rope, catching Vox Null coming upright and driving his head down.

Freddy goes for the cover again.

Goes for the cover...

KICKOUT!

Freddy goes to the floor and slides a steel chair into the ring. He sets it up, open, in the center. He hauls Vox Null up and tries to drive his face into the seat of the chair. Vox Null blocks it, planting his feet, and drives an elbow back into Freddy's jaw. Freddy releases. Vox Null spins and fires a discus forearm smash that catches Freddy across the cheekbone.

Freddy goes sideways. He does not go down, but he staggers badly, and the right side of his face is already darkening.

Vox Null grabs Freddy, front facelock, and drives a snap DDT directly onto the steel chair.

The arena gasps. Freddy lies completely still on the mat, the chair bent under him.

Roxy Malone crouches down and peers at Freddy. She taps his shoulder twice.

Freddy's hand moves. Roxy nods and stands back up.

Vox Null hauls Freddy up and sets him up for the exploder suplex. He locks the underhook, drives through, and launches Freddy across the ring.

Vox Null stands in the center of the ring. He reaches for his phone. The arena quiets, that eerie instinctive hush that seems to follow him everywhere. He types. The speaker activates.

Freddy is stirring. He uses the ropes to pull himself upright, one hand on the middle rope, then the top. He gets to his feet. His face is red from the chair shot, a thin line of blood tracing from his hairline down the right side of his forehead where the DDT drove him into the steel.

Vox Null moves toward him. Freddy, blood streaking down his face, suddenly spins and grabs the bent steel chair off the mat. He drives it directly into Vox Null's ribs. Once. Twice. Three times.

Freddy winds up and swings the chair at Vox Null's back. Vox Null goes to one knee. Freddy drops the chair and runs the ropes, coming back with a running senton that drives all two hundred and fifty-two pounds of him across Vox Null's back and drives him flat to the mat.

Goes for the cover...

Freddy wipes blood from his eye with the back of his hand. He looks at the red smear on his wrist. He looks at Vox Null. He looks at the corner, calculating. He goes to the floor again and this time he pulls a table out from under the ring, sliding it in. The crowd reacts.

Freddy sets the table up in the corner, leaning it against the turnbuckle. He turns back to Vox Null, who is on his hands and knees. Freddy grabs him, trying to set up the slingshot sit-down powerbomb. He gets Vox Null up, but Vox Null is too heavy and too aware. He shifts his weight, grabs Freddy by the head, and drives a short-range bicycle knee strike up into Freddy's chin.

Freddy's legs buckle. Vox Null catches him before he falls, locks a full nelson from behind, and drives him back-first into the table in the corner.

The table does not break. It buckles and splinters on one side, bowing inward, and Freddy is sandwiched between the wood and Vox Null's force.

Vox Null hauls him out of the wreckage of the bent table, front facelock, and drives a side slam drop that plants Freddy hard on the mat.

Goes for the cover...

Vox Null reaches for his phone.

And then the music hits.

A sharp, almost militaristic riff cuts through the arena, and the crowd immediately reacts with heat. Real heat. The kind that has history in it.

"THE WINNINGEST" IKE GRITSENKO steps out from the back, clipboard under one arm, lead pipe in the other. He is in his ring attire, and he is not smiling. He is scanning the ring with the cold, calculating eyes of a man who does not go anywhere without a plan.

Gritsenko slides under the bottom rope. Vox Null turns to face him. They stare at each other across the ring. Roxy Malone steps to the side, arms folded, watching with her one eye. She does not move between them.

Gritsenko swings the lead pipe. Vox Null gets his forearm up and takes it across the wrist. He grimaces. Gritsenko swings again, low this time, and catches Vox Null across the thigh.

Vox Null's leg buckles.

Gritsenko drives the pipe into Vox Null's ribs. Once. Twice. Vox Null backs into the ropes. Gritsenko winds up and drives the pipe down across Vox Null's shoulder.

Freddy Lamb is back on his feet in the corner, blood still running down his face, watching all of this. He looks at Gritsenko. He looks at Vox Null. Something crosses his face. He is not sure what to do with this.

Gritsenko drives the pipe into the back of Vox Null's knee, and Vox Null goes down to one knee. Gritsenko raises the pipe over his head.

Freddy Lamb steps in and shoves Gritsenko.

Gritsenko turns to Freddy, incredulous. He points at Vox Null. He points at the pipe. He is clearly communicating: we can do this together.

Gritsenko stares at him. Then he smiles, slow and cold, and drives the pipe into Vox Null's ribs again. Vox Null doubles over. Then Gritsenko turns the pipe on Freddy, catching him across the forearm.

The three-way brawl erupts. Gritsenko swings at Vox Null. Vox Null ducks under it and fires a spinning back elbow that catches Gritsenko across the jaw. Gritsenko staggers. Freddy charges at Vox Null from behind. Vox Null senses it, turns, and drives a bicycle knee strike into Freddy's gut. Freddy folds. Gritsenko comes back with the pipe, driving it into the back of Vox Null's neck.

Vox Null goes down on all fours.

Gritsenko stands over him, breathing hard, and delivers a straight stomp to the back of Vox Null's head. Then he drops the pipe and grabs Vox Null's arm, trying to drag him into position. He is setting up the Dial Tone. The penalty kick. His own move, turned on him.

Freddy Lamb, still bent at the waist from the knee strike, looks up and sees what is happening. He sees Vox Null on the mat, helpless. He sees Gritsenko positioning for the kick. He sees his moment. He backs into the far ropes, bouncing off them, building speed.

Lamb to the Slaughter. His running bicycle kick. He is going to put Vox Null away while Gritsenko has him down.

He charges.

Vox Null looks up. He sees Freddy coming. He sees the angle. He reaches out with both hands and grabs Ike Gritsenko by the collar and the arm.

He pulls.

Gritsenko stumbles forward, directly into the path of the kick.

The superkick connects flush on Ike Gritsenko's jaw. The sound is enormous. Gritsenko's head snaps back and he goes down like a tree, completely rigid, crashing to the mat in a heap. His clipboard skids across the canvas. The lead pipe rolls to the corner.

The arena detonates.

Freddy Lamb is on his hands and knees in the center of the ring, staring at Ike Gritsenko's unconscious body. The blood from his forehead drips onto the canvas. He cannot process what just happened. He looks at his own boot. He looks at Gritsenko. He looks at Vox Null.

He is on his hands and knees, processing.

He does not see Vox Null moving.

Vox Null, still on the mat, rolls. He gets behind Freddy. He moves with the deliberate, quiet economy of a man who has been here before. He gets his arms underneath Freddy's, threading them through, locking the double underhook. He rolls his weight forward and drives Freddy's face toward the canvas, trapping him.

The Dead Air.

Freddy's legs kick. His tattooed arms strain against the underhooks. The double underhook facedown submission is wrenching his shoulders back at a brutal angle, his neck forced down, Vox Null's full three hundred and twelve pounds driving the hold into the canvas.

Freddy drives his boots into the mat, trying to generate any kind of leverage. He gets his hips up an inch. Vox Null adjusts, shifting his weight forward, pressing Freddy's face back into the canvas. The hold tightens. Freddy's legs slow.

Freddy's hand rises from the mat. It hovers. The crowd holds its breath.

His hand comes down.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Vox Null releases the hold and stands. He does not raise his arms. He does not look at the crowd. He looks at Ike Gritsenko.

Gritsenko is on one knee on the canvas, both hands pressed to the side of his jaw where the bicycle kick connected. His eyes are back in focus but only barely. He looks at Freddy Lamb, tapped out on the mat in front of him. He looks at the lead pipe in the corner. He looks at his clipboard, which has slid against the ropes and sits there, one corner bent, the top page half dislodged.

He does not pick it up.

Vox Null reaches into his waistband and produces his phone. He types. He holds it toward Gritsenko.

Gritsenko looks at the screen. His jaw tightens. The bruise from the superkick is already forming along his jawline, dark and spreading. He says something that the ringside microphones do not fully catch. His lips form the shape of words that are not appropriate for broadcast.

Vox Null pockets the phone. He steps over Freddy Lamb, steps over the lead pipe, and walks through the ropes. He does not hurry. He descends to the floor and walks up the ramp without looking back.

In the ring, Gritsenko gets to his feet. He looks at the ramp. He looks at his clipboard. He crosses to it slowly and picks it up. He straightens the top page. He stares at it for a long moment, the way a man stares at evidence he does not want to accept.

He tucks it under his arm.

The camera finds Gritsenko one more time at the top of the ramp. He stops. He turns. He looks back at the ring, at Freddy Lamb being helped to his feet by the referee, at the bent table in the corner, at the lead pipe still lying on the canvas where he left it.

He walks through the curtain.

The camera cuts backstage. A corridor outside one of the locker rooms. The door is closed. A production assistant hovers nearby with a handheld camera. The feed cuts inside.

The locker room is sparse. A bench. A mirror. The Los Mares Mortales del Golfo banner hung on the cinder block wall with the precise care of a man who does not tolerate disorder. Tiburón Coral sits on the bench in his ring gear, the coral-orange and metallic-teal shark mask on, arms resting on his knees, face turned toward the floor.

Rey Manta stands in the center of the room.

He is already dressed. The seafoam-green ring gear immaculate. The gold cane resting in one hand, its handle catching the fluorescent light. The Spinebuster PRO Heavyweight Championship wrapped around his waist. He looks at Tiburón Coral with the measured, unhurried attention of a man taking stock of an asset.

Vivienne Vance stands to his right. The Barracuda. Her arms folded, her expression reading the room with the efficiency of a woman who has managed men in far more complicated situations than this one.

Rey Manta speaks. His voice is low and deliberate, each word placed with the care of a man who believes language is a form of authority.

Rey Manta takes one step toward Tiburón Coral. He does not crouch down to his level. He looks down at him. He places the tip of the gold cane on the floor between them.

Tiburón Coral looks up at Rey Manta through the shark mask. He looks at the belt around his waist. He says nothing. He nods once.

Vivienne Vance steps forward. She does not look at Rey Manta. She looks at Tiburón Coral with the focused, practical energy of a woman whose job is to turn philosophical speeches into actionable instructions.

She lets that land for exactly one beat.

She gestures toward the championship belt without looking at it. Her eyes do not leave Tiburón Coral.

Tiburón Coral stands. He rolls his neck once, slowly, the coral and teal of the shark mask catching the fluorescent light.

He looks at Rey Manta. Rey Manta looks back at him with the expression of a man who has already decided how this evening ends and is simply waiting for the timeline to catch up with his certainty.

Tiburón Coral walks past Rey Manta without another word. The door opens. The corridor light spills in. He walks through it.

Rey Manta watches the door close. He adjusts his grip on the gold cane. He looks at the closed door for exactly one second with the expression of a man surveying something he owns.

He turns and sits.

Vivienne Vance watches the door for a moment longer than Rey Manta does. Then she turns back to the room and picks up her phone.

The Bayou is buzzing. The commentary desk is set. Danny Vance is already in the ring, rolling his neck, reading the room with the flat professional patience of a man who has learned not to be surprised by anything in this building.

The arena plunges into deep ocean blue. The sonar ping reverberates through the darkness, low and oppressive, rattling the subwoofers under the announce table. The crashing waves build. Then the aggressive Mexican metal explodes through the PA.

The smoke rolls across the stage.

Tiburón Coral glides through it first, the coral-orange and metallic-teal shark mask catching the blue lighting, the weathered pirate coat draped across his shoulders. He moves down the ramp with that predatory sway, snapping his jaw at a fan in the front row who flinches backward. He does not smile. He does not acknowledge the crowd's reaction. He is reading the ring the way a shark reads water.

Behind him, El Kraken emerges from the smoke like something dredged from the floor of the Gulf of Mexico. The grey and purple tentacled mask. The rusted chain harness across his chest. His stride is slow and monstrous and completely unhurried. The two men reach ringside and Tiburón Coral leaps to the turnbuckle, one finger drawn slowly across his throat. El Kraken steps cleanly over the top rope as though the ropes are an inconvenience designed for smaller men.

Tiburón Coral drops from the turnbuckle and stands in the center of the ring. He tilts his head at the entrance, waiting.

The music fades.

A long pause.

Then the PA crackles to life with something slick and corporate, a news broadcast theme crossed with a trap beat, and the titantron erupts with fake engagement metrics scrolling in real time. LIVE VIEWERS: 6.2 MILLION. TRENDING WORLDWIDE. MOST WATCHED MOMENT IN SPORTS HISTORY.

Harry Balkin Junior steps through the curtain first.

He is in his tie-dyed Olympic singlet, the red and blue and yellow spiral pattern, his chin up and his jaw set. He walks with the deliberate composure of a man who has spent a week preparing for this moment and intends to make every second of it legible to the hard camera. He does not look at the crowd. He looks at the ring.

BookFace is half a step behind him, tablet raised, already livestreaming the entrance. The screen faces out toward the arena, the fake viewer count climbing by the hundreds of thousands per second. He does not look up from the tablet. He walks and films simultaneously with the practiced ease of a man who has spent years doing both at once.

And then Amber Rizzoli steps through the curtain.

The rhinestones catch the entrance lighting. The platinum hair sits perfectly. She takes Harry's arm with the same practiced elegance she always carries, the content creator smile deployed at full wattage. But the smile, tonight, does not quite reach all the way. There is something behind her eyes that has been there since Sorry You're Not a Winner. Something that has not resolved itself.

Harry reaches the ring and takes the steps one at a time, slowly, facing the hard camera on the way up. He steps through the ropes and stands across from Tiburón Coral. BookFace takes up his position at ringside, tablet angled toward the ring. Amber stands slightly to the side, arms folded, her phone in one hand but not raised. Not filming.

Harry looks at Tiburón Coral. He looks at El Kraken in the corner. He looks at Amber. Something passes between them that is not warm. He turns back to the ring.

Danny Vance moves to center ring. He looks at both men, then at the people at ringside, with the expression of a man who has done the math on this situation and does not like the sum.

He points at BookFace. He points at El Kraken. He points at Amber.

BookFace raises one hand from behind the tablet without looking up. El Kraken does not move. Amber meets Danny Vance's gaze for a half second and then looks away.

He calls for the bell.

Tiburón Coral does not wait. He bounces off the near ropes immediately and launches a springboard high-angle arm drag that catches Harry before he has fully set his feet, sending him skidding across the canvas on his back. Harry rolls through and comes up to his knees, blinking.

Harry gets to his feet and resets. He circles. Tiburón Coral does not circle. He moves laterally, reading Harry's feet, tracking his weight distribution with those cold, predatory eyes. Harry shoots in for a collar and elbow. Tiburón Coral sidesteps it and drives a spinning enzuigiri into the side of Harry's head.

Harry staggers into the ropes. Tiburón Coral follows immediately with a low sweep kick that takes Harry's legs out from under him, dropping him flat on his back.

Harry rolls to the ropes and uses them to pull himself upright. Tiburón Coral is already coming off the far ropes, building speed. Harry drops down and pulls the top rope, sending Tiburón Coral over the top and out to the floor.

Tiburón Coral lands on his feet.

He looks up at Harry over the top rope. Harry looks down at him. The shark mask tilts slightly to one side.

Harry slides out of the ring on the opposite side, going to the floor and immediately reaching under the ring apron. He pulls out a steel chair and tucks it under his arm. He rolls back in. Tiburón Coral is already back on the apron. Harry meets him coming through the ropes with a running knee strike to the midsection that bends Tiburón Coral over the middle rope.

Harry grabs him by the back of the mask and hauls him into the ring. He drives a short arm elbow into Tiburón Coral's jaw, snapping his head to the side.

Harry positions the steel chair open in the center of the ring. He grabs Tiburón Coral by the wrist, whips him across the ring and on the return drives him face first toward the seat of the chair with a flapjack.

Tiburón Coral gets his hands up and catches himself on the chair back instead, absorbing the impact on his palms instead of his face. He twists off it and lands on his feet, stumbling, and Harry catches him on the stagger with a high velocity running clothesline that turns him inside out.

Harry drops into the cover.

Goes for the cover...

Tiburón Coral kicks out with authority.

Harry drags Tiburón Coral up by the arm and hooks a front facelock. He hauls him over with a delayed vertical suplex, holding him inverted for a long moment before dropping him hard.

The crowd counts.

Harry floats over for the cover.

Goes for the cover...

Tiburón Coral rolls the shoulder and immediately drives an eye rake across Harry's face with his thumb, completely hidden from Danny Vance's angle.

Tiburón Coral scrambles to his feet. Harry is rubbing his eye. Tiburón Coral grabs the steel chair Harry brought in earlier, measures him, and drives it across Harry's back.

Harry arches forward, both hands going to his spine. Tiburón Coral drives the chair across the back a second time.

And a third.

Harry drops to one knee. Tiburón Coral tosses the chair aside and bounces off the ropes, coming back with a missile dropkick that drives Harry flat to the canvas.

Tiburón Coral hooks the leg.

Goes for the cover...

Harry gets the shoulder up.

Tiburón Coral pulls Harry up and attempts a tornado DDT, grabbing the ropes to spin. Harry plants his feet and shoves him off, sending Tiburón Coral skidding across the canvas. Tiburón Coral rolls through and comes back immediately with a springboard inverted cutter off the second rope.

The crowd reacts with a sharp burst of noise.

Tiburón Coral covers.

Goes for the cover...

At ringside, BookFace has his tablet up, filming everything, the fake viewer count now reading 8.1 MILLION. Amber Rizzoli stands with her arms folded, watching the ring. El Kraken stands at the opposite corner, completely still, his rusted chain harness catching the arena light. He has not moved since the bell rang.

BookFace lowers the tablet slightly and looks at El Kraken. He raises it again and angles it toward the massive masked man. He zooms in. He starts typing on the screen with one thumb.

On the screen of BookFace's tablet, visible to the hard camera, a caption appears over El Kraken's image: "LOCAL CRYPTID SPOTTED AT RINGSIDE. CLICK TO SUBSCRIBE."

El Kraken's head turns.

Slowly.

He looks at the tablet. He looks at the caption. He looks at BookFace.

BookFace takes one step back.

El Kraken takes one step forward.

BookFace takes another step back, tablet still raised, still filming. He is smiling behind the mask. He is performing for his own stream. He holds the tablet up toward El Kraken and takes a step closer again, framing the shot.

El Kraken reaches out and puts one enormous hand over the tablet lens.

BookFace looks at the hand. He looks up at El Kraken. The smile disappears.

He swings the tablet.

It connects across the side of El Kraken's head with a crack that the ringside microphones absolutely catch.

El Kraken does not move.

He does not flinch. He does not blink. He does not shift his weight by a single millimetre. He simply stands there, three hundred and eleven pounds of absolute stillness, with the mark of the tablet frame already fading on the side of his mask.

He looks at BookFace.

BookFace looks at him.

BookFace runs.

El Kraken follows.

Not fast. Not panicked. With the same slow, monstrous, inevitable stride he uses for everything. But he follows, and BookFace is already through the curtain at full sprint, the tablet abandoned on the floor at ringside, and El Kraken disappears through the curtain after him like a tide going out.

The crowd reacts with a huge pop.

In the ring, Tiburón Coral has Harry Balkin backed into the corner and is driving a series of rapid kicks to the midsection, each one folding Harry further over the middle rope. He grabs Harry's arm, whips him across the ring, and on the return drops him with a high angle full nelson suplex, bridging.

Goes for the cover...

Harry rolls the shoulder.

Tiburón Coral goes to the floor and slides a table into the ring. The crowd rises. He sets it up in the center of the ring, running the legs out until it locks. He turns back to Harry, who is getting to his feet. He charges.

Harry sidesteps him and drives a chop block into the back of Tiburón Coral's knee. Tiburón Coral's leg buckles. Harry grabs him from behind, hooks a full nelson, and drives him back with a release full nelson suplex that drops the back of Tiburón Coral's neck across the edge of the table.

The table does not break but the edge catches the back of Tiburón Coral's neck and he crumples to the mat, both hands going to his head.

Harry drops into the cover.

Goes for the cover...

Harry gets up and immediately goes back to that neck. He locks a camel clutch in the center of the ring, sitting on Tiburón Coral's back, both hands hooked under the chin, wrenching the head back. Tiburón Coral's hands claw at Harry's wrists.

Tiburón Coral powers to his knees, then one foot, then both feet, standing up with Harry on his back. He drives backward into the corner, slamming Harry into the turnbuckle. Harry releases. Tiburón Coral staggers forward and Harry comes out of the corner and drives a running knee strike into the back of Tiburón Coral's neck.

Tiburón Coral goes down hard, face first.

Harry looks at Amber Rizzoli at ringside. Something passes between them. A look. Harry gives a short, sharp nod toward Danny Vance.

Amber unfolds her arms. She looks at her phone. She looks at Danny Vance. She looks at Harry. She walks to the far side of the ring and climbs onto the apron.

Danny Vance turns toward her with the flat expression of a man who has an extensive backlog of concerns he has not yet processed.

Danny Vance moves toward her. His back is to Harry Balkin.

Harry Balkin reaches down and grabs the coral-orange and metallic-teal shark mask.

Both hands.

He pulls.

The arena goes completely still for one half second.

Then the mask comes free.

Tiburón Coral's hands go immediately to his face, both palms covering it, rolling away from Harry instinctively, his body reacting before his mind can. He scrambles on the canvas, disoriented, exposed, every trained instinct firing at once.

A cascade of boos rolls through The Bayou, loud and sustained and furious.

Harry holds the mask up. He looks at it. He looks at the crowd booing him. He smiles, slow and cold, and holds the mask toward the hard camera.

The boos intensify. At ringside, Amber Rizzoli has stopped arguing with Danny Vance. She is looking at the mask in Harry's hand. Her expression does something that is not in the Media Trial playbook. Something that looks like genuine discomfort.

Danny Vance turns back to the ring and sees Harry holding the mask. His jaw tightens.

Danny Vance stares at him. In a hardcore match, there is nothing he can do about it. His jaw works once. He turns to check on Tiburón Coral, who is on his knees with both hands still covering his face, back to the hard camera, back to the crowd, back to everything.

Harry tosses the mask to Amber Rizzoli at ringside. She catches it. She looks at it in her hands. She does not hold it up. She does not smile for the camera.

Harry grabs Tiburón Coral by the back of the head and spins him around. Tiburón Coral keeps his hands over his face, fighting Harry's grip. Harry drives a bionic elbow into the side of Tiburón Coral's head.

He grabs him in a front facelock, positioning the head between his thighs. The Breaking Story. He is going to finish this right now.

And then the arena lights shift.

Not off. Not a full blackout. Just a single spotlight, hitting the stage at the top of the ramp.

Teddy Alexander steps through the curtain.

He is not in ring gear. He is in his street clothes, the black THRØNEBREACH DISASTER shirt, the white athletic tape still on his forearms from the earlier part of the evening. The Spinebuster PRO Tag Team Championship is buckled around his neck.

He does not walk down the ramp. He stands at the top of it. He looks at Harry Balkin Junior in the ring. He looks at Amber Rizzoli at ringside. He looks at the shark mask in Amber's hands.

He does not say a word.

He does not need to.

In the ring, Harry has frozen. He is still in the Breaking Story position with Tiburón Coral between his legs, but he is looking at the stage. His grip has slackened. His eyes are locked on Teddy Alexander at the top of the ramp.

At ringside, Amber Rizzoli is looking at the stage too.

She is looking at Teddy Alexander.

She is looking at the mask in her own hands.

She looks at the mask for a long moment. She looks at Harry in the ring. She looks at Teddy on the stage.

Her jaw tightens. She looks down at the mask. She sets it very carefully on the ring apron. She steps back.

Harry sees it.

She does not look at him.

She takes another step back. Her arms fold. She is not looking at the ring. She is not looking at the stage. She is looking at nothing in particular and she is very deliberately not helping.

Harry's grip slackens completely.

Tiburón Coral feels it.

He drives both hands up, breaking the front facelock. He grabs Harry's wrist, spins under the arm, and rolls him up from behind in a tight schoolboy pin, hooking both legs, sitting down on Harry's shoulders with all one hundred and ninety-eight pounds of him.

Danny Vance slides in.

The Bayou erupts.

Tiburón Coral rolls out of the pin and scrambles to the apron. He reaches for his mask, the coral-orange and metallic-teal sitting where Amber left it. He pulls it back over his face, smoothing the edges down, his hands moving with practiced speed. He adjusts it. He straightens it.

He stands up on the apron and turns to face the ring.

Harry Balkin Junior is on his knees in the center of the canvas, staring at the mat. He heard the three count. He is still processing it. He looks up. He looks at Amber Rizzoli. Amber is standing at ringside, arms still folded, phone in her hand but not raised. She meets his gaze for one second.

Then she looks away.

Harry looks at the stage. Teddy Alexander is still there. He has not moved. He looks at Harry with the same flat, patient expression he reserves for things he has already decided how to feel about. He reaches up, taps the faceplate of the tag title buckled around his neck once, slowly, and turns and walks back through the curtain.

Harry watches him go.

At ringside, a member of the ring crew brings Tiburón Coral his pirate coat. He drapes it across his shoulders without a word and walks up the ramp. He does not celebrate. He does not look back. He moves with the same predatory ease he arrived with, the coral and teal mask perfectly restored, the coat catching the arena light.

In the ring, Harry Balkin Junior gets to his feet. He stands alone. The chair is still in the corner. The table is still set up in the center of the ring, untouched. The mask is gone. His hands hang at his sides.

He looks at Amber.

Amber looks at the floor.

Harry Balkin Jr. flips the table in anger before leaning over the ropes pointing an accusing finger at Teddy Alexander.

The camera cuts to the Kaiju who shakes his head at Balkin in the ring before patting the title belt on his shoulder.

Bad Juju goes off the air.