Bad Juju

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

April Monday standing at the center of the empty ring in a perfectly tailored three-piece suit, chrome microphone at her side, not performing for the crowd. Just stating a fact. The legacy demands a blood price. Everybody pays it.

Rey Manta at the top of the ramp, seafoam-green cape spread wide behind him like a wingspan, gold cane raised toward the rafters of The Bayou. The crowd booing. Rey Manta looking out at them the way a landlord looks at a property.

Scarlett Vice dropping her voice to something low and intimate in the middle of a ring full of women. Her eyes finding April's. Do not. Give it. To Daisy. The silence after it landing hard.

The randomizer on the Titantron spinning through six names too fast to read. The crowd leaning in. The final slot locking. DAISY MAE DuPRIS. The building coming apart at the seams.

Munchy Man trying to shake off two hundred and twenty pounds of aristocracy while Rey Manta stands at the center of the ring and watches him with complete disinterest. The Abyssal Wing. The canvas shaking. Munchy Man not moving. Manta not celebrating.

Harry Balkin Jr. in the fluorescent corridor, one hand straightening his blazer cuff, his eyes already calculating while Amber Rizzoli is still deciding whether to take him seriously. When you eventually step through those ropes and someone tries to make you their content instead of the other way around, the question you'll want to have already answered is who is in your corner. Amber's expression. Not convinced. Not dismissing it either.

Drop Bear getting three hundred and eleven pounds off the canvas with Harry Balkin Jr. locked in a military press above his head, legs kicking six feet in the air. The crowd noise. BookFace's boot finding Drop Bear's ankle from the floor.

Gruff Veracity in the half-lit locker room, four feet from Elvis Hunt, arms loose at his sides. Not angry. Not performing. We didn't finish. Hunt looking up from the flask with that slow, lazy grin that means he knows he's right and won't say so.

The Bullseye Kid crouching on the arena floor, picking up the graffitied hoodie. Standing. Holding it up so Kid Koala, being restrained against the barricade, could see exactly what was about to happen. Then dropping it. Then stomping it once. Slowly. Deliberately.

Hunt tilting the flask toward Gruff like a toast before the door clicked shut behind him. Put it on my tab.

La Sirena absorbing Amber Rizzoli's springboard crossbody with one arm and rolling her off like she weighed nothing. Amber's face when she realized that was the kickout.

Roxie Roche's microphone drop at the end of her promo. Time to pay the toll. Not looking at the crowd when she said it. Not looking at anyone. Just the ring.

Scarlett Vice's three slow steps along the floor outside the ring. The crowd seeing her. Nobody in the ring seeing her. Daisy on the top rope. Scarlett's hands coming up. The sound that followed.

Then the footage cuts cold.

Roxie Roche standing in the center of the ring. The Femina Imperium Championship raised in one hand. Not looking up at it. Looking at the stage. Scarlett Vice standing at the top of the ramp, watching everything unfurl with the patience of someone who arranged the room before anyone else arrived. Roxie's jaw set. The title in the air between them like a question that hasn't been answered yet.

The Bad Juju logo detonates across the screen.

The fans pops loudly at the pyros going off on stage.

The camera swings to the announce table. Morton Murphy has his notes in front of him and his jacket on. pain GRILLE is beside him in the bread-loaf mask and what appears to be a sport coat he is treating as formal wear.

The camera holds on the announce desk for a beat before cutting to the Swamp Water graphic.

The graphic holds. The crowd buzzes in anticipation. Somewhere near the entrance, a camera crew is already positioning outside a closed office door.

The feed cuts without warning. No production countdown, no camera cue. The lens finds April Monday already behind her desk, mid-thought, a legal pad in front of her and a cold cup of coffee she hasn't touched. The office is modest but deliberate. The Spinebuster PRO banner hangs behind her. On the small monitor in the corner, the show feed is still running. She doesn't look at it. She looks at the camera like she was waiting for it.

April sets the legal pad down flat on the desk. She folds her hands over it. The gold rings catch the light. She doesn't clear her throat. She doesn't adjust herself. She just begins.

She lets that sit for exactly one breath.

Her jaw tightens slightly. Just slightly.

April opens the legal pad. She doesn't read from it. She just confirms something with her eyes and closes it again.

She shifts. Nothing dramatic. Just a slight reset in posture that signals she's moving to the next item.

She leans forward just slightly. Elbows on the desk.

April hasn't broken her cadence. She anticipated this reaction. She was ready for it before the camera was on.

She pauses. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter but somehow harder.

April picks up the legal pad. She rolls the pen between her ringed fingers once, then sets it down. The meeting is over. She doesn't announce that. She just makes it so.

She looks directly into the camera. The icy green eyes don't blink.

She opens the legal pad again and returns to work. The camera lingers for one beat, then cuts.

The house lights are still up from the previous segment. "Pepper" Pete Peppins stands in the center of the ring, adjusting his microphone.

Generic Stock Rock Track 4 fires through the PA. It is exactly as uninspired as it sounds. A two-chord garage riff with no direction and no future. The arena lights don't even bother adjusting. They just stay where they were.

Barry "The Blueprint" Brick bursts through the curtain anyway, both fists raised, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he just got called up to the main roster of the biggest company in the world. He points at a fan in the front row. The fan looks mildly confused. Barry points at another one. That fan is eating nachos and does not respond. Barry jogs down the ramp, slapping hands, absolutely overflowing with belief in a destiny nobody else can see.

Barry hops over the top rope, lands, and immediately grabs the ropes and starts pulling on them hard, bouncing, testing the tension like he's checking a Formula One car before the race. He shadowboxes in the corner. He rolls his neck. Danny Vance watches this from the other side of the ring with the flat, professional patience of a man who has seen this exact routine before and knows exactly how it ends.

Barry shadowboxes in the corner one more time, throwing a crisp little combination at nothing. He mouths the words "trust the process" to himself. He looks ready.

Then the music cuts.

Silence.

The PA goes completely, uncomfortably quiet. The crowd stirs.

And then it hits.

The opening of "Slave to the Rhythm" by Sullivan King drops through the system like a weight falling from the ceiling, low and industrial and patient. The arena lights dim to near-darkness. A single pale beam holds the entrance curtain.

Barry stops shadowboxing. His eyes go to the entrance.

The first drop of the track arrives and the curtain parts. Jet Vessil steps out and stops dead still on the stage, both feet planted, both hands at his sides. The mask catches the flickering light. He does not raise his arms. He does not acknowledge the crowd. He stands there the way a wall stands there.

The crowd rises.

Jet does not move.

The second drop lands.

Now he walks. One step. Then another. No rush. No performance. He does not make eye contact with the front row. He does not play to the hard camera. His eyes are fixed on the ring, and more specifically, on the man standing in it. The mask catches light in pieces. The footsteps are slow and metronomic.

Jet reaches the ring apron. He grabs the top rope with one hand and steps up onto the apron in a single motion, not ducking between the ropes like most wrestlers do. He steps over the top rope instead. Both feet hit the canvas. The ring sinks slightly under his weight.

Danny Vance, to his credit, does not flinch. He stands in the center of the ring, points at Barry's corner, points at Jet's corner, and directs both men to separate.

Barry, still bouncing, jogs to his corner and rolls his neck one more time.

Jet walks to his corner, stops, and turns to face the ring.

He does not bounce. He does not shadowbox. He just watches Barry.

Danny Vance looks at both competitors, satisfied they're ready, and signals for the bell.

Barry comes out of his corner immediately, moving into the center of the ring with textbook footwork, circling to his left, arms up. He looks eager and focused. He actually looks like he has a plan.

Jet does not move from his corner.

Barry circles. Jet watches.

Barry takes a step in. Jet does not react. Barry takes another step. Still nothing. Barry closes the distance a bit more and then commits, shooting forward for a collar-and-elbow tie-up, hands reaching.

Jet sidesteps it so cleanly it is almost insulting. Barry's hands grab nothing but air and he stumbles half a step past where he expected to make contact.

Barry resets quickly, nodding to himself. He circles again. He feints left, goes right, and fires a running shoulder block into Jet's midsection.

Barry bounces off. Jet does not move. Jet does not blink. He looks down at Barry like something landed on him that he did not notice. Barry stumbles back a step, shakes his arms out, stares at the man in front of him.

Barry comes again. He fires a European uppercut, the forearm cracking under Jet's chin.

Jet's head snaps back half an inch. His eyes go somewhere for just a moment and then come right back. Barry feels it. He feels something. He fires a second European uppercut, turning his hips into it.

Jet's head turns. His jaw tightens. His eyes find Barry again. Slow. Patient. Waiting.

Barry throws the third one, stepping into it.

Jet catches the arm.

The crowd gasps. Barry's wrist is locked in Jet's hand. Barry tries to pull it back. He might as well be trying to pull a lamppost.

The Elbow Intercept Strike fires out of nowhere. Jet's free elbow drives straight into the side of Barry's head.

Barry's knees buckle. His eyes go briefly somewhere else. Jet does not release the arm.

He pivots. He spins Barry's arm, yanks it across, and the Short-Arm Lariat comes off the pivot and takes Barry's head off at the neck.

Barry spins and hits the mat face-first. He is already trying to get up, bless his soul, already pushing on his hands.

Barry is on one knee. He's reaching for the ropes, steadying himself. Danny Vance watches but stays back. Jet stands over him.

Barry gets to his feet.

Jet measures him.

Barry turns around.

The Intercept Lariat arrives. Full arm extension, full body rotation, and the impact drives Barry backwards off his feet, his body turning inside out before he crashes to the mat.

Barry lands on the canvas and his body does not move for a full beat. Jet steps over to him, drops to one knee, and hooks the leg with the casual, unhurried ease of a man who has already calculated the outcome.

Danny Vance hits the canvas.

Danny Vance stands immediately and goes to raise Jet's arm. Jet lets it be raised, then withdraws his hand and walks to the ropes without looking back. He steps over the top rope to the apron, then drops to the floor and begins the walk back up the ramp. No celebration. No acknowledgment. He is already finished with it.

"Slave to the Rhythm" rises through the PA again as the crowd buzzes.

In the ring, Barry is sitting up on the canvas, blinking. He touches the side of his face where the elbow hit. He winces. Danny Vance crouches down and checks on him quickly, two fingers up, checking the eyes. Barry waves him off, nodding. He's okay. He's always okay. He rolls to the ropes and uses them to get back to his feet.

Barry stands up, looks at the ramp where Jet is already disappearing through the curtain, and nods to himself slowly.

Barry mouths something quietly. It looks like "trust the process." He shakes his head once, rolls his neck, and climbs out of the ring on his own power.

The feed cuts from the arena floor to the backstage interview set. The Spinebuster PRO logo backdrop fills the frame, crisp and lit professionally. The monitor on the set is showing the arena floor between matches, crowd milling around, a few kids leaning on the barricade. Jarvis Jolt stands center frame in a custom-tailored deep crimson silk blazer with gold cufflinks, the mic in his hand embossed with that vintage J/V lightning bolt logo. He is already grinning like a man who knows exactly how good he looks.

Standing to his left, clipboard tucked under his arm, is Ike Gritsenko. He is wearing a Second-Wind Syndicate polo shirt tucked tight into athletic shorts, hair slicked with the confidence of a man who has invented every statistic he has ever cited. goldFISH stands to Ike's left, bouncing very slightly on the balls of his feet, blinking at the camera like he just remembered where he was.

Ike raises one hand toward Jarvis, index finger extended, pausing the introduction before he accepts it. He pulls the clipboard from under his arm, scans it with the gravity of a man reading treaty terms, nods once, and tucks it back.

goldFISH nods with immediate, furious conviction.

He pulls the clipboard out.

Jarvis looks directly into the camera and very slowly raises one eyebrow.

He pats the clipboard.

Jarvis tilts his head and looks pleasantly into the camera.

He checks the clipboard.

goldFISH's attention drifts very slightly toward the monitor behind Jarvis. He stares at it for a moment. His brow furrows with mild pleasant curiosity about nothing in particular.

And then it hits.

A piercing, shrieking wall of high-frequency feedback tears through the backstage area without warning. Not a normal PA squeal. This is sustained, intentional, and devastating. A single screaming tone at the absolute top of the register, filling every corner of the set, bouncing off every hard surface. It is physical. It is punishing.

Jarvis Jolt's eyes go wide. His free hand shoots to his ear. He takes two involuntary steps sideways and his body posture crumples slightly at the waist before he catches himself, straightening sharply, protecting his back on pure muscle memory. The mic drops out of his hand and clatters on the floor.

IKE grabs both sides of his head with both hands, the clipboard clattering down. He shouts something but nothing can be heard over the sound. His face is a mask of genuine pain and fury.

goldFISH drops into an immediate crouch, hands clamped over his ears, mouth open in a soundless shout. Then for three full seconds he seems to forget what is happening and looks at the ceiling with abstract interest before the noise brings him back.

The camera loses focus entirely. The image skews, swims, drifts. The operator is clearly fighting to hold the shot. The monitor behind them flares white.

And then it stops.

Complete silence.

Jarvis straightens. Ike lifts his head from between his hands. goldFISH blinks, looks around, pats himself on the chest to confirm he is still there.

The camera slowly drags itself back into focus.

Vox Null is standing at the edge of the set.

Nobody saw him arrive. Nobody heard him arrive. He is simply there, six feet five and three hundred and twelve pounds of complete, organized stillness. Cold white lighting catches the angles of his face. He does not move. He does not look around the room. He looks at Ike Gritsenko and nowhere else.

The monitor behind them plays the arena feed in silence. The crowd on the feed has no idea this is happening yet.

Ike stares at him. The clipboard is still on the floor. Neither Ike nor goldFISH moves to pick it up.

Jarvis Jolt reaches down very carefully with the practiced smoothness of a man who has learned exactly how to bend so that he does not destroy himself, retrieves the microphone, and rises back to full height. He extends it in Vox Null's direction with a slightly unsteady hand.

Vox Null looks at the microphone. Looks at Jarvis. Looks at Ike.

A beat of silence so thick it has weight.

The text-to-speech voice is clean and flat and completely without inflection. It comes from his phone. A different phone. An identical phone. He does not explain it. He does not need to.

He holds Ike Gritsenko's gaze for one more second, turns, and walks off frame without hurry.

Jarvis Jolt watches him go. He turns back to the camera slowly. He opens his mouth. He closes it. He looks at the space where Vox Null was standing.

goldFISH looks at the empty space at the edge of the set.

The camera holds on Ike Gritsenko, who is still staring at the corridor where Vox Null disappeared. The expression on his face is not fear. It is not bravado. It is the expression of a man running a calculation and not loving the result.

He bends down, picks up the clipboard, and tucks it under his arm without looking at it.

The arena is humming, the crowd still buzzing from the Tag title semi-final that just wrapped. A production assistant sets the mic stand in the center of the ring. The lights shift. The house settles into an expectant quiet.

Then the down-tuned guitar riff rumbles up from the PA like something crawling out of the swamp.

The green and rust-orange strobes pulse as Roxie "Riot" Roche walks through the curtain, the Femina Imperium Championship draped over her shoulder like it was always supposed to live there. No pageantry. No posing. She is already taping her left wrist on the way down the ramp, the belt bouncing with each heavy stride. The crowd in The Bayou gives her a loud, genuine pop.

Roxie climbs the steps, steps through the middle rope, and bites her mouthguard out of her mouth, catching it in her palm. She shoves it into the waistband of her trunks and stands in the center of the ring. She holds the championship up once, briefly, then drops it back to her shoulder. She doesn't play to the crowd. She just looks at them, and they cheer anyway.

She takes the microphone from the stand.

The music fades.

The crowd settles, listening.

She shifts the belt on her shoulder.

She pauses. The crowd waits.

A murmur runs through the arena.

She stares out at the entrance.

The crowd reacts. Heat starting to build.

She drops her voice just slightly.

She turns slightly toward the entrance ramp.

The crowd pops immediately. For a moment the arena buzzes. Then the warm golden lights flood the building and the Cajun zydeco music kicks in bright and fast.

Daisy Mae DuPris bursts through the curtain bouncing on her toes, her sky-blue and sunflower-yellow singlet bright under the house lights. She high-fives the kids in the front row on her way down but she moves with more purpose than her usual skip. She slides under the bottom rope, stands up, and looks at Roxie. For a moment neither of them moves.

Then Daisy tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and the crowd cheers just for that.

The ring announcer slides a second microphone under the bottom rope. Daisy picks it up.

She exhales.

A genuine response from the crowd. Fans appreciate the sportsmanship.

She touches the side of her head briefly, a small, involuntary gesture.

She taps the championship on her shoulder.

The crowd erupts.

Daisy looks down at the mat for just a moment. Processing. Then she looks back up, and there's something in her expression that is not the wide-eyed optimism she usually carries through the curtain. This is something quieter and sharper underneath it.

She smiles, but it's not the cheerful smile from the entrance. It's something with roots in it.

The crowd loves it. Real applause, warm and genuine.

She extends her right hand. Daisy looks at it for one beat, then shakes it. The crowd pops.

And then the guitar riff hits.

Not the sludge-metal of Roxie's entrance. Not the zydeco warmth of Daisy's. This is the thundering drum beat rolling into a grinding, iconic rock riff, and the arena lights plunge into deep crimson and hot pink. And the crowd turns immediately, instinctively, because the sound of "Pour Some Sugar on Me" carries a specific kind of warning.

Scarlett Vice glides through the curtain.

The contrast is immediate and total. Where Roxie walked with purpose and Daisy bounced with warmth, Scarlett moves like she is the only person in the room worth watching and she has fully accepted that as natural law. She is wearing her metallic crimson-red and hot-pink strappy ring gear, fishnet tights, thigh-high pink boots, gold buckles catching the pink spotlight. Her long cherry-red hair moves like she arranged it to do exactly that.

She stops at the top of the ramp, looks down at the ring, and smiles the slow, lazy smile of someone who was never actually surprised by anything.

She has a microphone already.

She lets the word hang in the air for a moment.

The crowd boos. Hard.

Scarlett absorbs it like it's warmth.

She begins walking down the ramp, slow and deliberate, perfectly on the beat even though the music has faded.

She stops at the foot of the ramp, one hand on the apron, looking up into the ring.

A wave of boos.

She tilts her head, the smile unwavering.

In the ring, Daisy's jaw has tightened. She doesn't say anything yet. She just looks at Scarlett with something careful behind her eyes.

Roxie hasn't moved. She stands with her arms loose at her sides, her head slightly forward, her eyes on Scarlett the way you watch something you're deciding whether to pick up or step on.

She walks toward the ropes.

She leans over the top rope.

The crowd reacts. Scarlett looks up at her without blinking.

The crowd explodes.

Scarlett holds her position at the foot of the ramp. She looks up at Roxie. Down at the title on Roxie's shoulder. Back up at Roxie's face. And then, very slowly, her smile widens.

She reaches out and places one palm flat on the ring apron.

She leans in slightly, her voice dropping to the smoky, intimate register she keeps for moments like this.

She lifts her chin. The smile does not waver.

She begins climbing the ring steps.

The crowd surges. Noise rolling through The Bayou in waves. Roxie steps back from the ropes and sets her feet. Daisy shifts to the side, her eyes fixed on Scarlett coming up those steps.

Scarlett stops on the apron. She looks through the ropes. She looks at Roxie. She looks at the belt.

Then she parts the ropes with one hand like she's opening a door.

And then the feed cuts.

The screen goes dark. A production graphic fades in.

The house lights are still buzzing from the previous segment. Roxy "Patch" Malone stands inside the ropes, rolling her neck, utterly indifferent to the crowd noise swirling around her. She adjusts her eye patch and leans against the corner post like she owns the corner of a bar nobody else wants.

The house lighting drops. The Bayou goes dark for a long half second before crimson-red and hot-pink flood the arena in a heavy theatrical wash, the contrast sharp enough to make the whole building feel like a nightclub at last call. Then the drums crack in. That unmistakable kick-and-snare intro.

Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar on Me" tears through the PA and "The Ring Vixen" Scarlett Vice steps through the curtain at a deliberate, swaying pace. The metallic crimson and hot-pink strappy ring outfit catches every spotlight as she moves, gold buckles glinting, fishnet tights drawing the eye straight down to those thigh-high pink boots. She runs both hands slowly through her voluminous cherry-red hair and rolls her hips into every step, treating the ramp like her personal runway.

The crowd boos. Loudly.

Scarlett stops at the bottom of the ramp, tilts her head, and blows a long, slow, sarcastic kiss toward the commentary table. Her eyes land directly on Daisy Mae DuPris and the smirk that follows is slow and deliberate and absolutely toxic.

Scarlett scales the steel steps at her own pace, grips the middle rope with both hands, and slides through facedown right as the chorus erupts. She rises to her knees, finds the main camera, and winks directly into the lens before blowing one more slow, mocking kiss.

Scarlett peels off a long outer wrap from her waist and drapes it over the top rope like she is hanging a garment in her personal closet, turning her back on the crowd with complete contempt.

The pink and red light dies. Total darkness for two full seconds. Then the raw green and rust-orange strobe tears through the arena like a welding torch going off in the back of the room, and the low, grinding, down-tuned guitar of Down's "Stone the Crow" rolls in like a thunderhead off the Mississippi.

The crowd rises.

Roxie "Riot" Roche slouches through the curtain with her hands already working the pre-wrap tape across her wrists, walking in sync with the grinding sludge-metal rhythm like she is completely indifferent to the noise. Weathered green trunks. Distressed flannel shirt knotted at the hip. Scuffed brown boots. Hair an absolute mess. The Femina Imperium Championship is buckled around her waist, sitting crooked, and she has not bothered to straighten it.

She does not wave. She does not play to the cameras. She walks a straight line toward that ring.

Roxie reaches the apron, steps up onto it without breaking stride, ducks through the middle rope, and immediately unstraps the Femina Imperium Championship from her waist. She holds it up once, left arm extended, toward the crowd. The Bayou responds.

She hands the title to Roxy "Patch" Malone. Malone takes it without ceremony, glances at it once with her good eye like she is appraising a fish, and hands it off to the timekeeper.

Roxie spits her mouthguard up, catches it, shoves it back in, and plants herself in the center of the ring.

Scarlett blinks at her slowly, amused.

Scarlett does not come out fast. She circles the ring with her hands loose at her sides, hips rolling slightly, reading Roxie like she is reading a room. Roxie tracks her with flat, patient eyes, turning on the spot. No wasted movement.

Scarlett tilts her head and opens her arms wide, the classic Fake Embrace. Completely open. Daring Roxie to come in.

Roxie does not bite. She just stares, upper lip curled slightly. She bounces once on her heels and shoots straight in for a collar-and-elbow tie-up. Scarlett twists into it immediately, flowing into a side headlock, wrenching the neck. Roxie backs her toward the ropes, plants her feet, and pushes, sending Scarlett off across the ring on an Irish whip.

Scarlett comes back at speed. Roxie lowers her shoulder. Scarlett leaps clean over the lowered body, hits the far ropes, comes back again, and as Roxie rises, Scarlett drops into a matrix-style back-bend under a swinging short-arm clothesline that Roxie had already cocked before Scarlett was even upright.

The crowd buzzes with reluctant appreciation.

Scarlett rises smoothly from the matrix and turns directly into Roxie, who has already spun around on her heel. Roxie drives a clubbing forearm straight across the side of Scarlett's face. Scarlett's head snaps hard to the right. She grabs the top rope.

Scarlett shakes it off faster than she should and turns with a slow smile. She reaches up and gently runs a hand through her mussed hair, almost appreciative. Then she steps in and throws a stinging open-hand slap directly across Roxie's cheek that echoes to the back row.

Roxie does not flinch. She just slowly turns her head back and stares at Scarlett. The manic grin is already there. Scarlett reads the room a half-second too late.

Roxie grabs Scarlett by the back of the head, drags her in, and levels her with a stiff headbutt right between the eyes.

Scarlett drops to a knee, genuinely rattled, one hand going immediately to her forehead. Roxie grabs her by the arm and hauls her up, drives her into the corner chest-first, and before Scarlett can push off, Roxie drives a running big boot straight into her back, sandwiching her between the boot and the turnbuckles.

Scarlett staggers out of the corner, hunched forward, arms wrapped around her ribs. Roxie lets her turn. The moment Scarlett faces her, Roxie shoots off the ropes, comes back, and drives a clubbing forearm into Scarlett's chest, folding her back against the ropes. Scarlett bounces forward and Roxie catches her in a front facelock, setting her hips. She hooks Scarlett across the back and drives her overhead with a heavy belly-to-belly suplex that dumps Scarlett hard on the canvas in the center of the ring.

The Bayou pops.

Roxie goes for the cover, driving her forearm across Scarlett's chest.

Scarlett kicks out with a jerk at two, rolling to her side.

Scarlett gets to a knee and Roxie gives her just enough space to get there, then grabs her by the hair and drags her upright. Roxy "Patch" Malone immediately steps in.

Roxie releases the hair without looking at Malone, grabs the wrist instead, and fires Scarlett into the ropes. Scarlett comes back. Roxie plants for a scoop slam. She hauls Scarlett up, holds her for a beat, and drives her down hard on the canvas, the thud reverberating through the ring boards.

Goes for the cover again...

Scarlett gets a shoulder up and immediately rolls toward the ropes, getting the bottom strand and pulling herself to the apron.

And this, folks, is a great moment to pause because Swamp Water Brand has been making Bad Juju possible since day one. Swamp Water, the only beverage brewed in the actual Louisiana swamplands, murky and unfiltered and proud of it. If you have never cracked open a Swamp Water after a long hot night like this one, you are doing yourself a disservice. Find it at participating retailers across the Gulf Coast or at SwampWaterDrinks.com. Murky by design. Dangerous by nature. Swamp Water.

Scarlett uses the ropes to pull herself upright on the apron. Roxie crosses the ring toward her. Scarlett seizes the opportunity, reaching over the top rope and driving a thumb into Roxie's eye before Malone can close the distance from the opposite side.

She shrugs and does not call the infraction. The crowd boos.

Roxie staggers backward, rubbing her eye, and Scarlett drops off the apron, circles the ring post, and grabs Roxie's ankle from the floor, dragging her leg toward the ring post with a sharp yank. Roxie's knee catches the bottom corner of the apron and she goes down.

Scarlett slides back into the ring as Roxie pushes herself up on all fours. Scarlett steps in behind her, grabs a handful of hair, and executes a suggestive hair-pull snapmare that rolls Roxie over onto her back. Scarlett keeps hold of the hair for a beat too long, pulling Roxie's head off the mat just to drop it back down.

Scarlett releases at three and moves smoothly into a seated position behind Roxie, driving a provocative kick right into the center of Roxie's back. Roxie arches off the canvas.

Scarlett slides in front of Roxie, wraps a side headlock on from the seated position, and rolls onto her, pressing Roxie's shoulders down with her body weight. Malone drops to check.

Roxie powers the shoulders up, pushing Scarlett's weight partially off her.

Scarlett releases and rises, circling. Roxie gets to a knee. Scarlett measures her and comes off the ropes with a running calf kick to the chest that catches Roxie square in the sternum, driving her back down to the canvas.

Scarlett goes for a cover, settling on top of Roxie with deliberate, theatrical weight.

Roxie kicks out at two and rolls to her side, rubbing her chest.

Scarlett rises, smooths her hair, and looks out at the crowd with that slow, contemptuous smile. The boos roll in.

Scarlett reaches down, hauls Roxie up by the wrist, and sets up for an Irish whip toward the near corner. She sends Roxie in. Roxie hits the turnbuckles back-first, bounces out, and Scarlett comes in fast with the XXXVice, mounting the corner for the bronco buster. Roxie staggers sideways just a half-second before Scarlett can land the full impact, and Scarlett hits the middle turnbuckle awkwardly, catching herself on the ropes.

Roxie grabs Scarlett by the back of the trunks and the arm, pulling her away from the ropes, and drives a short-arm clothesline that spins Scarlett halfway around before she goes down.

The crowd is up. Roxie wrenches Scarlett back to her feet, drives two stiff clubbing forearm shots across her shoulders and upper back, and then plants her with another scoop slam. Roxie drives an elbow straight down into Scarlett's sternum for good measure.

Roxie hauls Scarlett back up. Scarlett, desperate, drives a thumb hard into the eye again, this time right in front of Malone.

Malone steps in close to Scarlett, tilts her head up with her chin, and looks her dead in the eye with the one she has.

Scarlett holds the stare for exactly one second and then decides she does not. She turns back to Roxie. Roxie is still on her feet, blinking through the eye shot. Scarlett grabs her by the arm and whips her toward the far corner. Roxie goes in hard. Scarlett follows immediately and catches her in the chest with a running calf kick to the ribs as Roxie hits the buckle, then steps back and measures her up.

Roxie comes stumbling out of the corner. Scarlett hooks the wrist, steps back into position, and snaps her over with a bridging northern lights suplex, arching back onto the crown of her head, holding the bridge. Malone drops.

Roxie rolls the shoulder out with a grunt, breaking the bridge.

The crowd buzzes. Scarlett releases the bridge and is up immediately, hands going to her hair, reading the situation. She scans the ring. Her eyes travel to the nearest corner. The turnbuckle cover is still in place. She circles toward it deliberately.

Scarlett gets her fingers on the turnbuckle cover and pulls. It pops free. The exposed metal bracket catches the arena light. She tucks the cover between the middle and top ropes where it sits unseen and turns back toward Roxie with her hands completely open, all innocence.

Roxie has pushed herself back to her feet, rolling her neck. Scarlett crosses the ring with a smile, steps in close, and grabs the wrist. She steps across for the Irish whip, pointing Roxie directly toward that exposed corner.

Roxie goes. Scarlett follows at a trot, expecting to direct the landing. Roxie hits the turnbuckles but twists on contact, back catching the top buckle rather than her face, and the exposed metal bites into her shoulder. Roxie winces but does not go down.

Scarlett is already in. She reaches up to grab Roxie's head and redirect it into the bracket.

Roxie grabs the wrist. She wrenches Scarlett off balance, spins her around, and steps behind her. She locks both arms around Scarlett's waist from behind and drives her forward at an angle, launching Scarlett headfirst into the same exposed turnbuckle bracket with a brutal exploder suplex that cracks Scarlett's head off the metal.

The sound rings out sharp and ugly.

She does not actually do anything. She just crosses her arms and watches.

Scarlett crashes off the exposed bracket and crumples to the canvas, limp. Her forehead catches the ring boards on the way down. She is not moving. The Bayou is absolutely raucous.

Roxie stands over Scarlett for one second. She reaches down and grabs both of Scarlett's wrists, crosses them behind her back, and drags her up into a standing position. Scarlett's legs are barely under her. Her forehead is a mess where the bracket caught her. Roxie hooks both arms up in the double underhook position, lifts, bends her knees, and drives straight down with the Bayou Driver, the sit-out double-underhook powerbomb that folds Scarlett into the canvas like a wet paper bag.

The ring shakes.

Roxie hooks both legs and drops back.

Roxy "Patch" Malone grabs Roxie's wrist and raises it once. Roxie pulls it back immediately. She stands over Scarlett Vice for a long second, chest heaving, staring down at her without expression.

The timekeeper passes the Femina Imperium Championship through the ropes. Malone picks it up off the canvas where it lands and holds it up toward Roxie without fanfare. Roxie takes it. She buckles it around her waist, crooked again, and turns toward the commentary table.

Her eyes find Daisy Mae DuPris.

Daisy is on her feet at the desk. She holds Roxie's gaze across the ring. She does not wave. She does not smile. She just nods once, slowly.

Roxie nods back. The same single nod. Nothing performed in it.

In the ring behind her, Scarlett Vice is beginning to stir, one hand pressing against her forehead, the referee crouching down to check on her condition.

Malone stands and walks to her corner. In the ring, Roxie drops out through the ropes and walks up the ramp without looking back, the Femina Imperium Championship riding crooked at her waist and the Bayou thundering around her.

Her mic cuts. The broadcast moves on.

The camera cuts away from the arena floor. The corridor outside April Monday's office. Fluorescent light buzzes overhead. A framed photo of August Monday hangs crooked on the cinder block wall. The door is open just enough.

Gruff Veracity stands in the corridor, shoulder against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest. He is still in his ring gear. His jaw is set. He knocks twice with the back of his knuckle. Solid. No patience in it.

April Monday looks up from her desk. A stack of paperwork sits beside a cold cup of coffee. She does not stand. She does not have to.

Gruff steps inside. He doesn't sit. Doesn't move toward the chair. He stands in front of her desk the way a man stands when he's been carrying something heavy for too long and has finally decided to put it down somewhere.

April sets her pen down. She laces her fingers together on the desk. Not defensive. Just listening. Fully.

A beat. He unfolds his arms. The closest thing to an open posture he has.

Murphy at the commentary desk, watching the monitor.

Back in the office. April studies Gruff. Not suspicious. Reading.

April nods once. Slow. The way a person nods when they've already made a decision and are confirming it internally before they say it out loud.

Gruff gives one short nod. Enough.

He turns to go. And then a voice comes from the doorway.

Elvis Hunt leans against the doorframe. His Hawaiian shirt is open. His hair is pushed back incorrectly, like he slept on it wrong and never addressed it. He is eating a gas station sandwich, one massive bite already gone from the corner. There is a mustard stain on the lower hem of his shirt that was not there at the start of the night. He looks between Gruff and April like a man who has wandered into a situation he is absolutely not qualified for and has zero intention of leaving.

Elvis takes another bite. Doesn't rush it. Chews. Points at Gruff with the corner of the sandwich.

He looks at April. His expression shifts. Not entirely. But the lazy grin gets a specific direction.

Gruff looks at the ceiling. Just briefly.

April looks at Elvis. Not flustered. Not amused in a way she will ever admit to. She lets the silence sit for exactly as long as she wants it to.

Elvis stops chewing. Just for a second. He looks at Gruff. Gruff is watching him with the flat, patient expression of a man who has been waiting for exactly this.

He looks at Gruff.

Gruff takes one step toward Elvis. Not aggressive. Measured. He is a full presence in the room when he moves.

The two men hold eye contact. Neither blinks. Gruff is iron. Elvis has mustard on his shirt and is still holding the sandwich. And somehow it is not entirely clear which one of them is more dangerous right now.

April stands. That ends it. The room recalibrates around her the moment she's on her feet.

She picks up her pen. Eyes back to the paperwork.

A beat.

Elvis looks at her for one more second. He takes a final bite of the sandwich, points at the framed photo of August Monday on the wall outside, and looks back at April.

He winks. She does not look up from the paperwork. Elvis drifts back out into the corridor. Gruff follows without a word, pulling the door most of the way shut behind him.

The camera lingers on April for just a moment. She exhales once through her nose. She turns a page.

The feed cuts back to the commentary desk.

The camera cuts backstage. A narrow corridor runs alongside the locker room block, fluorescent light buzzing overhead. Amber Rizzoli stands alone near a concrete wall, arms folded tight across her chest, phone face-down in her hand for once. Her jaw is set. Her eyes are doing that thing where the influencer smile has completely evaporated and what is left underneath is something uglier and considerably more real. She stares at nothing.

Footsteps in the corridor. BookFace rounds the corner first, tablet raised, already livestreaming the hallway approach. Harry Balkin Jr. is half a step behind, blazer open, microphone clipped to his lapel out of pure habit. He scans the corridor, spots Amber, and the pace shifts from brisk to deliberate. Purposeful. He has practiced this walk.

Amber does not look up immediately. She stares at the floor for one more beat, then raises her eyes with an expression that is not quite warm and not quite hostile. It is the face of someone deciding which version of herself to deploy.

BookFace takes up a position slightly behind Balkin's left shoulder, angling the tablet so the screen faces out toward the corridor. Numbers flicker across it. Fake viewer counts ticking upward.

A silence sits in the corridor. The fluorescent light buzzes. Amber looks at the tablet in BookFace's hand, then back at Balkin.

Amber exhales through her nose. She turns slightly, enough that her shoulder angles away from them, and she stares at the wall for a moment. Her thumb taps the back of her phone three times.

He lets that land. BookFace tilts the tablet slightly, the fake viewer count still climbing. Amber looks at the screen. Her expression does something complicated.

He adjusts his lapel mic, gives her one last look, and turns. BookFace follows, already typing something on the tablet. Their footsteps recede down the corridor. Amber watches them go. She stands there alone again, phone in hand, and this time she turns it face-up and stares at the screen. Whatever she sees there, it does not make her look happier.

The camera lingers on Amber in the corridor. She opens her phone, starts typing something, and the feed cuts back to ringside.

The arena lights are burning hot and the crowd at The Bayou is loud and restless. It has been a long, eventful Bad Juju. The commentary desk is set.

The arena lights slam into deep ocean blue. The low pulse of the sonar ping echoes through the PA, rattling the subwoofers. Then the industrial metal kicks in hard and violent, crashing ocean waves buried underneath the riff.

El Kraken steps out first through a wall of dry ice fog, six foot four of matte-grey mask and rusted maritime chains hanging off the leather harness strapped across his massive bare chest. He walks with that slow, tectonic stride, eyes forward, jaw set behind the purple tentacle-etched mask, completely unmoved by the wall of heat coming from the crowd. Behind him, Tiburón Coral glides into the light wearing his coral-orange and metallic-teal leather mask, the jagged white shark teeth graphics around the jaw catching the blue arena lighting. His sun-bleached teal pirate coat drifts behind him as he moves in that fluid predatory sway, occasionally snapping his jaw toward a fan screaming obscenities at the barrier. Halfway down the ramp Coral stops, tilts his head, and raises one finger to his throat in a slow, deliberate cutting gesture. The heat in the building sharpens.

El Kraken steps cleanly over the top rope without touching it. He walks to dead center, spreads both arms wide, and flexes the enormous traps up to the ceiling. Coral vaults from the floor to the apron in one fluid motion, scales the turnbuckle, and points that single finger at his throat again while scanning the crowd with wide, unblinking eyes behind the mesh.

Marcus Vance stands in the corner, arms folded. He watches the heels with absolutely no expression on his face. No warnings. He lets them have the moment.

The blue fades. The crowd buzzes.

Then the drums of Pendulum's Witchcraft crack through the PA.

The house drops into deep violet and the crowd erupts.

The synth line soars. Charlie Williams steps through first, smooth and deliberate, the violet light bouncing off his black tights and the crimson and bronze geometric trim. He's carrying the Swamp Water Energy Championship across one shoulder, fingers draped loosely over the faceplate like he's carrying someone else's groceries. He lets the title hang almost carelessly, and the crowd loves him for it.

Behind him, Teddy Alexander fills the smoke.

He is wearing a Tiburón Coral t-shirt, official merchandise, coral-orange with the shark teeth graphic across the chest. Around his neck is a white foam medical neck brace, thick and fresh, and written across the front in wide black marker in block letters are the words: FISHY MEXICANS.

The crowd absolutely loses it.

Inside the ring, Tiburón Coral has gone very still on the turnbuckle. El Kraken has turned to face the ramp. The ocean-blue mask does not move. Coral's eyes behind the mesh are absolutely locked on that neck brace.

Midway down the ramp Charlie drops cleanly to one knee, presses four fingers against his forehead, and slowly rotates the hand downward just as the booming vocal line hits. He rises on the beat and continues to the ring, cool as ice water. Teddy doesn't bother with pageantry. He just keeps walking, neck brace bobbing slightly, eyes drilling straight through Coral and Kraken as he approaches the apron.

Charlie slides under the bottom rope, ascends the corner turnbuckle, performs the Black Crown gesture toward the hard camera. Teddy rolls under the ropes, stands dead center, grabs the Tiburón Coral shirt in both fists, and rips it clean down the middle. He tears it off his body, crumples it, and hurls it into the second row. Then he reaches up, peels the neck brace off, holds it up so the words FISHY MEXICANS are clearly visible to El Kraken and Tiburón Coral standing twelve feet away, and points it directly at Coral's face.

The Bayou shakes.

Charlie sets the Swamp Water Energy Championship down in the corner, leaning it face-out against the turnbuckle pad. He rolls his shoulder, tugs his compression sleeve, and nods once at Teddy. Teddy slaps his own chest twice and exhales hard through his nose.

Marcus Vance looks at both corners. He pulls out his black roll of electrical tape. He says nothing. He points at both corners, holds up two fingers, and makes his decision about who starts by stepping between them.

Tiburón Coral drops off the turnbuckle and shakes out his wrists. He steps to his corner and nods at El Kraken.

El Kraken stays back. He will not start.

Charlie Williams steps through the ropes. He will not start either.

It is going to be Teddy Alexander and Tiburón Coral.

Marcus Vance checks both competitors. He calls for the bell.

The two men circle. Coral moves with that fluid, predatory sway, rolling his neck, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Teddy stands with his feet wide, weight forward, arms loose at his sides. He watches Coral's eyes, not his feet.

Coral darts left. Teddy adjusts. Coral cuts back right. Teddy doesn't bite.

Coral throws a test kick, low sweep, not committed, just reading the room. Teddy barely moves his leg but absorbs it. He points at his knee and then points at Coral. Like he's filing it under noted.

Coral comes in fast, collar and elbow, trying to use his momentum to turn Teddy into the ropes. Teddy digs his heels and stops him dead. Coral plants harder and shoves. Teddy doesn't move an inch. Coral slaps his own forehead and circles back.

Coral tries a different angle, ducking under Teddy's arm and going to a rear waistlock, pulling hard. Teddy reaches back, grabs the mask lacing, and Coral quickly releases and dances back before Marcus can see it. Marcus was already watching. He says nothing.

Coral decides to abandon the grapple game entirely. He bounces off the ropes and charges, leaping into a missile dropkick straight at Teddy's chest. Teddy takes both boots to the sternum and staggers back two steps. He grabs the ropes to stop himself. That got him.

Coral lands on his feet, claps his hands, and immediately follows up. He goes back to the ropes and comes back fast with a low sweep kick that catches Teddy across the back of the left knee. Teddy's leg buckles slightly and he drops to one knee.

Coral hops off the ropes again, using Teddy's kneeling position as a launching pad, driving a hard spinning enzuiguri straight into the side of Teddy's skull.

Teddy's head snaps sideways. The crowd gasps.

Coral immediately grabs the back of Teddy's head and wrenches it toward the heel corner. He makes the tag to El Kraken, slapping his partner's massive hand, and rolls away. Kraken steps over the top rope and the ring literally shakes when he lands. He grabs Teddy by the ear and hauls him upright. Teddy is on his feet but his eyes are slightly unfocused from the kick.

Kraken grabs the back of Teddy's head and drives three thunderous headbutts down into Teddy's skull, the last one sending a visible shudder through Teddy's whole frame.

El Kraken snaps his hips and throws Teddy across the ring with an overhead belly-to-belly suplex. Teddy flies and crashes into the canvas hard, sliding almost to the opposite ropes. The Bayou shakes with the impact.

El Kraken walks slowly over to Teddy, picks him up by the head with one hand, and drives him into the heel corner. He tags in Coral. The two of them look at each other. El Kraken lifts Teddy up by the waist and holds him vertical, arms spread wide in a suspended vertical suplex. Coral climbs the turnbuckle fast and flies off the top with a diving clothesline just as Kraken completes the drop.

The double team lands clean and the crowd reacts with a sharp wave of heat mixed with reluctant awe.

Coral goes for the early cover, dropping across Teddy's chest.

MARCUS VANCE drops to one knee, slaps the canvas once.

Teddy throws a shoulder up before two, slapping the mat hard.

Coral doesn't blink. He grabs Teddy's left arm, wrenches it across his own body, and drops a knee directly onto the elbow joint. He does it again, then a third time, each one precise and vicious.

Teddy grimaces and pulls the arm in close. Coral goes to a standing armbar, twisting upward to get the angle on the shoulder. He walks Teddy toward the heel corner by the arm and shoves him back into the turnbuckle. He slaps Kraken's hand. Tag. Kraken in.

Kraken grabs the left arm himself, locks on a short-arm hammer, and drives a hard European uppercut into Teddy's jaw that snaps his head back into the turnbuckle pad.

Kraken pulls Teddy out by that left arm, plants his feet, and drives him across the ring with a running senton splash, crushing Teddy into the canvas beneath three hundred pounds.

Kraken sits up and covers, leaning his full weight forward.

MARCUS VANCE slaps the canvas.

Teddy kicks out, and it requires a genuine effort. The left arm is noticeably slower reaching for the escape.

El Kraken tags Coral back in and they maintain that fluid control. Coral rushes to the corner and hits a beautiful springboard, launching himself off the top rope into a high-angle arm drag that wrenches Teddy's left shoulder in a sharp, rotating pull, sending him skidding across the canvas.

Coral yanks Teddy to his feet and looks across the ring at Charlie Williams, who is holding the top rope and working the crowd, willing his partner on. Coral grabs Teddy by the left wrist and whips him hard into the heel corner. Teddy's shoulder hits the buckle pad and he bounces out clutching it.

Coral sprints to the far ropes and comes back with a guillotine leg drop across the back of Teddy's neck as he's bent forward. Teddy flattens to the canvas.

Coral floats into a cover.

MARCUS VANCE drops down.

Teddy gets the shoulder up. He slams the mat with his right hand, pain flashing across his face, and the Bayou comes alive for him.

Coral looks at the crowd with contempt, letting out that sharp clicking laugh before tagging El Kraken back in. Kraken grabs Teddy's left arm and drives a stomp directly onto the shoulder before locking in the arm and grinding the joint with a short hammer lock. He leans his full body weight into it, wrenching upward.

Teddy shouts. It is the most noise he has made since the bell.

Charlie Williams slaps the top rope, driving the crowd to clap. Teddy's right arm finds the ropes. Marcus Vance drops to look at the position.

Kraken breaks at four, raises his hands, and immediately drives his knee straight into the back of Teddy's shoulder as he does it. Marcus was already looking at Teddy. He sees nothing.

Teddy is on all fours. He shakes his left arm. There is a visible tremor in it. He tries to push himself up. Kraken drops a heavy axe forearm across the back of his neck. Teddy goes back down. Another one. The sound is brutal.

Kraken pulls him up, hooks both arms under his, locks a rear waistlock with both hands clasped at Teddy's sternum, and squeezes. The Tentacle Wrap. The bearhug wrenches Teddy's ribs as Kraken hauls him off the mat, compressing the spine.

Teddy's feet dangle. His ribs compress visibly. His left arm hangs at a compromised angle. His right fist swings backward twice at Kraken's skull in desperate hammer shots.

Teddy says something to Marcus Vance that is not appropriate for children.

The crowd rallies. Teddy fires those right-hand hammer shots into Kraken's skull. Three, four, five shots. Kraken absorbs them, grimaces, tightens the grip. Teddy swings again but the shots are weakening. His face is going red.

Charlie Williams is losing his mind on the apron, slapping both hands on the top turnbuckle pad to generate crowd noise. The Bayou answers him.

Teddy stops swinging. He drops his right hand to Kraken's interlocked grip instead, prying at the fingers. He works his hips and gets an angle. He throws his head back and catches Kraken with a rear headbutt.

Kraken blinks. Teddy does it again, harder.

Kraken's grip loosens by a fraction. Teddy plants his feet against Kraken's knees and pushes. He drops out of the hold, stumbles forward on unsteady legs, bounces off the ropes, and staggers back.

Kraken runs after him and tries a running big boot. Teddy drops under it on pure instinct, barely, and Kraken's boot grazes the top of his skull. Teddy continues stumbling toward his own corner and crashes into the turnbuckles. His right hand shoots out blindly.

Charlie Williams slaps it.

The crowd erupts.

Charlie explodes through the ropes as El Kraken turns around. He hits a running springboard clothesline that catches Kraken across the jaw, and Kraken staggers but does not go down. Charlie bounces off the ropes immediately, ducks Kraken's instinctive counter swing, comes back up, and drives a rolling elbow straight into Kraken's jaw.

Kraken's head snaps sideways. He drops to one knee.

Charlie doesn't wait. He grabs Kraken's head, runs to the ropes, and uses the rebound for a rope-assisted neckbreaker that plants Kraken's neck hard into the canvas.

Charlie floats into a cover immediately.

MARCUS VANCE gets down.

Kraken powers out, launching Charlie sideways off his chest. Charlie lands in a base and immediately looks to Coral. Coral is watching from the apron.

Coral makes a decision and steps through the ropes. Marcus Vance immediately points him back.

Coral raises his hands and steps back to the apron. But while Marcus is occupied, Kraken reaches up from the mat and grabs Charlie's ankle, yanking hard. Charlie hits the canvas knee-first. Kraken hauls himself upright using Charlie as a climbing frame and drives a gutwrench powerbomb that plants Charlie squarely.

Kraken covers.

MARCUS VANCE drops.

Charlie kicks out. He rolls immediately to all fours, fighting the ringing in his head.

Kraken picks him up, grabs him in a front facelock, and drives him toward the neutral corner with a clubbing forearm before tagging Coral. Coral slingshots in over the top rope, immediately catching Charlie with a tornado DDT, spinning around the front facelock that Kraken had established and driving Charlie's head into the canvas.

Coral stays on Charlie like a bad habit. He mounts him, drives a series of hammering forearms to the back of Charlie's neck, then grabs his left wrist and wrenches the arm back behind him in a chicken wing position. He hooks the neck lacing of his own mask against Charlie's throat with Marcus's back to the action, choking down.

Charlie claws at the lacing and manages to pull it away from his throat. He rolls to his knees and fires a back elbow into Coral's stomach to create separation. Coral releases and resets. Charlie is on his feet, shaking the cobwebs.

Coral dashes to the ropes, comes back, and attempts a springboard inverted cutter. Charlie reads it, sidesteps, and catches Coral in mid-rotation. He locks the front facelock as Coral comes down and snaps him over in a snap dragon suplex that bounces Coral's head off the canvas with a sickening thud.

Charlie makes the tag to Teddy, who has his left arm pressed into his body but his eyes are burning. Charlie grabs Coral by the wrist and Irish whips him hard into the heel corner. Teddy comes through the ropes at speed, drops into a football three-point stance for a half second, and then launches forward with a corner avalanche that absolutely flattens Coral against the turnbuckles.

The crowd pops enormous.

Coral stumbles out of the corner. Teddy catches him in a rear waistlock, plants his feet, and throws a release German suplex that sends Coral arcing across the ring.

Teddy covers, driving his shoulder down.

MARCUS VANCE slaps the canvas.

Coral kicks out. He rolls toward his corner instinctively.

Teddy grabs Coral before he can make the tag, hooks him in a front facelock, steps between his legs for positioning, and muscles him up for a snap powerslam that shakes the ring.

Teddy drops an elbow with his right arm directly onto the back of Coral's neck, then locks in the Grounded Neck Vice, interlacing his fingers beneath Coral's chin and wrenching upward, compressing the cervical spine. Coral's feet kick at the canvas.

Marcus Vance checks the hold. He looks at the arm. He is not particularly motivated to see if Coral is responsive, because he fundamentally does not care about lucha libre high-flyers.

Coral twists and gets a leg under himself. He fights to his knees. Teddy stands with the hold still locked, keeping the compression on. Coral drives backward, slamming Teddy into the heel corner turnbuckle to break it. Kraken tags himself in the same motion.

Kraken grabs Teddy from behind before he can react and drives a spinebuster into the canvas that shakes the whole ring.

The Bayou gasps.

Kraken puts both hands around Teddy's throat, picks him straight up, and drives him down across his knee in the chokeslam backbreaker, bending Teddy's spine around the knee cap in a wrenching arc.

Teddy rolls off the knee holding his back. Kraken covers, leaning all his weight forward.

MARCUS VANCE slaps the canvas.

Kraken tags Coral, who has recovered enough to climb to the top rope. Kraken scoops Teddy off the canvas with one hand, lifts him vertically overhead in a press position, holding him there while Coral perches on the top. The crowd sees what's coming.

The rope whip variation instead: Kraken grabs Teddy by the collar, whips him into the ropes hard, pops him up as he comes back off the rebound. Coral is already coming from underneath the ropes, sliding inside, catching Teddy in mid-air with the lungblower, driving both knees into Teddy's ribs as he falls.

Coral immediately scrambles into a cover, hooking both legs.

MARCUS VANCE slaps the canvas.

TWO POINT NINE!

The crowd SCREAMS.

Coral screams something sharp in Spanish and slaps the mat once in frustration. He jumps to his feet, throws his arms wide.

Coral drags Teddy to his feet by the left arm and whips him into the heel corner, the bad shoulder hitting the buckle pad. Teddy grimaces. Coral follows immediately with a missile dropkick to the ribs from the second rope, landing flush on the damaged area.

Coral pulls Teddy out of the corner and drives a stiff kick to the ribs. Then another. The manic quality is bleeding into his pace now, the calculating predator shifting into something more frenzied as the damage accumulates on Teddy.

Coral whips Teddy to the ropes and catches him coming back with a high-impact suicide dive, but they're in the ring so he converts it into a diving body press, mounting Teddy and firing closed forearms to the neck and shoulder.

Marcus Vance watches. He counts to nothing.

Coral tags El Kraken. Kraken grabs Teddy by both ears and hauls him to the center of the ring, turns him, and hooks a rear waistlock. He throws a release German suplex of his own, Teddy landing hard on his shoulders and neck at the opposite end of the ring.

Charlie Williams is practically vibrating on the apron. The crowd is with him.

Kraken pulls Teddy to his feet. He hooks a front facelock with Teddy's head between his thighs for a piledriver setup and the crowd gasps. But Teddy gets his legs under him and drives upward, a back body drop escape, and Kraken goes over Teddy's back but lands on his feet because he is just large enough to stick the landing. He turns and runs at Teddy. Teddy steps to the side and drives a uranage that plants Kraken sideways into the canvas.

The Bayou is on its feet. Marcus Vance watches both men. He raises his hand.

Both men begin to move. The crowd counts.

Teddy is crawling. Kraken is sitting up. Coral is reaching over the top rope, desperate for a tag. Charlie Williams is slapping the top rope, yelling, his hand stretched as far as it will go.

Teddy hits his feet. He lurches. Charlie is four steps away. Kraken grabs at Teddy's ankle but only catches air. Teddy dives.

The tag.

The crowd comes unglued.

Charlie explodes through the ropes before Coral can react. Coral makes the legal tag from Kraken just as Charlie hits the ropes, but Charlie is already moving. He ducks under Coral's sprinting clothesline, bounces off the far ropes, and drives a pop-up knee strike into Coral's chin as he turns around, catching him on the rise.

Coral drops.

Charlie doesn't cover. He turns to El Kraken, who has stepped through the ropes. Charlie charges and drives a deadlift German suplex, fighting the fifty-pound advantage, planting his feet and using every muscle in his lower body to get the bigger man up and over.

The crowd absolutely loses it.

Marcus Vance steps between the bodies, pointing Kraken back out. Kraken argues. Charlie rolls and kicks Kraken's knee from the mat, staggering him out through the ropes.

Charlie gets to his feet as Coral has reached the corner. Coral starts to climb. Charlie sees it and charges the corner, grabs Coral on the second rope, hooks the arms, and delivers a superplex that brings Coral crashing down from the elevated position with a thunderous impact.

Both men land hard. Charlie recovers first, the adrenaline carrying him. He hooks both legs.

MARCUS VANCE drops.

TWO POINT NINE!

Charlie sits up, runs a hand over his face, then smirks. He looks across at Teddy. Teddy nods from the apron, his left arm still hanging at a compromised angle but his eyes are fully on fire.

Swamp Water Energy Drink logo appears on the screen.

Charlie tags Teddy back in. Teddy comes through the ropes and the two of them stand over a groggy Tiburón Coral. They look at each other. Teddy grabs Coral off the canvas. Charlie bounces off the ropes and they hit the tandem double-team uranage together, both men driving Coral into the mat from opposite sides in a coordinated slam.

Teddy hooks the leg.

MARCUS VANCE slaps the canvas.

Kraken charges across the ring and breaks it up with a running big boot across the back of Teddy's head.

Marcus Vance intercepts Kraken and points him to the apron, but not with any particular urgency. Kraken stands in the ring for a four count before eventually stepping out, and Marcus lets him do it.

Teddy is on his feet. Coral is crawling to his corner. Teddy grabs Coral's ankle. Coral lunges and just barely slaps Kraken's hand for the tag. Kraken barrels through the ropes. Teddy drops his stance, but Kraken drives a headbutt into his sternum that doubles him forward.

Kraken hooks Teddy for the gutwrench powerbomb, lifting him clean off the mat with terrifying strength and driving him down.

Kraken covers.

MARCUS VANCE drops.

Teddy gets a shoulder up.

Kraken stands. He grabs Teddy by the neck, positioning him between his legs, front facelock set up. He is measuring for the Tidal Wave Bomb. He hauls Teddy off the mat into the deadlift sit-out position.

But Charlie Williams launches himself off the top rope with a springboard clothesline that catches Kraken across the back of the skull as he's lifting. The big man staggers. Teddy drops out of the powerbomb position and lands on his feet, barely. Kraken swings at Charlie but Charlie has already slipped out under the bottom rope to the apron.

The crowd is delirious.

El Kraken turns back to Teddy, furious. He charges forward. Teddy drops below the running big boot again and Kraken's boot catches the top rope, tangling. Teddy, moving on survival instinct alone, hooks Kraken in a rear waistlock and drives a short Ripcord Lariat that catches Kraken as he turns, jerking him into the shot with devastating force.

Kraken goes down hard.

Teddy is gulping air. His left arm hangs awkwardly. His ribs are showing the damage. He makes the tag to Charlie.

Charlie in. Coral in off his own tag. The two legal men meet in the centre of the ring and immediately start trading forearms, standing chest to chest, neither man giving an inch.

The Bayou starts chanting.

Coral fires a forearm. Charlie absorbs it and fires back. Coral staggers, fires again. Charlie staggers. Back and forth, harder each time, the crowd building to a fever. Coral throws an open-hand chop to Charlie's chest that leaves a red mark across the skin.

Charlie takes the chop, looks down at his own chest, looks back up, and smiles. He levels Coral with a Crown of Violence, the running bicycle knee catching Coral flush under the jaw.

Coral spins and hits the canvas face first.

Charlie drops to a knee and wrenches Coral around for the Black Crown Clutch. He rips Coral around by the wrist, delivers the ripcord lariat portion that spins Coral, and then locks the crossface choke, applying the full submission.

Coral screams something in Spanish that sounds like a number of unpleasant words. He claws at Charlie's forearm. He kicks his legs.

Coral twists his whole body and begins crawling, dragging Charlie with him, inching toward the ropes. Charlie wrenches harder. Coral's face is red behind the mask. He gets one hand on the bottom rope.

MARCUS VANCE gets down and looks at the hand on the rope.

He takes his time.

He counts.

THREE...

FOUR...

Charlie releases. He gets to his feet, hands out. Marcus stares at him with those dead oil-field eyes like Charlie just tracked mud on his linoleum.

Charlie holds up the four fingers and smirks, doing a small Black Crown gesture at Marcus. The crowd loves it. Marcus does not.

Charlie turns back to Coral, who is up and leans on the ropes. Charlie grabs him by the wrist and yanks him away from the ropes. He sets up for the Shatter Point, reading the setup, waiting for Coral to lunge into momentum.

Coral ducks under Charlie's arm on the float attempt and spins behind him, running the ropes. He comes back and launches with a springboard inverted cutter, rotating around Charlie's neck and driving him face-first into the canvas.

Coral scrambles to the corner and tags Kraken. Kraken lumbers in, hauls Charlie off the canvas, and they set up their big combination. Kraken lifts in the vertical suplex position, holding Charlie suspended overhead, and Coral climbs, flies off the top with the clothesline completing the combination just as Kraken drops.

The impact thunders through the ring. Charlie is flattened.

Kraken covers.

MARCUS VANCE drops.

TWO POINT NINE!

Coral is at Kraken's ear. They are in agreement. Kraken peels Charlie off the canvas, positions him, starts the setup for the Trench. He hooks the deadlift position for the Tidal Wave Bomb. Coral climbs to the top rope.

Teddy Alexander sees it from the apron. He steps through the ropes.

Marcus Vance intercepts him immediately.

Teddy stops. He looks at Vance. He looks at his partner being set up for death. He steps back reluctantly.

Kraken hauls Charlie into the deadlift sit-out position. Charlie swings his legs and catches the top rope on the way up, breaking his own momentum. Kraken stumbles trying to adjust the weight. Charlie drives a forearm into Kraken's ear. Then another. Kraken staggers one step. Charlie slips out over Kraken's shoulder, lands on his feet behind him.

Coral is still perched on the top rope, rocking, looking for the right moment to fly.

Charlie grabs Kraken by the wrist, spins him, delivers a blistering rolling elbow that spins Kraken all the way around and drops him to one knee.

Charlie runs to the corner, grabs Coral's wrist, and delivers a high-angle arm drag from the apron that sends Coral off the top and into the ring floor in a spiraling crash.

Charlie turns. Kraken is up and charges. Charlie times it perfectly, takes the momentum, hooks the float position, and the Shatter Point connects in a crucifix driver that drives Kraken into the canvas on his neck and shoulders.

Charlie collapses across Kraken's chest. He can barely hook the leg with one arm.

MARCUS VANCE drops.

TWO POINT NINE!

The Bayou is standing. Every single person is on their feet. Charlie Williams sits up slowly, his eyes wide, genuinely shocked. He runs both hands over his head.

Harry Balkin Jr. has been quiet for two full minutes at the commentary desk. He has been watching with his hands folded and a very controlled expression. He slowly removes his headset. He straightens his tie. He stands.

Balkin Jr. stands, reaches under the desk, and picks up the Swamp Water Energy Championship belt that was sitting in the corner of the ring before the match began. In the chaos, nobody noticed him take it from ringside.

Harry Balkin Jr. walks calmly around the ring toward the apron, waiting. Inside the ring, Charlie Williams has Kraken hauled partially upright and is looking to make the tag to Teddy. He walks Kraken toward the THRØNEBREACH corner, steps toward the apron to slap the tag.

Harry Balkin Jr. swings the Swamp Water Energy Championship belt with both hands directly into Charlie Williams' skull from outside the ring.

The crowd erupts in absolute outrage.

Marcus Vance is looking directly at El Kraken's prone body. He turns around with the timing of a man who has developed selective blindness over years of practice.

Charlie Williams is on the canvas inside the ring, clutching his skull. Tiburón Coral has recovered from the arm drag and has slid back inside. Marcus Vance is checking on El Kraken, who is stirring. Teddy Alexander is on the apron, his hand stretched out.

Charlie is crawling. He is four feet from the tag. Three feet.

Coral grabs his ankle.

Coral drags Charlie back toward center ring. Charlie fights, pressing his palms into the canvas and kicking back. El Kraken is on his feet. He reaches down and helps Coral haul Charlie backward together. Marcus Vance is there but he watches the double team with the expression of a man waiting at a bus stop.

Coral stands Charlie up and hooks a full nelson, arms locked behind Charlie's head. He lifts and drops the high-angle full nelson suplex, Charlie's neck snapping down.

Kraken grabs Charlie, hauls him into the powerbomb position between his legs, front facelock set. He deadlifts Charlie into the air. Coral is already on the top rope. Kraken holds Charlie suspended.

Coral launches off the top. The Jaws of Veracruz, the springboard 450 splash, arcs through the air.

And Teddy Alexander steps through the ropes.

The crowd erupts.

Coral sees him and has to adjust the trajectory or die. He twists mid-flight and catches the ropes instead, hanging there instead of landing on an empty powerbomb. Kraken staggers with Charlie still in his arms, thrown off by Coral's abort.

Teddy charges at Kraken.

Kraken drops Charlie to meet Teddy.

Marcus Vance steps between them, both hands up.

Teddy stares at him. Marcus stares back. The ref's eyes are dead and flat as a gravel road. Teddy exhales through his nose, very slowly steps backward to the apron, and keeps his hand on the top rope.

Picking up from "Charlie is on hands" — and PEPPER PETE PEPPINS throughout:

Charlie is on hands and knees, four feet from the tag, the belt shot still ringing through his skull. Coral has his ankle. Kraken is upright. Teddy Alexander stands on the apron with his hand out, every muscle in his body screaming to come through those ropes, and Marcus Vance standing between them like a closed gate.

Coral drags Charlie back to center ring. Kraken reaches down and they haul him together, hand over hand, like dragging something up from deep water. Marcus Vance watches the far turnbuckle with professional interest.

Coral stands Charlie up by the collar and hooks him into the full nelson, arms locked high behind his head. He looks at Kraken. Kraken nods. He grabs Charlie's wrist, yanks him free of the full nelson grip, and drives him into position between his thighs for the Tidal Wave Bomb.

Coral has already moved to the corner. He climbs fast, one rope, two ropes, the top. He steadies himself, eyes fixed on the suspended Charlie Williams who Kraken is deadlifting into position.

Teddy Alexander steps off the apron.

Not through the ropes. He drops off the apron to the floor, circles the ring, and grabs Harry Balkin Jr. by the collar of his blazer.

Inside the ring, Kraken is holding Charlie suspended for the Tidal Wave Bomb, waiting for Coral's cue. But Coral is watching the floor. The manic calculating eyes behind the mesh are fixed on Teddy at ringside. He hesitates.

Marcus Vance looks at Teddy at ringside. He looks at the ring. For just a moment his attention is genuinely divided.

Charlie Williams, dangling upside down between Kraken's thighs, drives three rapid headbutts upward into Kraken's jaw. The third one connects flush. Kraken's grip loosens. Charlie wrenches his body sideways, slips out of the hold, and lands feet-first on the canvas. He stumbles. His legs are wrong. He takes one step, then another, and falls into his own corner, one hand finding the post.

Teddy releases Balkin's collar.

He steps onto the apron.

He holds out his hand.

Charlie Williams reaches back and slaps it.

The Bayou detonates.

Teddy comes through the ropes like a door being kicked off its hinges. Coral leaps off the top rope at him. Teddy catches him in mid-flight, absorbs the impact, and drives him straight into the canvas with a spinebuster that leaves a crater.

Kraken charges across the ring at Teddy, three hundred pounds of fury coming at full speed. Teddy drops his stance, three-point football crouch, and drives upward as Kraken arrives, getting underneath the big man's momentum and launching him with a back body drop that puts El Kraken over the top rope and onto the floor.

The ring post shakes. The crowd is unhinged.

Coral has gotten to his feet. His chest is heaving. He has been in this match since the opening bell and Teddy Alexander is still coming. He rolls his neck. He squares up.

Coral throws a spinning enzuiguri. Teddy ducks it. He catches Coral's leg on the follow-through, spins him, and drives him into the near corner with a power slam into the turnbuckles. He steps back. Three feet. Five feet. He accelerates.

The Angerbash.

A running lariat thrown with every pound Teddy Alexander possesses, his whole frame rotating through the impact, arm fully extended, catching Coral across the chest and jaw simultaneously. The sound it makes is not a wrestling sound. It is the sound of a car door closing.

Coral's feet leave the canvas. He comes down on the back of his neck.

Teddy does not cover. He turns. El Kraken has pulled himself back to the apron. He steps through the ropes, blood on his upper lip from the floor landing, eyes set with cold intent.

The two men stand in the center of the ring and look at each other.

Kraken throws the first punch. Teddy takes it and doesn't move. He throws one back. Kraken rocks. They stand toe to toe and trade, the crowd counting every shot, nobody going down, both men absorbing punishment that would end a lesser person.

Kraken grabs Teddy by the neck and drives a thunderous headbutt. Teddy's head snaps back. He blinks. And then he smiles.

Kraken does not like that smile.

Teddy grabs Kraken by the wrist, spins him into the ropes, catches the rebound, and hooks the Ripcord. He pulls Kraken into the motion, steps behind him, hooks both arms in the double underhook, gets him moving forward with momentum, and plants him face-and-shoulder-first into the canvas with the Ragekill Driver, every pound of both men driving into the landing.

The ring shakes so hard that the Swamp Water Energy Championship belt falls off the apron to the floor.

Teddy hooks both legs.

Marcus Vance looks at the pinfall. He looks at Tiburón Coral, still not moving on the canvas from the Angerbash. He drops.

The Bayou comes apart.

Marcus Vance raises Teddy Alexander's arm with one hand. Charlie Williams has dragged himself under the bottom rope and into the ring, moving slowly, one hand still on the back of his skull from the belt shot. He finds Teddy. Teddy grabs him and hauls him upright and they stand in the center of the ring while The Bayou shakes around them.

Charlie retrieves the Swamp Water Energy Championship from the floor outside. He holds it overhead. The crowd responds with everything they have left.

He straightens his blazer one final time.

He walks away from the desk without looking back.

In the ring, Teddy Alexander sits on the second rope, chest heaving, left arm cradled against his body, the damage from the first fifteen minutes written plainly across him. Charlie stands beside him, championship on his shoulder, head still ringing.

The crowd is still singing their name.

Then the music cuts.

The arena lights shift.

The crowd's noise changes pitch. Curious. Confused.

The blinding magenta-pink and pastel-purple floods The Bayou. The bass-heavy pop trap of Ariana Grande's "7 Rings" drops through the PA. Amber Rizzoli steps through the curtain.

The crowd reacts with a complicated, off-balance mix of heat and bafflement.

Amber walks the ramp at that practiced, hip-forward stride, phone down for once, eyes fixed on the ring. She reaches ringside and steps up to the apron. She crooks a finger at Teddy Alexander.

Teddy Alexander blinks. He looks at Charlie. Charlie looks at Teddy. Neither man has any idea what is happening.

Amber crooks the finger again. Come here.

The crowd begins to make a noise. A low, knowing noise. The noise of seventeen hundred people who have suddenly understood the joke.

Teddy's expression shifts. He is not a man who embarrasses easily, but something in his face right now is uncertain in a way that twenty minutes of being thrown around by El Kraken did not produce. He takes one slow step toward the ropes. Then another.

Charlie Williams has one hand over his mouth. His shoulders are shaking. He is not going to intervene.

Teddy reaches the ropes. He leans on the top strand, looking down at Amber on the apron. Up close. Eye level. The crowd is holding its breath.

Amber reaches up and puts one hand on the back of Teddy's neck.

She pulls him toward her.

The Bayou is completely silent for one full second.

Then she slaps him.

The slap catches him high on the cheekbone, his head snapping sideways, and for a moment Teddy just stands there with his eyes wide and his neck turned, processing what just happened to him.

Teddy turns his head back slowly. He looks at Amber, who is already stepping off the apron, completely composed, adjusting her rhinestone straps with both hands. She doesn't look back at him.

He turns to face the ring.

BookFace is already there.

He has been in the ring for five seconds. Nobody saw him enter. The tablet is face-down on the canvas.

The Viral Crash, his signature snap DDT, plants Teddy Alexander headfirst into the canvas before he can raise a single hand to protect himself.

The crowd erupts in outrage.

Charlie Williams spins and rushes at BookFace. But Harry Balkin Jr. has come back around the ring and grabs Charlie's ankle from the floor, yanking his legs out from under him. Charlie hits the apron jaw-first and slides to the floor. Balkin steps over him like a speed bump.

Harry Balkin Jr. steps through the ropes. He looks at Teddy Alexander flat on the canvas. He looks at the Swamp Water Energy Championship belt lying on the canvas where it was dropped in the commotion.

He picks it up. He looks at it for a long moment before draping it over his shoulder.

Then he tosses it over the top rope to land on Charlie Williams.

He steps back. BookFace retrieves the tablet from the canvas and angles the screen toward the hard camera. Amber Rizzoli has stepped back through the ropes. She is already filming herself with her phone, getting the ring and the fallen THRØNEBREACH DISASTER in the background of the shot.

Media Trial stands in the center of The Bayou. Harry Balkin Jr. raises both hands slowly and makes the belt gesture, two thumbs at his waist, the universal language. BookFace mirrors it. Amber poses between them, chin up, ring light casting her in perfect magenta.

The crowd is molten with heat.

At ringside, Charlie Williams has gotten to his feet. He reaches under the bottom rope and pulls Teddy by the arm, getting him to the apron. The Swamp Water Championship slides to the floor. Charlie picks it up. He drapes Teddy's arm over his shoulder.

The two of them start up the ramp.

Teddy's feet are finding the ground slowly. Charlie is doing a significant portion of the carrying. They are both upright. They are both moving.

The crowd gives them everything.

In the ring, Harry Balkin Jr. turns to watch them go. He does not look triumphant. He looks satisfied, which is a different and colder thing.

Charlie Williams turns at the top of the ramp. He looks back at Media Trial. He holds up the Swamp Water Energy Championship one more time, the nameplate catching the house lights.

Balkin holds up the imaginary belt at his waist and tilts his head.

The two men stare at each other across the length of The Bayou.

Then the lights cut.

The Bad Juju logo detonates across the screen.