The Virus: The Spear and the Jackhammer

 

February 9, 2023: The show didn't go on.

The Spear and the Jackhammer

Cape Town Stadium, January 22, 2023

05:42 local time,
Cape Town, Sovereignty of the Cape of Good Hope, UCSS

Backstage smelled like sweat, hairspray, and exhaustion.

The arena monitors showed the crowd in waves- restless, loud, fading. Six hours deep and Vince McGeady still thought he was staging the Second Coming.

Magnolia Wine stood at the center of the dressing area like a field commander trying to rally troops who’d already fought three wars and were now being asked to charge a fourth.

She had her gear on. Perfect. Crisp. Boots laced tight enough to mean business.

“Alright,” Magnolia said, clapping once. Sharp. Controlled. “We keep it clean. We keep it tight. We do not let this turn into chaos. Understood?”

Sugar Cane was sitting on a crate, lacing her boots for the third time. Her eyeliner had smudged. She hadn’t fixed it.

“It’s six in the damn morning,” she muttered. “Nobody’s clean. Nobody’s tight.”

Cotton Candy sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at the floor monitor like it might disappear if she blinked too long. She forced a smile.

“Crowd’s still loud,” she said, trying. “That’s good, right? Means they’re still with us.”

Georgia Peach leaned against a locker, scrolling her phone.

“They’re loud because they’re delirious,” Georgia said without looking up. “Half of North America’s drunk. The other half fell asleep three matches ago.”

Across the room, the other four stood together- not huddled, but close enough to be a unit.

Yumiko Ren’s face was unreadable. Calm. Professional. Focused.

Nélia Cruz was bouncing lightly on her heels, keeping her body awake if not her mind.

Mara “The Spiral” Zhou had her eyes closed, breathing slow, conserving energy like a marathoner.

Sonja DeNova leaned forward, elbows on knees.

“Let’s just call it what it is,” Sonja said. “We’re the make-good match.”

Magnolia’s jaw tightened.

“We are the main event.”

“No,” Sonja replied evenly. “We’re the optics.”

That landed.

Sugar Cane let out a short laugh. Not amused. Bitter.

“They threw us out there because if this bombs, it’s on us. If it works, it’s Vince’s genius.”

Magnolia stepped forward.

“You think I don’t know that?” she said, voice steady but sharp. “You think I don’t understand how this works?”

Yumiko finally spoke.

“Then why are we pretending this is some grand moment?”

Her tone wasn’t hostile. It was surgical.

Magnolia looked at her. Measured.

“Because it is,” Magnolia said. “If we treat it like a throwaway, it becomes one.”

Georgia finally put her phone away.

“Magnolia, nobody asked to be here.”

That was the truth sitting in the room like a fifth member of every team.

Sugar stood up.

“I had a team,” she said quietly. “You remember that? I had something that worked…and now I’m supposed to smile like this is a dream come true.”

Cotton Candy looked at her quickly.

“It can still be something,” Cotton said. “It doesn’t have to be fake.”

Sugar’s eyes softened for half a second.

“It already is.”

Nélia cracked her neck.

“Look,” she said, practical. “We’re all tired. The crowd’s tired. The card’s bloated. That’s not on us. What is on us is not embarrassing ourselves.”

Mara opened her eyes.

“Clock’s against us,” she added. “If we go long, they die. If we go short, it feels rushed.”

“Eight to twelve,” Sonja said. “Tight transitions. No ego spots.”

Magnolia nodded immediately.

“Agreed.”

Yumiko looked at Magnolia.

“You lead the opening.”

There was no sarcasm. Just acknowledgment.

Magnolia hesitated- just a flicker.

“Fine,” she said. “We run the structure. Georgia and Cotton, you keep it light early. Sugar, you don’t overextend. We build to the heat.”

Sugar raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t overextend?”

“You burn hot,” Magnolia said plainly. “We can’t afford a miscue.”

Sugar stepped closer.

“You think I’m the weak link?”

“I think we’re exhausted,” Magnolia replied, not backing down, “and exhaustion makes mistakes.”

Silence.

The arena speakers boomed faintly from beyond the curtain. The previous match was wrapping.

Cotton swallowed.

“This might be my last main event,” she said quietly. “So can we just… not hate each other for ten minutes?”

That cut deeper than anything else.

Georgia looked at her.

“It’s not your last.”

Cotton didn’t argue. She didn’t agree either.

Nélia stepped forward into the space between both groups.

“We are professionals,” she said simply. “Not Vince’s pawns. Not Twitter’s punchline. Professionals.”

Yumiko nodded once.

“We make it good,” she said. “Not for him.”

Mara added, “For us.”

Magnolia looked around the circle- eight women who didn’t choose this lineup, didn’t choose the hour, didn’t choose the politics.

…but they were here.

She extended her hand.

“No sabotage,” she said.

Sugar stared at it for a beat.

Then put her hand on top.

“No sabotage.”

Georgia added hers.

“Get paid.”

Cotton added hers.

“Stay together.”

Across from them, Nélia smirked faintly and stacked her hand.

“Win.”

Mara followed.

“Survive.”

Sonja added hers.

“No ego.”

Yumiko placed her hand last.

“Make them remember.”

Magnolia took a breath.

“Total Babes,” she said automatically- then stopped herself.

“…and whoever the hell we are tonight.”

A production assistant burst in.

“You’re up in two!”

The roar of the Cape Town crowd filtered through the curtain. It wasn’t electric.

It was tired.

Magnolia straightened.

“Walk tall,” she said.

Sugar rolled her shoulders.

Georgia fixed her hair.

Cotton forced one last smile and this time it held.

The eight of them moved toward the curtain.

No one believed it would be legendary.

No one believed Vince wasn’t setting them up.

…but in that moment- bleary-eyed, angry, half-delirious-

They chose to fight for ten minutes anyway.

The music hit.

…and they stepped into the light.

Meanwhile, the hallway just before the curtain was chaos dressed up as order.

Headsets. Clipboards. Energy drink cans crushed under production tables. A lighting assistant had fallen asleep sitting upright against a road case, headset still crooked around his neck.

Joey Ace moved through it like a man trying to keep a plane from nose-diving with duct tape.

He nudged the assistant with the toe of his shoe.

“Hey. Hey. Wake up. We’re live.”

The kid blinked, confused.

“Main event,” Ace snapped. “You miss a cue, we all die.”

Across the monitors, the entrance graphics for The Total Babes were queued. Pyro timing blinking red. Camera two slightly off mark.

…and there, standing dead center in the chaos like a proud architect admiring a burning cathedral, was Vince McGeady.

Suit immaculate. Tie perfect. Not a wrinkle. Not a bead of sweat.

That smile.

The one that looked half grandfatherly, half villainous.

Vince watched the crowd feed on the monitor like it was a laboratory experiment.

Joey adjusted his headset.

“Music ready?”

A producer gave a shaky thumbs up.

Ace walked over to Vince.

“You good?” Ace asked.

Vince didn’t look at him.

“Oh, I’m tremendous,” Vince said.

The crowd audio rose faintly through the speakers- not thunderous, not dead. Something in between.

Joey lowered his voice.

“Six hours, Vince.”

Vince finally turned his head slightly.

“…and?”

“…and we’re putting eight exhausted women out there as the closer.”

Vince chuckled.

“Eight beautiful, marketable, combustible personalities,” he corrected.

Joey rubbed his temple.

“They’re fried.”

“They’re professionals.”

Joey hesitated.

Then:

“You really think this is a good idea?”

Vince’s smile widened.

Joey hated when it widened.

Vince clasped his hands behind his back.

“Joey… do you know what the problem with this industry is?”

Joey exhaled slowly.

“You tell me.”

“Predictability,” Vince said. “Everyone thinks they know how the night ends. Hero wins. Babyface triumphs. Confetti. Good feelings.”

He gestured at the monitor.

“This? This is tension.”

On screen, Magnolia was at the curtain. The other seven behind her.

“Half that locker room thinks I’m sabotaging them,” Vince continued.

Joey didn’t answer.

“That’s good,” Vince said. “Doubt sharpens people.”

Joey’s jaw tightened.

“Or it fractures them.”

Vince waved it off.

“If they fracture, they weren’t strong enough to begin with.”

Joey stepped closer.

“Magnolia’s holding that group together with chewing gum.”

“Excellent,” Vince replied instantly. “Then we’ll see how strong her glue really is.”

Joey looked at him like he was trying to decipher a language.

“You built this as a flagship faction,” Joey said. “You rip Sugar out of her old team, you jam them together, you headline them at six in the morning- if this bombs, it’s not sharpening. It’s damage.”

Vince leaned toward the monitor, studying Sugar Cane’s face.

“Conflict creates stars.”

“…and burnout creates lawsuits,” Joey shot back.

Vince laughed.

“Relax.”

The pyro tech stumbled awake behind them.

“Thirty seconds!”

Vince didn’t flinch.

“You’re calibrating for North America,” Joey pressed. “Not Cape Town. These people have been here all night.”

“Exactly,” Vince said.

Joey blinked.

“Exactly?”

“They’re delirious,” Vince said softly. “Delirious crowds are unpredictable. Unpredictable crowds make moments.”

Joey’s voice dropped lower.

“You could’ve ended with the heavyweight title.”

“…and send them home comfortable?” Vince said. “No. I want people arguing tomorrow. I want think pieces. I want the internet divided.”

He turned to Joey fully now.

“You think I don’t know this is risky?”

Joey didn’t respond.

Vince’s eyes glittered.

“I know precisely how risky it is.”

Beat.

“…and you still think it’s smart?” Joey asked.

Vince’s smile went almost boyish.

“If it works, I’m a genius.”

“…and if it doesn’t?”

Vince shrugged.

“They’ll blame the talent.”

Joey stared at him.

“You’re serious.”

Vince leaned in close.

“Joey. If they rise to it? They’re made. If they collapse? I know who can’t handle pressure.”

On the monitor, Magnolia stepped through the curtain.

Music hit.

Pyro erupted- slightly late.

The crowd roared- uneven, tired, but loud.

Vince’s smile deepened.

“There it is,” he whispered.

Joey watched the screen, then glanced sideways at Vince.

“You ever get tired?”

Vince didn’t take his eyes off the monitor.

“Of winning?”

Joey shook his head.

“That’s not what I meant.”

The camera cut to Sugar Cane’s face- conflicted, intense.

Vince’s voice softened.

“They’ll thank me one day.”

Joey muttered under his breath.

“Or they’ll leave.”

Vince finally laughed out loud.

“They always say that.”

On screen, Magnolia raised her arms.

The arena lights flared.

Eight women stepped into a spotlight designed for one.

Vince folded his arms, satisfied.

“Let’s see who survives,” he said.

The air inside the arena had changed.

Not electric.

Not dead.

Just… stretched.

Like everyone in the building had been awake too long and was now running on fumes and stubbornness.

---

Gorilla / Curtain

Joey Ace stood just inside the curtain, headset crooked, one hand pressed to his ear.

“Camera one ready… pyro standby… wait for my cue.”

He peeked through the slit in the curtain at the ramp.

Eight silhouettes behind him.

Magnolia stood first in line. Shoulders squared. Chin up.

Behind her: Sugar, Georgia, Cotton.

Across the hall: Yumiko, Nélia, Mara, Sonja.

Nobody was talking now.

This was the part where talking stopped.

Joey glanced down at his run sheet.

“Alright,” he muttered. “Let’s wake ’em up one more time.”

---

In the Ring

Spotlight.

Ring announcer Micah Rhoames stood in the center, microphone in hand. Suit perfect. Smile practiced. Eyes just slightly glassy from the hour.

Beside him, Snoop Dogg bounced lightly on his heels, mic in hand, sunglasses still on despite the arena lights.

Micah raised the mic.

“Ladies and gentlemen… it is time… for your main event of Empire Fest!”

The crowd responded- loud but uneven. A roar that sounded like it had been recycled all night.

Micah turned toward Snoop with a tired grin.

“…and to help us get this party started…”

Snoop nodded, stepping forward as a simple West Coast beat dropped through the speakers.

He lifted the mic.

“Cape Town… y’all still breathin’ out there?”

The crowd popped- some cheers, some half-hearted screams.

He grinned wider.

“Empire Fest been ridin’ all night long…
…but we ain’t done yet.”

He paced a slow circle.

“Eight queens in the spotlight,
No sleep, no mercy, all fight.
Glam in the glow, fire in the stare,
Somebody leavin’ with the crown- somebody leavin’ bare.”

The beat thumped.

“Total Babes bring the shine and the flash…
…but the other side? They ready to clash.
So tighten it up, don’t blink, don’t roam…
This your main event- let’s send it home.”

He tossed the mic slightly and caught it.

“Empire style.”

He pointed toward the stage.

“Let’s go.”

The beat cut.

Music hit.

---

Entrances Begin

Joey Ace snapped his fingers at Magnolia.

“Go.”

Magnolia burst through the curtain to her theme, arms wide.

Pyro flared- slightly mistimed.

The crowd reacted. Not explosive…but respectful. Awake enough to play along.

Magnolia walked the ramp like it was 8PM, not 6AM. Military posture. Controlled steps.

Behind the curtain, Joey counted down.

“Sugar. Three… two…”

Sugar Cane stepped through next, doing her best to sell charisma she wasn’t fully feeling. She blew a kiss to the hard camera, but her eyes were focused- inward.

Georgia Peach followed, milking the walk a little longer than necessary. If the crowd was tired, she was going to make them wait.

Cotton Candy bounced out last, forcing brightness, slapping hands along the barricade even as the fans’ reactions lagged a half-second behind her energy.

They lined up on the stage.

Pose.

Flash.

Music faded.

Joey turned.

“Yumiko.”

The opposing music hit- harder, sharper.

Yumiko Ren walked out alone first. No wasted motion. No theatrics. She didn’t play to the crowd; she assessed it.

Nélia Cruz followed, throwing her arms up with a burst of athletic confidence that briefly woke the building.

Mara “The Spiral” Zhou stepped through next, giving a crisp, controlled spin at the top of the ramp- tight, efficient, no excess.

Sonja DeNova emerged last, jaw set, eyes locked on the ring like she’d rather already be inside it.

All eight now in view.

The walk to the ring felt longer than usual.

Every entrance spot- every pose, every rope climb- stretched the crowd’s patience thinner.

Camera cuts lingered just a second too long.

The fans wanted the bell.

Everyone did.

---

In the Ring

All eight women took their corners.

Magnolia removed her jacket slowly.

Yumiko cracked her neck once.

Micah Rhoames stepped forward, inhaled, and projected.

“Ladies and gentlemen… the following contest is your Empire Fest main event!”

Polite pop.

He turned toward the near corner.

“Introducing first… the team of Magnolia Wine… Sugar Cane… Georgia Peach… and Cotton Candy… they are… The Total Babes!”

The name echoed in the arena.

It sounded glossy.

Manufactured.

Even Micah’s voice couldn’t quite smooth it.

He turned to the opposite corner.

“…and their opponents… the team of Yumiko Ren… Nélia Cruz… Mara ‘The Spiral’ Zhou… and Sonja DeNova!”

The listing felt long.

Clunky.

Eight individual identities crammed into one breath.

Micah powered through it professionally, but even he seemed relieved when he finished.

He stepped out of the ring quickly.

Referee Jimmy Korvan stepped into the center.

He looked at each corner.

Eight tired faces.

Eight professionals.

He held up his hands.

“Ready?”

Magnolia nodded.

Yumiko gave a short, silent nod back.

Jimmy signaled toward the timekeeper.

The bell rang.

Clear.

Sharp.

Final.

…and at long last-

The match began.

The bell hadn’t rung yet.

…but it was close.

---

Behind the Curtain- Gorilla

Joey Ace was still watching the ring feed when he felt a hand clap his shoulder.

Firm.

Possessive.

Vince McGeady leaned in close, eyes still fixed on the monitor.

“Joey.”

Joey muted his headset mic.

“What.”

Vince’s grin had returned- that almost boyish, almost dangerous curve.

“When this ends,” Vince said quietly, “we’ve got a surprise.”

Joey didn’t react outwardly.

He didn’t need to.

“What kind of surprise?” Joey asked.

Vince tilted his head slightly.

“The good kind.”

Joey stared at him.

“That doesn’t answer anything.”

Vince’s eyes flicked toward the screen where Magnolia and Yumiko were staring each other down.

“Trust me.”

Joey exhaled through his nose.

“Is this going to make sense?”

Vince smiled wider.

“It’ll trend.”

Joey closed his eyes briefly.

“Is it going to make the locker room mad?”

Vince chuckled.

“They’re always mad.”

“Is it going to make the match pointless?”

Vince didn’t answer that one.

He just straightened his jacket.

“Just be ready.”

Joey looked back at the screen.

Eight women about to fight through exhaustion to prove something.

He sighed.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “This’ll be a disaster.”

Vince’s voice floated over his shoulder.

“Disasters make history.”

---

Ringside- Commentary

Marcus Cale adjusted his headset as the camera cut to the announce desk.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Marcus began, polished but audibly tired, “after nearly six hours of action here at Empire Fest, it all comes down to this.”

Beside him, Corbin Vance leaned forward, energized despite the hour.

“This is what Vince McGeady calls a statement main event,” Corbin said. “The Total Babes have dominated the Combat Arts women’s division since their formation.”

Courtney Gilmour sat on the other side, legs crossed, posture regal even in fatigue. She offered a thin smile.

“Dominated,” she repeated carefully. “They’ve dominated who they’ve been put in front of.”

Marcus nodded.

“…and tonight,” he said, “they face what management is calling their first real test.”

Corbin smirked.

“Let’s be honest. The Babes are flash. They’re branding. They’re spectacle.”

Courtney arched an eyebrow.

“…and they’re athletes.”

Corbin shrugged.

“Sure…but they haven’t faced women like Yumiko Ren. Like Nélia Cruz. Like The Spiral. Like Sonja DeNova.”

In the ring, Magnolia and Yumiko circled each other slowly.

Marcus leaned into the narrative.

“The official line from the World Fighting Empire is that The Total Babes have proven themselves entertainers- but tonight they must prove they are wrestlers.”

Courtney’s eyes never left the ring.

“Every woman in that ring is a wrestler,” she said evenly. “Some of them just have better lighting.”

Corbin laughed.

“Oh, this is going to be good.”

Marcus continued.

“If The Total Babes win tonight, they silence critics who claim they’ve been protected. If they lose…”

He let it hang.

Corbin finished it.

“…then maybe the division resets.”

The camera cut to Magnolia adjusting her wrist tape.

To Sugar Cane staring across the ring at Nélia.

To Cotton Candy trying to keep bouncing energy alive.

To Yumiko, expression unreadable.

Courtney leaned toward the mic slightly.

“This isn’t about spectacle anymore,” she said. “It’s about legitimacy.”

Jimmy Korvan stepped between the two legal competitors.

He looked at Magnolia.

Then at Yumiko.

He stepped back.

The bell rang.

Marcus’s voice rose with it.

“…and here we go!”

The crowd stirred.

Exhausted.

Curious.

Waiting to see if this was really a test-

Or something else entirely.

The bell rings.

…and for a moment- just a moment- the building wakes up.

---

Opening Exchange

Magnolia Wine and Yumiko Ren start.

No lock-up.

Just a sharp collar-and-elbow that turns into a wrist trap, countered, rolled, reversed. Crisp. Professional.

They’re not tired in the ring.

They’re efficient.

Magnolia muscles Yumiko into the ropes.

Clean break.

Yumiko answers with a sudden low kick to the thigh.

Magnolia absorbs it.

The crowd perks up.

Marcus Cale rises in pitch.

“…and Magnolia Wine immediately finding out that Yumiko Ren is no stylistic pushover!”

Corbin Vance laughs.

“This is the test, Marcus!”

Tag.

Nélia Cruz enters like a rocket.

She springboards into a dropkick that sends Magnolia into her corner.

Tag.

Sugar Cane.

Sugar bursts in hot- fast arm drags, sharp forearms, one reckless spinning back elbow that lands flush.

She’s running on adrenaline now.

Nélia takes the bump hard, pops up, and catches Sugar mid-sprint with a spinebuster that rattles the mat.

The crowd pops louder.

They’re awake now.

---

Chaos Begins

Tag. Mara “The Spiral” Zhou.

Precision. Snapmare. Running basement dropkick. Clean.

Tag. Sonja DeNova.

Ground-and-pound strikes, stiff but safe. She pulls Sugar up by the arm and throws her toward the Babes’ corner.

Georgia blind tags herself in.

Big boot to Sonja.

Cotton tags in.

Double-team snap suplex.

Magnolia tags back in.

They’re flowing.

It’s messy, but it’s flowing.

Marcus Cale:

“The Total Babes moving like a unit tonight!”

Courtney Gilmour, measured:

“They’ve clearly put in the work.”

Corbin:

“They’d better. This is their first real test.”

---

Middle Stretch- Vince Chaos

All eight women in.

Referee Jimmy Korvan trying to regain control.

Forearms flying.

Sonja spears Georgia.

Nélia military presses Cotton.

Yumiko kicks Magnolia square in the ribs.

Mara climbs the ropes.

Missile dropkick- wipes out two at once.

The crowd roars again.

They’re no longer just tired.

They’re invested.

---

Commentary- Title Tease

As Magnolia regains her footing and levels Mara with a sudden lariat, Marcus leans toward Courtney.

“Courtney, I have to ask… are you at all concerned about Magnolia Wine coming for the women’s championship after a performance like this?”

The camera cuts briefly to Courtney.

She smiles- slow.

“Concerned?” she repeats.

Magnolia hoists Sonja up for a vertical suplex.

Courtney’s eyes narrow slightly.

“I welcome challengers. Especially ones who think they’re ready.”

Corbin grins.

“Oh, that’s a headline right there.”

Marcus:

“You heard it here first!”

In the ring, Magnolia drops Sonja hard.

---

The Giant Spot

Twenty minutes in.

Bodies are everywhere.

The Total Babes clear the ring.

Yumiko is isolated.

Magnolia shouts something.

The Babes haul Yumiko toward the ropes.

The other four rush in.

Suddenly it’s eight women clustered on the apron, jockeying for position.

Marcus:

“Oh no… not here-”

They all grab.

A chaotic, Vince-style mega suplex attempt off the apron.

The crowd stands.

Corbin:

“They’re going through the Roman desk!”

Except-

There is no Roman desk.

Earlier in the night, Brock Beasley had obliterated it in a rage.

All that remains are wires and splintered monitors.

The women hesitate- split-second.

Then someone shouts.

They pivot.

Shift their weight.

And the entire cluster topples sideways-

CRASH.

Through the Egyptian commentary desk instead.

Wood explodes.

Monitors shatter.

Paper and cables fly.

The Egyptian announce team scrambles out of frame as eight bodies collapse in a heap.

The crowd loses its mind.

Even at 6:30 in the morning, that wakes them up.

Marcus is shouting.

“Absolute carnage at ringside!”

Corbin can barely contain himself.

“They just rerouted mid-air!”

Courtney, impressed despite herself:

“That’s ring awareness.”

---

Final Stretch

Back in the ring.

Yumiko and Magnolia.

Both staggering.

Tag to Nélia.

Hot tag to Sugar.

Sugar explodes.

Running forearms.

Step-up enzuigiri.

Crowd chanting now- uneven but loud.

Mara tags in.

Top rope elbow.

Two-count.

Magnolia breaks it.

Sonja dumps Magnolia over the ropes.

Georgia saves Cotton.

All eight again.

Superkick from Sugar to Sonja.

Nélia lifts Georgia.

Magnolia blind-tags herself in.

She catches Nélia mid-sprint-

Spinebuster.

Cotton hits a quick springboard splash.

Georgia throws Mara out.

Yumiko charges-

Magnolia sidesteps.

Plants her with a devastating finisher in the center of the ring.

Cover.

Jimmy drops.

One.

Two.

Three.

The bell rings.

---

Aftermath

Marcus is nearly hoarse.

“The Total Babes survive their first real test!”

Corbin:

“They earned that!”

Courtney watches Magnolia being handed her arm in victory.

There’s respect in her expression now.

Not fear.

Not yet.

In the ring, The Total Babes celebrate- exhausted, triumphant.

Across from them, Yumiko, Nélia, Mara and Sonja regroup.

They did their job.

Made them earn it.

Made them look good.

…but didn’t make it easy.

…and behind the curtain-

Joey Ace feels his stomach drop.

Because he knows-

The “surprise” is next.

The Total Babes stood in the center of the ring.

Arms raised.

Breathing hard.

Twenty-five minutes of chaos behind them.

Confetti didn’t fall- Vince didn’t do confetti for women’s matches- but the camera framed them like conquerors anyway.

Marcus Cale was wrapping it up.

“What a statement victory for The Total Babes here at Empire Fest!”

Corbin Vance nodded emphatically.

“They were tested. They were pushed…and they passed!”

Courtney Gilmour watched from commentary, thoughtful, composed.

In the ring, Magnolia allowed herself one breath.

Just one.

This was hers.

They had earned it.

---

Gorilla

Joey Ace’s stomach dropped.

He saw him first.

Mike Warner.

Big. Broad. Academy-built. The kind of wrestler who looked like a freight train but could move like a linebacker.

Warner stood at the curtain, grinning nervously.

“You’re up,” a stagehand whispered.

Warner hesitated.

Joey stepped forward.

“Kid,” Joey said low, “you sure about this?”

Warner swallowed.

“Boss said go.”

Joey closed his eyes briefly.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “He would.”

Warner stepped through the curtain.

---

The Ring

No music.

Just a confused murmur from the crowd as the camera cut to a massive silhouette walking down the ramp.

Marcus blinked.

“…Uh…”

His headset crackled.

Vince’s voice.

“Sell it.”

Marcus straightened immediately.

“Ladies and gentlemen… making his Combat Arts debut… Mike Warner!”

The crowd reacted- puzzled but intrigued.

Warner slid into the ring, smiling wide, adrenaline coursing.

The Babes turned.

Confusion first.

Then disbelief.

Warner rushed toward Magnolia, arms open.

“WE DID IT!” he shouted.

He tried to hug her.

Magnolia stiff-armed him immediately.

“Mike- what are you doing?”

He laughed nervously and pivoted to Cotton.

Tried to lift her in celebration.

Cotton shoved him away, eyes wide.

“Stop!”

Georgia stepped between him and Sugar.

“Back up.”

Warner looked confused- but he didn’t stop.

He went back toward Magnolia.

Vince had been very clear:

Keep celebrating. Keep selling it. Don’t stop.

Warner leaned in, trying to kiss Magnolia’s cheek.

She shoved him harder this time.

The crowd’s murmur shifted.

This wasn’t playful.

This was uncomfortable.

Corbin’s voice dropped.

“…What exactly is happening here?”

Marcus’s headset crackled again.

“Stay with it,” Vince ordered.

Warner tried again- wrapping an arm around Sugar this time.

She ripped his hand off her shoulder.

“Get off me!”

Yumiko and the others were at ringside now, watching with narrowed eyes.

The Babes’ body language wasn’t performance irritation.

It was real.

Warner kept coming back.

He thought that was the point.

Magnolia stepped in front of him.

“Mike,” she hissed, low enough that cameras couldn’t pick it up. “Stop.”

He shook his head slightly.

“I’m supposed to-”

She shoved him square in the chest.

The crowd was fully uneasy now.

…and then-

Music hit.

---

William Goldstein

The unmistakable opening riff.

The crowd exploded.

William Goldstein sprinted down the ramp like a missile.

Warner turned.

Too late.

Goldstein slid into the ring and exploded forward-

SPEAR.

A thunderous, full-speed collision.

Warner folded in half and hit the mat like a dropped safe.

The crowd roared in relief.

Goldstein popped up immediately, chest heaving.

Warner lay crumpled.

Marcus shouted over the noise.

“WILLIAM GOLDSTEIN JUST OBLITERATED MIKE WARNER!”

Corbin yelled:

“What a spear!”

Goldstein turned.

Looked at the Babes.

Extended his arms.

For a split second- hesitation.

Magnolia’s jaw was tight.

Georgia looked confused.

Sugar’s face was unreadable.

Cotton looked shaken.

Marcus’s headset crackled again.

Vince:

“Say it.”

Marcus swallowed.

“Ladies and gentlemen… I’m being informed that William Goldstein is now officially aligned with The Total Babes!”

The crowd reacted loudly- some cheers, some confusion.

Goldstein grinned and raised Magnolia’s arm.

She allowed it.

Professional.

Controlled.

…but her eyes were ice.

Warner rolled weakly on the mat, clutching his ribs.

Medical staff slid into the ring.

Goldstein climbed a turnbuckle, roaring triumphantly.

The Babes stood beside him.

Victorious.

Affiliated.

Marketable.

The camera zoomed in on Magnolia.

She forced the smile.

…but it didn’t reach her eyes.

This was supposed to be her moment.

Her team’s legitimacy.

Their earned victory.

Instead-

It ended with a man inserted into it.

A friend humiliated.

A debut reduced to a punchline.

She kept her composure.

Because that’s what professionals do.

…but backstage-

There would be words.

The show faded out on Goldstein raising his arms beside The Total Babes.

Empire Fest.

Trending.

Controversial.

Vince’s grin unseen behind the curtain.

…and Magnolia already planning what she was going to say next.

The broadcast feed cut.

The arena lights dimmed to house levels.

Music faded.

Cameras stopped caring.

For one second, there was silence.

Then reality rushed back in.

---

In the Ring- Off Air

Mike Warner was still on his back, blinking up at the lights.

Goldstein had already exited.

The Babes stood awkwardly in the center.

Magnolia didn’t hesitate.

She turned and walked straight to Mike.

He tried to sit up.

Failed.

She crouched and grabbed his arm.

“Easy,” she muttered.

He wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “He told me to keep going. Said it would get heat. Said it would make me.”

She helped him to his feet.

That’s when she caught it.

The smell.

Sharp. Sour. Artificially foul.

She pulled back half an inch instinctively- then realized.

Vince.

She closed the distance anyway.

Wrapped her arms around Mike.

The smell was awful.

Chemical and rotten at the same time.

Vince had literally sprayed him with something.

Weaponized humiliation.

Magnolia’s jaw clenched.

“I know,” she said quietly. “It’s not you.”

Mike swallowed hard.

“They said if I stopped, I’d never get another shot.”

She squeezed him tighter.

“I know.”

She didn’t care who saw.

Didn’t care about cameras still rolling for arena feed.

Didn’t care about kayfabe.

Let them think whatever they wanted.

She was done pretending this was clever.

---

Gorilla- Immediately After

Vince was already storming toward the curtain.

Joey Ace stepped aside instinctively.

Vince’s face wasn’t smiling now.

It was tight.

Controlled anger.

Magnolia walked through the curtain still holding Mike’s arm.

The smell hit the hallway instantly.

Production assistants recoiled subtly.

Vince stopped dead in front of her.

“What,” he said coldly, “was that?”

Magnolia didn’t let go of Mike.

“You humiliated him.”

“I created a moment.”

“You sprayed him,” she shot back. “You made him smell like garbage so we’d reject him.”

Vince didn’t deny it.

“It added texture.”

Magnolia actually laughed- once.

Short.

Disbelieving.

“Texture?”

She stepped forward.

“You ruined his debut.”

“He got speared by Goldstein on pay-per-view. That’s exposure.”

“He got reduced to a joke.”

Vince’s eyes narrowed.

“You’re not seeing the bigger picture.”

Magnolia’s composure cracked fully now.

“The bigger picture?” she snapped. “We just wrestled twenty-five minutes to prove we belong at the top of this division.”

“…and you sent a man out there to paw at us like props.”

Vince’s jaw tightened.

“It was heat.”

“It was cheap.”

Silence.

Production froze around them.

Magnolia pressed on.

“You ruined our moment.”

“You elevated it.”

“You reduced women’s wrestling to a setup for a man’s spear.”

That landed.

Vince stepped closer.

“Careful.”

“No,” Magnolia said. “You be careful.”

Her voice was low now.

Controlled fury.

“He’s a good kid,” she said, nodding at Mike. “You made him look pathetic.”

“That’s the business.”

“No,” she said. “That’s you.”

Joey looked like he wanted to disappear into the wall.

Vince’s voice dropped.

“You hugged him in the ring.”

“Yes.”

“You broke the angle.”

“Yes.”

“You undermined the story.”

“Yes.”

She didn’t blink.

“You want to talk about undermining?” she continued. “We finally get a main event where we prove ourselves- and you can’t help yourself. You have to insert a man into it.”

Vince’s expression hardened.

“You’re being emotional.”

She smiled without humor.

“I’m being accurate.”

Mike shifted awkwardly beside her.

She stepped slightly in front of him.

“You think this makes stars?” she said. “This makes resentment.”

Vince’s tone went icy.

“You work for me.”

Magnolia stepped closer- toe to toe.

“Then fire me.”

The hallway went dead silent.

“Fire me,” she repeated. “Because I’m done smiling through garbage like this.”

Vince’s eyes burned.

“You’re walking a very thin line.”

“I’m daring you.”

Beat.

She held his stare.

…and she knew.

He wouldn’t.

Not tonight.

Not when she was hot.

Not when she just carried the division through a 25-minute match.

Not when controversy was already trending.

Vince saw anger as insubordination.

Magnolia saw it as the last honest thing she had left.

She stepped back.

Still holding Mike.

“Clean him up,” she told Joey without looking away from Vince.

Then she turned.

Walked down the hallway.

Didn’t look back.

Vince stood there, jaw tight, fury simmering.

Not because she was wrong.

…but because she said it out loud.

…and for the first time in a long time-

Magnolia wasn’t playing along.

Backstage- Women’s Locker Room.

The hallway noise faded behind her.

Marcy Carter didn’t slam the locker room door.

She closed it.

Slowly.

That was worse.

Inside, the room was thick with adrenaline and leftover hairspray. Lockers half-open. Gear bags everywhere. Towels draped over benches.

Evangeline Elliott was the first to look up.

She blinked.

“You actually did it.”

Marcy didn’t answer right away. She walked to her locker, sat down, and started unlacing her boots with steady hands.

“You actually went at him,” Evangeline repeated, still processing it. “To his face.”

Marcy pulled her knee pad off and tossed it into her bag.

“He went at Mike,” she said flatly.

“That’s Vince,” Evangeline replied. “He does things.”

Marcy stood and peeled off her ring top.

For a second Evangeline thought it was just post-match routine.

Then Marcy turned slightly.

There, just above her right breast, was a jagged, pale scar.

Not cosmetic.

Not surgical.

Violent.

Evangeline’s voice dropped.

“…What is that?”

Marcy looked down at it briefly.

“Dresden,” she said.

Silence.

“Peace deployment. Insurgent got through a checkpoint sweep. I was clearing a building with two others. He came around a stairwell blind with a knife.”

Evangeline swallowed.

Marcy tapped the scar with two fingers.

“Missed my lung by maybe half an inch. I still remember the sound.”

She met Evangeline’s eyes.

“When you feel steel against your chest, you stop worrying about optics.”

The room was quiet now. Even Georgia and Cotton, who had been half-listening from the other side, had stilled.

Marcy pulled a shirt over her head but didn’t break eye contact.

“That day did something to me,” she continued. “It taught me that nothing is guaranteed. Not air. Not time. Not the next step.”

She sat back down.

“…and it taught me that if you don’t fight in the moment you’re in, you lose it.”

Evangeline exhaled slowly.

“So that’s why you’re like this.”

Marcy gave a faint, tired smile.

“That’s why I’m hard.”

She looked down at her hands.

“I was tough on you,” she said. “About the group. About focus. About discipline.”

Evangeline crossed her arms but didn’t look defensive.

“You were.”

Marcy nodded.

“I wasn’t trying to break you. I was trying to make sure we never had to rely on someone else to validate us.”

She looked back up.

“Because I’ve seen what happens when you rely on systems.”

Evangeline leaned back against a locker.

“You think this is that serious?”

Marcy didn’t hesitate.

“He humiliated Mike to get a reaction. He hijacked our moment because he couldn’t stand it belonging to us.”

She shook her head.

“I’m past the point where I can smile through that.”

Evangeline hesitated.

“Are you worried?” she asked quietly.

Marcy tilted her head.

“About what?”

“Getting fired.”

That hung in the air.

Evangeline pressed on.

“You know he sees that as insubordination…and there’s the lawsuit. WFE’s already trying to crush the IWC over Goldstein. If that alternative goes under…”

She trailed off.

“…what if this is the only place left?”

Marcy leaned back against the locker behind her.

“When you have a knife to your chest,” she said evenly, “you don’t think about alternatives.”

Evangeline’s eyes flicked to the scar again.

“You think about surviving.”

Marcy’s voice softened, but only slightly.

“You find a way through.”

A beat.

“…and I will find it.”

Evangeline studied her.

“You’re not afraid.”

Marcy shook her head.

“I am,” she admitted. “I just don’t let fear decide.”

Silence settled over the room again.

Not awkward.

Heavy.

Georgia finally muttered from her bench, “Well… that’s one way to kill the post-match buzz.”

Cotton gave a faint laugh.

Evangeline stepped closer to Marcy.

“You didn’t have to hug him,” she said quietly.

Marcy looked at her.

“Yes, I did.”

Evangeline nodded slowly.

“Yeah.”

Outside, somewhere down the hall, a door slammed.

The storm hadn’t ended.

It had just moved indoors.

Marcy began taping her wrist again, slower this time.

Not for the match.

For what came next.

The arena was half-empty now.

Crew tearing down lights. Road cases rolling. The buzz of forklifts replacing crowd noise.

Marcy Carter walked out of the locker room and walked out alone.

Street clothes on. Hair tied back. Jacket zipped.

Suitcase rolling behind her in a steady rhythm against the concrete.

She wasn’t rushing.

She wasn’t hiding.

She was done for the night.

A figure stepped into the hallway ahead of her.

Aiden McGeady.

Immaculate hoodie. Expensive sneakers. That half-smirk that never quite reached his eyes.

Vince’s shadow.

His heir.

He spread his arms wide like a parody of warmth.

“Well,” Aiden said lightly, “there she is.”

Marcy didn’t slow down.

She adjusted her grip on the suitcase handle and kept walking.

Aiden stepped sideways to match her pace.

“No hug?” he asked, mock hurt. “You hugged Mike.”

Marcy didn’t even glance at him.

“He needed one.”

“Ouch,” Aiden replied. “So I don’t?”

She stopped.

Not because he blocked her.

Because she chose to.

She turned slowly.

Looked him in the eye.

“You don’t smell like humiliation.”

Aiden’s smirk faltered for half a second.

Then returned.

“Careful,” he said. “That kind of attitude…”

He gestured vaguely.

“…has consequences.”

Marcy waited.

“A lot of people saw what you did,” he continued. “Breaking the angle. Undermining the finish. Making Vince look weak.”

She said nothing.

“Vince is very mad at you.”

That hung in the air like a threat rehearsed in a mirror.

Marcy stepped forward, close enough that Aiden had to shift his weight back slightly.

“If Vince has something to say to me,” she said calmly, “he should come say it.”

Her voice didn’t rise.

It didn’t need to.

“Not send his goons to do his work for him.”

The word landed harder than she’d raised it.

Aiden’s jaw tightened.

“I’m not a goon.”

She tilted her head.

“Then stop acting like one.”

Silence.

Forklift noise echoed faintly from down the corridor.

Aiden recovered his composure.

“You think this ends well for you?” he asked quietly. “You think you can just challenge him and walk away?”

Marcy stepped past him.

“I already did.”

He turned slightly.

“You’re playing with your career.”

She stopped one last time.

Without turning around.

“When you’ve had a knife to your chest,” she said evenly, “you stop being impressed by threats.”

Aiden didn’t respond.

She looked back over her shoulder.

“If he wants to fire me, he knows where I am.”

Then she walked.

Suitcase wheels rattling down the corridor.

Didn’t look back again.

Aiden stood there, arms no longer spread, watching her disappear toward the exit.

For the first time that night-

Someone had refused to orbit the McGeady gravity.

…and it bothered him more than he would ever admit.

Cape Town Stadium, Vince’s Office, January 22, 2023

08:12 local time,
Cape Town, Sovereignty of the Cape of Good Hope, UCSS

Morning light pushed through the thin blinds.

The stadium, once thunderous, was now hollow.

Road crews loading trucks. Production cables coiled like exhausted snakes. Most of the roster already showered and halfway to the airport.

Everyone wanted sleep.

Everyone except Vince McGeady.

Rage had burned through whatever fatigue should’ve existed.

The office door slammed shut.

Inside stood:

• Aiden McGeady
• Joey Ace
• Triple X, head of the Academy
• Two senior producers
• Head of Talent Relations

No one sat.

Vince paced.

“She hugged him.”

Silence.

“She undermined the angle in the ring.”

No one spoke.

“She challenged me in the hallway.”

His voice sharpened.

“In front of crew.”

Aiden folded his arms.

“She called me a goon.”

Vince ignored that part.

“I want a solution,” Vince said.

“Now.”

One producer cleared his throat cautiously.

“Maybe we… sleep on it?”

Vince turned slowly.

“Sleep.”

The word came out like an insult.

“We just had one of the biggest trending segments of the year and you want to sleep?”

Triple X shifted his weight.

“Boss, it’s been a long night. Emotions are high.”

“Emotions?” Vince snapped. “She embarrassed me.”

Joey finally spoke.

“She embarrassed the situation.”

Vince shot him a look.

“Careful, Joey.”

Joey didn’t blink.

“She’s one of your top merch movers.”

Vince waved it off.

“Merch can be replaced.”

Joey shook his head.

“Not like her. Magnolia moves numbers. Consistently. Social engagement spikes when she’s in a segment. And she just carried twenty-five minutes.”

Triple X added quietly:

“She’s an excellent worker.”

Vince scoffed.

“They all are.”

Triple X held steady.

“No. They’re not.”

That hung in the room.

“She’s disciplined,” Triple X continued. “She doesn’t miss cues. She doesn’t get hurt. She elevates people. That doesn’t grow on trees.”

Vince smiled faintly.

“Everything grows on trees.”

A tired producer muttered under his breath, “Not twenty-five-minute main eventers.”

Vince stopped pacing.

“You’re telling me I tolerate insubordination because she sells shirts?”

Joey answered carefully.

“I’m telling you firing her right now looks reactive…and it validates what she said.”

That landed.

Vince’s jaw flexed.

Aiden stepped in.

“She can’t just walk all over you.”

“She won’t,” Vince replied sharply.

Silence.

Then Triple X said it plainly.

“If you fire her, you make her a martyr.”

That word lingered.

Vince hated martyrs.

He leaned back against his desk.

Thinking.

Calculating.

“You want punishment?” Vince said finally. “Fine.”

He looked at the whiteboard listing upcoming programs.

“She thinks she’s ready for the women’s title?”

No one answered.

“Delay it.”

A producer blinked.

“Delay… how long?”

Vince’s lips curled.

“Long enough.”

He pointed at the board.

“Georgia Peach.”

Joey frowned.

“What about her?”

“She gets the next title opportunity.”

Aiden perked up slightly.

“Tonight?”

Vince shook his head.

“No.”

He smiled.

“I’ll tell her at the last possible moment.”

Triple X sighed internally.

“So Magnolia wins. Carries the match…and we pivot.”

Vince nodded.

“She learns.”

Joey spoke carefully.

“That could fracture the group.”

Vince shrugged.

“Conflict creates stars.”

Aiden tried to nod in agreement.

Mid-nod-

His head dipped.

Just slightly.

He caught himself.

…but Vince saw it.

Vince stared at him.

“You tired?”

Aiden straightened immediately.

“No.”

Vince’s gaze swept the room.

Red eyes. Slumped shoulders. Mental fog.

He exhaled sharply.

“Fine.”

He waved a dismissive hand.

“Go sleep.”

No one argued.

They moved toward the door like paroled prisoners.

As they left, Vince added:

“Three o’clock. We regroup.”

The door closed.

Silence returned.

Vince stood alone in the office.

The morning sun was brighter now.

He didn’t sit.

He didn’t rest.

He stared at the board.

Magnolia Wine.

Marcy Carter.

Peacekeeper.

Merch mover.

Defiant.

He replayed her words.

Fire me.

His jaw tightened.

He didn’t fire talent in anger.

He broke them in patience.

He picked up a marker.

Circled Magnolia’s name.

Then drew a small arrow.

Not down.

Sideways.

His mind churned.

Not about sleep.

About control.

About narrative.

About who would blink first.

Outside, Cape Town was fully awake now.

Inside that office-

Vince was just getting started.

Empire Fest Media Reactions, January 22-23, 2023

Online.

The sun rose.

The takes began.

---

📰 The Mat and the Monitor (WON)

Headline:

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ — Combat Arts Finally Delivers

Darian Fell did not hesitate.

On the weekly show, he adjusted his glasses and said:

“That eight-woman tag was the best match in Combat Arts history.”

Five stars.

The first time Fell had ever awarded a five-star rating to a Combat Arts match.

He praised the structure.

The escalation.

The controlled chaos.

The mid-air desk pivot.

But when he got to the core of it—

He pointed directly at Magnolia Wine.

“Magnolia anchored that match. She controlled pace, controlled positioning, and made sure nobody drowned in the chaos. That’s veteran ring general work.”

He noted that Yumiko Ren and Nélia Cruz were “instrumental in making the Babes earn it.”

…but the throughline?

Magnolia.

On the same episode, reporter Marilyn Morrow added:

“There was significant backstage heat on Magnolia Wine after the show.”

Morrow, careful as always, didn’t speculate.

“We’re still gathering sources. We don’t have full clarity on what happened. But I’ve been told it involved the post-match angle.”

She emphasized that nothing was confirmed yet.

…but the phrase “backstage heat” was enough.

That’s all wrestling media ever needs.

---

📰 Pinfall Press (Fightful)

Headline:

MAGNOLIA WINE GENERATES MASSIVE HEAT AFTER EMPIRE FEST

Pinfall Press leaned into the drama.

They described the Warner segment as “divisive.”

They noted fan reactions online:

• “Weird.”
• “Uncomfortable.”
• “Unnecessary.”
• “Why couldn’t they just let the women have the moment?”

They also reported:

“Multiple sources indicate Magnolia was not happy with how the segment unfolded.”

Then the pivot.

“For full details, backstage discussions, and internal fallout, subscribe to Pinfall Press Premium.”

Classic.

Generate smoke.

Monetize oxygen.

---

📰 Ringside Riot / WrestleSkeeda / Pro Clutch Chronicle

Absolute chaos.

Headlines included:

“MAGNOLIA WINE STORMS OUT OF ARENA — FIRED?”

“WFE LOCKER ROOM REVOLT AFTER EMPIRE FEST?”

“IS MAGNOLIA WINE HEADED TO IWC?”

“GOLDSTEIN STEALS MAIN EVENT — WAS THIS A PUNISHMENT?”

“EXCLUSIVE: SOURCES SAY VINCE LOST CONTROL BACKSTAGE”

One article claimed Magnolia “threw a chair.”

Another claimed she “refused to follow the script.”

Another claimed she was “planning to retire and return to baseball.”

None cited credible sourcing.

Most referenced “anonymous insiders.”

All referenced The Mat and the Monitor’s five-star rating.

All amplified Marilyn Morrow’s phrase:

Backstage heat.

By noon, Magnolia was trending.

Not because of Goldstein.

Not because of the spear.

Because she hugged Mike.

And because she stood up.

---

The Fan Narrative

Online, discourse split:

• “She protected her friend.”
• “She buried the angle.”
• “The Babes deserved their moment.”
• “Why does every women’s feud need a man inserted?”
• “This is just Vince being Vince.”
• “Magnolia is a locker room leader.”
• “She’s getting buried next.”

Five stars.

Backstage heat.

Divisive angle.

Trending.

Empire Fest didn’t end at 6AM.

It just shifted platforms.

🎙 Smoky Bear Bryant- “The Smoky Mountain Hotline”

Episode Title:
“FIVE STARS? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?”

You can almost hear the papers slamming on the desk.

Smoky doesn’t ease into it.

He detonates.

“Five stars?! FIVE?! For a Combat Arts match?!”

Chair squeaks. Coffee mug hits wood.

“Darian Fell has officially lost what little grip on reality he had left.”

He begrudgingly admits something first- because Smoky always does that before the knife twist.

“Now listen- those girls worked hard. You can see that. They went twenty-five minutes, they tore up the Egyptian desk- and by the way, that was the only desk left because Brock Beasley already destroyed the Roman one, which tells you everything you need to know about the booking.”

Pause.

“Magnolia Wine? She carried that match. Absolutely. Ring general. Kept it from falling apart. I’ll give her that.”

Then the pivot.

“…but FIVE STARS? That’s Flair–Steamboat territory. That’s generational. That’s history. That wasn’t history. That was Vince overbooking a tag match.”

Smoky takes a breath.

Then moves to the angle.

…and now the temperature rises.

“You finally give the women a twenty-five minute main event. You finally let them prove they can go…and what do you do?”

Paper rustles.

“You send a guy out there to make a fool of himself.”

He hates it.

Not because it was awkward.

Because it was bad business.

“You don’t hijack a women’s match with a man unless that man means something…and Mike Warner meant NOTHING in that segment except humiliation.”

He pauses.

Lower tone now.

“…and then you have Magnolia hug him?”

He doesn’t hate that.

He actually respects it.

“Now that’s leadership. That’s protecting your locker room. That’s somebody who’s been in a fight before and knows when enough’s enough.”

Smoky sniffs.

“…but you know what that also is?”

Beat.

“That’s career suicide in Vince’s world.”

He moves to the backstage heat.

“Of course there’s heat. There’s always heat when somebody shows a spine.”

Then he drops the line.

“You want to know what’s really going on? Vince can’t stand not being the center of the story. That match wasn’t about him. So he made it about him.”

He absolutely buries the Warner “stink” idea once it leaks.

“If you sprayed that kid with something to make him smell bad just so the girls would reject him, you’re not booking heat- you’re booking middle school.”

He leans back audibly.

“…and now what’s he going to do? He’s not going to fire Magnolia. She moves money. He’ll punish her quietly. Delay the title shot. Give it to somebody else. Make her wait.”

Smoky always predicts the burial arc.

“Because Vince doesn’t fire stars when he’s mad. He starves them.”

He finishes with something that almost sounds like concern.

“If Magnolia’s smart, she keeps her head down just long enough to outlast him.”

Then one final jab.

“…and Darian Fell? Five stars. Sure. Why not. Let’s give everything five stars. Maybe next week we’ll give one to a forklift.”

Click.

Segment ends.

Empire Fest Fan Media Reactions, January 22-23, 2023

Online.

📰 The Diving Headbutt

(Performative-progressive wrestling blog)

Headline:

WOMEN MAIN EVENT. FIVE STARS. THE FUTURE IS NOW.

The tone is triumphant.

Almost defiant.

They open with:

“Let’s not lose the forest for the trees here.”

They acknowledge the Goldstein-Warner segment… briefly.

“Yes, the post-match angle was awkward.”

…and then immediately pivot:

“…but the women main evented a six-hour supercard and delivered a five-star performance.”

They hammer that point repeatedly.

“This is progress.”

They downplay the hijack narrative:

“The idea that the segment ‘ruined’ the match centers male interference over women’s excellence.”

They frame criticism as overreaction:

“We refuse to let discourse minimize a historic achievement.”

The tone becomes self-congratulatory.

“If you’re more upset about the angle than celebrating the rating, you might want to examine why.”

They conclude:

“Magnolia Wine is a star. The Total Babes are validated. The division just leveled up.”

They mean well.

…but they’re smoothing over nuance.

Because acknowledging the hijack complicates the celebration.

…and nuance doesn’t trend.

---

🥩 Slapping Meat

(Wrestling bros, unapologetic)

Headline:

MAIN EVENT SHOULD’VE BEEN GOLDSTEIN

They open hot.

“Twenty-five minutes? For that?”

They resent the slot.

“This is what happens when you try to force equality.”

They dismiss the five-star rating outright.

“Fell’s gone soft.”

They say the match was “fine.”

They call it “overproduced.”

Then they pivot to the angle.

They loved the spear.

“That’s how you end a show.”

They think Mike Warner “got what he deserved.”

“If you’re dumb enough to play a simp on live TV, that’s on you.”

There’s a couple awkward “no homo, but Goldstein looked jacked” comments thrown in.

Classy.

They also criticize Magnolia hugging Warner:

“You don’t break character. This ain’t ballet.”

…but they’re not defending the angle’s logic.

They’re defending hierarchy.

To them, Goldstein saving the segment felt “right.”

They don’t see the hijack.

They see restoration of order.

---

📰 The Arena

(Rational fan site)

Headline:

A Great Match Undercut by an Unnecessary Angle

Balanced.

Measured.

They praise the match heavily.

They highlight:

• Magnolia’s pacing
• Yumiko’s ring awareness
• The Egyptian desk pivot
• Nélia’s explosive bursts

They acknowledge the five stars without hyperbole.

Then:

“The post-match segment complicated what should have been a clean statement victory.”

They don’t accuse.

They analyze.

“The women proved they belong in that spot. The Warner segment shifted the focus away from that achievement.”

They also defend Warner:

“If this was his debut, the creative choice placed him in a nearly impossible position.”

They praise Magnolia’s hug.

“Whether intentional or not, her gesture read as leadership.”

They close with something insightful:

“Combat Arts has the talent to build a women’s division organically. The question is whether management trusts it enough to let it stand on its own.”

No screaming.

No grandstanding.

Just clarity.

Libanona Beach, January 24, 2023

10:12 local time,
Taolagnaro, Mahafaly, Southern Gate of the Dinosanct Confederation

The southern Sun was honest here.

It didn’t glare like a spotlight. It didn’t interrogate.

It warmed.

Marcy Carter lay nude stretched out on a smooth black volcanic outcrop just above the tide line, eyes closed, letting the Malagasy sea breeze move across her skin like something cleansing rather than invasive.

No cameras.

No ring lights.

No commentary.

No corporate eyes measuring her usefulness.

Just air.

Libanona Beach was unlike any beach she had ever known.

Humans moved easily across the sand- families, conservation workers, a few off-duty Confederation officials. Mixed among them were Lizardfolk citizens, tall and deliberate in their movements, their scales catching the light in muted greens and earthen browns.

They were not costumes. Not myths.

They were a sentient species- distant descendants of theropod lineages that had survived in isolation for millions of years before first recorded human contact in central Africa. Long-lived. Slow to reproduce. Culturally conservative. Biologically resilient.

In most of the world, they were rare.

In Madagascar, they were citizens.

No one stared.

No one whispered.

Nudity here wasn’t rebellion. It was simply tolerated- sometimes even understood as practical under the heat of Mahafaly’s dry coastal climate. The Dinosanct Confederation had bigger things to worry about than bare skin.

Further out in the water, a long, sleek shape cut the surface.

A mosasaur.

Not enormous- juveniles were permitted in monitored coastal corridors- but large enough that its dorsal ridge briefly interrupted the shimmering horizon before slipping back beneath the surface.

Children pointed. A Lizardfolk conservation officer raised a hand, guiding swimmers to keep their distance. Calm. Routine.

Overhead, pterodactyls wheeled lazily in the thermals, their shadows drifting across sand and scale alike.

Inland- far beyond visible dunes- were the true sanctuaries. The great dinosaurs. The restricted bioterritories. The places where cameras were not permitted and humans entered only with chartered clearance.

…but here, at the edge of sea and city, coexistence felt almost ordinary.

Marcy opened her eyes.

The sky here felt wider.

Or maybe she just felt smaller inside it.

Empire Fest already felt distant and unreal- like a fever dream involving cages, humiliation, five stars, rage, and a hug that meant more than it should have.

She flexed her fingers against the rock, feeling its warmth.

She thought of Vince pacing.
Of Aiden’s smirk.
Of Mike’s forced grin.
Of the cage that was surely coming.

The breeze shifted.

For the first time in days, her shoulders unclenched.

A Lizardfolk couple walked past several meters away, their conversation low and musical. One glanced briefly in her direction- not with curiosity, not with judgment. Simply acknowledging another being sharing the Sun.

Marcy had grown up reading about the Lizardfolk in Peace briefings- ancient, slow-breeding, politically careful. In most countries they were visitors or protected residents.

Here, they were simply neighbors.

It struck her then.

Here, no one needed to be saved.

No one needed to posture.

The Confederation did not run on humiliation.

It ran on preservation.

She sat up slowly, brushing sand from her thigh.

In the water, the mosasaur surfaced again- closer now- its eye breaking the surface for a fraction of a second before submerging.

Watchful.

Measured.

Ancient.

Marcy smiled faintly.

“When you’ve had a knife to your chest,” she murmured to herself, “you don’t waste the quiet.”

The southern Sun climbed higher.

The breeze carried salt and something older than wrestling, older than empire, older even than ego.

For the first time since Cape Town, Marcy allowed herself not to think about control.

Just to breathe.

WFE Imperial Academy-Madagascar, January 24, 2023

09:21 local time,
Taolagnaro, Mahafaly, Southern Gate of the Dinosanct Confederation

The Academy facility in Taolagnaro did not look like the mainland versions.

Less steel.

More reinforced composite.

Ceilings higher.

Ring posts thicker.

The mats were specially layered- built to withstand different weight distributions and impact points. It wasn’t about size. It was about physics.

Inside, humans and Lizardfolk trained side by side.

No novelty.

No guarded separation.

Just repetition.

Boro moved through drills with patient precision.

He wasn’t the tallest Lizardfolk in the Academy, nor the heaviest…but he was balanced- long-tailed stance grounded, shoulders set low, center of gravity fluid and adaptive.

Where human wrestlers often muscled through chain sequences, Boro flowed through them.

Lizardfolk wrestling came naturally to their species.

Their culture communicated through proximity and pressure- through subtle shifts in muscle tension, through heat and contact, through micro-adjustments felt rather than seen. Words were learned. Touch was instinct.

When he locked up with a human trainee, he didn’t overpower.

He read.

He felt the resistance before it formed. Shifted before leverage broke. Adjusted grips without visible strain.

To Academy trainers, Lizardfolk wrestlers were known as excellent workers.

Safe.

Deliberate.

Almost impossible to catch off-balance once they found rhythm.

Promos were different.

They could learn human languages- many did- but speech was an adopted skill, not a native one. Timing cadence for cameras, projecting emotion verbally, selling drama with words instead of movement… that required training layered on top of instinct.

Triple X and Paul Carney had always been willing to build around that.

In their view, wrestling was primarily physical storytelling.

For Vince, it was something else.

A wrestler who could not dominate a microphone was, in his mind, incomplete.

…and so no Lizardfolk had reached the main roster.

Yet.

Boro completed a lift-and-turn drill with a human heavyweight, lowering him cleanly to the mat without a jolt.

The human slapped his shoulder in appreciation.

Boro dipped his head in acknowledgment.

The doors to the facility opened.

Triple X stepped inside.

He didn’t announce himself.

He observed first.

Watched Boro finish the sequence.

Watched the control.

Watched the economy of movement.

He nodded once.

“Boro.”

Boro turned immediately.

He approached without hurry.

The two clasped forearms.

No handshake.

No words.

Boro’s grip was firm but measured- skin against scaled forearm, equal pressure.

Triple X held it for a moment longer than necessary.

Then released.

Boro tilted his head slightly.

One brow ridge lifting.

A question.

Triple X didn’t answer yet.

Triple X’s office inside the Academy was functional.

Reinforced desk. Two chairs- one slightly modified for Lizardfolk posture. No trophies. No vanity walls. Just schedules, whiteboards, and a framed Academy crest.

Boro stepped inside and closed the door carefully behind him.

Triple X gestured toward the larger chair.

Boro didn’t sit immediately.

He studied Triple X’s posture first.

Reading him.

Then, in careful English:

“You… carry… uplift today.”

Triple X smiled faintly.

“That obvious?”

Boro’s jaw flexed in something like a grin.

“You move… lighter.”

His English was uneven- vowels sometimes too long, consonants softened- but it carried warmth. Audiences on Academy TV had responded to that. There was something earnest about the way he searched for the right word and then committed to it fully.

Triple X leaned forward.

“I do have good news.”

Boro’s eyes sharpened.

“The Thursday Night War comes to Taolagnaro this week,” Triple X said, “and you’re on it.”

A pause.

Boro blinked.

“You… mean Academy match?”

“No.”

Triple X shook his head.

“Main roster.”

Silence.

Boro stared at him.

Then shook his head once.

“Humor?”

Triple X reached forward and placed his hand on Boro’s forearm.

Skin to scale.

He let his intention settle through the contact.

Not joking.

Real.

Boro’s body stilled.

The subtle tension in his shoulders eased.

His breath deepened.

“Main… roster,” he repeated, softer.

Triple X nodded.

“…and not alone.”

Another beat.

“Cesar’s coming up too. You debut together.”

That hit harder.

Boro’s tail shifted once behind the chair- an unconscious movement of excitement.

“Together.”

“Together,” Triple X confirmed.

For a moment Boro didn’t speak.

Usually, the War aired at 3AM local time. Malagasy fans watched on delay, or not at all. Lizardfolk families gathered at odd hours if they could, but it was never convenient.

“This Thursday,” Triple X continued, “it airs live at 12PM Eastern. We’re taping it here earlier in the day. The recorded version will air at the usual 7PM Eastern slot.”

Boro’s head tilted slightly as he calculated.

“That is… afternoon here.”

“Prime time for Taolagnaro,” Triple X said.

Now the smile came fully.

“For Mahafaly,” Boro said.

“For Dinosanct.”

Triple X didn’t correct him.

Boro finally sat.

The chair creaked slightly under redistributed weight.

“Many… watch,” Boro said, voice tightening with emotion he didn’t try to hide. “Young… Lizardfolk. They see… live.”

“Yeah,” Triple X said quietly. “They will.”

There was a flicker- brief, almost imperceptible- in Boro’s gaze.

A thought.

Why now?

He had been ready before.

So had Cesar.

Vince had always hesitated.

…but the question drifted away beneath the swell of something bigger.

Main roster.

Live in Taolagnaro.

Together.

“Thank you,” Boro said, the words landing heavier than his grammar.

Triple X gave a small nod.

“Earn it,” he said. “That’s all.”

Boro stood.

Extended his arm again.

This time, the clasp lasted longer.

Excitement hummed through the contact- not loud, not frantic. Focused.

Triple X felt it.

Hope.

…and underneath it-

Ambition.

Outside the office, the Academy continued its drills.

Inside, history shifted quietly.

Boro did not yet think about Vince.

Did not yet think about angles.

Did not yet think about how spectacle might twist dignity.

He thought only of stepping through a curtain in his own homeland.

…and hearing the crowd respond.

Libanona Beach Hotel, January 24, 2023

18:37 local time,
Taolagnaro, Mahafaly, Southern Gate of the Dinosanct Confederation

The room was modest but open to the sea.

The balcony doors were cracked just enough for the Indian Ocean air to move through the curtains in slow breaths.

Cesar Luis answered the knock barefoot.

The moment he saw Boro, his face split into a grin.

“Ven,” he said softly.

They stepped into each other immediately.

Arms wrapped. Foreheads nearly touching. No hesitation.

When they separated, their hands did not.

To anyone watching from the hallway, it might have looked romantic.

It wasn’t.

Not in the way people assumed.

Their closeness was practical.

Boro’s scaled fingers rested along Cesar’s wrist; Cesar’s hand settled along Boro’s forearm. Pressure. Heat. Micro-adjustments.

Communication layered beneath language.

They sat on the edge of the bed, knees nearly touching, hands still linked.

Boro spoke first, his Spanish smoother than his English but still deliberate.

“Es real,” he said. “Main roster.”

Cesar’s smile widened.

“Lo sé.”

Boro’s eyes flicked across Cesar’s face.

Something underneath the smile.

A tightness.

“You carry… shadow,” Boro said quietly.

Cesar exhaled through his nose.

“Siempre haces eso,” he murmured. “You always feel it.”

Boro’s thumb pressed lightly at Cesar’s pulse point.

Listening.

Cesar shifted closer.

“I’m happy,” he said, switching to English instinctively. “I am. This is what we worked for.”

Boro nodded.

“…but,” he said.

Cesar let out a short laugh.

“…but.”

He leaned back slightly, though their hands stayed connected.

“You know Vince,” Cesar said. “You know how he sees people like me.”

Boro tilted his head.

“Foreign,” Cesar continued. “Accent first. Skill second.”

Boro’s grip tightened just slightly.

“…and you,” Cesar said quietly. “He will see… monster.”

The word hung between them.

Cheap.

Easy.

Marketable.

Disposable.

Boro’s jaw set.

“That thought… visited,” he admitted.

Cesar studied him carefully.

“Triple X doesn’t know the plan,” Cesar went on. “That means Vince does.”

The sea wind shifted through the curtains.

Boro leaned forward until their foreheads nearly touched.

“I have trained… too long,” Boro said softly. “I will not refuse… because I fear story.”

Cesar smiled faintly.

“I’m not telling you to refuse it.”

Boro’s eyes searched his.

“You fear… I lose self.”

Cesar’s expression softened.

“I fear they try to take it.”

Silence.

Their hands adjusted again- Cesar’s thumb brushing along the inside of Boro’s wrist.

Grounding.

Boro inhaled slowly.

“I do not… forget who I am,” he said. “Even if they name me other things.”

Cesar nodded.

“That’s why I’m here.”

A beat.

“I don’t want to dull your excitement,” Cesar added. “I just want you steady.”

Boro’s lips curved faintly.

“Steady is good.”

He leaned back, still touching.

“This is for Mahafaly,” Boro said. “For Dinosanct.”

Cesar smiled wider.

“…and for us.”

Boro nodded once.

“For us.”

Outside, the last light of day dipped low over Libanona Beach.

Inside the hotel room, excitement and caution settled into something balanced.

Opportunity.

Risk.

Trust.

Neither of them could yet see the shape of the story waiting for them.

…but they felt its weight.

…and they faced it together.

Libanona Beach, January 24, 2023

19:12 local time,
Taolagnaro, Mahafaly, Southern Gate of the Dinosanct Confederation

The sky over Libanona was streaked violet and copper when Marcy stepped off the sand and onto the boardwalk.

She’d tied a light sarong around her waist- beach regulations in Taolagnaro required lower garments once you left the sand- not out of modesty, but sanitation. Shared seating and public surfaces followed strict ecological codes. No one had given her trouble earlier, but the Confederation was precise about its boundaries.

Beach was beach.

City was city.

The restaurant she chose sat half on wood stilts over the water, lanterns swaying gently in the sea wind. The smell of grilled fish and something sharper- mineral, almost metallic- drifted through the open air.

Inside, humans and Lizardfolk occupied tables without segregation or spectacle. A Lizardfolk family sat near the railing, long fingers delicately manipulating utensils designed for broader grips. At another table, two human conservation workers shared a carafe of palm wine.

Marcy was handed a menu.

It was divided cleanly.

Human Selections.
Lizardfolk Selections.

No flourish. No warning label. Just categories.

She scanned the human section first out of habit.

Then her eyes drifted to the other.

Lean proteins. Bone-in cuts. Organ dishes prepared with mineral-rich broths. Little starch. Little sugar. Sauces described not in terms of sweetness, but in density and trace element content.

It intrigued her.

When the server approached- tall, scaled, posture straight but relaxed- Marcy glanced up.

“Can I order from the Lizardfolk section?” she asked.

The server’s eyes softened slightly. Many in Taolagnaro’s tourist districts spoke decent English; interaction here was constant.

“You may,” the server replied. The consonants were careful but confident. “There is no restriction.”

Marcy smiled faintly.

“It won’t… make me sick?”

A subtle flicker of amusement.

“No. It is calibrated for our physiology. It will feel different.”

“How?”

The server considered the simplest translation.

“Dense. Less sweet. More… structural.”

Marcy nodded.

“I’ll try it.”

She ordered a bone-in coastal cut prepared over open flame, with a side of something described as fermented sea greens.

When it arrived, it looked deceptively simple.

The first bite told a different story.

The meat was leaner than she expected. Firm. Not dry- just… resistant. The flavor wasn’t layered with spice the way human coastal dishes tended to be. It was direct. Clean. Almost austere.

The greens were sharply fermented- not unpleasant, just assertive.

She chewed slowly.

Intrigued.

…but something felt slightly off-balance.

Not wrong.

Just incomplete.

At the table beside her, an older Lizardfolk patron observed politely for a moment before speaking in measured English.

“You do not have the mineral reduction.”

Marcy looked up.

“The what?”

The patron gestured gently toward her plate.

“The sauce. It accompanies that cut.”

Marcy glanced back at the menu. There it was- listed separately.

“Is it very… Lizardfolk?” she asked.

A pause.

“Yes.”

She smiled.

“Then I’ll take it.”

The server returned with a small dish- dark, almost iridescent under the lantern light.

Marcy dipped the meat lightly.

The change was immediate.

The sauce wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t spicy.

It deepened everything.

The austerity of the cut gave way to something rounded. The greens snapped into clarity instead of sharpness.

It still tasted different from anything she’d had before.

…but now it made sense.

She nodded to the patron.

“That’s better.”

The Lizardfolk inclined their head once.

“We build flavor in layers,” they said. “Not in disguise.”

Marcy let that settle.

Build flavor in layers.

Not in disguise.

She took another bite, slower this time.

The sea rolled beneath the restaurant’s stilts. Pterodactyl silhouettes passed across the dimming sky.

The meal still felt denser than she was used to.

…but she liked it now.

Different didn’t mean wrong.

It just required adjustment.

…and for once, no one here was trying to cage her for choosing something outside her assigned menu.

She ate quietly as night settled over Libanona.

Present.

Undirected.

Free.

Libanona Beach Hotel, January 24, 2023

21:37 local time,
Taolagnaro, Mahafaly, Southern Gate of the Dinosanct Confederation

The knock at Marcy’s door was light.

She didn’t rush to answer it.

When she opened it, Mike Warner stood there in a loose T-shirt and shorts, hair still damp from a shower.

They hugged immediately.

Solid. Familiar. No awkwardness.

When they stepped apart, Mike finally registered that Marcy was once again entirely nude.

He blinked.

“…Right,” he said.

Marcy smirked faintly.

“It’s a beach hotel.”

Mike exhaled a small laugh.

“Yeah. I’m getting that.”

There was no tension in it. No lingering stare. Just mild surprise adjusting to a different set of norms.

She stepped aside and let him in.

The balcony doors were open again. Night air drifted in, warm and salted. Lantern light from the boardwalk shimmered across the ceiling.

Marcy leaned against the dresser.

“I think I might want to live here,” she said casually.

Mike arched an eyebrow.

“In Madagascar?”

“Why not?”

She gestured loosely toward the open balcony.

“No one cares. No one judges. You can exist however you want. People are… respectful. Calm.”

Mike nodded slowly.

“…and the food?” he asked.

She laughed.

“Oh, the food.”

He squinted.

“Wait. Don’t tell me.”

“I tried it.”

“The Lizardfolk menu?”

She nodded, unapologetic.

“…and?”

“It hits different,” she said, “but now I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Mike grinned.

“So you’ve gone full Dinosanct.”

“Maybe.”

The humor faded gently.

Mike shifted his weight.

“Hey.”

Her expression softened slightly.

“You good?”

She held his gaze.

“I’m good.”

He nodded.

“Empire Fest… that was rough.”

Marcy shrugged lightly.

“I’ve had rougher.”

Mike hesitated.

“Still. Thanks. For picking me up.”

She waved it off.

“That’s just what friends do.”

He looked down briefly.

“They sprayed me with something,” he muttered. “Like I was a joke.”

Marcy’s jaw tightened, just slightly.

“I know.”

A beat.

“You didn’t deserve that.”

Mike nodded.

Silence settled between them for a moment.

Then he asked the question that had clearly been waiting.

“You worried about what he’s going to do to you?”

Marcy walked toward the balcony, looking out over the dark ocean.

Pterodactyl silhouettes still traced the moonlit sky in slow arcs.

“I stopped thinking about that a while ago,” she said.

Mike waited.

She didn’t turn around.

“Vince will do what he wants,” she continued calmly. “He thinks he’ll break me.”

The sea wind lifted her hair slightly.

She looked back over her shoulder.

“I do not break.”

Not defiant.

Not dramatic.

Just fact.

Mike studied her for a long second.

Then nodded.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I believe that.”

Outside, the Confederation slept under careful stars.

Inside the room, the storm that had followed them from Cape Town felt further away.

Not gone.

…but distant.

For now.

Dino Café Arena, January 25, 2023

09:21 local time,
Taolagnaro, Mahafaly, Southern Gate of the Dinosanct Confederation

The production room overlooked the empty arena floor, morning light pouring in through reinforced glass panels designed to withstand coastal winds and, occasionally, heavier things.

Vince stood at the head of the table.

Grinning.

That grin.

The one that meant he thought he’d just cracked something revolutionary.

“Okay,” he said, clapping once. “We lean into it.”

The producers exchanged glances.

“Madagascar’s all about freedom, right?” Vince continued. “Beach culture. No shame. Let’s use that.”

He turned to the whiteboard.

“Ring girls. Nude.”

Silence.

Audible silence.

A pen dropped somewhere down the table.

Vince kept going.

“…and then the Total Babes tag. After the match? Masked intruders. They strip Magnolia and haul her out. Chaos. Boro storms in, destroys everyone. Goldstein makes the save later. Heroic.”

He stepped back from the board like a painter admiring his work.

“Money.”

The room did not respond.

One of the senior producers finally spoke.

“That’s not what Madagascar’s liberty is.”

Vince waved a hand.

“It’s a beach culture. They’re fine with it.”

“It’s not for show,” the producer said flatly. “It’s personal autonomy. There’s a difference.”

Another voice chimed in.

“Even if Dinosanct allowed it-which they won’t-our sponsors won’t. Broadcast partners won’t. International affiliates won’t.”

Vince frowned.

“We’re in Dinosanct. Their rules.”

“That’s not how global television works,” someone muttered.

Triple X leaned forward, hands clasped.

“If you run that angle,” he said carefully, “Magnolia walks.”

Vince turned.

“No, she won’t.”

“She will,” Triple X said calmly, “and she should.”

Aiden shifted in his chair.

“That’s not heat,” Triple X continued. “That’s humiliation.”

Vince’s grin twitched.

“We can work with that.”

“It’s not just her,” another producer said. “It’s optics. You’re misreading the country.”

“They’re not prudish,” Vince snapped.

“No,” the producer replied. “They’re principled.”

A beat.

Aiden finally spoke.

“Flaunting naked women on television in a country that separates autonomy from spectacle is a terrible idea.”

The room went still.

Vince looked at him.

“Disrespectful to Madagascar,” Aiden added, “and stupid business.”

Vince stared at his son for a long second.

The grin faded.

Barely.

“Fine,” he said at last. “No ring girls.”

A collective exhale moved around the table.

“…and no stripping Magnolia,” Aiden pressed.

Vince’s jaw tightened.

“Fine.”

He erased part of the board with more force than necessary.

“We keep the abduction,” he said. “Masked intruders. Grab her. Chaos.”

The producers exchanged another look.

“That’s still bad,” one muttered.

“It makes Goldstein heroic,” Vince insisted. “Saves her. Crowd eats it up.”

Triple X closed his eyes briefly.

“This isn’t going to boost her.”

Vince ignored that.

“It’s tension. It’s stakes.”

The producers knew that tone.

That meant the compromise was over.

No nudity.

No public spectacle.

…but the kidnapping angle lived.

They nodded reluctantly.

Meeting adjourned.

As chairs scraped back and papers gathered, the mood was heavy.

Outside the arena, Dinosanct functioned on balance and consent.

Inside the production room, Vince still believed control was the same thing as creativity.

…and in two days, that belief would test everyone.

Dino Café Arena, January 25, 2023

11:06 local time,
Taolagnaro, Mahafaly, Southern Gate of the Dinosanct Confederation

There was always a line outside Vince’s office.

Agents. Mid-carders. Main eventers pretending not to care. Academy call-ups hoping to be seen.

Today, Marcy didn’t wait.

She walked past the line without a word and pushed the door open.

Inside, Vince sat behind his desk. Another wrestler sat across from him- mid-discussion. Something about positioning. Something about opportunity.

Marcy didn’t care.

Both men turned.

The other wrestler looked from Vince to Marcy.

Then back again.

He stood.

“I’ll catch you later,” he muttered, already moving toward the door.

Marcy stepped aside just enough to let him pass.

The door closed.

Vince leaned back.

“You don’t knock anymore?”

“I hate it,” Marcy said flatly.

Vince blinked once.

“The storyline.”

She stepped forward.

“I hate it.”

Vince folded his hands.

“It’s heat.”

“It’s lazy,” she shot back.

Vince’s jaw tightened.

“You’re overthinking this.”

“No,” she said calmly. “You’re underthinking it.”

Silence.

Marcy held his gaze.

“I’ve jobbed for bigger stars. I’ve waited for title shots. I’ve stood behind people who couldn’t lace my boots.”

Vince’s eyes narrowed.

“I can do that,” Marcy said.

She took another step forward.

“…but I will not be written as a damsel in distress.”

The words didn’t echo.

They landed.

Vince’s first instinct was visible.

His shoulders tensed.

His chin lifted.

He wanted to fire her.

He wanted to say it.

He didn’t.

“You don’t dictate creative,” he said instead.

“…and you don’t dictate my dignity,” she replied.

The air in the room thickened.

“I’m not changing the story,” Vince said.

“Fine.”

That caught him off guard.

She nodded once.

“I’ll do it.”

He leaned forward slightly.

“You will?”

“Yes.”

A beat.

“Then write me off.”

Silence.

“I want two months.”

Vince stared at her.

“You don’t get to make demands.”

“I do,” she said evenly. “If I’m going to sell this, I’m selling it hard.”

He didn’t like the phrasing.

She continued.

“Two months. Paid. Or I walk into the press room and give an interview you really don’t want.”

Now his eyes sharpened.

“You wouldn’t.”

She didn’t blink.

“You misread a whole country this week. Don’t misread me.”

A long pause.

Vince looked at her.

Calculating.

Two months without Magnolia would hurt.

Magnolia walking out and talking?

That would hurt more.

He exhaled sharply.

“Two months,” he said. “After the angle.”

“In writing.”

He hesitated.

She turned toward the door.

“I’ll wait.”

“Sit down.”

She didn’t.

He stood, moved to the printer behind his desk, pulled up a standard leave agreement template.

The room was silent except for the hum of the machine.

He filled it in.

Signed it.

Made a copy.

Walked it back to her.

She took the paper.

Read it.

Slowly.

Satisfied.

Folded it once and slid it into her bag.

“Pleasure doing business,” she said.

She opened the door.

The hallway was still full.

She stepped out, smiling.

Waved casually at the next person in line.

“Go ahead,” she said lightly.

The door shut behind her.

Inside the office, Vince stood still for a long moment.

He hadn’t lost.

He told himself that.

He’d adjusted.

Outside, Marcy walked down the corridor without breaking stride.

For the first time all week-

She felt ahead of him.

Dino Café Arena, Training Room, January 25, 2023

11:36 local time,
Taolagnaro, Mahafaly, Southern Gate of the Dinosanct Confederation

The training room buzzed with low conversation and higher tension.

Georgia Peach leaned against the wall, arms folded.

Cotton Candy paced in small, anxious circles.

Sugar Cane stretched her shoulders like she was preparing for a fight she didn’t respect.

Across from them stood Cesar and Boro.

Sunny Ways hovered close to Cesar- close enough to talk quietly, not close enough to look dependent. She was Academy fresh. This was her first main roster program. Her jaw was set, but her hands betrayed nerves.

Goldstein sat on a folding chair near the far wall.

Ben Hartley stood near the whiteboard, clipboard in hand.

They did not look at each other.

…but everyone else noticed that they were not looking at each other.

Cesar finally broke the silence.

“I hate this.”

He gestured broadly at the whiteboard sketch of the angle.

“We debut in front of Boro’s home crowd… and we’re masked.”

Sunny swallowed but nodded.

“It feels like we’re props.”

“This is my first main roster program,” Sunny added, jaw tight. “I did not debut to be a shadow.”

Boro spoke, careful and measured.

“This contest marks my ascent into the higher ranks,” he said. “For that, I am grateful. Yet… concealment introduces unnecessary distortion.”

Georgia Peach tilted her head. “Distortion?”

“It weakens symbolic clarity,” Boro replied evenly.

Sugar Cane smirked. “He means it’s dumb.”

Cotton Candy stifled a laugh.

Courtney, seated on a bench lacing her boots, looked toward Hartley.

“This doesn’t elevate anyone.”

Hartley remained calm.

“We’re walking it safely,” he said. “No improvisation. No escalation. If we are doing it, we are doing it clean.”

Goldstein leaned back in his chair.

“If she’s good, we’re good,” he said evenly.

Cesar looked at him. “That’s easy for you to say.”

Before that could spiral-

The door opened.

Marcy stepped in.

Late.

Smiling.

Calm.

Courtney blinked. “You’re late.”

Marcy shrugged slightly. “Am I?”

Georgia straightened. “You talk to Vince?”

Marcy met her eyes.

“He and I are on good terms.”

The room went still.

Cesar narrowed his gaze. “Define ‘good.’”

Marcy’s smile didn’t move.

“We understand each other.”

That was not an answer.

Sunny looked between them.

“Are we… still doing it?”

Marcy stepped toward the center of the room.

“Yes.”

No hesitation.

Sugar Cane stared at her. “You’re fine with this?”

Marcy held her gaze.

“I said yes.”

There was something beneath the calm. Not surrender. Not approval.

Control.

Boro studied her carefully.

“If you accept the burden,” he said slowly, “I will honor the structure.”

Cesar glanced at him. “You’re really okay with this?”

Boro tilted his head.

“I am not fully aligned,” he admitted, “but unity is preferable to fracture.”

Cotton Candy looked at Georgia and whispered, “He talks like he’s signing a treaty.”

Georgia whispered back, “Honestly, that might be what this is.”

From the corner, one of the security extras muttered quietly:

“Are we insured for this room?”

Everyone glanced instinctively at Hartley.

Then at Goldstein.

Goldstein gave Hartley a flat look.

Hartley didn’t blink.

Cesar muttered under his breath, “Historically volatile pairing.”

Even Goldstein almost smiled at that.

Hartley cleared his throat.

“Positions.”

They moved.

Sunny and Cesar adjusted their masks and practiced their entry spacing.

Boro remained unmasked, standing apart from them.

He rolled his shoulders, tail giving a controlled flick.

“I enter openly,” he said. “Disruption should not hide.”

Courtney shook her head but took her mark.

Sugar Cane stood near Marcy, tension visible in her jaw.

Goldstein stood opposite, ready for his “heroic” moment.

Hartley raised his hand.

“Walk it.”

They ran the angle.

Masked entry- Cesar and Sunny move on cue.

Boro’s music hits late in the sequence; he storms in unmasked.

He clears space, controlled but forceful.

Security swarms.

In the distraction, Cesar and Sunny drag Marcy toward the ramp.

Goldstein’s music would hit there.

Delayed hero entrance.

On cue.

Measured.

Safe.

When it ended, the room was quiet.

It worked mechanically.

That didn’t make it feel right.

Hartley made notes.

Goldstein stared across the ring again.

Neither man spoke.

Marcy adjusted her hair.

“Again,” she said lightly.

No one argued.

The machine moved forward.

…and for now-

They all chose to move with it.

They reset for the full-speed rehearsal.

No half-speed walkthrough.

Hartley lowered his clipboard.

“Run it live.”

The Babes worked their opening sequence smoothly- Georgia and Sugar Cane trading tags, Cotton Candy cutting the ring in half, Courtney barking timing cues from ringside.

Then-

Masked entry.

Cesar and Sunny slid under the ropes on cue.

Chaos.

Security extras rushed in from the ramp.

Boro’s music wasn’t piped in for rehearsal, but the timing was clear.

He entered unmasked.

Visible.

He didn’t sprint wildly. He moved with purpose.

One arm swept a security extra aside. A shoulder knocked another off balance. He caught Sugar Cane mid-strike and redirected her with controlled force.

“I disrupt here,” he said under his breath as he hit his mark.

Marcy was seized on cue.

Cesar and Sunny dragged her toward the ropes.

Then-

Goldstein charged.

There was no music this time.

Just boots pounding canvas.

He didn’t pull it.

The spear hit Boro clean across the midsection.

The ring shook.

A violent thud.

Boro folded backward and hit the mat hard.

Harder than rehearsal required.

The room froze.

Goldstein rolled through to his knees, breathing heavy.

Boro didn’t move.

Not immediately.

Hartley stepped forward instantly.

“What the hell was that?” he barked.

Goldstein stood.

“I hit it.”

“That wasn’t ‘hit it,’” Hartley snapped. “That was full drive.”

Still no movement from Boro.

Sunny’s mask was halfway off now.

Cesar took a step forward.

“Boro?”

Marcy had already slipped free from the hold and moved toward him.

Goldstein didn’t look worried.

He looked irritated.

Hartley climbed onto the apron.

“You don’t fire like that in rehearsal,” he said sharply. “You don’t-”

Boro inhaled.

Deep.

Slow.

Then he rolled onto one elbow.

The room went quiet again.

He sat up.

Then, with deliberate calm, he rose to his feet.

No dramatic shake-off.

No roar.

Just composure.

Goldstein blinked once.

Boro adjusted his shoulders.

“That was… direct,” he said evenly.

Hartley exhaled sharply, still glaring at Goldstein.

“You good?” Cesar asked.

Boro looked down at his own torso briefly.

“Impact threshold acceptable,” he replied. “Though escalation was unnecessary.”

There was a flicker in his eyes now.

Not anger.

Assessment.

Goldstein stepped closer.

“You’re sturdy,” he said flatly.

Boro met his gaze without blinking.

“I am constructed for collision.”

That landed heavier than it should have.

Hartley stepped between them slightly.

“Again,” he said firmly, “but this time, you pull it.”

Goldstein didn’t argue.

He just nodded once.

Marcy watched the exchange carefully.

Very carefully.

Because for a moment-

Everyone in that room saw what the broadcast audience would see.

Goldstein the unstoppable force.

Boro the immovable body.

…and if that spear had landed differently-

Rehearsal might have become something else entirely.

Hartley climbed down from the apron.

“Reset,” he said.

They reset.

…but the air had changed.

Now it wasn’t just tension.

It was warning.

Dino Café Arena, January 26, 2023

15:07 local time,
Taolagnaro, Mahafaly, Southern Gate of the Dinosanct Confederation

The arena hummed with preparation.

Lighting rigs flickered through tests. Camera operators adjusted lenses. Production assistants shouted cues across the empty seating sections that would, in a few hours, be full.

On the floor, wrestlers went through final spacing checks.

Georgia Peach practiced her entrance turn in the far corner. Sugar Cane bounced lightly on her toes. Goldstein hit the ropes once, twice, testing tension.

Cesar and Sunny stood near the ramp, rehearsing timing in low voices.

Carly Sweeting approached with a water bottle in hand.

She tapped Sunny gently on the shoulder.

“You Genevieve?”

Sunny blinked and nodded. “Oui. Yes. Yes.”

The Rimouski accent was thick- rounded vowels, soft consonants that lingered.

Carly smiled warmly.

“I’m Carly. Cotton Candy.”

Sunny relaxed slightly. “I know.”

Carly extended a hand. Sunny shook it.

“Congratulations,” Carly said. “Main roster. That’s huge.”

Sunny smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Even masked?”

Carly shrugged lightly.

“A debut’s a debut.”

Sunny exhaled.

“I just… I did not think my first appearance would be hiding my face.”

The French cadence crept heavier when she was anxious.

Carly nodded.

“Then make the next one unforgettable.”

Sunny looked at her carefully.

“You think there will be a next one?”

Carly smiled.

“You survived the Academy. You’ll survive this.”

Sunny’s shoulders loosened a fraction.

“Merci.”

“Anytime.”

Across the floor, Vince made his rounds.

He shook hands with production crew. Clapped shoulders. Gave exaggerated encouragement.

Then he approached Boro.

“Big night,” Vince said, grin already in place.

Boro turned toward him.

“I am prepared,” he replied evenly.

Vince extended his hand.

Boro took it.

The contact lasted less than a second.

…but that was enough.

Boro’s posture shifted- almost imperceptibly.

A tightening in his jaw.

A stillness behind the eyes.

Vince leaned closer.

“Make an impact,” he said. “You’re the chaos.”

“I understand,” Boro replied.

Vince patted his arm and moved on without another thought.

Hartley had been watching from a few feet away.

He noticed the change immediately.

Boro stared toward the ramp, unmoving.

Hartley stepped beside him.

“You good?”

Boro did not answer right away.

Then:

“I do not like that man.”

Hartley almost smiled.

“You’re not the first.”

Boro’s gaze remained fixed forward.

“He carries… fracture,” Boro said slowly. “Beneath performance.”

Hartley studied him.

“That instinct of yours,” he said quietly, “keep it.”

Boro nodded once.

“This debut will proceed,” he said, “but I will observe.”

“Good,” Hartley replied.

Around them, the arena continued preparing for spectacle.

Cameras adjusted.

Music cues were tested.

The machine was ready.

…and inside it-

Some of them were listening for cracks.

Dino Café Arena, January 26, 2023

22:51 local time,
Taolagnaro, Mahafaly, Southern Gate of the Dinosanct Confederation

The show had run long.

Of course it had.

A bloated undercard. Two segments that should have been ten minutes stretched to twenty. A backstage skit Vince insisted on keeping.

Now the clock loomed.

Production assistants whispered into headsets. The broadcast window was narrowing.

Vince stood behind the curtain, agitated but smiling.

“Cut two minutes from the match,” he told Hartley. “Get to the chaos faster.”

Hartley didn’t argue.

He knew shaving two minutes off bell time wouldn’t solve the overrun.

…but he nodded anyway.

Behind the opposite curtain, Geneviève Horton stood with her phone pressed to her ear.

On screen, a dimly lit living room in Rimouski.

Her boyfriend held their one-month-old close to the camera.

The baby blinked slowly.

Geneviève’s voice softened immediately.

“Hi, mon cœur.”

Her accent thickened when she was tired.

“I miss you,” she said.

“We miss you too,” her boyfriend replied. “You’re going to be great.”

Geneviève smiled.

“It is just a mask tonight. Next time… maybe my face.”

The baby made a small sound.

Geneviève’s expression shifted — something fragile, something grounding.

“I will call after,” she said. “I promise.”

They blew each other kisses.

She ended the call.

Her shoulders straightened.

Mask on.

Professional again.

---

The arena lights dimmed.

The Total Babes’ entrance hit first- loud, polished, exaggerated confidence.

The crowd reacted hot.

The match portion was efficient. Tighter than planned.

Tags. Double teams. Quick shine.

Then-

Masked intruders.

Cesar and Sunny moved exactly as rehearsed.

Security swarmed.

Marcy fought just enough before being dragged toward the ropes.

Then Boro’s music hit.

The crowd erupted.

Home soil.

He stormed the ring unmasked, as planned.

Clearances were controlled but convincing. Bodies scattered.

For a moment, the chaos felt organic.

Then-

Goldstein’s music hit.

A louder reaction.

He charged the ring.

…and he did not half-step it.

The spear connected flush.

Canvas thundered.

Boro folded and hit the mat hard.

Too hard.

The crowd gasped.

Real gasps.

Cesar froze mid-step.

Sunny stopped at the base of the ramp.

Marcy twisted in their grip and looked back.

Goldstein rolled through and stood, playing to the hard cam.

Boro didn’t move.

Not immediately.

Hartley took one step toward the curtain.

“Move,” someone whispered in his headset.

Two seconds.

Three.

Too long.

Then-

Boro rolled slowly onto his side.

Not dramatic.

Controlled.

He slid under the bottom rope and dropped to the floor.

The crowd exhaled audibly.

Cesar and Sunny resumed their movement.

Marcy was dragged fully up the ramp.

Goldstein posed.

Music swelled.

Security flooded the ring to sell the chaos.

On camera, it looked like domination.

Behind the curtain, Hartley’s jaw was tight.

Boro stood upright at ringside, breathing steady.

He looked toward the ring once.

Assessment.

Then he walked toward the back without assistance.

Segment closed.

Time barely saved.

The crowd buzzed.

The machine rolled on.

…but in the back-

No one missed how long he had stayed down.

Libanona Beach Hotel, January 27, 2023

01:32 local time,
Taolagnaro, Mahafaly, Southern Gate of the Dinosanct Confederation

The ocean was quieter at this hour.

The balcony doors were open just enough to let the breeze move the curtains in slow waves.

Marcy lay on her back across the hotel bed, sheets twisted loosely around her legs. She had shed everything again- not out of performance, not out of defiance.

Just comfort.

Her phone was propped up against a pillow.

On screen, Bridget Carter sat in Marcy’s living room back home, lamplight warm behind her.

Bridget blinked once.

“Well,” she said.

Marcy grinned lazily.

“Hi, Mom.”

Bridget adjusted her glasses.

“You appear to be… very comfortable.”

Marcy laughed softly.

“It’s Madagascar.”

“I can see that.”

There was no scolding in Bridget’s voice. Just mild surprise.

Marcy shifted slightly on the bed.

“I feel free here,” she said. “No one stares. No one judges. It’s just… normal.”

Bridget studied her daughter’s face more than anything else.

“You look calmer.”

Marcy nodded.

“I am.”

Bridget leaned back slightly.

“I watched the show.”

Marcy winced faintly.

“Mom-”

“You were dragged out of a ring by masked people,” Bridget said flatly, “and I was supposed to what? Assume that was fine?”

“It’s just the show,” Marcy said gently. “You know that.”

“I know,” Bridget replied. “I also know sometimes the show gets out of hand.”

Marcy’s expression softened.

“I’m fine. I promise.”

Bridget paused.

“…and Boro?”

There it was.

Marcy hesitated.

Just a fraction.

She thought of the spear.

The pause.

The gasp.

She thought of Goldstein’s full-speed drive.

“He’s fine,” she said evenly. “The medic cleared him.”

Bridget watched her closely.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Marcy smiled slightly.

“He’s fine.”

It wasn’t a lie.

It just wasn’t the whole truth.

Bridget let it go.

“For now.”

A beat passed.

Marcy shifted onto her side.

“I extended my stay,” she said casually.

Bridget’s eyebrows lifted.

“For how long?”

“A few weeks. Maybe more.”

“…and Casper?”

“I was hoping you’d keep spoiling him.”

Bridget snorted lightly.

“That dog is already insufferable.”

“Mom.”

Bridget softened.

“Of course I will.”

Marcy’s face lit up.

“Can I see him?”

Bridget turned the phone.

“Casper!”

Claws clicked against hardwood.

A blur of fur launched into frame.

The screen jostled.

“Hey!” Marcy laughed, pushing herself upright. “Hi, buddy!”

Casper barked excitedly at the sound of her voice.

His tail wagged so hard Bridget had to steady him.

“Who’s that?” Bridget cooed. “Who’s that?”

Marcy’s voice went soft.

“I miss you.”

Casper barked again, tilting his head at the sound coming from the phone.

Marcy reached toward the screen instinctively.

“I’ll be home soon,” she whispered.

For a moment, the world felt small.

Just a mother.

A daughter.

A dog.

The ocean moved behind her.

The night held steady.

…and for the first time all week-

Marcy let herself just be someone’s daughter.

Not Magnolia.

Not the Babes’ leader.

Not a storyline.

Just Marcy.

Geesi Badda International Airport, January 28, 2023

05:01 local time,
Mogadishu, Sultanate of Mogadishu

The Combat Arts division did not arrive like conquerors.

They arrived like commuters.

The red-eye from Antananarivo had been commercial- Horn Airways Flight 217- and it showed.

Half the roster spilled into the terminal in matching black hoodies and mismatched exhaustion. Rolling suitcases rattled behind them. A lighting crate had been gate-checked and now sat lopsided on a baggage cart.

Cesar adjusted the strap of his carry-on.

Sunny rubbed sleep from one eye.

Sugar Cane looked at the departure board like it had personally wronged her.

Cotton Candy muttered, “I think my spine compressed two inches.”

A production assistant yawned mid-sentence.

…and Boro-

Boro walked upright, steady, almost bright.

…but not quite.

His gait was fractionally heavier than usual. He paused briefly under a ceiling vent, letting warm air brush his scales before moving again. His eyes blinked more deliberately, recalibrating to the fluorescent terminal lighting.

“I remain aligned,” he said when Cesar glanced at him.

That was not the same as rested.

Behind them, a grip complained loudly:

“IWC flies their guys business class.”

Another replied:

“Yeah, well, we get the group discount.”

A third voice added:

“…and we pay for the rental cars ourselves.”

A tired laugh.

The division rounded the corner into the main concourse.

…and there he stood.

Bronze catching first light.

Arm extended toward the sea beyond the glass walls.

The rising sun struck the statue perfectly- engineered that way- illuminating the face of Geesi Badda in gold.

Tourists paused to take photos.

A small child pointed upward.

At the base of the statue, a polished plaque gleamed:

XASAN “GEESI BADDA” WARSAME (1552–1591)
Defender of Mogadishu’s waters.
Guardian of sovereign trade.
The Storm of the Indian Ocean.
He drove back foreign fleets and secured our maritime destiny.
Mogadishu stands because he sailed.

Boro slowed.

Cesar noticed immediately.

“You okay?”

Boro read the plaque in silence.

“He did not defend all waters,” Boro said evenly.

Cesar tilted his head.

“History usually edits.”

Boro’s eyes remained on the statue.

“He raided southern convoys,” he said quietly. “Madagascar. Lizardfolk vessels. Strategic predation.”

“That’s not on the sign.”

“Pride selects memory.”

Behind them, a rumble of engines echoed faintly from the private runway beyond the terminal.

Through the glass, a sleek jet taxied toward a reserved hangar.

White. Polished. Quiet.

Goldstein noticed it first.

“Guess that’s him.”

No one needed clarification.

The jet rolled to a stop separate from the commercial gates.

A black SUV convoy waited.

Vince would not be dragging luggage through baggage claim.

He would not be waiting for a carousel.

He would not be recalibrating to fluorescent light at 5AM.

The roster resumed walking.

Boro gave the statue one last look.

The bronze hand pointed toward the sea.

Toward old currents.

Toward routes once crossed by Lizardfolk traders who had not always returned.

He adjusted his grip on his suitcase.

“I am attentive,” he said quietly.

Then he moved with the others.

Behind them, the sun rose higher.

…and somewhere beyond the glass, the man who ran the machine arrived well-rested.

The Pirate Bay Arena, January 28, 2023

15:12 local time,
Mogadishu, Sultanate of Mogadishu

The arena was already humming when Boro arrived.

Production trucks lined the back lot. Road cases rolled in and out like migrating steel animals. Crew members shouted measurements. Ring posts were being tightened.

Boro walked in alone.

Not rushed.

Not apologetic.

Rested.

That was the difference.

He had booked his hotel for two nights instead of one. He’d checked in properly, slept a full cycle, woken naturally. He had calculated that if he followed the group booking, checkout would have been at 10:00 AM and sleep truncated.

He did not yet calculate the cost accumulation.

He would.

Inside the locker room, heads turned.

Georgia Peach raised an eyebrow.

Sugar Cane glanced at the clock.

Goldstein was taping his wrists.

One of the midcarders muttered, “Nice of you to join us.”

Another chimed in, louder, “We start call time at noon here.”

Boro set his bag down carefully.

“I have arrived within functional parameters,” he said calmly.

That did not help.

Someone snorted.

“Functional parameters,” Cotton Candy repeated under her breath.

A pair of boots went missing five minutes later.

Then his towel.

Then his gear bag was relocated to the shower stall.

Nothing violent.

Nothing overt.

Just enough.

When Boro retrieved his boots from the top of a locker, a chorus of laughter rippled through the room.

“Careful,” someone called. “He might draft a treaty about it.”

Boro paused.

Stoic.

Measured breath.

He replaced the boots without comment.

…but his tail flicked once.

Sharper than usual.

Ten minutes later, someone swapped his water bottle with one filled halfway with saltwater from catering’s seafood prep sink.

He took a sip.

Stopped.

Set it down without expression.

That earned louder laughter.

Across the room, a larger presence rose from a bench.

Roman Cesar.

He hadn’t been laughing.

He hadn’t been participating.

He stood slowly, wrapped his wrist tape tighter once, then spoke in a voice that didn’t need volume.

“That enough?”

The room quieted.

One of the pranksters shrugged. “We’re just breaking him in.”

Roman stepped closer.

“He’s not in the Academy anymore. He doesn’t need breaking.”

Silence.

Another wrestler muttered, “He shows up late and-”

“He shows up ready,” Roman cut in.

That ended it.

No shouting.

No threats.

Just a shift in gravity.

The pranksters looked away first.

Boro retrieved his actual water bottle.

“I am not offended,” he said evenly.

Roman looked at him.

“I know.”

A beat.

“…but you don’t have to absorb it either.”

Boro considered that.

“I evaluate environment before response,” he replied.

Roman nodded slightly.

“Tomorrow in Axum,” he said, “you come with me.”

Boro tilted his head.

“I have arranged a separate preparation space.”

Roman’s version of a locker room.

No random traffic.

No nonsense.

No hazing.

Just chosen personnel.

“I do not tolerate… noise,” Roman said.

Boro almost smiled.

“That is efficient.”

Roman gave a small shrug.

“Rest while you can. The grind doesn’t slow down.”

Boro nodded once.

“I am aware.”

…but as he unpacked his gear again, there was a new calculation forming.

Not about pranks.

Not about ego.

About cost.

Two hotel nights instead of one.

Out of pocket.

Again tomorrow.

The machine did not adjust for physiology.

It adjusted for margin.

Boro began to understand the grind not as exhaustion-

…but as erosion.

…and erosion did not happen in one blow.

It happened in increments.

The Pirate Bay Arena, January 28, 2023

19:28 local time,
Mogadishu, Sultanate of Mogadishu

The house show crowd felt different than the War crowd.

Less spectacle.

More local pride.

More families.

More flags.

The arena lighting wasn’t television-polished, but it was warm.

Backstage, Salman al-Shehhi stood near the entrance curtain, arms folded across a broad chest that had once carried main events.

He had wrestled as The Sheik for a decade.
He had bled in American rings.
He had drawn money.

…and he had learned.

When Vince sabotaged him after that Luuq interview- because Salman had spoken openly about faith and humility instead of selling aggression- Salman had walked away.

He did not look toward Vince now.

He didn’t need to.

Ben Hartley clasped his shoulder instead.

“Good to see you.”

Salman nodded.

“My daughter is ready.”

“We’ll see,” Hartley replied honestly.

That was the point of tonight.

---

Match One: Siri al-Shehhi vs Sunny Ways

Siri’s music hit.

The reaction was immediate.

Not because of spectacle.

Because she smiled.

Because she waved.

Because she hugged the ring announcer.

Because she hugged the referee.

Because she hugged a security guard who wasn’t sure whether to react.

The crowd loved it.

Backstage, Vince watched on a monitor, expression unreadable.

“Too soft,” he muttered.

Hartley didn’t respond.

Sunny entered next- focused, intense.

This wasn’t just a match.

It was a measuring stick.

The bell rang.

Siri opened with clean grappling fundamentals. Not flashy. Solid.

She hugged Sunny before locking up.

Sunny hesitated for half a second- then shot into a takedown.

Crowd popped.

Siri sold well.

Recovered well.

Her transitions were fluid. She wasn’t naive.

Her gimmick was warmth.

Her ring work was disciplined.

Sunny brought intensity.

Fast arm drags.

Tight holds.

Crisp footwork.

Mid-match, Sunny hit a sharp German suplex.

Siri popped up smiling- not no-selling, but radiating energy.

The crowd surged.

Backstage, Vince leaned forward.

“She’s connecting,” Hartley said quietly.

Sunny eventually won clean with a submission.

They embraced after.

The crowd cheered both.

Vince didn’t clap.

…but he didn’t dismiss it either.

He was thinking.

---

Match Two: Boro vs Daniel Rayburn

This was different.

When Boro’s music hit, the reaction was thunderous.

Home-region pride spilled over into the building.

Rayburn’s entrance drew equal respect.

Technician versus specimen.

The bell rang.

Rayburn circled first.

Testing distance.

Testing balance.

Testing discipline.

Boro matched him calmly.

The first exchange was pure chain wrestling.

Arm control.

Wrist reversals.

Foot placement.

The crowd quieted- appreciating the craft.

Rayburn shot low.

Boro countered with strength but didn’t overpower.

He adjusted.

Adapted.

Rayburn smiled slightly mid-hold.

Good.

Midway through, Rayburn increased tempo.

Kick combinations.

Quick transitions.

Boro’s movements were half a fraction slower than Academy sharpness- travel grind present- but his core stability was intact.

He absorbed pressure.

Recentered.

Countered.

At one point, Rayburn trapped him in a heel hook.

Boro rolled through smoothly, shifting weight like a tidal change.

The crowd gasped at the fluidity.

Backstage, Vince narrowed his eyes.

“He can work,” Vince muttered.

“Always could,” Hartley replied.

Finish came clean.

Rayburn caught Boro with a technical cradle.

One.

Two.

Three.

No protection.

No spectacle.

Just wrestling.

Rayburn offered a hand.

Boro accepted.

They clasped forearms.

The crowd rose.

It wasn’t about winning.

It was about proving.

Backstage, Vince leaned back.

“He holds the crowd,” he said quietly.

Not praise.

Assessment.

“Let’s see how he does when it matters.”

Boro walked through the curtain breathing steady.

Not winded.

…but not fully charged either.

Roman Cesar nodded at him from across the hallway.

“Axum tomorrow.”

Boro inclined his head.

“I am prepared.”

…but as he sat to remove his boots, he noticed something subtle.

His hands took longer to steady.

His shoulders carried more weight.

The grind had begun.

…and Vince had noticed him.

Which was both opportunity- and warning.

Obelisk Square, January 29, 2023

18:48 local time,
Axum, Axum Province, Empire of Ethiopia

The Obelisk rose like a spine of stone behind the ring.

Sunset light washed the square in amber. Vendors circled the perimeter. Flags moved in a slow wind.

And off to the side, secured but not hidden, stood Roman Cesar’s “locker room.”

Tonight it was a tent.

Large. Reinforced. Canvas thick enough to mute the outside noise.

Boro approached with deliberate steps.

Inside, the atmosphere changed immediately.

No shouting.

No hazing.

No music blasting at obnoxious volume.

Just controlled conversation.

Focused preparation.

Georgia Peach was taping her wrists across from a midcarder without tension. Becky Santana adjusted gear nearby. No awkwardness. No posturing.

Men and women changed in shared space with professional indifference.

The only disruption came from TJ Stacks.

“If the Obelisk falls over during my match,” TJ declared, “I’m counting it as a win by architectural interference.”

A collective groan followed.

“That joke has layers,” Colby Carter muttered.

“Like sediment,” Jon Huxley added dryly.

Roman sat in the center, lacing boots.

He looked up as Boro entered.

“You made it.”

“I was invited,” Boro replied.

Roman stood along with Unit stablemates, Huxley and Carter.

Introductions were direct.

“Jon.”

Huxley extended a hand.

Firm grip.

No ego.

“Colby.”

Carter nodded.

“Glad you’re here.”

They didn’t overdo it.

They didn’t test him.

They evaluated him the way professionals do.

Boro felt it instantly.

The tent operated on a code.

Minimal noise.
Maximum respect.
No insecurity theater.

“This environment is optimized,” Boro observed.

Huxley smirked. “That’s one way to say it.”

Colby leaned against a gear case.

“We don’t do the pecking order circus.”

Roman added quietly:

“You work. You protect. You don’t embarrass the tent.”

Simple.

Clear.

Boro’s shoulders lowered slightly- not in weakness, but in calibration.

“This configuration is preferable,” he said.

TJ Stacks looked up.

“See? He talks like that all the time.”

Boro blinked once.

“I do.”

More groans.

The tension broke.

Georgia glanced over and nodded at Boro.

“Glad you’re here.”

It wasn’t dramatic.

…but it mattered.

Roman studied Boro more closely now.

“You good?”

Boro considered.

“Travel variables are accumulating.”

Colby tilted his head.

“You mean you’re tired?”

“I mean the machine requires constant adjustment.”

Huxley let out a low laugh.

“That’s the most polite way I’ve ever heard someone say ‘this place is nuts.’”

Roman didn’t laugh.

He was still assessing.

“You thinking about long-term?”

Boro didn’t answer immediately.

He looked out through the tent opening toward the Obelisk.

Ancient stone.

Centuries older than any promotion.

“Endurance is cultural,” Boro said finally, “but erosion is mathematical.”

Silence settled.

Huxley and Colby exchanged a look.

Not spoken.

…but clear.

He sees it.

Colby said lightly, “You ever think about running with a group?”

Roman didn’t elaborate.

Didn’t pitch.

Didn’t pressure.

Just let the idea hang.

Boro met their eyes in turn.

“I am attentive.”

That was not a no.

Roman nodded once.

“Work tonight. We’ll talk after.”

Outside, the crowd began to swell.

The Obelisk cast a long shadow.

…and inside the tent, for the first time since the grind began-

Boro felt something the main locker room did not provide.

Alignment.

…and somewhere in the back of three minds at once-

The thought formed.

He would fit.

Obelisk Square, January 29, 2023

19:26 local time,
Axum, Axum Province, Empire of Ethiopia

The Obelisk loomed behind the stage lighting like a monument to permanence.

Backstage, under canvas and portable generators, Sunny Horton sat on a folding crate with her phone angled toward her face.

Yves answered on the second ring.

The screen filled with their small apartment in Rimouski.

Louis was in Yves’ arms.

Three cats occupied the couch like they owned it.

Sunny smiled immediately- but it took effort.

“Salut,” she said softly.

Her accent thickened when she was tired…and she was very tired.

Yves studied her face.

“You look exhausted.”

“I am fine,” she replied quickly. “Just travel.”

“You’re sure?”

She nodded.

Louis made a soft noise.

Sunny leaned closer to the screen.

“Hi, mon petit.”

The baby blinked at the phone, unfocused but curious.

Behind them, one of the cats walked across the back of the couch and knocked something over.

Yves rolled his eyes.

“Your zoo misses you.”

Sunny laughed weakly.

“I miss my zoo.”

She glanced at the tent opening. The sun had nearly set. Her call time was approaching.

“You good?” Yves asked again, quieter.

Sunny straightened her shoulders.

“I am not worried.”

That wasn’t the same as “I’m not tired.”

…but it was the answer she needed to give.

They exchanged quick kisses through the screen.

She waved at Louis.

“Bonne nuit.”

The call ended.

Sunny exhaled.

Her hands trembled slightly when she lowered the phone.

---

“Hey.”

Cotton Candy’s voice was gentle, not bubbly.

Carly Sweeting stepped in, already half in gear.

“You holding up?”

Sunny nodded immediately.

“I am fine.”

Carly tilted her head.

“You’re compensating.”

Sunny blinked.

“What?”

“You’re over-tightening your shoulders,” Carly said matter-of-factly. “You do that when you’re running on fumes.”

Sunny forced a smile.

“It is just the grind.”

Carly studied her a moment longer.

They were scheduled to wrestle each other tonight.

House show.

Nothing high stakes.

…but fatigue changes timing.

Changes footwork.

Changes impact tolerance.

“I’ll adjust,” Carly said quietly.

Sunny looked at her.

“For what?”

“For you.”

Sunny swallowed pride and nodded once.

“Merci.”

---

Later- In Ring

Boro stood in the center of Obelisk Square.

The Ethiopian crowd was curious. Respectful. Waiting.

This was his first real microphone moment.

Vince had almost cut it.

Originally, the note in the run sheet had simply read:

Boro enters. Roars. Leaves.

…but Vince, mid-afternoon, had changed his mind.

“Let’s see if he can talk.”

Now a microphone was in Boro’s hand.

The wind moved faintly across the square.

The Obelisk behind him.

Thousands watching.

He inhaled.

Human speech required precision.

Cadence.

Tongue placement.

Timing.

All of which degrade when tired.

“I stand,” he began slowly, voice measured, “at the convergence of endurance and opportunity.”

The sentence landed.

…but the pacing lagged.

He searched briefly for the next word.

The silence stretched one second too long.

“I represent… alignment of discipline.”

A few murmurs.

He adjusted his grip.

“My ascent is not spectacle. It is progression.”

The crowd wasn’t hostile.

They were simply uncertain.

He pushed through.

“I will demonstrate structural superiority through applied-”

He lost the word.

Blink.

Recalibrate.

“-through applied… method.”

It wasn’t disastrous.

…but it wasn’t smooth.

Backstage, Vince frowned at the monitor.

“He’s not connecting.”

Hartley didn’t answer.

Onstage, Boro finished:

“I do not roar without purpose.”

That line landed better.

Scattered applause.

Respectful.

…but not electric.

He handed the mic back.

Exited with composure.

Behind the curtain, he knew.

He had felt the friction.

Not failure.

Misalignment.

Vince folded his arms.

“Can’t carry a segment,” he muttered.

That note went into the invisible ledger.

Fatigue.

Accent.

Species limitation.

None of that mattered to Vince.

All he saw was:

Not main event ready.

…and that calculation would matter later.

Horn Airlines Flight 252, January 30, 2023

Seven hours after takeoff,
En route to Al-Zeila al-Barid, Adali Viayet of Al-Qanadiyya, Adali Sultanate

Cabin lights were dimmed.

Most of the roster slept.

Or tried to.

Blankets up to chins. Neck pillows twisted awkwardly. The low hum of engines constant and inescapable.

Boro was awake.

He sat upright, hands resting on his thighs, eyes open but unfocused.

He should have been sleeping.

He understood that.

His body, however, refused.

Cabin temperature was neutral for humans.

For him, it was borderline cold.

He had wrapped the airline blanket around his shoulders, but it did little.

He stared at the in-flight map.

The digital arc stretched across the Atlantic and over northern Canada.

Destination: Al-Zeila al-Barid, or simply “Barid”.

He had read about it.

Hudson’s Bay.

Polar winds.

Snow accumulation.

Seasonal darkness.

In his mind, he constructed an image.

White expanses under aurora light.
Silent forests.
Still water frozen in crystalline symmetry.
Dignified solitude.

He did not imagine:

Boarded-up storefronts.
Supply chain strain.
A port city balancing on debt and international aid.
Housing shortages.
Wind that cut through bone rather than inspired poetry.

He imagined myth.

Reality would be less forgiving.

He flexed his fingers slowly.

The cabin air felt thin.

Across the aisle, a producer snored.

Two rows ahead, Goldstein slept easily.

Boro closed his eyes.

Opened them again.

Sleep would not align.

---

Several rows back, Sunny Horton stared at a screen glowing blue in the dark.

Some generic action movie played quietly in her headphones.

Explosions.

Dialogue she wasn’t really processing.

She liked the distraction.

She liked not thinking about call times.

Or travel invoices.

Or the fact that Barid was still thousands of kilometers from Rimouski.

“I forgot how big Canada is,” she muttered.

Beside her, Carly Sweeting shifted in her seat.

“You’re telling me.”

Sunny glanced over.

“You’re not sleeping?”

Carly shrugged.

“Plane sleep doesn’t count.”

Sunny gave a tired half-smile.

Carly leaned slightly toward the screen.

“What are we watching?”

“I do not know,” Sunny admitted. “There are helicopters.”

“That narrows it down.”

Carly slipped one earbud in.

They watched together.

No deep conversation.

No dramatic bonding speech.

Just shared exhaustion and flickering light.

After a minute, Carly nudged her gently.

“You okay?”

Sunny nodded.

“Yes.”

Her eyes were ringed darker than usual.

“You don’t have to power through everything,” Carly said quietly.

Sunny kept her gaze on the screen.

“I do not want to be the weak one.”

Carly didn’t laugh.

“None of us are.”

The plane hit a patch of turbulence.

The cabin shuddered.

Boro’s hand gripped the armrest instinctively.

Sunny’s shoulder bumped Carly’s.

Someone cursed softly from a few rows up.

The engines steadied.

The map ticked closer to the Arctic.

Outside, unseen in the dark, the air grew colder.

Inside, the grind moved forward.

No one announced it.

…but the shift was coming.

Heat to ice.

Myth to hardship.

…and bodies that had not fully recovered were about to be asked for more.

Abbas International Airport, January 30, 2023

02:26 local time,
Al-Zeila al-Barid, Adali Viayet of Al-Qanadiyya, Adali Sultanate

The doors slid open.

The cold did not greet Boro.

It struck him.

The air was sharp, metallic, almost granular in the way it filled his lungs. His breath crystallized instantly. The sky was black and endless. The wind did not howl- it scraped.

Abbas International Airport was not beautiful.

It was sufficient.

Concrete walls. Faded green Adali script above the entryway. Security cameras fixed at deliberate angles. A single flag snapping violently in the wind- the crescent and script of the Adali Sultanate lit by industrial floodlights.

It functioned.

That was enough.

Boro stepped forward, his boots crunching over ice that had not been properly cleared. The southern mouth of the Great Whale River lay somewhere beyond the dark horizon, though he could not see it- only the faint scent of brine in the air.

He had known warmth his entire life.

Madagascar.
Axum.
Mogadishu.

Even in the grind, there had been color.

Barid was colorless.

As his taxi failed to appear, he observed.

Past the airport’s front entrance, the city unfolded in layers:

• Low apartment blocks with peeling facades.
• Power lines sagging.
• Snow drifted into doorways.
• Men in torn coats hunched against the wind.
• Women pulling scarves tight across their faces.

…and then-

A black SUV convoy swept past.

Its tires were clean.

It turned toward the elevated roadway leading to the Zeila Meridian- glass and gold glowing in the night like something imported from another planet. The hotel’s private airstrip lights blinked red in disciplined sequence.

Warmth existed here.

It was simply selective.

Boro moved toward a mounted outdoor heater attached to the airport wall. The metal housing rattled in the wind, but it radiated enough warmth to sting his skin.

He was not alone.

A thin man sat beside the heater, wrapped in layers that were no longer layers- just fabric surrendering to time. His face was weathered and windburned, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion.

Inuit.

The man nodded once in acknowledgment.

Boro returned the nod.

Footsteps approached.

Two officers in heavy Adali winter uniforms.

They did not raise their voices.

They did not need to.

“You cannot remain here,” one said.

The man did not argue. He simply closed his eyes briefly.

Boro stepped forward.

“He may accompany me,” Boro said carefully. “I possess accommodation.”

The officers looked at him- first confused, then recognizing him.

“You are with the wrestling company,” one said.

“Yes.”

The officer’s tone did not change.

“That is inadvisable.”

“He requires warmth.”

“He requires placement,” the officer replied evenly.

They lifted the man gently but firmly.

No brutality.

No spectacle.

Just removal.

The man did not resist. He looked at Boro once as he was guided away.

Not pleading.

Just tired.

The police vehicle door shut with a hollow metallic sound.

The heater hummed.

The wind scraped.

Boro stood motionless.

In Madagascar, hardship existed- but it did not sit unattended in the snow.

In Axum, poverty did not gather beneath foreign administration.

In Mogadishu, pride and industry coexisted.

Here-

Extraction.

Order.

Selective prosperity.

His taxi finally pulled up.

The driver rolled down the window halfway.

“You coming?”

Boro hesitated only a moment before entering.

As the vehicle pulled away, he looked once more toward the Zeila Meridian.

Warmth was possible.

It was simply allocated.

Boro leaned back in the seat.

The grind had taken him across oceans.

…but this-

This was the first time he felt small.

Umiak Motor Inn, January 30, 2023

02:37 local time,
Al-Zeila al-Barid, Adali Viayet of Al-Qanadiyya, Adali Sultanate

The Umiak Motor Inn did not try to impress anyone.

Two stories. Faded siding. Snow piled against the foundation. A flickering blue sign shaped like a small boat.

Across the street, illuminated by floodlights, stood the mosque.

White dome.
Green trim.
A narrow minaret reinforced with steel bands to survive Arctic wind.

It did not belong to the tundra, but it stood there anyway.

Boro pushed through the lobby door.

A bell chimed weakly.

Behind the counter sat an Inuit man in his late fifties, heavy sweater, reading glasses low on his nose. On the desk in front of him, a tablet propped up on a stand showed a young man’s face- warmer skin tone, Harar sunlight behind him.

“Yes, yes, eat,” the owner was saying gently. “Study. Do not forget your language.”

The young man laughed and responded in rapid speech Boro did not understand.

The owner noticed Boro and held up a finger apologetically.

“One moment.”

Boro nodded and stepped back.

The owner finished the call.

“My son,” he explained, pride softening his tired face. “Scholarship. Harar University.”

“That is commendable,” Boro replied carefully.

The owner nodded.

“Adal pays for bright ones,” he said. “They are good at that.”

A pause.

“They are less good at roads.”

He gestured vaguely toward the street outside.

Boro followed the gesture. The asphalt was cracked, uneven beneath the snow.

“I require lodging for four nights,” Boro said.

The owner tapped at the keyboard.

“Wrestling company?”

“Yes.”

“Big night this week.”

Boro slid his credit card across the counter.

The machine beeped.

Then beeped again.

Declined.

The owner tried once more.

Declined.

Boro felt something settle in his chest.

So this is how it works.

He remembered the Academy clause- a one-time main roster bonus.

He pulled out his debit card instead.

This one went through.

The owner handed him the key.

“Room 14. Heater works. Mostly.”

---

The hallway smelled faintly of cleaning solution and dry air.

Room 14 was clean.

Functional.

Two thin blankets. A radiator beneath the window. Curtains that did little against the draft creeping in around the frame.

Boro removed his coat slowly.

The cold in Barid did not simply surround you.

It lingered.

He turned the thermostat as high as it would go.

The radiator rattled.

Warmth trickled out, hesitant.

After ten minutes, the room remained cool.

Not unbearable.

Just not secure.

He returned to the front desk.

“The room retains cold,” Boro said evenly.

The owner sighed.

“Insulation old. Supply costs high. Power not cheap here.”

He studied Boro a moment.

“You want extra blankets?”

“If available.”

“They cost.”

A beat.

Then the owner reached under the counter and pulled out two heavy wool blankets.

“First night free,” he said. “You look like you not ready for this place yet.”

Boro accepted them.

“I am adapting,” he replied.

The owner smiled faintly.

“Everybody says that first week.”

Boro returned to his room.

Across the street, the mosque’s lights glowed against the snow.

Inside, the radiator hummed weakly.

He wrapped himself in the extra wool and lay back.

The main roster bonus would not last long if this continued.

For the first time since his call-up, excitement gave way to calculation.

The grind was not only physical.

It was arithmetic.

Outside, the wind scraped along the siding of the Umiak Motor Inn.

Boro closed his eyes.

Sleep did not come quickly.

Warsame Memorial Arena, January 31, 2023

13:05 local time,
Al-Zeila al-Barid, Adali Viayet of Al-Qanadiyya, Adali Sultanate

Warsame Memorial Arena looked exactly how Boro expected.

Concrete exterior. Wind-scoured banners. Loading dock doors that groaned when they opened. The inside was warmer than outside, but not by much. The lighting hummed faintly.

Functional.

Good enough.

He had not eaten since Axum.

He told himself that was discipline.

In truth, it was arithmetic.

He began warming up in the ring. Collar-and-elbow drills with a trainee. Footwork. Rope runs.

His legs felt heavy.

His timing was half a beat late.

Producer Michael Hickenlooper stood at ringside, arms folded, watching quietly.

After a few minutes, he climbed onto the apron.

“Hold up,” he said.

Boro stopped.

“You eat?”

“I am sufficient,” Boro replied.

Hickenlooper stared at him.

“That wasn’t the question.”

Silence.

Boro held his posture.

Hickenlooper reached into his jacket, pulled out folded bills, and pressed them into Boro’s hand.

“You don’t train on fumes,” he said. “You don’t perform on pride. Go eat.”

“I cannot accept-”

“You can,” Hickenlooper cut in, “and you will. I’m not running drills with a guy who’s about to pass out.”

Boro hesitated.

Hickenlooper’s expression didn’t change.

“Go.”

---

The concession stand was half open for staff. Steam rose from metal trays.

Boro ordered more than he intended to. Protein. Rice. Bread. Something hot.

He carried the tray down the hallway.

Roman Cesar noticed immediately.

“Now that,” Roman said, “is a plate.”

Boro paused.

Roman gestured toward a folding picnic table wedged between production crates and a catering cart. Colby Carter sat there scrolling his phone. Jon Huxley leaned back in a chair, boots on another chair, grinning lazily.

“Sit,” Roman said.

Boro did.

He began eating without ceremony.

Roman watched him for a moment.

“Credit card bounce?” Roman asked casually.

Boro stopped chewing.

“How did you ascertain that?”

Roman smirked faintly. “You skipped breakfast. You skipped lunch. You’re eating like you’re refueling a generator…and you’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The ‘I thought this would feel different’ look.”

Boro lowered his fork.

“My card was declined at the hotel,” he admitted. “I transitioned to debit. It is… unsettling.”

Colby snorted. “Welcome to the show.”

Boro frowned. “I am employed by the most prominent wrestling organization in existence. Yet I calculate the cost of blankets.”

Jon leaned forward. “Because you’re a contractor, brother. You pay to breathe.”

Roman nodded.

“Vince calls it paying your dues,” Roman said evenly.

A pause.

“The truth?” he added. “He just hates paying for things.”

Colby laughed quietly.

Boro considered this.

“In the Academy,” he said slowly, “my needs were structured.”

Roman nodded. “Main roster’s a different animal.”

He leaned forward.

“Room with us,” Roman said.

Boro blinked. “That is unnecessary.”

“It’s not charity,” Roman replied. “It’s math. Four guys split a suite, everyone saves. I make the most. I’ll cover overflow.”

“I do not wish to impose.”

Roman’s tone shifted slightly.

“Don’t let pride cost you money,” he said. “That’s rookie mistake number one.”

Jon grinned. “Plus, you get to experience my snoring. It’s like a freight train mating with a bear.”

Colby added, “You’ll learn to sleep through it. Or you’ll suffocate him with a pillow.”

Boro stared at them.

Then, unexpectedly, he let out a quiet huff of amusement.

“I accept,” he said.

Roman nodded once.

“Good.”

Boro resumed eating.

The food felt warmer now.

Outside, Barid remained cold, industrial, impersonal.

Inside the hallway, between crates and cables, something else existed.

Not luxury.

Not glamour.

Just fraternity.

…and for the first time since landing in the Arctic, Boro felt slightly less alone.

Portlands, January 31, 2023

14:18 local time,
Al-Zeila al-Barid, Adali Viayet of Al-Qanadiyya, Adali Sultanate

The wind came off the bay in sheets.

Not gusts. Sheets.

The Portlands were all steel, cranes, frozen containers, and hard angles. Snow collected in corners like it had been pushed there on purpose. The gray sky pressed low over everything.

A production assistant wrapped in three layers shouted over the wind.

“Roll it!”

Cesar Luis stood in front of a white cargo van, hood up, face partially obscured. Beside him, Sunny Ways- Geneviève Horton- pulled her hoodie tight around her face, breath visible with every word.

Two other hooded figures- Academy callups- stood opposite them.

The van door creaked open.

One of the hooded figures leaned in, peered inside, and nodded slowly.

“Good,” he said.

The other extended a gloved hand to Cesar.

A handshake.

Then to Sunny.

Another handshake.

“Everything stays contained,” Cesar said, voice low.

Sunny added, “We keep her secure.”

The line hung in the air.

The camera framed the empty darkness inside the van carefully.

No Magnolia.

No body.

Just suggestion.

In the distance- beyond the dock equipment- William Goldstein stood alone.

Arms crossed.
Coat collar up.
Watching.

Too far away to intervene.

Close enough to witness.

“Cut!” the director yelled.

The van door slammed shut.

Immediately, everyone moved toward a portable industrial heater humming beside a stack of cargo pallets.

Hoods came down.

Sunny’s cheeks were red from the cold.

Cesar rubbed his hands together hard.

“Next time,” Sunny muttered in French under her breath, “I want indoors.”

One of the Academy callups laughed. “Welcome to TV.”

Goldstein approached slowly.

“Good energy,” he said flatly.

Cesar looked at him carefully. “We’re still ghosts.”

Goldstein shrugged. “Mystery builds heat.”

Sunny exhaled, watching her breath fog.

“It also builds frostbite.”

Cesar gave her a sideways look.

“Two spots in two weeks,” he said quietly. “That’s not nothing.”

Sunny nodded.

“…but I’d like people to know it’s me,” she said. “Not just a hoodie.”

One of the callups clapped Cesar on the shoulder.

“You’ll get your reveal.”

Cesar glanced toward the van.

“When?”

Goldstein didn’t answer.

He just watched the crew reset the shot, eyes distant, calculating.

The wind kicked up again, rattling the metal siding of a nearby warehouse.

Sunny stepped closer to the heater.

Her hands trembled slightly- from cold or fatigue, it was hard to tell.

Cesar leaned toward her.

“Still worth it?” he asked quietly.

She didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

A beat.

“…but I want it to be worth more.”

Goldstein turned away before anyone noticed the small flicker of something in his expression.

The machine kept moving.

Even in the cold.

Warsame Memorial Arena, January 31, 2023

17:03 local time,
Al-Zeila al-Barid, Adali Viayet of Al-Qanadiyya, Adali Sultanate

A folding table.
Three steel chairs.
Script pages stapled in the corner.

Roman Cesar stood at the head of the table, jacket draped over the chair behind him. El Macho Bravo leaned back, boots crossed on a crate. Boro sat upright, hands resting on his knees.

Michael Hickenlooper stood across from them, arms folded, script in hand.

“Okay,” Hickenlooper said calmly. “Cartel opens the segment. Roman cuts the first two beats. Bravo reinforces. Boro stays visual.”

Bravo snorted faintly.

“‘Stays visual.’”

Hickenlooper ignored it.

Roman skimmed ahead.

Boro read his own portion carefully.

Then he stopped.

His jaw tightened.

There, in bold:

BRAVO holds leash attached to BORO’s collar. BORO roars.

Nothing else.

Boro looked up slowly.

“This is the entirety of my verbal contribution?”

Hickenlooper didn’t sugarcoat it.

“For now.”

Boro’s voice was steady, but colder than before.

“I am not livestock.”

Bravo glanced sideways at him.

“Yeah,” Bravo muttered, “and I’m not thrilled about being the guy holding the rope.”

Boro turned the page.

Further down:

GOLDSTEIN storms ring. Spears BRAVO. Spears BORO. Spears ROMAN.

Boro’s eyes narrowed.

“I will not engage in further reckless impact with him,” he said flatly.

No one answered immediately.

Roman leaned back slowly.

“That’s the spot,” he said.

“I am aware of the spot,” Boro replied. “I am not assured of its safety.”

Hickenlooper met his gaze.

“It’ll be controlled.”

“Controlled,” Boro repeated, without warmth.

Bravo exhaled. “You’re not wrong.”

Roman’s expression hardened slightly, but not at Boro.

At the paper.

He flipped back up to his own lines.

His brow furrowed.

He read it once.

Then again.

Then he looked up at Hickenlooper.

“I’m not saying this.”

Hickenlooper glanced down.

“What part?”

Roman tapped the line.

ROMAN: “I don’t know where your girlfriend is.”

“That,” Roman said.

“It’s heat,” Hickenlooper replied.

“It’s cheap,” Roman corrected.

A beat.

“I don’t need to joke about a woman being kidnapped to get heat.”

Hickenlooper studied him.

“You’re the boss character,” he said evenly. “You don’t get rattled.”

Roman’s tone didn’t rise.

“I don’t get petty either.”

Silence.

Bravo shifted in his chair.

“Honestly,” he said, “it makes us look stupid. If we ‘run the company,’ why would we even entertain that?”

Boro spoke carefully.

“In my estimation, the phrasing trivializes coercion.”

Hickenlooper let out a slow breath.

“Okay,” he said. “What do you want instead?”

Roman didn’t hesitate.

“I want him to think I don’t care,” Roman said. “Not that I’m mocking it.”

He thought for a moment.

Then:

“‘If she matters that much to you, go find her.’”

No smirk.
No wink.
No sleaze.

Just cold dominance.

Hickenlooper nodded slowly.

“That’s better.”

He made the change.

Boro’s eyes drifted back to the leash note.

“I will not wear a collar,” he said calmly.

Bravo nodded immediately. “Fair.”

Hickenlooper considered.

“It’s visual storytelling,” he said.

“It is degradation,” Boro replied.

Roman stepped in quietly.

“We don’t need the leash,” Roman said. “He stands with us because he chooses to.”

Another pause.

Hickenlooper looked at all three.

Then he scratched out the leash note.

“Fine. No collar.”

Boro relaxed slightly.

Then he glanced back at the spear spot.

“…and him?” he asked.

Hickenlooper didn’t have an easy answer.

“That’s still the finish beat.”

Roman met Boro’s eyes.

“If he gets sloppy,” Roman said evenly, “he answers to me.”

Boro held his gaze for a moment.

Then nodded once.

Agreement.
Not comfort.

Hickenlooper clapped the script closed.

“Run it once without the leash,” he said.

They stood.

The machine was moving again.

…but this time, Boro had drawn a line.

…and Roman had backed it.

Eventually, they moved the run through to the ring.

The ring lights were only half on.

Crew moved around quietly. Camera operators adjusted angles. The building still felt cold despite the heating units humming at the corners.

Roman stood center ring.

Bravo at his right.

Boro at his left.

No leash.

No collar.

Michael Hickenlooper stood near the ramp, script folded in his hand.

“From Roman’s first line,” he called.

Roman delivered it clean.

Controlled.
Measured.
Dominant.

Bravo reinforced.

Boro stood still- not animalistic, not slouched- just present. Watching.

They hit the adjusted line.

“If she matters that much to you,” Roman said evenly toward the imaginary Goldstein, “go find her.”

It landed.

Cold.
Unbothered.
Powerful.

“Good,” Hickenlooper nodded.

A slow clap echoed from the entrance.

Everyone turned.

Vince stood at the top of the ramp.

Smile gone.

Hands clasped behind his back.

He walked down slowly.

“What,” he said softly, “was that?”

Hickenlooper answered first.

“Adjustment.”

“You don’t adjust my script,” Vince replied.

The temperature in the building seemed to drop.

Roman didn’t look away.

“We improved it,” he said calmly.

Vince stepped up onto the apron.

“You improved nothing,” he snapped. “You weakened it.”

He looked at Boro.

“…and where’s the collar?”

Boro held his ground.

“It was removed.”

Vince turned to Hickenlooper.

“You do not have the authority to change my story.”

Hickenlooper didn’t flinch.

“They’re not comfortable with it.”

Vince’s head tilted.

“Comfortable?”

He laughed once.

“This isn’t comfort arts.”

Bravo shifted slightly but stayed quiet.

Roman stepped forward.

“The changes stay.”

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just final.

Vince slowly climbed into the ring.

He stood nose-to-nose with Roman.

“You work for me.”

Roman didn’t blink.

“…and I make you money.”

Silence.

Crew members pretended not to watch.

Vince’s jaw tightened.

“The leash tells the audience what he is,” Vince said, gesturing toward Boro.

Roman’s voice dropped half a degree.

“He’s not a dog.”

Vince ignored that.

“…and the girlfriend line gets heat.”

“It gets cheap heat,” Roman replied.

Another beat.

Vince scanned the three of them.

Bravo.
Boro.
Roman.

The Cartel.

The faction that was moving merch.
Selling tickets.
Driving ratings.

He knew the numbers.

He hated knowing the numbers.

“You think you can dictate creative?” Vince asked.

Roman didn’t posture.

“I think you need us.”

The air was thick.

For a moment, it felt like Vince might blow.

Then-

He smiled.

Not warmly.

Calculating.

“Fine,” he said lightly. “Keep your little tweaks.”

He stepped back toward the ropes.

“…but don’t forget who signs the checks.”

Roman didn’t answer.

Vince stepped through the ropes, dropped to the floor, and walked up the ramp.

Once he disappeared behind the curtain, the arena exhaled.

Bravo muttered under his breath.

“Fun boss.”

Hickenlooper looked at Roman.

“That bought you tonight.”

Roman nodded once.

“That’s all we need.”

Boro spoke quietly.

“In my observation… he concedes strategically.”

Roman glanced at him.

“Yeah,” he said. “He always does.”

They reset for another run-through.

…but something had shifted.

The leash was gone.

…and it wasn’t coming back.

Warsame Memorial Arena, Vince’s Office, January 31, 2023

19:31 local time,
Al-Zeila al-Barid, Adali Viayet of Al-Qanadiyya, Adali Sultanate

The office was temporary.

A folding desk.
Two metal chairs.
A portable heater rattling in the corner.
A framed WFE logo propped against a crate as if legitimacy could be unpacked and reassembled in any city.

Vince stood by the window, looking out at the snow-swept parking lot.

Aiden McGeady sat across from the desk, hands folded, posture attentive.

“They think they have leverage,” Vince said softly.

Aiden didn’t interrupt.

“They stand in my ring,” Vince continued, “rewrite my script, and tell me what stays.”

His jaw flexed once.

“They forget who built this.”

Aiden nodded slowly.

“Roman’s strong right now,” he said carefully. “The Cartel moves numbers.”

Vince turned.

“Strong?” he echoed. “Strong is temporary.”

He walked back to the desk and rested his palms on it.

“He thinks I need him,” Vince said. “He thinks that gives him authority.”

Aiden leaned forward slightly.

“You want me to handle it?”

There was no malice in his voice.

Just willingness.

Vince looked at him for a long moment.

Then he smiled faintly.

“No.”

Aiden raised an eyebrow.

“You don’t fight power head-on,” Vince said quietly. “You let it believe it’s secure.”

He moved to the heater, adjusted it absentmindedly.

“You wait.”

Aiden listened carefully.

“…and when the perfect act comes along,” Vince continued, “something fresh, something hungry, something the audience hasn’t exhausted…”

His smile widened just slightly.

“You pull the trigger.”

Aiden nodded.

“…and The Cartel?”

Vince’s eyes sharpened.

“They’ll never see it coming.”

Silence settled in the room.

Outside, wind pushed snow against the window.

Aiden stood.

“I’ll keep an eye on things.”

Vince waved him off casually.

“Do that.”

Aiden exited.

Vince remained.

He looked down at the printed script on his desk.

The crossed-out leash.
The revised line.

He smoothed the paper flat.

“They think they won,” he murmured.

Then he chuckled softly.

“They always think that.”

The heater hummed.

The snow kept falling.

…and Vince waited.

Warsame Memorial Arena, February 2, 2023

19:53 local time,
Al-Zeila al-Barid, Adali Viayet of Al-Qanadiyya, Adali Sultanate

The arena lights were hotter tonight.

The crowd in Barid was louder than expected- a mix of Arctic locals, Adali administrators, imported workers, curious families.

Backstage, Vince stood in front of a bank of monitors.

Headset on.
Arms crossed.
Still.

The Roman / Boro / Bravo segment played out cleanly.

Roman controlled.
Bravo intense.
Boro dignified.
Goldstein storming in exactly on cue.

The spear looked vicious.
Safe.
Convincing.

Vince gave a short nod.

“Good,” he muttered.

The vignette rolled next.

Portlands.
The van.
The handshakes.

Masked.
Layered.
Mystery intact.

Sunny reached out to shake hands with the other hooded figure.

A quick motion.

A lift of fabric.

Just for half a second-

The bottom curve of a heart tattoo around her navel.

Gone as fast as it appeared.

…but not gone.

Vince leaned forward.

“Stop,” he said sharply.

The replay froze.

An assistant rewound three seconds.

There.

Frame by frame.

The hoodie hem lifting.
The tattoo peeking.

Tiny.

Subtle.

Visible.

Vince’s jaw clenched.

“They’ll screen-grab that,” he said quietly.

No one answered.

“They’ll zoom it,” he continued. “They’ll post it before the show ends.”

An assistant tried carefully:

“It’s minor. Casual viewers won’t notice.”

Vince turned slowly.

“I don’t care about casual viewers.”

He pointed at the screen.

“That’s control. That’s sloppiness.”

“It doesn’t ruin the segment,” another assistant offered.

Vince didn’t even look at him.

“Get me the producer who shot this.”

Moments later, the vignette producer stepped into the cramped production room. Young. Nervous.

“You wanted me, sir?”

Vince didn’t raise his voice.

“You shot this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You saw this?”

The producer leaned in, confused.

“I- I didn’t notice-”

“That’s the problem,” Vince said.

Silence.

“It’s a layered reveal. It’s protected mystery…and you let it slip.”

“It’s barely visible-”

Vince cut him off.

“You’re done.”

The room froze.

“Sir-?”

“Collect your things. You’re finished.”

The producer looked toward Hickenlooper, who stood in the back of the room, expression unreadable.

No one intervened.

Security was called.

The producer left.

Vince returned his eyes to the monitor as if nothing had happened.

The show rolled on.

In the ring, Roman stood tall.
Boro held his ground.
Goldstein stalked.

…and somewhere online, someone had already clipped the frame.

Umiak Motor Inn, February 3, 2023

01:02 local time,
Al-Zeila al-Barid, Adali Viayet of Al-Qanadiyya, Adali Sultanate

The radiator rattled in uneven bursts.

Outside, wind pressed against the siding of the Umiak Motor Inn like a persistent hand.

Sunny sat cross-legged on the edge of her bed in her room alongside Carly Sweeting, phone propped up against a travel bag.

The group room was warmer than Boro’s single had been. Two sets of boots by the door. Gear bags stacked along the wall. Someone’s protein powder spilled slightly on the desk.

On her screen, Yves Laroche leaned back in a kitchen chair in Rimouski. A lamp cast warm yellow light behind him. Snow visible through their window too- but softer, familiar.

“You saw it?” Sunny asked, unable to stop smiling.

“I saw everything,” Yves replied. “The internet detectives are at war.”

She laughed.

“They zoomed it.”

“They enhanced it,” he said dramatically. “They circled it in red.”

On her screen, one of their cats leapt onto the table and knocked over a pair of glasses.

“Ah- hey! Non!” Yves reached out to catch them too late.

Sunny burst into laughter.

“Still chaos over there?”

“Always,” Yves said, retrieving the glasses. “Louis is asleep. Cats are criminals.”

Sunny’s face softened at the mention of their son.

“I wish I was there,” she said quietly.

Yves’s expression gentled.

“You’re building something,” he said. “We’re here. You’re there. It’s temporary.”

She nodded.

“Someone screenshot it,” she said, returning to the topic, excitement creeping back in. “They posted side-by-side comparisons with my Instagram.”

“…and?”

“Half of them think it’s me,” she said proudly. “Half of them think it’s someone else.”

Yves grinned.

“That means it worked.”

She leaned closer to the camera.

“At least they know I exist,” she said.

The radiator kicked again.

Carly lay sprawled across the other bed, scrolling through her phone.

“Someone just zoomed it to 400%,” Carly muttered, not looking up. “You’re trending in three time zones.”

Sunny laughed and told Yves.

Sunny looked around the small suite.

It wasn’t glamorous.

It wasn’t Harar.
It wasn’t Mogadishu.
It wasn’t even home.

…but it was movement.

“I don’t want to be a hoodie forever,” she said softly.

“You won’t be,” Yves replied. “You’ve got a heart tattoo for a reason.”

She touched the faint outline beneath her shirt.

“It’s mine,” she said. “They can’t hide that.”

Yves smiled.

“You looked good out there.”

Sunny’s smile turned shy, just for a moment.

“Even freezing?”

“Especially freezing.”

Another cat leapt into frame.

Sunny laughed again.

“I should sleep,” she said reluctantly.

“You should,” Yves agreed. “Call tomorrow?”

“Always.”

They blew each other a kiss.

The screen went dark.

Sunny sat still for a moment, listening to the wind outside and the quiet murmur of her coworkers in the other room.

Vince had fired someone over half a second of fabric.

The internet couldn’t agree on what they saw.

…and somehow, that was enough.

She lay back on the bed, still smiling.

The wind hadn’t died.

It had simply shifted direction.

Sunny got up and stood in the small motel room holding her phone, reading another comment thread.

“They’re still arguing,” she said.

Carly Sweeting looked up from her bed.

“Of course they are. Wrestling fans will debate a shadow for three days.”

Sunny smirked.

“They zoomed my stomach.”

Carly burst out laughing. “Of course they did.”

Sunny looked toward the window. Snow blew sideways across the parking lot. The mosque across the street glowed faintly under floodlights.

“I have an idea,” Sunny said.

Carly narrowed her eyes. “Why do I hear danger in that sentence?”

Ten minutes later-

The outside porch lights of the Umiak Motor Inn clicked on.

The cold hit like a wall.

Sunny stepped out onto the snow-dusted walkway in a bright red bikini, boots planted firmly on the frozen concrete.

Her breath fogged instantly.

She struck a playful pose- hands on hips, chin up, exaggerated confidence.

“Quick!” she hissed through chattering teeth.

Carly stood in the doorway in sweatpants and a parka, phone raised.

“Oh my god, you’re insane,” Carly laughed.

Snap.

Another pose.

Snap.

Sunny lifted her arms briefly in mock triumph.

“Polar bear swim!” she declared dramatically.

The wind cut through her.

“That’s enough,” Carly said. “You get five seconds.”

Sunny didn’t argue.

She darted back inside immediately, slamming the door shut behind her.

They both dissolved into laughter.

“Never again,” Sunny said, wrapping herself in a blanket.

“You were out there for like… four seconds.”

“That’s four seconds of commitment.”

Carly handed her the phone.

The photo was perfect:

Snow whipping sideways.
Mosque dome faintly visible in the background.
Porch light glowing.
Sunny grinning defiantly at the Arctic.

Sunny typed the caption:

“Polar bear swim in Barid? Maybe. 🐻‍❄️❄️”

Post.

Within minutes:

Notifications exploded.

Carly watched over her shoulder.

“Oh, they’re definitely comparing the bellybutton.”

Sunny grinned.

“Let them.”

The comments rolled in:

-“That’s the same tattoo!”
-“It’s not her, the hoodie girl was taller.”
-“Look at the heart curve!”
-“You’re reaching.”

Debate.

Fuel.

Engagement.

Sunny leaned back against the wall, wrapped in a blanket, cheeks still pink from the cold.

“They can’t ignore me now,” she said quietly.

Carly nodded.

“You just turned Vince’s nightmare into marketing.”

Sunny’s smile sharpened slightly.

The wind rattled the motel siding.

Somewhere across town, Vince was probably reviewing production notes.

…and somewhere online, fans were zooming pixels.

Sunny tucked her phone under her pillow.

Mystery intact.

…but now-

Intentional.

Churchill International Airport, February 5, 2023

12:26 local time,
Churchill, Republic of Churchill

The plane did not land.

It fought its way down.

Wind buffeted the small aircraft in uneven bursts. The descent felt like negotiation rather than arrival. When the wheels finally struck the runway, the jolt rippled through the cabin.

No applause.

Just relief.

Churchill International Airport was smaller than Barid’s.

Older.

The building looked like it had been expanded in pieces over decades- a new metal siding here, a patched roof there. The Republic’s flag flapped in a tired rhythm over the entrance.

Inside, heating struggled but existed.

Outside-

White.

Not the industrial gray of Barid.

Not the brutal concrete and cranes.

Just open tundra and a sky that felt larger than the city beneath it.

Boro stepped onto the tarmac stair and felt the cold bite differently here.

Barid’s cold had been administrative.

Churchill’s cold was indifferent.

His suitcase wheels protested against the uneven pavement as he walked toward the bus stop just outside the airport entrance.

Sunny Ways was already there, bundled tightly, hood up, scarf wrapped high across her face.

“You made it,” she said through fogged breath.

“After significant turbulence,” Boro replied.

She laughed weakly.

“The bus is supposed to come every fifteen minutes.”

“How long have you been waiting?”

“Fifty.”

Boro glanced at the timetable nailed crookedly to a wooden post.

The numbers were faded.

A handwritten note taped beside it read:

“Service delays due to maintenance.”

No further explanation.

Cars passed occasionally.

Pickup trucks mostly.

A snowplow crawled by, moving slower than the wind.

Churchill was poorer than Barid.

That much was obvious.

Fewer cranes.
No colonial grandeur.
No polished hotel glowing above the skyline.

Just:

Low buildings.
Salt-streaked windows.
Utilities exposed.
People walking with purpose, not comfort.

…and yet-

There were murals on a nearby wall.
Bright paint against snow.
Community events advertised on a bulletin board.
A handwritten sign for a church fundraiser.

It wasn’t extraction.

It was survival.

Sunny stamped her boots against the cold.

“If we’re lucky,” she said, “we get to do this again in Rankin Inlet.”

Boro tilted his head.

“Optimism?”

“Resignation,” she corrected.

A car horn cut through the wind.

They both turned.

A black SUV idled at the curb.

Goldstein leaned out the driver’s window.

“You two waiting for public transit?” he called.

Sunny hesitated.

Boro did not move immediately.

Goldstein smirked slightly.

“Get in. I’m heading to the hotel.”

Boro exchanged a glance with Sunny.

The bus sign rattled in the wind.

They approached the vehicle.

Goldstein popped the trunk without leaving the driver’s seat.

“Skeleton crew up here,” he said as they climbed in. “The stars are in Borealis Bay.”

Sunny buckled her seatbelt.

“Good to know what we are,” she muttered.

Goldstein heard it.

“House show road builds character,” he replied evenly.

Boro looked out the window as the SUV pulled away from the airport.

Churchill passed slowly:

• Weather-beaten houses.
• Satellite dishes angled toward distant signals.
• Children walking home from school in heavy boots.
• A grocery store with half its letters missing.
• A polar bear rummaging through a dump site behind a makeshift fence.

No gleaming colonial district.

No Zeila Meridian.

Just people.

Boro spoke quietly.

“This place does not appear governed by excess.”

Goldstein kept his eyes on the road.

“No,” he said. “It’s governed by margins.”

Sunny watched the horizon flatten into endless snow.

“If the stars align,” she murmured, “we’ll be somewhere warmer soon.”

Boro considered that.

For the first time since leaving Africa, warmth felt less like a location- and more like a memory.

The SUV disappeared down the road toward the hotel that counted as “good” in Churchill.

Behind them, the bus stop remained empty.

The wind did not care.

Churchill Memorial Arena, February 5, 2023

15:53 local time,
Churchill, Republic of Churchill

The arena did not pretend to be more than it was.

Concrete patched in different shades.
Metal siding bent in places where wind had tested it too often.
A sign above the entrance missing two letters.

CHUR HILL MEMORIAL ARENA.

Boro stepped out of the SUV and immediately understood the difference between “underfunded” and “extractive.”

Barid had been neglected strategically.

Churchill felt worn down honestly.

Sunny zipped her coat tighter.

“Okay,” she said softly. “This is… humble.”

Goldstein shut the SUV door.

“House show special,” he said.

They walked toward the side entrance.

Near the loading dock, a wrestler from the undercard leaned against a crate, peeling a banana.

He finished it lazily and tossed the peel toward a snowbank.

A security guard- heavy parka, red scarf wrapped tight- barked immediately.

“Hey! Pick that up!”

The wrestler rolled his eyes. “It’s biodegradable.”

“It’s edible,” the guard shot back. “You want a bear sniffing around the dock?”

Grumbling, the wrestler retrieved the peel.

Boro paused.

“You are serious?” he asked the guard.

The guard looked at him like he’d asked if snow was cold.

“Dead serious.”

As if summoned by the word, movement caught Boro’s eye.

Beyond the torn chain-link fence that circled the back perimeter- sagging in places, reinforced with mismatched metal panels- a white shape moved slowly along the edge of a waste container.

Large.

Unhurried.

A polar bear.

It lowered its head and nudged at a heap of tied trash bags stacked behind a makeshift barrier of plywood and snow fencing.

Sunny’s eyes widened.

“Oh by Jove,” she whispered. “It’s huge.”

She instinctively took a step forward.

“I want to pet it.”

Goldstein didn’t look away from the bear.

“That’s not a good idea.”

Sunny laughed nervously. “I know. I’m kidding.”

The bear pawed at the garbage, tearing through a bag. Something metallic clattered against the frozen ground.

The security guard with the airhorn walked slowly along the perimeter, boots crunching. He didn’t rush. Didn’t panic.

He lifted the horn.

BLAAAAT.

The sound cut through the air.

The bear paused.

Looked up.

Regarded them.

Then, with visible disinterest, turned and lumbered away toward the open tundra.

No drama.

No chase.

Just quiet dominance.

Boro watched until the white shape faded into the snow.

“In my homeland,” he said slowly, “danger announces itself.”

Goldstein glanced at him.

“Up here,” he replied, “it doesn’t have to.”

Sunny wrapped her arms around herself.

“Do they just… wander through town?”

“Sometimes,” the guard answered. “You keep food locked up. You keep lights on. You don’t act stupid.”

Boro looked at the fence again.

Sections bowed outward.
One corner reinforced with rope.
Floodlights mounted high above- some flickering, some dead entirely.

Functional.

Barely.

The guard tapped the airhorn against his palm.

“Welcome to Churchill,” he said.

Inside, the arena heaters struggled to push back the cold creeping through the walls.

Outside, the tundra waited.

…and somewhere beyond the fence line, the bear did not care about house show cards or main roster bonuses.

It was simply hungry.

Eventually, the wrestlers went through their practice runs.

The ring ropes creaked when they were hit too hard.

Not dramatically- just enough to remind you they weren’t new.

Sugar Cane and Cotton Candy stood opposite two Academy hopefuls. No crowd yet. Just producers, a skeleton crew, and a handful of local staff bundled in winter coats even indoors.

Ben Hartley stood near the hard camera position, tablet in hand.

“Walk it at seventy percent,” he called. “No impact.”

The segment was simple.

Tag exchange.
Heat.
Set-up.

Then-

On cue, Boro would storm out.

He took his position by the curtain.

Sunny and Cesar waited near the side entrance, hoodies up again for continuity.

Goldstein leaned against a production crate, arms folded.

Hartley gave the nod.

They ran it.

Sugar Cane hit the ropes.
Cotton Candy sold the double-team spot.

Then-

Boro emerged.

Not sprinting.
Not frantic.

Measured steps.

He climbed onto the apron and let out a controlled roar- not animalistic, not cartoonish- but loud enough to carry.

Sugar Cane turned toward him instinctively.

Cotton Candy called the next spot.

Sunny and Cesar slid into the ring and grabbed Cotton Candy under the arms.

They moved toward the ropes.

Clean.
Planned.
Safe.

Then Goldstein stepped in.

Not rushed.

He squared up with Cesar first.

Hartley watched the spacing carefully.

“Easy,” he called.

Goldstein delivered a controlled spear at half speed.

Cesar took the bump clean.

Sunny barely had time to register before Goldstein turned and caught her mid-step with another measured takedown.

Both landed flat.

No excess.

No sloppiness.

Good form.

Hartley nodded slightly.

“Again from Boro’s entrance-”

BLAAAAT.

The air horn cut through the arena.

Everything stopped.

No one needed to ask what that meant.

Sunny rolled onto her side instinctively.

Cesar stayed down, staring at the ceiling.

Sugar Cane glanced toward the loading dock doors.

Cotton Candy sat up.

Goldstein didn’t move.

Boro turned his head toward the sound.

The horn sounded again.

BLAAAAT.

A crew member jogged in from the side entrance.

“Bear’s back near the dumpsters,” he said calmly. “Security’s pushing it off.”

No panic.

Just information.

Hartley exhaled.

“Hold five.”

Boro stepped toward the loading dock door and looked through the narrow window.

The white shape moved again along the far edge of the lot, larger than it had looked earlier.

He watched its gait.

Unhurried.
Confident.

Sunny joined him at the door.

“Still think it’s cute?” she whispered.

Boro did not answer immediately.

“No,” he said finally.

Goldstein walked up behind them.

“Get used to the horn,” he said. “It’s part of the soundtrack.”

The horn sounded once more.

Then silence.

A moment later, the crew member returned.

“It’s heading away.”

Hartley clapped once.

“Alright. Reset.”

Everyone moved back to their marks.

No drama.

No fear lingering long.

Just cold acceptance.

Boro stepped back toward the ring.

The Arctic had interrupted their rehearsal.

…and then allowed it to continue.

Hartley looked into his tablet camera.

“Vince, you still with us?”

The screen flickered.

Static.

Then Vince’s voice came through, distant but sharp.

“I’m watching.”

Of course he was.

The machine resumed.

Even here.

Even with bears.

The House Show

The crowd wasn’t massive.

…but they were loud.

Children in thick winter coats.
Local families.
A handful of Adali workers passing through.
A few traveling diehards who followed the road.

The heaters hummed.
The floodlights outside flickered occasionally.
…and twice during the mid-card, the air horn sounded in the distance.

No one panicked.

They just kept watching.

Backstage, the skeleton crew moved efficiently. There wasn’t enough budget here for mistakes.

On a monitor hundreds of miles away, Vince watched.

The segment began.

Sugar Cane and Cotton Candy ran their match clean.

The Academy hopefuls did their jobs.

Then-

Boro stormed out.

The crowd reacted.

Not confused.
Not hostile.
Curious.

He roared.

Strong.
Measured.
Controlled.

Sugar Cane turned.

Sunny and Cesar hit their marks perfectly.

They grabbed Cotton Candy.

The crowd booed.

Goldstein’s music hit.

He stormed down the aisle.

The pop was real.

He slid into the ring.

First spear.

Cesar folded cleanly.

Second spear.

Sunny landed safely, sliding backward on impact.

The crowd roared.

It looked good.

Very good.

On Vince’s monitor, he leaned forward.

He replayed the spears twice.

Then once more.

He didn’t smile.

He frowned.

“Something’s missing,” he muttered.

An assistant asked carefully, “What, sir?”

“Impact,” Vince said.

He rewound again.

“It looks good,” the assistant offered.

“It looks safe,” Vince corrected.

He reached for a notepad.

“Change the finish.”

He wrote quickly.

Goldstein- JACKHAMMER on both.

“More vertical,” Vince said. “More violent. The audience needs to feel it.”

The assistant hesitated.

“That’s a heavier lift.”

Vince didn’t look up.

“He can do it.”

On the screen, Goldstein posed over Sunny and Cesar, breathing heavy.

The crowd cheered.

The air horn sounded faintly in the distance again.

Vince ignored it.

He circled the word jackhammer.

---

Later- After the Show

Snow had intensified outside.

Wind gusts increased.

A local production assistant approached Hartley quietly.

“Flights north are already being delayed.”

By midnight, confirmation came.

Rankin Inlet- canceled.

Weather.

Whiteout conditions.

No safe landing windows.

The Arctic does not negotiate with schedules.

The plan shifted.

The Churchill crew would be rerouted north directly to Borealis Bay.

No extra practice.

No rehearsal time.

No refinement.

Just travel.

Fatigue layered on fatigue.

---

On his monitor, Vince received the weather update.

He barely reacted.

“Fine,” he said. “They’ll adjust.”

He looked at his notes again.

Jackhammer.

He tapped the paper once.

“It’ll look better live.”

He did not consider:

• Sunny’s fatigue.
• Cesar’s timing.
• Goldstein’s precision under exhaustion.
• The lack of rehearsal.

He saw spectacle.

He saw escalation.

He saw control.

The weather outside Churchill howled.

The next stop would be Borealis Bay.

No practice.

Higher stakes.

…and a finish now more dangerous than the one that had already worked.

Northern Lights International Airport, February 9, 2023

16:26 local time,
Borealis Bay, Republic of Sǫ̀mbak’è

The plane descended through clear Arctic sky.

No crosswinds.
No violent correction.
No whiteout.

Just cold air and competence.

When the wheels touched down, the landing was smooth- almost gentle.

Boro noticed immediately.

Borealis Bay was not Churchill.

It was not Barid.

From the terminal windows, the city stretched wide- modern glass structures, layered highways, organized residential districts. Snow was present, but managed. Plowed. Cleared. Engineered.

Northern Lights International Airport felt like a capital.
A curved cedar installation near the arrivals hall bore the words “Welcome to Sǫ̀mbak’è” in both English and Tłı̨chǫ, the script etched beneath a stylized aurora.

Wide corridors.
Bright lighting.
Reliable heating.

When the doors opened, warm air met them.

Sunny exhaled deeply.

“Oh thank God,” she muttered.

Cesar rolled his shoulders.

“This is civilization,” he said quietly.

Boro stood still for a moment inside the terminal, letting warmth settle into his bones.

“This city has intention,” he observed.

It did not feel improvised.

It did not feel patched.

It felt planned.

Announcements echoed clearly overhead.

Digital signage functioned.

Security moved efficiently.

Even the luggage belts ran smoothly.

They had only hours before bell time.

No gym.
No run-through.
No rehearsal.

Just:

Arrive.
Change.
Perform.

A production runner met them near the exit.

“Buses are waiting,” she said quickly. “Call time’s tight.”

Sunny glanced at the clock.

“We’re cutting it close.”

“Weather reroutes backed everything up,” the runner replied. “Everyone’s scrambling.”

Outside, the air was cold- but clean, structured, survivable.

No sagging fences.
No torn chain-link.
No airhorn.

Just well-lit streets and steady traffic.

Goldstein walked slightly behind the group.

Silent.

He had read Vince’s message on the flight.

Switch to jackhammer finish.
Bigger impact.
No rehearsal needed.

No rehearsal needed.

He replayed the Churchill segment in his mind.

The spears had been clean.
Controlled.
Predictable.

The jackhammer was different.

Vertical lift.
Core balance.
Timing.
Landing precision.

Under ideal conditions, it was manageable.

Under fatigue?
Under travel chaos?
Under no warm-up?

He said nothing.

Sunny was talking to Cesar about finally being indoors again.

Boro looked relieved just to see heated sidewalks.

Goldstein kept walking.

Outwardly calm.

Inside, calculations ran constantly.

Distance.
Grip.
Body control.
Fatigue threshold.

He did not like changing a finish without rehearsal.

He liked control.

Vince liked spectacle.

Those were not the same thing.

The bus door closed.

They pulled away from the airport toward the arena lights already visible in the distance.

In hours, they would step into a fully lit, fully televised show in the Arctic capital.

No practice.

New finish.

…and no margin.

Downtown Apartment Complex, February 9, 2023

20:12 local time,
City of Cuyahoga Castles, Sovereignty of Ohio, UCSS

The apartment was neat. Minimal. Tactical.

Mike Burrow had dimmed the lights like this was a title fight.

Evie Sicario sat curled into the corner of the couch, one leg tucked under her, half-watching, half-listening.

Burrow leaned forward, elbows on knees.

“Watch this,” he said. “This is the part where it gets good.”

On screen, Sugar Cane and Cotton Candy finished their sequence clean. Crowd noise swelled through the speakers.

Then-

Boro hit the ring.

Roar.

Chaos.

Cesar and Sunny appeared, masked, dragging Cotton Candy toward the ramp.

Burrow grinned. “See? Overbooked. I love it.”

Then Goldstein’s music hit.

The arena roared.

Evie straightened slightly.

Goldstein stormed down the ramp, all force and inevitability.

He grabbed Cesar first.

Lifted.

Rotated.

Jackhammer.

Hard impact.

The move looked heavier than usual.

Evie winced but didn’t fully register why.

Goldstein turned.

Sunny.

He lifted her too.

Something about the angle felt wrong.

The rotation wasn’t clean.

The crowd sound changed- not louder.

Different.

Sunny didn’t bounce.

She didn’t move.

Cesar rolled, but slowly.

The camera tried to cut.

Too late.

Evie’s hand went to her mouth.

“Oh no,” she whispered.

Burrow stood up instinctively.

“That-” He leaned closer to the screen. “That wasn’t right.”

The referee was already waving.

Medical personnel sliding in.

Goldstein stepped back, frozen.

Evie felt the air leave the room.

This wasn’t choreography anymore.

This was gravity.

Burrow’s jaw tightened.

“They’re not selling,” he said quietly.

Evie didn’t respond.

She was staring at the screen.

For the first time, wrestling didn’t look like theatre.

It looked fragile.

Zasaramel’s House, Rocky River Beach, February 9, 2023

20:12 local time,
City of Cuyahoga Castles, Sovereignty of Ohio, UCSS

The room smelled faintly of sea air and whatever Watcher had most recently done to it.

Joanna sat upright, attentive.

Ruby leaned against Zasaramel’s shoulder.

Raven watched from the living room table, eating a sandwich and impressed by the pageantry.

Watcher snored softly on the rug.

Zasaramel did not lean forward.

He watched like a man studying a blade.

The segment unfolded.

Chaos.
Masks.
Goldstein’s entrance.

Zas’ eyes narrowed before the lift even happened.

Goldstein hooked Cesar.

Zas watched the grip.

The stance.

The base.

He exhaled through his nose.

“Too upright,” he murmured.

Cesar went up.

Rotation slightly off-axis.

Impact.

Zas’ jaw tightened.

Then Sunny.

Goldstein lifted again.

Zas leaned forward this time.

“No,” he whispered.

The center of gravity drifted.

The plant foot slid half an inch.

Not visible to casual eyes.

Obvious to him.

Sunny went down wrong.

There are moments in combat when you know before the body hits.

Zas knew.

The camera cut late.

Medical staff rushed.

The crowd noise fractured.

Ruby looked up at him.

“Is that real?”

Zas didn’t answer immediately.

He kept watching.

Cesar was trying to move.

Sunny wasn’t.

His voice, when it came, was low.

“That is the same mistake,” he said.

Joanna’s expression changed.

“The one-?”

Zas nodded once.

“Yes.”

The jackhammer that almost ended him years ago.

The one he had corrected mid-air because he had trained for falls that weren’t scripted.

Sunny had not.

Watcher lifted his head, sensing the tension. Raven paused eating, staring in shock.

On screen, Goldstein stood alone in the ring, staring down.

Zasaramel’s heart sank.

“This will not end quietly,” he said.

T’sah Arena, February 9, 2023

18:26 local time,
Borealis Bay, Republic of Sǫ̀mbak’è

Goldstein dropped to his knees.

“No- no, no, no, no-”

He grabbed Cesar first, shaking him lightly at first, then harder.

“Cesar. Cesar, get up.”

Sunny lay on her side.

Too still.

Goldstein reached for her next, hands trembling, tapping her cheek, then slapping lightly.

“Sunny! Hey- hey- get up!”

The referee was already on one knee, shouting for medical.

Cesar groaned faintly.

Sunny did not.

A medic slid in and shoved Goldstein back.

“Back up. Back up.”

Goldstein didn’t move.

The medic had to say it again, louder.

“Back up!”

Goldstein stumbled backward, hands on his head, pacing in a tight circle.

His breathing came in ragged bursts.

The jackhammer.

The rotation.

The landing.

It replayed over and over in his mind.

The crowd noise wasn’t noise anymore.

It was a low, stunned hum.

No chants.

No boos.

Just thousands of people realizing, together, that something had gone wrong.

Boro stood frozen near the ropes.

His pupils were wide.

Cotton Candy covered her mouth.

Sugar Cane’s hands were clenched so tight her knuckles had gone white.

The commentators had fallen silent.

Headsets on.

No words coming.

Backstage, production staff stood staring at monitors.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

The camera stayed wide.

Medical personnel worked quickly now.

Sunny was being stabilized.

Cesar was conscious but dazed.

Goldstein tried to step forward again.

Another medic held a hand out.

“Stay back.”

Goldstein obeyed this time.

Barely.

Backstage, Vince McGeady leaned toward the production table.

“Cut to the crowd,” he snapped. “Cut to something. Don’t just sit on it.”

An assistant hesitated.

“They’re not moving,” she whispered.

“Then we move,” Vince shot back. “We’re not burning live time.”

Another producer murmured, “Maybe we-”

“Keep the show going,” Vince barked. “We have a run sheet.”

Then-

A presence entered the production area.

No rush.

No noise.

Just weight.

Roman Cesar.

He didn’t say anything.

He just stood there.

…and looked at Vince.

It wasn’t theatrical.

It wasn’t exaggerated.

It was cold.

Controlled.

The kind of look that says: You will not do this.

Vince turned slowly.

Met Roman’s eyes.

The hum of the arena bled faintly through the monitors.

On screen, medical staff continued working.

Goldstein stood alone in the ring, staring down at what he had done.

Roman didn’t blink.

Vince didn’t speak.

The show hung in the balance.

Roman didn’t wait.

He didn’t look for consensus.

He didn’t look at producers.

He didn’t look at Vince.

He simply spoke.

“No one is going out there.”

The words were calm.

Final.

Several backstage hands exchanged nervous glances.

A few wrestlers shifted their weight.

This was the moment.

The moment where you decide if you’re talent… or just inventory.

Roman didn’t raise his voice.

“We’re done.”

That was it.

Ben Hartley exhaled slowly.

Michael Hickenlooper lowered his headset.

Cotton Candy had already left the curtain area, heading toward the medics.

Sugar Cane followed.

Boro stepped away from the monitor.

One by one.

No rallying cry.

No dramatic gesture.

Just movement.

Vince’s face darkened.

“You will not hijack my show,” he snapped.

Roman turned his head slightly.

“We’re not performing after that.”

“You don’t decide that,” Vince shot back. “I decide that.”

Roman stepped closer.

“Fire us.”

A beat.

“What?” Vince barked.

“Fire the whole roster.”

The room went quiet.

Vince’s jaw flexed.

“You think I won’t?”

Roman didn’t blink.

“Do it.”

Medics pushed through the hallway with urgency now.

Cesar was strapped in, conscious but unfocused, eyes blinking against the lights.

Roman stepped aside just enough to let the gurney pass.

“You good?” Roman asked quietly.

Cesar tried to answer.

It came out slurred.

They wheeled Sunny next.

There was no movement.

No resistance.

A medic was manually ventilating.

Another checking monitors.

Roman’s eyes shifted to the readout.

Flatline.

“Vitals?” he asked.

The medic didn’t look up.

“No spontaneous respiration. No pulse.”

They kept moving.

They didn’t say the word.

They wouldn’t yet.

…but everyone heard what wasn’t said.

Roman’s jaw tightened.

That was enough.

He turned.

Started walking toward the exit corridor.

Vince’s voice rose behind him.

“Get back here!”

Roman kept walking.

“You walk out that door and you’re done!”

Roman didn’t stop.

Jon Huxley fell in beside him.

Colby Carter followed.

Boro followed.

Then Hartley.

Then Hickenlooper.

Then the rest.

Production staff removed headsets.

Referees dropped their clipboards.

Security stepped aside.

Vince stood in the middle of it all, shouting into a void that was no longer listening.

“You’re under contract!” he roared. “All of you!”

No one turned around.

In the arena, the crowd waited.

On the broadcast feed, commentators sat in silence.

Finally, a production assistant leaned toward Vince.

“We have to say something.”

Vince stared at the monitors.

At the empty backstage corridor.

At the ring filled with medical staff.

His empire.

Paused.

He grabbed the headset.

“Cut to black.”

The broadcast ended abruptly.

The arena lights remained on.

No music.

No closing angle.

Just the echo of a night that would never be forgotten.

Horseshoe Island General Hospital, February 9, 2023

21:37 local time,
Borealis Bay, Republic of Sǫ̀mbak’è

Horseshoe Island General usually looked like a postcard.

Glass walls curved toward the lake. The Aurora Bridge shimmered in the distance, linking Yellowknife and Dettah in clean arcs of light. Snow lay smooth and undisturbed beneath floodlit walkways.

Tonight, no one noticed any of it.

Inside Trauma Bay Three, Geneviève Horton lay motionless beneath surgical lights.

A respiratory therapist worked the ventilator.

A physician called out numbers.

Another checked pupils.

Another checked for response.

“Still no spontaneous breathing.”

“Continue compressions.”

Machines filled the room with rhythm.

Outside the restricted doors, the waiting area had become a quiet holding cell for disbelief.

Carly Sweeting sat forward on a molded plastic chair, phone pressed to her ear.

“Yes,” she said softly. “They’re still working on her.”

On the other end, Yves Laroche was breathing hard.

“I’m trying to get a flight,” he said. “Everything’s connecting through Toronto or Montréal. I- I don’t know how fast I can-”

“I’ll keep you updated,” Carly whispered.

She swallowed.

“She’s fighting.”

It wasn’t a lie.

Inside, they were still trying.

Across the room, Roman sat alone, elbows on knees, hands clasped.

Still.

Composed.

Anyone looking at him would think he was steady.

He wasn’t.

He was counting breaths he couldn’t hear.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway.

Heavy.

Uncertain.

William Goldstein stepped into the waiting area.

He looked smaller without arena lights.

No music.

No roar of a crowd.

Just a man in sweatpants and a jacket he hadn’t bothered to zip.

His eyes were red.

Roman stood immediately.

The air shifted.

Goldstein stopped.

“I just want to-” he began.

Roman crossed the distance in three strides.

“You need to leave.”

Goldstein shook his head.

“I didn’t- I need to see-”

“You killed her.”

The words weren’t shouted.

They were delivered flat.

Goldstein flinched as if struck.

“I didn’t mean-”

Roman stepped closer.

“I don’t care what you meant.”

Goldstein’s jaw trembled.

“I need to know she’s okay.”

Roman’s voice hardened.

“She’s not.”

A nurse glanced toward them.

Carly stood abruptly.

“Stop,” she snapped, moving between them.

“This is not helping.”

Roman’s chest rose and fell once.

Twice.

Goldstein looked past him toward the trauma doors, as if he could see through them.

Machines continued their mechanical chorus.

Carly pressed her phone to her shoulder.

“Yves,” she whispered, “I have to call you back.”

Inside Trauma Bay Three, a physician checked the monitor again.

The rhythm on the screen wavered.

Then flattened.

“Time?”

Another voice answered.

…and the room grew even quieter.

Hours had a way of dissolving inside hospitals.

The windows still showed the lake. The aurora had begun to ripple faintly over Great Slave Lake, green ribbons cutting through the black sky.

No one in the waiting room looked up.

Boro sat alone near a vending alcove.

The hospital cafeteria had closed, but a sympathetic nurse had pointed him toward a small overnight station reserved for staff- broth, plain protein, nutrient-dense rations.

He had found something close enough.

A warm bowl of fermented Arctic fish stew thickened with marrow stock and root mash — something simple, heavy, sustaining. The scent was sharp, mineral-rich, closer to what his body recognized.

He ate slowly.

Not out of hunger.

Out of grounding.

Lizardfolk digestion thrived on dense protein and mineral content; in stress, they craved it even more. The warmth helped regulate him. The salt steadied his breathing.

…but it did not steady his mind.

Across the room, Jon Huxley sat hunched over his phone, thumbs moving methodically.

Tetris.

Block after block.

Line after line.

No expression.

Just controlled repetition.

Goldstein was gone from the waiting room.

He had found the hospital chapel- a small, modern space of pale wood and glass overlooking the frozen shoreline. Not ornate. Not denominational. Just quiet.

He knelt.

He had never been particularly devout.

Tonight he prayed like a drowning man.

Roman had left without announcement an hour earlier.

He ran across the Aurora Bridge in full winter gear, breath turning to vapor in the Arctic night. Each footfall was deliberate. Measured. Punishing.

He needed motion.

He needed something he could control.

Back inside the waiting area, Carly Sweeting shifted slightly.

Evangeline Elliott slept against her shoulder, exhaustion finally winning out. Sugar Cane’s face looked younger without stage makeup, lashes resting against her cheeks.

Carly adjusted her position so Evangeline’s neck wouldn’t cramp.

Her phone lit up.

Buffalo airport.

Yves:

Boarding. Connecting from Montreal. Then north.

She typed back:

Still no update.

Across the country, Glen and Marie Horton were mid-journey.

Barstow to LAX.

LAX to Vancouver.

Vancouver to Borealis Bay.

Glen had not spoken much.

Marie held his hand the entire time.

Back in the hospital corridor, the Trauma doors swung open.

Every head in the waiting room lifted.

A doctor stepped out-

-but turned left.

Not toward them.

Toward another hallway.

The waiting room exhaled collectively.

Time stretched again.

Another door sound.

Another false hope.

Then-

At 02:17, the Trauma doors opened once more.

This time, the physician did not turn away.

Dr. Matthew Nataway stepped into the waiting area, surgical cap removed, lines etched deeper into his face than when they’d first arrived.

He removed his gloves as he walked.

He looked directly at them.

“We’re continuing supportive measures,” he said evenly. “We need to complete neurological testing. I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

He didn’t soften it.

He didn’t dramatize it.

He just told the truth.

Roman nodded once.

Carly swallowed.

Boro lowered his eyes.

Goldstein stayed in the chapel.

---

The Horton parents arrived shortly before sunrise.

Glen Horton walked in first.

Retired Peace officer.

Back straight despite the overnight flights.

Marie followed, gripping his hand so tightly her knuckles were pale.

They did not ask for details in the waiting room.

They asked to see their daughter.

A nurse led them inside.

When they returned, Marie’s composure had thinned to something fragile.

Glen’s jaw was locked in the way men who’ve seen violence lock it.

Roman stood when they re-entered.

“I’m sorry,” he said simply.

Glen gave him a short nod.

He understood that tone.

He had delivered it before.

---

In Buffalo, Yves Laroche’s night had spiraled.

The first connection had been overbooked.

A delay.

Then another.

He had raised his voice.

Too loud.

Too desperate.

Security had escorted him away from the gate.

By the time he calmed down, the plane was gone.

He secured another flight.

Hours later.

Now he was finally airborne, hands gripping the armrests as the plane climbed north.

His phone sat in airplane mode.

Unread messages waiting.

---

Back in Borealis Bay, the hours dragged.

More exams.

More silence.

More waiting.

At 10:32 a.m., the Trauma doors opened again.

This time Dr. Nataway did not remove gloves.

He had already removed them.

He walked toward them slowly.

There was no rush anymore.

Roman stood first.

Then Carly.

Then Glen and Marie.

Dr. Nataway stopped in front of them.

“We completed two full neurological examinations,” he said. “There is no brain activity. There has been no response to stimulus. We confirmed the findings.”

He paused.

“She did not survive.”

No flourish.

No euphemism.

Just finality.

Marie’s breath left her in a sound that wasn’t quite a sob.

Glen closed his eyes.

Roman lowered his head.

Carly covered her mouth.

Somewhere above the lake, the aurora faded in the daylight.

Inside the hospital, machines that had been breathing for Geneviève Horton went quiet.

…and miles away, high over the continent, Yves’ plane continued north- unaware that he was now flying toward something that no longer existed.

The terminal at Northern Lights International had felt endless.

The taxi ride across the Aurora Bridge had felt longer.

Yves Laroche ran the last stretch from the entrance to the information desk.

His phone was still in airplane mode.

He hadn’t turned it back on.

He didn’t want to see delays.
Didn’t want to see speculation.
Didn’t want to see fear.

He just wanted to get there.

“Geneviève Horton,” he said breathlessly at the desk.

The nurse paused.

Her eyes shifted- not dramatically, just enough.

“Are you family?”

“I’m her partner.”

Another pause.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “You need to speak with Dr. Nataway.”

The hallway felt colder than the outside air.

Roman saw him first.

Stood.

Yves scanned the room.

Faces.
Red eyes.
Silence.

“Where is she?” he asked.

No one answered immediately.

Carly stood slowly.

Yves’ eyes darted from one face to another.

“Where is she?”

Roman stepped forward.

“You’re Yves?”

“Yes. Where is she?”

Roman’s voice stayed steady.

“She didn’t make it.”

It didn’t register.

Yves blinked.

“What?”

“She passed this morning.”

The words hung there.

No machine beeping.
No chaos.
Just air.

Yves shook his head.

“No.”

He let out a short laugh.

“No, I was just- I was on the plane. I was coming. They said they were still working on her.”

His voice cracked.

“No. No.”

His knees gave slightly and Roman caught him before he hit the floor.

Yves didn’t fight the support.

He just folded.

He buried his face in his hands.

“I was late,” he whispered. “I was late.”

Carly knelt beside him.

“You weren’t,” she said softly. “You weren’t.”

Dr. Matthew Nataway approached a few minutes later.

He explained gently.

Brain injury.
No activity.
All efforts exhausted.

Yves listened but didn’t really hear.

Finally he asked, voice barely audible:

“Can I see her?”

---

The room was quiet.

No machines.

No urgency.

Geneviève Horton lay still beneath a thin white blanket.

Her hair had been brushed back.

Someone had cleaned the faint traces of dried blood from her temple.

She looked smaller without movement.

Yves stepped to the bedside slowly.

He touched her hand.

It was cool.

“Hey,” he whispered.

His voice broke immediately.

“You said you were going to take that hoodie off.”

He pressed his forehead to her knuckles.

“I was going to be there.”

There was nothing theatrical in the room.

Just one man and a silence that didn’t answer back.

---

Back in the waiting area, the wrestlers sat in clusters.

Boro stared at the floor.

Jon Huxley had stopped playing Tetris.

Goldstein had not returned from the chapel.

Sugar Cane leaned into Carly again, but this time she was awake, eyes red.

Cesar, head bandaged, sat in a wheelchair at the far end of the room, staring ahead in numb disbelief.

“She could’ve been something,” he said quietly.

Cotton Candy nodded.

“She already was.”

There was a long pause.

Then, almost in a whisper:

“She never even got to take the hoodie off.”

No one corrected her.

No one said it didn’t matter.

Because it did.

It mattered.

Golden Lights Hotel, February 10, 2023

13:21 local time,
Borealis Bay, Republic of Sǫ̀mbak’è

The Golden Lights’ top floor suite overlooked Great Slave Lake.

Floor-to-ceiling windows.
Heated marble.
Imported espresso.
Thick carpets that swallowed sound.

Vince McGeady stood in front of the glass, hands clasped behind his back.

Below, the city moved as it always did.

Traffic flowed across the Aurora Bridge.
Plows cleared snow.
Life continued.

His phone buzzed.

He didn’t turn around.

“Status,” he said into the headset.

A pause on the other end.

“She was pronounced at ten thirty-two.”

Vince closed his eyes briefly.

Not in grief.

In irritation.

“…and?”

Silence.

“…and we need to suspend programming,” Joey Ace said carefully. “We can’t run next Thursday like nothing happened.”

Vince turned.

“We have contracts,” he replied evenly. “We have sponsors.”

“We also have a dead performer.”

Vince’s jaw flexed.

“She wasn’t a performer,” he snapped. “She was developmental.”

The line went quiet.

Even over distance, the disgust could be felt.

“We need to issue a statement,” Joey said, “and we need to cancel at least this week’s taping.”

Vince walked to the dining table where a neatly printed run sheet still sat from the night before.

He picked it up.

Crushed it once.

Then smoothed it back out.

“You’re overreacting,” he said. “The audience will move on. They always do.”

“Not this time.”

Vince stared at the lake again.

His reflection in the glass looked smaller than usual.

“They walked out on me,” he muttered.

“Yes.”

Roman.

The Cartel.

The roster following him without hesitation.

That bothered him more than the hospital report.

He set the run sheet down.

“Fine,” he said finally. “Issue the statement.”

A beat.

“Then we pivot.”

“How?”

“We control the narrative,” Vince replied. “It was a tragic accident. Inherent risk. We emphasize safety reforms. We honor her.”

“…and Roman?”

Vince’s eyes hardened.

“We wait.”

The tone changed.

Colder.

“When the right act comes along,” he said quietly, “we don’t hesitate.”

The call ended.

The suite was silent again.

Outside, Borealis Bay shimmered in daylight.

Inside, Vince McGeady began making notes.

Not about mourning.

About leverage.

The battle ahead wasn’t about grief.

It was about control.

…and he had no intention of losing it.