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Climax Control Roleplays / "Shards of Glass"
« on: May 07, 2025, 11:08:13 PM »
Therapy Session 5: Finding herself in the shattered reflections.
Scene opens in the same pale blue room. The ticking clock seems louder today. Maybe it’s the silence. Maybe it’s her. The lamp hums above, casting half-light on two familiar faces. Lilith is curled up in the armchair again, but this time her posture is tighter. A coiled spring. Black hoodie pulled low. No makeup. Just shadows. Dr. Harris sits in his usual chair, legs crossed, notebook unopened.
"I saw the tournament match."
His tone is even. No accusation. Just a fact. An observation placed gently between them like a raw nerve. Lilith doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t look up. But her mouth twitches. A smirk? A wince?
“Of course you did. Everyone did. Tell me something I don’t know.”
Her voice is hollow, soaked in something that isn’t quite regret. Not quite bitterness either. Just tired. Dr. Harris shook his head as he began to speak.
“Blast From The Past. You couldn’t even make it past the first round. You lost focus. Where was that fire you had before? That drive to prove to Kevin he needed you. You just proved he didn’t.” He waits, letting her sit with it. She doesn’t take the bait. “You were quieter than usual. No post-match interview. No fire. No retaliation. That’s not like you.”
Lilith sighed, running her fingers through her hair. “Maybe I ran out of matches to bleed for.”
She lets the words hang, then finally looks up. Her eyes are colder today. Not sharp. Not angry. Just... dulled.
Dr. Harris took the moment to speak up. “Or maybe losing forced a kind of silence you weren’t ready for.”
She scoffs, shakes her head, curls deeper into herself. “You think I gave a fuck about winning that damn tournament?”
But it sounds defensive. Shaky. She knows it. Dr. Harris always knows it.
“I think you care about not being forgotten. And losing in front of the world makes it easier for them to move on.”
Lilith glares at him. But there’s no venom in it.
“You think I don’t know that? They already forgot me the moment the bell rang. The moment I didn’t pin her.” She leans forward now, voice rising. “Everyone kept looking at me like I was the weak link. Maybe I was. Maybe that’s all I ever am. Static on a broadcast everyone tunes out.”
Dr. Harris nodded, speaking quickly. “Did you feel like you failed yourself?”
“I wasn’t supposed to be the one pinned. That wasn’t the story I wanted.” She looks down at her hands—bandaged. Bruised. Not from the match. From after. From fists against walls, and every mirror in her hotel room.
Dr. Harris closes his book. “That’s the thing about stories, Lilith. Sometimes the audience reads a different chapter than you wrote.” Silence again. The clock ticks. Dr. Harris speaks gently now. “Tell me what losing felt like.”
Lilith scoffs, leans her head back, stares at the ceiling like the answer might drip from it.
“It felt like standing in a crowded room screaming—and no one even looking up.”
She sighs. “Like my pain wasn’t big enough. My rage not loud enough.”
Dr. Harris finally opens his notebook. Not to shield himself—but to record. “So you’re telling me the match wasn’t just about winning. It was about proving you still mattered.”
She looks at him now. Tired. Honest.
“It’s always about that. Every promo. Every punch. Every stomp. I’m not just fighting them—I’m fighting oblivion.” She hugs her knees closer to her chest. “And I’m losing.”
Dr. Harris lowered his glasses looking at her with studious eyes. “You were alone in that match. What did it feel like to fight against someone when you felt like no one was in your corner?”
Lilith laughs—but there’s no humor in it. Just bitterness. “It felt like waiting for a ghost to show up. She was a monster in the ring—but she’s not me. Not really. No one ever is.”
Dr. Harris shook his head. “Do you think you’re easy to be with?”
Lilith flinches. That lands. She hasn't spoken for a long time. Just breathing slowly. Then she finally speaks up “I don’t know how to be soft. Or still. Or... easy. I burn too loud. And people... they either get too close and melt, or they run before the heat hits.”
Dr. Harris leans forward now, elbows on knees. “That match wasn’t a betrayal. It wasn’t abandonment. It was just a loss. A part of the job. And maybe that’s scarier for you than betrayal—because it means sometimes, pain just happens. No enemy. No narrative. Just life.”
Lilith closes her eyes. Breathing in deep. The truth hurts more than the loss.
Dr. Harris speaks up at this point. “Did you look in the mirror after the match?”
She hesitates. Shaking her head. “I smashed it.”
Dr. Harris tilted his head. “Why? Why would you smash a mirror like that?”
Lilith speaks quietly. “Because she looked disappointed. Like she expected more. Like I wasn’t enough.” She opens her eyes, voice trembling. “I couldn’t take her judgment too.”
Dr. Harris took a moment, thinking over his next words. “Maybe that wasn’t judgment. Maybe it was grief.” Lilith frowns. He continues. “Grief for the version of you that thought winning would fill the hole. That thought recognition would equal love. That thought violence would be enough.” She bites her lip and looks away. “What would it mean if people forgot you, Lilith?”
Lilith spoke up now. “It would mean I never mattered.”
Dr. Harris shook his head. “That’s not true.”
Lilith glared at him now. “How would you know?”
He closes the notebook, setting it aside finally. “Because you’re here. Again. Still trying. Still talking. Still asking the mirror to show you something real. That’s more than most people do.”
Lilith’s jaw clenches. She swallows hard.
Dr. Harris stood, walking around the room. “Losing doesn’t make you invisible. It just makes you human.”
She hates that word. “I don’t want to be human. Humans break.”
Dr. Harris shrugged his shoulders. “So do mirrors. But we keep looking anyway.”
Silence. But it’s softer now. Like a blanket, not a blade. Lilith finally uncurls, stretches her legs out, stares at the ceiling again. Her voice, almost a whisper. “What if I’m more than the violence?”
Dr. Harris gives a final nudge. “Then we find out who that woman is.”
Scene closes on Lilith walking out of the room. She doesn’t have the mirror anymore—but something in her posture is different. Not hope. Not yet. But hunger. Not just for blood. But for truth.
Not theatrical darkness, but total sensory deprivation. A sound begins—slow, wet breathing. Uncomfortably close.
A heartbeat joins it, but not the steady thump of life—it’s uneven, arrhythmic, like something learning to beat.
The camera sparks to life. Fuzzy, grainy. We see Lilith in a room too large to be real, walls covered in sheets of cracked mirror, all slightly askew. Each reflection shows her at a different moment—laughing, weeping, seething, silent. None of them blink in sync.
Lilith, low, speaking to herself at first.
“Hell has no throne.
No gold. No velvet. No kingdom.”
She tilts her head at one mirror showing her curled in a fetal position, pale, breathing slow.
“No crowns.
Just teeth. Just heat.
Just the echo of your own voice,
chewing on your thoughts like meat.”
She turns to face the camera, stepping slowly forward, bare feet dragging slightly like they don’t belong to her. Her smile is lazy, not quite kind.
“There is no Queen in Hell.
Except me.”
She walks as she speaks, voice drifting with the cadence of poetry, but underneath it—rage. Deep and rooted like mold in the walls.
“You want to be royalty?
You cling to a title
You believe you earned it.
But it’s all just make believe.”
She shook her head. There was something that could be said about a woman like Victoria. She had seen them before, destroyed them.. She sent them packing. Victoria wasn’t a Queen, she was nothing more than a pawn.
“Victoria—that name,
that title—
you wear it like armor made of mirrors.
Polished. Pretty. Reflective.
But easily destroyed.”
Her hand glides across a jagged mirror edge, slicing open a finger. She doesn’t flinch. Blood streaks downward in slow motion.
“But what happens when no one claps?
What happens when the glass cracks and there’s no one there to see their face in you?”
She turns a mirror toward the camera. It doesn’t reflect the room. It shows fire.
“You think you’re safe because you’ve survived a few trials?
Because you played the wheel and it didn’t break you?
The Roulette Champion.
The False Queen.
Your throne is built on lies
Your Kingdom is crumbling
How ironic.”
She sneers, a twitch of disdain.
“Because I don’t play games.
I unmake them.
And when I pull the tablecloth from the altar,
let’s see if you still feel holy when everything smashes at your feet.”
She spins suddenly, grabbing one of the mirrors and hurling it off screen. The crash is loud. Satisfying. She doesn’t flinch.
“I hear the whispers.
Where's Lilith been?
Why hasn't she spoken?
Is it all just a game?
Did she run away?
Is she broken?”
She shakes her head.
“No.”
Her voice is low, gravelly.
“I was... watching.
Listening to the silence that came after Kevin disappeared.
Not just gone from the ring.
Gone from me.
I listened to the silence after my loss.
My first loss here in Sin City Wrestling.”
Her voice shakes now, a crack of something real breaking through the performance. She grins through it.
“He stopped speaking.
So I ripped my own voice out just to see what silence tasted like.
Spoilers darlings,
It tastes like copper.
Like iron.
Like teeth
Like blood..
And I loved the taste of it.
Every last drop of it.”
Her hand lifts to her lips, stained in a blood red color.
“I talked to the walls.
I screamed at the ceiling.
I ran my fingers through glass, as if it was nothing.
I buried parts of myself in places I can't draw maps to anymore.”
She paces slowly. Every footstep a sentence.
“And when they said my name out loud again,
it didn't feel like a return.
It felt like a summoning.”
A mirror flashes — a version of Lilith with black sclera eyes, grinning too wide.
“You think silence is a void?
No.
Silence is a pressure chamber.
And now I'm the explosion.”
She starts pacing faster now. Her bare feet leave red footprints. We don’t know if it’s paint, blood, or metaphor. We don’t ask.
“And now this little chessboard match.
Queen's Gambit.
How cute.
Like we're all pieces in some tidy little story.
Like we're meant to move only when allowed.”
She jerks her arm sideways, knocking over a stack of chairs arranged like pawns. They clatter and tumble like broken soldiers.
“But I don't move by rules.
I am moved by rage.
I step hand in hand with anger.
I was born from chaos, not crafted by order.”
She laughs softly, almost sweetly. Then when she speaks, again, it’s cold and calculated.
“You call me a threat like it’s an insult.
But that’s just a shape you use to fit me into your script.
Threat. Villain. Monster.
It makes you feel safe, doesn’t it?
Like I’m bound to the stage and the lights and the outcome.”
She kneels briefly, pressing her palm into a splintered reflection.
“But I am not your script.
I am the ink that runs when the paper gets wet with blood.”
She rises again, breathing heavier.
“Song... my partner?
She is silent and precise.
Graceful destruction.
An assassin.
We don’t belong together.
And that’s why it’ll work.”
She crouches low, crawling on all fours with eerie grace. Her face twitches, half-grin, half-growl, feral even.
“Because while she slices clean... I devour.
While she calculates. I thrive in chaos.
She’s graceful and delicate..
I am dangerous and go unchecked.”
She crawls until she’s under a hanging bulb that flickers with her every word.
“We are not two queens.
We are the sword and the scream.
And you don’t survive both.”
She rises again, and the mirrors show flashes: Victoria stumbling, Harper pinned down, Song with eyes like razors.
“She is the assassin in the night.
I am the nightmare that wakes you from sleep,
heart pounding, unable to scream.”
She claps once. Lights flicker in rhythm.
“Together.
We're not a team.
We're a reckoning choreographed in shadow and blood.”
She stops before a massive cracked mirror. The reflection in this one is twisted, delayed, like the footage is lagging. She watches herself... watching herself.
“Harper Mason.
The Strong One.
The workhorse.
The backbone.”
She walks slowly, hands trailing the wall.
“The one who gets things done while others pose, right?
The one they never worry about because you don’t break, do you?”
A chuckle. Bitter.
“You’ll be too busy
Trying to impress the Queen of Lies.
With your attempt at greatness.
Focused on the bullshit she feeds you.
Acting like a starving lunatic.
Slurp it up little one.
It will take more than just her dose.
But we know it’ll fail.”
She stretches her arms out like a crucifixion, head rolling back as if receiving a vision.
“I bet they pat you on the back a lot, huh?
Nice job, Harper.
You did great out there.
You held it together.”
Her voice turns mocking, saccharine.
“So stable. So dependable.
The Future of the business.”
She turns vicious instantly, stepping into the camera’s face.
“But what happens when something unstable grabs you by the spine and yanks?
What happens when it tears you apart?
Rips you open and see’s what makes you tick?
What do you do when there’s no pattern to follow?”
Lilith's fingers twitch. She flexes like she's feeling invisible strings being pulled.
“What if I don’t want to pin you, Harper?
What if I want to ruin you?
What if I want to undo the image they built for you?
Turn that hardworking reputation into gristle between my teeth?”
She laughs. Not loud. Not manic. Just... delighted. Like a child pulling the wings off a fly.
“Because this match isn’t about the Bombshell Roulette Championship.
Such a pretty little thing.
Gold and Glory.
It’s not about status.
It’s not even about winning.”
She walks into the darkness, voice still heard as the camera lingers.
“It’s about the unveiling.
About showing all of you that the roles you've been clinging to
are costumes soaking in gasoline.
And I brought the match.”
We hear the sound of something striking. A flame, brief. Burning hot and fast.
“There is no winner here.
Only survivors.
And even that is temporary.”
Suddenly she’s seated, cross-legged on a floor made of shattered glass, bleeding from a dozen small cuts she doesn't seem to feel. Her eyes flick upward.
“I have lived in my own silence for weeks.
Because I was waiting.
Not for the right moment.
For the wrong one.
The moment where it stops making sense.
Where the crowd can’t chant your name because they’re too busy screaming.”
She begins rocking gently. Humming. Childlike. The sound becomes distorted. She sways side to side a little.
“Where Victoria’s shine turns to smoke.
Where Harper’s balance becomes wobble.
That’s where I thrive.
That’s where I destroy kingdoms.
That’s where I plant flags in the flesh of my enemies.”
She reaches into her mouth and pulls something out slowly. A thread. Long. Dark. Wet. She keeps pulling. It seems endless. Finally she snaps it between her teeth and drops it on the floor like it's a dead snake.
“There is no Queen in Hell.
Except me.
And I don’t sit on a throne.
I pace the walls.
I scratch sigils into stone with fingernails.
Until my fingers bleed.”
She pulls her hand from the floor. Blood. Glass embedded in the skin.
“I make altars out of regret.
And when I speak…”
She leans into the lens. A whisper escaping her lips, as if she’s telling a secret.
“Reality flinches.”
She smirks, her eyes cold and uncaring.
“And when the match ends,
and they scrape the wreckage from the ring…
Don’t call it victory.
Call it a curse fulfilled.”
The lights flicker again. A low, grinding sound in the background—like metal dragging on stone.
“I didn’t come back to be seen.
I came back to make sure you see yourselves
in every single mirror I smash.”
The broken mirror behind her flickers with more visions—screams, fire, empty arenas, reflections without faces.
“Every shard reflects a truth.
And none of them are beautiful.
They all show the truth.
You are far too afraid to face.
In the end, you are a false pretender.”
The lights begin to flicker again. The mirror behind her shows not her reflection, but flashes of her opponents screaming, losing, breaking. None of it has happened yet. Lilith is eerily calm now.
“This is not about victory.
This is baptism.
Not in fire.
Not in water.
In the kind of darkness that stares back.”
She stands one final time, blood dripping from her hands now.
“Victoria, Harper—you haven’t been silent.
You’ve been comfortable.
I will peel the comfort from your bones.
I will make you question why you ever put on boots and called this a sport.
I am not the opponent.
I am the reckoning.”
She steps into a final spotlight. The mirror behind her shatters entirely.
“And when it’s done…
When you’re left coughing blood into your trembling hands…
Don’t look for mercy.
Don’t look for the Queen.”
Beat.
Her smile returns. So soft. So sincere.
“Because there is no Queen in Hell.
Except me.”
She shoves the camera away. The camera crashes to the marble floor and the feed cuts to static.
The dream did not begin.
It ruptured.
A crack in the fabric of silence, a scream without sound. There was no waking into it—only a slipping. A bleeding. Like Lilith had been caught in a riptide pulled not from water, but from memory. Ash blanketed the world. Thick, soft, endless. It coated the ground and the breath, graying the air into something heavy and still. The sky above sagged, swollen with an unseen storm. No stars. No moon. Just pressure—oppressive and constant.
And then—
She felt it. A vibration through the bones. A name shivering up her spine like a long-forgotten melody.
“Lilith.”
Not a shout.
A call.
Wounded. Wanting. Soft, like prayer… of confession.
She turned, though direction had no meaning in this place. There was no ground. No walls. No light. Still, she turned, drawn not by logic but by the tether that had never fully unraveled.
Kevin.
His name echoed in the marrow, burned beneath her ribs. She had buried that ache once—wrapped it in rage, smothered it in silence. But the ember was still there, and now it flared to life like breath on coal.
She moved forward. Slowly. Bare feet sinking into ash that held no heat. The air changed. She crossed into the forest of mirrors. Tall, warped, and cracked, they lined her path like sentinels—each one reflecting not her as she was, but as she had been. Each glass was a moment frozen: Lilith laughing with blood on her hands, Lilith holding Kevin’s jaw tenderly in the corner of the locker room, Lilith walking away while he watched her go.
She stopped before one—its surface trembling. In it, Kevin moved. Not in the past. Not in memory. Now. He wandered, barefoot like her, the ash curling around his ankles. His mouth shaped her name like it hurt. Like it bled.
“Lilith…”
She didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. He was here. She stepped through the mirror. The surface folded around her like warm silk, and the world tore open. She emerged into the same landscape as Kevin—but behind him. Close, but unseen. Not yet.
Not until he needed her.
The dream changed shape around them. Kevin moved through a hallway made of rusted doorways. Each door pulsed with memory. He reached for them like relics, his fingers tracing names he could no longer say out loud. He stopped at the last door. The one still breathing.
It opened like an eye.
Lilith did not follow right away. She watched him disappear through the frame, then stepped in behind him.
The cathedral was made of bone. Familiar. Sacred. A structure she had built for him in dreams she no longer remembered dreaming. Every wall was carved with her name. Every echo was tuned to the sound of his heartbeat. He found the altar. Found the voice she had left behind.
“I’m not your light in the dark, Kevin.
I’m the reason you know the dark has shape.”
He knelt before it like it might forgive him.
The dream cracked again.
And Kevin moved on.
Now the ash glowed.
The path led to a sea of teeth—chattering softly, like laughter underwater. Kevin crossed it barefoot, each step sending ripples through the bone-white tide.
And on the other side— The throne.
Lilith sat upon it, waiting. But not soft. Not safe. She was radiant in ruin. Her skin glowed where the cracks ran deepest, light seeping from every fault line like fire behind shattered glass. The throne beneath her was a monument to violence—blades, bones, broken promises. Her crown was made of silence.
Kevin approached.
Not with awe. With exhaustion. He dropped to his knees. And said her name again.
“Lilith…”
She opened her eyes. And the dream froze. The tether snapped taut between them, binding them like it once had before silence grew teeth. She stepped down from the throne. Her bare feet whispered against the ash-glass floor.
Kevin looked up. His eyes were wreckage. Haunted. Hollowed out.
“Why didn’t you come?” he asked. His voice was low. Broken.
Lilith knelt in front of him. Her hand found his cheek. She smeared ash across it like a benediction.
“I did,” she whispered. “You just didn’t open your eyes.”
His hand found hers, gripping it tightly. “I thought I lost you.”
“You did,” she answered. “But I’m the kind of thing that finds herself again.”
Kevin’s forehead met hers. He breathed her in like absolution. “I need you.”
The words hung there. Not pleading. Not dramatic. Just true. Lilith did not flinch. She held him. Let him collapse into her like the man who once stood behind her in every war. Her arms wrapped around him, and for a moment, neither one moved. Neither one spoke.
And the world held its breath.
The ash stilled.
The knives dissolved.
The sky bled gold and red and black.
In this sacred unreality—this pocket of myth and memory—they were whole again.
Not healed.
But bound.
Lilith stroked Kevin’s hair with trembling fingers. His heartbeat fluttered against her ribs. He was warm and shaking, and she memorized the weight of him in her lap as if she’d lose it all again by morning. She bent close. Whispered against the curve of his ear.
“You called me back.
So now we burn together.”
Camera opens: a flickering flame. It pulses like a heartbeat, center frame. A low hum. No music. Just Lilith’s voice—beginning in darkness.
“There’s a moment in the silence before the scream.
Not peace.
Not calm.
Something else.
A stillness so complete it feels like suffocation.
That’s where I’ve been.
Not resting.
Not healing.
Not hiding.
I’ve been coiled.
Waiting for the right match to strike.
And now… I smell gasoline.”
The flame bursts upward, revealing Lilith in a cracked, cathedral-like space. The walls are draped in decayed banners—old victories turned to ash. The camera zooms in slowly. She sits cross-legged on a throne of broken steel chairs, blood on her hands, her mouth, her eyes too calm.
“Let’s get this out of the way.
I’m not here to make friends.
I’m not here to play fair.
I am not here to be clapped for, posted about, or paraded as the "dark horse" everyone underestimated.
I am the weight you didn’t train for.
I am the moment in the match when your lungs stop pulling air and your brain tells you to quit, and something older keeps moving anyway.”
She stands now, barefoot, each step leaving a smear across the floor like paint—or blood.
“Harper Mason.
Let’s start with you.
The Slaytanic Avenger
The Future.
Everyone’s Favorite Handshake.
You are the ribbon they wrap around mediocrity to make it look noble.
The girl who gets thanked, but never feared.
Congratulated, but never crowned.
You work hard.
You show up.
You hit your marks.
But you’re not dangerous, Harper.
And that’s your death sentence.”
Lilith stops in front of a twisted mirror showing Harper mid-match, shouting, fighting, sweating—yet somehow still fading.
“You mistake consistency for resilience.
But I’ve seen real resilience.
It lives in silence.
It digs with its nails when there are no cameras left.
It doesn’t care about applause.
You think because you’ve survived hard matches, you’re untouchable.
But survival isn’t strength.
It's a delayed consequence.
And I am the consequence.
The overdue debt.
The weight that doesn’t break your back—
…it snaps your spine like brittle chalk.”
The mirror shatters behind her. Lilith doesn’t flinch. She’s already walking.
“Then there’s Victoria.
The Queen.
The Roulette Champion.
The golden veneer over a hollow core.
You walk like you’ve earned something eternal.
Like the belt on your shoulder sanctified your soul.
But I know better.
I know what a crown looks like when it’s desperate.
I know what a throne sounds like when it creaks under the weight of a lie.”
Lilith kneels beside a pile of ruined glass—each shard showing Victoria at her highest moments. She drags her fingers through them like bones.
“You need the crowd.
You need the crown.
You need the throne.
You need the title.
You need the illusion.
You need the adoration.
Because if they stop looking at you,
you cease to exist,
To matter.
Because you didn’t have that
From your parents.
You’re not the Queen, Victoria.
You’re the mirror.
And when I crack it—
no more reflections.
Just shards.
And if I cut my hands doing it?
So be it.
I’ve bled for worse.”
She laughs now, low, bitter. She stands, brushing dust from her knees.
“And Song…
My sweet, sharp-edged shadow.
The one they call an assassin.
The calm in the storm.
You’ve been silent.
You’ve been watching.
And I respect that.
But hear me clearly, partner:
If you falter—
if you freeze when it’s time to carve,
if you hesitate when it’s time to strike—
I will leave you behind.
Not because I want to.
Because this world demands it.”
Her tone softens—not kind, but intimate. Like a mother warning her child before a storm.
“I didn’t choose you because I believed in unity.
I chose you because I believed in your precision.
Your stillness.
Your ability to kill quietly.
But this isn’t a silent death, Song.
This is a blood opera.
And if your blade wavers—if your heart flutters instead of stabs—
I will make sure you pay the price.”
She walks into a narrow hallway of red light. The walls breathe. The floor pulses. It’s more alive than architecture.
“There’s no room in this war for softness.
No space for mercy.
Not when Harper still believes she can “outwork” the abyss.
Not when Victoria clutches her title like it will keep her safe from the void.
Not when the crowd thinks this is just another Roulette match.
It isn’t.
It’s a reckoning.
It’s a sacrifice.
It’s a ritual.
And I’m the knife.”
She stops at a door covered in symbols. Her hand touches it. It peels open, revealing a cold, white ring under flickering lights.
“This ring?
It’s not a stage.
It’s not a proving ground.
It’s not the place where stories get finished.
It’s the pit.
And when you fall in?
You don’t crawl out the same.
Ask anyone.
Ask the ones I buried beneath silence.”
She enters the ring now, bare feet smudging red across the mat. She crouches low, voice dropping to something sacred and terrifying.
“I’m not here to win.
Winning is too small for me.
Too tidy.
No.
I’m here to unmake.
To peel skin from myth.
To chew the sinew of your reputations
until all that’s left is bone and the crowd's confusion.”
She tilts her head, almost smiling.
“When this match ends,
Harper will be asking where the mat went—
because she’ll be buried beneath it.”
Victoria will be clutching the Roulette belt like a lifeline, unaware that I already fed it to the fire.
“And Song…
If you fail to do what needs doing—
if you forget what we are,
forget the dance of blade and shadow we promised to be—
then you’ll find yourself alone.
And I’ll leave your name in my wake like all the others.
Etched into the wall of the ones who almost mattered.”
She leans into the camera now. Eyes unblinking. Voice barely above a whisper.
“This isn’t a promo.
It’s a sermon.
A warning.
A prophecy.
There is no Queen in Hell.
Except me.
And I didn’t come here to rule.
I came here to ruin.”
Cut to black. The last thing heard is the sound of breathing—too close. Too calm. Then, a whisper.
Scene opens in the same pale blue room. The ticking clock seems louder today. Maybe it’s the silence. Maybe it’s her. The lamp hums above, casting half-light on two familiar faces. Lilith is curled up in the armchair again, but this time her posture is tighter. A coiled spring. Black hoodie pulled low. No makeup. Just shadows. Dr. Harris sits in his usual chair, legs crossed, notebook unopened.
"I saw the tournament match."
His tone is even. No accusation. Just a fact. An observation placed gently between them like a raw nerve. Lilith doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t look up. But her mouth twitches. A smirk? A wince?
“Of course you did. Everyone did. Tell me something I don’t know.”
Her voice is hollow, soaked in something that isn’t quite regret. Not quite bitterness either. Just tired. Dr. Harris shook his head as he began to speak.
“Blast From The Past. You couldn’t even make it past the first round. You lost focus. Where was that fire you had before? That drive to prove to Kevin he needed you. You just proved he didn’t.” He waits, letting her sit with it. She doesn’t take the bait. “You were quieter than usual. No post-match interview. No fire. No retaliation. That’s not like you.”
Lilith sighed, running her fingers through her hair. “Maybe I ran out of matches to bleed for.”
She lets the words hang, then finally looks up. Her eyes are colder today. Not sharp. Not angry. Just... dulled.
Dr. Harris took the moment to speak up. “Or maybe losing forced a kind of silence you weren’t ready for.”
She scoffs, shakes her head, curls deeper into herself. “You think I gave a fuck about winning that damn tournament?”
But it sounds defensive. Shaky. She knows it. Dr. Harris always knows it.
“I think you care about not being forgotten. And losing in front of the world makes it easier for them to move on.”
Lilith glares at him. But there’s no venom in it.
“You think I don’t know that? They already forgot me the moment the bell rang. The moment I didn’t pin her.” She leans forward now, voice rising. “Everyone kept looking at me like I was the weak link. Maybe I was. Maybe that’s all I ever am. Static on a broadcast everyone tunes out.”
Dr. Harris nodded, speaking quickly. “Did you feel like you failed yourself?”
“I wasn’t supposed to be the one pinned. That wasn’t the story I wanted.” She looks down at her hands—bandaged. Bruised. Not from the match. From after. From fists against walls, and every mirror in her hotel room.
Dr. Harris closes his book. “That’s the thing about stories, Lilith. Sometimes the audience reads a different chapter than you wrote.” Silence again. The clock ticks. Dr. Harris speaks gently now. “Tell me what losing felt like.”
Lilith scoffs, leans her head back, stares at the ceiling like the answer might drip from it.
“It felt like standing in a crowded room screaming—and no one even looking up.”
She sighs. “Like my pain wasn’t big enough. My rage not loud enough.”
Dr. Harris finally opens his notebook. Not to shield himself—but to record. “So you’re telling me the match wasn’t just about winning. It was about proving you still mattered.”
She looks at him now. Tired. Honest.
“It’s always about that. Every promo. Every punch. Every stomp. I’m not just fighting them—I’m fighting oblivion.” She hugs her knees closer to her chest. “And I’m losing.”
Dr. Harris lowered his glasses looking at her with studious eyes. “You were alone in that match. What did it feel like to fight against someone when you felt like no one was in your corner?”
Lilith laughs—but there’s no humor in it. Just bitterness. “It felt like waiting for a ghost to show up. She was a monster in the ring—but she’s not me. Not really. No one ever is.”
Dr. Harris shook his head. “Do you think you’re easy to be with?”
Lilith flinches. That lands. She hasn't spoken for a long time. Just breathing slowly. Then she finally speaks up “I don’t know how to be soft. Or still. Or... easy. I burn too loud. And people... they either get too close and melt, or they run before the heat hits.”
Dr. Harris leans forward now, elbows on knees. “That match wasn’t a betrayal. It wasn’t abandonment. It was just a loss. A part of the job. And maybe that’s scarier for you than betrayal—because it means sometimes, pain just happens. No enemy. No narrative. Just life.”
Lilith closes her eyes. Breathing in deep. The truth hurts more than the loss.
Dr. Harris speaks up at this point. “Did you look in the mirror after the match?”
She hesitates. Shaking her head. “I smashed it.”
Dr. Harris tilted his head. “Why? Why would you smash a mirror like that?”
Lilith speaks quietly. “Because she looked disappointed. Like she expected more. Like I wasn’t enough.” She opens her eyes, voice trembling. “I couldn’t take her judgment too.”
Dr. Harris took a moment, thinking over his next words. “Maybe that wasn’t judgment. Maybe it was grief.” Lilith frowns. He continues. “Grief for the version of you that thought winning would fill the hole. That thought recognition would equal love. That thought violence would be enough.” She bites her lip and looks away. “What would it mean if people forgot you, Lilith?”
Lilith spoke up now. “It would mean I never mattered.”
Dr. Harris shook his head. “That’s not true.”
Lilith glared at him now. “How would you know?”
He closes the notebook, setting it aside finally. “Because you’re here. Again. Still trying. Still talking. Still asking the mirror to show you something real. That’s more than most people do.”
Lilith’s jaw clenches. She swallows hard.
Dr. Harris stood, walking around the room. “Losing doesn’t make you invisible. It just makes you human.”
She hates that word. “I don’t want to be human. Humans break.”
Dr. Harris shrugged his shoulders. “So do mirrors. But we keep looking anyway.”
Silence. But it’s softer now. Like a blanket, not a blade. Lilith finally uncurls, stretches her legs out, stares at the ceiling again. Her voice, almost a whisper. “What if I’m more than the violence?”
Dr. Harris gives a final nudge. “Then we find out who that woman is.”
Scene closes on Lilith walking out of the room. She doesn’t have the mirror anymore—but something in her posture is different. Not hope. Not yet. But hunger. Not just for blood. But for truth.
Not theatrical darkness, but total sensory deprivation. A sound begins—slow, wet breathing. Uncomfortably close.
A heartbeat joins it, but not the steady thump of life—it’s uneven, arrhythmic, like something learning to beat.
The camera sparks to life. Fuzzy, grainy. We see Lilith in a room too large to be real, walls covered in sheets of cracked mirror, all slightly askew. Each reflection shows her at a different moment—laughing, weeping, seething, silent. None of them blink in sync.
Lilith, low, speaking to herself at first.
“Hell has no throne.
No gold. No velvet. No kingdom.”
She tilts her head at one mirror showing her curled in a fetal position, pale, breathing slow.
“No crowns.
Just teeth. Just heat.
Just the echo of your own voice,
chewing on your thoughts like meat.”
She turns to face the camera, stepping slowly forward, bare feet dragging slightly like they don’t belong to her. Her smile is lazy, not quite kind.
“There is no Queen in Hell.
Except me.”
She walks as she speaks, voice drifting with the cadence of poetry, but underneath it—rage. Deep and rooted like mold in the walls.
“You want to be royalty?
You cling to a title
You believe you earned it.
But it’s all just make believe.”
She shook her head. There was something that could be said about a woman like Victoria. She had seen them before, destroyed them.. She sent them packing. Victoria wasn’t a Queen, she was nothing more than a pawn.
“Victoria—that name,
that title—
you wear it like armor made of mirrors.
Polished. Pretty. Reflective.
But easily destroyed.”
Her hand glides across a jagged mirror edge, slicing open a finger. She doesn’t flinch. Blood streaks downward in slow motion.
“But what happens when no one claps?
What happens when the glass cracks and there’s no one there to see their face in you?”
She turns a mirror toward the camera. It doesn’t reflect the room. It shows fire.
“You think you’re safe because you’ve survived a few trials?
Because you played the wheel and it didn’t break you?
The Roulette Champion.
The False Queen.
Your throne is built on lies
Your Kingdom is crumbling
How ironic.”
She sneers, a twitch of disdain.
“Because I don’t play games.
I unmake them.
And when I pull the tablecloth from the altar,
let’s see if you still feel holy when everything smashes at your feet.”
She spins suddenly, grabbing one of the mirrors and hurling it off screen. The crash is loud. Satisfying. She doesn’t flinch.
“I hear the whispers.
Where's Lilith been?
Why hasn't she spoken?
Is it all just a game?
Did she run away?
Is she broken?”
She shakes her head.
“No.”
Her voice is low, gravelly.
“I was... watching.
Listening to the silence that came after Kevin disappeared.
Not just gone from the ring.
Gone from me.
I listened to the silence after my loss.
My first loss here in Sin City Wrestling.”
Her voice shakes now, a crack of something real breaking through the performance. She grins through it.
“He stopped speaking.
So I ripped my own voice out just to see what silence tasted like.
Spoilers darlings,
It tastes like copper.
Like iron.
Like teeth
Like blood..
And I loved the taste of it.
Every last drop of it.”
Her hand lifts to her lips, stained in a blood red color.
“I talked to the walls.
I screamed at the ceiling.
I ran my fingers through glass, as if it was nothing.
I buried parts of myself in places I can't draw maps to anymore.”
She paces slowly. Every footstep a sentence.
“And when they said my name out loud again,
it didn't feel like a return.
It felt like a summoning.”
A mirror flashes — a version of Lilith with black sclera eyes, grinning too wide.
“You think silence is a void?
No.
Silence is a pressure chamber.
And now I'm the explosion.”
She starts pacing faster now. Her bare feet leave red footprints. We don’t know if it’s paint, blood, or metaphor. We don’t ask.
“And now this little chessboard match.
Queen's Gambit.
How cute.
Like we're all pieces in some tidy little story.
Like we're meant to move only when allowed.”
She jerks her arm sideways, knocking over a stack of chairs arranged like pawns. They clatter and tumble like broken soldiers.
“But I don't move by rules.
I am moved by rage.
I step hand in hand with anger.
I was born from chaos, not crafted by order.”
She laughs softly, almost sweetly. Then when she speaks, again, it’s cold and calculated.
“You call me a threat like it’s an insult.
But that’s just a shape you use to fit me into your script.
Threat. Villain. Monster.
It makes you feel safe, doesn’t it?
Like I’m bound to the stage and the lights and the outcome.”
She kneels briefly, pressing her palm into a splintered reflection.
“But I am not your script.
I am the ink that runs when the paper gets wet with blood.”
She rises again, breathing heavier.
“Song... my partner?
She is silent and precise.
Graceful destruction.
An assassin.
We don’t belong together.
And that’s why it’ll work.”
She crouches low, crawling on all fours with eerie grace. Her face twitches, half-grin, half-growl, feral even.
“Because while she slices clean... I devour.
While she calculates. I thrive in chaos.
She’s graceful and delicate..
I am dangerous and go unchecked.”
She crawls until she’s under a hanging bulb that flickers with her every word.
“We are not two queens.
We are the sword and the scream.
And you don’t survive both.”
She rises again, and the mirrors show flashes: Victoria stumbling, Harper pinned down, Song with eyes like razors.
“She is the assassin in the night.
I am the nightmare that wakes you from sleep,
heart pounding, unable to scream.”
She claps once. Lights flicker in rhythm.
“Together.
We're not a team.
We're a reckoning choreographed in shadow and blood.”
She stops before a massive cracked mirror. The reflection in this one is twisted, delayed, like the footage is lagging. She watches herself... watching herself.
“Harper Mason.
The Strong One.
The workhorse.
The backbone.”
She walks slowly, hands trailing the wall.
“The one who gets things done while others pose, right?
The one they never worry about because you don’t break, do you?”
A chuckle. Bitter.
“You’ll be too busy
Trying to impress the Queen of Lies.
With your attempt at greatness.
Focused on the bullshit she feeds you.
Acting like a starving lunatic.
Slurp it up little one.
It will take more than just her dose.
But we know it’ll fail.”
She stretches her arms out like a crucifixion, head rolling back as if receiving a vision.
“I bet they pat you on the back a lot, huh?
Nice job, Harper.
You did great out there.
You held it together.”
Her voice turns mocking, saccharine.
“So stable. So dependable.
The Future of the business.”
She turns vicious instantly, stepping into the camera’s face.
“But what happens when something unstable grabs you by the spine and yanks?
What happens when it tears you apart?
Rips you open and see’s what makes you tick?
What do you do when there’s no pattern to follow?”
Lilith's fingers twitch. She flexes like she's feeling invisible strings being pulled.
“What if I don’t want to pin you, Harper?
What if I want to ruin you?
What if I want to undo the image they built for you?
Turn that hardworking reputation into gristle between my teeth?”
She laughs. Not loud. Not manic. Just... delighted. Like a child pulling the wings off a fly.
“Because this match isn’t about the Bombshell Roulette Championship.
Such a pretty little thing.
Gold and Glory.
It’s not about status.
It’s not even about winning.”
She walks into the darkness, voice still heard as the camera lingers.
“It’s about the unveiling.
About showing all of you that the roles you've been clinging to
are costumes soaking in gasoline.
And I brought the match.”
We hear the sound of something striking. A flame, brief. Burning hot and fast.
“There is no winner here.
Only survivors.
And even that is temporary.”
Suddenly she’s seated, cross-legged on a floor made of shattered glass, bleeding from a dozen small cuts she doesn't seem to feel. Her eyes flick upward.
“I have lived in my own silence for weeks.
Because I was waiting.
Not for the right moment.
For the wrong one.
The moment where it stops making sense.
Where the crowd can’t chant your name because they’re too busy screaming.”
She begins rocking gently. Humming. Childlike. The sound becomes distorted. She sways side to side a little.
“Where Victoria’s shine turns to smoke.
Where Harper’s balance becomes wobble.
That’s where I thrive.
That’s where I destroy kingdoms.
That’s where I plant flags in the flesh of my enemies.”
She reaches into her mouth and pulls something out slowly. A thread. Long. Dark. Wet. She keeps pulling. It seems endless. Finally she snaps it between her teeth and drops it on the floor like it's a dead snake.
“There is no Queen in Hell.
Except me.
And I don’t sit on a throne.
I pace the walls.
I scratch sigils into stone with fingernails.
Until my fingers bleed.”
She pulls her hand from the floor. Blood. Glass embedded in the skin.
“I make altars out of regret.
And when I speak…”
She leans into the lens. A whisper escaping her lips, as if she’s telling a secret.
“Reality flinches.”
She smirks, her eyes cold and uncaring.
“And when the match ends,
and they scrape the wreckage from the ring…
Don’t call it victory.
Call it a curse fulfilled.”
The lights flicker again. A low, grinding sound in the background—like metal dragging on stone.
“I didn’t come back to be seen.
I came back to make sure you see yourselves
in every single mirror I smash.”
The broken mirror behind her flickers with more visions—screams, fire, empty arenas, reflections without faces.
“Every shard reflects a truth.
And none of them are beautiful.
They all show the truth.
You are far too afraid to face.
In the end, you are a false pretender.”
The lights begin to flicker again. The mirror behind her shows not her reflection, but flashes of her opponents screaming, losing, breaking. None of it has happened yet. Lilith is eerily calm now.
“This is not about victory.
This is baptism.
Not in fire.
Not in water.
In the kind of darkness that stares back.”
She stands one final time, blood dripping from her hands now.
“Victoria, Harper—you haven’t been silent.
You’ve been comfortable.
I will peel the comfort from your bones.
I will make you question why you ever put on boots and called this a sport.
I am not the opponent.
I am the reckoning.”
She steps into a final spotlight. The mirror behind her shatters entirely.
“And when it’s done…
When you’re left coughing blood into your trembling hands…
Don’t look for mercy.
Don’t look for the Queen.”
Beat.
Her smile returns. So soft. So sincere.
“Because there is no Queen in Hell.
Except me.”
She shoves the camera away. The camera crashes to the marble floor and the feed cuts to static.
The dream did not begin.
It ruptured.
A crack in the fabric of silence, a scream without sound. There was no waking into it—only a slipping. A bleeding. Like Lilith had been caught in a riptide pulled not from water, but from memory. Ash blanketed the world. Thick, soft, endless. It coated the ground and the breath, graying the air into something heavy and still. The sky above sagged, swollen with an unseen storm. No stars. No moon. Just pressure—oppressive and constant.
And then—
She felt it. A vibration through the bones. A name shivering up her spine like a long-forgotten melody.
“Lilith.”
Not a shout.
A call.
Wounded. Wanting. Soft, like prayer… of confession.
She turned, though direction had no meaning in this place. There was no ground. No walls. No light. Still, she turned, drawn not by logic but by the tether that had never fully unraveled.
Kevin.
His name echoed in the marrow, burned beneath her ribs. She had buried that ache once—wrapped it in rage, smothered it in silence. But the ember was still there, and now it flared to life like breath on coal.
She moved forward. Slowly. Bare feet sinking into ash that held no heat. The air changed. She crossed into the forest of mirrors. Tall, warped, and cracked, they lined her path like sentinels—each one reflecting not her as she was, but as she had been. Each glass was a moment frozen: Lilith laughing with blood on her hands, Lilith holding Kevin’s jaw tenderly in the corner of the locker room, Lilith walking away while he watched her go.
She stopped before one—its surface trembling. In it, Kevin moved. Not in the past. Not in memory. Now. He wandered, barefoot like her, the ash curling around his ankles. His mouth shaped her name like it hurt. Like it bled.
“Lilith…”
She didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. He was here. She stepped through the mirror. The surface folded around her like warm silk, and the world tore open. She emerged into the same landscape as Kevin—but behind him. Close, but unseen. Not yet.
Not until he needed her.
The dream changed shape around them. Kevin moved through a hallway made of rusted doorways. Each door pulsed with memory. He reached for them like relics, his fingers tracing names he could no longer say out loud. He stopped at the last door. The one still breathing.
It opened like an eye.
Lilith did not follow right away. She watched him disappear through the frame, then stepped in behind him.
The cathedral was made of bone. Familiar. Sacred. A structure she had built for him in dreams she no longer remembered dreaming. Every wall was carved with her name. Every echo was tuned to the sound of his heartbeat. He found the altar. Found the voice she had left behind.
“I’m not your light in the dark, Kevin.
I’m the reason you know the dark has shape.”
He knelt before it like it might forgive him.
The dream cracked again.
And Kevin moved on.
Now the ash glowed.
The path led to a sea of teeth—chattering softly, like laughter underwater. Kevin crossed it barefoot, each step sending ripples through the bone-white tide.
And on the other side— The throne.
Lilith sat upon it, waiting. But not soft. Not safe. She was radiant in ruin. Her skin glowed where the cracks ran deepest, light seeping from every fault line like fire behind shattered glass. The throne beneath her was a monument to violence—blades, bones, broken promises. Her crown was made of silence.
Kevin approached.
Not with awe. With exhaustion. He dropped to his knees. And said her name again.
“Lilith…”
She opened her eyes. And the dream froze. The tether snapped taut between them, binding them like it once had before silence grew teeth. She stepped down from the throne. Her bare feet whispered against the ash-glass floor.
Kevin looked up. His eyes were wreckage. Haunted. Hollowed out.
“Why didn’t you come?” he asked. His voice was low. Broken.
Lilith knelt in front of him. Her hand found his cheek. She smeared ash across it like a benediction.
“I did,” she whispered. “You just didn’t open your eyes.”
His hand found hers, gripping it tightly. “I thought I lost you.”
“You did,” she answered. “But I’m the kind of thing that finds herself again.”
Kevin’s forehead met hers. He breathed her in like absolution. “I need you.”
The words hung there. Not pleading. Not dramatic. Just true. Lilith did not flinch. She held him. Let him collapse into her like the man who once stood behind her in every war. Her arms wrapped around him, and for a moment, neither one moved. Neither one spoke.
And the world held its breath.
The ash stilled.
The knives dissolved.
The sky bled gold and red and black.
In this sacred unreality—this pocket of myth and memory—they were whole again.
Not healed.
But bound.
Lilith stroked Kevin’s hair with trembling fingers. His heartbeat fluttered against her ribs. He was warm and shaking, and she memorized the weight of him in her lap as if she’d lose it all again by morning. She bent close. Whispered against the curve of his ear.
“You called me back.
So now we burn together.”
Camera opens: a flickering flame. It pulses like a heartbeat, center frame. A low hum. No music. Just Lilith’s voice—beginning in darkness.
“There’s a moment in the silence before the scream.
Not peace.
Not calm.
Something else.
A stillness so complete it feels like suffocation.
That’s where I’ve been.
Not resting.
Not healing.
Not hiding.
I’ve been coiled.
Waiting for the right match to strike.
And now… I smell gasoline.”
The flame bursts upward, revealing Lilith in a cracked, cathedral-like space. The walls are draped in decayed banners—old victories turned to ash. The camera zooms in slowly. She sits cross-legged on a throne of broken steel chairs, blood on her hands, her mouth, her eyes too calm.
“Let’s get this out of the way.
I’m not here to make friends.
I’m not here to play fair.
I am not here to be clapped for, posted about, or paraded as the "dark horse" everyone underestimated.
I am the weight you didn’t train for.
I am the moment in the match when your lungs stop pulling air and your brain tells you to quit, and something older keeps moving anyway.”
She stands now, barefoot, each step leaving a smear across the floor like paint—or blood.
“Harper Mason.
Let’s start with you.
The Slaytanic Avenger
The Future.
Everyone’s Favorite Handshake.
You are the ribbon they wrap around mediocrity to make it look noble.
The girl who gets thanked, but never feared.
Congratulated, but never crowned.
You work hard.
You show up.
You hit your marks.
But you’re not dangerous, Harper.
And that’s your death sentence.”
Lilith stops in front of a twisted mirror showing Harper mid-match, shouting, fighting, sweating—yet somehow still fading.
“You mistake consistency for resilience.
But I’ve seen real resilience.
It lives in silence.
It digs with its nails when there are no cameras left.
It doesn’t care about applause.
You think because you’ve survived hard matches, you’re untouchable.
But survival isn’t strength.
It's a delayed consequence.
And I am the consequence.
The overdue debt.
The weight that doesn’t break your back—
…it snaps your spine like brittle chalk.”
The mirror shatters behind her. Lilith doesn’t flinch. She’s already walking.
“Then there’s Victoria.
The Queen.
The Roulette Champion.
The golden veneer over a hollow core.
You walk like you’ve earned something eternal.
Like the belt on your shoulder sanctified your soul.
But I know better.
I know what a crown looks like when it’s desperate.
I know what a throne sounds like when it creaks under the weight of a lie.”
Lilith kneels beside a pile of ruined glass—each shard showing Victoria at her highest moments. She drags her fingers through them like bones.
“You need the crowd.
You need the crown.
You need the throne.
You need the title.
You need the illusion.
You need the adoration.
Because if they stop looking at you,
you cease to exist,
To matter.
Because you didn’t have that
From your parents.
You’re not the Queen, Victoria.
You’re the mirror.
And when I crack it—
no more reflections.
Just shards.
And if I cut my hands doing it?
So be it.
I’ve bled for worse.”
She laughs now, low, bitter. She stands, brushing dust from her knees.
“And Song…
My sweet, sharp-edged shadow.
The one they call an assassin.
The calm in the storm.
You’ve been silent.
You’ve been watching.
And I respect that.
But hear me clearly, partner:
If you falter—
if you freeze when it’s time to carve,
if you hesitate when it’s time to strike—
I will leave you behind.
Not because I want to.
Because this world demands it.”
Her tone softens—not kind, but intimate. Like a mother warning her child before a storm.
“I didn’t choose you because I believed in unity.
I chose you because I believed in your precision.
Your stillness.
Your ability to kill quietly.
But this isn’t a silent death, Song.
This is a blood opera.
And if your blade wavers—if your heart flutters instead of stabs—
I will make sure you pay the price.”
She walks into a narrow hallway of red light. The walls breathe. The floor pulses. It’s more alive than architecture.
“There’s no room in this war for softness.
No space for mercy.
Not when Harper still believes she can “outwork” the abyss.
Not when Victoria clutches her title like it will keep her safe from the void.
Not when the crowd thinks this is just another Roulette match.
It isn’t.
It’s a reckoning.
It’s a sacrifice.
It’s a ritual.
And I’m the knife.”
She stops at a door covered in symbols. Her hand touches it. It peels open, revealing a cold, white ring under flickering lights.
“This ring?
It’s not a stage.
It’s not a proving ground.
It’s not the place where stories get finished.
It’s the pit.
And when you fall in?
You don’t crawl out the same.
Ask anyone.
Ask the ones I buried beneath silence.”
She enters the ring now, bare feet smudging red across the mat. She crouches low, voice dropping to something sacred and terrifying.
“I’m not here to win.
Winning is too small for me.
Too tidy.
No.
I’m here to unmake.
To peel skin from myth.
To chew the sinew of your reputations
until all that’s left is bone and the crowd's confusion.”
She tilts her head, almost smiling.
“When this match ends,
Harper will be asking where the mat went—
because she’ll be buried beneath it.”
Victoria will be clutching the Roulette belt like a lifeline, unaware that I already fed it to the fire.
“And Song…
If you fail to do what needs doing—
if you forget what we are,
forget the dance of blade and shadow we promised to be—
then you’ll find yourself alone.
And I’ll leave your name in my wake like all the others.
Etched into the wall of the ones who almost mattered.”
She leans into the camera now. Eyes unblinking. Voice barely above a whisper.
“This isn’t a promo.
It’s a sermon.
A warning.
A prophecy.
There is no Queen in Hell.
Except me.
And I didn’t come here to rule.
I came here to ruin.”
Cut to black. The last thing heard is the sound of breathing—too close. Too calm. Then, a whisper.
“See you soon.”
