Rain drummed softly against the window of Dr. Harris’s office, a low, steady rhythm like a distant heartbeat. Lilith sat curled in the same leather chair, her knees drawn slightly in. She was dressed in black this time — a hoodie zipped halfway, sleeves pushed up. The air was tense, like something unspoken had been trailing her all morning.

Dr. Harris set down her pen and gave a gentle smile. “It’s good to see you again, Lilith.”

Lilith offered a slow nod. “I’ve been dreaming again.”

“About Wonderland?” He asked.

Lilith let out a hollow laugh. “Yeah. But it’s worse now. It’s not just the Red Queen anymore.”

Dr. Harris tilted her head slightly. “Tell me what you saw.”

Lilith’s eyes grew distant. “It’s like… I’m back in that warped place. But this time, the board is bigger. More players. Victoria’s still there — the Red Queen, regal and cruel. Every move she makes is calculated. She’s not just trying to win. She’s trying to erase me.”

Dr. Harris waited, patient.

“But then there’s Harper,” Lilith continued, her voice tightening. “She’s not loud like Victoria. She’s precise. Cold. She moves like a knight — one of those card soldiers. Everything she does is by the book. No wasted motion. She makes me feel… sloppy. Emotional. Weak.”

“And Song?” Dr. Harris asked.

Lilith’s lips pressed into a thin line. “She doesn’t even follow the rules. She’s the Jabberwocky — chaos made flesh. One second she’s laughing, the next she’s tearing the dream apart at the seams. She scares me the most, because I don’t know who she is until she’s already broken something.”

Dr. Harris’s gaze stayed steady. “Sounds like each of them represents something different. Something you’re wrestling with.”

Lilith let out a slow breath. “Victoria’s control. Harper’s discipline. Song’s unpredictability. And me? I’m just… Alice. Wandering around trying to figure out which version of myself I need to be to survive.”


Dr. Harris leaned forward slightly. “What if you’re not meant to become them? What if you’re meant to confront what they bring out in you?”

Lilith was quiet for a long moment. “That’s the thing. I know what they trigger. Victoria makes me feel like I have to dominate just to matter. Harper makes me second-guess every instinct I have. And Song — she’s like the part of me I’ve always been afraid of. The unhinged part. The one that doesn’t know when to stop.”

“You’ve just described three very real parts of the human psyche,” Dr. Harris said gently. “The tyrant. The perfectionist. The chaos.”

Lilith blinked.

“Victoria is the part of you that believes power is only real when it controls. Harper is the part that fears mistakes so much, she’d rather feel nothing than risk failure. And Song? She’s the impulse to burn it all down when the pain becomes too much.”

Lilith’s throat tightened. “So they’re not just my opponents. They’re me.”

“In some way, yes,” Dr. Harris said. “Or at least, reflections of the conflicts inside you.”

Lilith sat back, her hand rubbing absently at her temple. “God. No wonder I’m exhausted.”

“Fighting them in the ring is only part of it,” Dr. Harris said. “Fighting what they represent inside you — that’s where the real weight lies.”

Lilith’s voice was low. “I don’t know if I can do all of that. I thought I just had to be stronger. Hit harder. But now it feels like I have to untangle my whole identity just to get through one match.”

“It’s not about untangling all at once,” Dr. Harris said. “It’s about recognizing what part of you each of these women brings to the surface — and choosing what you want to do with that.”

Lilith swallowed. “Victoria makes me want to fight dirty.”

Dr. Harris raised an eyebrow.

“Not like… literally,” Lilith clarified. “Just — emotionally. She gets under my skin. Makes me want to become like her, just to prove I can.”

“But then you’d be giving her the narrative.”

Lilith nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

“And Harper?” Dr. Harris prompted.

Lilith sighed. “She makes me feel like I’ll never be enough. She’s so clean. Controlled. Like everything I’m not. When I watch her train, she’s surgical. I feel like a street brawler next to her.”

“Is there anything about her that you admire?”

Lilith hesitated. “Her discipline. I just… I hate how small she makes me feel.”

“And Song?”

Lilith closed her eyes. “She makes me afraid of myself. There’s something in her that I recognize. That need to destroy before being destroyed. Sometimes, I look at her and wonder if that’s where I’m headed if I lose my grip.”

Dr. Harris let a moment pass. “What do you fear happens if you lose control?”

Lilith’s jaw clenched. “I stop caring. About the fight. About who gets hurt. About myself.”

Dr. Harris’s voice softened. “You’ve spent so long being the underdog that you’ve tied your identity to the struggle. But what happens if you’re no longer clawing your way up? Who are you without the fight?”

Lilith opened her mouth — then paused. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe that’s what this match is really about,” Dr. Harris said. “Not proving you can beat Victoria, or out-discipline Harper, or outwit Song. But proving that Lilith Locke can stand in the center of all those forces — and still be herself.”

Lilith breathed out slowly. “Even if I lose?”

“Especially if you lose,” Dr. Harris said. “Because that’s where identity is tested most — when things don’t go your way.”

Lilith nodded, a faint flicker of resolve building behind her tired eyes.

“You said something last time,” Dr. Harris continued. “That you wanted to face them not just with strength, but with heart. Does that still feel true?”

Lilith thought. “More than ever. Because if I walk out of that ring, even in defeat, but still knowing I chose me… then maybe that’s a win too.”

Dr. Harris smiled. “That’s what Alice did, after all. She didn’t conquer Wonderland. She woke up from it.”

Lilith looked toward the window, where the rain had softened to mist. “Maybe I don’t need to beat the Red Queen. Maybe I just need to show her — and everyone else — that I don’t belong to her world.”

“She plays a game of fear,” Dr. Harris said. “But you don’t have to.”

Lilith stood slowly, a different kind of tension in her shoulders now. Not the weight of dread — but the tension of someone readying herself for something deeper than a match.

“You’re not alone in this,” Dr. Harris reminded her gently. “Even when it feels like it.”

Lilith gave a small nod. “I don’t need to be Alice becoming the queen. I need to be the girl who learned to survive the madness — and still walked away with her name intact.”

“And that,” Dr. Harris said with warmth, “is power.”

Lilith smiled faintly, tilting her head to the side. “Time to flip the board.”

---

I. Descent into the Dream

The air shimmered with electricity, soft ripples undulating across reality as Lilith Locke drifted into unconsciousness. One moment, she was lying in her bed, staring at the ceiling, the shadows of self-doubt wrapping around her like cold vines. Her fingers curled instinctively around the edge of the blanket, as if anchoring herself to the waking world. Her heart pounded with questions she had no words for. Who was she when no one was watching? What waited for her in the silence?

Then everything shifted.

The still darkness of her room peeled away like paper, and she was somewhere else entirely.

A forest of glass trees stretched around her, the trunks smooth and impossibly tall, their branches clinking like wind chimes in a phantom breeze. Shards of amber and jade glittered among the foliage, casting fractured beams of light that danced across her skin. The air tasted like static and something sweet — like honeysuckle mixed with ozone.

Her boots crunched softly on a path of crushed gemstones, each step echoing with crystalline resonance. Lilith glanced down — the ground beneath her shimmered, as though the path had been paved with the remnants of forgotten dreams. Above her, the sky was not sky but water — an immense ocean suspended upside down. Silver fish swam lazily through cloudlike currents, their scales catching the bioluminescent glow of drifting seaweed. A whale the size of a cathedral passed silently overhead, its call reverberating through her chest like a distant drumbeat.

Her breath fogged in front of her, though the air was neither hot nor cold. She walked forward, not out of curiosity but compulsion, the weight of something vast and unknown dragging at her shoulders. She didn’t remember deciding to move — the dream moved her. It was like being carried by a tide beneath the surface of her own mind.

Whispers echoed faintly around her. Not voices, but fragments — her own thoughts, looping back at her in twisted echoes: You’re not ready. You’ll fall apart. You’re alone.

She clenched her fists and kept walking.

Soon, the trees thinned, revealing a clearing encircled by ancient stone pillars wrapped in silver vines. At the center, the path forked into three. Each path pulsed with ominous energy, as if alive with intent. Above them floated three symbols, suspended midair: a crimson crown glowing like a dying star, its facets pulsing with heat and menace; a silver sword, perfectly still, humming with restrained force as though waiting to be drawn; and a swirling vortex of shifting color, chaotic and hypnotic, that seemed to spin in time with her heartbeat.

Lilith stared at them, her breath shallow. She didn’t know what lay beyond each path — not exactly. But she knew what they meant. Not intellectually, but emotionally. Viscerally. These symbols were her. Or at least, pieces of her. They tugged at memories she’d buried, fears she’d silenced, desires she’d disguised as ambition.

The crown. The need to prove herself, to be seen, to conquer not just her enemies but the whispering voices inside.

The sword. Discipline. Control. The mask she wore so no one would see her flinch.

The vortex. Chaos. Emotion. The part of her that danced on the edge of losing herself completely.

Lilith swallowed, her throat dry. She could turn back. She could let the dream fade. But she knew — this wasn’t just a dream. It was a reckoning. A trial.

She squared her shoulders.

"Okay," she whispered to herself, steeling her jaw as the wind stirred her hair. "Let’s get this over with."

She stepped toward the path of the crown, and the world shifted again. Lilith stepped onto the path of the crown. The ground beneath her boots turned from gemstone to marble, then to crimson velvet. The forest vanished like smoke, replaced by the grandeur of an immense palace corridor. The walls stretched upward, impossibly tall, draped in banners of red silk and stitched gold. The air was perfumed with roses — heavy, almost cloying — and the scent carried an undertone of iron.

The carpet squished beneath her feet, thick and plush like a tongue. Mirrors lined the hallway, but none reflected her true form. Instead, in each one stood Victoria — the Red Queen — watching her with cold, amused disdain. She changed in each reflection: in some, dressed in armor; in others, draped in royal finery; but always with the same smirk, the same unrelenting judgment.

Lilith moved forward. The deeper she went, the heavier the air became, pressing against her chest like invisible hands. Her lungs burned. Her insecurities whispered with every step.

You’ll never be her. You’ll never be enough.

The doors at the end of the hall flew open with a whipcrack that echoed through her bones. Beyond them sprawled a throne room — a cathedral of ambition. Crimson light poured through stained-glass windows shaped like swords, and every surface gleamed with polished arrogance. The ceiling arched like a cathedral’s dome, but instead of saints and angels, the mural above depicted Lilith herself — in varying poses of defeat.

At the center, a throne clawed its way toward the sky. It was monstrous — a skeletal structure of thorns, bones, and molten gold. And upon it sat Victoria. Regal. Imposing. Her crimson gown billowed like fire, woven from living roses whose thorns pierced her skin. She bled, but wore it like a crown.

“Late, as always,” she purred, her voice like wine over broken glass. Her eyes gleamed — sharp enough to pierce through armor and skin.

Lilith straightened, her voice steady. “I didn’t come here to bow.”

Victoria descended the steps, every movement a calculated display of dominance. “Oh, I don’t want your submission,” she said, circling Lilith like a shark. “I want your acknowledgment. That you want to be me.”

“I don’t,” Lilith spat, but the words trembled on her tongue.

Victoria smiled, slow and knowing. “You do. You want the crown. The power. The control. Don’t lie — it’s the only way you can make sense of the chaos around you. Isn’t it?”

Lilith turned to follow her movements, resisting the rising panic. “Wanting power doesn’t mean I want to become a tyrant.”

“No?” Victoria tilted her head. “You fight to be seen, to win, to dominate the narrative — every move you make is about control. About silencing the voice inside that says you’re not enough.”

“That voice isn’t me.”

“It is. And I am the version of you that answers it. I am what you become when you stop pretending to be small.”

Lilith flinched as the mirrors in the room began to shimmer. Each one now reflected her — not Victoria — but distorted. In some she was monstrous, eyes hollow with ambition. In others, she was regal, untouchable. In one, she wore Victoria’s crown.

“I don’t want to rule through fear,” Lilith said, voice shaking. “I want to rise because I’ve earned it.”

Victoria paused, and for a moment, her expression flickered. “Then earn it,” she said, her tone suddenly sharp. “But know this — compassion makes you weak. You hesitate, you fall. That’s the truth.”

Lilith stepped closer. “Compassion isn’t weakness. It’s courage. Without it, the crown is just a cage.”

The air cracked. The palace trembled. The mirrors shattered, one by one, shards raining like stars. The throne split down the middle. Victoria’s crown tilted — just slightly — and the roses on her dress began to wilt.

“Without control,” she hissed, “you are nothing.”

“Without compassion,” Lilith said firmly, “you’re alone.”

A gust of wind tore through the hall, and the walls peeled away like pages. Light surged around her, blinding and cleansing. Victoria’s figure dissolved into petals and smoke.

Lilith stood in the center of the crumbling throne room, breath heaving, heart pounding. For a brief moment, she felt both heavier and lighter — as if she’d shed a skin she didn’t know she was wearing.

Then the dream shifted again, carrying her into the next trial.

III. The Silver Sword: Facing the Knight

Lilith landed hard on a field of obsidian sand, the impact driving the air from her lungs. She coughed, struggling to her knees as wind cut across her skin like razors. The sky above was an endless eclipse — a black sun suspended in a halo of frozen fire, casting the battlefield in shifting hues of silver and shadow.

At the center of the field stood Harper — the Playing Card Knight. Her armor gleamed like liquid mercury, etched with intricate patterns resembling suits of cards. Her helmet visor hid her eyes, but the rest of her body radiated rigidity. Precision. Resolve. She stood as if carved from the code of a warrior’s creed.

Harper did not speak. She simply raised her sword. It pulsed with white fire, humming with a note that rang deep in Lilith’s bones.

Lilith slowly rose to her feet, brushing grit from her palms. “Do I get to ask questions this time, or are we just going straight into judgment?”

Harper charged.

The first clash struck like a thunderclap. Steel against something deeper — spirit, will. Lilith barely dodged, her instincts saving her from a devastating blow. Harper’s movements were mechanical perfection — every strike measured, elegant, lethal.

“You think discipline is cold,” Harper’s voice echoed between attacks, like metal dragged across stone. “But it’s what saves you when the chaos comes.”

Lilith grunted, rolling out of the way of a sweeping strike. “No, I think it’s what isolates you. What turns people into statues.”

Another clash. Sparks flew, and the impact reverberated through her arms.

“You flail through life,” Harper growled, her voice now edged with disdain. “No structure. No plan. Just emotion. Chaos. Reaction.”

“I feel everything,” Lilith shot back, ducking low and delivering a desperate counterstrike. “That’s not weakness — that’s strength. That’s what makes me human.”

“You think strength comes from passion?” Harper thundered, knocking Lilith’s weapon from her hand and slamming her to the ground. “You’ll burn out. You’ll break.”

Lilith gasped, pinned beneath the knight’s weight. Her muscles screamed. The sword hovered over her chest, a glowing judgment.

“No,” she said, voice cracking, “I’ll burn bright.”

With a guttural cry, she surged upward, grabbing the burning blade with both hands. Pain seared through her palms, white-hot and blinding — but she held on. Her fingers tightened despite the agony.

“I respect discipline,” she said through clenched teeth, eyes blazing, “but I won’t let it own me.”

For a moment, everything froze.

Then — a hairline crack split down the front of Harper’s helmet. The armor trembled. Slowly, the visor fell away, clanging softly to the ground.

Beneath it was not Harper’s face.

It was Lilith’s.

Not the defiant Lilith, not the firebrand. But a tired, quiet version. Worn down. Hollow-eyed. Still standing, but at what cost?

Lilith stared at herself. She offered a hand.

The mirrored Harper hesitated… then took it.

The obsidian battlefield rippled. The sword’s flame extinguished. The sky uncoiled like a ribbon. And the ground gave way.

Lilith fell, once more.

Onward to the next reckoning.

IV. The Swirling Vortex: Embracing the Chaos

Lilith’s sense of footing dissolved entirely. The ground beneath her vanished like mist, and with it, any illusion of safety or stability. She found herself suspended in a realm that defied the laws she knew — a boundless void without horizon, without gravity, where nothing was fixed. Instead, she drifted weightlessly, adrift in a sea of sensation and memory.

Colors roiled around her in impossible hues — iridescent blues that shifted into burning oranges, deep purples bleeding into molten gold. The air hummed, thick with electricity and emotion, pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat. Images flashed past in bursts: a childhood laugh echoing down a sunlit hallway; the sharp sting of tears beneath a bruised eye; a triumphant scream beneath bright arena lights; the cold loneliness of an empty room. Each memory was a starburst of light and shadow, woven tightly with the others into a tapestry of who she was.

Lilith’s breath came unevenly, though the void had no air. She felt raw, exposed — like every hidden corner of herself was turned inside out. It was disorienting, frightening. Yet beneath the fear, there was a strange beauty: a wild, vibrant pulse of life.

From this chaos emerged Song.

She was a tempest incarnate — shifting, elusive, untamable. One moment, Song was a child, her feet bare and dancing lightly across a meadow of impossible flowers that bloomed and faded in seconds. Her laughter was pure, ringing like crystal bells, carrying a sense of wonder and freedom.

Then, like a thunderclap, Song morphed. Her skin cracked like fractured glass, revealing a monstrous form beneath — sharp claws dripping shards of light, eyes blazing with fierce, untethered energy. Her voice split and multiplied, echoing in the void: playful, cruel, haunting.

“I am freedom!” Song cried, spinning in a cyclone of color and sound. “I am the storm you bury under layers of calm and control! The chaos you deny but cannot escape!”

Lilith reached out instinctively, fingers brushing against the swirling winds of the vortex. The storm tugged at her with a magnetic pull, wild and disorienting. “I’m not trying to bury you,” she said softly, voice trembling but steady. “I want to understand. I want to know why you’re here.”

Song’s laughter twisted, a mixture of mirth and menace that sent ripples through the air. “Understand? You think you can box me into reason? No. You want order, rules, control. You want to cage me so you can breathe easy.”

Lilith’s chest tightened. “I don’t want control to suffocate me. I want peace.”

“Peace?” Song’s many faces flickered, contorting into masks of rage and sorrow. “Peace is a graveyard! Stillness that kills the soul! You fear me because I am the unknown, the chaos you refuse to face.”

Lilith closed her eyes, summoning courage from the storm within. “I fear you because you remind me of all the parts of myself I keep locked away — the anger, the vulnerability, the unpredictability. But you’re not the enemy. You’re a part of me.”

A moment of silence stretched between them. Song’s form softened, swirling slower, the harsh edges melting into shimmering light. “You fear losing control,” she whispered. “But control is an illusion. You cannot master the storm — only learn to dance with it.”

Lilith felt tears welling in her eyes, not of sorrow but release. “I want to stop fighting you. I want to embrace who I am — the chaos and the calm.”

Song extended a hand, her form shifting between childlike grace and fierce power. Lilith took it without hesitation. The vortex around them exploded into radiant light, wrapping Lilith in warmth and energy.

She felt whole.

The chaos no longer threatened her but gave her strength. It was the fire that forged her resilience, the river that carried her forward. The storm was not something to control or fear — it was a part of the journey, as vital as the quiet moments of peace she craved.

Lilith opened her eyes and smiled, a fierce, serene smile that spoke of acceptance and power. She was a fighter. A dreamer. A survivor. Not in spite of the chaos, but because of it.

And in that swirling vortex, she found herself — complete, unbroken, ready.

V. Integration and Awakening

Lilith stood once more at the crossroads.

But this time, the landscape around her had changed. The air no longer crackled with tension or uncertainty; it was still—reverent, as though the dream itself waited in silence to witness her next breath. The trees around the clearing, once glassy and cold, had softened into shapes of living crystal, pulsing with color and life. The path beneath her feet felt solid, real, not made of illusion but of choices—of truths faced and trials survived.

And above her, the three symbols hovered. The crimson crown, the silver sword, and the swirling vortex. No longer rigid in place, no longer tugging her in separate directions, they now orbited her slowly like celestial bodies. Each pulsed with steady light—different, yet in perfect harmony. She didn’t flinch from them. She didn’t brace. She simply stood in their presence, her shoulders squared, her spine tall.

They were no longer adversaries.

They were hers.

The crown had once dazzled her with the promise of supremacy—of recognition, of victory at any cost. Now, its glow was gentler, dignified. Not the hollow radiance of ego, but the deep, earned light of self-worth. Lilith reached toward it and felt the warmth of validation—not from the world, but from herself. She was allowed to want to win. She was allowed to lead. Power didn’t make her unworthy. It made her responsible.

The sword gleamed with sharper clarity than before, its edge no longer a threat but a boundary. Discipline. Integrity. Devotion to the craft. Lilith understood now—it hadn’t come to punish her, but to anchor her. To give shape to her fire without extinguishing it. She thought of Harper—the mask, the armor, the rules. And she thought of the vulnerability behind that visor. She bowed her head for a moment, in respect. In acceptance.

Then there was the vortex. The living chaos. It still spun wild and beautiful, a storm of sensation and raw emotion. The Song. The fear. The fire. Lilith stepped closer, not to contain it—but to feel it. To join it. Inside that whirlpool had been her oldest wounds—grief she had denied, rage she had misnamed, joy she had distrusted. Now she let them surge through her, no longer something to cage, but something to channel.

Her eyes welled again, but she didn’t wipe the tears away. They weren’t signs of weakness. They were proof that she still felt, still cared, still fought.

A wind swept through the crossroads. Not cold. Not warm. Just real. It rustled her hair and rippled her clothes, carrying with it the scent of earth after rain, the smell of possibility. The dream had given her what it could. The time for questions was over. It was time for answers—her answers.

She exhaled, long and slow. It felt like shedding a skin. Beneath the weight of the moment, something uncoiled in her chest—grief, maybe. Or relief. Or a kind of love she hadn’t known how to name before now.

Acceptance.

She opened her arms, and the symbols came to her—not to be wielded, not to be dominated, but to be welcomed. They entered her body in waves of light: the crown settling in her heart like a sun, the sword fusing into her spine like steel, the vortex unfolding behind her eyes like galaxies. She didn’t need to become them.

She already was.

Above her, the sky shifted. The endless sea turned once more to sky, a sunrise breaking gently over a dreamscape horizon. But this was no ordinary dawn. The colors were richer, impossibly vivid—amethyst clouds lit with golden fire, cerulean winds curling like silk. The world itself seemed to exhale with her.

The dream did not end. It completed.

And in that moment, Lilith woke.

Her breath hitched. Tears lined her cheeks, cool against skin flushed with sleep. She didn’t wipe them away. These weren’t tears of sorrow. They were the kind of tears that came when you finally saw yourself clearly. When you stopped hiding from your reflection.

She looked around the room slowly while in bed. The real world wrapped around her, familiar and different. The ache in her body was still there—bruises from training, stiffness from restless nights—but the ache in her spirit was gone. In its place was something solid. Grounded.

She was ready.

Not just for the match. Not just to step into the ring. She was ready to face the voices, the doubts, the expectations. She was ready to carry everything she had seen, everything she had felt, into the waking world—not as burdens, but as truths.

Because she was no longer trying to be Alice. No longer trying to follow the story someone else had written for her. She was done shrinking. Done compartmentalizing.

She had walked through her Wonderland. Through every mirror. Every monster.

She had faced her queens and knights, her chaos and her grief.

And she had come out the other side.

Not unscarred.

But whole.

Not perfect.

But true.

And that—she now knew—was what real strength looked like.

...eyes opened.

She lay still for only a second. One breath. Two. Then she sat up.

No hesitation. No confusion. Just clarity — like the calm that settles after a storm has torn through everything false and left only truth behind.

The room around her was unchanged: the same cracked ceiling, the scent of sweat and steel in the air. But she had changed. And the fire in her chest wasn’t fear — it was fuel.

Lilith swung her legs over the side of the bed, planting her feet on the cold floor like a declaration. She didn’t shake. Didn’t blink. Her hands, once clenched in doubt, were steady now. Ready.

Tonight was the match.

She pulled on her gear in silence. Every strap, every buckle, every layer — not just armor, but ritual. A way of saying: I’m still here. I know who I am now.

In the mirror, she met her own gaze. No masks. No echo of Victoria’s crown, Harper’s helmet, or Song’s storm. Just Lilith — fire and steel and soul.

“I’m not walking in to prove I belong,” she said aloud. “I know I do.”

Her voice didn’t waver.

“They’re expecting the fighter who flinched. The girl who second-guessed. The chaos they could control. But I’ve danced with all of it now. And I didn’t break. I built something.”

Her lips curled into a slow, unshakable smile.

“This match isn’t a test. It’s a conclusion. Of everything they tried to make me forget.”

She stood, a storm contained in a body of discipline. A queen who chose her own crown. A warrior who fought with open hands. A storm that no longer raged — but roared on command.

Lilith opened the door.

Time to win.

She stepped into the hallway, each footfall deliberate, her shadow stretching long behind her like a legend catching up. The hum of distant lights overhead didn’t buzz — it thrummed, pulsing with the same rhythm in her chest. Every sense was sharpened. The world didn’t blur now; it came into focus.

As she walked, memories flickered — every loss, every sneer, every time they said she wasn’t enough. Not fuel for rage, but reminders. Markers of how far she’d come.

This wasn’t about proving them wrong.

It was about proving herself right.

And she would.

Almighty Fire
semana del 18 de 25 de mayo de 2025

Some people talk about making history. Me? I am history. Every milestone in this division has my fingerprints on it. Every record that matters has my name attached to it.

While others are busy trying to make a splash, I’ve already built an ocean. And yet, there are still whispers—people asking if Mercedes Vargas still has what it takes. Let me make this clear: I don’t just have what it takes—I have more than anyone else in this business ever will.

So go ahead and doubt me. Question my place here. Because every time you do, I’ll remind you why I’m not just part of the story—I’m the one writing it. The author, the headline, the whole damn book.

Let’s get one thing straight: this division didn’t exist before I stepped into the ring. Sure, there were competitors, there were matches, there were fleeting moments of brilliance. But it wasn’t until Mercedes Vargas arrived that this division found its identity. I didn’t just raise the bar-I became the bar. I set the standard, and everyone else has been chasing me ever since.

People love to talk about eras. The golden era, the modern era, the next big thing. But eras don’t define me. I define eras. I’m the constant, the throughline, the name that echoes through every championship reign, every main event, every single record book. When you talk about the greatest, you’re talking about me-whether you want to admit it or not.

Do you know what it’s like to carry a division on your back? To be the one everyone looks to when the lights are brightest and the pressure is suffocating? I do. I’ve done it for years. I’ve carried this division through its darkest days and into its brightest moments. When others faltered, I thrived. When others doubted, I delivered.

Every accolade, every title, every milestone-I earned them. Not because it was handed to me, but because I took it. I demanded excellence from myself and from everyone around me. I made everyone better just by being here. That’s what a true champion does. That’s what a legend does.

People talk about making a splash, as if a single moment of glory is enough to define a career. Let me tell you something: I didn’t come here to make a splash. I built the ocean. I created the environment where greatness could thrive. I made it possible for others to dream of being the best, because I showed them what the best looks like.

Every record that matters? My name is on it. Longest reigns, most defenses, most main events, most talked-about matches-go ahead, check the stats. The numbers don’t lie. And neither do the memories. Every time you remember a classic moment in this division, you remember me. Because I was there. I made it happen.

But still, the whispers persist. The doubters, the critics, the so-called experts who think they know what it takes to stay on top. They ask if Mercedes Vargas still has it. They wonder if the fire still burns, if the hunger is still there.

Let me answer that with the same honesty I bring to every fight: The fire never left. The hunger only grows. I wake up every single day with one goal-to prove that I am, and always will be, the standard. The one everyone measures themselves against. The one who makes history, not just lives in it.

Time is undefeated, they say. But time has nothing on me. While others fade, I remain. While others lose their edge, I sharpen mine. I evolve, I adapt, I overcome. That’s why I’m still here, still dominating, still rewriting the record books.

Every new challenger that steps up thinks they’re the one to finally take me down. They come in with their hype, their momentum, their dreams of glory. And every single time, they find out the hard way that dreams don’t beat reality. Hype doesn’t beat experience. And momentum? It crashes against the immovable force that is Mercedes Vargas.

Go ahead, doubt me. Question my place here. Whisper behind my back, write your articles, make your predictions. Because every time you do, you give me fuel. Every time you question my greatness, you remind me why I fight. Not for your approval, not for your validation-but to remind you, and everyone else, that I am the story. I am the reason you watch. I am the one you can’t ignore.

People ask me what it takes to be the best. They want to know the secret, the magic formula. There is no secret. There’s only hard work, sacrifice, and an unbreakable will. I’ve given everything to this company. My blood, my sweat, my tears. I’ve sacrificed time, relationships, comfort-because greatness demands it. I didn’t get here by accident. I got here because I refused to settle for anything less than the best. I pushed myself harder than anyone else. I trained longer, fought harder, endured more. And I did it all because I wanted to be remembered. Not just as a champion, but as a legend.

Some people are content with a moment in the spotlight. They win a title, have a great match, and then fade away. Not me. I’m not interested in moments. I’m interested in legacy. I want my name to be spoken with reverence, with awe, with respect. I want every competitor who steps into this division to know that they’re walking in my footsteps.

And they do. Whether they admit it or not, every woman who laces up her boots in this division owes a debt to Mercedes Vargas. I paved the way. I broke the barriers. I shattered the glass ceilings. I made it possible for others to dream bigger, to reach higher, to believe that they could be the best.

I’m not done. Not by a long shot. As long as there are records to break, titles to win, and doubters to silence, I’ll be here. I’ll be fighting, striving, pushing the limits of what’s possible. Because that’s what I do. That’s who I am.

I don’t rest on my laurels. I don’t coast on past glory. Every day is a new challenge, a new opportunity to prove that I am still the best. And every time I step into the ring, I remind the world why Mercedes Vargas is the name that matters.

To the next generation, I say this: Don’t just aim to be good. Don’t just aim to be great. Aim to be legendary. Aim to be unforgettable. But understand this-being legendary takes more than talent. It takes heart. It takes resilience. It takes a willingness to do whatever it takes, no matter the cost.

If you want to be the best, you have to beat the best. And I am the best. I welcome every challenger, every upstart, every dreamer who thinks they have what it takes. Step up. Bring your best. But understand that you’re stepping into my world. You’re playing by my rules. And in my world, there’s only one queen.

It’s easy to talk a big game. It’s easy to call yourself the future, the next big thing, the one who’s going to change everything. But talk is cheap. Actions matter. Results matter. And nobody has delivered more results than me.

I’ve beaten the best. I’ve survived the toughest. I’ve outlasted the brightest. I’ve done it all, and I’m still here, still standing, still dominating. That’s not luck. That’s not coincidence. That’s greatness.

You want to know if I still have what it takes? Watch me. Watch me dominate, watch me win, watch me make history-again and again and again. Because that’s what I do. That’s who I am.

The flame that burns inside me is brighter than ever. The desire to be the best, to stay the best, to prove the doubters wrong-it never fades. It only grows stronger. Every challenge, every obstacle, every setback-it only makes me better.

My story isn’t finished. There are still chapters to be written, records to be broken, moments to be created. And every single one of them will have my fingerprints on it. Because I am not just part of the story-I’m the one writing it.

So to everyone who doubts me, who questions my place, who wonders if Mercedes Vargas is still the standard-keep watching. Keep doubting. Because every time you do, I’ll remind you why I am, and always will be, the greatest this division has ever seen.

I am history. I am the standard. I am the ocean in which all others swim. And as long as there is breath in my body, I will continue to dominate, to inspire, to lead. Because that’s what legends do. That’s what Mercedes Vargas does.

So go ahead-make your splash. Try to make your mark. But remember: you’re playing in my ocean. And in my ocean, there’s only one name that matters.

Mercedes Vargas.

The past, the present, the future.

The one writing the story.

It begins at Into the Void.


M O N D A Y ♦ P A R I S, F R A N C E

[It wasn’t the Eiffel Tower’s majesty that greeted Mercedes Vargas on her first morning in Paris, but a stubborn vending machine in a crowded Métro station. Wrestling legend, world traveler, and—at this moment—thirsty, Mercedes glared at the machine as if it were a rival in the ring. The machine, naturally, was winning.

Mercedes jabs the buttons again, the line behind her growing longer by the second. She could feel the eyes—some amused, some impatient. She sighs, tapping her perfectly manicured nails impatiently against the glass. You’d think in the city of lights, they’d have figured out bottled water by now. 

A tourist in a beret gave her a sympathetic shrug, as if to say, “Welcome to Paris.” Mercedes rolls her eyes. She’d faced tougher opponents in the ring, but this machine was testing her patience.

Finally, with a well-placed hip check (she’s still got it), the bottle drops. Mercedes flashes a victory grin, grabs her water, and struts out—straight into a puddle. She sighs, “C’est la vie,” shakes off her heel, and keeps moving.

After her hard-fought victory over the vending machine (and a minor defeat by a puddle), Mercedes escapes the Métro’s chaos and heads above ground. Soon, she finds herself at a bustling sidewalk café, determined to embrace the Parisian lifestyle. The air hums with chatter, clinking glasses, and the occasional accordion melody drifting from a nearby street musician. She flips open a small menu, her French textbook tucked in her bag feeling like a distant memory. She orders in her best French—“Un café, s’il vous plaît”—and is feeling pretty proud until the waiter responds with a rapid-fire string of French that goes right over her head. She nods, smiles, and pretends to understand.

Moments later, she’s staring at a tiny cup of espresso and a plate of something suspiciously green. She pokes the suspiciously green appetizer with her fork, shrugs, and tastes it. “Not bad,” she admits—then freezes as the realization hit. Escargot. Snails. She’d survived steel cages and ladder matches, but this? This might be her bravest moment yet. She grins.]

MERCEDES
When in Paris...

•••

[Determined to see the sights, Mercedes hails a cab and tries to explain she wants to visit the Louvre. The driver nods enthusiastically and takes off—straight into rush hour traffic. What should be a ten-minute ride turns into a forty-minute tour of Parisian gridlock.

With her phone propped up, Mercedes goes live on Instagram, giving her followers a running commentary. The chat scrolls with hearts and comments. She waves to the camera.]

MERCEDES
Bonjour, beautiful people! Still stuck. Still fabulous. At least the view’s good—if you like the sound of car horns and the smell of croissants.

[She pans the camera to the gridlock outside. A moped zips by, nearly clipping the cab’s mirror.]

MERCEDES
If I miss my match because of Paris traffic, someone’s getting put in a headlock. And I don’t care if it’s the cab driver or the Mona Lisa.

[Comments from her parents popped up in the chat:]

MamaVargas (comentario):
¡No llegues tarde, flaca! ¿Desayunaste?
**Don’t be late, did you eat breakfast?**

MERCEDES:
Sí, mamá, comí. Tres medialunas. Y un facturita de chocolate. No me juzgues, ¡estoy en París!
**Yes, Mama, I ate. Three croissants. And a pain au chocolat. Don’t judge me, it’s Paris!**

DadVargas (comment):
No te olvides de tomar agua. Y ojo con los pibes de acá manejando, parece que están en un picadito de choque
**Don’t forget to hydrate. And watch your back—those Parisians drive like they’re in a demolition derby.**

MERCEDES:
Papá, sobreviví jaulas de acero y luchas con escaleras. Un poco de quilombo en el tránsito parisino no me va a matar. Igual creo que el taxista es fan—me acaba de pedir una selfie. O capaz está llamando al seguro, no sé.
**Dad, I’ve survived steel cages and ladder matches. I can handle a little Parisian road rage. Besides, I think the cabbie’s a fan—he just asked for a selfie. Or maybe he’s calling his insurance, I’m not sure.**

[The cab lurches forward a few feet. Mercedes sighs, shakes her head, and checks her watch.]

MERCEDES
Cuarenta minutos en el tráfico. Podría haber ido caminando al Louvre, haber peleado con una estatua y estar de vuelta ya.
**Forty minutes in traffic. I could’ve walked to the Louvre, wrestled a statue, and been back by now.**

MamaVargas (comentario):
No me contestes así, piba. Y acordate de llamar a la abuela.
**Don’t sass me, young lady. And don’t forget to call your abuela!**

MERCEDES
La voy a llamar, te prometo. Seguro piensa que estoy acá peleando con la Torre Eiffel. Buenome voy a buscar el café más cercano—y tal vez un desfibrilador. Los quiero a los dos. Y a todos los que están viendo—recen por mí.
**I'll call her, I promise. She probably thinks I'm out here wrestling the Eiffel Tower. Alright, I’m off to find the nearest café—and maybe a defibrillator. Love you both. And to everyone watching - pray for me.**

[The cab finally stops. Mercedes thanks the driver in broken French, grabs her bag, and heads toward the Eiffel Tower. The massive line for the elevator stretches around the block.

Never one to back down from a challenge, Mercedes decides to take the stairs. If she could climb a steel cage in heels, she could handle a few hundred steps.

Phone in hand, she starts climbing. Halfway up, she regrets every croissant she’d eaten since landing in France. Gasping for breath, she pauses, wipes her brow, and leans against the railing.

Finally, she reaches the top. Her hair was a little less perfect, but her smile was intact. She snaps a selfie, the sprawling city of Paris glowing behind her...

[END]

Present Day ♦ P A R I S, F R A N C E

[REC•]

[A slow, deliberate clap echoes as Mercedes Vargas steps onto the cobblestone banks of the Seine, the Eiffel Tower rising behind her. Bathed in Paris’s neon glow, she stands alone, city lights shimmering on the river. Her designer heels click with authority, every move exuding poise. The evening breeze stirs her hair as she adjusts her sunglasses—yes, even at night—and flashes a knowing, wicked smile. The distant hum of Paris blends with the river’s lapping, but Mercedes’s gaze is unwavering, her eyes burning with determination in the heart of the City of Lights.]

“Oh, Bella, darling… you always did love a monologue, didn’t you?”

[She laughs, smooth and rich, like velvet over steel.]

“I have to say, I’m touched. Really, I am. All that soul-searching, all that talk about growth and pain and motherhood—it’s almost enough to make me forget you’re still just a scared little girl playing champion.”

[Mercedes leans against the railing, the city lights dancing in her eyes.]

“You want to talk about unfinished business? Sweetheart, I don’t live in the past. I own it. I built this division before you ever laced up a pair of boots. While you were busy finding yourself, I was busy making history. I didn’t wait for someone to pave the road—I bulldozed through every so-called ‘legend’ who thought they could stand in my way.”

[She flicks her hair over her shoulder with a practiced flourish.]

“You say I haven’t changed? You’re right. Because greatness doesn’t need to reinvent itself every time the wind blows. I don’t need to cling to motherhood or hardship to justify my place at the top. I am the standard, Bella. I’m the reason there’s even a championship for you to clutch so desperately.”

[Mercedes’s voice softens, but the edge never leaves.]

“You talk about burning the world down for your family. That’s cute. But this ring? This is my world. And you’re just visiting, honey. You want to prove you belong? You want to show everyone you’re more than a ‘reckless rookie’? Then stop hiding behind your sob story and step up.”

[She leans in, her tone dripping with her signature blend of sass and menace.]

“At Into the Void, I’m not taking your gold because I think I deserve it. I’m taking it because I can. Because no matter how many times you reinvent yourself, you’ll never be Mercedes Vargas. And deep down, you know it.”

[She straightens, her confidence unshakable, her smile dazzling.]

"They say time waits for no one. You’d think, just once, it might make an exception."

[Mercedes paces along the Seine, the Eiffel Tower glowing behind her. She stops, locking eyes with the camera, resolve sharpening her features.]

"Into the Void is almost here. My adrenaline’s up, the war paint’s on, and the stage is set. Two of the Bombshells division’s best are about to collide for the Bombshell Internet Championship."

[She clenches her fists, rolling her shoulders, feeling the weight of what’s coming.]

"There's no question who the best in this match is: it's Bella Madison, obviously. The golden girl, the champion, the one with all the heart. Bless her. She’s cute, she’s spunky, she’s got her mama in her corner and a chip on her shoulder. Bella's good, but she's not Mercedes Vargas good. Not yet. Maybe not ever."

[Mercedes leans forward, her voice low and intense.]

"Maybe the fans wonder: am I just filling a spot on the card, or am I the toughest challenge Bella’s ever faced? Am I just talk, or have I gotten under her skin? Did I earn this shot, or am I just lucky? None of it matters."

[She straightens, a confident smirk crossing her lips.]

"At Into the Void, the mind games and the talking stops and the proving begins. Bella may be the champion, but she can be beaten. It won't be easy, but nothing ever is."

[Mercedes glances up at the Parisian skyline, taking a deep breath, drawing in the city’s energy..]

"I would have been okay not having a title match at the supercard, but here I am. You could say it was by accident. I didn't think beating Cassie Wolfe would put me in this position again and now it's up to me to seize the opportunity."

[She points to herself, determination radiating from her stance.]

"Chances are Bella will have her game face on and she's going to need a a little bit of luck and a hell of a lot of confidence. Luckily, she's going to have her mom motivating her and helping her train her ass off just for this match."

[Mercedes lets the silence linger, the city’s lights reflecting in her eyes. She turns, letting the camera follow her as she walks along the riverbank, her footsteps echoing softly.]

"You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about legacy lately. What it means to stand in a place like this, where history is written in every stone. Paris is a city that remembers. It remembers triumph and heartbreak, revolutions and renaissances. And in our business, legacy is everything. It’s what you leave behind when the lights go out and the crowd goes home."

[She stops at a wrought-iron railing, looking out over the water, her reflection shimmering beneath the Eiffel Tower’s golden glow.]

"I’ve been called a lot of things in my career. Some flattering, some... not so much. Veteran. Legend. Gatekeeper. I’ve worn all those labels and more. Sometimes, people look at me and see the past. They see the matches I’ve won, the titles I’ve held, the records I’ve set. But what they don’t always see is the hunger that still burns inside me. The need to prove, not to them, but to myself, that I can still be the best. That I can still be the one who changes the course of a night, of a division, of a company."

[Mercedes turns back to the camera, her expression fierce.]

"Bella, you’re the future. There’s no denying that. You’ve got youth, you’ve got talent, and you’ve got the world at your feet. But don’t mistake my respect for you as surrender. Don’t think for a second that I’m here to pass the torch quietly. You want my respect? Earn it. You want to be the face of this division? Take it. But don’t expect me to just hand it over. I’m not in the business of charity."

[She walks further, passing a street musician playing a soft tune on an accordion. The melody floats through the night air, lending a bittersweet edge to her words.]

"I remember what it was like to be the up-and-comer. To have everyone whispering about potential, about promise. I remember the pressure, the expectation, the fear of not living up to the hype. But I also remember the thrill of proving people wrong. Of stepping into the ring and showing the world that I belonged. That I was more than just a name on the roster—I was a force to be reckoned with."

[Mercedes stops at a small café, the warm glow of its lights spilling onto the sidewalk. She rests her hand on the back of a chair, looking thoughtful.]

"Maybe that’s what this is really about. Not just a championship, not just a win or a loss. It’s about proving, to everyone watching, that I still have what it takes. That I’m not just a relic of the past, but a champion for today. For tomorrow. The day after tomorrow. For Paris."

[She sits, crossing her legs, her gaze never leaving the camera.]

"Bella, I know you’re training harder than ever. I know you’re watching tape, running drills, pushing yourself to the limit. And you should. Because I’m coming at you with everything I’ve got. Every lesson I’ve learned, every scar I’ve earned, every ounce of fight left in me. I’m not just here to compete—I’m here to conquer."

[She leans forward, her voice dropping to a whisper.]

"Do you feel it, Bella? That pressure in your chest, that knot in your stomach? That’s not fear. That’s anticipation. That's reality setting in. That’s the knowledge that you’re about to be tested in a way you never have before. That’s the weight of history, of legacy, pressing down on your shoulders. And how you respond—well, that’s what separates champions from contenders."

[Mercedes stands, her chair scraping softly against the stone.]

"I’ve seen so many come and go. So many bright stars that burned out too soon. But I’m still here. Still fighting. Still hungry. And that’s what makes me dangerous. Because when you’ve been to the top of the mountain, when you’ve tasted glory and felt it slip away, you learn to appreciate every opportunity. You learn to fight for every moment, every second, every breath."

[She walks back toward the river, the city’s lights twinkling around her.]

"Paris is a city of dreams. People come here to chase them, to make them real. And Sunday, at Into the Void, my dream is simple: to walk out with the Bombshell Internet Championship. To remind the world who Mercedes Vargas is. To etch my name, once again, into the history books."

[She stops, the Eiffel Tower looming large behind her, a symbol of resilience and beauty.]

"Some people say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Maybe they’re right. But you know what you can’t teach? Heart. Grit. The kind of determination that keeps you going when everyone else has given up. That’s what I bring to the ring. That’s what I bring to this match."

[Mercedes looks directly into the camera, her eyes blazing.]

"Bella, I want you at your best. I want you to fight like your legacy depends on it—because it does. I want you to push me, to test me, to make me dig deeper than I ever have before. Because that’s how legends are made. That’s how moments are remembered."

[She smiles, a hint of mischief in her expression.]

"And when it’s all said and done, when the dust settles and the lights go down, I want you to know that you gave everything you had. That you stood toe-to-toe with one of the best to ever do it. And that, win or lose, you earned my respect."

[Mercedes takes a slow breath, the cool night air filling her lungs.]

"But make no mistake—I’m not coming to Paris for a handshake. I’m coming for a fight. I’m coming for a championship. I’m coming for you."

[She turns, walking along the riverbank, the camera following her every step.]

"You know, there’s something magical about this city. The way the lights dance on the water, the way the air feels electric with possibility. It’s a city that inspires greatness, that demands it. And I plan to rise to the occasion."

[She stops at the edge of the river, looking out over the water.]

"I’ve been in this business a long time. I’ve seen trends come and go, champions rise and fall. I’ve been the underdog, the favorite, the spoiler, the hero, and the villain. But through it all, one thing has never changed: my love for this sport. My respect for the ring. My willingness to do whatever it takes to win."

[Mercedes turns back to the camera, her expression solemn.]

"Some people chase fame. Some chase fortune. Me? I chase moments. The kind of moments that live forever. The kind of moments that make all the pain, all the sacrifice, all the struggle worth it."

[She lifts her hand, palm open, as if holding the championship in her grasp.]

"This is my moment, Bella. My chance to remind the world who I am. My chance to prove, once and for all, that I’m not done yet. That I still have what it takes to be the best."

[She steps closer to the camera, her voice steady and strong.]

"When people see an obstacle, I see possibilities. And possibilities are endless. Comme on dit ici à Paris, 'C’est la vie' — that’s life. You take your chances, you fight for what you want."

[She glances at the Eiffel Tower, its lights twinkling in the night.]

"So bring your best, Bella. Bring your heart, your fire, your will to win. Because you’re going to need all of it. When all is said and done, when the crowd is on its feet and the spotlight is shining, and when that title slips through your fingers, just remember—we’ll always have Paris. But after Into the Void, only one of us will have the Bombshell Internet Championship."

[Mercedes pauses, letting the words hang in the air.]

"And I plan to make sure it’s me."

[She smiles, a glint of challenge in her eyes as Paris sparkles behind her.]

"Prepare for the worst, hope for the best. And may the odds be ever in your favor."

[***Fade***]