The scene opens up with Justin Smith stepping out of LAX and into the warm evening air of Long Beach, California. He takes a moment to adjust his jacket, soaking in the neon lights and distant sound of waves crashing on the pier. Before exploring the coastal city, Justin pulls out his phone and decides to give his friend and former trainer, Casey Williams, a call. The camera catches the determination in Justin’s eyes as he leans against a streetlamp, phone pressed to his ear.

Justin – Hey Casey, are you excited to see me go to war with Alex Raven?

Casey – Excited, yes… but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t concerned. Alexander Raven isn’t like Felix or the others you’ve faced. He’s unpredictable, ruthless.

Justin – Concerned? Did you not watch what I did to Felix Hernandez? I dismantled him. I proved I can put anyone down when I lock in.

Casey – I did see it, and you impressed me. But Alex is cut from a different cloth. He’s been places you haven’t yet, and if you underestimate him, even for a second, he’ll eat you alive.

Justin – Yeah, well, underestimating isn’t in my vocabulary. I’ll do what I always do—fight with everything I’ve got. No excuses, no fear, no hesitation.

Casey – That’s the spirit. I’ll call in some reinforcements. Dying Breed and Hitamashii are already in town—they’ll help sharpen you up. Train hard with them. Make sure you’re ready for anything.
Justin smirks, nodding his head with intensity before gesturing at the cameraman to leave. The lens lingers on his face as his expression turns deadly serious. The shot fades to black.

The next morning, the scene cuts to Justin unlocking his rental car, shades on, as the sun rises over the Pacific. He heads to a gritty local gym where the camera pans inside to reveal Andrew Garcia and Ivan Darrell of Dying Breed already sparring with Hitamashii, the sound of fists hitting pads echoing through the room.

Andrew – You’re late, Smith! Training waits for no one!

Justin – Blame the California drivers. Half the people out there don’t know how to use a turn signal.

Ivan – Excuses don’t win matches. Let’s get moving. We’ll work on sharpening your edge.

Justin – Fine by me. Let’s do this!

The four men circle up, sweat already dripping onto the mats.

Andrew – Everyone knows your power and speed are your calling cards. But raw talent isn’t enough. Raven will test you in ways Felix couldn’t dream of. We’ll mold your strength into a weapon that no one can stop.

Justin – Sounds like my kind of training.

Ivan – Show me those strikes. Full intensity. Don’t hold back.

Justin squares up with Ivan, unleashing a flurry of strikes. The first attempt is stiff, off-timed.

Andrew – Not good enough. Again!

Justin grits his teeth and goes again. This time, his rhythm is sharper, his fists cracking against the pads with purpose.

Andrew – Better. That’s what we want to see! Feel the pace. Own it.

The training intensifies. Grapples, reversals, bursts of speed against Hitamashii’s agility drills—Justin pushes himself until sweat pours down his face, muscles burning. Finally, Andrew claps his hands.

Andrew – That’s progress. You keep this up, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll have the edge on Raven.
The camera zooms in on Justin’s determined expression as he nods silently. The scene fades to black.

Later that night, Justin is spotted at the Yard House in downtown Long Beach, a plate of food in front of him. The atmosphere is buzzing with laughter and clinking glasses, but Justin ignores it all, turning toward the camera with a cold, sinister grin.

Justin – Alexander Raven… the prodigal son returns. Everyone is so quick to praise your legacy, your cunning, your darkness. But I’m not like the others who cower at the sound of your name. You’ve been gone a long time, and I know what that means—you’re rusty. And when you step back into that ring with me, you’re not facing a stepping stone. You’re facing a man who refuses to break. A man who refuses to quit.

He leans in closer, eyes narrowing.

Justin – You’ll probably say the same tired garbage everyone else does—that I don’t belong here, that I should walk away, that I’ll never measure up. But I’m still here, proving everyone wrong, one broken opponent at a time. Felix Hernandez learned that lesson. And soon, so will you.
Justin cackles darkly, the sound sending a chill through the restaurant atmosphere. He casually leans back, snapping his fingers at the server.

Justin – BBQ Bacon Cheeseburger. Coke. And make it quick.

As the server walks away, Justin begins humming his theme song, “Madness” by Liliac, his grin lingering like a scar across his face. The camera fades to black with his low hum echoing in the background.

The camera fades back in later that evening. The bustling noise of Long Beach nightlife is muted behind thick hotel curtains as the scene opens on Justin Smith sitting at a small desk in his dimly lit hotel room. His half-finished Coke sits beside him, condensation dripping down the can. A single lamp casts shadows across his face, giving his expression a more sinister edge. He leans forward, hands clasped, staring straight into the camera lens.

Justin – Sunday, the world watches. Sunday, Alexander Raven walks back into the ring, expecting his grand return to be glorious, triumphant. But Sunday… Sunday is when his legend collides with reality.

Justin runs a hand through his hair, eyes narrowing as he continues.

Justin – I’ve been told all week that you’re dangerous. That you’re on another level. That I should prepare myself for the storm you bring. And you know what, Alex? I believe it. I believe you are dangerous. But so am I. And I’m hungrier. Hungrier than you, hungrier than anyone else in this company. I fight with desperation. I fight with fury. I fight like a man with nothing to lose.

He smirks, leaning back in the chair.

Justin – And that’s what should scare you. A man with nothing to lose has everything to gain. You want to paint me as a nobody, a rookie, an easy target? Fine. Paint whatever picture you want. But when the bell rings, when the lights hit us, when it’s just you and me in that squared circle… your return becomes my moment. Your story becomes my stepping stone. And I will not hesitate to crush it.

Justin stands up now, pacing the room. The camera follows as his voice grows darker.

Justin – You see, Felix Hernandez thought he could embarrass me. He thought I wasn’t ready. And now? He’s gone, just another casualty. And you, Alex? You’re not special. You’re not untouchable. You’re not immortal. You’re just another man about to feel the full weight of Justin Smith. Remember that. Remember it when I drive you into the mat. Remember it when your comeback dies at my hands.

He stops pacing and glares into the camera one last time, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper.

Justin – Sunday, Raven… you don’t soar. You fall.

Justin flicks off the lamp, plunging the room into near-darkness. Only the faint light from the city skyline peeks through the blinds as the screen fades slowly to black.

Standing in line at the grocery store deli counter with a neat little basket hooked over her arm, SCW Bombshell, better known in her wrestling persona as the “Messiah of Manners” Miss Manners, shifted her weight with dignified patience.

Directly in front of her, an older woman was practically fused to her cell phone, chattering loudly about something concerning her daughter’s bad grades in school and how it is painfully clear her “gifted child” is being targeted by unfit teachers. Miss Manners sighed audibly at the offense.

Miss Manners: On the phone in public. As if Kroger is her personal parlor.

The deli clerk, a young man no older than twenty with an awkward smile and the faint shadow of stubble, stepped forward, clearly just trying to make it through his shift.

Clerk: Hi there, what can I get for you today?

The woman didn’t even glance at him. Instead, she held up a finger directly in his face. The clerk froze for a moment, then glanced helplessly at Miss Manners.

Clerk: Ma’am, I can help you if you’re ready.

Before Miss Manners could even part her lips, the phone woman suddenly clapped her palm over the receiver and snapped.

Entitled Customer: Excuse me! But I’m next!

The clerk blinked.

Clerk: Uh… sure, what would you like?

The woman rolled her eyes so dramatically it was a wonder they didn’t get stuck.

Entitled Customer: Are you as simple as you look? I’m on the phone. I’ll answer you when I’m finished.

He turned back to Miss Manners, awkwardness etched across his young face.

Clerk: Can I help you then?

Entitled Customer: No! I was here first! You’re supposed to help me first!

Miss Manners straightened to her full height, tilting her chin ever so slightly.

Miss Manners: Madam, look around you.

The woman blinked, then glanced behind her. Sure enough, a line of five weary customers stretched back toward the produce section, all tapping their feet and glaring daggers.

Miss Manners: Do you seriously expect every one of these people to stand here twiddling their thumbs until you deign to finish a phone call you should never have been making in public to begin with? If you had even a shred of common sense, you would recognize the discourtesy.

The woman bristled, clutching her phone tighter.

Miss Manners: Despite what you think, you are not the center of the universe. Either order your food now, or step aside and let civilized people be served.

The woman gawked, as though struck. She turned to the clerk for backup.

Entitled Customer: Are you going to let her talk to me like that?

The young man gave a little shrug.

Clerk: I can’t tell other customers what they can or can’t say.

The woman’s face flushed crimson. With a huff loud enough to startle the cold cuts, she threw up her nose and stormed away from the counter.

Entitled Customer: Your manager will hear about this!

Miss Manners exhaled slowly, smoothed the sleeve of her blouse, and turned back to the clerk with serene calm. The clerk half-smiled in relief, picking up his notepad.

Clerk: So, what can I get for you?

---

The camera faded in on a modest one-story house with white siding and a neatly trimmed yard. A pair of wind chimes tinkled softly in the late afternoon breeze. On the porch, seated in a sturdy rocking chair, was SCW’s Miss Manners, sitting with a glass of peach tea in her hand.

She took a slow sip, placing the glass delicately on the table beside her, and folded her hands in her lap before addressing the camera.

Miss Manners: Sin City Wrestling has once again blessed me with the opportunity to instill civility into the uncouth, to bring refinement into a world that so desperately lacks it. And this Sunday, my unfortunate subject will be the debuting Zenna Zdunich.

Her lips curled into a smug smile.

Miss Manners: Now, I will admit, truth and honesty are virtues that I know next to nothing about this harlot. Nothing, except for what I have gathered through idle gossip in the locker room or the questionable display she insists on sharing online. Hardly a reputation worth protecting, wouldn’t you say?”

And of course, one cannot mention Zenna without addressing her familial tie to Crystal Caldwell. A sister-in-law who has already failed her family so miserably, one wonders why anyone would willingly follow in her footsteps. Truly, poor judgment must run deep in that household.

Her eyes narrowed, scanning the horizon as if searching for decorum in the distance.

Miss Manners: Then there are the tattoos. Ink stains, blotting what might have once been a lovely female form. Each one nothing more than a scar; self-inflicted, permanent, vulgar. And her hair… Oh, the hair! Such obvious fakery, dyed and processed until the very heritage of her homeland is hidden. As if she were ashamed of who she is. Then again, if I were related to Seleana Zdunich, I suppose I’d want to hide who I was as well.

She paused, lifting her glass again and taking a sip before returning her gaze to the camera with an expression of serene finality.

Miss Manners: This Sunday, Zenna, you step into the ring for your very first match in Sin City Wrestling. And when I am finished with you, when I have wrung every drop of false confidence out of you, you will not simply lose. No. You will be so drenched in shame, so humiliated by your failure, you will be begging to join the witness relocation program just to escape the embarrassment.

A faint smile spread across her lips.

Miss Manners: Consider it a public service.

She leaned back in the rocking chair, the sound of its creak mixing with the gentle clink of ice in her glass as the camera slowly faded to black.

Blog: Almighty Fire
semana del 21 de 28 septiembre de 2025

Hola, mis amores.

Violent Conduct was supposed to be the night it all came crashing down, right? Headlines said it. Prediction polls said it. Experts screamed it. Lilith Lock and Diamond Steele were going to take my championship and “prove” Mercedes Vargas was past her prime. And yet, here we are. Same stage. Same spotlight. Same champion. Me.

You can dress it up however you like.  Lilith fizzled, Diamond flopped. SCW loves throwing me these projects, but I have to ask… how many more ‘next big things’ do I have to demolish before we all accept the obvious?

You know the scene well because you’ve seen it play out time and time again, with me at the center of it all. There’s something magnetic about my name showing up in “Main Event” billing, isn’t there? Mercedes Vargas practically screams box office guarantee. And now, once again, Sin City Wrestling comes calling on me, the standard bearer, to close out the night, raise the bar, and—let’s be honest—save the show.

I know, I know. Some of you are tired of seeing me with this Bombshell Internet Championship draped across my shoulder or strapped around my waist. Believe me when I say: nobody is as tired of winning as I am. It’s exhausting, truly. Having to constantly elevate opponents who could barely lace my boots, only for them to cry robbery when I pin them anyway. Championship defenses have become my charity work.

And speaking of charity cases, let’s talk Diamond Steele.

The “Rockstar Goddess.” The woman who really believes her hype is bigger than her résumés, plural, because she’s dusted off so many personas I lost track around gimmick number six. I’d say she was a chameleon if the problem wasn’t so obvious: chameleons adapt. Diamond just… clings. Clings to every opportunity, every spotlight, every passing second where the crowd doesn’t yawn at her entrance. But I’ll give her this—she screams really loud while clinging. Her career is like her accent—unpolished, overdone, and impossible to take seriously.

Now, I don’t want to sound ungrateful. I appreciate General Manager Evelyn Hall doing her job and all. Granting title matches, keeping order, making sure SCW remains the brand the rest of the wrestling world copies but can’t quite match—applause all around.

But could we at least pretend, just this once, that Diamond Steele earned something the right way? This is the rematch nobody asked for. At Violent Conduct, I already beat her. Correction: I beat both challengers, but as fate would have it, I pinned the other woman in our triple threat. Cue Diamond’s meltdown—a complete Broadway-level production about how she “never lost” because she wasn’t the one staring up at the lights.

Here’s the thing, mamita. Triple threats don’t work like that. You had your chance. You had more than your chance. Second place is the first loser. ¿me entiendes? If you were really as desperate to win as you keep screaming into microphones, maybe you should have been better. But no, your fallback plan is the same tired strategy: whine until management throws you a pity title match.

Congratulations, Diamond—you whined your way into another chance. Too bad it’s the closest you’ll get to any championship again. Enjoy it. Savor it. Because come Sunday night, you're mine little girl.

Which brings us to the stipulation: the Gemstones barred from ringside.

Oh, how tragic. How will Diamond cope without her little backup singers? No harmonized pep talk? No clapping at ringside whenever she kicks out of a two-count? No distraction finish where someone jumps on the apron while Diamond “accidentally” hits her big move and capitalizes?

Forgive me, but wasn’t Diamond supposed to be this empowered “rock goddess” who didn’t need anyone? You know… an original diva? What does it say about your wrestling legacy if management had to call in security just to make sure you play fair?

Me? I don’t need goons, bodyguards, or entourages. I don’t outsource victories. When I hold up my championship after the final bell, it’s because I earned it. Alone. Every single reign, every single defense, every single historic run I’ve cemented in SCW? All Mercedes Vargas, all day. Meanwhile, Diamond needs backup the way most people need fashion advice.

Spoiler: one of us clearly doesn’t.

Let’s talk imagery for a moment. Diamond Steele. The name alone sounds like a contradiction. Hard on the outside, soft in performance. Expensive brand name, cheap results. She insists she’s sparkling—yet I can’t count the number of times she’s dimmed the place rather than lit it up. Honestly, the only thing diamond about her is the way she scratches and claws for attention.

And while we’re on contradictions, can we address how she styles herself a “legend”? A legend in what domain, exactly? Karaoke? Gimmick recycling? Chronically posting that she would have been champion if only things went differently that one time? Legends aren’t people who keep telling you they’re legends. They’re the ones who show up, do the work, and are undeniable.

Much like myself.

I don’t slap “legend” on a t-shirt. I don’t scream “icon” into a camera until the cameraman’s ears bleed. I live it. Record-breaking reigns. Consistency. Respect, even from the people who can’t stand me. Now compare that with Diamond—a woman who’s just loud enough to trick people into thinking she’s relevant a little longer.

If Mercedes Vargas is timeless, Diamond Steele is seasonal. And I think Winter left her behind a long time ago.

You know what really separates us? Legacy.

I walk into every arena carrying more than just this Bombshell Internet Championship. I carry the weight of history, of expectations, of excellence. People look at me and expect greatness—and then I deliver, over and over again. Mercedes Vargas, the woman synonymous with longevity and dominance in Bombshell history.

Meanwhile, Diamond walks into the arena carrying… flyers for her next failed band gig.

There’s a reason management keeps putting Mercedes Vargas in these main events. There’s a reason my name is always attached to championship lineage. Because I’ve cemented my place whether my opponents want to admit it or not. Win or lose, I’m the conversation. Diamond has to beg to be involved in it. And even then, it’s usually out of pity.

Let me make this perfectly clear, just in case anyone missed the point:

Diamond is only in this match because she complained enough. She hasn’t earned it, doesn’t deserve it, and without her Gemstones, she’s exposed for what she is: one-dimensional.

I don't need gimmicks or ring rats to validate my greatness. The proof is already in the record books.

And, sweetheart, subtlety is an art form. Consider this little blog not so much a reading as it is a styling. The messy split ends of Diamond’s career need trimming, and I always bring the sharpest scissors.

Here’s your spoiler for Climax Control: Diamond will march to the ring, basking in an applause that’s equal parts pity and déjà vu. She’ll spin around on the ramp, point to the crowd, maybe even try to start a “let’s go Diamond!” chant so she can feel important. She’ll talk big about how this is “her night” and how she’s finally ready to “take what she deserves.” Cute.

Meanwhile, I’ll do what I always do. I’ll out-think her. I’ll out-wrestle her. I’ll make her look better than she actually is. I’ll strip away whatever illusion of greatness she tries to hide behind, because that’s the Vargas way. And then I’ll do what Diamond has nightmares about: I’ll beat her clean, center of the ring, 1-2-3.

No excuses, no controversies.

Then, once again, Mercedes Vargas walks out Bombshell Internet Champion. Because that’s the natural order of things. History won’t remember this as Diamond’s big moment—it’ll be remembered as another Mercedes Vargas defense. Another night challengers failed to reach the crown.

So, Diamond, practice your entrances, pose for the crowd, soak it in. Soak it all in, mamita. Because when the bell rings, you’re going to face reality. And reality is spelled M-E-R-C-E-D-E-S V-A-R-G-A-S.

Your Bombshell Internet Champion,
Mercedes Vargas.

Siempre vencedora.

Prepare for the worst. Hope for the best. And may the odds be ever in your favor.


INT. LITTLE HAVANA – EVENING –

[The evening hum of Little Havana buzzed with music, laughter, and neon light. Mercedes Vargas sat outside a café on Calle Ocho, her Bombshell Internet Championship propped against the chair. A cafecito rested between her fingers. Crystal Caldwell arrived, carrying Christian’s lecture like a stormcloud but masking it beneath oversized sunglasses and a Hollywood smile. She sat opposite Mercedes, removing the shades with a flourish and dropping them onto the table. In her hand was a plate of pastelitos, steam curling into the night air.]

CRYSTAL
Can you believe him? Christian. Acting like we’re the bad guys? We’re the reason people even watch—and yet now we’re villains because we dared to stand up for ourselves?

[Mercedes smirks—the belt shifting on her chair as she leans back.]

MERCEDES
Exactly. Christian should be thanking us. We bring class, gold, and professionalism—well, when people don’t try to step in our spotlight. Instead, he’s lecturing us like children. He should be kissing our Hall of Fame rings.

CRYSTAL
And the nerve of him, trying to make me feel guilty about Seleana. Seleana. Like I don’t know my own wife. She knows exactly what business she signed up for.

[Crystal slams her pastelito down, powdered sugar scattering like stage dust. Her frustration is real but played big—Hollywood melodrama that mirrors her "actress" persona.]

CRYSTAL (near breaking)
And then Zenna—of all people!—grabs me like I’m some extra in her little debut? La odio. Not even signed here, and she tries humiliating me? She’s lucky Christian’s spineless, because next time, she won’t walk away.

[The glow of the sunset stained the sky in warm pastels as Mercedes stirs her cafecito with deliberate calm.]

MERCEDES
Zenna made her first mistake stepping down to that ring.

CRYSTAL
That’s right. She better enjoy her little cameo. If Christian won’t sign her, then she’s just handing herself to us the next time she shows her face

[Mercedes sets her cup down—deliberate. She leans in with surgical calm.]

MERCEDES
We didn’t become champions in multiple companies by shrinking back. We shut people like them down every time. Seleana and Zenna together? They don’t scare me. They don’t scare us. If anything, they just signed up for their own funeral.

CRYSTAL
Well, look at us. Survivors. You walk out of Violent Conduct with that shiny toy still on your shoulder, and I… walk out with my wife pinning me clean in the middle of the ring. Not exactly the Hollywood ending I dreamed up.

[Mercedes smirked faintly, lifting her cup of coffee.]

MERCEDES
Survivors? I’d say one of us has a better word. Winners. Victors. Campeonas. That’s me, Crystal. You? Well, it’s complicated, isn’t it?

[Crystal scoffed, biting into her pastelito a little harder than necessary.]

CRYSTAL
Don’t remind me. Everyone was expecting you to finally lose, too. Lilith Locke, Diamond Steele—they all thought you were done. Hell, some of them probably had tweets pre-drafted for the exact moment you hit the mat. Yet here you are.

[Mercedes chuckled, leaning back in her chair, her tone smooth but cutting.]

MERCEDES
Here I am. Still champion. Still headline. Lilith couldn’t cash in on the hype if her life depended on it. And Diamond? She’s been trying to make herself look relevant longer than I’ve been wearing gold. Violent Conduct was supposed to crown a new era… instead, I added another chapter to my legacy.

[From the nearby domino tables, an abuelo slammed a tile with triumph, shouting “¡Capicú!” while the rest groaned in frustration. Mercedes raised her cafecito in a mock toast before returning her gaze to Crystal.]

MERCEDES
Too bad you couldn’t even book the fairytale ending. You lost to your wife. That’s not just a headline—it’s a soap opera. And you of all people should understand how that plays on screen.

[Crystal narrowed her eyes but muttered through another bite, muffling her words.]

CRYSTAL
So yeah, I lost. But I don’t break, Mercedes. I rebuild. And when I come back? Telenovela or not—it’ll be my rewrite, not yours. And trust me, Mercedes, I never die in a sequel.

MERCEDES
Spoken like someone who doesn’t know when the curtain’s already down.

[Crystal leaned back in her chair, one eyebrow raised.]

CRYSTAL
Says the woman everybody counted out—and then who proved ‘em all wrong. Don’t act too high and mighty. If you can keep rewriting your story, maybe I can too.

[Mercedes set her cup down, her expression sharpening under the Miami glow.]

MERCEDES
Difference is, Crystal, I didn’t just rewrite my story—I owned it. I made sure nobody else held the pen. That’s why I’m sitting here with a championship, and you’re sitting here with excuses.

[For a moment, the rhythm of salsa music filled the pause between them. Crystal finished off her pastelito and sighed, her bravado giving way to something quieter.

Crystal looks away first. Not weakness, but weariness. She toys with her pastelito, then exhales, voice low now.]

CRYSTAL
You don’t ever get worn down, Mercedes? Always being the one with a target on your back? Carrying all of it?

[Mercedes smirks, but her eyes lower just for a second to the championship draped across the chair, a shadow of weight behind the gold. She lingers a moment too long before snapping her gaze back to Crystal with that trademark calm.]

MERCEDES
Tired? Always. That's the cost.

[Mercedes draped the title back across her shoulder with casual precision before glancing at Crystal with her trademark smirk.]

MERCEDES
So eat your pastelitos, cry about your telenovela marriage storyline, and hope for that sequel. Me? I’ll still be the one headlining, still holding gold, still reminding everyone that I’m siempre vencedora.

[Crystal forces a smile—half admiration, half bitterness. She raises her pastelito like a toast.]

CRYSTAL
Fire & Fury forever.

[Mercedes smirks, tapping her cafecito against the pastry.]

MERCEDES
Forever. And if anyone forgets? They’ll burn.

[The camera lingered on them for a moment—the battered but unbowed Crystal Caldwell across from the reigning champion Mercedes Vargas. The clash of loss and legacy. Little Havana rattled with music and life around them, but the unspoken line was clear: one’s chapter felt closed, while another’s story kept writing itself.]

[END]

Present Day ♦L O S A N G E L E S • C A L I F O R N I A

[REC•]

[The screen cuts in from static to a bright, vibrant shot of The Paul Smith Rainbow Wall, its bold wide stripes of colors shining under the California sun. Mercedes Vargas stands directly in front of the wall, the SCW Bombshell Internet Championship draped across her shoulder. She adopts a poised, commanding stance, her presence as bold as the wall behind her.]

“How do you like me now, SCW…”

[Mercedes adjusts the Bombshell Roulette Championship gracefully, tilting the plate so it catches the light before draping it over her shoulder with an effortless smirk.]

“They all swore Violent Conduct was going to be my undoing. They said I was walking into the lion’s den, that Lilith Locke and Diamond Steele were destined to rip this championship from me. That’s what the whispers, the chatter, the breakdowns, the odds were about. Everyone counting me out, waiting for my fall.

"But isn’t it funny how the story always ends the same? With me, standing right here, still the champion. And them? Still talking. Still wishing. Still failing. In fact, the only thing faster than my victories… is how quickly they’ll vanish from relevance once the spotlight isn’t handed to them. Because unlike them, I don’t just show up—I last. And that’s why this championship stays with me.”

[She pats the title like it’s an accessory to her legacy, flashing one last smirk before adjusting the belt slightly higher on her shoulder.]

"But let's get this back to where it should be: Climax Control 436. The main event. Once again, Diamond Steele tries her luck."

[Mercedes drops the belt on her shoulder with precise confidence, the colors of the wall merging into the reflection of the gold plate.]

"People love to say diamonds are forever. What they forget is diamonds chip. Diamonds shatter. And over time, diamonds lose their shine. Diamond Steele? She proves that week after week: loud voice, cheap sparkle, no staying power."

[She tilts the belt slightly upward with her hand, letting the gold catch the light. A faint chuckle escapes before she shakes her head.]

"The truth is that a diamond only has value in jewelry. In the ring, against someone like me? Worthless."

[Her eyes narrow. She points delicately toward the lens as if addressing Diamond directly.]

"After Violent Conduct, you cried, “I didn’t lose because I wasn’t pinned!” Ay, Dios mío, how many times do we have to hear it? Mamita, you were in the match. You had the chance. You failed. End of story. Triple threats don’t come with excuses, Diamond. That you still cling to this proves you’ll never be on my level.

"You want to be champion? Entonces lucha como campeona. Fight like one. Don’t whine like one of your Gemstones forgot their lyrics.”

[Her smirk returns, wider this time—mock amusement.]

"And speaking of the Gemstones—barred from ringside. Gracias a Dios. Finally, no off-key backup singers ruining my performance. This isn’t a garage band, this is Sin City Wrestling. You want a chorus? Go book open karaoke night."

[Mercedes raises a brow, tilts her head slightly, lifting her chin with elegance. Her tone hardens.]

"No backup, no distractions. Just you, me, and the undeniable truth: alone, Diamond Steele is nothing."

[Her tone lowers, deliberate. She touches the belt with both hands, squeezing it briefly, like an emphasis on legacy.]

"Mientras tanto, look at me. Mercedes Vargas, la eterna campeona. The walking legacy of this company. When I say I’m decorated, it’s because I put in work, match after match, year after year. I keep showing up, I keep winning, and I keep proving why I’m untouchable.

Meanwhile, you strut around pretending to be iconic without ever earning it. Newsflash, mamita: calling yourself ‘legendary’ doesn’t make it true. Legends don’t announce it—they prove it. Yo no hablo de ser campeona. Yo lo soy."

[She lifts her finger and waves it slowly, deliberately, at the camera as if correcting a child. Her smirk twists into a sharper sneer.]

"And while we’re here, let’s address the elephant in the room: tu estilo, chica. Diamonds may sparkle, but you? You’re cubic zirconia. Loud colors, glitter everywhere, Hot Topic sequins that scream ‘try hard.’ Me? I am class. Timeless. Effortless. You? Still stuck in 2009, begging people to call you edgy. Ándale, chica. Evolution is mandatory."

[Mercedes drapes the Bombshell Internet Championship over her forearm. She begins pacing with calm, measured steps, owning the frame.]

"So let’s talk about Sunday. You’ll do your spinning routine, shout “rock goddess” like anyone believes it, play to the crowd with your wannabe rebel attitude… and then the bell rings. That’s when it falls apart. The illusion dies, reality sets in. Mercedes Vargas rises. Diamond Steele falls.

No Gemstones. No distractions. No escape."

[She stops pacing, centers herself directly to the camera, the belt raised slightly now at chest level, gleaming under the sunlight. Her tone shifts, smooth, cutting, almost final.]

"In the end, cariño, you’ll walk away talking about how “next time things will be different,” while I stand tall, Bombshell Internet Championship in hand, adding another victory to my list. Escrito en piedra. History doesn’t remember excuses. History remembers winners."

[Mercedes lets out a measured laugh as she adjusts the belt on her shoulder before leaning closer to the camera. Her eyes narrow again, sharp and piercing.]

"And Diamond, history already knows my name. Not whispered. Not forgotten. My name se grita en voz alta—it’s shouted. Mercedes Vargas isn’t just booked. Yo soy el espectáculo. I am the show, the main event, the pulse of this division."

[Her voice drops lower, almost whispering directly to Diamond through the lens, pulling the viewer in tight.]

"You live in fantasies, Diamond. Fantasies where you’re special, celebrated, legendary. But fantasies end when the alarm clock goes off. On Sunday, that alarm will be me. That bell will sound, and reality will hit harder than any slap I ever could.

"Reality says you fold under pressure. Reality says talk is all you have. Reality says your reigns don’t last. Diamonds may be forever, but you? You’re already cracked."

[Mercedes takes a step closer toward the camera now, the lens subtly adjusting upward into a low-angle, giving her a commanding presence. She steadies the title belt across her shoulder, then slowly drags her fingertips across the faceplate, tracing the golden edge. Her smirk fades into a sharp, cold seriousness.]

"Cracks can be polished or hidden, but they never disappear. They only grow bigger until the whole stone shatters. Eso es tu destino"

[Mercedes lets her hand fall from the faceplate, then lifts the championship belt fully off her shoulder with both hands. She holds it up at eye level, staring into the gold for a moment before turning it outward, presenting it directly to the camera like a mirror. Her expression remains cold, serious.]

"This? This is the standard. This is proof that when you face me, you’re facing the bar no one else can clear. And before you even step into that ring, Diamond, I want you to look at this title and understand: it isn’t yours. It’s never been yours. And after Sunday? It still won’t be."

[Mercedes slowly lowers the belt again, draping it carefully back onto her shoulder with precision—almost ritualistic, as if placing a crown back where it belongs. She steps closer, closing the gap between herself and the lens until her presence dominates the frame. Her voice steadies into a deliberate whisper.]

"Long before you knew, and long after you'll remember."

[She tilts her head back slightly, her smirk returning at last—measured, confident, untouchable—as the rainbow wall colors fade softly behind her before the feed snaps back to static.]

***Fade***