[Mercedes Vargas]

Almighty Fire
semana del 1 al 8 de febrero de 2026


You know, people have a funny way of rewriting history. Every time Seleana Zdunich walks into a room lately, she acts like she’s stepping out of some tragedy written entirely by someone else. Her fans turn her into this folk hero fighting uphill battles, as if her story is pure and innocent and I’m just the villain twirling my mustache. If only it were that simple. But wrestling has never been simple. It’s not a fairytale, and I’m not some cartoon line in someone else’s redemption arc. I’m Mercedes Vargas — the standard, the constant, the one who has lasted through every “next big thing” this company has thrown at me. When the lights go down and the ring empties, I’m the one people keep talking about. Even my enemies can’t stop saying my name. Seleana wants revenge? She’s not the first, and she won’t be the last. Her obsession with me proves I still live rent free in her mind.

Let’s not pretend she’s the victim of some grand injustice. Her wife getting hurt wasn’t part of a soap opera, it was the consequence of taking this sport lightly. I didn’t send Crystal to the hospital because I’m cruel. I did it because I’m ruthless, because I understand what it takes to stay on top. Seleana can call it betrayal, she can paint me as the monster who broke her world apart — but deep down, she knows exactly what happened. She got complacent. She underestimated me. And now she’s angry because I reminded her what this business demands.

People keep telling me this Tables Match is her chance at payback, her opportunity to even the score. They talk about how personal it is for her. But for me? It’s not personal. It’s inevitable. The minute she started preaching about respect, loyalty, and how “family” should always come first, I knew she was still living in a fairy tale. The moment you start letting emotion cloud your judgment, you’re finished. A Tables Match doesn’t reward emotion — it rewards precision, patience, and timing. You can swing a chair out of rage, you can throw punches out of hate, but to put somebody through a table? You need control. And there’s no one in this company who controls a ring like I do.

Maybe that’s what scares her most — not that she’s stepping into something violent, but that she’s stepping into something she can’t control. Because make no mistake, once that bell rings, I won’t be her villain anymore. I’ll be the reminder of everything she fears becoming. Losing your temper, losing your heart, losing your focus — that’s how you lose everything. Seleana’s about to learn that lesson, one splinter at a time.

Now, I’ve heard the rumors, the whispers after her sister got attacked. How she’s “not herself,” how she’s distracted and emotional. People want to feel sorry for her. They want this match to be her catharsis. But this isn’t therapy. She doesn’t get to project her grief onto me and call it redemption. Tragedy doesn’t make you stronger automatically; that’s something people tell themselves so they can sleep at night. What makes you stronger is surviving people like me. Getting thrown through that table might hurt, sure — but it’ll wake her up. It’ll remind her that living in the shadow of everyone else’s choices is what kept her soft. I’m giving her a gift. Pain is clarity. And after I beat her, she’ll finally see herself for who she is — not the crusader, not the loyal wife, not the avenger — just another woman who couldn’t keep up.

You don’t spend as long as I have in this business without making enemies. I’ve seen people come and go, whole divisions built around flavors of the month. Meanwhile, I’ve built my career on consistency. On legacy. And that’s what Seleana will never understand. Legacy isn’t about winning one big match or getting your revenge once. Legacy is about showing up, year after year, proving that you can reinvent yourself without losing your edge. Everyone else fades; I evolve. That’s why I don’t need to chase approval, because my resume already speaks louder than her promises ever could.

Some people say I took things too far when I “betrayed” her family. But betrayal is just honesty without the sugarcoating. I stopped pretending. I stopped playing the ally in her little fairy tale. I grew tired of hearing how the Zdunich family was going to “change” the company. No one changes this place — it changes you. And I refused to be rewritten into her story. If she took that personally, that’s her problem.

Since she picked the Tables stipulation, I hope she fully understands what that means. This isn’t a match you win by chance. There’s no quick rollup, no surprise pin. You have to break someone. You have to wear them down long enough to put them precisely where you want them. I’ve been in wars that ended in blood, glass, fire, and I walked away smiling. She thinks she’s picked a stipulation that plays into her anger, but she’s really picked the match that exposes her flaws. Because while she’s swinging out of vengeance, I’ll be calculating, waiting, watching for the perfect moment when her emotions make her stumble. That’s when I strike. That’s when I remind her how dangerous I am.

People like Seleana always assume their pain gives them moral authority. They want the crowd to chant their name, to believe the story is already written in their favor. But that’s exactly why they lose — because they get lost in the narrative.

I’ve never needed a sympathy chant. I’ve never needed the crowd’s validation. I win because I don’t care what they think. I win because I’ve turned indifference into armor. You can’t manipulate someone who doesn’t care how they’re perceived. She can break a thousand tables in her imagination — it won’t matter. When reality hits, when the pain gets real, that’s when she’ll fold.

I’ve thought about what I’ll feel after this match, if there’ll be any satisfaction in it. And honestly, maybe a small part of me will enjoy the silence that follows. The silence that always comes after the loud ones fall. Maybe I’ll smile when the people who called me heartless realize that heart is exactly what keeps you weak. Or maybe I’ll just walk backstage, wipe the dust off my boots, and move on to the next one. Because that’s what professionals do. I don’t dwell. I don’t relive moments. I collect them like trophies and leave them behind. Seleana doesn’t get that because she’s still fighting ghosts.

Let’s be clear — I don’t hate her. You can’t hate someone you’ve already beaten in your mind. What I feel is deeper than hate, colder than anger. It’s apathy wrapped in precision. It’s knowing that when she looks at me, she doesn’t see Mercedes Vargas the opponent. She sees the embodiment of everything she tries to pretend she isn’t. Arrogant, ruthless, self-assured, unapologetic. I’ve heard all the names before. And every single time they’ve been said about me, I’ve smiled — because it means I’m doing something right.

She likes to talk about accountability. She says I’ve “ducked” responsibility for my actions, that I don’t show remorse. Funny thing about that — remorse doesn’t win titles. Accountability doesn’t make you a legend. If I started crying about every competitor I ever hurt, I’d never have accomplished half of what I have. Seleana can wear her guilt like a halo if she wants to. I’ll keep wearing my success like a crown.

I can already hear the commentary team on Sunday night. They’ll talk about how “determined” she looks, how she’s channeling her emotions into her offense. They’ll forget — until it’s too late — that every emotion has a breaking point. Every angry swing gets slower. Every desperate move gets sloppier. And when she hesitates, when that flicker of doubt crosses her face because she realizes she can’t finish me, that’s when I’ll strike. One setup. One crash. One splintered ending. They’ll call it poetic justice, but it won’t be. It’ll be inevitability.

And when it’s done, when the table’s broken and the crowd gasps, I’ll stand over her and remind everyone why I’ve lasted this long. Because this industry doesn’t reward goodness. It rewards control. It rewards awareness. And that’s why I’ll always be a step ahead of people like her — they chase approval, I chase results.

They say Seleana’s been walking around with fire in her eyes these past few weeks. To me, it just looks like smoke. All burn and no heat. She can scream, she can cry, she can summon every ounce of anger she’s got left — but tables don’t care about emotions. Wood doesn’t bend just because you want it to. Gravity doesn’t pause out of sympathy. You either win or you fall, and I intend to make sure she does both.

What makes me laugh most is how everyone acts like this is new for me. Like I’m just now discovering how to make something personal. My whole career has been personal. Every ring I’ve stepped into has been a battlefield. Every handshake has been a potential knife in the back. I learned early on that trust is a prop — something fans hold onto because they want to believe in heroes. I stopped believing in heroes a long time ago. All I’ve ever believed in is winning. That’s why I’m still here, still standing, still relevant while others fade into nostalgia clips and social media flashbacks. Seleana thinks she’s writing the next great chapter in her story. I’m writing the ending.

You want to know what satisfaction looks like to me? It’s not the sound of the table breaking. It’s the moment after — the quiet realization in her eyes when she realizes she gave me exactly what I wanted. She wanted war. I wanted control. And she handed me both. Because she doesn’t know how to stop fighting battles that no longer matter. She doesn’t know how to walk away. Her pride won’t let her. And pride is a fragile thing when it meets the floor.

Maybe this all sounds cruel. Maybe it is. But cruelty is honesty in motion. I don’t sugarcoat this life. Wrestling is violence wrapped in pageantry — the sooner you accept that, the sooner you stop getting blindsided by it. Seleana still clings to the illusion that somewhere under all this brutality, there’s fairness. There’s not. There’s just survival. And when I drive her through that table, it won’t be because I hate her. It’ll be because I refuse to let someone else’s weakness define me.

The beauty of a Tables Match is that it strips away the surface. No pinfalls, no submissions, no room for debate. Just impact, gravity, and the truth. You can’t fake your way out. You either go through that table or you don’t. And while Seleana’s been building her resolve around revenge, I’ve been doing what I always do — preparing. Studying. Waiting. That’s what separates the veterans from the hopefuls. I don’t train for emotion; I train for inevitability.

When people look back on this match, I don’t want them to remember it as Mercedes Vargas versus Seleana Zdunich. I want them to remember it as another reminder that greatness doesn’t flinch. That legacy doesn’t blink. That tables, no matter how many you break, don’t define you — control does. She can bring fury, heartbreak, grief, whatever she’s carrying from her sister’s situation. I’ll bring precision. And when fury meets precision, fury always loses.

So let her make her grand entrance. Let the crowd get on their feet. Let them believe, for one brief moment, that their hero is about to finally claim justice. Then I’ll remind them that justice doesn’t exist here — only result. Seleana’s chasing closure. I’m chasing dominance. And only one of us is leaving satisfied.

When the final bell rings and the splinters settle, you’ll see me standing there, unflinching, unapologetic, and unbroken. And Seleana? She'll be lying among the debris, realizing that everything she's been fighting for was just a story — and I'm the one who wrote the ending, and erased hers.

~~~

INT. THE FLOATING PENALTY BOX– MORNING

[The restaurant rocks gently with the morning tide. Seagulls squawk overhead. A neon “Galley Gourmet” sign flickers—half the letters dead, the rest buzzing like a hangover.

Ricardo polishes a wine glass with the intensity of an artist restoring a masterpiece. The bar is cluttered with half‑empty bottles, old receipts, and a laminated “Staff Pick of the Month” photo—his own.

The espresso machine hisses in protest. At the counter, Hugo, wearing a headset and a jersey, barks orders like a coach running brunch drills, commanding an invisible team..]

HUGO
Okay, people—game plan! Mimosas on defense, huevos rancheros on offense. Let’s keep the scoreboard classy!

[Mercedes limps down the narrow stairs from the upper deck, her movements sharp and defiant. She carries yesterday’s newspaper like a trophy no one wants. She stops, surveys the chaos.]

MERCEDES
Every morning, I expect to find this place sunk. Yet somehow, it’s still afloat.
Miracles or denial—you pick.

[Ricardo sets the glass down, annoyed that her sarcasm splashes his ritual.]

RICARDO
For your information, today this ship becomes a vessel of culture.

[He grandly gestures toward the bottles.]

RICARDO
I’m launching Wine Wednesdays. Elegance. Sophistication. Notes of redemption.

[Irma bursts from the kitchen, streak of paint on her apron, balancing a tray of croissants like a hopeful waiter in a dream.]

IRMA
Redemption pairs best with carbs.

[She sets the tray down; a croissant slides off and plops directly into the drain. Everyone watches it sink slowly like a metaphor.]

TOMÁS
And there goes our tip jar for the day.

[Ricardo ignores the jab, presenting a bottle as if auditioning for a commercial.]

RICARDO
We’re more than a restaurant now. We are an experience. A place for the palate and the soul.

[Mercedes raises an eyebrow. Hugo yanks off his headset in disbelief.]

HUGO
Does this “experience” come with a liquor license, artist boy?

[Ricardo freezes. The word license hangs heavy, like the anchor outside. A low creak from the hull punctuates the silence. The boat lists slightly, reacting to their dread.]

RICARDO
…We do have one.

[He forces a half-smile.]

RICARDO
Probably.

[Everyone stares. The espresso machine hisses again, like it knows what’s coming.]

INT. THE FLOATING PENALTY BOX– LATE MORNING

[Paperwork now covers the bar — licensing forms, sticky notes, and a half‑empty bottle of Pinot stretch across the counter like a crime scene. Ricardo squints at a glitchy state website on an old laptop while the Wi‑Fi signal flickers between one and zero bars.]

RICARDO
(reading)
“Serving alcohol on navigable waters may require dual jurisdiction clearance.” Dual jurisdiction? What is this, maritime law or nonsense?

[Hugo storms in from the deck, headset around his neck, waving a bright red “Brunch Bowl Sundays!” banner.]

HUGO
We don’t need clearance. We need momentum. Promotions, people! See this? Vision. Branding. Fan engagement!

[Mercedes crosses her arms.]

MERCEDES
Your “vision” gets us arrested, coach. Ricardo’s “branding” gets us fined. And I’m not spending my prime fighting the Coast Guard instead of wrestlers.

HUGO
Pivoting beats prison.

[Hugo puffs his chest and spins toward Tomás, who lounges on a stool eating fries like a man allergic to urgency.]

HUGO
You’re logistics. Make sure nobody official sets foot on this boat until happy hour.

[Tomás nods lazily, wiping salt from his fingers.]

TOMÁS
Cool. I’ll stand by the door and, what, vibe them away?

[Irma pokes her head through the kitchen pass‑through, waving a paintbrush like a wand..]

IRMA
Or we can turn “Wine Wednesday” into art therapy night. Paint, sip, express your existential dread responsibly!

[Mercedes half‑smiles despite herself.]

MERCEDES
It’s chaotic, but it’s legal-ish.

[She crosses to Ricardo.]

MERCEDES
You handle the art crowd. I’ll handle the inspectors.

[The boat sways again. Something metallic slides and clangs below deck. Everyone freezes. Irma looks up.]

IRMA
That didn’t sound artistic.

CUT TO: EXT. DOCKSIDE – CONTINUOUS

[A clipboard‑carrying marine inspector steps from shore onto the gangplank. He’s all khaki authority and reflective sunglasses. He cranes his neck to study the flickering “Wine Wednesday” banner overhead.]

INSPECTOR
(reading)
Wine night on a boat. Perfect storm of bad ideas.

[He takes one more step toward the entrance—where Tomás stands guard, holding two menus like warning flags.]

TOMÁS
Welcome… to our non‑alcoholic tasting event. All juice. Deeply complex. Fermented nowhere.

[The inspector studies him, unmoving. Behind Tomás, Ricardo’s nervous smile falters. Mercedes approaches fast, inserting herself with a professional grin that doesn’t reach her eyes.]

MERCEDES
Officer! Welcome aboard. You’re just in time for our pilot dry run. Totally sober. Spiritually, though—very spirited.

CUT TO: INT. THE FLOATING PENALTY BOX – MOMENTS LATER

[The inspector sits at a table, flipping through forms while everyone performs improvisational damage control. Ricardo pours grape juice like a sommelier under duress. Irma paints “Live, Laugh, Licensing” on a canvas, humming nervously. Hugo circles the tables, pretending to take customer stats on a clipboard that’s actually a lunch order. Mercedes paces in the background, whispering to Tomás.]

MERCEDES
If he finds one bottle, we’re done. Hide everything with a cork and act like hydration is a religion.

[Tomás gives a lazy salute and shoves bottles under napkins, cushions, and even a potted fern. The inspector looks up—suspicious.]

INSPECTOR
Interesting décor choice. Is that a… wine fern?

[Ricardo clears his throat too loudly .]

RICARDO
Symbolism, sir. We root our passion… in the soil of restraint.

[A long pause. The inspector sips the “juice,” unimpressed. The restaurant rocks slightly again, as if holding its breath.]

INT. THE FLOATING PENALTY BOX– LATE MORNING

[The inspector scans the laminated menu. A droplet of grape juice lands on his paperwork. He glances up. Ricardo freezes mid‑pour; the others freeze with him, an unintentional tableau of guilt.

INSPECTOR
So… “Wine Wednesday” is juice night now?

RICARDO
Yes. The French call it jus de raisin. Very avant‑grape.

[A cough escapes Mercedes as Hugo wipes sweat from his forehead. The inspector sets down his cup.]

INSPECTOR
Strange. I didn’t get any notice of your alcohol license renewal. Usually those cross my desk.

[Everyone’s eyes dart to Ricardo.]

RICARDO
Ah, the mail, yes. The tides have been… unpredictable. Letters, like dreams, sometimes drift.

[Tomás barely hides a smirk behind a napkin. Mercedes steps closer, voice steady.]

MERCEDES
Listen, officer—this business stays afloat on good food and hard work. The paperwork just hasn’t caught up to the hustle.

[The inspector nods slowly, flipping another page. Irma paints faster, her “abstract” canvas now a storm of caffeine and fear. The inspector looks around again, sniffing the air.]

INSPECTOR
Odd. For a dry event, smells suspiciously like Cabernet.

[Ricardo’s trembling hand hovers over a corked bottle under the bar. Before he can panic, Hugo lunges toward the source of the scent, waving a dish rag like a flag.]

HUGO
Air freshener malfunction! “Eau de Merlot.” Limited edition.

[The inspector squints, unconvinced. The air thickens with tension—then the espresso machine erupts, steam bursting like a geyser. Everyone jumps.]

HUGO
Timeout!

[The room fills with fog. The inspector rises from his seat, voice cutting through the chaos.]

INSPECTOR
That machine up to code?

[Mercedes doesn’t even blink.]

MERCEDES
Define “code.”

[Ricardo fumbles, knocking a bottle. Purple liquid spills across the counter, oozing toward a crate marked VINTAGE MERLOT, 2018. A dreadful silence.]

INSPECTOR
That... doesn’t look like juice.

[Only Tomás moves, casually slips between them, holding up a wrinkled inspection waiver.]

TOMÁS
Actually, sir, it’s a sample shipment. Non‑consumable. Decorative only.

[The inspector narrows his eyes. Tomás shrugs, easily unbothered. Mercedes strides forward, her stance commanding the moment.]

MERCEDES
If we’ve made a mistake, we’ll fix it. But today’s not about forms or fines. It’s about rebuilding something that’s already halfway sunk.

[She gestures around at the cracked lights, tilted tables, and dripping pipes. The restaurant feels raw and human in her words.]

MERCEDES
You see a hazard. We see a home that keeps us fighting.

[The inspector studies her, pen tapping his clipboard. Then, a faint nod.]

INSPECTOR
You’ve got... passion. I’ll give you that.

[He closes his folder and exhales.]

INSPECTOR
You’ve got seventy‑two hours to get this license cleared. After that—

[He glances at dripping espresso machine]

INSPECTOR
—this floating restaurant goes under.

[He turns and leaves. The sound of gulls and sloshing water fills the silence he leaves behind. As his silhouette fades down the gangplank, the group remains frozen, absorbing what just happened.]

HUGO
We survived inspection day! That’s a win, team!

[No one celebrates. Mercedes collapses into a chair, exhausted but faintly amused.]

MERCEDES
Winning feels suspiciously like losing.

Ricardo exhales a tired laugh.

RICARDO
Art imitates life.

[The boat creaks. Irma holds up her painting—now a chaotic hurricane of swirling colors.]

IRMA
Happy little accident?

[Everyone groans, then smiles. For now, they’re still afloat.]

CUT TO: EXT. THE FLOATING PENALTY BOX– SUNSET

[The boat bobs quietly, warm light spilling from its windows. Laughter echoes faintly over the water. From the deck, Ricardo wipes down the bar, this time slower, quieter. A humbled artist in recovery. Mercedes stands beside him, nursing cold coffee.]

MERCEDES
You could’ve sunk us today.

RICARDO
I know.

[She studies him, then smiles faintly.]

MERCEDES
But that toast you poured—for your ego? Almost vintage.

[She raises her coffee; he lifts his glass of water. They clink. Small redemption in the fading light.]

FADE OUT.

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

[REC•]

Scene Location: Industrial Warehouse, Los
Angeles Arts District

[Inside an abandoned warehouse, a single industrial lamp hums overhead, flickering in the dark. Its cone of light falls on a weathered table. The World Bombshell Championship rests across it like an idol. Dust floats through the beam like ash. Mercedes Vargas sits inside that glow — black leather jacket, ring gear catching the light, posture regal, still as a verdict. The camera glides in slow, handheld, each creak of floor echoing through the empty space. Silence holds, heavy and deliberate, until she finally speaks.]

"They tell me Seleana Zdunich finally gets her chance at payback. Like this was ever about chance."

[Her gaze drops to the World Bombshell Championship resting in front of her. The lamp flickers as she stares down at the title. She runs two fingers across the plate, slow drag, tracing her reflection.]

"A Tables Match. She chose it because it feels final. Because it promises impact. One crash. One splinter. One scream. And justice supposedly gets served."

[Her mouth twists upward — not laughter, but certainty.]

"That’s adorable."

[The scraping of her chair cuts through the quiet as she rises. The camera pans up with her, stretched shadow dancing against rusted walls.]

"Seleana thinks destruction evens the scale. Amateurs mistake emotion for strategy. I am precision. Every strike, every choice — controlled."

[She walks past the table, fingertips gliding across its edge. Metal rings softly under her touch. The steady rhythm of her heels echoes over the cracked concrete floor.]

"She wants to put me through this? She won’t even get the chance."

[Mercedes stops center frame, half her face caught in light, half in shadow. She fixes her stare straight into the lens — surgical calm in every word.]

"Emotion makes you slow. Hate clouds the math. But precision — precision writes history. That’s what keeps me standing when others break."

[Silence stretches. A dripping pipe somewhere fills the air with a steady pulse. She lets it breathe before speaking again, quieter, sharper.]

"Seleana wants vengeance for her wife, for her family, for whatever ghosts are still walking behind her. For everything she couldn’t protect. I understand that. But don’t mistake understanding for sympathy."

[She leans against the table — relaxed, unbothered. The light gleams across the belt as she speaks.]

"I put Crystal in a hospital not because I hated her. But because weakness invites consequence. And now Seleana’s here to collect a debt that was never hers."

[She uncrosses her arms — open palms, like she’s teaching a lesson. She taps twice on the tabletop — hard, deliberate. The sound echoes up into the rafters. Her eyes lift.]

"Two things always break easy: pretty things, and people who believe they can save them. That’s what people like Seleana never learn."

[She stands tall again, body squared to the lens.]

"Everyone watching thinks this is her story. That she’ll find closure by sending me through wood and splinters. But I’m not the villain in her redemption tale. I’m the ending she didn’t want written."

[Mercedes steps closer to the front, the camera drawing tight — eyes filling the frame. Her voice softens almost to a whisper.]

"Tables don’t scare me. Neither does Seleana's sob story. Rivalries don’t distract me. I’ve survived cages, glass, ladders, fire. Every woman who thought she could break me cracked long before I did. I walked away every time with the same thing — awareness. Awareness builds consistency, and consistency builds legacy."

[She grins, a small flash of teeth — deadly charm. She then slides the table a few inches forward; metal legs scrape against cement — slow, deliberate, loud enough to punctuate her words.]

"That’s why I’m still here — relevant, untouchable, inevitable. Because I never fight out of anger — I fight out of inevitability."

[With a slow breath, she grips the table with both hands. Breath steady; eyes locked. One quick motion — the table flips, crashing face‑down. The boom rattles the air. Dust settles over the light like smoke.]

"Seleana can talk about fighting for love or revenge all she wants. It won’t matter. She picked the match because she thought she understood pain. What she doesn’t understand is patience."

[Steps over the fallen table.]

"Winning isn’t rage; it’s timing. You wait for the exact second they lose focus. I’ve perfected when to pull the trigger."

[A flicker of light cuts across her face; the half‑smile disappears. She steps into the empty spotlight now lingering where the table used to be.]

"Let Seleana come in burning hot, screaming, broken over her sister, her wife, her story. Let her carry her grief into the ring. I’m walking in calm, focused, already a step ahead. Because rage is loud — but precision? Precision is lethal."

[She reaches down, retrieves the championship belt from the overturned table, and drapes it over her shoulder with ceremony — not pride, possession.]

"Seleana doesn’t need to worry about sending me through a table. She needs to worry about what’s left of her
when it’s over."

[Takes one quiet step toward the lens. Breath visible. Voice now razor calm.]

"So when that table breaks — and trust me, it will — she’s gonna hear my voice in the silence after. Not screaming. Not gloating. No fue personal, mija... fue necesario."

[Mercedes stares down the lens. Nothing moves for five full seconds. Her tone drops lower; her words drag slightly.]

"I don’t chase vengeance. I create aftermaths. Sunday night isn’t redemption.
It’s realization. Seleana Zdunich meets consequence."

[She pauses. Smiles once, small and dangerous.]

"And Mercedes Vargas writes another ending."

[Camera tilts upward as she walks out of frame. One last line, tossed over her shoulder like smoke.]

"Welcome to your collapse, Seleana. Prepare for the worst. Hope for the best. And may the odds be ever in your favor."

[Blackout. The heavy echo of the fallen table fades under the dark.]