SpeakEasy Pro Wrestling -Invite Only - May Week 2

The show kicks off with a massive explosion of fireworks bursting across the stage, lighting up the packed arena in New Orleans, Louisiana. The camera sweeps across the rowdy, high-energy crowd, signs waving wildly, drinks flowing, and fans on their feet as the pulse-pounding opening music blares through the speakers. The neon-drenched Speakeasy Pro Wrestling – Invite Only logo shines above the entranceway, setting the tone for another night of chaos, violence, and debauchery.

The cameras cut to ringside, where the SPW commentary team sits at their table, ready to guide us through the madness. Tazz, Wade Barrett, and Renee Paquette are all smiles—well, except for Barrett, who already looks like he’s questioning his life choices.

Renee Paquette: "Welcome, everyone, to another absolutely insane edition of SPW: Invite Only! We are LIVE from the legendary party capital—New Orleans, Louisiana! And if you thought last week was wild? Buckle up, because tonight is going to be even crazier."

Tazz: "That’s right, Renee! We’ve got fights, we’ve got controversy, and we’ve got at least a 70% chance that someone is gonna leave this show half-naked or unconscious—maybe both!"

Wade Barrett: "New Orleans might be known for Bourbon Street and wild nights, but tonight, this city is about to witness something even more unhinged. We’re on the road to VIP Access, where every championship will be decided, and the stakes couldn’t be higher!"

Renee Paquette: "We already saw chaos unfold last week as competitors from every division battled to punch their tickets to VIP Access, and tonight, the road continues. We’ll see new qualifiers, new grudges, and maybe even some unexpected… distractions?"

Tazz: "Distractions? Renee, let’s be honest—this entire company is a distraction. But hey, that’s what makes it great!"

As the fireworks fade and the energy in the New Orleans crowd continues to buzz, the screen flashes to an updated VIP Access Qualification Graphic, displaying the competitors who have already punched their tickets to the first major event of SPW.

VIP ACCESS QUALIFIED COMPETITORS

📜 Men’s World Championship: CM Punk

📜 Women’s World Championship: Britt Baker

📜 Men’s Tag Team Championships: Big Dick Energy, Titanic Force

📜 Women’s Tag Team Championships: The Hex

📜 Intergender Tag Team Championships: El Fuego

📜 Carnage Division Championship: Jon Moxley

📜 Wildcard Division Championship: Saraya

The graphic lingers for a moment, letting the weight of these names settle in, before fading back to the arena…

The roar of the crowd instantly shifts to a mix of cheers and anticipation as the unmistakable music of Paul Heyman echoes through the speakers…

*The moment those words hit, the arena erupts, and the familiar pulsating theme of Paul Heyman takes over the sound system. The man himself steps onto the stage, looking smug, confident, and absolutely in control. Dressed in his signature dark suit, Heyman soaks in the moment before making his way down the ramp, but this time? He’s not alone.

Trailing behind him, stepping onto the stage one by one, are the figures who hold the power in SPW.

✨ Stacy Keibler – Long-legged and commanding attention in a sleek, tight-fitting blazer and skirt, flashing the occasional smirk to the fans.

💪 Scott Steiner – A man who does not belong in a suit, yet here he is, the veins in his arms nearly popping out as he adjusts his tie like it’s strangling him.

🔥 Trish Stratus – Looking every bit the wrestling legend she is, dressed in a stylish yet daring outfit that lets you know she means business.

⚡ Lita – Walking with her usual effortless cool, hair flowing, arms crossed as she surveys the crowd with an amused smirk.

This is not just a management team—this is a power statement. The audience watches as Heyman and his team enter the ring, one by one, each standing in a unified front. Heyman, always the showman, grabs a microphone and stands in the center.

Paul Heyman:"Last week, we laid the foundation for what this company is going to be. We made history, we made headlines, and we made a statement that Speakeasy Pro Wrestling is unlike anything else in the world. But… we also made one mistake."

He pauses, letting the intrigue sink in.

"Because last week, we did not take the time to fully introduce the team that makes all of this possible. We failed to introduce one last key figure in the SPW Management team, and tonight, I am here to right that wrong."

Heyman turns toward the entrance ramp, extending his free hand in dramatic fashion.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome… the Director of Social Media, TORRIE WILSON!"

The crowd pops loudly as the familiar entrance theme of Torrie Wilson hits the speakers, and the blonde bombshell makes her way onto the stage. Dressed to perfection, she carries herself with the effortless charm and poise that has made her a star for decades. With a bright smile, she struts confidently down the ramp, knowing full well that all eyes are on her.

As she enters the ring, she greets Heyman with a quick nod before taking her place among the SPW executives. The management team is now fully assembled.

Heyman grins, clearly satisfied with how the pieces are falling into place.

With the full SPW management team assembled in the ring, the night is already off to a wild start. Heyman has given the floor to his fellow executives, and Stacy Keibler is the first to take the microphone.

Stacy Keibler:"As I mentioned last week, my job here is to make sure every superstar on this roster is satisfied… and unfortunately, Dominik Mysterio is NOT."

*The crowd erupts into boos, knowing exactly where this is going.

Stacy rolls her eyes, shaking her head with fake sympathy before continuing.*

"Which is why I’m here to remind all of you that Dominik is here tonight and he is expecting an apology from Liv Morgan."

The mere mention of this gets the audience riled up, but before Stacy can continue, Heyman steps forward with an amused smirk.

Paul Heyman:"Just so we’re clear—this is because of his tiny dick, right?"

*The arena erupts.

“TINY DICK! TINY DICK! TINY DICK!”

The chant spreads like wildfire, growing louder and louder as Stacy tries and fails to keep a straight face. Trish and Lita are already laughing, Torrie is covering her mouth, and even Heyman has to glance away to keep from cracking up.

The camera zooms in on Scott Steiner, who, for a moment, simply shrugs before casually raising the mic to his lips.*

Scott Steiner:"Hey, I don’t blame ‘em! If I was built like a lil’ bitch, I’d be demandin’ an apology too!"

*The crowd pops again, as even Stacy has to take a second to regain composure. Steiner, completely at ease, turns toward the women standing next to him, flexing one of his massive arms.

Scott Steiner:"But ladies… don’t you worry—Big Poppa Pump measures up."

*The crowd ROARS as Stacy, Trish, Lita, and Torrie all react differently. Stacy rolls her eyes, smirking, Trish bites her lip as if amused but unimpressed, Lita just shakes her head, and Torrie—ever the sweetheart—gives a half-hearted golf clap.

Steiner lets the laughter die down before moving on, cracking his neck as he gets back to business.*

*"Alright, enough about that little situation. We gotta talk about tonight! I’m here to announce tonight’s CO-MAIN EVENT!

Tonight, we are having a World Title Qualifier! One for the Men’s Division, and one for the Women’s Division. The men’s match is going to feature—"*

*But before he can finish…

“FIGHT! OWENS! FIGHT!”

The arena explodes as the music of KEVIN OWENS hits the speakers!

The crowd jumps to their feet, roaring in approval as Kevin Owens steps onto the stage, looking absolutely pissed off. Sporting his signature cut-off tee, fight shorts, and an expression like he just walked into a room that smells like shit, Owens marches down the ramp with purpose, a microphone already in hand.

Without hesitation, he storms into the ring and gets right up in Steiner’s face, pointing a finger at him.*

Kevin Owens:"Are you kidding me?! Last week, I wasn’t even ON this show. You had time for a literal dick-measuring contest—you had time for people to hit on the General Managers, you had time for people to MOON THE CROWD, and yet you didn’t have time for Kevin Owens?!"

The crowd cheers loudly as Owens looks around the ring, eyes filled with fury.

*"I have been watching this show from the back, listening to people brag, flirt, and embarrass themselves. But I didn’t come here to play games. I am not here to pick up women, I am not here to make people laugh, and I am definitely not here to sit around and let my name be forgotten.

I am here for one reason, and one reason only—TO FIGHT. And right now? I don’t have a prize to fight for, which means SOMEBODY here needs to fix that."

Owens turns his attention directly to Paul Heyman, but before Heyman can even raise the mic—Scott Steiner shoves Owens back.

The crowd oohs.

Owens doesn’t back down. He steps forward again, chest to chest with Steiner.

Steiner, grinning ear to ear, tilts his head at Owens and just laughs.

Scott Steiner:"Listen up, fat ass! You think I forgot about you?! HELL NO! In fact, I SAVED YOU! I held you back from last week because even I know that you, my friend, ARE A DRAW! You got that big gut, them stubby little legs, and people love to watch you fight! I ain't stupid—I know money when I see it!"

The crowd cheers, half in agreement, half in amusement. Owens, however, is not entertained.

"But let’s be real, Owens—you talk a big game, you wanna be in the World Title picture, but that ain’t how this works. See, you don’t just get the match you want—you get the match you deserve.

So tonight? You’re not stepping into a qualifier. You’re stepping into a fight. And you’re stepping in with the toughest bastard I could find.

Tonight… Kevin Owens vs. Eddie Kingston… in the main event!"

The fans explode at the announcement, the idea of two of the most brutal, hard-hitting brawlers in the business going to war already sending the crowd into a frenzy. Owens glares at Steiner before backing up slightly, nodding in satisfaction. But Steiner isn’t finished.

"Oh, and as for the other half of the co-main event? It’s simple. We got four women who haven’t debuted yet, and they’re gonna face off in a tag match. Winning team? Both of ‘em qualify for VIP Access."

The audience buzzes with anticipation, wondering who will be making their in-ring debuts tonight. Owens gives Steiner one last glare before rolling out of the ring and heading up the ramp with purpose.

Steiner, still grinning, hands the mic back to Heyman, who is watching the chaos unfold like a proud father.

Heyman smirks, then looks around at the rest of the management team. Stacy, Trish, Lita, and Torrie all look completely unbothered.

Paul Heyman:"Well… seems like we’ve got a hell of a show ahead of us. And with that, ladies and gentlemen—WELCOME TO INVITE ONLY!

And let me assure you… the fun is just getting started."

The crowd erupts in excitement as the camera cuts to a wide shot of the arena, the SPW logo flashing across the screen.

After the chaos in the ring, the cameras cut backstage where Gia Miller is standing by, microphone in hand, next to a man who needs no introduction. Sporting a New York Yankees fitted cap, a beat-up hoodie, and a scowl that could scare a priest, Eddie Kingston stands with his arms crossed, his presence alone demanding attention. The crowd cheers loudly at the sight of him, but Eddie, as always, couldn’t care less.

Gia Miller:"Ladies and gentlemen, I am here with a man making his SPW debut tonight in our main event—Eddie Kingston. Eddie, we just heard from Kevin Owens, and it’s safe to say he’s coming into this match with a massive chip on his shoulder. What are your thoughts heading into tonight’s fight?"

Kingston snorts, shaking his head before turning toward the camera, rubbing his beard like he’s trying to hold back from saying something really disrespectful.

Eddie Kingston:"What do I think? Gia, I think Kevin Owens is a whiny little bitch. That’s what I think."

The crowd erupts, while Gia visibly reacts, caught off guard by the bluntness. Kingston doesn’t care. He waves her reaction off and leans into the mic.

Eddie Kingston:"Oh, what? What, I said something wrong?! What, we ain’t all watchin’ the same show?! You heard him out there, cryin’ about how he wasn’t booked last week. Boo-fuckin’-hoo, Kev! You weren’t booked because nobody wanted to listen to you run your mouth for twenty goddamn minutes about how you deserve somethin’.

And now you wanna be mad at Steiner? You wanna act like it’s some grand conspiracy against ‘ya? Nah, Kev, you weren’t booked last week ‘cause management did you a favor. They let you sit in the back and eat whatever the hell you wanted without gettin’ your ass kicked.

But tonight? I’m here. And guess what? I don’t do favors."

Gia tries to compose herself, but Kingston keeps going.

Eddie Kingston:"Kev, I don’t give a shit how many world titles you’ve held, how many best friends you stabbed in the back, or how many times you’ve convinced people that you’re a “prizefighter.” I don’t see a prizefighter. I see a dude who talks way too much, and fights way too little.

So tonight? In the main event? I’m gonna do what I always do… shut loudmouths up."

Before Kingston can continue, the interview is suddenly interrupted.

A group of six men and one woman walk directly between Kingston and Gia, cutting off the conversation like neither of them even exists.

Leading the group is Oba Femi, his imposing presence commanding attention, followed closely by Carmelo Hayes, Wes Lee, Lio Rush, Max Caster, Asante Adonis, and Red Velvet. They move with an air of entitlement, their body language making it clear that they believe they own the place.

Not a single one of them acknowledges Kingston. They don’t even look at him.

They just keep walking.

Kingston watches them pass by, his lips curling into a smirk, but there’s no amusement behind it. He turns his head slightly, staring Gia down with a look that screams: “Did you just see that shit?”

Eddie Kingston:"Yo… the hell was that?"

Gia has no answer, looking just as confused as he is.

Kingston shakes his head, letting out a low chuckle as he watches the group disappear down the hallway, seemingly headed to the ring.

The camera lingers on Kingston for a moment, his smirk fading, replaced by something much more dangerous—a look of understanding.

Like he’s just realized that something big is about to happen.

Cut to commercial.

The show returns from commercial, and we are immediately inside the ring, where Oba Femi stands, microphone in hand, with his faction lined up behind him. To his right, Carmelo Hayes and Wes Lee stand with confident smirks, while Lio Rush, Max Caster, and Asante Adonis remain laser-focused. To his left, Red Velvet glares at the crowd, arms crossed, her presence adding another layer of intensity to the group. The tension in the arena is thick, the crowd buzzing with curiosity—and unease.

Femi slowly raises the microphone, taking his time before speaking in a calm, deliberate tone.

Oba Femi:"I am not just here to fight for championships. No, no, no… see, that would be too small. I am here because I am the last king of the streets. And these men? This woman? They are my soldiers. Dedicated. Disciplined. And willing to give everything to ensure victory."

He pauses, his eyes scanning the crowd before gesturing toward the individuals behind him.

"So let me make it official. Carmelo Hayes. Wes Lee. Lio Rush. Max Caster. Asante Adonis. Red Velvet. This is The Grind. And together, we are going to take everything."

The audience erupts in a mix of boos and intrigue, as Femi stands tall, completely unfazed by their reaction.

"Right now, we are going to show you exactly why this is our time."

Carmelo Hayes and Wes Lee step forward, rolling their necks and loosening their arms as the rest of The Grind file out of the ring. Femi dismisses them with a nod, and they take their places at ringside, standing like enforcers, watching.

Oba smirks as he turns back to the hard camera.

"These two men are about to qualify for VIP Access. Their scheduled match? It starts now. And make no mistake, gentlemen… we will be watching."

Femi tosses the microphone aside and takes his place at ringside as the theme music for their opponents hits.

The crowd turns toward the stage as a new theme blares through the speakers. Stepping through the curtain are two men dripping with charisma and swagger—Angel Garza and KC Navarro.

Though they’ve never teamed before in SPW, there’s already an undeniable chemistry between them. Garza, ever the flirt, winks at a woman in the front row as he confidently struts down the ramp. Meanwhile, Navarro, the fast-talking high-flyer, nods his head to the beat of their entrance music, pointing to himself and jawing off-mic as he approaches the ring.

They glance toward ringside, taking note of The Grind watching them carefully. The presence of five extra bodies outside the ring is impossible to ignore, but Garza and Navarro don’t back down. They slide into the ring, ready for the challenge.

The referee signals for the bell.

DING! DING! DING!

The Grind vs. Latin Love – VIP Access Qualifier

Carmelo Hayes and Wes Lee explode out of the gate, taking control early. Hayes, the self-proclaimed "Him," immediately overwhelms KC Navarro with his precision offense, lighting him up with quick jabs and a vicious enzuigiri that sends him staggering into the corner.

Hayes tags in Wes Lee, who launches himself off the ropes and drills Navarro with a shotgun dropkick. Navarro tries to recover, but Lee grabs him mid-stumble and whips him violently into the corner.

Navarro gets a brief opening after a desperate counter—a springboard tornado DDT out of nowhere—but it isn’t enough. The moment he reaches out to tag Garza, Carmelo yanks Garza off the apron, sending him crashing into the barricade.

The Grind continues their dominance. Any moment of offense from Navarro or Garza is immediately snuffed out by ruthless precision. The chemistry between Hayes and Lee is undeniable, each man knowing exactly when to tag in and out, constantly cutting the ring in half.

After one final desperation lariat from Navarro, he stumbles toward Garza, making the tag.

Garza explodes into the ring like a house of fire, catching Wes Lee with a running knee! Hayes comes charging in, but Garza ducks and leaps—springboarding off the ropes with a moonsault, landing on his feet before blasting Hayes with a superkick!

The crowd is coming alive now, rallying behind the underdogs, but the momentum is short-lived.

Lee rakes Garza’s eyes while the ref is distracted, and Hayes follows up with a huge Codebreaker! Navarro tries to save his partner, but Lee intercepts him with a meteora from the top rope.

With Garza stunned, Hayes and Lee deliver the finishing blow—

GANG WARFARE!

Hayes lifts Garza up into an electric chair position, while Lee springboards off the ropes and catches him with a cutter on the way down! The impact is sickening, Garza’s body bouncing off the mat. Hayes hooks the leg.

1… 2… 3!

Winners: The Grind (Carmelo Hayes & Wes Lee) – Qualified for VIP Access

The moment the bell rings, The Grind wastes no time celebrating. Instead, they do exactly what Oba Femi said they would—they make an example.

Navarro barely has time to roll over before Max Caster and Lio Rush slide into the ring. Asante Adonis follows close behind, and together, The Grind descend upon their fallen opponents like wolves.

Garza gets to his knees, only to be blindsided by a running knee from Caster! Navarro, trying to scramble away, is caught by Lio Rush, who drives him into the mat with a standing Spanish Fly!

At ringside, Oba Femi watches, unflinching, approving.

Then comes the final insult.

Red Velvet, calm and methodical, walks toward the ring apron and grabs a can of spray paint. She rolls into the ring, shaking it twice before passing it to Hayes, who grins as he kneels over the fallen Garza.

With slow, deliberate movements, Hayes tags both Navarro and Garza with a massive “G” across their backs.

Oba Femi finally steps into the ring, looking down at the destruction his soldiers have caused. He kneels beside Navarro, gently patting his chest before standing over him and addressing the hard camera.

Oba Femi:"This… this is just the beginning.

The Grind takes what it wants. And if you stand in our way?

You become the next lesson."

He tosses the mic down as The Grind stands tall, surveying the destruction in the ring. The commentary team reacts in a mix of shock and disgust as the camera lingers on the spray-painted bodies of Garza and Navarro.

The Grind has arrived. And SPW will never be the same.

Before the show heads to its second commercial break, we transition backstage to the office of Trish Stratus and Lita. The two legendary Hall of Famers are seated at their shared desk, engaged in light conversation, both with their feet kicked up, seemingly unbothered by the chaos that has unfolded so far tonight.

Trish Stratus:"So… The Grind, huh?"

Lita:"Yeah. Dominant. Ruthless. Organized. Kinda hot."

Trish Stratus:"I mean… yeah."

The two women nod in agreement, sipping their drinks, before Lita suddenly smirks and leans toward Trish.

Lita:"Speaking of dominant, though… Do you think Dom is really that small?"

Trish, caught mid-sip, nearly chokes on her drink before laughing and shaking her head.

Trish Stratus:"I mean… listen. I know Liv Morgan has never told a lie in her life, but even I started to feel bad for the guy."

Lita:"Yeah, but… what if she was wrong? Like, what if it’s just… regular small?"

Trish makes a face, clearly contemplating the thought before shaking her head again.

Trish Stratus:"I dunno. But what’s probably more important is Steiner. Do you think… he’s really that big?"

Lita looks at Trish, completely serious for a long beat before answering.

Lita:"I mean… his biceps are like the size of my head. So honestly? I wouldn’t be surprised if everything is equally oversized."

Trish nods thoughtfully, taking a second before smirking.

Trish Stratus:"You wanna find out, don’t you?"

Lita:"I mean… not alone."

The two women burst into laughter, but before their conversation can continue, the door swings open violently.

Standing in the doorway, R-Truth storms in, looking dead serious, before dramatically slamming a single playing card down onto their desk.

The 9 of Diamonds.

Trish and Lita exchange confused looks before turning back to Truth, who has his arms crossed like he just won a court case.

R-Truth:"I’m here. I want my match."

Trish leans forward, staring at the card with squinted eyes.

Trish Stratus:"Okay, uh… what?"

R-Truth:"Y’all heard me. I know what time it is. It’s time to go WILD. So I’m DECLARIN’ for the Wildcard Division!"

Lita and Trish share another concerned glance, both unsure of how to respond.

Lita:"Okay, so… R-Truth, buddy, I don’t think you—"

R-Truth:"9’s are wild. Everybody knows that! That’s how the game works! And BOOM, look at that—9 of Diamonds, right there! Which means I’M WILD, BABY! I’M WILDCARD DIVISION MATERIAL!"

He gestures at the 9 of Diamonds like it’s a championship belt, standing proudly. Trish pinches the bridge of her nose while Lita rubs her temples, both struggling to process this information.

Trish Stratus:"Truth, I—That’s… not how this works."

R-Truth:"Ohhhhh, I see what’s happenin’. I got the wrong one. Y’all want the 9 of Hearts.

Don’t even trip—I’ll be right back."

Before Trish or Lita can stop him, Truth grabs his card and bolts out of the office, mumbling to himself about needing to find the right one. The GMs sit there, stunned, before Lita finally speaks.

Lita:"We… we aren’t stopping him, are we?"

Trish Stratus:"Nope. Let’s just see where this goes."

The two women clink their drinks together and sit back in their chairs, watching Truth disappear down the hallway.

Cut to commercial.

After the break, the cameras cut backstage to the office of Torrie Wilson. The atmosphere is noticeably different from the other executive offices—this one is sleek, modern, and Instagram-perfect. A few designer shopping bags rest near her desk, and behind her, a ring light subtly illuminates the space.

Torrie, looking absolutely stunning in a form-fitting, designer dress, is lounging back in her chair, scrolling through her phone with a soft smirk. Her perfectly manicured nails tap against the screen, her expression one of mild amusement.

A knock at the door pulls her attention away, and she looks up, adjusting her posture slightly as the door opens.

In steps Eva Marie.

The crowd reacts immediately—some cheering, others laughing, but everyone remembering exactly why Eva Marie is here. She walks in with her signature sultry confidence, her outfit as questionably secure as ever, but her expression suggests that she’s still a bit… embarrassed about last week.

Torrie sets her phone down and smiles warmly.

Torrie Wilson:"Eva! Thanks for stopping by. Have a seat."

Eva crosses her arms, shifting her weight slightly before finally sitting down. She tucks a loose strand of her perfectly styled red hair behind her ear, giving Torrie a cautious glance.

Eva Marie:"This about… last week?"

Torrie leans forward, resting her elbows on the desk, her smile never wavering.

Torrie Wilson:"Mmm… in a way, yeah. See, I just wanted to go over some numbers with you. Because, Eva? Last week’s little… moment? It was one of the most-watched clips of the entire show."

Eva’s expression shifts slightly—a mix of intrigue and concern. She tilts her head.

Eva Marie:"Wait, seriously?"

Torrie nods, unlocking her phone and turning it toward Eva, revealing a social media feed flooded with clips and GIFs of her near-disaster. Some are slowed down, some are zoomed in, and some are edited with exaggerated sound effects. The engagement numbers are through the roof.

Eva leans in, her lips parting slightly as she reads the numbers. Her eyes widen just a little.

Torrie Wilson:"Mmmhmm. Millions of views. Thousands of shares. And all of that… from something that didn’t even actually show anything."

Torrie lets that sink in, watching Eva’s reaction. Eva leans back, suddenly very aware that this conversation is leading somewhere. Torrie flashes her a knowing look and rests her chin in her palm.

Torrie Wilson:"So… keep that in mind, yeah?"

Eva shifts in her seat, her expression unreadable. There’s a flicker of realization in her eyes, but what it means? That’s left up in the air.

Does she get it?

Does she agree?

Does she care?

Or does she have her own plans?

Torrie leans back in her chair with a satisfied smile as Eva slowly stands, brushing a hand down the side of her dress as she nods.

Eva Marie:"Noted."*Without another word, she turns and struts out of the office, leaving Torrie to casually pick up her phone again, scrolling as if this conversation never even happened.

Cut back to ringside.

"The following contest is scheduled for one fall… and it is a qualifier in the Intergender Tag Team Championship Division!"

The energy in the arena shifts as the upbeat, cocky theme of The Hot Mess Express hits. A moment later, Chelsea Green and Matt Cardona make their grand entrance, exuding confidence—borderline arrogance.

Chelsea struts onto the stage like the world is hers. Her sheer, sparkling bodysuit clings to her in all the right places, dazzling under the lights, while her feathered, champagne-colored robe billows behind her. Every step is calculated, every movement intentional, as she slowly runs her hands up and down her body, teasing the crowd. She stops at the top of the ramp, flicking her golden waves over her shoulder and flashing the hard cam a seductive smirk.

Matt Cardona stands beside her, grinning like a man who already thinks he’s won. His white and gold trunks read “Always Ready” across the back, and he wears a matching entrance jacket adorned with gaudy dollar signs. Sliding his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, he flexes his biceps and nods smugly before extending an arm to Chelsea, who playfully spins into him, draping herself over his shoulder.

As they make their way down the ramp, Chelsea stops at ringside, stepping onto the apron with a slow, exaggerated lean, arching her back in a way that demands attention. Cardona, in full showman mode, holds the ropes open for her, dramatically bowing as she steps inside. She tosses her robe aside and spins in place, showing herself off like a trophy on display. Cardona climbs the turnbuckle, pointing to himself.

Matt Cardona:"You’re looking at the hottest power couple in pro wrestling!"

Tazz: "I mean… he’s not exactly wrong, but does he have to be so damn smug about it?"

Wade Barrett: "Cardona and Chelsea are obnoxious, but they know how to grab attention—that much is undeniable."

Renee Paquette: "Yeah, but attention only gets you so far when your opponents are this dangerous."

The music fades, the lights darken, and suddenly—a deep, ominous gong echoes through the arena.

A haunting chant begins to play. Fog spills across the stage as the eerie, methodical theme of The Black Veil takes over.

A single, flickering red light illuminates the entranceway. Slowly, through the mist, Zelina Vega emerges first—moving like a predator. Her black lace ensemble clings to her frame, a sheer corset accentuating her curves. Thigh-high stockings and stilettos complete the look, making her appear dangerously seductive.

Her lips curve into a smirk as she tilts her head, locking eyes with Chelsea Green. There’s no hesitation, no fear—only playful malice. Her hips sway as she moves, gliding toward the ring as if she owns it.

Behind her, Malakai Black follows, an unstoppable force of violence. His dark, ritualistic attire and horned mask make him look like something dragged up from the underworld itself. Tattoos peek through the shadows as he walks with a calm, terrifying presence.

Zelina trails her fingertips down his chest, almost possessively, her body language making it clear—she commands his demon. He follows without a word, a specter of destruction.

As they reach the ring, Zelina steps through the ropes slowly, almost teasingly, never taking her eyes off Chelsea. Malakai follows her in silence, removing his mask to reveal his unreadable, ice-cold stare.

DING! DING! DING!

Chelsea Green and Zelina Vega start the match, circling each other, but it’s clear Zelina is toying with her. With a mischievous smirk, she blows Chelsea a kiss, wiggling her fingers in a flirtatious wave.

Chelsea snarls immediately, her face turning red as she stomps her foot in frustration before lunging wildly.

Zelina? She easily sidesteps.

Chelsea spins back around, furious, and lunges again. Zelina dodges.

On the third attempt, Zelina sidesteps once more but flicks her hair into Chelsea’s

face as she does, strutting away like she’s on a runway.

Chelsea’s jaw clenches so tight it might break.

The crowd roars with laughter.

Tazz:

"PFFFFT! OH, SHE GOT HER!"

Wade Barrett:

"Zelina Vega is already in Chelsea’s head, and we are barely a minute into this match!"

Chelsea, fuming, charges once more— this time, she manages to back Zelina into the corner, unloading wild forearms.

Zelina absorbs the blows before rolling through the ropes, slipping past Chelsea’s grasp, and popping back to her feet on the outside.

She leans against the barricade, mockingly fanning herself, looking at a fan in the front row.

Zelina Vega:

"Whew! Is it hot in here, or is it just me?"

Chelsea, livid, stomps to her corner and tags in Matt Cardona.

Cardona hops the ropes with his usual over-the-top confidence, strutting to the center of the ring, looking at Zelina like she’s beneath him.

Matt Cardona:

"Oh, please. THIS is my competition?"

Zelina, unfazed, tilts her head. She slowly walks toward him, her lips curling into a knowing smile.

Tazz:

"Oh, boy. She’s up to something."

Zelina stops right in front of Cardona, standing way too close.

Then—she reaches up and gently trails a single finger down his chest.

The crowd gasps in amusement.

Cardona’s cocky grin falters.

Zelina slowly bats her big brown eyes at him, tilting her head. Then—she playfully runs her hands over his biceps, letting out a mock-impressed sigh.

She grabs his wrist, lifts his arm, and gives his biceps a little squeeze. Then she grins, looking unimpressed.

Zelina Vega:

"Mmm… I mean, it’s cute."

The crowd howls.

Cardona’s face twists in indignation. He jerks his arm back, muttering something about being ‘always ready,’ but before he can react further—Zelina pinches his cheek like an annoying aunt at Thanksgiving.

Zelina Vega:

"Aww, look at you… trying to be a real man!"

Cardona snaps.

He tries to grab Zelina, but she laughs and dashes back to her corner—tagging in Malakai Black.

Cardona, still flustered, turns around—

BLACK MASS!

*The brutal spinning kick connects flush! Cardona drops like a stone, unconscious before he even hits the mat.

Chelsea’s entire body stiffens in horror.

Malakai stares directly into her soul, daring her to break the pin.

Chelsea takes one step forward… then stops.

She’s smart enough to know better.

The referee drops for the count.

1… 2… 3!

Winners: The Black Veil (Qualified for VIP Access!)

The second the bell rings, Malakai doesn’t move. He simply looms over Cardona’s lifeless body like a predator standing over its kill.

Zelina? She’s grinning ear to ear, doubled over in laughter, pointing at Chelsea.

Chelsea, completely mortified, slides into the ring to check on Matt, shaking him violently to wake him up.

Meanwhile, Malakai and Zelina exit the ring without a second glance, their mission complete.

The Black Veil just punched their ticket to VIP Access.

And The Hot Mess Express?

They just completely derailed.

Cut to commercial.

We return from commercial to the sounds of boos echoing throughout the arena. In the ring, Dominik Mysterio stands with a microphone in hand, visibly frustrated as the audience mercilessly drowns him out.

The chant has started again.

"TINY DICK! TINY DICK! TINY DICK!"

Dom clenches his jaw, shaking his head as he paces back and forth, gripping the mic tighter. He tries to speak, but the crowd only gets louder. He waves his free hand aggressively, attempting to shut them down.

Dominik Mysterio:"Shut up! Shut up! I am so SICK of hearing this!"

The chant only intensifies.

Dom runs his hand through his hair, exhaling sharply before finally forcing himself to continue.

"Liv Morgan doesn’t know what she’s talking about! She’s just out here running her mouth because she’s bitter, she’s jealous, and she wants attention! The reality is—she’s never even seen anything!"

The crowd erupts in laughter, but Dom, doubling down, shakes his head.

"And besides… even if she HAD, she wouldn’t know what to do with it! Rhea never had a complaint. No other girl ever had a complaint!"

The audience groans in disbelief, reacting like they just heard the worst excuse in history.

Tazz: 

"Oh, this poor, poor bastard. This is painful."

Wade Barrett: "I want to believe Dom is smarter than this, but he’s standing in the middle of the ring arguing with an entire arena about his junk. He did this to himself!"

Dom raises his chin defiantly, staring into the hard cam with misplaced confidence.

"And let’s be real… a large tunnel can make ANY car look small."

The crowd erupts in a mixture of boos and laughter, but before the reaction can settle—Liv Morgan’s music hits.

The arena explodes.

Dominik immediately tenses up, his bravado fading slightly as the camera cuts to the entrance ramp.

Liv Morgan steps out… and she looks like every sin ever committed wrapped into one.

Her usual attire? Dialed up to eleven.

Her shorts? Shorter than usual.

Her top? Cut just enough to show off everything without showing too much.

She moves like she owns the place, a knowing smirk on her lips as her hips sway with every deliberate step. Her blonde hair falls wildly around her shoulders, and her eyes? Locked onto Dominik.

Renee Paquette: 

"Oh, my GOD. Look at her. She looks like she could and might sink a thousand ships."

Tazz: 

"She looks like she could sink an entire damn navy."

Wade Barrett: 

"And poor Dom? He looks like he just realized exactly what he’s done."

Liv reaches the ring and steps inside with the confidence of a woman who knows she owns every man’s attention. She doesn’t hesitate, walking directly up to Dominik, standing so close he can feel her breath on his skin.

Dom swallows hard. 

In the center of the ring, Dominik Mysterio stands frozen. His bravado from earlier? Gone. His cocky smirk? Wiped clean. Because right now, Liv Morgan is standing inches from him, her sultry smirk making his entire existence feel very, very small.

She slowly tilts her head, biting her lip as she lifts her microphone. Then—in a soft, teasing baby voice—she speaks.

Liv Morgan:

"Awww… Papi, I’m sooo sorry."

The crowd erupts with laughter as Liv pouts her lips dramatically, her voice dripping with mock sympathy.

Dominik visibly tenses, his jaw tightening as he tries to act unaffected— but Liv is just getting started.

She steps even closer, pressing against him slightly as she lifts a single finger, trailing it down his chest and up under his shirt. Dominik’s breathing picks up.

Then—a soft bite.

Right on his neck.

Dom visibly shudders.

She moves upward, nibbling on his earlobe, just enough for the hard cam to catch a slight moan escape her lips. The sound alone sends waves through the audience, men and women alike shifting in their seats.

And just when Dom thinks it can’t get worse?

Her hand slides downward.

Right into the front of his tights.

The crowd erupts in pure madness. Some people scream, some are cheering, but everyone is losing their minds.

Dominik? He doesn’t move. He can’t. His eyes dart around, panicked, realizing he’s just been set up.

And then—Liv steps back.

She laughs. Hard.

Dominik looks mortified.

And with a devilish smirk, Liv finally speaks in her normal voice.

Liv Morgan:

"Oh, Dom… you’re just way too easy.

First, I got to use you to get Rhea, and now this. I mean, I didn’t even have to sleep with you.

And honestly? I was just guessing about your dick.

Educated guess, mind you, but still a guess."

The audience HOWLS. The camera cuts to people in the crowd crying from laughter. Dom, already breaking out in a nervous sweat, starts shaking his head.

Liv smirks, shakes her head mockingly, and turns her back to him.

And then—she grinds her ass against his crotch.

Dominik freezes.

Liv, still smiling, gives a slow, deliberate wiggle of her perfectly sculpted ass against him before turning her head slightly.

Liv Morgan:

"And this? This is as close to my perfect ass as you’re ever gonna get, Papi.

I just wanted to make sure you were at your absolute best so you wouldn’t have any excuses when we…"

She trails off, letting the moment breathe.

Then—her expression shifts, her smirk turning devious.

Her voice? A little louder now.

Liv Morgan:

"Mariah!"

Before Dom can even process what’s happening, the crowd erupts as—

Mariah May slides into the ring!

The blonde bombshell appears out of nowhere, to the absolute delight of the fans!

Before Dominik can even turn around—Mariah, with expert precision, drops behind him… and in one fluid motion—

SHE YANKS HIS PANTS DOWN!

Everything stops.

The crowd gasps, then SCREAMS.

The camera frantically cuts away, but not before catching just enough—

Dominik Mysterio.Standing in the middle of the ring.Pants around his ankles.Frozen in nothing but his boxers.

And worst of all?

Liv’s point was proven.

The camera cuts to the audience, who are LOSING THEIR MINDS. People at ringside? Hands over their mouths. Fans? HOWLING.

Dominik? Absolutely panicking.

He stumbles forward, frantically yanking at his pants, failing spectacularly. He trips, nearly falling flat on his face, before finally scrambling out of the ring, running up the ramp at full speed.

Faster than he has ever moved in his life.

Mariah and Liv? Doubled over in laughter.

Liv, wiping away tears of amusement, slowly picks up the mic again.

Liv Morgan:

"Oh my god… that was even better than I imagined.

Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce you to my new friend, my new ally…

Mariah May.

And going forward?

Everything we do… is for… SHOCK VALUE."

Liv drops the mic as her music blasts through the arena, Mariah throwing an arm around her as they pose together, laughing at Dominik’s expense.

This?

This was the most embarrassing moment of his entire life.

And the world saw it.

Dominik Mysterio is still running. His face beet red, his pants barely secure as he sprints down the backstage hallway toward the parking lot, desperate to get the hell out of the arena. The sound of laughter and mockery from the crowd still rings in his ears, his hands gripping his waistband like his life depends on it.

Then—he zips past a familiar face.

The crowd pops HUGE as the camera pulls back to reveal Rey Mysterio, standing near a production crate, arms crossed, watching his son’s full-speed escape.

Dom, realizing who he just ran past, slows for just a moment.

Rey tilts his head, shaking it with a smirk before calling out.

Rey Mysterio:

"Hey, Dom!"

Dom stops in his tracks, breathing heavily, still frantically looking around to make sure no cameras are too close. His eyes dart to his father, the tension thick between them.

Rey takes one step closer, eyeing his humiliated son up and down. And then—with a smirk—he drops the hammer.

"I guess, in addition to respect and wrestling skill…

We just found one more thing you didn’t get from dad.

Karma’s a bitch, son."

The arena ERUPTS.

Dom’s face twists in sheer rage, but he has no comeback. No retort. Nothing.

Rey? He just laughs, shaking his head, watching as Dom, seething, just turns and keeps running toward the parking lot, disappearing through the exit.

The camera lingers on Rey, still grinning.

And with that, we cut to commercial.*As we return from commercial, the camera cuts backstage to the interview area, where Kathy Kelly stands beside Stacy Keibler. But unlike the rest of the world, which is still recovering from the public destruction of Dominik Mysterio, Stacy looks… completely at ease.

No concern. No outrage.

Just a knowing smirk and a body draped in silk that clings to her like a second skin.

She casually shifts her weight, her long, toned legs crossed just enough to be enticing, her manicured fingers trailing lightly down her own thigh as she waits for Kathy to speak.

Kathy, doing her best to remain professional, clears her throat.

Kathy Kelly:

"Stacy… after what we just witnessed, I have to ask—your thoughts?"

Stacy exhales a soft, sultry laugh, running a hand through her perfectly tousled hair. She takes her time before finally leaning just a little closer to the microphone, her voice like liquid seduction.

Her lips curve into a wicked smirk.

Stacy Keibler:

"Well, Kathy… as far as I’m concerned? This case?

Closed.

See, Dominik brought a very specific and legitimate concern to me.

And his concern? Was that Liv Morgan was spreading lies about him. He demanded an apology.

And… well…

He got that apology.

And as for the lies?

Oh… there weren’t any."

Stacy tilts her head, her smirk deepening, letting the words sink in.

Kathy presses her lips together, trying— failing— to suppress her laughter. The crowd, hearing this over the live feed, absolutely erupts.

Stacy, amused by the reaction, shifts her posture slightly, placing a hand on her hip before adding one final line—her voice dropping into something even more sultry.

"So… as far as I’m concerned, this investigation is over.

The only case still open?

Is the one involving Big Poppa’s ‘Pump.’

And let me tell you, Kathy…

That’s one I’d be VERY interested in closing."

Kathy completely loses it, her face turning red as she quickly looks away, stifling laughter.

The crowd? Losing their damn minds.

Stacy just smiles knowingly, winks toward the camera, and struts off, hips swaying in a way that could cause car accidents.

Kathy, still trying to regain composure, fans herself slightly before shaking her head.

"Back to ringside."

The camera lingers on her flustered expression for just a second before cutting back to the arena.

"The following contest is a tag team match, scheduled for one fall… and it is a qualifier for the Women’s World Title Division!

The winning team will both advance to VIP Access!"

The arena hums with anticipation as the lights dim slightly, a cool blue hue washing over the stage as the first competitor makes her way out.

The opening notes of Lady Frost’s theme hit, a sound as crisp as her name suggests. A moment later, she steps onto the stage—cold, methodical, composed.

Her attire is flawlessly coordinated—a shimmering ice-blue bodysuit, accented with silver trim, hugging her athletic frame. A fur-trimmed jacket rests on her shoulders, evoking the image of a regal, untouchable force of nature.

Her expression is stone-cold, her icy-blue eyes locked straight ahead as she slowly lifts her arms, causing a brief snowfall effect to cascade around her from the LED screens behind her. She walks forward with purpose, her movements sharp and deliberate, every step exuding precision.

Reaching the ring, she climbs onto the apron, gracefully wiping her boots before stepping inside. She doesn’t pander to the audience, doesn’t break focus—she simply turns, leans against the ropes, and waits.

Lady Frost is here to qualify. Nothing else matters.

But who is her partner?

The energy in the arena shifts as a deep, echoing guitar riff fills the air. Then—a heavy drum beat kicks in, signaling the arrival of Wren Sinclair.

The former powerhouse gymnast bursts onto the stage, rolling her shoulders, exuding confidence with every step. Her ring gear is a bold contrast to Frost’s— a black and burgundy high-cut singlet, sleek and battle-ready, with fingerless gloves and knee pads that suggest she’s here to throw down.

Her hair is tightly braided, keeping her focus unshaken, and her boots stomp against the ramp with intensity as she strides toward the ring. Her gaze flickers toward Lady Frost for a brief moment—but there’s no exchange of words.

There’s no need.

They both know why they’re here.

Sinclair slides under the ropes, cracking her knuckles before pacing slightly, rolling her neck. The two women acknowledge each other briefly before shifting their focus to the stage.

Who are their opponents?

The arena buzzes in curiosity as an unfamiliar yet unmistakably dangerous theme song plays.

Then—Stephanie Vaquer steps onto the stage.

The reaction? Shock.

Vaquer, known for her undeniable technical prowess and brutal in-ring style, strides forward, her demeanor cold and focused.

Her attire is simple but deadly—black and red lucha-style gear, the colors of blood and war, with subtle silver accents gleaming under the lights. A small but confident smirk flickers across her face as she surveys the crowd, who weren’t expecting this.

She rolls her shoulders, cracking her neck, her sharp gaze now locked on the ring. If Lady Frost is the embodiment of the cold, Vaquer is the storm waiting to follow.

But just as the audience is processing this…

"…AND HER TAG TEAM PARTNER…"

The arena explodes as a familiar yet slightly remixed theme song plays…

And stepping onto the stage, flanked by flickering, eerie pink and purple lights, is none other than…

Alexa Bliss.

The reaction? Deafening.

Gone is the over-the-top Fiend-era Alexa. Gone is the bubbly Goddess.

This Alexa Bliss is something else entirely.

Her attire is a darker take on her past selves—black leather shorts with dark red trim, a cropped corset-style top, her hair still platinum blonde but streaked with hints of faded pink. There’s something unsettling in the way she smirks just slightly, her tongue brushing over her bottom lip.

She strolls forward at a slow, deliberate pace, standing beside Vaquer, giving her partner a knowing glance.

Stephanie Vaquer? She just nods.

This team isn’t a random pairing.

This is a statement.

Together, they begin their walk down the ramp, Bliss twirling a strand of hair, Vaquer cracking her knuckles.

Their intentions?

Crystal clear.

Inside the ring, Lady Frost and Wren Sinclair stand ready. There’s no hesitation in their stances, no doubt in their eyes.

Across from them, Vaquer and Bliss take their positions.

Four women.

Two spots in the Women’s World Title Division.

The referee signals for the bell.

Women’s World Title Qualifier – Tag Team Match

DING! DING! DING!

The match begins with Lady Frost and Stephanie Vaquer circling one another. The energy in the arena is electric, the crowd still reeling from the shocking debuts of both Vaquer and Alexa Bliss. But inside the ring, there’s no room for distractions—only the fight.

Lady Frost, ever the technician, makes the first move—lunging in low for a leg pick. Vaquer, expecting the approach, steps back fluidly, dodging the attempt before locking up with Frost. The two struggle for position, Vaquer using her grounded, lucha-based technical skill to try and manipulate Frost’s balance, while Frost uses her raw strength and precision grappling to stay in control.

Vaquer manages to roll through and escape, popping up to her feet and flicking her fingers toward Frost as if to say, "Come on, is that all?"

Frost’s eyes narrow—game on.

She shoots in again, this time landing a clean arm drag, flipping Vaquer to the mat! Vaquer pops up—another arm drag! Vaquer rushes forward—a third arm drag sends her tumbling into the ropes!

The crowd roars as Frost wastes no time, backing up before launching herself forward—a running dropkick sends Vaquer spilling to the outside!

Tazz: "Lady Frost and Wren Sinclair came in with a plan—shut this crowd up, dominate early, and get that spot at VIP Access!"

Wade Barrett: "And so far, they’re executing perfectly. Vaquer hasn’t even gotten a move in yet!"

Vaquer grits her teeth, frustrated, as she pushes herself up on the outside. Frost doesn’t give her the chance to breathe—she tags in Wren Sinclair, who immediately charges forward!

Sinclair grabs Vaquer by the hair and rolls her back into the ring, keeping control. She yanks Vaquer up and whips her hard into the turnbuckle, following up with a massive corner lariat!

Vaquer slumps slightly, but Sinclair doesn’t let up. She lifts Vaquer onto the top rope, setting up for something dangerous—but Vaquer fights back!

Renee Paquette: "Vaquer’s in a dangerous spot here! If Wren Sinclair gets her way, we might be looking at a quick night!"

Vaquer throws an elbow! Then another! Sinclair stumbles back—Vaquer leaps over her, rolling forward and popping up to her feet!

Sinclair turns around—Vaquer NAILS a stiff superkick! Sinclair drops to a knee, stunned! Vaquer stumbles to her corner, reaching out—

TAG TO ALEXA BLISS!

AND THE CROWD COMES UNGLUED!

The Breakdown – Chaos Ensues

Alexa Bliss bursts into the ring like a woman possessed. Sinclair barely has time to stand before Bliss sprints forward, nailing a furious forearm to the jaw!

Lady Frost rushes in—Bliss ducks a clothesline, springboards off the ropes, and hits a BEAUTIFUL crossbody!

The referee is losing control!

Stephanie Vaquer slides back in, nailing Sinclair with a brutal rolling elbow!

Tazz: "This is breaking down quick! The ref has no chance of keeping order!"

Lady Frost, recovering quickly, grabs Vaquer and launches her over the ropes!

Bliss turns around—and Frost catches her with a stiff roundhouse kick!

Bliss staggers!

Sinclair, still reeling, charges forward—

BUT BLISS DUCKS!

Sinclair accidentally collides with Lady Frost! The two partners stumble—Vaquer suddenly rushes back in, throwing Sinclair out of the ring!

Frost, now alone in the ring, dazed, turns—RIGHT INTO A DDT FROM BLISS!

The crowd erupts as Bliss climbs to the top rope.

Renee Paquette: 

"Twisted Bliss incoming!"

Bliss leaps—

AND CONNECTS! TWISTED BLISS ON LADY FROST!

She hooks the leg!

1… 2… 3!

The moment the bell rings, the crowd explodes. Alexa Bliss rolls off of Lady Frost, sitting up with a small, twisted smile. Vaquer, still standing at ringside, watches with a satisfied nod.

Tazz: "And just like that, Bliss and Vaquer are moving on to VIP Access! That women’s world title division is looking SCARY right now!"

Wade Barrett: "Frost and Sinclair had a great strategy, but when Bliss hit that ring, the game changed. This match was absolute chaos!"

Inside the ring, Bliss stands, looking down at her fallen opponents before slowly turning to Vaquer.

For a moment, they just stare at each other.

A nod.

A silent understanding.

Vaquer raises Bliss’s hand, and together, they soak in the reaction from the crowd.

Two debuting forces just shook up the Women’s Division.

And VIP Access just became must-see.

Cut to commercial.

As we return from commercial, the camera cuts backstage to the interview area, where Alicia Atout stands poised, microphone in hand.

Alicia Atout:

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome my guest at this time… Logan Paul."

*The crowd erupts in a mixed reaction— plenty of boos, but also undeniable interest. The camera pulls back to reveal Logan Paul, standing with effortless confidence, sunglasses hanging off the collar of his designer jacket, his signature smirk already in place.

His energy? Infuriatingly self-assured.

Alicia, ever the professional, keeps her expression neutral. She doesn’t look impressed—but Logan’s watching her like he’s already won this conversation.

She raises the mic, wasting no time.

Alicia Atout:

"Logan, last week you said you’d be here every week. And now, here you are. What exactly brings you here tonight?"

*Logan chuckles softly, shaking his head. He lifts his sunglasses, making sure Alicia sees his eyes as he answers.

His voice? Smooth. Collected. Effortlessly confident.

Logan Paul:

*"Alicia, come on.

Last week, I said I’d be here every week.

This week? I’m here.

Next week? I’ll be here.

The week after that?

Same. Damn. Thing."

Alicia nods slightly, acknowledging the point.

Alicia Atout:

"Fair enough. But after what happened last week… are you at all concerned about the warning MJF gave you?"

*Logan lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. He slowly pushes his sunglasses back up, taking his time before answering.

He tilts his head, smirking.

Logan Paul:

"Ahh… right. Your boyfriend."

*Alicia’s neutral expression wavers—just slightly. The crowd reacts immediately.

Logan’s smirk widens.

He notices.

And he’s about to have some fun with it.

"Alicia, let me ask you something.

Do I look concerned?"

Alicia, still maintaining her composure, doesn’t answer right away. But Logan’s already moving on.

He casually rolls his shoulders, exhaling like this whole conversation is beneath him.*

*"MJF can say whatever he wants.

He can threaten me. He can try to intimidate me.

I don’t care.

I don’t care about him.

I don’t care about his warnings.

And I especially don’t care how he feels about me being here."

Alicia’s stance shifts just slightly. It’s almost imperceptible, but Logan sees it.

And he knows exactly what he’s doing.

"I do what I want, when I want.

And right now?

I’m standing here… talking to you."

*The crowd buzzes immediately. Alicia raises an eyebrow, her lips parting as if to respond—but she hesitates.

Logan? He just lets the silence hang.

He doesn't lean in. He doesn't overplay his hand.

He just lets her feel the moment.

Then, finally, he grins again, adjusting his sunglasses.

And with the same effortless confidence, he turns to leave.

But before he does—he stops.

He looks over his shoulder, voice dropping just enough to sound almost dangerous.

Logan Paul:

"I’ll see you next week, Alicia.

And… tell Max I said hi."

And with that, Logan walks off.

Alicia watches him go, her expression unreadable.

At least, at first.

Then, as the camera lingers just a second longer…

That same tiny smirk returns.

Was it amusement? Annoyance?

Or something else?

Before we can tell, Alicia turns away, walking off— leaving the audience wondering what just happened.

Cut back to ringside.

Renee Paquette:

"Okay… did Logan Paul just—did that just happen?!"

Tazz:

"Oh, that happened. And Alicia felt that. You could see it!"

Wade Barrett:

"MJF might want to start paying very close attention. I don’t know what’s happening here, but… something tells me we haven’t seen the end of this."

The commentary team buzzes as the show moves forward, leaving the audience wondering just what Logan Paul’s real intentions are… and if Alicia Atout even knows herself.

The crowd buzzes with anticipation as the lights dim slightly, signaling the arrival of one of the most dangerous men in professional wrestling.

Kevin Owens’ theme hits, and the Prizefighter storms onto the stage. His expression? Focused, but not too focused to mouth off at fans as he makes his way down the ramp.

The camera zooms in on his t-shirt—an NWO Wolfpac design featuring “The Outsiders.” A statement. A warning.

Owens rolls into the ring, stretching his neck, pulling at the ropes, pacing like a man with something to prove. He glares at the stage, waiting.

The music shifts. The crowd reacts.

Eddie Kingston marches out, fists clenched, jaw locked, his eyes never leaving Owens. No grandstanding, no playing to the fans—just a man ready for war.

Kingston slides into the ring, stepping straight to Owens, getting forehead to forehead. No words. No hesitation. Just pure intensity.

The referee barely has time to signal for the bell before—

DING! DING! DING!

The two explode with wild punches. No feeling-out process, no lock-ups—just a straight-up fight.

Lefts and rights fly from both men, neither giving an inch.

Kingston gains the early edge, rocking Owens with a stiff right hook before laying in a brutal chop to the chest.

Tazz:

"Oh, my God, Kingston just caved in Owens’ chest! Look at the handprint, Renee!"

Renee Paquette:

"You could hear that from the next city over!"

Kingston chops him again—then a third! Owens stumbles, clutching his chest. Eddie backs him into the ropes, whips him across the ring—but Owens reverses!

Kingston rebounds—Owens levels him with a back elbow!

Owens takes control, stomping Kingston down in the corner before hitting the ropes—cannonball senton! The impact rattles the ring. Owens smirks, wiping his mouth as he drags Kingston to his feet.

Owens lifts—German suplex! Kingston crashes hard.

Wade Barrett:"Owens is a brawler, but people forget how strong he is. That suplex folded Kingston in half!"

Kingston clutches his back, shaking his head, refusing to stay down. Owens stays on him, laying in clubbing forearms before going for another suplex—but Eddie blocks it!

Tazz:

"Look at Kingston fighting through it! This dude doesn’t know how to quit!"

Kingston breaks free, headbutting Owens—then another! Owens staggers.

Eddie grits his teeth, backing up—running Yakuza Kick! Owens collapses into the corner.

Kingston shakes out his arm, pulls Owens up—Saito suplex!

Renee Paquette:

"Owens just landed high on his shoulders! Kingston’s building momentum!"

Eddie calls for the Backfist to the Future. The crowd rises to their feet.

He swings—Owens ducks!

Owens shoves Kingston into the ropes—Pop-Up Powerbomb!

He covers—

1… 2… NO!

Kingston kicks out.

Owens slaps the mat, shaking his head in frustration. He glares at the ref before standing, shaking out his arms, calling for the Stunner.

Tazz:

"Owens is looking to end this—he’s got that look in his eye!"

Kingston slowly rises, dazed. Owens grabs him—Kingston shoves him off!

Owens rebounds—SPINNING BACKFIST TO THE FUTURE!

Wade Barrett:

"OWENS IS OUT!"

Kingston drops into the cover—

1… 2… NO!

Owens kicks out!

Kingston sits up, staring in disbelief.

Tazz:

"Kingston can’t believe it! He thought he had him!"

Eddie slaps the mat, shaking his head. He pulls himself up, setting up another Backfist.

Owens wobbles to his feet—Kingston swings—

Owens ducks!

Kick to the gut—STUNNER!

Renee Paquette:

"STUNNER OUT OF NOWHERE!"

Kingston collapses. Owens hooks the leg.

1… 2… 3!

DING! DING! DING!

Owens rolls off Kingston, breathing heavily, smirking slightly. The referee raises his hand, but Owens barely acknowledges it—his eyes are still locked on Kingston.

Kingston, still groggy, sits up, muttering to himself. He shakes his head, frustrated.

Tazz:

"Kingston’s mad at himself right now. He knows he made a mistake."

Wade Barrett:

"It wasn’t domination—it wasn’t a squash—it was one moment. One mistake."

Owens rolls out of the ring, smirking, adjusting his NWO Wolfpac shirt. He knows what Kingston’s thinking.

And as Kingston watches him go, shaking his head…

This isn’t over.

The Trademark appears.