Ryan stormed down the corridor, her hot pink ring gear still catching every errant fleck of light, sparkling like a neon sign in a city that never quite sleeps. The concrete walls of the arena pressed in, heavy and unyielding, reeking of sweat, ambition, and antiseptic—a smell that clings to every moment before and after glory. It was her first night on Stampede, and the truth was, it felt nothing like a debut. It felt like a test.

“Comment ai-je pu perdre contre ce clown?!”

(“How could I lose to that clown?!”)

Her words cracked through the hallway, sharp, biting, and more than a little wounded. How could she have lost to that clown? Anger and disbelief, always the first two stages, and Ryan knew them intimately.

The camera crew hustled after her, sneakers squeaking, wires tangling, and somewhere behind them Tommy Hendrix tried to look apologetic and professional all at once. He clutched the UNW mic like it was keeping him from an out-of-body experience, eyes darting as he caught up. But Ryan—Ryan didn’t have time for apologies or pleasantries. She gave him a single, cutting gesture. “Just roll. You want your interview? Fine. Let’s not waste the drama.”

The camera’s red light blinked to life—a signal that secrets were about to become headlines. Tommy stumbled over his script, eager and a little flustered. “Tommy Hendrix, for UNW.com. Ryan, after a week of intense back-and-forth, we just saw you face off with Circe—”

“Penny Deadful,” Ryan interjected, voice bone-dry. “If we’re doing cosplay names, let’s at least be honest.”

Tommy blinked, thrown off, but tried to recover. “Uh—right. Penny Dreadful, aka Circe, just walked away with the win tonight. What’s going through your head right now?”

Ryan cocked her head, as if Tommy was the one missing the obvious. “What’s going through my head? That I don’t make excuses. Never have, never will.”

She shifted her weight, the rhinestone choker at her neck catching the dying light, fierce and feminine. “She got the win. Clean. I blinked. That’s on me. I’ll own it.”

Behind her, someone rolled by with a busted ice bag, water splattering in a way that punctuated her point. Ryan didn’t flinch. She was too busy narrating her own story.

“People will say I talked too much, that I poked the bear. Maybe. Or maybe I just expected more than recycled lines and Pinterest-level ‘witchcraft.’”

She took a step forward, nudging Tommy out of frame without missing a beat, reminding everyone who was really running this scene. “I made one mistake. That’s all it takes sometimes. But don’t confuse that with her being better. She capitalized on my misstep, not greatness. Congrats, girlboss. But one win doesn’t make you the face of the Stampede brand.”

Tommy looked for a pivot, a soft spot. “So… no regrets?”

Ryan laughed—a sound more brittle than bitter. “Regrets? No. Edits? Absolutely.”

She pulled her wristband across her neck, sweat and stubbornness mixing. She leaned in, knowingly. “This doesn’t knock me off my path to greatness. It might’ve delayed me in the win column, and the taste of satisfaction, but it doesn’t change inevitability.”

Her eyes caught the camera, her gaze slicing through the lens. “You thought tonight was the climax? Sweetheart, that was just the cold open.”

Tommy perked up, sensing the energy shift. “So you’ll be back next week?”

Ryan didn’t even blink. “Obviously. That’s not a threat. I mean, who else is going to save these drab women from their terrible fashion choices on live television? I’ll be here every week. Maybe it was a slow start—but quality doesn’t bend for mediocrity.”

She wasn’t just standing there in rhinestones and sweat; she was a blueprint being redrawn in real time. Even her pink sparkles looked like armor, not decoration.

“I don’t do revenge. Circe? she’s not even a blip on the radar—more like an unfinished two day old latte. She’s basically the pro wrestling equivalent of a participation trophy: present, but totally inconsequential. Tonight happened. No matter what, I’ll still prove that I’m going to be the greatest UNW’s ever seen. The one to beat. The future, written in glitter and grit.”

Ryan’s voice sharpened, and she held out her hand, fingers splayed, one pinky nail conspicuously broken. “And do you know what the worst part is, Tommy?” She let the question hang, milking the pause. “This.”

Tommy squinted, trying to keep a straight face. “Wait, are you missing a nail?”

“A broken nail, Tommy! Right here!” Ryan practically shrieked, brandishing her hand. “Circe—or Penny Deadful, whatever her brand is—she just went for it. And I, in a moment of pure vanity, maybe hesitated. A split second. But that’s all it takes, isn’t it?”

Tommy lowered his voice, going for sympathy. “You think people are going to come for you harder now?”

“They already were,” Ryan shot back, her tone flat and honest. “That’s the cost of having a little shine. People don’t wait for you to fall—they record it, filter it, and make it a meme.”

She paused, letting the silence work its magic. “I gave her that moment. That’s on me. But I don’t double-tap the same mistake twice.”

The fluorescent light above flickered again, and Ryan’s hair clung to her jaw, sweat and stubbornness both refusing to budge. She tugged it back, not for vanity—just clearing her own stage.

“You want the scoop on me getting humbled? Fine. Post it. But leave some space for next week. Because you’ll be back, Tommy, asking about my win, about redemption, about how it felt to get up after the stumble. I’ll be right here, same spot, like this week was just a prologue.”

Tommy blinked, the camera sliding in for the close-up. “Tonight, I gave away a win, I think I've reached my good deed quota for the month. Next time? Whoever steps in that ring with me gets the full show.”

Ryan turned toward the hallway, her voice shifting, already looking forward. “They can cheer for her. She had her moment. But that’s all it was—a moment. I’m the momentum. I’m the mainstay. Thanks to me, she gets to live her fantasy for a week. She should send me a thank you note—or maybe a new manicure. I hate doing charity work, undeservingly.”

The camera’s red eye shut off, and Tommy mumbled a thank you to the empty space she left behind. Ryan was already gone, pink rhinestones still catching the light as she passed by. She was already planning her next move, already seeing past the setback. Because for Ryan, a loss wasn’t a defeat—it was just another way to make victory taste even sweeter on the way to the top.