God, honestly, it should’ve been simple. Like, almost offensively simple. From day one on Stampede, UNW contract crisp as hell in my brand-new bag. My name should’ve been built into this company’s DNA. They should’ve rolled out the red carpet, built stages around me, made my entrance the headline every single night. But instead, Azure (loud, annoying, still somehow perfect in every moment I’m not) keeps orbiting me like she’s the sun and I’m some distant fucking planet. And then there’s Bloom. She stole the Openweight Eliminator at Quantum Shift 2, taking the statement win that was supposed to launch the rest of my season. Cute. Adorable. She looked shiny on camera, but everyone knows the crown is mine.

God, I’m tired of this. Tired of pretending like setbacks are learning experiences. Tired of smiling through interviews where they ask me about “what went wrong” like I’m some cautionary tale instead of the most interesting woman on the roster. Tired of watching other people get opportunities that should have my name written all over them in permanent ink.

You want to know what I’ve learned from my losses? Fine. Let me break it down for you, because apparently everyone needs a fucking roadmap to understand why I’m still the most inevitable force in this company.

Before Quantum Shift 2, I cut #BeltGoals. That wasn’t just a promo; that was my decree, my manifesto, my promise to everyone watching that the Openweight Championship Eliminator was going to be my moment. I told the world exactly why that match belonged to me. I hit that knee on Azure so clean the sound bounced off the barricade... weeks before the show\... making sure she knew what was coming. That was me telling the world: inevitability. Precision. Queen-level energy. The kind of impact only someone like me can carry, the kind of statement that separates the pretenders from the real deal.

But here’s what I learned from that moment: sometimes you have to hit people harder than they expect. Sometimes a warning shot isn’t enough. Sometimes you have to break them completely before they understand that you’re not playing games. Azure took that knee and kept walking around like it was a love tap. That was my mistake. Next time, I’m not giving warnings. I’m giving concussions.

Then Quantum Shift 2 happened. Openweight Championship Eliminator. Eight people in the ring, chaos swirling like a bad group chat where everyone’s talking over each other and nobody’s making sense. And Bloom? She walked away with the win. My statement win became hers. My spotlight, hijacked by someone who believes she’s a plant. The thing is: I didn’t just lose, I learned. I learned how fast things can shift when you’re not controlling every variable. I learned how to manipulate momentum instead of just riding it. I learned how to control the chaos instead of letting it swallow me whole like some amateur who’s never been in a real fight.

That eight-person clusterfuck taught me that talent isn’t enough. Being the best isn’t enough. You have to be the smartest, the most ruthless, the one willing to do whatever it takes while everyone else is still figuring out which camera to look at. Bloom won because she was opportunistic, not because she was better. She saw an opening and took it while I was busy being perfect. Well, guess what? Perfect doesn’t win matches. Vicious does. And I’ve got vicious in spades now.

The knowledge I’m bringing into this four-person match? It’s surgical. Half the chaos, double the control. I know exactly where everyone’s going to be before they know it themselves. Braiden’s going to try some flashy bullshit that looks good on Instagram but leaves him wide open. Celeste’s going to hesitate at the crucial moment because she’s still too nice for this business. Azure’s going to think she can out-wrestle me like this is some technical showcase instead of a war. And I’m going to be three steps ahead of all of them, picking them apart piece by piece.

So there I was, just moments after the loss, and suddenly, there’s a camera shoved right in my face. I was living in the aftermath, feeling every second of it. Backstage, the sweat trickled down my skin, mingling with my humiliation, almost like it was meant to be part of my look. That moment when I sat there, all alone, phone buzzing in my hand with comments pouring in like a swarm of digital locusts? Absolutely real. Each comment, every screenshot, all those clips—they felt like a barrage of knives. And I just kept sharpening myself on them, until I was left with nothing but sharp edges.

You know what that taught me? That rock bottom has excellent Wi-Fi, and everyone’s watching when you hit it. But more importantly, it taught me that humiliation is just fuel if you’re smart enough to use it right. Every comment calling me a choke artist, every meme about my “almost” moments, every think piece about whether I’m overrated; I saved them all. I memorized them. And now they’re going to watch me prove every single one of them wrong.

And then there was Claire—my PR agent, the one who was supposed to have my back. The one who told me to “take it on the chin” like I’m some rookie who needs to pay her dues. The one who smiled through the press release like Bloom’s win was “good for the brand,” like my failure was somehow a positive development for the company. Please. The brand? The brand is me. The brand has always been me. Claire’s lucky I didn’t throw my iPhone at her head like I was aiming to kill her, but she learned real quick: I don’t tolerate incompetence in my orbit. I don’t tolerate people who think my setbacks are acceptable losses.

That whole experience taught me that you can’t trust anyone to fight for you the way you’ll fight for yourself. Claire saw dollar signs and storylines where I saw my career hanging in the balance. She saw “character development” where I saw everything I’d worked for slipping through my fingers. Never again. From now on, I’m my own advocate, my own PR machine, my own everything. Because nobody else understands what’s at stake here.

Now here we are again. Cruiserweight Championship Eliminator. Santina Perez on commentary, probably ready to call this match like it’s some feel-good story about underdogs and second chances. Fatal four-way: Azure, Braiden Denzel, Celeste, and myself. Only four of us this time; half the chaos, all the opportunity. And this is where the queen bee shines, where all that accumulated knowledge and rage and precision comes together in one perfect storm.

Braiden? Flashy, try-hard, zero staying power. He’s all highlight reels and no substance, the kind of wrestler who looks good in thirty-second clips but falls apart when the match goes longer than his attention span. I’ve watched his tape. I know exactly when he’s going to go for that codebreak, exactly how he telegraphs his big moves, exactly when his cardio starts to fail him. He’s going to try to impress everyone with some acrobatic nonsense, and I’m going to be there to catch him mid-air and drive him into the mat like he’s a tent stake.

Celeste? Sweet girl, still figuring out which angle she’s allowed to exist in, still asking permission to be aggressive. She’s got talent, I’ll give her that, but she’s soft. She hesitates. She second-guesses herself. In a four-way, that hesitation is going to get her eliminated first, and I’m going to be the one doing the eliminating. She’ll probably apologize while I’m pinning her.

Azure? Still thinking she’s relevant, still acting like that one knee I gave her weeks ago was just a friendly hello instead of a promise. She’s been coasting on reputation and past accomplishments (of someone else) while I’ve been evolving, adapting, becoming something more dangerous than she’s ever faced. She thinks she knows me, thinks she can predict what I’m going to do based on who I used to be. But I’m not who I used to be. I’m sharper now. Hungrier. More willing to cross lines that at first, I wasn’t truly willing to approach.

They’re all extras anyhow. They’re here to make me look good, to provide the obstacles I need to overcome to prove that I’m exactly who I’ve always said I am. This isn’t their moment... It’s mine. It’s always been mine.

It’s winning time. Not a tagline, not some corporate-approved catchphrase—a lifestyle. A philosophy. A way of existing in this world where second place might as well be last place. The moment patience ends and inevitability begins, where all the waiting and planning and suffering finally pays off in the most spectacular way possible.

I’ve been a good soldier long enough. I’ve smiled through the losses, given the right interviews, said the right things about “learning experiences” and “growing as a competitor.” I’ve played the game their way, followed their rules, been the professional they wanted me to be. And where did it get me? Watching other people hold championships that should have my name on them. Watching other people get opportunities that should have been mine from day one.

I’m about to show you all, exactly who the hell I’am. If it means stepping on Azure’s neck to claim what’s rightfully mine, you better believe I’ll do it with a grin. Brace yourself, Braiden and Celeste, because I won’t hesitate to take you down either—and I’ll rest easy afterward. This isn’t about looking pretty or playing nice; it’s not some friendly collaboration where everyone leaves with a smile. This is about dominance. This is my way of reminding everyone that crowns don’t just get handed out; they’re seized by those bold enough to trample over the competition, by those who get that being nice won’t cut it in the race for greatness.

I know every weakness, every hesitation, every little moment of doubt that crosses their faces when the pressure gets real. I’ve studied them like they’re textbooks and I’m cramming for the most important exam of my life. Braiden’s mental edge fails him after twelve minutes. Celeste drops her guard when she’s setting up for her finisher. Azure leaves her back exposed going for that cutter, I think I proved that with that armbar I countered her with. These aren’t just observations... They’re weapons, and I’m going to use every single one of them.

You know what the greatest point guards understood that most people don’t? Championships aren’t won by the pretty plays or the perfect seasons—they’re won in the fourth quarter when your legs are screaming, when the crowd is against you, when everything that could go wrong has gone wrong and you're still expected to deliver. Those legendary dynasties weren’t built on talent alone; they were built on the kind of ruthless determination that says “I don't care if I'm bleeding, I don't care if the refs are blind, I don't care if everyone's doubting me; I'm going to will this thing to victory.” That's what separates champions from everyone else who talks a good game. When Quantum Shift 2 fell apart, when Bloom walked away with my moment, when the cameras caught me at my lowest—that wasn't my breaking point.

That was my championship moment. That was when I stopped playing their game and started playing mine, because this Cruiserweight Championship contendership isn’t just another match. It’s my showtime. Winners don’t get made in the good times; they get forged in the fire of their worst defeats, and I’ve been burning in that fire ever since, getting harder, getting hungrier, getting ready to show everyone what a real champion looks like when she’s done playing nice.

And when the ref’s hand hits the mat for three, when the bell rings and the dust settles, I’m going to be standing over someone (Braiden, Celeste, whoever’s unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time) right in front of Azure’s face. Make her watch. Make her understand that all her experience and all her reputation mean nothing when they’re up against pure, concentrated will. End this charade. End the orbiting. End the delusions that anyone else in this match belongs in the same conversation as me.

Eight people may have been in the Openweight Eliminator, but I was still the inevitability, even in defeat. Four people here, but I’m in control of every variable that matters. Only one name matters when this is all over: mine. This isn’t about almost anything anymore, isn’t about moral victories or moral victories or learning experiences. This isn’t about maybe later or next times or any of that consolation prize bullshit.

This is about me, thee point guard, taking what’s mine, and making sure the world sees it happen in the most undeniable way possible. This is about proving that sometimes the best wrestler doesn’t win—the most determined one does. And I’ve never been more determined in my entire life.