The Blue CometIsabella Cruz
Name: Isabella "Izzy" Cruz
Ring Name(s): The Blue Comet, Rayo Cerúleo
Age: 22
Birthday: December 5th
Hair Color: Dark Brown with bright cerulean streaks.
Eye Color: Brown
Height: 168 cm / 5’6”
Weight: 59 kg / 130 lbs
Alignment: Tweener
Nationality: Mexican
Fighting Style: MMA, Pramarily Muay Thai/BJJ
Appearance
Fight Gear
Fight Gear 2
Casual
Club Attire
At The Beach
Entrance Music:
I Prevail - Come And Get It
Signature Moves Flashpoint - Feigned retreat into an counter flying knee strike.
Spoiler
Spoiler
Spoiler
Finishers Blue Noose - Signature triangle choke she has become notorious for finding inventive situations and positions to lock it in from. Despite having given the move her own name, fans from back home dubbed it "Lazo de la Muerte".
Likes Cerulean Style: No surprise she is fond of the shade. Turning childhood trauma into her own shade of colored empowerment. She always makes sure she redyes her hair neon cerulean before a fight and frequently sports cerulean nail polish that glows in the dark.
Cheap Earbuds: Misplacing them, dropping them somewhere, or blowing them out with use. She goes through these things so fast, having an easy replacement is great.
Midnight Snacks: After a late night clubbing, greasy food tastes better around 4 a.m.
B-Movies: Especially cheesy partial arts movies with bad cheography. She loves making fun of terrible action and trying to figure out ways she could do it better.
Dislikes Waiting: Wasting her own time may be fine, but waiting on others is excruciating.
Silence: Especially in the gym. She likes having the ambient noise of life around her, the more urban the better.
Sticky Floors: Just gross.
Personality Izzy approaches wrestling with the same ferocity she once carried into every sparring session at her uncle’s gym. To her, every match is a fight, every opponent a test, and every setback a challenge to come back stronger. She thrives on pressure, talks trash in the heat of battle to fuel herself, and relishes matches that drag her to her limits. That intensity makes her polarizing. Some fans see that grit of a true survivor, while others see a cocky brawler who doesn’t know when to quit. Either way, she earns their respect begrudged or otherwise. She doesn’t measure herself by cheers or boos. All she demands is recognition as a competitor who cannot be ignored.
Outside the ring, she’s not the withdrawn, overlooked kid she once was. Fitness remains her anchor. Cardio, conditioning, and endless drills keep her sharp but once training is over, she lets loose. She dives into late nights with the same abandon she once poured into proving herself at the gym: eating, laughing, and losing herself on the dance floor until sunrise. That contrast of an iron-willed fighter forged through hardship, and a vibrant, thrill-chasing young woman is what defines her. For her, both sides are still just survival: discipline to keep her strong, and freedom to remind herself she’s alive.
History Isabella Cruz’s early life was mired with loss. Her parents were taken from her when she was still too young to fully understand what death meant, leaving her with only fragments of memories. The way her mother laughed, the thick scent of her father’s cheap cologne… Even now, when she looks at old photographs, she finds them to look like strangers. What came after they were gone was a hollow stretch of years spent under the care of her uncle, the only one left.
Alejandro Vargas was a fighter whose best days were already behind him, but he had clawed for everything he had. His life had been sparse, disciplined, and unforgiving, built around Muay Thai rings, the grind of training, and backroom fights. When Isabella’s parents died, Alejandro suddenly found himself saddled with a mopey little girl he didn’t know how to raise. He hadn’t wanted the responsibility. Estranged from his sister’s side of the family for years because of the seedy circles he was forced to travel in, they had made their disapproval of his choices known loudly and decried his work as wasteful violence.
When Izzy appeared on his doorstep, he almost turned her away. But in her eyes, he saw his sister staring back at him like a ghost of better days. That recognition managed to slip through the cracks in his walls. He accepted her into his home, not out of readiness but out of duty—and because he could not bear to lose the last piece of his sister.
Alejandro’s intentions, however, could not mask his shortcomings. He provided in the only ways he knew: food, a roof, the gym as a surrogate babysitter. Warmth and affection were foreign to him. He was brusque, impatient, quick to scold and slow to comfort. The tension between her and Alejandro simmered constantly. He wanted her to be tough, to stop crying, to stop asking questions he didn’t know how to answer. She wanted him to notice when she was scared or to hug her instead of telling her to “walk it off.” Their bond was shaky, fragile, and at times felt non-existent.
To Isbella, growing up in his care felt like living in someone else’s house, tolerated but never truly wanted. She longed for softness and connection, but Alejandro’s version of love was survival: long hours at the gym, quiet sighs over unpaid bills, stretching every peso to keep them afloat. To him, that was enough. To a child aching for more, it wasn’t.
At school, she was just as adrift. Her classmates teased her for being too quiet, too small, and for the faint smell of sweat and canvas that clung to her clothes after long days spent at her uncle’s gym doing homework and sweeping up after hours. She grew used to feeling like an outsider, caught between an apartment that never felt like home and the world beyond that seemed to keep punching down at her for merely existing.
On a gray evening after school. Isabella stopped at the local 7/11 to pick up whatever scraps she could piece together for dinner. It was the usual suspects. Instant noodles, some plastic-wrapped fruit slices, and a hot dog that had probably been turning under the lamp since morning. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was cheap, and small bit of independence in a life that often felt like it wasn’t hers to control.
That’s when they showed up. A handful of older kids from her school, the kind who always seemed to have it out for her. One stuck out a foot as she walked past, sending her tumbling and scattering her meager dinner across the sticky tile floor. When she turned and saw their smirks, something in her snapped.
She didn’t want to shrink away.
She didn’t want to run home just to be told to “toughen up” again.
She didn’t want to shed another tear over losing something else that was all outside of her control.
She got back up, squared her shoulders, and told them to cut it out. She wasn’t going to let them push her around anymore.
She fought back as best she could with wild windmilling punches and sloppy kicks, but she was outnumbered and outmatched. By the time they were done, she was left curled on the floor, blood in her mouth and bruises already blooming on her arms and over her eye. As a final insult, one of them tipped a giant blue slushie over her head, the syrupy ice soaking her hair and clothes. Their laughter rang in her ears as they left her there humiliated, shivering, and sticky.
She limped home in that state. When Alejandro opened the door and saw her standing there, something in him shifted. For years, he had seen her as a burden, his late sister’s daughter whom he didn’t know how to reach. But in that moment, looking at her battered frame and the way she tried to hold herself together beneath the mess of bruises and melted ice, Alejandro didn’t see her groaning in defiance or rolling her eyes at his wisdom. He saw vulnerability, not weakness, but his niece in need.
For the first time, he understood how much she truly needed someone not just to provide for her but to stand in her corner. He didn’t have money, and he didn’t know how to offer tenderness in the way she probably wanted. But he did know how to fight. And that, he realized, was something he could give her. Something real, something that might keep her from ever feeling this powerless again.
That summer, Alejandro began waking her before dawn and taking her down to the gym. At first, the training was brutal. He didn’t go easy on her just because she was his niece, if anything, he was harder on her, demanding discipline, correcting every mistake, and pushing her to go one more round, one more rep, one more mile. The first weeks left Isabella sore, bruised, and exhausted, but something inside her refused to quit. For the first time in her life, she had a place to put all the anger, fear, and loneliness that had followed her since her parents’ deaths.
Slowly, something grew between them. The distance that had always separated her from her uncle began to shrink. He taught her combinations and clinches; she answered with determination and a drive that reminded him of his younger self. He stopped seeing her as a burden, and she stopped seeing him as just a surly old man who couldn’t understand her. The gym became their personal common ground, the place where they finally learned how to speak the same language and be family.
Isabella came alive in the fight. She discovered she loved the rhythm of striking, the sharp sting of pads on her shins, the satisfaction of locking in a submission until her sparring partner tapped. Fighting wasn’t just self-defense anymore, it was freedom of expression. It gave her purpose, confidence, and the fire to step into the world on her own terms instead of accepting the hand she was dealt. She threw herself into it with abandon, outworking her peers, staying in the gym late, and pestering Alejandro to show her everything he knew.
By her late teens, Isabella had transformed from a withdrawn, bullied girl into a competitor with a relentless spirit. She fought in local tournaments, won some, lost others, but never backed down. With every fight, her hunger grew. She no longer wanted only to protect herself, she wanted to test herself.
That fire carried her into MMA, where she quickly made a name for herself as a scrappy striker with dangerous submissions and a motor that never seemed to stop. But MMA, with its weight divisions, rigid matchmaking, and politics, all felt too narrow for her ambition. Isabella wanted more: bigger stages, bigger fights, and no limits.
That path led her to professional wrestling, where she found both freedom and spectacle. Here, she could face anyone! Giants, technicians, acrobatic high fliers, and any weirdo they put on the payroll, without barriers, and show the world the fighter she had become. Now, Isabella Cruz steps into every ring with the same fire that was lit the night of the blue slushie. She is competitive, fearless, and insatiable, always seeking the next fight, the next challenge, the next corner of the world to prove herself in.
