Victory Conditions: Pinfall, submission, knockout, count out, or disqualification.
The mirror in Madison Knox’s locker room was too harsh, the fluorescent lighting above it threatening to wash her out if she didn’t pay close attention. She leaned in, steady hand applying the last stroke of eyeliner with the same precision she used when cinching a hold tight in the ring. Presentation was everything, always had been, always would be. Tonight was no different.
But beneath the sharp flick of mascara and practiced sweep of powder, her thoughts were a storm.
Her ankle still ached sometimes, phantom pangs that reminded her of Ms. Spencer’s handiwork and the mess it caused. She still wore a brace within her boot, a small sleeve that kept it from twisting wrong. The injury hadn’t been catastrophic, not really, but the fallout? That had been seismic. Keith Fox’s podcast had turned a minor injury into a saga. Madison Knox against the machine. Rigged debuts. Locker rooms not fit for health regulations. Co-ed chaos. She had meant for it to cause a stir but once the narrative she had pitched actually stuck, it took on a life of its own and spiralled into something even beyond her imagination. Now she was painted as some bold whistleblower, the girl with the gall to speak out against the monstrous corporate wrestling entity.
She still couldn't believe it worked.
Her “reboot” plans to deliberately turn away from the bad press and toxic headlines of her earlier career back home wasn’t just a clean slate anymore, it had become a reinvention. The legacy heiress turned underdog. The girl who won, even when she shouldn’t have. The fighter who survived being targeted and came back shinier, sharper, stronger. Fans packed meet-and-greets, hung on her every word. Even without her feeding the beast online. She still avoided social media for her sanity’s sake, her star was climbing higher than she’d thought possible.
Still, not everything had been sunshine. Valerie had gone radio silent, ignoring her calls and messages, and that stung. She had thought reconnecting with her old friend had been something special. A bond of mutual understanding that could withstand anything. Now? She wasn't sure and loathed that she had been lulled into a vulnerable enough place to believe in it like some fairytale story. It could have just been that the other woman was busy or maybe she had grown jealous of Madison's success. New to Japan, Valerie’s stomping ground, and yet she was already rising to new heights.
But Madison Knox was nothing if not resilient. She touched up her lipstick, blotted it carefully, and forced the thought out of her mind. She didn't have time for people who didn't believe in her, didn't want the best for her. Besides, she had other things to think about, like her match tonight.
Madison capped her lipstick, snapped the tube shut with finality, and sat back in her chair. The woman staring back at her in the mirror was flawless, poised, untouchable, exactly the version of herself she wanted the world to see. The makeup wasn’t vanity. It was armor. Every stroke of liner and dusting of powder smoothed away the cracks she couldn’t afford to show.
They’d promised her a fresh opponent tonight. Someone new. Rookie, maybe, or a fresh hire. No details, no hints. Which meant she couldn’t afford to treat this like an easy win. Was this meant to punish her for going off-script, for dragging the company’s skeletons into daylight? Or was this a peace offering, feed her someone green, let her get a decisive win, ride the wave of her newfound stardom? She couldn't be certain so it was best to be prepared.
She reached for her brush, dragging it through her hair with deliberate strokes, shaking it loose once just to feel the weight settle across her shoulders. That was when her eyes caught on the glint of gold resting on the counter. Her collapsible knuckle dusters. Sleek, compact, dangerous. They weren’t supposed to be part of tonight’s story. She was the hero after all, why would she need to cheat? They weren’t supposed to be part of her story anymore, not the one she wanted to tell… but still.
Madison lingered, fingertips brushing the cool metal. For a heartbeat, she debated leaving them there. Clean slate. Underdog. Babyface darling. That pained look on Valerie’s face. The girl who fought fair. But reality had never matched the story had it?
With a faint, private smile, she folded the dusters into place, pressing them smooth before slipping them into her hair. To anyone else, it looked like nothing more than an ornate clasp, a flourish of gold pinning her side braid to the back of her hair. Only she knew what it really was, a promise that if things went sideways, Madison Knox would not be caught without her knockout punch.
A knock rattled the door. One of the crew, polite enough not to barge in. “Five minutes, Ms. Knox.”
“Yeah. I know.” Her reply was crisp, carrying enough confidence to cover the small coil of nerves in her stomach. She bent to lace her boots, the brace on her ankle tugging sharp against the skin. Pain was temporary. Weakness was not an option.
She stood, adjusting the straps of her leotard, smoothing the fabric across the swell of her chest. Her eyes flicked once more to the mirror, no cracks, no hesitation. Madison Knox didn’t walk to the ring uncertain.
“Rookie or not,” she murmured to her reflection, voice low and edged with steel, “they’re stepping into my story. And I’m not the one who folds.”
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High Hopes - Panic! At the Disco
emerged with a strut, each step down the stage radiating practiced poise. She paused in the spotlight, striking her silhouette with precision, then pivoted sideways to flex one arm. Her lips brushed across her knuckles in a delicate kiss, her smirk blossoming as she snapped her arm outward in a sharp punch. The crowd roared as she held the pose, basking in the golden glow that framed her as larger than life.
From there, she descended the ramp with the grace of royalty, chin tilted high, hair catching the light in glimmers of champagne gold. Every stride was deliberate, every glance a reminder that this stage belonged to her alone.
At ringside, Madison refused to rush. She drifted toward the steel steps at the corner and ascended them like the grand staircase of a gala, taking her time, savoring the spotlight. At the top, she swept her gaze across the audience one final time, eyes alight with smug satisfaction, before slipping through the middle rope. Her body arched as she crossed the threshold, back curved in a way that made the fan service feel intentional, calculated, controlled.
Once inside, Madison claimed the far corner as her throne. She leaned back against the turnbuckles, arms draped casually over the ropes, her smirk fixed in place as if victory was already secured. The Golden Girl had arrived, and in her presence, the world was expected to bow.
