Standard 3-count pinfalls do not win the match. To win, a competitor must accumulate a total of 60 seconds of pinfall time against her opponent (e.g., holding them down for 5 seconds adds 5 seconds to the clock).
The scent of heavy jasmine hung in the air of the backstage corridor, a fragrant warning that preceded the woman standing before the mirror. Aurelia Vance adjusted the sheer, gossamer fabric of her white robes, ensuring they draped just so over her left shoulder, cascading down like liquid marble to pool against her calves. Beneath the Grecian-inspired overlay, her attire appeared far more functional for a match, though no less regal: a snug, metallic gold leotard that clung to her curves with unforgiving precision, highlighting the mature, powerful thickness of her chest, waist, and thighs.
She caught her own amber gaze in the glass. She knew what they whispered. They floated through the dirt sheets and the murmurs of the younger talent in the locker room. She’s past her prime. Her door is rusted shut. This run in LAW is just a retirement fund, a twilight money grab for a woman whose knees can no longer carry the pace.
Aurelia smiled, a small, knowing curl of crimson lips. Let them whisper. They mistook evolution for decay. She hadn't come to America to run sprints with children; she had come to remind opponents that gravity was the only law that truly mattered in a wrestling ring, and she was its avatar. And tonight would reinforce that; tonight was about testing the mettle of a peer.
She turned from the mirror, her golden gladiator-style foot wraps, intricate leather bindings that wound all the way up to her knees, creaking softly. She paused at the door leading to gorilla. It was closed. Locked, in fact. Aurelia stopped, planting her feet, and simply cleared her throat. A young stagehand, barely twenty and looking terrified, scrambled over.
"Oh! Sorry, Ms. Vance. First... first day."
Aurelia didn't move to open it. Instead, she reached out, her hand lingering against the boy’s cheek, her thumb brushing his jawline with an affectionate, lingering warmth that made him freeze.
"Oh, you look it," she observed, stepping into his personal space until the scent of jasmine surely overwhelmed him as well as her greater height. "Tell me... do you think the Queen will reign tonight? Or will the fashionista strip me of my crown, at least for tonight?"
"I... uh... the Queen, ma'am. Definitely." He looked as if he had seen an oasis in a desert crafted by his first-day nerves. Adorable. She should encourage him.
"Good boy." She patted his cheek, a little harder than necessary, and gestured to the handle. "After you."
As the door swung open, her music exploded through the arena speakers. The heavy, driving drum beat vibrated through the floorboards, syncing with the slow, deliberate rhythm of Aurelia's heart and footsteps. Already, the crowd launched into a chorus of appreciation.
She crossed regally through gorilla and stepped out onto the stage, and the reaction doubled - a low, rumbling roar of respect. The crowd appreciated her presence, if the cynical ones didn't. Her mouth quirked into a small smile.
Aurelia stood at the top of the ramp, bathed in golden spotlights. She wore a headpiece of jagged, radiant gold - not a delicate tiara, but a fierce, spiked halo that fanned out behind her head like the rays of a rising sun, framing her fiery crimson hair. In her hands, she held a massive, ornate claymore, its hilt encrusted with jewels. It was a prop, heavy and cumbersome, but she held it aloft with a casual strength that silenced any doubts about her power. She posed there, the "Sovereign" surveying her subjects, letting the lights catch the sheer fabric of her cape and the solid, dangerous muscle of her exposed legs.
She began her descent. She did not run or skip like she did in her youth. She walked with an authoritarian gait, each step heavy and purposeful. With every stride, the softness of her hips and the density of her thighs moved with a mesmerizing, heavy jiggle - evidence not of unfitness, but of the crushing weight she was prepared to weaponize.
Reaching the ring, she handed the claymore and the headpiece to a ringside attendant with a graceful nod, ascending the steel steps without breaking eye contact with the hard camera. She stepped between the ropes, the gold leotard shimmering as she stretched her arms wide, soaking in the adulation and flicking her long, red-blonde hair across her shoulders, still as radiant as it had been in her youth. The crowd's was a warmth she would never tire of, a validation that she still commanded a room.
She turned to the entrance ramp, her expression shifting from benevolent to hungry. She was waiting for Aleinor, a respectably self-made woman. A woman who had turned her name into a brand, a clothing line, a legacy. Aurelia respected that hustle immensely. But respect would not save Aleinor tonight. She could already imagine the feeling of the fashion mogul struggling for breath beneath her ribs, the panic in Aleinor’s eyes as the seconds ticked away. Let the children run and flip. The Queens were about to show them how to prove dominance: slowly, heavily, and without giving an inch of space.
Spoiler
