BACKSTAGE – SAME BROILER CORRIDOR, TEN MINUTES LATER

The camera snaps back to life.

Darren staggers into frame ten minutes after we last saw him, still breathing heavy, still sweating through his gear, still bleeding—a thin red line running down the side of his face and into his beard. Whatever happened earlier did not stop him. It only slowed him down.

Steam hangs in the air.

At the far end of the corridor, Jenny Myst has not made it far. Two belts slung over her shoulders, posture tight, expression already soured by the environment and the company.

Darren spots her.

There’s no speech. No posturing.

Just intent.

He looks around.

His eyes land on a large potted plant sitting beside a utility door. Thick ceramic base. Wide leaves. Dense soil.

A ficus.

The most hardcore plant in the building.

Darren tips it over, douses it with something flammable from off-camera, and sets it on fire. Flames lick up the leaves, smoke rolling instantly into the corridor.

Before anyone can react—

He charges.

The impact sends Jenny backward into the wall, belts clattering against concrete. Darren unloads with wild, furious strikes—pure brawl, no finesse, fists and forearms crashing into her as the burning plant crackles beside them.

Jenny covers up, snarling, boots scraping as she’s driven down.

The referee sprints into frame again, panic written all over his face.

Darren shoves Jenny to the floor, hooks a leg, collapses across her chest.

The ref drops.

ONE!

Jenny’s face twists—not pain, not fear—disgust.

TWO!!

Smoke thickens. Flames pop behind them. The ref’s hand comes down—

Jenny KICKS OUT HARD, exploding upward and sending Darren rolling off her.

Ref:
“KICKOUT!”

Jenny scrambles to a seated position, wiping soot and sweat off her face like she’s touched something unsanitary. She glares at Darren, then at the referee.

Jenny:
“Absolutely fucking not.”

She pulls herself up using the wall, belts clutched tight again, eyes full of venom.

Jenny:
“You do not win my title like that.”

Officials rush in with fire extinguishers as Darren struggles back to his knees, still bleeding, still breathing like a freight train.

Jenny backs away into the smoke, disgust etched across her face.

Jenny (over her shoulder):
“I don’t lose titles to men who hate women because none of them will look at them.”

The extinguisher blasts white foam across the frame.

Lower-third graphic slams onto the screen:

KICKOUT AT TWO.
24/7 X-TREME TITLE SURVIVES… AGAIN.

Fade out on smoke, alarms, and administrative chaos.