The photograph had become a distraction

Not in the ring. That was one of the only places her mind was free. The moment the bell rang, everything else disappeared. The championship. Training. The mystery. All of it faded into the background until there was nothing left except the match in front of her.

Outside the ring, though? That was a different story. For days the photograph had been sitting on her kitchen table. For days she'd found herself staring at it. The hooded man had handed her the package weeks ago. First she’d seen the footage, then the photograph. A tiny blonde toddler standing inside a wrestling ring and a man she couldn't identify no matter how many times she looked at his face,

Now that she was back from Warfare, she couldn't stop focusing on the corner of the image. The letters… or what remained of them. The scratches were faint. Time had worn them down until only fragments remained visible near the edge of the ring apron. Two letters. Not enough to do anything except frustrate her. Nothing made sense, no matter how deep she searched.

She picked the photograph up again and tilted it so the light hit the faint scratches that mocked her. A clue she couldn't quite reach. For days she'd convinced herself she was one breakthrough away from an answer. Instead she somehow felt further away than when she'd started. "Come on," she muttered, the words escaping in frustration before she could stop them.

Who was the man?

Why had he been standing beside her?

Why had somebody gone through the trouble of hiding the photograph for all these years?

Why had the hooded man given it to her now?

Every answer seemed to create three more questions.

With an irritated sigh, she dropped the photograph back onto the table and leaned back in her chair. Her eyes drifted toward the Television Championship resting nearby. The gold caught the light. Another responsibility. Immediately her thoughts shifted.

The draw between her, Rowan and Betsy.

She hated it.

Not because she hadn't kept the belt.

She had.

The championship was still hers. The problem was how close it had been. She could still replay the final moments in her head. The scramble. The urgency as she dived onto Rowan. The realization that everything she'd worked for had nearly slipped away.

The worst part of it all, was knowing the reason was herself.

Because she knew exactly where some of those openings had come from.

She cared.

Too much.

Rowan and Betsy weren't just opponents. They were friends. People she respected and liked. And somewhere in the back of her mind she'd given them room she shouldn't have. Hesitated when she shouldn't have. Pulled back when she should have pushed forward. The realization sat heavily in her chest.

She'd retained.

But she'd learned something she didn't particularly enjoy learning: Friendship had no place in the ring.

Not if she wanted to stay champion.

Not if she wanted to keep climbing.

Eventually she pushed herself away from the table. The photograph wasn't giving her answers.

Maybe training would.

LATER

The familiar sounds of the gym greeted her the moment she stepped through the doors.

The sharp impact of bodies hitting mats, the rhythmic squeak of shoes against canvas, the metallic rattle of weights.

Immediately she felt some of the tension leave her shoulders. She glanced around, spying Iris already there and stretching out. The two women eventually settled into a light sparring session beneath the bright overhead lights..

Iris slipped around a lazy strike before smirking. "You look annoyed."

Remi rolled her eyes. "Thanks.”

"I'm serious."

"I know."

Iris laughed. The two circled while measuring each other. "Still thinking about your last match?"

Remi’s expression immediately shifted. "A little."

Iris snorted. "A little?"

"Okay. A lot."

That earned a grin. For a moment neither woman spoke, the sounds of training filled the silence, then Remi finally sighed. "I gave them too much room."

"Your friends?"

"My challengers."

"Same thing."

"Not in the ring."

The answer came quickly, almost instinctively. Even Remi seemed surprised by how fast it came out of her mouth. Iris raised an eyebrow. Remi shook her head. "I hesitated." She hated admitting that out loud. "I cared too much about hurting them." The words sounded ridiculous the moment they left her mouth. But they were true. "I gave them opportunities I shouldn't have."

Iris nodded slowly. "And?"

"And it almost cost me everything."

Silence settled between them again.

"I need to get better.” Remi pushes away from the ropes and shook her head. “I can’t keep thinking like that. I worked too hard for this to start giving things away because I don’t want to hurt somebody’s feelings or make them have a bad day.”

Iris smiled as the two women circled again, moving to light holds. “Good. You’ve got Korvayne next week to prove that new mindset.”

“Korvayne is… I can’t explain. She’s not my friend but she’s… something. I don’t know what made me run out there… Charlie had the chair and… I don’t know.” Remi twists, slipping out of her friend’s grasp. “Right now though, she’s standing between me and something I want.” She strikes fast, trapping Iris in a choke.

Iris smiled. "There's the champion."

Remi laughed softly. Then the smile faded as she released the hold.

Iris noticed immediately. "You've got something else on your mind."

"I'm fine."

"No you're not."

Remi looked away for a long moment before slowly giving in. What could it hurt? “It doesn’t have to do with my matches. The ring is actually the only place I can block it out actually." Without another word, Remi reached into her gym bag to pull out the photograph to hand over to Iris who studied it. Confusion crossed her face.

"You?"

Remi nodded.

"The wrestler?"

"No idea." Remi pointed toward the faded corner and partial letters. "He doesn't mean anything to me," she admitted. "But these are driving me insane."

Iris frowned. "Letters?"

"Do they mean anything to you?"

For a moment nothing happened. Iris stared, silent. Remi felt her hopes sinking. Another dead end. Then there was a tiny shift in Iris’ expression. A flicker of recognition. Remi's heart immediately skipped. "What?"

Iris didn't answer right away then almost whispered three words. "Wait. I think..."

Remi's pulse quickened.

Iris slowly lifted her eyes from the photograph. "I know those."

And just like that, for the first time since the hooded man had placed the package into her hands, Remi finally had something to go on.



“Korvayne, the thing that fascinates me about you is that every time I hear you talk, you act like the biggest star in XWF.

Then the bell rings.

That's the problem, isn't it?

Because if I listened to you and only you, I'd think you were carrying this company on your back. I'd think every opportunity that came your way was beneath you. I'd think championships were inevitable and everyone else was just trying to catch up. Then I look at what's actually happened.

You lost the Television Championship.

You got thrown out of Leap of Faith.

You lost to the vampire.

Three matches. Three opportunities. Three times the story ended the same way. Not with your hand raised. Not with everyone talking about how right the hype was.

With you losing.

And before you start twisting that into something it isn't, understand this… I'm not saying you're talentless. 'm not saying you're washed up or finished or any of the other nonsense people throw around when they're trying to score easy points. I'm saying there's a difference between believing you're entitled to something and actually earning it.

You keep telling everyone who you are. I keep showing them.

That's the difference.

You tell people how good you are. I go out and prove it.

You tell people what you deserve. I work for it.

You tell people what Korvayne is supposed to be. I walk out every show and show people exactly who Remi Storm is.

And lately, those two things have been moving in opposite directions.

The more you talk, the more I find myself looking at the results and wondering where the disconnect is. Because this company keeps getting introduced to the legend of Korvayne according to Korvayne.

The reality has been a lot less impressive.

One loss happens.

Everybody loses.

Two losses happen.

Bad stretches exist.

Three losses in a row?

Now we're not talking about bad luck anymore. We're talking about a pattern. Patterns don't care about what you were six months ago or a year ago or what everyone says you're capable of being. Patterns are about what keeps happening. And what keeps happening, Korvayne, is that every time an opportunity appears in front of you, it slips through your fingers.

Meanwhile I've been moving in the opposite direction.

I beat Bobby Bourbon for this championship.

I walked into a title defense against Rowan Vance and Betsy Granger and I walked out still carrying the gold.

Was it close?

Absolutely.

Closer than I wanted it to be. Closer than I'm comfortable with. But when the pressure was highest and the championship was hanging in the balance, I found a way. That's what champions do. They find a way.

You know what's funny, though?

The last time our paths crossed, I wasn't standing across the ring from you. I wasn't preparing to defend my championship against you. I wasn't looking at you as a challenger.
I was pulling you out of the line of fire.

Think about that for a second.

The woman you're coming after for the Television Championship is the same woman who had to come save you when things went sideways with The Bastards.

Part of me genuinely believes you're capable of more than what we've been seeing. Part of me still sees the wrestler people keep talking about. Part of me still sees flashes of the woman who built that reputation in the first place. But flashes aren't enough. Potential isn't enough. Talk isn't enough.

At some point you have to prove it.

At some point all the speeches and all the self-belief and all the bravado have to become something real.

Because championships aren't won by acting like you deserve them. They're won when the bell rings, and lately that's been your problem. The moment the talking stops, the results start. The moment your reputation has to carry weight, it buckles. The moment it's time to justify all that confidence, somebody finds a way to stop you.

So tell me, Korvayne, what exactly am I supposed to buy into?

The reputation?

The hype?

The version of you that exists in your own head?

Because the version I've been watching keeps coming up short.

And maybe that's harsh and not what you want to hear. But somebody needs to say it. Because right now, I don't see a woman charging toward a championship. I see a woman desperately trying to convince everyone she's still who she says she is.

You keep telling everyone how good you are and not backing it up.

I keep showing them. Every time.

And if you want this championship, if you want to take the Television Title from my shoulder, then you're going to have to do something you haven't done in a very long time.

You're going to have to stop telling everyone how great you are and finally prove it.”



Three days later, Remi found herself standing in front of a building that looked nearly abandoned. The faded sign hanging above the door creaked softly in the afternoon breeze. Time and weather had stripped most of the paint away, leaving behind only fragments of what it had once been. A few dusty trucks sat parked nearby. The gravel lot was uneven and overgrown around the edges. Nothing about the place suggested that it was even still in business.

And yet this was where her leads had pointed.

TWF.

Three simple letters that had consumed her since Iris figured it out.

Tri-State Wrestling Federation. A promotion that had existed decades ago before quietly disappearing with zero fanfare. Just… poof! Gone.

The deeper Remi had dug, the stranger it all got. Incomplete record, missing articles, contradictions. The only thing that remained consistent was one name, a man who had been there through it all. A wrestler named often enough she had dug deeper. Which was why Remi now found herself walking toward a building she wasn't entirely sure belonged to him, but was worth a shot. The screen door groaned as she pushed it open. Inside, the air smelled faintly of oil, old wood, and dust. A radio played quietly somewhere in the back. For a moment she thought the place was empty, then she caught faint motion.

An older man stood bent over a workbench near the rear wall. Gray streaked through dark hair. He glanced up briefly when the door closed behind her, then returned to what he was doing. "Can I help you?" The question was polite yet dismissive at the same time.

“Maybe.” The man didn’t even look up or bother to respond. “I’m looking for some answers…”

"No."

Remi blinked. "You don't even know what I'm asking."

"Don't need to."

Now she frowned. The man continued working, completely uninterested. For several seconds she simply stared at him. "That's kind of rude."

"Been called worse."

The response almost made her laugh.

Almost.

Instead she shook her head. "I'm looking into an old wrestling promotion."

Nothing.

No reaction.

Not even a pause.

"TWF."

That got one. Tiny. Almost invisible. The man's hand stopped moving for half a second. Then continued. "I don't know anything about it."

"You were listed on the roster."

"Internet lies."

Remi rolled her eyes.

"I found newspaper articles."

"Those lie too."

Now she was definitely getting annoyed. The conversation felt like trying to wrestle a brick wall. For a moment she considered leaving. Then remembered the photograph, the hooded man, the mystery that had followed her for weeks.

No.

She'd come too far for that.

“So do you apparently.”

The man sighed heavily. "Kid."

Remi immediately frowned. Kid? "I'm twenty-five.."

"Kid." The man wiped his hands on an old rag. "TWF is dead and some things are supposed to stay dead."

Remi felt something beneath the dismissiveness, and it almost seemed like regret. "Why?" The question slipped out before she could stop it.

The older man looked away, his jaw tightening. "I said leave it alone."

"Why?"

"Because I told you to."

Remi laughed softly, earning an unamused look. "That doesn't really work on me."

"No?"

"No."

The older man stared at her then looked away again, silent. Remi felt her frustrations boiling over. She began a rant about what she had gone through just to find him, pacing as she did. Her hands moved in the air while she talked, cocking out her hip as she spun around to march the other way. The same unconscious habits she'd had for years. The same movements she'd never thought twice about.

The man looked at her now, frozen. The change happened so quickly that Remi nearly missed it. One moment he was looking toward the window. The next he was staring directly at her. The words died in her throat. "What?"

He didn’t answer, he just remained there, looking like he’d seen a ghost, the color draining from his face. Remi's stomach tightened.

The expression on his face wasn't recognition, it was something she couldn’t place. Shock? Disbelief? Grief?

The silence stretched becoming uncomfortable. Then the older man took a slow step backward, never blinking, eyes never leaving her. "My God..." Barely more than a whisper, the words escaped him before he seemed to realize he'd spoken them He rubbed a hand across his face, almost like he was processing what was standing in front of him. Finally he shook his head once.

And when he spoke again, his voice sounded distant. Like he wasn't talking to her anymore. Like he was talking to a ghost.

"You look just like him."



“Maybe people looking at my last match think that was a crack in my foundation. Some people see a draw and convince themselves the champion is vulnerable.

Maybe you're one of them.

Maybe you're looking at what happened with Rowan and Betsy and telling yourself that if they came that close, then your opportunity must be right around the corner.

Maybe you're looking at that match and seeing hope.

You’d be wrong.

While people might be busy deciding what it meant for my future, I was already studying what it said about my present. I retained the Television Championship. And I hated how close it was. I hated knowing how quickly things could have gone differently. I hated knowing I had to scramble to keep what I'd worked so hard to earn.

Most people would have celebrated.

Most people would have shrugged and said a win is a win.

The first thing I did wasn't celebrate. The first thing I did was start looking for weaknesses.I started replaying the match in my head.

Every mistake.

Every hesitation.

Every opening.

Every moment I could have been better. Because if there's one thing I've learned since walking into XWF, it's that I never want to become comfortable. I never want to become the person who thinks holding a championship means they've figured everything out.

Because I haven't.

I still have levels I haven't reached yet.

And honestly, Korvayne? That's terrible news for you. Because you're not getting the version of me that thinks she's on fire. You're getting the version of me that just spent a week picking herself apart. You're getting the version of me that's angry she wasn't better. You're getting the version of me that went right back to work.

And while I've been busy figuring out how to improve, I've found myself thinking about you. Because you know what might be the most frustrating thing about all of this?

I was one of the people who bought into your hype.

I was one of the people who looked at Korvayne and thought she was going to be a serious problem for everyone on the roster.

I watched you come into XWF hard and fast. You made noise. You got attention.You made sure everybody knew your name. You walked in carrying yourself like somebody destined for the top. You were winning.

And for a while? I believed it.

For a while it looked like all that confidence was leading somewhere. For a while it looked like all those promises were about to become reality. Then here comes Bourbon and you face-planted. That was the start.

One stumble. Then another.

Until suddenly all that momentum you'd spent months building was gone.

And here's the part I can't figure out.

How somebody can accomplish so little while carrying themselves like they've accomplished so much.

When you first got here, that confidence made sense. You were making waves. You were turning heads. You looked like somebody who was about to become one of the biggest names in the XWF.

That swagger fit the moment.

But  then the results disappeared and the ego stayed.

Actually, scratch that… The ego got bigger.

You tripped over your own two feet and went belly up, and somehow you became even more convinced of your own greatness. Every setback comes with an excuse. Every missed opportunity comes with a speech. Every loss gets dressed up as something other than what it was.

You keep acting like you're untouchable. Like you're above criticism. Like everybody else is supposed to keep treating you like a threat because of what you might become someday.

Eventually people stop caring about what you could be and start looking at what you are. And what you are right now is somebody living off promises that never seem to cash in.

You have people around you constantly telling you how great you are. People hyping you up. People feeding your ego. People reinforcing every excuse. Telling you exactly what you want to hear. You hand pick them for that very reason.

And somehow that's still not enough.

Because every time reality catches up to you, there's another reason everybody should keep believing. You spend so much time trying to be adored. Trying to be admired.Trying to be treated like a star.

But here's the thing, Korvayne.

Being a pretty face gets attention, but talent keeps it.

And eventually people stop caring how good you look when they're constantly watching you come up short. A pretty face doesn't mean much when you're on your back staring at arena lights.

And that's what annoys me.

Not because I think you're untalented. Not because I think you're hopeless.

But because I know you're capable of more than this.

I've seen it.

Everybody has.

You had an opportunity against Bourbon to prove exactly who you claim to be. An opportunity to show everybody that Korvayne was exactly as good as Korvayne says she is. And instead? You folded when the going got rocky.

All that fire towards Charlie because he wronged you, going after him like an avenging angel, refusing to give up on your revenge… where was it for Bobby?

And for somebody who talks a big game, you've spent an awful lot of time proving you're terrified of the ugly parts of this business. Getting hurt. Getting dirty. You run from it. It makes me wonder why you even get in the ring.

This isn't a beauty pageant. This isn't social media. This isn't a popularity contest.

This is professional wrestling. This is where talent matters. This is where results matter. This is where championships matter.

All of that? That’s not even what bothers me the most. Not the posturing, not the ego the size of Jupiter, not even the weird revulsiion to all of humankind.

It's that I genuinely think you're better than this. I think you're too talented for this. Too gifted for this. I've watched flashes of the wrestler I thought you were going to become. I've watched moments where Korvayne looked like somebody everyone should be worried about.

But they're flashes.

Not consistency.

Just flashes.

You beat Gorgo and it felt like the beginning of something. Like everything was finally about to click. Like Korvayne had finally arrived.

And then… Nothing.

One big moment. One big pop. And then you… fizzled.

You need to light that fire back up.

Unfortunately, you're stepping into this match at exactly the wrong time to do that. Because the draw didn't make me weaker. It didn't make me vulnerable.

It sharpened me. It forced me to look at myself honestly. It forced me to find every flaw. And fix it.

So when I beat you, Korvayne, it won't be because you lack talent.

It'll be because talent without accountability doesn't win championships. Speeches don't win championships. Ego doesn't win championships.

Results do.

And maybe another loss won't change anything. Maybe you'll walk away with another excuse. Maybe you'll find somebody else to blame.

Or maybe, for the first time, you'll look in the mirror and realize that the biggest thing standing between Korvayne and the wrestler she keeps telling everybody she is…

…has been Korvayne all along.

Maybe I can do that for you. Maybe. The one this for certain in all of this is… The storm isn't coming anymore, Korvayne.

You're standing in it.”