20-Women Battle Rumble

#1 Contendership for the AWS Goddess Championship

20-Women Battle Rumble Match

A 20-woman Battle Rumble Match to earn the chance to compete for the AWS Goddess Championship.

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3x Maximum Promos, No Word Limit

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The scene opens on a moody Dublin evening—clouds hanging low over the River Liffey, a gentle drizzle misting the air. On the deck of an old, weather-beaten barge moored near the quay, stands Vera Eames—the "Rebel Rose" of Asylum Wrestling Society. Clad in a worn leather jacket with the Irish tricolour stitched onto the shoulder, her crimson-dyed hair dampened slightly by the mist, she grips the railing, gazing out at the waters with fire in her eyes. A camera crew captures her words as she begins to speak, her voice a husky, defiant lilt of Dublin grit and rebel pride.

Vera Eames:
["Rebel Rose" smirks slightly, brushing a damp strand of hair from her face.]
"Y'know… I thought comin’ home would feel like breathin’ again. That the River Liffey'd wash away the blood, sweat, and bruises I’ve picked up across every hellhole AWS’s dragged me through. But standin’ here, watchin’ the tide roll past like ghosts I ain’t buried yet... nah. It don’t get easier just ‘cause it’s home."

She leans on the railing, eyes sharp and focused, as the wind flutters the collar of her jacket.

"People forget—I was never meant to make it. Not a girl from Northside Dublin with fists too quick and a temper quicker. But I made them remember the name Vera Eames. I carved it into the bones of every woman who thought I was just a flash in the pan. But I’ll be honest with ya—this ride in AWS? It’s been tougher than I imagined. I’ve bled more. I’ve lost more. And I’ve walked out of arenas feelin’ like the world’s tryna choke the rebel spirit outta me."

She turns, stepping forward toward the camera now, her eyes blazing with renewed purpose.

"But I’m not done. Not even close. Next up is the Twenty-Women Battle Rumble—and I ain’t just showin’ up to wave at the crowd and collect a cheque. I’m goin’ in with every inch o' fury I’ve earned from every setback, every loss, every smug little upstart that ever doubted me. I’m goin’ in to massacre the lot of them."

She pounds her fist into her open palm, her voice growing fiercer.

"You want the AWS Goddess Championship? You better be ready to crawl over my dead body. Because I’m not walkin’ out of that rumble empty-handed. I’m walkin’ out with my name etched in gold and every other woman in that ring left wonderin’ why they ever stepped in with the Rebel Rose."

She pauses, breathing heavy, the fire in her belly clearly roaring now. She points toward the camera, voice low but deadly clear.

"You can bring your alliances. You can bring your tricks. But none of it matters when I start swingin’. And if you don’t believe me? Just ask the River how many bodies she’s carried over the years. Come the rumble… maybe she’ll be carryin’ a few more."

With that, she turns her back to the camera, staring once more into the grey Dublin dusk as the screen fades to black, the wind howling like a war cry behind her.

[END SEGMENT – "Rebel Rose" Vera Eames is ready for war.]

A dimly lit church in ruins. The altar is scorched. Candles flicker like they fear her. The veiled crown gleams with the promise of ruin. A shattered stained-glass window spills moonlight onto a crimson sigil drawn in ash.

Camera fades in on Luna, kneeling in front of a burning altar. The crown is veiled. Her voice is soft at first, barely above a whisper, reverent in its venom.

Luna Dreykov (calm, cold):“I was supposed to be saved. A daughter of perfection. A student of order. A vessel for tradition. I bowed. I smiled. I bled. And when I screamed for justice… the saints turned away.”

She stands slowly, brushing ash from her palm. Her eyes never blink.

“You gave your sons the crowns. You called me difficult. You called me emotional. You told me to smile through it while you broke my jaw behind the curtain.”

Luna walks toward the shattered stained glass, the red light catching her obsidian robes.

Luna Dreykov (snarling):“Now, I wear the thorns. Now, I speak the language of pain. The battle royal? You dress twenty women in glitter and desperation and call it glory. They will claw. They will beg. But I am not here to compete. I am here to cleanse.”

Beat. She removes her veil slowly—beneath it, a calm, calculating smirk.

Luna Dreykov: “The Ninth Gate has opened. The Cursed Soul walks. And one by one, I will name each sinner who steps into the ring with me. Not for judgment. For execution.”

She lights a match and tosses it onto the altar. The flames rise behind her.

“The Goddess Title? Let them chase a crown. I’ve already forged mine— in betrayal, blood, and broken bones.”

Fade to black as she turns, crown gleaming.

Whispered Voiceover:"What they buried… now walks into asylum wrestling society”

Static. Then silence. Then the creak of ancient doors groaning open. Candlelight flickers along crumbling pews, shadows swaying like spirits. The camera finds Luna Dreykov, veiled and still, kneeling before a burnt altar. A red sigil is drawn at her feet. Her voice—quiet, eerie, devastating.

Luna Dreykov: “They buried her in white. Called her graceful. Humble. Obedient. Told her to smile when they drove the knives in. So she smiled… And learned to twist the blades herself.”

She lifts a single candle, turns it upside down, and extinguishes it in the ash.

Luna Dreykov: “This is not a resurrection. This is a haunting. Twenty souls will step into that ring, dressed in dreams and desperation. They will claw. They will crawl. They will cry for meaning. But only one will leave… Unburdened.”

She stands now, full height, obsidian robes flowing behind her like smoke.

Luna Dreykov (a smirk under the veil):“I have seen the first of them. A rebel… with red hair and weary eyes. Clutching her past like a crucifix. She speaks of rivers, ghosts, and pain like they make her sacred.”

Beat. She steps over a shattered crucifix.

“But sacred things burn first. Vera Eames, you are not a warrior. You are a memory, trapped in flesh— And when the bells toll at the end of the match, You will realize that no hometown hymn, no crowd of flag-waving faithful, Can shield you from a woman who has already died once.”

She approaches the camera now. Her voice drops. Terrifying in its softness.

Luna Dreykov: “The Cursed Soul does not want your goddess title. She does not care for your cheers. She has no alliances, no redemption arc, no face to kiss after the carnage. I walk for blood. I walk for rage. I walk for every woman who was told to wait her turn—then strangled in silence.”

She lifts the veil. Pale eyes glow like something not quite human.

Luna Dreykov (flat, final): “This is not a comeback story. This is an extinction. See you all in the pit.”

The camera cuts to black. Over silence, a final whisper echoes:"Let the Ninth Gate swallow them whole."

Low static hum. Candlelight flickers across Luna’s crown. Her hands are bloodstained—not fresh, but ceremonial, like warpaint. Her voice comes like a sigh from an ancient mouth.

Luna Dreykov:“I see a red door… and I want it painted black. No colors anymore… I want them to turn black.

She opens her palm. Ash spills from it like powdered bone.

“Do you know what it’s like… To have your wings clipped because they were not soft enough? To be told,Tone it down, angel—you are frightening the lambs.”

“So I stopped speaking in prayers. And started preaching in blood.”

She walks slowly past a wall of shattered mirrors. Each one has a single word scrawled across the glass: Obedient. Pretty. Veteran. Rookie. Promising. Loud. Safe.

“There are women in this match… Too drunk on opportunity to notice they’re already drowning. Clutching their gear bags, whispering affirmations. Thinking this battle royal is their breakout moment. “Don’t fail again,” they tell themselves. “Don’t be weak this time. Don’t let her throw you out.”

She turns sharply. Her voice cuts.

“I will not throw you out. I will drag you down, limb by limb, until you realize: You never had a soul to begin with.”

A candle extinguishes behind her. Water drips louder now.

“There’s one who calls herself a goddess already. Crowned by glitter and delusion. Another? All smiles, all alliances—sweet little sunshine, thinking love will save her when the ropes tighten.”

Luna Dreykov (smiling beneath the veil): “Love… is just a leash you put around your own throat. They call me bitter. I call myself liberated. You say I’m twisted… I say I’m re-born.”

Whispers rise around her—ghostly, overlapping fragments from “My Demons”

“Don’t let me go…”

“I need a savior to heal the pain…”

“Underneath my skin…”

Her voice returns over the chorus, unblinking.

“You want to be saved? Then stay out of the fire. Because I do not fight for victory. I do not chase crowns or kiss gold. I was exiled from heaven for daring to choose myself. And now? Now I walk back through the gates with hell behind me.”

Luna removes her crown, placing it on the altar. It drips with red wax like blood. Her hands rise.

“You want to win this battle royal? Then say your names loud. Shout your dreams. Post your photos. Wear your warpaint and pink lipstick and call your friends. But when you feel my breath on the back of your neck— when the lights go out, and you realize there is no “moment” coming for you— only judgment… You’ll remember this sermon. And you’ll understand why the walls whisper…”

“I’m not the villain… I’m the mother of demons who got tired of watching humans pretend they matter.”

Her voice quiets now. Reverent. Almost maternal.

“Sleep tight, lambs. Mama's here now. And the shadows don't hurt anymore… They obey.”

Luna stepped back into the dark, candlelight extinguishing one by one. Static. Then silence.

Setting: Sanctum Vitae (ritual performance chamber inside The Ninth Gate Studio)

Mood: Ritual. Drenched in ethereal dread and unholy beauty.

Track Title: “Mother of Thorns”

Genre: Gothic ethereal ballad, cinematic, elements of darkwave and ritual chant

Tempo: Slow, heartbeat pace. Atmospheric strings, distorted choral layering, low industrial hum beneath.

Fade in. The screen is black. The first sound is breath—slow, deliberate, like lungs filling for the first time in centuries. Then: the distant, echoing toll of a bell. Red light flickers like candle flame. The Sanctum Vitae reveals itself. Velvet-draped walls. Floor inlaid with a red-glass sigil. At its center: a black grand piano and Luna Dreykov.

She stands barefoot in her ceremonial silk—midnight black with red thread veining down the sleeves like blood beneath porcelain skin. The Veiled Crown rests against her forehead, its thorns biting slightly as always. Her eyes are closed.

The candlelight moves when she breathes.

And then, she sings.

LUNA (a whisper at first):

Hush now, little hunger…

The light is not your friend.

You drank from broken halos…

Now bleed for me again.

Strings join—aching, cinematic, like sirens calling through fog. Luna’s voice lifts—hauntingly clear, deeper than before, shadowed by layered whispers beneath.

They said I was too holy…

To know what ruin tastes like.

But I kissed the flame…

And called it mine.

I built my name from shattered vows…

And wore them like a crown.

Call me demon—call me divine—

Either way, I pull you down.

Distorted backing vocals begin—female voices chanting “Mother… of thorns…” in a looped descent, growing deeper with each repetition. The strings rise. Luna kneels beside the piano now, singing directly into the mic.

LUNA (aetherial):

Thorns in my hair, blood on my lips,

I sang to the dark and the dark kissed back.

I don’t want your heaven—I made my own gate.

You prayed for mercy. I answered: too late.

This is where angels forget their names.

This is where lambs learn to bite.

Come closer, sinner…

Mama’s voice feels just like night.

A heartbeat drum thunders beneath her final notes. One last tolling bell. The air changes.

When the final note fades, silence falls like snow. The candles go out one by one, leaving only Luna in silhouette. The red sigil beneath her begins to glow faintly, pulsing like breath. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t bow.

A door creaks open slowly. Damaris Black stands at the edge of the Sanctum, eyes wide. She speaks only once.

DAMARIS: “You didn’t write a song tonight. You summoned something.”

LUNA (without turning): “Good. Let it listen.”

The screen is black. A whisper, layered in reverb and distortion, slithers in before anything is seen.

LUNA (V.O.): “You think you know music.But you’ve only heard what they let you hear.”

Cut to the heavy iron gates of The Ninth Gate Studio opening slowly with a grating groan. The camera moves in.

🩸 1. THE THRESHOLD

Inside, candles flicker in crystal skull sconces. The entrance hallway is lined with framed crimson vinyl, glowing faintly. Luna stands in silhouette, backlit by red light.

LUNA: “This place isn’t about trends or charts. It’s about voices that cut like blades and leave stains behind. Welcome… to The Ninth Gate.”

🧿 2. THE INNER HALLS

The camera moves slowly down a long hallway. In the background, faint vocals drift from a recording booth—female voices in perfect harmony, echoing like ghosts.

LUNA: “I built this place with no masters. No contracts. No men telling me who to be. Only sound. Only power. Only the truth.”

✨ 3. MEET THE STAFF

Luna leads the camera into the control room. Sitting in silence at the Blood Reverb Board is Nyra Vale, all black leather and dead-eyed focus. She nods once without speaking.

LUNA: “Nyra. My lead producer. She doesn't speak unless the silence is unworthy. She once erased an entire album because it flinched.”

Cut to Damaris Black floating through the string chamber, running gloved hands across a cello’s edge.

LUNA (V.O.): “Damaris writes grief in treble clef. If you’ve cried to a string section, you’ve met her soul.”

Camera pans to Rosa “Hex” DuMont pacing a dark room lit only by a red projector, looping Luna’s past performances on ancient film reels.

LUNA: “Hex sees visions. I give them shape.”

Final cut: Yelena Vor, arms crossed outside the Echo Chamber. The camera man tries to step too close. She raises one eyebrow. He steps back.

LUNA: “Yelena’s the last voice you’ll hear if you forget who owns this place. Hint: it’s not you.”

🔮 4. THE ECHO CHAMBER

Luna steps into the confessional booth-turned-vocal room. The door closes behind her. A faint heartbeat can be heard beneath the audio.

LUNA (into the mic): “This booth has heard women scream, sob, seduce, and survive. Every sound we carve in here? It’s a curse. A love letter. A threat. A funeral hymn.”

🩶 5. THE SANCTUM VITAE

The camera follows her into the Sanctum—a candlelit chamber with a piano, violin, red hourglass, and lyric scrolls in glass.

LUNA: “Here… we write without apology. If the sand runs out before the verse is finished? It was never meant to live.”

She flips the hourglass. Red sand starts to flow.

🍷 6. THE VEIL ROOM (Deals & Blood)

A round, obsidian-lit chamber where the table glimmers under red light. A gold-dusted bottle of Lilith’s Kiss is open. A contract smolders slowly in a ceremonial bowl.

LUNA: “I don’t sign deals. I seal them. If you want to collaborate here, bring three things: Talent. Sacrifice. And a voice that doesn’t need saving.”

🎙️ 7. FINAL THOUGHTS – TO THE WORLD

Luna stands alone beneath a warped mirror, backlit by crimson light, holding a crystal coupe of Witchglass Wine. Her crown is on. Her voice is velvet over blades.

LUNA: “This studio isn’t for the mainstream. It’s for those who know that pain makes art and that art makes gods. Some come here to record. Some come to be reborn. Some never leave.”

She turns toward the mirror. Her reflection is blank.

LUNA (softly): “Sing for the right reasons… Or scream for me instead.”

She smirks. The lights dim. The Ninth Gate closes behind you. Fade out.

🩸 END TITLE CARD:

THE NINTH GATE STUDIO

Where angels go to fall… and rise again.

🔥 1. PRESS RELEASE: Luna Dreykov’s Debut Album

“MOTHER OF THORNS”

Issued by: Obsidian Rites / Ninth Gate Studio

Distribution: Limited physical release, cryptic digital rollout, invitation-only listening parties.

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

THE CURSED SOUL SINGS.

New York, NY – The Ninth Gate Studio, the mythic, all-female sanctuary founded by gothic icon and wrestling phenomenon Luna Dreykov, has confirmed the release of her long-whispered debut album:

🌹 “MOTHER OF THORNS”

A sonic baptism.

A curse in lullaby form.

A reclamation of sound as power.

Blending darkwave, cinematic balladry, and ritual vocals, Mother of Thorns features ten tracks written and performed by Dreykov herself, with composition by Damaris Black, visual direction by Rosa “Hex” DuMont, and sound sculpting by Nyra Vale.

💿 TRACKLIST (Partial)

The Pale Flame

Eulogy for Obedience

Mother of Thorns

Blood Reverb

She Who Ends

Lambs Don’t Sing

Exclusive physical editions are pressed on blood-red vinyl, sealed in wax-stamped obsidian cases. Each vinyl is hand-numbered. No two covers are the same.

Streaming release is invitation-only. Fans must pass an entry ritual online to gain access.

🔥 QUOTE FROM LUNA:

“This isn’t an album. It’s a mirror held to every woman who was ever asked to bleed quietly. Play it loud. Or don’t play it at all.”

🌒 LISTENING EXPERIENCE:

Global satellite event: “The Ninth Night,” a single midnight listening event in select underground venues worldwide.

Sound-altered candlelit rooms. Zero phones. One playback.

Luna Dreykov will not tour.

She does not attend awards.

She sings, then disappears.

“Mother of Thorns” drops the night of the lunar eclipse.

Preorder only via TheNinthGate.Studio.

Setting: Sanctum Vitae, late night. Rain echoes against the stained glass. A hopeful young artist—mid-20s, eyes too bright—sits on the red velvet bench, staring across the room at Luna Dreykov, who watches in silence from her throne.

The girl finishes her song—a trembling, romantic torch melody that doesn’t quite fit the room’s shadows. Her voice cracks slightly on the last note. She lowers the mic.

Young Artist (nervous):“I… I know it’s not your style. But I wanted to bring something raw. I wrote it the night my sister left. It… meant something.”

Luna is silent. Then she rises. Slow. Controlled. She crosses the floor, obsidian silk brushing against the red tile. She stands before the girl. Lifts her chin with two fingers.

LUNA: “It did mean something. To you. But do you bleed for it?”

The girl swallows hard. Nods. Luna steps back, gestures to the hourglass.

LUNA: “Then we write it again. No rhymes. No mercy. Strip the melody bare. Sing it like you lost her tonight.”

Luna’s voice softens. Almost cruelly tender.

“You came here to be chosen. Now burn for it.”

The girl exhales. Turning back to the mic. The hourglass begins again. Luna watches—head tilted, lips parted. She never blinks.

🌘 4. FINAL SCENE: “The Soft Hour”

Setting: Luna’s bedroom. Velvet curtains drawn. The red-glow sigils are dim. Candles flicker.

Music: Faint—one of Luna’s unreleased piano instrumentals playing from the gramophone.

Luna opens the door. She’s discarded her crown. Her silk shirt hangs open. Her voice is gone—spent in rehearsal. She steps into the warm dark. Isla is waiting, sitting on the bed in a long robe, barefoot, holding a mug of tea she doesn’t offer.

ISLA (softly): “Take it off. All of it.”

Luna says nothing. Just moves to her—shoulders bare, silk pooling around her waist. Isla pulls her gently onto the bed, and Luna falls into her lap like she’s been holding her breath for hours. Isla's fingers begin tracing patterns between Luna’s shoulder blades.

ISLA (whispers): “You command the damned.But here… You rest.”

Luna exhales. Her hand slips beneath Isla’s robe. There’s no more dialogue. Only breath. Only slow unraveling. A candle burns low. Fade to black on fingers clutching sheets and skin against skin.

A burn survivors’ outreach group, held weekly in a quiet community center on the edge of Cinderskull, Arizona. The air is warm but calm. There’s a circle of folding chairs. A few people linger near a coffee table of lukewarm tea and cookies. Firefly is sitting quietly beside a teenager—maybe 14—with bandages on their arms and a hoodie pulled halfway over their face.

The fire left them quiet. Withdrawn. Like the smoke never cleared.

Firefly leans forward slightly, elbows on her knees. She speaks low, like the flicker of a flame barely caught in the wind.

Firefly: “You ever light a match just to watch it burn?”

The teen doesn’t answer, but their gaze shifts toward her.

Firefly: “I used to be terrified of fire. After the house… after my family…”

She pauses. Not because she’s unsure of what to say, but because she feels it all again. Like soot in her throat.

Firefly: “There’s this moment, right? When the heat hits you. Not the burn. Not the pain. Just the knowing. That something’s changing. That it won’t stop.”

The teen’s fingers curl tighter under their sleeves.

Firefly: “I lost everything in that fire. My mom. My dad. My baby sister, Jules. The fire took 'em fast. But it left me. With a piece of my shoulder melted, the smell of smoke in my lungs, and nothing else.”

A long beat.

Then Firefly slowly peels off one of her fingerless gloves. Her hand is tattooed, but the faint raised scars beneath the ink catch the light.

Firefly: “I hated it. I hated being the one who got out. I used to think fire was a monster that followed me. Maybe I brought it.”

The teen looks up for the first time—just a flicker of eye contact.

Firefly (voice softens): “But here’s the thing nobody tells you: Fire doesn’t just destroy. Sometimes… it clears the way. Burns the rot. Makes room for something new.”

She pulls a small bead from her coat pocket — ash grey, with faint gold veins. Handmade.

Firefly: “I give these to people who’ve stood in the flames and didn’t run. Not because you’re fearless — but because you felt it and kept breathing anyway.”

She hands it over gently. The teen stares at it, clutching it like it might disappear.

Firefly: “You’re not ruined. You’re just in the smoke, waiting for the wind to shift.”

The room stays quiet. Someone in the back sniffles. Firefly doesn’t push for more. She just sits back, letting the fire fade to embers between them.

But later, as she’s leaving, the teen slips the ash bead onto a string and wears it like armor.

And Firefly—Ember—doesn’t smile.

But something in her eyes warms.

[Flashback Begins]

A small, dusty rural home in Cinderskull, Arizona — late afternoon, summer. The sun is hot, but a sudden, fierce wildfire has crept toward the town.

Young Ember, about 9 years old, is playing quietly in the front yard with her little sister Jules, age 4. Their parents are inside, packing hurriedly. The sky is thick with smoke, the smell sharp and choking.

YOUNG EMBER (calling out)

“Jules, come inside! The fire’s getting closer!”

Jules giggles, holding a faded teddy bear.

JULES

“I’m not scared! Fire’s pretty.”

Ember’s eyes widen, fear flickering like a candle. She grabs Jules’s hand.

Suddenly, the wind shifts. Flames leap over the dry brush. Ember hears her mother’s frantic voice.

MOTHER (off-screen)

“Ember! Jules! Get in the car, NOW!”

Inside the house, Ember’s father scoops Jules into his arms. Ember tries to follow but stumbles — her foot catches on a scorched rug. The smoke thickens; her lungs burn.

YOUNG EMBER (coughing, panicked)

“Dad! Wait! I can’t—”

A sudden flash — heat, chaos, pain. Ember’s skin screams as she pulls her arm away from a falling ember. She feels the sharp sting of burning flesh.

Cut to: Ember curled in a hospital bed days later. Her right arm and shoulder wrapped in thick gauze. She touches her bandaged skin hesitantly, tears tracing dirty tracks down her face.

NURSE (softly)

“You’re very brave, Ember. The road ahead will be long, but you’ll get through it.”

Her mother’s voice echoes faintly in memory.

MOTHER (memory whisper)

“Fire cleanses and heals, Ember. You’ll see.”

Ember clenches her fists, determination flaring in her eyes despite the pain.

YOUNG EMBER (whispers)

“I won’t let it take me.”

Fade out as the camera lingers on Ember’s scars — raw but beginning to heal — the first spark of the phoenix beginning to rise.

Later, a therapy session with a counselor. Ember struggles to speak but shows signs of neurodivergence — maybe sensory overload, difficulty with emotions, or social withdrawal.

EMBER (quietly)

“I can’t stand the sound of sirens… or the smell of smoke anymore. It’s like I’m back there… and I’m alone.”

COUNSELOR

“That’s your brain trying to protect you — even if it feels overwhelming now. You’re stronger than you know.”

A montage shows young Ember struggling but starting small steps of healing — drawing flames, learning breathing exercises, slowly reclaiming her identity.

Final shot: Ember looking in the mirror, tracing the scars on her arm.

YOUNG FAN (quiet, hopeful)

“Hey... Firefly? Can I… ask you something?”

Firefly looks up slowly, blinks—eyes flickering with surprise but no immediate words.

YOUNG FAN

“I heard you help people who’ve been hurt by fire... I... I got burned last year. Sometimes I feel really... weird inside. Like I’m mad or sad but I don’t know which. And I don’t wanna talk about it ‘cause it’s easier to just be quiet.”

Firefly’s gaze softens. She gestures for the kid to sit beside her but doesn’t say anything at first.

FIREFLY: (voice low, thoughtful) “I get that. It’s like… emotions get stuck in a maze, right? You feel them, but the map’s all scrambled.”

The kid nods, eyes wide.

FIREFLY: “I call it my ‘fog.’ Sometimes my brain can’t name what’s burning inside. I know it’s there... but words don’t come out right. It’s lonely.”

She pauses, fingers tracing the scar on her arm.

FIREFLY: “And the quiet… it’s a shield. When I was younger, after the fire, I stopped talking a lot. Not ‘cause I didn’t feel… just because… it was easier than feeling lost.”

YOUNG FAN: “But doesn’t it get scary? Feeling all jumbled and alone?”

Firefly looks away briefly, the weight of that question heavy.

FiREFLY: “Yeah. It is. But then I learned—sometimes you don’t have to say everything out loud. You show your fire by surviving. By not giving up.”

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small ash bead, worn smooth.

FIREFLY: “This helped me. When words failed, this reminded me: I’m still here. Still burning.”

She hands the bead to the kid with a rare, soft smile.

YOUNG FAN (smiling back): “Thanks, Firefly.”

Firefly stands, stretches out a hand to help the kid up.

FIREFLY: “Let’s keep walking through the fog — one step at a time.”

They walk down the hallway together, shadows flickering like firelight.

Late at night, alone in her small apartment. Ember’s scrolling through an old news archive on her laptop, looking for inspiration for a promo. She stumbles on a forgotten investigative article hinting the wildfire was arson linked to corporate greed.

Screen glows softly in the dark. Ember’s brow furrows as she reads.

NEWS ANCHOR (audio clip, grainy):

“...fire investigators suspect possible foul play in the Cinderskull wildfire last summer, citing unusual ignition patterns and suppressed evidence…”

EMBER (muttering)

“What the hell…”

Her hands shake. She clicks through more files — emails, memos, whistleblower reports — all pointing to a company cutting corners, starting the fire to clear land for development.

EMBER (voice breaking, furious)

“They lied. They lied and let my family burn.”

She slams the laptop shut, heart pounding, breath ragged. Her fingers claw at the scars on her arm.

EMBER (voice low, raw)

“All those years… I thought it was just a random disaster. But this? This was a weapon.”

Flashbacks crash through her mind — flames, screams, the feeling of helplessness — but now overlaid with burning rage and betrayal.

EMBER (standing, pacing)

“They planned to take everything. My home, my family, my life.And for what? Money? Power?”

Her voice rises, cracks.

EMBER

“They used fire to erase people. But I’m still here. I am the fire.”

She grabs a matchbook off the table, flicks the last match. It ignites with a soft flame.

EMBER (whispering fiercely)

“Time to burn them down.”

Cut to black as the flame flickers, echoing Firefly’s new, steelier resolve.

AWS training facility — a dimly lit gym with punching bags, ropes, weights, and a small fireproof sparring ring. Firefly is drilling hard, sweat dripping, breathing heavy, moving with purpose and controlled fury.

Her eyes burn with focus, but there’s a spark of defiance and hope beneath the intensity.

Firefly lands a spinning kick on a heavy bag — it swings hard and she catches it mid-motion.

FIREFLY (muttering to herself)

“They think they can burn down lives and walk away? Not this time.”

Her trainer, an older ex-firefighter-turned-coach named Sam, watches silently. He steps in, handing her a water bottle.

SAM “You’re pushing harder than ever. What’s eating at you?”

FIREFLT (taking a breath) “Got a new fight. Not just in the ring. Big corps set that fire in Cinderskull — destroyed my family. I’m hunting them now.”

SAM (nodding, serious)

“Vigilante work? That’s dangerous ground.”

FIREFLY (smirking fiercely)

“Danger’s my fuel. I’ll burn through their lies and corruption like a wildfire.”

She moves to the sparring dummy, unleashing a rapid combo of strikes and grapples — precise, brutal, but with an artistry honed by pain and purpose.

SAM

“Remember — you’re not just fighting fire. You’re fighting strategy. Stay sharp, keep your head clear.”

FIREFLY (pausing, eyes fierce)

“Chaos with a cause.”

Sam tosses her a pair of reinforced gloves.

SAM

“Then fight smart, Ember. They don’t see the flames coming… but they will.”

Firefly slips the gloves on, cracks her knuckles, and charges back into the ring with a roar — her fiery spirit ignited, ready to take the fight beyond the ring.

Cinderskull, Arizona. A town still bearing burn scars. Cracked roads. Boarded windows. Ghosts of fire still linger in the paint on old fences.

Late night. Ember’s apartment. She’s not Firefly here — no paint, no flames, just a tank top, laptop, and tired eyes.

She pulls up a folder labeled: “CINDERSKULL—REAL CAUSE?”

Corporate documents she downloaded from public archives
Redacted PDFs from state fire investigations
A whistleblower blog post half-buried in a legal takedown request

She types fast, focused. She’s no tech wizard — but she’s stubborn. And she knows people.

FIREFLY (thinking aloud)

“Junk shell company… dissolved one week after the fire. No way that’s coincidence.”

She hacks into a former HR contractor’s online resume, cross-references it with legal land deeds.

FIREFLY

“’Phoenix Strategic Holdings’ my ass.”

She hits print. Maps. Email chains. Fire start point vs. land cleared for oil pipeline test. Dots begin to connect.

Daytime. Ember walks into a dusty hardware store where the sign still says “Closed Sundays for Fire Watch.” A small woman behind the counter blinks, surprised.

SHOP OWNER (softly):

“...Hart? You’re Ember Hart?”

EMBER (quietly):

“I used to be.”

The woman steps around the counter and just hugs her. Ember doesn’t know what to do — her arms hover, confused. Alexithymia claws at her chest. But she lets it happen.

SHOP OWNER:

“We all thought you were dead. Or lost. But you came back.”

EMBER:

“I’m looking for the truth. About the fire. I think it wasn’t nature. I think someone lit the match.”

The woman gestures to a back room. Newspaper clippings. Photos. A melted piece of metal marked “construction permit – Lot 87.”

SHOP OWNER:

“We’ve all known. But no one listened. They called us paranoid.”

Next stop: A diner once almost leveled by the fire. Ember interviews the cook — a man with smoke-scarred hands who remembers a black SUV leaving the forest road just before the blaze.

Ember lays the evidence out on the motel bed. Photos. Maps. Eyewitness quotes. Copies of land grabs. Timelines. Every piece smolders with weight.

“They bought the silence. Bribed the investigators.

They thought we’d forget.

But I remember every scream. Every flare.”

She picks up a photo of Jules. Her sister’s face — smiling, soft, unaware of the ending.

“I’m going to burn their whole kingdom down for you.”

Final shot: Ember back in AWS gear, pulling her hair into a tight braid. No flames yet. Just kindling.

She has names. She has faces. And soon, they’ll learn:

Not all survivors stay quiet. Some come back fire-born.

The Cinderskull Memorial Grounds, just after dusk. Quiet. Empty. A scorched oak tree still stands nearby, blackened but unbroken. Ember walks alone between crooked headstones, carrying a stack of documents in one hand — evidence, maps, names. The wind is dry and still.

She kneels in front of three modest gravestones — her parents’ and Jules’. The edges are cracked. Smoke stains from years ago still linger in the marble.

EMBER (quietly):

“You didn’t die because of a storm. Not a freak heatwave. Not fate.”

She lays the documents across the grave — like offerings. She smooths the papers gently. Her fingers tremble.

EMBER:

“They chose this. They made a plan, signed the forms, cleared the land, and watched the world burn for profit.And everyone let them.”

Her voice doesn’t rise. It hardens. Sharp as bone.

EMBER: “I tried to let it go. I tried to move forward. Help people. But grief doesn’t fade — it curdles. Turns to gasoline. And I’m done waiting for justice.”

She pulls a match from the old matchbook she always carries. Lights it.

EMBER (to Jules’ grave): “I’m going to find every suit, every investor, every coward who looked away. And I’m going to burn the world they built.”

She touches the flame to the corner of a memo — "Phoenix Strategic Holdings: Clearance Request – Lot 87" — and lets it burn to ash at the foot of the graves.

EMBER: “Not from the ring. Not from press conferences. From beneath — from your ashes.”

She stands. The wind picks up.

Location: An abandoned metalworking shop once owned by Ember’s uncle. Dusty. Echoes of sparks long gone. She kicks the breaker. Lights flicker. An old forge rumbles back to life.

Laid out on the workbench: scraps of iron pipe, barbed wire, scorched aluminum signage, a melted fire hook. Ember runs her fingers across them.

EMBER (softly):

“No crown. No belt. No mercy.”

Montage begins — Ember forging her signature weapon.

She welds scorched metal into a brutal, elegant shape.She wraps the handle in flame-treated leather, fingers bleeding.
She carves Jules into the side in jagged, personal strokes.
Smoke coils upward. Sparks fly.
Her hands blister. She doesn’t flinch. She laughs. It’s not joyful. It’s freeing.

🛠️ Final Result:

A custom-forged chain-whip–meets–hook weapon, called "The Reclaimer." Brutal, beautiful, and utterly hers.

A collapsible fire hook at the end.
Barbed wire wrapped near the base.
Engraved with “Everything They Built Will Burn” in her sister’s handwriting (from a childhood drawing she saved).
Carried only when she's not wrestling — this is for her other war.

Final shot: Ember silhouetted by forge light, standing with “The Reclaimer” slung over her shoulder, ash clinging to her boots.

Setting: A burnt-out desert chapel just outside Cinderskull. One wall collapsed. Sun bleeds through a cracked stained glass window. Ember stands in front of a rusted baptismal font filled with ash, her arms folded across her chest. “The Reclaimer” leans beside her, unused. For now.

EMBER (to the dark): “No more symbols. Only fire.”

FIREFLY: “A 20-woman battle rumble. One golden path to the Goddess Title.”

She exhales slowly, then smirks.

FIREFLY: “Cute.But I didn’t walk through fire for royalty.”

She paces slowly through the chapel. Her boots crunch over glass and soot.

FIREFLY: “I’m not here for tiaras, robes, or some belt kissed by ten other women with god complexes and short memories.”

FIREFLY: “You know what gold does in fire? It melts.”

She stops beside the altar. Lays out an old, faded photo of her family. Her eyes soften for a moment.

FIREFLY: “I entered this match because the world forgot what the flame is for. Not to warm thrones. To level them.”

She picks up a scorched doll — one that once belonged to her sister Jules. And held it for a beat.

FIREFLY: “There are nineteen other women stepping into that ring. Some of them dream of glory. Some of them fight for pride. Some just want their name screamed from the rafters like it means something.”

She flicks a match. The flame crackles.

FIREFLY: “But me? I want to watch what happens when you lock desperation, ego, legacy... and fire in the same cage.”

Her gaze cuts straight into the lens now.

FIREFLY: “You think I can’t win this because I don’t crave the crown? Because I’m not playing the game? You should be afraid of the ones who don’t want the spotlight. We fight in the shadows. We strike from graves. We burn from below.”

She strikes the match again. Holds it to the air, and it lights fast. The flame is small — but steady.

FIREFLY: “I don’t want the throne. I want the ashes.”

She lets the match fall into the baptismal font. A flash of fire, then darkness.

Setting: A private backlot behind an AWS arena — cold, quiet, dim. A low chain-link fence surrounds generators and supply crates. Ember steps into the shadows where someone is already waiting: Callie Voss, an AWS staffer who worked PR for one of the corporations connected to the Cinderskull fire.

Callie flinches when she sees Ember approaching — eyes flicking to “The Reclaimer” strapped across Ember’s back.

CALLIE “Ember… I didn’t think you’d actually show.”

FIREFLY: “You helped cover up the land grab. Put out press releases saying it was a ‘natural tragedy.’ You helped bury my family under headlines.”

Callie swallows hard.

CALLIE: “I was a junior rep. I didn’t even know what I was writing half the time. I was— I was just following the talking points—”

FIREFLY (cutting her off, softly): “You were following. That’s the problem.”

Ember steps closer. Not threatening — not yet. Just fire in her voice.

FIREFLY: “People like you don’t light the blaze. But you pass the match. You file the emails. Nod in the meetings. Say, ‘That’s above my paygrade.’ You don’t burn homes. You just make sure the story sounds clean after.”

Callie’s voice cracks.

CALLIE: “I didn’t know how to stop it. I didn’t even realize until after—after the reports came out, after the bodies were counted— And by then, it was too late. But I’ve spent the last two years trying to undo it. I leaked names to the feds. I sent you the audit trail. That was me.”

Ember stares at her for a long, long moment. Silent. Still.

Then she reaches back slowly — not for the weapon — but for a small piece of paper from her jacket. A burned corner of an old HR report. She hands it to Callie.

FIREFLY: “You want to do something real? Take this. It’s not public. Yet. Leak it to someone louder than me. Someone who can’t be bought.”

CALLIE (quiet, stunned): “You’re not… going to hurt me?”

FIREFLY (dark smile): “If you’d come here still lying, I would’ve scorched your career down to the roots.”

She steps back.

FIREFLY: “But you already burned, didn’t you? You just haven’t forgiven yourself yet.”

Callie grips the paper. Ember turns away, her boots crunching gravel.

CALLIE (softly, behind her): “Why… why show me mercy?”

Ember stops walking. Doesn’t turn.

FIREFLY: “Because not everyone with a match wants to watch the world burn. Some just don’t know how to hold it.”

She disappears into the shadows. Fade out.

I am back and better than ever.

I am back and better than ever(click here)