X Club Wrestling Divapocalypse -

She dropped it, raised the championship belt overhead, and for the first time in X Club history, the crowd chanted not for violence, but for the woman who had just killed a ghost.

When they flickered back on, the ring was gone. The mat had turned to obsidian, slick and cold. The ropes were thorned vines. And the fans? They were silent. Petrified. Their faces were frozen masks of horror, because they weren’t watching anymore. They were feeding something.

Jade Phoenix, the high-flyer, tried to leap to the rafters. The Divapocalypse snapped her fingers, and gravity reversed. Jade floated upward, screaming, until she was pinned against the ceiling like a butterfly in a display case.

Lana had one move. She was The Viper for a reason. She didn’t strike fast. She struck smart. X Club Wrestling Divapocalypse

“Labels,” the Divapocalypse sighed. “You’ll learn they taste the same when you’re devoured.”

The Divapocalypse froze. For the first time, her burning eyes flickered.

“You’re not real,” Lana shouted. “You’re the shame. The part of every woman here who was told to smile, to shake her hips, to lose weight, to be sexy, to be quiet. You’re the monster we made by pretending that past didn’t hurt.” She dropped it, raised the championship belt overhead,

“Divas don’t fight,” the Divapocalypse cooed. “They pose.”

Lana reached down and plunged her hand into the cracked mirror. The shards cut her, but she didn’t stop. She found something warm and soft—a heart made of tangled cassette tapes, faded lipstick, and broken stilettos. She squeezed.

She was beautiful in the way a black hole is beautiful. Her hair was a cascade of ink that moved against gravity. Her skin was porcelain etched with runes that burned and healed in a constant loop. And her eyes—two white-hot suns—scanned the locker room. The ropes were thorned vines

Panic erupted. The rest of the roster—twenty-three of the toughest, most athletic women on the planet—scattered. But the arena had become a labyrinth. The exits led to dressing rooms that folded into infinity mirrors. The concession stands vomited forth an ocean of stale popcorn that solidified into a glassy desert.

“The belt,” Candi hissed, pulling Lana behind a toppled lighting rig. “You touched it first. What is it?”

“What the hell did you do?” Candi screamed, scrambling backward on her sequined boots.

The Divapocalypse screamed. The runes on her skin exploded outward like startled birds. Her form unraveled—first the hair, then the face, then the horrible beauty—until all that was left was a single, old-fashioned microphone on a stand.

And lying in the center of the ring was the microphone, a diamond division belt, and a pile of glitter that smelled faintly of Candi’s perfume.