BACKSTAGE – THE FOUNDRY – IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWING THE IRON CROWN GAUNTLET

The curtain flaps shut behind her.

Graysie Parker takes two steps forward, then stops. The noise of the crowd is still thunder in the distance, muffled by steel and concrete. Behind her, the echoes of everything unraveling—producers barking orders, security scrambling to contain the mess at ringside, someone shouting for a medic—bounce off the walls of the old ironworks like ghosts who never left.

But she doesn’t move.

She stands there in the narrow hallway, the Iron Crown hanging heavy in her hand, blood running down her wrist. Not hers. Not all of it. Her chest rises and falls. Her gear is soaked through. Her braid is half-unraveled, sticking to her shoulder. Her jaw clenched like she’s still in a fight.

She breathes. Once. Twice.

Then she lifts her head.

A camera’s caught her. Maybe she knew it was there the whole time. Doesn’t matter. She turns to face it—full-on—and just looks at the lens.

No smile. No victory speech. No performative celebration.

Just truth.

“They told me I wasn’t supposed to be here.”

Her voice is low. Gravel-coated. Southern steel and storm clouds.

“They said I didn’t belong in the same ring with boys who’ve had silver spoons since birth. That I didn’t come from the right camp, didn’t train at the right places, didn’t shake the right hands.”

Behind her, a pair of EMTs rush past with a stretcher. One of the Trust Fund boys is down. She doesn’t even blink.

“They said I was too raw. Too mean. Too real.”

She tilts her head slightly. A smear of dried blood stretches across her cheekbone. There’s a cut on her lip. It matches the glint in her eye.

“Well… I guess I proved ‘em right.”

Her voice sharpens.

“I am raw. I am mean. I’m everything they said I was. But tonight—right here in Birmingham, in the heart of Iron City—I showed every last one of ‘em that I’m also…”

She lifts the Iron Crown, just enough for the camera to catch the weight of it.

“…undeniable.”

There’s a pause. The lights flicker slightly overhead. A hum of electricity. Somewhere off-camera, a scuffle breaks out between talent and security. Graysie doesn’t even glance that way.

“I fought through all of ‘em. I bled. I clawed. I earned this.”

She taps the crown once against her shoulder.

“And I didn’t do it by kissing hands and shaking babies. I did it the only way I know how.”

Another breath. Calmer now, but no less fierce.

“I don’t trust the system. I don’t play the game. I’m not your polished champion.”

She takes a step closer to the lens.

“But I’m yours.”

That hangs there, heavy and honest.

Then she turns, starts walking down the hallway. Limping a little. Shoulders square. The crown still resting against her.

As she disappears around the corner, the camera lingers on the trail of blood in her wake.

FADE OUT.