The scene opens in a quiet corner of The Foundry’s backstage, lit only by a string of colorful fairy lights taped haphazardly across a concrete wall. A folding chair sits in front of the glow, and on it is Sunny Holliday — sweaty, grinning ear to ear, hair still damp from her match. She’s got an ice pack strapped across one shoulder but waves like she’s at a family reunion barbecue.

Sunny Holliday:
“You feel that? That’s what it’s like when a whole city plugs into a joy socket. The Foundry didn’t just watch me wrestle Tigress Wilde — no, no, no… the Foundry danced with me tonight.”

She slaps the ice pack against her shoulder like it’s a tambourine, laughing.

Sunny Holliday:
“Tigress brought the storm, and I love her for it. She hit me, she clawed at me, she even rattled my teeth with that Pounce. And guess what? I’m still smilin’. Because that’s what happens when you fight the sun — it rises anyway.”

Sunny leans forward, voice dropping just slightly, a rare serious flash in her usually bright demeanor.

Sunny Holliday:
“This isn’t a one-night joyride. This is who I am. Strong, stubborn, and ready to light up every corner of Iron City Wrestling. So line ‘em up — big, small, mean, or mighty. I’ll hug your neck, then slam you flat with the Sunshine Bomb. And when the smoke clears? We’ll all be smiling together.”

She winks, raises her hand in a mock salute, then twirls her finger in the air like she’s spinning up the crowd.

Sunny Holliday:
“Because baby, the sun’s up in Birmingham. And it ain’t settin’ anytime soon.”

She bounces out of frame, humming to herself, leaving the fairy lights flickering against the concrete wall.