The Foundry.

Late night.

The gym is dimly lit, with just a few overhead bulbs humming against the silence. One ring sits in the background, canvas worn, ropes frayed but taut. The heavy bag convulses under punishing blows, each impact a gunshot in the hollow space. Each strike echoes through the empty air. The camera moves in slowly, handheld, unsteady. It pans across the ring apron—two titles sit side by side: the ICW Iron Crown and the UTA WrestleZone Championship. The camera lingers, then shifts upward. Graysie Parker, sweat-soaked and taped fists, leans into the bag, driving it back with one last shot before catching it with both hands. She turns, breathing heavy, eyes locked on the lens.

GRAYSIE PARKER:
This place. Right here. The Foundry.

This is where every doubt that I didn't belong got beaten out of me, one bloody rep at a time. Where every scar on my knuckles, every ache in my ribs got melted down, hammered out, and reforged into something stronger. This is where the Iron Crown was forged. And it's where I was forged.

She gestures back toward the apron. The Iron Crown glints in the dim light. She rests a hand on it, fingers brushing over the plate.

GRAYSIE PARKER:
The Iron Crown taught me something. That pain isn't punishment—it's power. It's motivation. To steal a concept from one of my ICW contemporaries, it's currency. And I've been saving up. Pressure isn't a curse—it's proof you're pushing against something that matters. This Crown made me.

Her hand moves to the other belt—the WrestleZone Championship. She picks it up, lifts it slowly, stares at it as if weighing its meaning. Her expression hardens.

GRAYSIE PARKER:
And Birmingham? Birmingham changed everything.

Because Aaron Shaffer didn't slip, he didn't choke. He fought me with everything he had. But when that final hold locked in, when his hand slapped that mat three times, the whole damn world learned what Iron City breeds: we don't break. We break through.

She slings the WrestleZone Championship over her shoulder. The Iron Crown follows, both belts now hanging from her. She steps closer to the camera, her voice steady, low, but with steel underneath.

GRAYSIE PARKER:
And that's where you come in, Scott Stevens.

You've got a problem. An outsider just walked into your house and took your prize. Your board is asking questions. Your roster is restless. And you're sitting behind that desk, wondering how to put the genie back in the bottle.

She points to the belts on her shoulders.

GRAYSIE PARKER:
You can strip me if you want. You can find some fine print, some technicality, some bureaucratic loophole to make this go away. But understand this—that won't make me disappear. That won't erase what happened in Birmingham. And it sure as hell won't fix your real problem.

Because I didn't just win a title, Stevens. I proved your system is broken. I showed that your best couldn't stop someone who doesn't play by your rules, doesn't kiss your ring, and doesn't need your permission to be great.

She turns back to the heavy bag. With a roar, she slams it with one final, vicious shot, sending it swinging wildly. She catches it, breath ragged, then turns back toward the lens. She pulls both belts tight against her chest, eyes fierce.

GRAYSIE PARKER:
So make your choice. Accept that change has already come to UTA, or spend your time trying to dam a river that's already flooding. Either way, I'll be right here—holding what's mine, proving what I've proven, and showing everyone who watches that your walls aren't as high as you thought.

These stopped being dreams the moment I made them real. Now they're your nightmare.

And I'm the monster under your bed.

She stares into the camera, sweat running down her face, gaze unflinching. The belts gleam in the dim light as the scene slowly fades to black.