BACKSTAGE – CONCOURSE EDGE

The floor is still slick from cleanup. Paper towels, footprints, the smell of disinfectant.

Jenny Myst stands upright despite the damage—blood drying at the hairline, ribs taped, both belts heavy on her shoulders. She inhales, steadies herself.

Across from her, Jennie Nickles clocks the look and starts to step in—

Jenny sneezes.

Not a normal one.

An atomic, champagne-bubbly blast, a violent pop of air and spit and fizz like a shaken bottle finally giving up. The sound ricochets off the concrete.

Jennie’s feet leave the floor.

She stumbles back, arms pinwheeling, hits hard on her spine and skids, coughing and blinking like she just walked through a car wash.

Jenny doesn’t miss a beat.

She lunges, drops across Jennie’s chest, hooks the leg. Foam flecks drip from her chin onto the concrete.

A ref scrambles in, sliding on his knees, already regretting his life choices.

ONE…………

Jenny presses down, teeth bared.

TWO……………

The concourse freezes—Corporation shouting, officials rushing, cameras zooming—

—and the count hangs, absurd and deadly, on a bubbly sneeze that knocked a wrestler off her feet.