A sharp knock hits the door.

Inside, Jenny Myst—still carrying the weight of the night, still wearing both championships—eyes the door like she already knows better.

Another knock.

A plain cardboard box is waiting when she opens it. No return address. Just a handwritten note taped to the top.

She doesn’t read it.

She opens the box.

Inside: a perfect red velvet cake, pristine, frosted, professional. Straight from catering. Too nice. Too deliberate.

Jenny squints at it.

She shrugs, grabs a knife.

The blade barely touches the frosting—

BOOM.

The cake explodes, blasting thick white goo straight into her face, hair, and chest. Frosting, batter, filling—everywhere. The trailer fills with the smell of sugar and humiliation.

Jenny staggers back, coughing, blinded, wiping at her eyes.

Jenny:
“…you’ve got to be kidding me.”

She storms out of the trailer, cake mix dripping off her face and down her neck, wiping blindly as she turns the corner—

—and collides hard with Elon Musk.

Papers fly everywhere.

Contracts. Booking sheets. Title layouts.

Jenny recoils, hands up, still half-blinded, frosting smeared across her cheekbones and eyelashes.

Jenny:
“—my fault.”

Elon doesn’t answer.

He gathers himself, straightens, then looks up.

His eyes lock on the two belts slung over her shoulders.

The irritation on his face curdles into something else.

Vindictiveness.

In one sudden motion—

WHAM.

John Black come out of nowhere and clocks Jenny in the gut, doubling her over instantly. She gasps, frosting splattering onto the concrete.

Before she can recover—

He hooks her arms, drops to his knees—

KNEELING PILEDRIVER.

Jenny’s head spikes the concrete outside her own trailer with a sickening thud.

Belts clatter beside her.

Black rolls her over, hooks the leg, and signals frantically for a referee.

The ref dives in.

ONE!

Jenny’s body twitches, frosting smearing across the concrete.

TWO!!

Jenny’s eyes snap open in pure fury and revulsion—

—and she KICKS OUT, blasting a shoulder up and rolling away, coughing, gagging, wiping cake and concrete dust from her face.

Ref:
“KICKOUT!”

Jenny crawls toward her belts, dragging herself up by the trailer steps, eyes locked on Barrows with murderous disgust.

Jenny (hoarse, venomous):
“Real cute.”

She wipes frosting from her mouth, smearing it across her forearm like war paint.

Jenny:
“You couldn’t beat me clean, so you tried sugar and concrete.”

Officials rush in as Musk backs away, papers scattered, ref shouting.

Lower-third graphic slams onto the screen:

KICKOUT AT TWO.
24/7 X-TREME TITLE SURVIVES.
THIS IS NOT OVER.

The camera lingers on Jenny—cake-soaked, furious, still champion.

Fade out.