X Club Wrestling Divapocalypse -

“Divas don’t fight,” the Divapocalypse cooed. “They pose.”

Not at the Divapocalypse—at the obsidian ring mat. The corner of the belt cracked the black stone. And beneath it, Lana saw the truth: the ring wasn’t a ring. It was a mirror. And the Divapocalypse had no reflection. X Club Wrestling Divapocalypse

When they flickered back on, the ring was gone. The mat had turned to obsidian, slick and cold. The ropes were thorned vines. And the fans? They were silent. Petrified. Their faces were frozen masks of horror, because they weren’t watching anymore. They were feeding something. “Divas don’t fight,” the Divapocalypse cooed

The Divapocalypse appeared before them, stepping through the rig like it was smoke. “Clever girl. That belt was forged in the first catfight, back when wrestling was burlesque and blood. They sealed me inside it when they decided Divas should be ‘athletes.’ But you—you wanted to be a star so badly, you woke me up.” And beneath it, Lana saw the truth: the ring wasn’t a ring

Jade Phoenix, the high-flyer, tried to leap to the rafters. The Divapocalypse snapped her fingers, and gravity reversed. Jade floated upward, screaming, until she was pinned against the ceiling like a butterfly in a display case.