[INT. OFFICE – NIGHT]
The camera opens on Scott Stevens’ office. Papers scattered, a desk lamp throwing long shadows. His phone buzzes. Stevens picks it up, sees the caller ID, and furrows his brow in surprise. He answers.

Stevens: “…Hello?”

Cut to a split-screen: on the other end of the call, GRAYSIE PARKER. She’s standing outside The Foundry, streetlights buzzing overhead. Her hair’s wet with sweat, her leather jacket half-zipped, and the UTA WrestleZone Championship dangles defiantly from one hand. The other grips her phone, the screen shaking slightly with her breathing. Her eyes are bloodshot and burning hot with fury.

Graysie (snapping):
“You look confused, Scotty. You shouldn’t be. You know exactly why I’m calling. You went and put a damn bounty on me. On this.”

She lifts the WrestleZone Championship toward the camera, its gold plates flashing under the streetlight.

Graysie:
“You want this belt back so bad? Instead of putting your mercs and maniacs on the payroll, you could’ve just booked me. You could’ve had me wrestle, put me on your shows, let me defend it like a champion. But no—you’re too busy playing games, and now you got every vulture in the business circling, thinking they’re gonna take a shot at me.”

She shakes her head, her voice rising with anger.

Graysie:
“Well, let me make this crystal clear for you, boss man: I ain’t running to Little Rock, I ain’t flying to Atlanta, I sure as hell ain’t stepping into another UTA building until I’ve got a damn contract in my hand. You want me back on your shows? You want your precious WrestleZone title defended? Then you better have Rich Wingate pick up the phone and call my boss—Eric Dane Senior—because Birmingham is where this title lives now.”

Graysie pulls the belt tight against her chest, glaring through the screen.

Graysie (low, sharp):
“Until then, Stevens? You want it? Send whoever you like down here. Send them all. And watch ‘em fall.”

She cuts the call. The screen goes black, leaving Stevens sitting in his office with the dial tone humming. The last image: his face twisted in frustrated silence.