The visitor’s locker room in Barton Coliseum looks like a converted broom closet—fluorescent buzz, a dented mirror, and a metal folding chair holding up the double champ. Graysie Parker sits hunched forward, sweat streaking down through smudges of blood, her Iron Crown draped over one knee and the WrestleZone title propped against the wall. She winces as she digs a thumb into her thigh, prying out a piece of broken glass. A hiss escapes her teeth, followed by a sharp laugh—the laugh you only get when you’re exhausted, hurting, and victorious.

Her phone buzzes on the bench beside her. She glances down. The name on the cracked screen: “Eric Dane.” She answers with a weary smirk.

Graysie Parker:
“Boss. You catch the show?”

Split-screen: Eric Dane Sr. in a quiet office, headset looped around his neck, leather jacket thrown over a chair. His face is drawn, but his eyes burn like always.

Eric Dane Sr.:
“I saw every damn second. Kid, you did it. You walked into their house, again, bled on their floor, and walked out still champ. Nobody can take that from you.”

Graysie leans back, exhaling like she’s been holding it all in until that moment.

Graysie:
“Feels like hell. But the good kind. You know? Like every cut just proves it’s mine.”

Eric Dane Sr.: [smirking]
“That’s the fight talking. And you earned that high. But listen close—because I ain’t asking. You’re taking next week off from the Foundry.”

Graysie bolts upright, eyes flashing.

Graysie:
“The hell I am. We’ve got the tag tournament rolling, TD3 running his mouth, and Sunny debuting. The people expect their champ, Eric. They expect me.”

Eric Dane Sr.: [shakes his head]
“What the people expect is a champion who lasts. I’ve buried too many kids who thought they could go full-tilt forever. You’re bleeding out on a folding chair in a broom closet right now. That’s not toughness—it’s a warning sign. You’re staying home.”

Graysie: “No. I’ll tape it up, I’ll—”

Eric Dane Sr.: [snaps, firm]
“You’ll do as I say. For one damn week, you’ll sit your ass down and heal. The Foundry will live without you for a night. ICW needs you for years.”

Graysie clenches her jaw, caught between defiance and respect. Her fingers drum against the WrestleZone title at her side, the stubborn fire still in her eyes.

Graysie:
“One week. That’s all you’re getting. After that, I’m back in Birmingham.”

Eric Dane Sr.: [nods once]
“One week. That’s the deal. Now go get stitched up before I drive to Arkansas myself.”

The line clicks dead before she can argue further. Graysie lowers the phone slowly, glaring at it like she just lost an argument she thought she could win. Finally, she laughs under her breath—half proud, half pissed—and leans back in her chair, both titles resting heavy across her lap as the camera fades.