It’d only been a couple of weeks since Cody and I were cleared—physically, at least. The bruises had faded, but the fire under my skin hadn’t. I still felt it pulsing there, just beneath the surface. Rage. Guilt. The sharp ache of what I’d nearly become. I was learning to breathe through it. Most days. But that night on Raw? That was not one of those days. I’d just stepped backstage to grab some water when I heard the sudden chaos erupt from the ring. The crowd’s reaction wasn’t your typical cheer or boo—it was a collective gasp. Then a sickening thud echoed from the speakers. My stomach dropped.
“Get a medic out here!” I heard Wade Barrett yelling from commentary, but the noise nearly drowned his voice. I ran back toward the curtain, heart pounding, and as I looked at the monitor—my blood turned ice cold. Gunther. That oversized, self-righteous juggernaut of a man was in the middle of the ring, standing over Michael Cole. And Pat—Pat was trying to get up, clutching his ribs like they were broken glass.
The second I saw Gunther’s boot lift again, aiming for Pat this time—I was already running. I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t stop to think about cameras or protocol or any of that WWE backstage politics crap. I just ran. I hit the ramp like a freight train, the audience exploding as they realized who it was. The moment my boots hit the mat, I launched myself at Gunther from behind. “HEY!”
He turned just in time for me to slam into him, shoulder-first, sending us both staggering. I didn’t even let him breathe—I swung my fist up hard and cracked him in the side of the head. “What the hell is your problem?!” I shouted, my voice shaking from fury. “You think you're tough beating on guys with headsets?!”
He snarled, taking a step toward me, eyes flashing with that usual arrogance. “Stay out of this, little girl. This doesn’t concern you.”
Oh, that was the wrong thing to say. I didn’t even respond with words. I shoulder-tackled him so hard I knocked the bastard to the mat, and then I was on him. “You touch my friends like that again—!” I punched him again. “You try to intimidate them—!” I slammed a knee into his ribs, then spun and kicked his thigh so hard he dropped to a knee.
“Angel, STOP!” I vaguely heard someone shout—probably an official—but I didn’t care. I had rage still festering in my bones, venom left behind by the man who called himself my father. And now Gunther? He wanted to play the bully? I tackled him down—the so-called Ring General, and started raining punches on him like I’d been holding back for years. One after another. No mercy.
“YOU DON’T GET TO HURT PEOPLE WHO HAVEN’T DONE A DAMN THING TO YOU!”
Two officials dove in, finally pulling me off. I shoved one of them back with a snarl. “Get off—I’m fine!”
Gunther rolled over, coughing and cursing in German as he staggered up, and I pointed a finger at him like a lightning bolt. “You come near Michael or Pat again, and I swear, Gunther—I won’t stop next time.” My voice dropped to a dangerous growl. “You want a fight? Come find me. Leave them the hell out of it.”
Gunther glared, eyes narrowed, but he didn’t move toward me again. Not with two officials between us. Not after I’d just leveled him in front of the world. I turned on my heel and went straight to Michael and Pat.
Michael was on the floor, dazed but conscious, clutching his shoulder. Pat was kneeling beside him, trying to keep him calm. “Michael?” I dropped down beside him. “Hey. Hey, you okay?”
“I—I think so,” he winced. “My shoulder took a hit… thank you, for jumping in.”
“You don’t have to thank me, Michael. Nobody lays a hand on either of you while I’m around. You’re gonna be fine,” I said fiercely, my hand already on his back. “We’ll get you checked out. Just breathe.”
Pat looked at me, eyes wide. “Angel, you—holy hell. You tackled Gunther.”
“Yeah, well, he messed with the wrong family,” I said through gritted teeth, then looked him over. “You good? He didn’t land anything on you, did he?”
“Nah, just bruised ego,” he said with a pained laugh. “And maybe a rib or two.” Pat muttered, wincing a little but nodding. “Damn glad you showed up when you did. You came in like a heat-seeking missile… remind me not to piss you off.”
“Always will,” I said, standing up again. I turned just enough to glare at Gunther one last time. “Let him come at me next. I dare him.”
He gave me a small, grateful nod. “You’ve been through hell, and you’re still protecting people.”
I clenched my jaw, letting the words sink in. “Yeah,” I said quietly. “Because I know what it’s like when no one does.”
Officials helped Michael up and Pat supported him from the other side. As we started moving toward the back, I stayed close—between them and anything that might be coming. Because that’s what I did.
It had been building for weeks. Every time I saw the replays of Gunther attacking Michael and Pat, something twisted in my chest. Rage. Guilt. And something colder—calculated. I’d already humiliated him once, but I knew it wasn’t over. Not for me. So when Pat McAfee—bless his loud, chaotic heart—got on the mic during a segment and announced he wanted a match against Gunther at Backlash, I didn’t even wait for the segment to end. I stormed into the backstage area where Michael and Pat were talking, and the second they saw my face, they knew.
“No,” Michael said immediately, hands up like I was a wildfire about to jump a fire line. “Angel, you are not about to do what I think you’re about to do.”
Pat scratched the back of his neck. “I mean… it’s kind of already official, I guess. I told production and—”
“I’m fighting him,” I cut in, my voice low, steady—sharp like broken glass. “Not you, Pat. Not anyone else.”
Pat blinked. “Wait—what?”
“I said, I’m fighting Gunther.” I stepped closer. “I know you’ve been in the ring before but I won’t let my friends get hurt. I’m gonna teach him a lesson.”
Michael stepped between us, worry all over his face. “Angel, I get it. Believe me, I do. But—he’s a big dude. He’s dangerous. You’ve already been through so much—”
I chuckled. A short, dark laugh from deep in my chest. “You think size scares me?” I tilted my head, letting that flicker of heat behind my eyes show. “Michael, I went to war with The Rock and Cena. I faced my own father—a man who wanted to break me from the inside out. And I’m still standing. Gunther’s just a bully who thinks intimidation equals power.”
Pat frowned. “And you wanna take him on in a regular match or…?”
I smirked. “Mexican Death Match.”
Michael nearly choked. “I’m sorry—what?!”
Pat looked like I’d just announced I was going skydiving without a parachute. “Angel, you sure you’re okay? Like, mentally? Because that’s not just a street fight, that’s—”
“Exactly what he deserves.” I stared them both down. “You saw what he did. He went after you, Pat. And Michael. Yeah, you’re both the GOATs when it comes to commentators, but you’re not threats. And he still went for you. That’s not tough. That’s cowardly.”
They didn’t say anything for a beat. Just stared at me. Pat was shifting uncomfortably, and Michael finally muttered, “There’s… something different about you since everything with your father.”
I looked away for a second. Just a flicker.
Yeah, no kidding.
The darkness had crept in like a shadow behind the ribs—quiet, but permanent. And I wasn’t sure if I wanted to push it away or feed it. But it was mine now. Part of me. “I’m handling it,” I said stiffly. “And this match? This is part of that.”
Pat sighed. “You really gonna do this?”
I nodded once. “I’m not asking for permission. I’m going to Pearce.”
I didn’t wait for more arguments. I turned on my heel and made my way to Adam Pearce’s office. My boots echoed in the hallway like drumbeats, every step reinforcing the fire boiling just under my skin. Adam looked up when I barged in. “Angel,” he said slowly, already reading my face. “What’s going on?”
“I want Gunther. At Backlash. In a Mexican Death Match.”
He blinked. “Okay, first of all—no hello? Second, that’s… an extreme request.”
“I’m not here for pleasantries,” I said, folding my arms. “He went after two people who couldn’t defend themselves. He needs to learn that has consequences.”
Adam leaned back in his chair, studying me with that neutral, authority figure face of his. “You’re not thinking clearly.”
“I’ve never thought clearer,” I shot back.
He frowned. “Angel, look—I know what happened with your father changed you. Everyone sees it. You’ve always had fire, but now it’s different. There’s something… darker.”
I stayed quiet.
“You’re letting your past steer the wheel.”
“I’m channeling it,” I growled. “There’s a difference.”
Adam exhaled heavily. “And you want to do that in a Mexican Death Match?”
“Yes.”
He hesitated again. “You’re asking me to let you go into one of the most brutal match types we’ve sanctioned in a long time. There’s a reason we haven’t had one of those for years. Plus, you want to go against a guy who outweighs you by, what, eighty to a hundred pounds? Who’s known for breaking people’s spirits? One wrong move…”
I stared at him. “I’m not afraid of him or of dying.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he muttered.
I stepped forward, placing my palms flat on his desk. “I’m not doing this for glory. I’m not doing it to prove I’m a badass. I already know I am. I’m doing it because Gunther needs to know there are people in this world who won’t let bullies go unchecked. And if I have to bleed to teach him that? So be it.”
He looked at me for a long time. Searching my eyes. Trying to decide if I was crazy, dangerous—or both. Finally, he sighed. “You really won’t let this go, will you?”
I shook my head once. “Not a chance.”
“Alright,” he said reluctantly. “You got your match.”
A sharp nod. “Good.”
As I turned to leave, he called after me, voice low. “Angel… whatever’s driving you right now—just don’t let it consume you.”
I paused. Just for a second. Then I looked back, eyes flickering with that same cold fire. “Too late.”
And I walked out, already tasting the blood and dust of what was coming.
My fists were still clenched, the adrenaline thrumming through my arms like electricity. Every step toward my locker room echoed with the weight of what I just got myself into. I barely got two steps down the hall before I saw him—Cody—leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting for me. Arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes watching me too carefully.
Damn it.
“Angel,” he called out, pushing off the wall as I approached. “Got a minute?”
I stopped, but I didn’t slow. “Not really.”
“That bad, huh?” he asked, falling into step beside me. “Heard about what happened with Gunther.”
“Did you?” I muttered, ripping open a bottle of water and taking a long drink like it might keep the heat inside me from boiling over.
“Yeah,” he said. His tone was measured, but I could already hear it—the edge, the worry. “You stepped in on Gunther. Took him down clean. Loudly. On live TV.”
I shot him a sharp look. “He disrespected someone who didn’t deserve it. I reminded him who the hell I am.”
“I get that,” Cody said, nodding slowly. “Believe me, I’m the last guy to tell you not to teach a lesson when it’s needed. You know I back you. Always.”
“Then what’s the problem?” I snapped, turning to face him. “Because you sure as hell sound like you’re building up to one.”
He exhaled, folding his arms tighter across his chest. “The problem is that you’re not just handing out lessons anymore. You’re burning bridges. You’ve been... different lately. Reckless. Angry. And not the kind of angry I’ve seen before. This isn’t the Angel who thinks before she leaps.”
I blinked, heat rising behind my eyes. “Maybe I got tired of thinking while everyone else just does whatever the hell they want.”
“Come on, Angel.” His voice softened, but the crease between his brows deepened. “This isn’t you. Not the real you.”
I barked out a short laugh. “What’s the real me, huh? The one who stands in the background, waits for things to go south, and then swoops in too late to stop the damage?”
He stepped in front of me, blocking my path. “No. The real you is the one who stands up before things fall apart. Who knows how to fight without losing herself in the fire.”
“You think I’ve lost myself?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper, low and dangerous. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“I think you’re hurting, Angel,” Cody said. “And instead of dealing with it, you’re throwing punches at ghosts.”
I stared at him, jaw tight. My breath came out through flared nostrils. “You don’t get to psychoanalyze me, Rhodes.”
“No, maybe I don’t,” he said, hands lifting in a rare sign of surrender. “But I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re spiraling. I’ve seen it before.”
“You mean I’ve seen it before,” I corrected bitterly. “In you. When the world kept taking from you and you kept smiling through the blood.”
He didn’t argue. Just stood there, quiet, watching me unravel like a thread someone yanked too hard. “You’re not alone, Angel,” he said after a beat. “You never have been. But you sure as hell act like it lately.”
I looked away, jaw flexing. “It’s easier that way.”
“Yeah?” he asked. “And when you finally burn out, who’s left to pick you up?”
I took a step around him. “No one needs to pick me up. I don’t fall anymore.”
“Angel—” he tried, but I cut him off with a glare sharp enough to slice air.
“Save the concern for someone who needs it, Cody,” I said, voice like ice. “I’m not your sister. You don’t have to babysit me.”
He didn’t follow me this time. Didn’t call after me. But I could feel the weight of his stare burning into my back as I walked away, shoulders still tight, fists still clenched. And deep down—far deeper than I’d ever admit—I hated how much his worry got to me. Because it meant he still cared. And that meant I was still someone worth worrying about. And maybe, just maybe, that scared me more than anything else.
ns216.73.217.18da2
and then Add to home screen.