The crowd in the arena was already losing their minds, and the show hadn’t even officially started yet. The energy backstage was wild—crew sprinting back and forth, producers yelling into headsets, and me? I was pacing like a caged wolf near gorilla position, arms crossed over my chest, eyes locked on the screen ahead.
“Sure you wanna do this?” the tech guy asked, nodding toward the monitor.
“I don’t wanna,” I muttered, tugging on my gloves. “I have to.”
I’d had enough of Logan Paul sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. He’d interfered in Randy’s last match, cost him the win, and then acted like he was untouchable. Well, tonight? He wasn’t. Not with me at ringside.
So I walked down that ramp the second Randy’s theme hit. And damn if it didn’t give me chills. “Voices” blasted through the speakers, and the crowd went insane. But it wasn’t just the song or the lights—it was him. Randy walked out calm, coiled like a snake, and standing next to him? Jelly Roll, grinning wide, giving the crowd a wave. Not your average pairing, but somehow it worked.
Randy spotted me on the outside as he headed down the ramp and gave me that sly little smirk of his. “You ready to play referee, Angel?”
I folded my arms. “Just make sure you don’t hit me with an RKO this time.”
“No promises,” he teased.
Then came Drew McIntyre. And unfortunately… he came too. Logan Paul strutted beside Drew like he owned the building, grinning that smug, punchable grin. The crowd booed him loud enough to rattle the barricades. He threw his arms up like he was the second coming of Roman Reigns. My eyes never left him.
Michael Cole’s voice rang out from commentary. “Guardian Angel requested to be ringside for this match—not to get involved, but to ensure a fair fight. And after what Logan pulled last week… can you blame her?”
Damn right they couldn’t. The bell rang. And all hell broke loose. Randy and Drew collided like bulls, hammering each other with stiff shots from the jump. It wasn’t about technique—it was about rage. Randy threw uppercuts like they owed him money, while Drew fired back with heavy boots and shoulder tackles. Meanwhile, I paced outside the ring like a sentry, keeping one eye on Logan the entire time.
Logan didn’t try anything at first. He stayed back, hands raised like he was innocent, mouthing off to fans and flexing that fake gold smile. But when Drew started slipping, when Randy got the upper hand with a powerslam and began stalking Drew in the corner—you could see the gears turning in Logan’s head. And sure enough… he reached under the apron and pulled out the title belt. “Nope,” I muttered.
But before I could even move, Jelly Roll stepped in. Boom! He shoulder-checked Logan back into the barricade with a hit that would’ve made Sika proud. The crowd roared. Logan stumbled, nearly fell on his overpriced sneakers. “Sit your dumbass down!” I shouted from the other side. But then…
Claymore. Drew launched out of the ring and nailed Jelly Roll from behind. I winced as Jelly collapsed like a tree being felled. Logan laughed. Loudly. Big mistake. I stepped up to him slowly, arms down at my sides, chin raised just enough to make it clear I wasn’t here to play. I didn’t touch him—I didn’t have to. I just looked at him. He stopped laughing. I got right in his face, close enough he could see the fire in my eyes. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t blink. And Logan?
Logan backed down. Inside the ring, Drew glanced our way—just for a split second. And that was all Randy needed. RKO outta nowhere! The place exploded. I spun around just in time to see Randy hook the leg.
One!
Two!
Three!
The bell rang and I threw my arms up, a grin finally cracking through my tough exterior. Randy rolled off Drew and sat up, smirking like a man who just reclaimed a piece of his soul. He glanced over at me as I leaned on the apron. “Nice timing,” he called.
“Don’t thank me,” I shouted back. “Thank your charm.”
Then, in true Logan Paul fashion, the jackass sprinted back into the ring while officials helped Jelly Roll up. I barely had time to react before he sucker-punched the poor guy from behind. “Really?!” I hissed, and slid under the bottom rope in a heartbeat.
I put myself right between Logan and Jelly, wings metaphorically out, fury very real. “Try me,” I said low and cold, eyes locked on his. “I dare you.”
Logan hesitated. But then McIntyre stormed back in, and suddenly it was me who had backup. Randy stepped forward and stood beside me, posture loose but dangerous. His expression said everything: You want a war? You’re gonna get one.
The tension was suffocating. I grabbed a mic from the mat and lifted it to my lips, my voice sharp, ringing out over the crowd. “You wanna fight dirty? You wanna start a war? Then bring all of Raw… because we’re not backing down.”
The fans erupted. I could feel Randy smirking beside me. Jelly Roll, still holding his jaw, managed a thumbs-up from the corner. Logan and Drew stood at the ropes, fuming. I just stared at them, unshaken, arms crossed like a shield over my chest. They had no idea what they’d started. And the war was far from over.
Tension doesn’t even begin to describe the way the air felt that night. Adrenaline still flowed through my blood from the encounter with Logan and Drew earlier in the night, but I knew things were far from over. I was watching from the monitor backstage, already dressed down in street gear, arms crossed, fists clenched tight. The moment Solo’s music hit, and he walked out flanked by his M.F.T. crew—Tonga Loa, Tala Tonga, and JC Mateo—I felt it. That twisting pressure deep in my chest. Michael Cole’s voice rang through the speakers: “This isn’t just personal—it’s blood. And it’s boiling over.”
Damn right it was. And then Jimmy’s music hit. The crowd erupted, and there he was—the uce, the day one, walking out with his head held high, jaw tight, eyes locked on the ring like it was all or nothing. Because for him? It was. This wasn’t just about the United States Championship. This was about betrayal. Respect. Family. And Solo? He stopped caring about any of that a long time ago.
The bell rang. From the jump, Jimmy came out swinging. He ducked and weaved with that tag team instinct burned into his DNA. Solo tried to slow the pace, but Jimmy was relentless—strikes, corner splashes, even a nasty Whisper in the Wind that sent Solo crashing to the mat. The crowd lost it, and I did too—I slapped the monitor and shouted, “That’s what I’m talking about, UCE!”
But of course, it didn’t stay clean. The M.F.T. boys got involved the second Solo looked like he might lose control. JC Mateo pulled at the ropes. Tala Tonga got up on the apron, drawing the ref’s attention, and boom—Jimmy caught a cheap shot straight to the jaw from behind. Pat McAfee groaned on commentary, “Here we go again! Every time Solo’s in trouble, the whole damn island shows up.”
I was already halfway out of the locker room. Back in the ring, Jimmy was still fighting—still—even with all of that stacked against him. He dodged one Samoan Spike, hit a superkick, and went for the pin. The crowd was on fire.
But then Solo grabbed the tights. I saw it, everyone saw it. The ref didn’t.
One. Two. Three.
I froze. My stomach dropped. Just like that, it was over. Solo retained. But the second that bell rang, I knew it wasn’t over. Solo’s boys stormed the ring like sharks, stomping Jimmy into the mat before he could even breathe. JC was barking orders, Tala was throwing fists, and Jimmy—he just curled in, trying to protect himself from the onslaught. And that’s when the arena exploded. Jacob Fatu’s music hit like a battle cry.
That man charged the ring like a bull set loose. JC Mateo got flattened. Tala got tossed like a lawn chair. Tonga Loa took a superkick so loud I winced—and suddenly, the balance started to shift. But it still wasn’t enough. And that’s when I snapped. No pyro. No music cue. I just stormed out.
My boots hit that ramp like thunder and I locked eyes with Solo before I even hit the bottom. I didn’t care about cameras or commentary or the crowd screaming my name. I cared about Jimmy. Michael Cole’s voice followed me as I hit the ring: “Wait a minute—that’s Angel! Angel is here! And we know how close she is with the Usos—she’s not letting this slide!”
Damn right I wasn’t. I slid in and stood beside Fatu, shoulder to shoulder. My arms were out. My stance was wide. I dared anyone to try something. And of course—JC Mateo tried. I met him in mid-air with a spinning back elbow that dropped him cold. No hesitation. No warning. No mercy. Wade Barrett, of all people, said it best: “I might not always agree with her methods… but there’s something about the way she protects people she cares about—it’s almost terrifying.”
Solo took one last look at me, at Fatu, at the wreckage in that ring, and for once, he made the smart call. He backed off. The M.F.T. crew dragged him up the ramp like the cowards they were, leaving us behind in the ring. I dropped to one knee beside Jimmy, brushing the hair from his forehead, my hand gentle despite the adrenaline still pumping through me. “You’re good, Uce,” I whispered. “We got you.”
He blinked up at me, groggy but aware. “You’re here,” he rasped.
I gave a half-smile. “Always. No one’s gonna overpower my friends while I’m around.”
Fatu knelt beside us, checking Jimmy’s side while the crowd started something beautiful. At first, it was soft—almost unsure. But then louder. Stronger.
“YEET! YEET! YEET!”
It echoed through the arena like a heartbeat. And in that moment, standing tall with Jacob Fatu, crouched beside Jimmy Uso, I didn’t care about title belts or corporate games. I cared about what we just told the world: This wasn’t over. Blood might be thicker than water—but loyalty? Loyalty burns.
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and then Add to home screen.