I want to be Champion, and I want to cut amazing promos.

Host: The arena lights burned like a thousand tiny suns, throwing shards of silver and blue across the ring ropes, the metal barricades, the crowd’s restless sea. The air was thick — a mix of sweat, electricity, and anticipation, humming like a pulse just beneath the world’s surface.

Jack stood ringside, his arms crossed, the faint glint of arena light cutting along his jawline. His grey eyes followed the empty ring as if it were a battlefield waiting for its first breath of blood and glory.

Jeeny sat beside him on the steel steps, her hands clasped, her eyes bright, catching every flicker of light like someone seeing their childhood dream alive again. The distant echo of entrance music still lingered in the rafters — that thunderous promise of something about to happen.

Jeeny: “Liv Morgan once said, ‘I want to be Champion, and I want to cut amazing promos.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “That’s it? Short. Simple. Brutal. I like it.”

Jeeny: “It’s more than ambition. It’s clarity. She knows exactly who she is and what she wants — that’s rare.”

Jack: “Rare, maybe. But not poetic.”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t have to be. It’s raw. It’s wrestling — where truth comes in the form of sweat, grit, and a microphone.”

Host: The lights dimmed, and a lone spotlight fell onto the ring, turning it into a kind of altar. The hum of crowd noise faded into silence, the way a heartbeat slows when it’s about to leap into something dangerous.

Jack: “You think wrestling’s about truth?”

Jeeny: “Yes. It’s theater that bleeds. It’s emotion that gets thrown off the top rope and still stands up to speak again.”

Jack: “Or it’s performance — spectacle dressed as struggle.”

Jeeny: “Performance is struggle, Jack. When you stand in front of thousands of people, pretending to be fearless while your knees are shaking — that’s as real as it gets.”

Jack: “You sound like you’ve been there.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Maybe not in a ring. But I know what it’s like to fight for a spotlight. To want to prove that your voice matters. That’s what Liv meant. She doesn’t just want the belt — she wants the microphone. The chance to speak herself into existence.”

Host: A faint echo of pyrotechnics crackled through the air, though the show had long since ended. The smell of gunpowder lingered, sharp and nostalgic.

Jack: “You think that’s what ‘cutting promos’ really means? Talking people into believing your story?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s myth-making. A modern ritual. Every promo is an act of creation — of identity. You tell the world who you are until it finally echoes it back.”

Jack: “Or until it turns on you.”

Jeeny: “That’s the risk, isn’t it? When you build yourself out loud, you give the world permission to tear you apart.”

Jack: “And that’s supposed to be worth it?”

Jeeny: “Always. Because silence is worse.”

Host: The arena lights flickered once, twice, before settling into a soft amber glow. Jack moved closer to the ring, resting his hands on the cold steel edge, the texture rough against his palms.

Jack: “You know what I envy about people like her? The courage to say what they want without apology. Most people spend their lives editing their desires into something acceptable.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But she doesn’t edit — she declares. That’s why it sounds raw. ‘I want to be Champion, and I want to cut amazing promos.’ That’s not arrogance. That’s confession.”

Jack: “Confession with eyeliner and combat boots.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And it’s glorious.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the distant sound of a door closing somewhere backstage. The arena felt alive — like it was breathing, listening, waiting.

Jack: “You think wanting to be champion is about ego?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s about worth. About telling the world, ‘I belong here. I earned this.’ You don’t chase a belt for vanity; you chase it because it proves the hours, the bruises, the doubt — they all meant something.”

Jack: “So the title’s a mirror.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And every promo is a battle cry. It’s not just talk — it’s a promise to yourself.”

Host: Jeeny stood, stepping into the ring. The light hit her face, half in shadow, half in fire. She looked down at Jack, her voice soft but fierce.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about wrestling, Jack? The way pain becomes performance. The way victory isn’t quiet — it’s screamed, it’s earned, it’s told. Every story in that ring is a metaphor for living. You get knocked down, you get back up, and then you grab the mic and make it sound like destiny.”

Jack: “And if you lose?”

Jeeny: “You cut another promo. You make loss sound like prophecy.”

Jack: (grinning) “You’d make a good heel.”

Jeeny: “Oh, I’d be a terrible heel. I’d cry too easily.”

Jack: “Exactly. That’s what would make people believe you.”

Host: The two of them laughed, the sound echoing through the empty arena, filling the space like an applause that hadn’t yet faded.

Jeeny crouched down, leaning on the ropes.

Jeeny: “You ever wanted to be champion of something, Jack?”

Jack: (after a pause) “Once. My father wanted me to be. But I thought wanting it was enough. Turns out, you actually have to fight for it.”

Jeeny: “Then you still can. The fight doesn’t end until you stop writing your own promos.”

Jack: “And what would mine say?”

Jeeny: “That you’re not done yet.”

Host: The arena lights dimmed, one by one, until only a single spotlight remained — on Jeeny, standing center ring. The silence thickened around her, heavy but alive.

She lifted her chin, looked into the dark, and spoke:

Jeeny: “We all want to be champions — not of others, but of ourselves. We all want to hold something that proves we survived the match. And maybe, when we speak — when we dare to declare — that’s our version of cutting a promo. Our way of saying: I’m still here. I’m still fighting.”

Host: The spotlight flared, then faded, leaving nothing but darkness — and the faint hum of the crowd that wasn’t there, yet somehow still listening.

And as the echo lingered, Liv Morgan’s words rose through the silence, fierce and unashamed:

That to want is not weakness,
to speak it aloud is not arrogance —
it’s the purest kind of rebellion.

Because the true champion
is the one who dares to name her dream,
and then steps into the ring
to make it real.