Post by justice on Oct 24, 2024 23:08:22 GMT -5
The old UWL Headquarters, its vast hallways lifeless, except for the flickering of old fluorescent lights casting long, uneven shadows across the cold, worn floors. Once, this place had been alive, humming with electricity, a temple of energy and passion. Now, it stood like a monument to what once was—deserted, save for the echoes of its past. The air carried the faint scent of sweat, metal, and dust, as if the arena itself still remembered the blood, sweat, and tears spilled inside its walls.
A lone figure moved in the shadows, her steps nearly inaudible. The woman wore a black hoodie drawn low over her head, a black bandana concealing the lower half of her face. Her hands were tucked into the pockets of her dark jeans, and her movements were fluid and purposeful. She walked as if she had traversed these halls a thousand times before. And she had.
She wasn’t here for the show—there was no show tonight. She wasn’t here for the crowd or the spotlight. This was something else. Something deeper. The past had called her back, and she had answered.
She paused in front of an old, weathered poster hanging loosely on the wall. The paper had yellowed with age, the edges curling slightly as if it had fought to cling to the past. It showcased a title match from years ago. The faces on the poster were barely recognizable now, faded and cracked with time, but the intensity of that moment still burned in the image. She stared at it, her eyes narrowing as if the scene was pulling something primal from within her. The memories rushed back, unbidden.
"You remember this?" she rasped, her voice barely above a whisper. She wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular—not to the empty hallway, not to the ghosts of wrestlers long retired. No, this was for her. A reminder. "Back when they thought I was just another name…or when they thought I was just being given things because of who my husband is."
Her gloved fingers brushed lightly against the surface of the poster, her touch barely making contact, like she was afraid to disturb the fragile remnants of the past. For a moment, she let herself be still, lost in thought, staring at the faded images of old rivals, of nights she had once ruled, and the battles that had forged her name in blood and sweat.
Stepping back, she turned and scanned the empty arena, her eyes tracing every inch as if she could see the past still playing out around her. The lights, the crowd, the roaring of voices chanting her name—She could hear it, faint but unmistakable. The kind of energy that only the few who had tasted real glory could truly understand. It lived here. It lived in her. Even now.
But there was something else, too. A rustle in the distance broke the silence. Her eyes flicked toward the sound, and her head tilted slightly, catching the faint gleam of a security camera swiveling in her direction. There was no panic, no rush in her movements, only a slow, deliberate adjustment of her hood as she shifted deeper into the shadows. She didn’t need to run. This place was hers in ways no one else could ever understand.
A crackling of static pierced the stillness, followed by the muffled voices of security personnel. The urgency in their tones was clear, and the sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the cold, hollow halls.
"Hey! Stop right there!" a voice barked, bouncing off the concrete walls.
She didn’t flinch. She kept walking, her stride unbroken, her pace measured and calm, as if she were walking down any other street, on any other night. The footsteps behind her grew louder, the voices more insistent.
"You’re trespassing! Stop!" another voice, sharper and more commanding now, cut through the air. They were getting closer.
She finally stopped, her back still turned to them. Two guards appeared from the shadows, moving cautiously, their expressions a mixture of confusion and determination. One of them, a tall man with a nervous twitch in his jaw, spoke first.
"Turn around. Hands where we can see them!" His voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed him—he didn’t know what he was dealing with.
Slowly, she raised her hands, palms facing outward. No sudden movements, no aggression. Just enough to show she wasn’t here to cause trouble. Not tonight. As they approached, the second guard—a younger man, clearly new to this sort of situation—reached for his radio, keeping his eyes trained on her, while his partner stepped forward cautiously.
"Pull down the hood." the taller guard ordered, his tone firmer now, but his wariness was still evident. There was something about the way she carried herself that put him on edge.
For a moment, she stood still, considering. Then, with the same deliberate slowness she had shown all night, she reached up and pulled back her hood. Her dark hair spilled out, revealing streaks of blonde highlights that glinted under the dim lights. With a smooth motion, she lowered her bandana, exposing her face to the guards.
Both men froze.
"Wait… is that—?" The younger guard stammered, his eyes widening in disbelief.
The taller one couldn’t finish his sentence, his voice trailing off into the cavernous space around them. They both knew who she was. They’d seen her face in the history books of this place. They’d heard the stories, watched the old matches, maybe even been in the crowd once upon a time. And now, here she stood, flesh and blood, right in front of them.
"Yeah. It’s me." Justice’s voice was low, but it carried the weight of everything she had been through. Everything she was.
"Justice Cross?" The younger guard spoke, as if he still couldn’t quite believe it. "We didn’t—"
"You weren’t supposed to." she interrupted, her tone calm but carrying an edge sharp enough to silence any further questions.
The guards exchanged uneasy glances, clearly unsure of what to do next. This wasn’t just some random intruder. This was Justice Cross. The legend. The woman who had built a career out of breaking down barriers and proving everyone wrong.
"We thought you were a threat." the taller guard said, almost apologetically.
Justice smirked, the corner of her mouth curling upward in something between amusement and bitterness. "I get that a lot," she said, her voice soft but cutting. "But no… not tonight."
The guards seemed to relax slightly, but they remained cautious. "Do you need anything, Mrs. Cross?" the younger guard asked hesitantly, clearly not wanting to overstep.
"No," she replied. "I know my way around."
With that, Justice turned away from them, her gaze returning to the empty arena floor. Her fingers flexed at her sides, a muscle memory she hadn’t shaken, as though the energy of the ring still pulsed through her veins. She stood there for a long moment, taking in the silence, the weight of it pressing against her like the memories that filled this space.
"Funny," she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. "The world moves on, but you’re still right here, aren’t you?"
And with that, she pulled her hood back up, disappearing into the shadows once more, leaving the guards standing there, knowing they had witnessed something more than just a routine security check. They had seen a legend return.
Justice Cross wasn’t done.
Not by a long shot.
A lone figure moved in the shadows, her steps nearly inaudible. The woman wore a black hoodie drawn low over her head, a black bandana concealing the lower half of her face. Her hands were tucked into the pockets of her dark jeans, and her movements were fluid and purposeful. She walked as if she had traversed these halls a thousand times before. And she had.
She wasn’t here for the show—there was no show tonight. She wasn’t here for the crowd or the spotlight. This was something else. Something deeper. The past had called her back, and she had answered.
She paused in front of an old, weathered poster hanging loosely on the wall. The paper had yellowed with age, the edges curling slightly as if it had fought to cling to the past. It showcased a title match from years ago. The faces on the poster were barely recognizable now, faded and cracked with time, but the intensity of that moment still burned in the image. She stared at it, her eyes narrowing as if the scene was pulling something primal from within her. The memories rushed back, unbidden.
"You remember this?" she rasped, her voice barely above a whisper. She wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular—not to the empty hallway, not to the ghosts of wrestlers long retired. No, this was for her. A reminder. "Back when they thought I was just another name…or when they thought I was just being given things because of who my husband is."
Her gloved fingers brushed lightly against the surface of the poster, her touch barely making contact, like she was afraid to disturb the fragile remnants of the past. For a moment, she let herself be still, lost in thought, staring at the faded images of old rivals, of nights she had once ruled, and the battles that had forged her name in blood and sweat.
Stepping back, she turned and scanned the empty arena, her eyes tracing every inch as if she could see the past still playing out around her. The lights, the crowd, the roaring of voices chanting her name—She could hear it, faint but unmistakable. The kind of energy that only the few who had tasted real glory could truly understand. It lived here. It lived in her. Even now.
But there was something else, too. A rustle in the distance broke the silence. Her eyes flicked toward the sound, and her head tilted slightly, catching the faint gleam of a security camera swiveling in her direction. There was no panic, no rush in her movements, only a slow, deliberate adjustment of her hood as she shifted deeper into the shadows. She didn’t need to run. This place was hers in ways no one else could ever understand.
A crackling of static pierced the stillness, followed by the muffled voices of security personnel. The urgency in their tones was clear, and the sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the cold, hollow halls.
"Hey! Stop right there!" a voice barked, bouncing off the concrete walls.
She didn’t flinch. She kept walking, her stride unbroken, her pace measured and calm, as if she were walking down any other street, on any other night. The footsteps behind her grew louder, the voices more insistent.
"You’re trespassing! Stop!" another voice, sharper and more commanding now, cut through the air. They were getting closer.
She finally stopped, her back still turned to them. Two guards appeared from the shadows, moving cautiously, their expressions a mixture of confusion and determination. One of them, a tall man with a nervous twitch in his jaw, spoke first.
"Turn around. Hands where we can see them!" His voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed him—he didn’t know what he was dealing with.
Slowly, she raised her hands, palms facing outward. No sudden movements, no aggression. Just enough to show she wasn’t here to cause trouble. Not tonight. As they approached, the second guard—a younger man, clearly new to this sort of situation—reached for his radio, keeping his eyes trained on her, while his partner stepped forward cautiously.
"Pull down the hood." the taller guard ordered, his tone firmer now, but his wariness was still evident. There was something about the way she carried herself that put him on edge.
For a moment, she stood still, considering. Then, with the same deliberate slowness she had shown all night, she reached up and pulled back her hood. Her dark hair spilled out, revealing streaks of blonde highlights that glinted under the dim lights. With a smooth motion, she lowered her bandana, exposing her face to the guards.
Both men froze.
"Wait… is that—?" The younger guard stammered, his eyes widening in disbelief.
The taller one couldn’t finish his sentence, his voice trailing off into the cavernous space around them. They both knew who she was. They’d seen her face in the history books of this place. They’d heard the stories, watched the old matches, maybe even been in the crowd once upon a time. And now, here she stood, flesh and blood, right in front of them.
"Yeah. It’s me." Justice’s voice was low, but it carried the weight of everything she had been through. Everything she was.
"Justice Cross?" The younger guard spoke, as if he still couldn’t quite believe it. "We didn’t—"
"You weren’t supposed to." she interrupted, her tone calm but carrying an edge sharp enough to silence any further questions.
The guards exchanged uneasy glances, clearly unsure of what to do next. This wasn’t just some random intruder. This was Justice Cross. The legend. The woman who had built a career out of breaking down barriers and proving everyone wrong.
"We thought you were a threat." the taller guard said, almost apologetically.
Justice smirked, the corner of her mouth curling upward in something between amusement and bitterness. "I get that a lot," she said, her voice soft but cutting. "But no… not tonight."
The guards seemed to relax slightly, but they remained cautious. "Do you need anything, Mrs. Cross?" the younger guard asked hesitantly, clearly not wanting to overstep.
"No," she replied. "I know my way around."
With that, Justice turned away from them, her gaze returning to the empty arena floor. Her fingers flexed at her sides, a muscle memory she hadn’t shaken, as though the energy of the ring still pulsed through her veins. She stood there for a long moment, taking in the silence, the weight of it pressing against her like the memories that filled this space.
"Funny," she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. "The world moves on, but you’re still right here, aren’t you?"
And with that, she pulled her hood back up, disappearing into the shadows once more, leaving the guards standing there, knowing they had witnessed something more than just a routine security check. They had seen a legend return.
Justice Cross wasn’t done.
Not by a long shot.