“I’m not a Diva,” Lana spat, standing tall. “I’m a wrestler.”
Lana reached down and plunged her hand into the cracked mirror. The shards cut her, but she didn’t stop. She found something warm and soft—a heart made of tangled cassette tapes, faded lipstick, and broken stilettos. She squeezed. X Club Wrestling Divapocalypse
It started with a crack. Not of thunder, but of fractured reality. “I’m not a Diva,” Lana spat, standing tall
And lying in the center of the ring was the microphone, a diamond division belt, and a pile of glitter that smelled faintly of Candi’s perfume. “I’m not a Diva
