The Syren Song: Verse 439
“What do you mean most people?!”

The room was ugly.

There wasn’t really a kinder way to put it.

I’d tried.

I’d stood in the doorway for several minutes that morning looking at the faded yellow walls, the floral border running around the top and the strange rectangular patch behind where the previous owner’s dresser had apparently protected one section of paint from several decades of sunlight, and I’d tried very hard to find a more charitable description.

Charming.

Traditional.

Vintage.

None of them survived contact with reality.

Ugly did.

The house was ours now, or close enough that the distinction no longer mattered. The paperwork had finally finished, the boxes had crossed the twenty feet or so separating Lexy’s house from ours, and Ravyn and I had officially moved into the place Lexy had somehow purchased before either of us realized what she was doing.

Most of those boxes were still sealed.

Some were stacked against walls.

Others had been opened just far enough to confirm what was inside before being abandoned again.

The kitchen had been unpacked first because I’d made the apparently controversial decision that being able to eat was more important than finding decorative cushions.

Ravyn had thanked me for that.

Then she’d spent several hours moving everything I’d unpacked into what she described as its ‘correct’ location.

Apparently mugs could be wrong.

So could plates.

So could spices.

I’d asked whether there was anything I’d put away correctly. She’d thought about it for far too long before telling me the trash bags were acceptable.

Progress.

That morning, I’d decided to tackle one of the spare rooms.

Or, more accurately, I’d decided I could paint one wall without somehow destroying the house.

I’d covered the floor with a drop cloth, taped along the edges badly enough that Ravyn would probably redo it if she saw it, opened the paint and spent several minutes staring suspiciously at the roller like it might require qualifications nobody had warned me about.

Ravyn had chosen the color.

I’d suggested white. She’d described that as “a failure of imagination.”

I’d suggested gray. She’d looked at me as though I’d proposed concrete.

Eventually, she’d selected something with a name so unnecessarily specific I’d forgotten it almost immediately.

To me, it was blue.

Apparently that was incorrect too.

I dipped the roller into the tray and lifted it carefully, watching paint drip back down.

This couldn’t be that difficult.

People painted rooms all the time. Normal people. People with no specialized training. I wrestled professionally for a living. Surely I could apply color to a wall.

I raised the roller.

The front door slammed open hard enough that I heard it from the other side of the house.

I froze.

Footsteps hit the hallway.

Fast.

Very fast.

Then:

“ZOE?!”

I lowered the roller.

“In here!”

The footsteps changed direction.

A second later, Lexy appeared in the doorway.

She looked like she’d run the entire distance from her house despite the fact that our front doors were almost close enough to throw things between.

Her eyes landed on me.

She stopped. For several seconds, she just stared. Then her shoulders dropped and she let out a huge breath.

“Oh, thank God.”

I looked at her. Then down at myself. Then back at her.  “I’m happy to see you too, I guess? What exactly are you doing?”

She waved one hand vaguely. “Nothing. It’s fine.” She took another breath. “I knew you’d tell me if you were dead.”

I blinked.

Once.

Twice.

A third time didn’t improve it.

I slowly put the roller back into the tray. “I think I’m having a stroke.”

Lexy’s eyes widened. “What?!”

“Because that sentence made absolutely no sense.”

She frowned. “It made sense.”

“No, it didn’t.”

“You knew what I meant.”

“I genuinely didn’t.” I stepped over the edge of the drop cloth. “How would I tell you if I was dead?”

Lexy opened her mouth.

Paused.

“I don’t know.”

“Right, because it made no sense,” I said again.

“You’d find a way.”

I stared at her. “While dead?”

“You’re very resourceful.”

For a moment, neither of us said anything.

Then I pointed toward her.

“Start again.”

Lexy shifted awkwardly. That immediately made me suspicious.

“There’s a rumor.”

“What kind of rumor?”

She hesitated. “An online rumor,” she stated, as though that explained it.

“Lexy.”

“Fine. There’s a rumor… that you’re dead.”

I stared at her.

Then looked down at myself again.

Still there.

Still breathing.

Still unfortunately dressed for painting.

I looked back up.

“Who said I’m dead?”

Lexy shrugged. “People.”

“What people?”

“Internet people.”

“That is not a category.”

“It absolutely is.”

I rubbed a hand over my face. “Why?”

“Because they’re people, and they’re on the Internet.”

I put my head in my hands and sighed. “Not why is it a category. Why are they saying I’m dead?”

Lexy’s expression changed.

Not much. Just enough.

I knew that look.

It was the look she got immediately before explaining something that had already gone catastrophically wrong inside her head.

“I think it might be Creek.”

I lowered my hands. “What?!”

“Waylon Creek.”

“I know who Creek is.”

“Good. Then we’re on the same page.”

“We are absolutely not on the same page.”

Lexy stepped farther into the room. “He attacked you.”

“I remember, thanks.”

“His manager was lurking in a parking lot last week.”

I nodded. “Because he wasn’t allowed in the building.”

She pointed at me. “Exactly.”

I waited.

Nothing followed.

“Exactly what?”

Lexy stared at me as though I was being deliberately difficult. “There’s a pattern.”

“There is not a pattern. How does any of this explain him starting a rumor that I died?”

“First he attacks you. Then Heaven hides in a parking lot. Then suddenly there’s a rumor online that you’re dead.”

I folded my arms. “Those are three unrelated things.”

“That’s what makes it clever.”

I closed my eyes.

Of course it did.

When I opened them again, Lexy was looking past me toward the window.

“Did you check outside?”

“For what?”

“Anything suspicious.”

“Like?”

She hesitated. That was never reassuring. “Your bus.”

I stared at her. “My bus is outside?”

“No.”

“Then why would I check it?”

“I checked it.”

There were moments in conversations with Lexy where I could almost feel my brain refusing to continue until the previous sentence had been properly processed.

This was one of them.

“You checked my tour bus?”

“Externally.”

“What does that mean?”

“I looked underneath it.”

I stared.

She stared back.

“For a bomb?”

“You say that like it’s unreasonable.”

“You didn’t learn your lesson from the arena?” I asked before sighing again. “I told you, that’s not how they operate.”

“It was a precaution.”

“Against the imaginary bomb you decided William Heaven planted on a bus that isn’t even here?”

Lexy frowned. “Okay, when you say it all together like that, it sounds less compelling.”

“It wasn’t compelling separately.”

She waved that away. “The point is, you’re alive.”

“I am.”

“Which is good.”

“I think so. Some might disagree.”

“And Creek didn’t kill you.”

“No.”

Lexy nodded slowly.

Then her eyes narrowed. “Unless that’s what he wants us to think.”

I stared at her. “I am standing in front of you!”

“I know, unless—”

I stopped listening and picked up the paint roller again. “I’m going back to painting.”

“Wait.” I stopped. Lexy had pulled her phone from her pocket. “SCW asked me to confirm it.”

I lowered the roller again. “Confirm what?”

She looked up. “Whether you were dead.”

There was a pause.

“SCW contacted you?”

“Yes.”

“Because they’d heard I was dead.”

“Yes.”

“And what did you tell them?”

Lexy froze.

I watched the exact moment the answer occurred to her.

She looked down at the phone.

Then back at me.

“...I should probably tell them you’re not.”

I stared at her.  “You came all the way over here before replying?”

“I panicked!”

“You live twenty feet away!”

“That doesn’t mean I can teleport! Or see through walls! How was I supposed to know?”

“You have a phone.”

“I needed visual confirmation.”

“Why would you need visual confirmation!?”

Lexy opened her mouth. Stopped. Then pointed accusingly at me. “Voice cloning.”

I blinked. “What?”

“They can clone voices now.”

“Who is ‘they’?”

“Bad people.”

“Creek?”

She considered that. “Maybe not personally.”

“Lexy.”

“Fine. But we need proof.”

I looked down at myself. “This isn’t proof?”

“To me, yes. To everyone else, no.”

“I’ll video call SCW.”

“Deepfake.”

“Do you want me to fly to Canada to see them in person?!” I asked sarcastically, thinking she’d understand that I didn’t mean it.

She paused.

“...I mean, that would be pretty convincing!”

“I’m not flying to Ca—” I began before she cut me off.

“Unless they’ve already been compromised.”

I put the roller down again before I threw it at her. “What exactly are you suggesting?”

Her eyes lit up.

That worried me immediately.

“Take a picture with today’s newspaper.”

I waited.

“I don’t have today’s newspaper.”

“Then get one.”

“How would that even help?”

Lexy opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Looked toward the ceiling as though the answer might be written there.

“I don’t know. I’ve never dealt with this before, I’m just throwing out ideas,” she gestured helplessly. “I’ve never had a client die before.”

She sighed.

“Especially not one who’s still alive.”

I said nothing.

I didn’t need to.

Lexy’s face tightened.

She pointed at me.

“Shut up, okay? You know what I meant!”

“I genuinely don’t.”

“Neither do I anymore!”

Despite myself, I laughed.

Lexy looked offended. “This is serious.”

“Apparently my death is.”

Her expression changed immediately.

Not dramatically.

Just enough that the joke stopped being funny to her.

“Don’t.”

That caught me. For the first time since she’d burst through the door, she wasn’t moving. Wasn’t gesturing. Wasn’t inventing increasingly elaborate conspiracies. She just stood there with the phone in her hand.

“You really thought I was dead?”

Lexy looked away. “Maybe,” she exhaled. “Yes.”

The room went quiet.

Suddenly, the panic made considerably more sense.

Not the bomb. That was still stupid.

But the rest of it.

“Lex—”

Her phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. Then again.

Lexy looked down at the screen. Her eyes widened. “Err…”

“What?”

Another buzz. “This might be getting worse.”

My own phone vibrated from where I’d left it on the windowsill. Then again.

I looked toward it. “How much worse?”

Lexy grimaced. “Depends how emotionally prepared you are to discover how many people care whether you’re alive.”

I looked at my phone. For a second, I didn’t pick it up. Then it buzzed again. And again.

I crossed the room, wiped one hand against my jeans and reached for it.

The lock screen was full. Missed calls. Messages. Notifications. Some names I expected. Some I didn’t. A few I hadn’t seen in a long time.

I unlocked it.

The first message was simple.

Please tell me this isn’t true.

The next one was less composed. Then another. And another.

Somebody had tried calling three times. Someone else had sent a voice note.

Another message just said: ‘Answer me.’

I stopped scrolling.

Lexy, for once, didn’t say anything. That might have been what made it hit hardest.

I’d spent so much of the last year listening to people explain what I was supposed to mean.

What my career meant.

What my past meant.

Whether I mattered.

Whether I belonged.

Whether I was taking up space somebody else deserved.

Apparently, all it took was one stupid rumor for a lot of people to suddenly decide they weren’t ready for me to be gone.

 “This is weird.”

Lexy looked at me. “What?”

I held up the phone. “Finding out what people would say if you died while you’re still here.”

Her expression softened. “You matter to people.”

I looked back down. “I know.” I took a breath. “I mean... I think I know.”

That sounded worse out loud than it had in my head.

Lexy stepped closer.

“You do.”

Another notification appeared. I recognized the name immediately. Someone I hadn’t spoken to in months. I stared at it for a moment before opening the message.

It wasn’t long. That somehow made it worse.

I swallowed. “Apparently I’m more popular dead.”

Lexy’s face changed. “Don’t do that.”

I looked at her. “What?”

“Turn it into a joke because you don’t know what to do with it.”

That was annoyingly perceptive.

“You’re criticizing how I cope now?”

“Both things can be true.”

I smiled despite myself.

Then my phone rang. I looked at the screen. “I’m going to be doing this all night.”

Lexy nodded. “Probably.”

I answered.

The next twenty minutes blurred together.

Calls.

Messages.

Explaining.

Reassuring.

Telling people that yes, I was fine.

No, nothing had happened.

Yes, I was definitely alive.

By the time I finally put the phone down, the paint on the roller had started drying.

“That wall isn’t getting painted today, is it?”

“Apparently not,” she said with a knowing look. She thought for a moment. Then held up her phone. “You should go live.”

I frowned. “Why?”

“Because individually proving you exist is inefficient.”

I stared at her. “That might be the first sensible thing you’ve said since you got here.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

A few minutes later, I was sitting on the edge of the drop cloth with my phone propped up against the unopened paint can.

The viewer count climbed almost immediately.

I waited. Then sighed. “Hi.” Lexy stood behind the phone, just out of frame. I looked into the camera. “Apparently there’s a rumor going around that I’m dead.”

From behind the phone, Lexy started to give me notes. “Say you’re thriving.”

I glanced sideways. “Well, I’m not dead.”

“And thriving!”

“I’m alive.”

“That sounds less positive.”

I ignored her. “But I really appreciate everyone who reached out, and I’m fine. I’m home. Everything is okay. I don’t know how this rumor got started, but I thought I should put an end to it.”

Lexy leaned slightly closer. “Tell them you’re not a deepfake.”

I closed my eyes. “I am not a deepfake.”

“That’s exactly what a deepfake would say.”

I slowly turned my head toward her. “Lexy!”

She raised both hands. “Right. Sorry. Bad note.”

I looked back at the camera. “Anyway, thank you for the concern. I’m still here. I’ll be at Breakdown this week, and I hope to see some of you there.”

“And you’re thriving. You need to tell them that you’re thriving.”

I sighed and looked over at her. “I’m not saying that.”

She grabbed the phone and looked into it. “Hi everyone. Lexy Chapel. Manager of champions,” she explained, as though anyone might question who she is. “My client is thriving right now. She’s not just alive. She’s amazing. On top of the world, even.”

I took the phone back and smiled apologetically. “See you all on Thursday.”

I ended the live.

Lexy immediately looked down at her phone.

“Good news.”

“What?”

She looked up at me.

“Most people believe you.”

I blinked. “What do you mean most people?!”

To Be Continued…

Courtesy of Zoe Sperling’s Blog—

Rise to Greatness went exactly the way I wanted it to.

Not easily. Not comfortably.

But exactly the way I wanted it to.

Bree Lancaster walked into that match convinced she understood me. She walked in believing everything Frank had told her, believing she knew what version of me she was getting. And when it mattered most? She was wrong. I won.

That should have been the end of it. Maybe Bree wanted another match. Maybe she didn’t. But when we were standing there face-to-face after everything that happened, I was ready to find out. If she wanted to do it again? Fine. I’ve never been afraid of that. Then Waylon Creek decided he needed to introduce himself, and apparently the best way he could think to do that was by attacking me from behind.

I wish I could say that surprised me.

It didn’t.

It barely even annoyed me. Because I’ve been doing this long enough that there’s always another big man waiting somewhere who thinks throwing me around is going to make his name. They’re always bigger. Always stronger. Always convinced that because they can hurt me, they can define me.

At this point? It’s not intimidating.

It’s cliché.

So, when I came out on Breakdown and said I’d meet him at the door next time, I meant it. No surprise attack. No cheap shot. No waiting until my attention was somewhere else. If Waylon Creek wanted to finish what he started, I was perfectly happy to give him the opportunity.

Apparently SCW had other plans.

Because this week, instead of meeting Waylon Creek at the door, I’m meeting Oskar Theron in the ring. And honestly? I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean. Maybe Oskar is there to keep me occupied so I don’t go looking for Creek. Maybe he’s there to distract me so Creek can try the same thing again. Maybe SCW just looked at the roster and decided this was the match they wanted. I don’t know.

And it doesn’t really matter.

Because whatever the reason is, Oskar, you’re still the person standing across from me. And I’m not stupid enough to look past you.

I know you’re dangerous. Maybe you’re not the biggest name on this show. Maybe you’re not the name everybody is talking about this week. But that doesn’t mean you’re harmless. You’re creative. You’re resilient. You’re the kind of guy who keeps finding ways to survive situations that should have put you away. The kind of opponent who becomes dangerous the moment somebody decides they’ve already beaten him.

I’ve seen enough people make that mistake.

I’m not planning on joining them.

Because this business has a funny way of punishing people who think the match in front of them is just something they need to get through. I’ve been around long enough to know better.

Waylon Creek wants my attention.

William Heaven wants my attention.

Maybe Bree Lancaster still wants my attention.

Fine. They can wait.

This week, Oskar, you have it. All of it.

That might not be what Creek wants. It might not be what Heaven wants. Maybe they’re hoping I’ll spend the whole match looking toward the entrance, waiting for somebody bigger to appear. Maybe they’re hoping I’ll be too angry to think clearly. Maybe they’re hoping I’ll be distracted. If they are? They’re going to be disappointed.

Because I didn’t fight my way back to the top of this company just to get careless because somebody louder walked into the room. I didn’t beat Bree Lancaster at Rise to Greatness just to turn around and forget everything that got me there. Focus matters. Preparation matters. Respecting the person standing across from you matters.

And Oskar, I respect what you can do.

That’s exactly why I’m not going to take you lightly.

But respecting you doesn’t mean I expect to lose. It means when I beat you, I’ll know I beat somebody worth beating.

And after that? Then I can turn around and deal with Waylon Creek. Then I can find out whether he’s actually as dangerous when I know he’s coming as he was when he had the luxury of surprise. Then William Heaven can stand beside him and tell everybody how inevitable Waylon is.

I’ve heard that story before too.

Everybody is inevitable until they aren’t. Everybody is unstoppable until somebody stops them. Everybody thinks they’re making their name at my expense until they discover I’m still here.

So Oskar? This isn’t personal. You’re not a distraction. You’re not filler. You’re not somebody I’m looking past. You’re my opponent. And that means you get the same thing Bree got: my full attention, my full effort, and, if everything goes the way I intend, the same result.

Everybody else can keep trying to get my attention.

You’re the one who has to survive it.

Be totally jealous.

-Z
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Zoe "Syren" Sperling © 2026 So Totally Awesome Productions