The Syren Song: Verse 441
“I learn things occasionally”

I'd never considered myself somebody who struggled with motivation.

You didn't spend as many years doing what I did without learning how to make yourself get out of bed in the morning, even when every muscle in your body was telling you that staying there would be a much better idea. There were days when training was the last thing I wanted to do, days when my body was sore and my enthusiasm was somewhere between non-existent and actively hostile, but I'd always found a way to get through it.

Apparently, though, I'd been doing it wrong all these years.

Because for the last few days, motivation hadn't been a problem.

Another set of weights? Absolutely.

Another ten minutes on the treadmill? Why not?

Another round of sparring with somebody considerably bigger than me, whose principal strategy appeared to involve picking me up and seeing how far he could throw me? Sure.

All I had to do was picture Waylon Creek standing over Ravyn, with his hand resting against her stomach.

Suddenly, finding the energy for another round didn't seem particularly difficult.

Probably not the healthiest psychological approach to physical fitness.

But effective.

The strange thing was that the training itself had been harder than usual. I'd been deliberately pushing myself, working with people bigger and stronger than me, concentrating on getting out of situations where somebody had a significant physical advantage. I'd spent a frankly unreasonable amount of time trying to avoid being trapped against ropes, walls, and anything else that might prevent me from putting some distance between myself and somebody who could probably lift me with one arm.

And I'd still lost count of how many times I'd ended up on the floor.

It wasn't particularly glamorous preparation for a pay-per-view match.

But it was practical.

Waylon Creek was bigger than me. He was stronger than me. And if I made the mistake of thinking I could stand in front of him and exchange punches until one of us fell over, I had a fairly good idea which one of us would be doing the falling.

I'd already had a demonstration of that.

I didn't need another.

By the time I pulled into the driveway, every muscle in my legs was complaining, my shoulders felt like somebody had tried to remove them, and I was seriously considering whether it was possible to persuade somebody to carry me from the car to the front door.

Unfortunately, nobody was waiting outside to volunteer.

I managed it myself. Barely.

The house was quiet when I stepped inside, which was becoming one of my favorite things about it. After years of hotel rooms, arenas, airports, and the occasional period of living somewhere that felt less like a home and more like a temporary arrangement, there was something wonderfully reassuring about coming back to a place that was ours.

Even if I still couldn't find anything in the kitchen.

That was Ravyn's fault.

Technically, I'd unpacked most of it myself. I'd put things in cupboards, arranged the plates and glasses, found what seemed like perfectly sensible homes for everything we owned.

Then Ravyn had come along and reorganized it.

Apparently, my perfectly sensible arrangement had violated several principles of kitchen efficiency that I hadn't known existed.

I still wasn't entirely sure where she'd put the mugs.

I found her sitting at the kitchen island, looking at her laptop with the kind of concentration that usually meant somebody, somewhere, was about to discover they'd made a terrible mistake.

“Hey,” I said.

She looked up.

“Hello, darling.”

She smiled.

Then she looked me up and down.

“Goodness.”

I stopped. “What?”

“You appear to have survived.”

“Barely.”

“An encouraging start.”

I dropped my gym bag beside the door and walked toward the refrigerator.

“Training went well.”

“Did it?”

“Really well, actually. Surprisingly easy.”

Ravyn raised an eyebrow. “Easy?”

“Yeah.”

“You appear to be having some difficulty walking.”

“That's different.” I opened the refrigerator, stared at its contents for a few seconds, and realized I hadn't decided what I wanted. “I mean I didn't have to make myself do any of it. Normally there's a point where you start thinking you've done enough, and you have to talk yourself into carrying on. Didn't happen once.”

“Ah.”

“What?”

“So, the training was exceptionally difficult, but persuading yourself to continue suffering required very little effort.”

I turned toward her. “Exactly!”

“How reassuring.”

I found a bottle of water and closed the refrigerator. “You should be pleased. I'm preparing properly.”

“I'm delighted. Although I suspect your definition of properly may differ somewhat from mine.”

I took a drink. “I've been working with bigger guys. A lot of defensive stuff. Getting out of holds, avoiding corners, finding ways to create space when somebody's trying to turn me into a human projectile.”

“A worthwhile endeavor.”

“And I'm not trying to outmuscle him. I'm not an idiot.”

“I have never suggested otherwise.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I think a great many things, Zoe. Most of which I have the courtesy not to say aloud.”

I smiled.

Then made the mistake of leaning against the counter with my sore shoulder.

“Ow.”

Ravyn glanced at me. “Easy training?”

“Shut up.”

She smiled faintly. “You know, I have no particular objection to you using your anger as motivation.”

I looked at her. “There's a but coming.”

“There usually is.”

“Go on.”

She closed her laptop. “I merely hope you remember that William Heaven is also counting on you being angry.”

I sighed. “I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, Ravyn. I know what happened at Breakdown. He wanted me distracted, and I got distracted. He wanted me to come running backstage, and I did. I'm not pretending I handled any of that particularly well.”

“You were concerned about me.”

“I was scared something was going to happen to you.”

“An understandable reaction.”

“Yeah, well, apparently it's also a predictable one.” I looked down at the bottle in my hand. “And that's what annoys me. He's counting on me getting so angry I stop thinking. Like he already knows exactly what I'm going to do before I do it.”

Ravyn watched me. “And does he?”

I thought about that. “Not anymore.”

She smiled. “Good.”

I took another drink. “I'm still angry, though.”

“I would be rather concerned if you weren't.”

“And I'm still going to want to punch Creek in the face when I see him.”

“Again, hardly surprising.”

“But I'm not going to spend the whole match chasing him around trying to get revenge. I know I can't afford to do that. He's too big, and he's too dangerous.”

“Then I would suggest you've learned something useful from the experience.”

“I learn things occasionally.”

“I've always maintained that you have the capacity.”

“You're so supportive.”

“One of my many excellent qualities.”

I laughed, then glanced toward the living room.

The sofa looked incredibly inviting.

So did the thought of sitting down and not moving for several hours.

Unfortunately, I still had things I wanted to do.

“I should probably watch some more footage tonight,” I said. “There's a couple of things I wanted to look at before Sunday.”

Ravyn studied me. “You could.”

I looked at her suspiciously. “That sounded like a trap.”

“Did it?”

“You're about to tell me to rest.”

“I was considering suggesting that you eat something first.”

“Oh.”

“Although resting might also be beneficial, considering you currently resemble somebody who's been thrown down a flight of stairs.”

“That's basically what training was.”

“An unusual endorsement.”

I smiled.

She looked at me for a moment, then closed her laptop completely.

“You do realize there's another reason I'd prefer you not to get yourself seriously injured at Apocalypse?”

“Because you love me?”

“Naturally. But also because I have plans for Sunday.”

I frowned. “Sunday?”

“November first.”

“I know when Apocalypse is.”

Ravyn gave me a look. “Your birthday, Zoe.”

I blinked. “Oh.”

Her smile widened. “Yes. Oh.”

“I knew that.”

“Clearly.”

“I've just had a lot going on.”

“So I've noticed.”

I considered that for a moment. “Thirty-seven.”

“Indeed.”

“I'm getting old.”

“How tragic.”

“You could pretend to disagree.”

“Would you find that convincing?”

“Probably not.”

She laughed. “For what it's worth, I think you're aging rather well.”

“Rather well?”

“Exceptionally, if you'd prefer.”

“Much better.”

“Although I do wish you'd find a less hazardous way to celebrate.”

I grinned. “What, you don't think getting beaten up by a giant man is a good birthday activity?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Well, it's a little late to change the plans now.”

“Then I shall simply have to hope you remain sufficiently functional to enjoy mine.”

I looked at her. “What plans?”

“Birthday plans.”

“Yes, I got that part.”

“Then we're making progress.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Is Lexy involved?”

Ravyn hesitated.

That was worrying.

“Ravyn.”

“I've given her certain instructions.”

“Oh, God.”

“I wouldn't be overly concerned.”

“You say that like you've never met her.”

“I've met her rather more often than I'd prefer.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Primarily what not to do.”

“That's not reassuring.”

“It wasn't intended to be.”

I stared at her.

She smiled sweetly.

I was fairly certain that whatever Lexy was planning, I'd be finding out about it whether I wanted to or not.

But that was Sunday's problem.

For now, my legs hurt, my shoulders hurt, and the woman I loved was sitting a few feet away looking considerably more appealing than another two hours of studying Waylon Creek.

I glanced toward the living room again.

“You know what?”

“What?”

“The footage can wait.”

Ravyn raised an eyebrow. “A sensible decision. Are you sure you’re feeling well?”

“I'm exhausted.”

“I'd noticed.”

“And I think I'd rather spend the rest of the evening with you.”

Her expression softened. “Well, that can certainly be arranged.”

I held out my hand. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“The sofa. I'm going to sit down, you're going to sit with me, and we're going to watch something that doesn't involve anybody trying to murder me.”

“An ambitious selection criterion, given your usual viewing habits.”

“Then you can pick.”

“How generous.”

She took my hand and got up.

A few minutes later, I was curled up beside her on the sofa, with my head resting against her shoulder and one arm wrapped comfortably around her. She'd put something on television, although I hadn't paid enough attention to know what it was.

For once, I didn't particularly care.

Apocalypse was coming. Waylon Creek wasn't going to become any smaller between now and Sunday, and William Heaven wasn't going to suddenly abandon whatever game he was playing simply because I'd decided I didn't want to participate.

I knew all of that.

I also knew that no amount of worrying was going to change what had happened at Breakdown.

But none of it was happening tonight.

Tonight, I was home.

Ravyn was beside me, the baby was fine, and for the first time in days, I wasn't particularly interested in being anywhere else.

Thirty-seven was starting to look like a pretty good age to be.

Assuming I survived the birthday party.

To Be Continued…

Courtesy of Zoe Sperling’s Blog—

You know what's funny?

I won on Breakdown.

I know, right? Apparently, that's news to some people, considering how little anybody's talked about it since.

I went out there against Oskar Theron, somebody I knew was going to give me a fight, and that's exactly what he did. He's talented, he's creative, and he came into that match with every intention of beating me. I knew I couldn't afford to underestimate him, and I didn't.

And then, right when things were getting interesting, William Heaven decided that everybody needed to watch his little backstage performance.

Suddenly, there's Ravyn on the screen. There's William Heaven, walking into the room where she's sitting. And there's me, trying to concentrate on the man standing in front of me while wondering what the hell is happening to the woman I love.

Which, presumably, was the idea.

Congratulations, William. Very clever.

And for a moment, it nearly worked.

Oskar tried to take advantage of the distraction. He went for the choke, he thought he had me, and I wouldn't blame anybody for thinking that was going to be the end of the match.

Except it wasn't.

Because even with everything happening around me, even with somebody deliberately trying to make me lose focus, I still found a way out.

I reversed the situation, caught Oskar in a pinning combination, and the referee counted one, two, three.

I won.

And somehow, that became the least important thing that happened to me that night.

Which brings me to something I've been thinking about a lot lately.

Do you have any idea how many people have looked at me over the years and seen an opportunity? Not an opponent. Not another wrestler trying to win the same match they're trying to win. An opportunity.

Beat Syren, and suddenly you're somebody.

Beat Syren, and maybe somebody in an office starts paying attention to you.

Beat Syren, and maybe you get a championship opportunity, or a better spot on the card, or somebody finally decides you're worth talking about.

I've been somebody else's shortcut to success for so long that I could practically put it on a business card.

Eight-time World Champion. SCW legend. Convenient career advancement opportunity.

And you know what?

Most of the time, I can live with that.

I understand how this business works. I know what my name means. I know what I've accomplished, and I know that beating somebody with my history means something to people who haven't accomplished those things yet.

That's part of wrestling.

If you're standing across the ring from me and you want to prove you're better than me, good. You're supposed to want that.

Just understand that I want to win, too.

The problem comes when somebody decides that I'm not really a person at all. I'm just something they can use. A name on a list. A reputation they can exploit. Somebody they can knock down to make whatever point they were planning to make before I even entered the picture.

And lately, I've had more than enough of that.

Frank Delatosso spent months trying to convince people I was finished. That my best days were behind me. That everything I'd accomplished was ancient history, and that anybody with a future in this business ought to be looking past me.

He brought people into my life who were perfectly happy to help him prove it.

Gavin Taylor was supposed to be another reminder that I wasn't good enough anymore.

Bree Lancaster was supposed to be the woman who finally exposed me.

Remember how that worked out?

I beat Gavin.

I beat Bree at Rise to Greatness.

And then I went out on Breakdown and beat Oskar Theron, too.

That's three victories that seem to have become terribly inconvenient for the people who've been telling me I'm yesterday's news.

So, forgive me if I'm getting a little tired of being treated like somebody else's prop.

Because now we've got William Heaven. And Waylon Creek. And apparently, they've decided to take the whole thing one step further.

See, at least when somebody wants to make their name by beating me, they're admitting that beating me matters. At least I'm the person they're trying to get to.

But you two?

You've decided I'm not even worth being the destination.

I'm just the route.

You come after me because you want to get to Ravyn. You threaten Ravyn because you want to get to Alex. And somewhere along the way, you expect me to do exactly what you want because you've figured out that threatening somebody I love is a pretty effective way of making me angry.

Well, congratulations.

You figured it out.

I love my partner. I love our children. And when a man the size of Waylon Creek corners my pregnant partner and puts his hand on her stomach while threatening our unborn baby, I'm going to get angry.

That isn't some brilliant discovery, William.

That's being human.

And you don't get to congratulate yourself for understanding something that obvious.

I know what happened at Breakdown. I know you wanted me to see you approaching Ravyn. I know you wanted me distracted. And I know Creek was waiting for me when I came backstage.

You got exactly the reaction you were looking for.

I'm not going to pretend otherwise.

But there's something you seem to have forgotten.

Just because you can provoke somebody doesn't mean you control everything they do afterward.

And now I've had time to think.

I've had time to look at what happened, to look at what you're trying to accomplish, and to realize that whatever your ultimate problem with Alex happens to be, it doesn't actually have anything to do with me.

I don't know what you want from him.

I don't know what you think threatening his family, his friends, or anybody connected to him is going to achieve.

And frankly, I'm not particularly interested in helping you find out.

Whatever problem you've got with Alex, take it up with Alex.

I'm not his spokesperson.

I'm not his representative.

And I'm sure as hell not some convenient object you get to break because you think it'll make him upset.

I'm not somebody else's message.

Not yours. Not Frank's. Not anybody's.

And Waylon?

That brings us to you.

Because while your manager's busy trying to turn everybody around Alex into pieces on some ridiculous chessboard, you're the man who's actually got to step into the ring with me at Apocalypse. And I want you to understand something.

I'm not going to stand here and pretend you aren't dangerous.

You're bigger than me. You're stronger than me. You hit me once when I wasn't expecting it, and I spent the rest of that night wondering whether my jaw was ever going to forgive me.

So congratulations.

You proved you can hurt me.

But here's the thing.

Hurting me isn't the same as beating me.

You want to know how I know?

Because I've been doing this for a very long time, Waylon. I've been hit by people bigger than me. I've been thrown around by people stronger than me. I've been beaten bloody, I've been left lying in the ring, and I've had plenty of people tell me I should've known better than to think I could stand up to somebody like them.

And yet, here I am.

Eight World Championships.

More years in this business than some of the people trying to tell me how it works have even been wrestling.

And still winning.

You might be able to overpower me. I'm not stupid enough to pretend otherwise. If you get your hands on me, I know exactly how unpleasant things could become.

But this isn't a competition to see who can lift the heaviest weight.

It's a wrestling match.

And I've spent an awful lot of my life learning how to win those.

You can hit harder than me. You can throw me farther than I can throw you. You can look down at me and think there's no possible way a woman my size should be able to beat somebody like you.

You wouldn't be the first person to make that mistake.

And if William Heaven's told you that all you need to do is make me angry enough to forget how to wrestle, I'd suggest you ask him how well that worked on Breakdown.

Because I was distracted.

I was frightened.

I was furious.

And I still won.

That's what you're getting at Apocalypse.

Not somebody who's going to forget everything she's learned because you've made her angry.

Not somebody who's going to sacrifice herself to make a point to Alex.

And definitely not somebody who's going to lie down and let you use her to get whatever it is you and William Heaven are actually after.

You're getting Syren.

And I'm going to be angry, Waylon. I'm not even going to pretend otherwise.

But I'm also going to be ready.

I know what you can do to me.

What I don't think you understand yet is what I can do to you.

So, if William Heaven wanted Alex's attention, perhaps he should've picked up the phone.

Because now you've got mine.

And at Apocalypse, you're going to find out exactly why that was a mistake.

Be totally jealous.

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