Dexter Grant vs. Kimberly Williams

[The Matt]

2 of 2
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January 26th, 2026
Boston, Massachusetts
Off Camera
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The workout area occupied an entire wing of Angelica Jones’s estate, jokingly nicknamed “Purgatory”; Kimberly had been here before and had used this facility before, so it is nothing new to her. When preparing for the challenge coming up, the Semi-Finals and, hopefully finals, of Shot of Adrenaline, Kimberly trusts her mother’s facility immensely. This place, Purgatory, is a cavernous space that felt less like part of a private home and more like a private training facility built for obsession and endurance. The ceiling soared high overhead, reinforced with exposed steel beams and industrial lighting that cast a bright, uncompromising glow across the room. Large mirrors lined one wall, already fogged and streaked from heat and effort, reflecting movement in sharp, unforgiving detail. The faint hum of climate control blended with the dull rhythmic thud of impact echoing through the space, a sound that had settled into the walls themselves. At the center of the room stood a regulation sized professional wrestling ring, its presence commanding and unmistakable. The canvas was stretched tight and pristine, marked only by the faintest signs of use. Thick black ropes framed the ring, pulled taut and solid, their surfaces slightly dulled from repeated contact. Steel steps rested at one corner, their edges scuffed and worn, while a cluster of folding chairs sat stacked neatly nearby, waiting for a purpose that had not yet arrived. The ring lights above were switched on, bathing the platform in a clean white glow that contrasted with the darker shadows of the surrounding space.

Along one side of the room, heavy bags hung from reinforced mounts, swaying subtly with each blow they absorbed. Their surfaces were cracked and creased from years of punishment, leather darkened by sweat and use. Mats covered sections of the floor, thick and resilient, offering just enough give beneath pounding feet. Racks of weights lined the far wall, organized with meticulous care, while jump ropes, resistance bands, and gloves were arranged in neat rows as if someone insisted on order even in a place built for chaos. Kimberly Williams moved through the space with focused intensity, her body already slick with sweat. She wore a fitted black sports bra and loose training shorts that fell mid thigh, the fabric darkened in places from exertion. Her hands were wrapped tightly in white athletic tape, knuckles protected, wrists supported, the wraps frayed slightly at the edges from repeated use. Scuffed training shoes grounded her, soles squeaking faintly against the mat with each shift of weight. Her red hair was pulled back into a high, messy ponytail, curls escaping freely and sticking to the damp skin of her neck. Her face was flushed, jaw clenched, eyes sharp and fixed on the heavy bag in front of her. Each strike landed with controlled violence, punches and kicks delivered with practiced precision. The bag swung under the force, chains rattling softly overhead before settling again, only to be driven back with another relentless impact. There was something raw and unfiltered in the way Kimberly trained. This was not performance or display. It was release. Her movements were powerful but tense, driven by something deeper than physical conditioning. Sweat traced paths down her arms and spine, muscles flexing and tightening beneath her skin. With every blow, she seemed to carve out a moment of clarity, a brief escape from the pressure that clung to her even here.

The door at the far end of the training area opened quietly. Lucian entered without announcement, the controlled click of the door nearly swallowed by the steady rhythm of Kimberly’s strikes. He stepped inside with measured calm, the bright lights reflecting faintly off the polished floor as he moved forward. He was dressed in dark tailored slacks and a crisp button down shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. The absence of a jacket only emphasized his composure, as though even in a space designed for sweat and strain he refused to surrender precision. His shoes were clean and immaculate, an odd contrast against the scuffed mats and industrial equipment. His dark hair was styled as carefully as ever, untouched by the heat of the room. He looked out of place and perfectly in control all at once, a man who did not need to adapt to dominate his surroundings. Lucian paused just inside the training area, watching her in silence. His presence did not disrupt the space immediately, yet it altered it all the same. The air seemed to tighten, the echoes of her strikes growing sharper, more pronounced. He observed the way she moved, the power in her frame, the tension coiled in every muscle. His expression remained unreadable, eyes steady and intent as he took in the scene. Kimberly continued her workout, though something in her posture subtly shifted. Her strikes grew a fraction harder, her breathing more pronounced, as if her body had registered his arrival before her mind fully acknowledged it. Sweat dripped from her chin, splattering dark spots onto the mat below. The heavy bag swung wildly now, chains creaking in protest as she drove into it again and again. The wrestling ring loomed nearby, silent and waiting, its pristine canvas untouched by the chaos unfolding beside it. The mirrors reflected the contrast between them. Kimberly, raw and exerted, stripped of pretense and dressed for combat. Lucian, composed and immaculate, standing apart from the sweat and violence as though he ruled it without ever needing to participate.

Lucian begins applauding, slow and methodically, like a sarcastic golf clap. Kimberly instantly stops going to town on the heavy bag long enough to turn and glare angrily at the man she disdains, the man who is blackmailing her. A sly grin is on Lucian’s face.

“Very good, Kimberly. Very good, indeed.” He chuckles softly. “It appears as if you really are taking Shot of Adrenaline seriously.”

“Of course I am.” Kim snorts. “I go out there and I enjoy myself, I entertain the fans, but I do take my craft very seriously. And after what The Not So Nice Mr. D said about me, after the crap Polly Pancake pulled on Breakdown, and simply because I still want to tear Dexter Grant’s spinal chord from his fucking body, I am fully locked in and ready to win this Shot of Adrenaline Tournament.”

“The good thing about your semi-finals opponent is that you CAN beat him.” Lucian points out. “You beat him at Rise To Greatness. Yes, he beat you at Apocalypse, but that’s not important. You are one of two people who have figured out the formula to defeating him one on one. You can do it again.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know that.” Kim snaps back. “I’ll be ready for him and whoever comes next, whether it’s Polly Pancake or Deanna. That’s why I’m here.” She arches her brow out of curiosity. “Hey, speaking of which, why are YOU here? This is my mom’s private workout area. She could walk in at any time and…”

“...and not think anything of it.” Lucian remarks. “She knows we are working together now. Besides, I’m sure you could come up with a nice excuse if she were to walk in on us having a private meeting.”

“That’s not the point.” Kim shakes her head. “Why are you here? Are you seriously here just to talk shop about SCW?”

“Why not?” Lucian smirks knowingly. “You are a valuable asset to me and I want to make certain you are a success. Speaking of which, there are certain factors in SCW that are impediments to your success, correct? Mr. Delatosso being chief among them.”

“Yeah, The Not So Nice Mr. D…” Kim’s voice trails off “...what are you getting at?”

“I could take care of him for you.”

“Wait, what?” Kim furrows her brow. “You mean…you’re blackmailing me for murder and now you suggest…”

“Oh Kimberly…” he chuckles softly “...not everything is about violence. Do not assume that I am going straight for the murder option like you would. I am a very wealthy and very influential man. When I say I could take care of Mr. Delatosso for you, I am suggesting that, at the very least, I could get him off of your back. In fact, I could even convince him to become a fan of yours. Money, power, and influence speaks volumes, Kimberly.” He approaches Kim and places a hand on her shoulder. “Believe it or not, I AM trying to help you.”

“Bullshit!” She swipes his hand away. “You have been trying to change me and control my life! I dipped my toe into real estate to HELP PEOPLE but now you have taken control of that and turned it into a typical money making scheme. Your mere influence and presence has already begun to damage my relationships. My boyfriend doesn’t trust you and…” she sighs “...I’m not sure he trusts me anymore…”

“Mr. Wasley will come around and even if he doesn’t, a woman like you can definitely do better than that fat slob.”

“I don’t want better!” Kim exclaims. “I want Tommy!”

“Kimberly, my dear, you need to quit being so pessimistic. Try and look at the bright side. You look at this as me blackmailing and controlling you but face it, I am HELPING you. I am going to increase the profit of your real estate business tenfold. I will do my level best to get Mr. Delatosso off your back. And that’s just mere hint of what the Floreschu Family power and influence is capable of.”

“There is nothing you can offer me that I want.” Kim shakes her head in defiance.

“Are you quite certain of that?” Lucian smirks knowingly. “This family is very wealthy and influential. Our money can buy you almost anything. For someone who prides herself on being a psychopath, I have noticed that justice is something you value. Perhaps there is an injustice that you think needs to be taken care of?”

The Woman Scorned is ready to lash out, to once again defiantly tell him that she doesn’t want nor need his help. But then her mind drifts off and she thinks back to someone who did get away with an injustice, something that has bothered Kimberly for months.

“Grant Vito.”

“Who?”

“He is the figurehead of a secret society of sorts. The Athenian Fellowship is what they call themselves. Sorta like a social club for wealthy folks. Turns out its leadership was engaging in drug smuggling, dealing, and the like. Grant Vito is very influential too and managed to throw the rest of the leadership under the bus while he was just as involved, if not moreso, than the rest of them.” She rolls her eyes. “The Athenian Fellowship still operates and Grant Vito is still their leader, the remaining membership all deny knowledge of the crimes that were being committed but they’re lying. I know it. I am certain that entire organization was in on it.”

“So what you are saying is that you would like to see Mr. Vito and The Athenian Fellowship get brought down? Get brought to justice?”

Williams pauses for a moment. She does want to see them brought to justice. But accepting Lucian’s help feels like taking a bite of the forbidden fruit. It feels like betraying herself and her principles. Still, she wants justice to be done.

“Yeah…”

“Say no more.” Lucian remarks. “Consider it done.”

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January 31st, 2026
Phoenix, Arizona
On Camera
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The afternoon heat sits heavy over Phoenix, the kind that presses against the skin even in the shade, radiating up from the pavement in a slow shimmering haze. Chase Field rises behind her in sweeping curves of steel and glass, its massive presence both familiar and imposing, a modern coliseum planted firmly in the desert. Sunlight reflects off the stadium’s windows in sharp flashes, catching the eye and then slipping away, as if the building itself is breathing under the relentless Arizona sky.

Kimberly Williams stands out front, her red hair is pulled back loosely, strands escaping to catch the light and frame a face that looks more mischievous than polished. There is nothing delicate about the way she stands. Her posture is casual, feet planted firmly, shoulders easy, like she could stay there all day without a second thought. Her clothing reflects that same no nonsense ease. The fabric of her shirt is soft and worn, clinging just enough to suggest an athletic build shaped by years of physical punishment and discipline. Her jeans sit comfortably on her hips, broken in and practical, with scuffs that hint at real use rather than fashion. Sneakers complete the look, sturdy and familiar, made for movement rather than display. In her hands she holds a large penguin plushy, its black and white body comically oversized against her frame; her beloved pal Wasley. She grips it without tenderness, fingers dug slightly into its side. The penguin’s glassy eyes stare outward, unblinking, adding an odd layer of surreal humor to the scene.

Her face seals the effect. Kimberly wears a grin that does not quite sit right, stretched wide and sharp with a glint of something unhinged behind her eyes. It is the kind of smile that promises chaos, the kind that makes people uneasy without knowing why. There is a flicker of excitement there, almost manic, as if she is savoring the moment before everything explodes into motion. The grin does not waver. It feels practiced but not fake, something she can slip into as easily as breathing, a mask that reveals more than it hides.

“I told you sooooo…” Kim says in a sing song voice, a grin creeping across her face as she gazes down at Wasley “...didn’t I tell them, Wasley? I told them all but they didn’t believe me! Oh but I showed them all! I made them eat crow…not literal crow because that would be disgusting and probably get me in trouble with PETA. But I did make them eat their words that much is sure! Polly and I went to a draw, albeit with some shenanigans involved…I’ll get back to you in a moment, Polly. Then without any break or rest period I turned right back around and took on Kemal Yilmaz, my European Fiery Friend. Shadowblade. One, two, three. Victory and I punched my ticket to the semi-final of Shot of Adrenaline.” Kimberly taps her temple.

“Exactly as predicted.” Williams laughs, then suddenly stops herself. “Now let’s talk about something important, the one thing, other than chaos, that brought me to this dance; SPITE.” Kimberly sighs dreamily. “Yes, spite got me here. I didn’t want Shot of Adrenaline. Didn’t need it. Didn’t lose sleep over it. But the second doubt got involved? The second my name got dragged across a clipboard with a little question mark next to it?” The Woman Scorned snaps her fingers.

“Click. Spite flipped the switch. Spite carried me through Breakdown. Spite dragged me into the semi-finals kicking and screaming and laughing the whole way. And guess what?” She leans forward. “It’s not done.” She straightens up, voice rising with excitement.

“A Taste of Things To Come. Oh I love that! Chase Field! Phoenix, Arizona! Now Wasley here won’t particularly care for the desert environment of Phoenix because, well, he’s a penguin, but I think the big stadium, big lights, the big night where I win this whole tournament out of spite will make it all worth it for both of us. Yeah, it will be yet another double duty night for The Woman Scorned; semi-finals and finals on the same night, but lucky for me spite doesn’t get tired and neither do I.” The Queen of the Death Match cracks her knuckles.

“So let’s talk about the obstacle in front of me. Dexter Grant.” She pauses, squints. “Disconnect to reconnect. I don’t know what that means. I’ve tried. I really have. But I get the vibe. You hate the noise. You hate the scrolling. You hate the fake smiles and the hashtags and the dopamine drip.” She shrugs. “Honestly? I get it. Shot of Adrenaline is everything you hate. Loud. Flashy. Constant motion. Everyone screaming into the void. I understand why you want no part of it. Hell, I didn’t want anything to do with this tournament once upon a time until spite spoke to me and motivated me. Still, there is one big problem for you, Dexy-Poo.” She points a finger at the camera.

“You are standing in my way. We are tied up, one win apiece. I beat you at Rise To Greatness. You beat me at Apocalypse. And now? Rubber match. And Dorkster, I don’t need to reconnect with anything.” She taps her chest. “I’m perfectly in tune with myself…my psychotic, twisted, devilish self…and yeah, I still want to maim you. No philosophy. No symbolism. Just facts. Don’t worry about disconnecting Dorkster. I will disconnect you myself. Permanently.” She pauses. Breathes. Then smiles again, lighter this time.

“And then there’s the finals.” She clasps her hands together. “Polly Pingotti. Respect where it’s earned. You took a chair shot. You played games. You tested me. And I admire that. You’ll probably say that same old boring overused line about my so-called prestigious family. Go ahead, beat a dead horse Polly, no one cares. But you did test me, you showed me you have the guts, and I respect that.” Her smile turns dangerous. “But Polly? You don’t play games with the Queen of Chaos. A receipt is coming, Polly Pancake.” she pulls back, nodding.

“Or…” her expression softens again “..it could be Deanna Frost. Oh Deanna. You and me? We’ve danced this dance a lot. We went to war over the Underground Title. Battles. Wars. Close calls. Near misses. We even went to war together as a team. Remember that one? Revengers Assemble! And we renewed our little rivalry again in the round robin stage of this tournament. We have a lot of history. I can honestly say that I respect the hell out of you. I would gladly stand side by side and fight alongside you anytime.” Kim throws her head back dramatically and sighs.

“Alas there is one thing I have never done. I have never beaten you…just you…one on one, no excuses, no asterisk, no funny business.” She looks almost hopeful. “I want that, Deanna. I need that. So as much fun as it would be to gut Polly Pancake like a fish, it would be equally satisfying to FINALLY get a one on one victory over you. In doing so I would win back the Adrenaline Title. And you, Deanna, are the one and only person who I wouldn’t be fighting out of spite. Taking you on wouldn’t be motivated out of spite. It would be out of professional respect. If spite got me to the finals against you, would it be a mistake to drop that fuel, that motivation, and face you out of respect?” She shrugs her shoulders. “Maybe…but it doesn’t matter…you deserve the very best out of me and I intend to give you my very best if it does come down to you and I. So good luck, Deanna, I mean that, and I hope to see you in the final.”

“So whoever walks out of the finals to meet me…” she spreads her arms. “Polly with her chaos. Deanna with her legacy. Doesn’t matter.” She steps forward, eyes blazing. “Spite got me here. Spite will carry me through the semi-finals. And spite might just crown me at A Taste of Things To Come. And the best part? No one can stop me.”

The camera cuts as she starts laughing, unhinged and delighted, the sound echoing through the empty space.