Backstage, far from the roar of the arena, the lights flicker in a storage corridor that hasn’t seen use in weeks. In the middle of the hallway, a single children’s swing creaks back and forth—suspended from unseen chains bolted into the ceiling. Alexa Bliss sits there, legs swaying gently, her head tilted, pigtails uneven and streaked with faded pink and blue. Her eyes are distant, locked in an imaginary world only she and her doll can see. In her hands rests Lilly—the cloth-faced horror with jagged teeth and soulless button eyes. Alexa whispers to her, giggles, then suddenly freezes mid-sentence.

A long silence.

Then a smile spreads across her lips. Not joyful. Knowing.

As if Lilly just told her a secret. One that shouldn't be heard by anyone still breathing.

The lights flicker again.

She keeps swinging.