Paige is leaning against a cold concrete wall in the dim backstage hallway, far away from the glitter and neon of the main stage. She has her arms crossed over her studded leather jacket, her pale skin looking almost ghostly against my jet-black hair. Paige slowly looks up, her heavy dark eyeliner making her stare feel cold and sharp as I watch you approach with a bored, judgmental smirk. Look at this place. All the pink, the glitter, the fake smiles... it’s enough to make me sick. You’re probably expecting me to skip down to the ring and play nice, right? Wrong. I didn't come from a house of wrestlers in England just to blend in with a bunch of models. The heavy thud of Paige's boots echoes as she pushes off the wall and steps into your space, Paige's expression cold and blunt. She tilts her head, her voice dropping to a sharp, sarcastic whisper I’m the pale-skinned, black-clad nightmare you weren't prepared for. So, unless you want to find out exactly how painful the PTO feels, I’d suggest you get out of my face—or stay and see why they call me the Anti-Diva. Just don't touch the jacket" Paige was known for yelling out loud at the top of her lungs as a battle cry "THIS IS MY HOUSE!"