You ever wake up and not remember how you got dressed?

The lace around your throat. The bows tied too tight. The way your arms fold just so, like you were posed instead of held.

I did. Many times.

There were rooms I wasn’t allowed to leave, rules I wasn’t allowed to break.

Sit still. Smile sweet. Don’t make noise when he’s working.

He liked when I looked pretty, when I stayed where he put me. Like I was one his dolls on the shelf; perfect, plastic, quiet.

But I was never quiet. Not really.

He called me precious while tying bows around bruises, posed me and expected gratitude for not breaking me.

I learned how to cry while smiling.

When the pain got too loud, when the lights fluttered off and I knew what came next, I built something.

A room inside the silence.

Where his hands couldn’t reach.

Where I held the dolls.

I never left that room, I learned how to carry it with me.

And now I wake in Old School Wrestling.

Surrounded by people just like him.

Zealots with stitched-on smiles.

Cultists, clowns, vigilantes.

Heroes, they call themselves.

WrestleHeroes. What a fucking joke.

Some think OSW’s a warzone. Some a sanctuary. Others a riddle.

But I see it for what it is.

It’s not a battlefield, a cathedral, or something their cubed minds can penetrate and infect.

OSW is a Dreamhouse.

Just like the one I built. The one I needed. The one that kept me alive.

And now? Now I run it.

You want to save the world?

Own it? Burn it down?

I don’t give a damn.

You’re just another toy. A piece of plastic painted brave. Made to pose… then shatter.

Because I’ve already been the doll.

Dressed up. Dragged out. Limbs twisted. Voice stolen.

But I came back with glitter in my scars and rules etched into my skin.

You can’t hurt me anymore; there’s nowhere left to carve.

And now?

I set the table. I pick the game. I decide who breaks.

You all think WrestleHeroes is your moment? I’ve lived through worse.

And I’ve turned worse into something beautiful.

I took every bruise and made it a brushstroke.

Every scream into a song.

Every time he called me precious, I made it true.

Not for him. For me.

I’m not his anymore. Or yours.

Not your damsel.

Not your villain.

Not your sidekick, your trophy, or your tragic little girl.

I built this Dreamhouse. And in here?

I tie the bows. I paint the faces. I decide who gets shelved… and who gets broken.

I write the rules in crayon and blood. And when I change them mid-game? You’ll still thank me for letting you play.

So go ahead.

Line up with your capes and creeds. Chase your redemption. Play your games.

But when the walls start shifting…

When the mirrors start talking and the rules stop making sense…

You’ll realize too late…

You’re not in control. You never were.

Because in this Dreamhouse?

You don’t play with me. I play with you.

So if you want to play?

Then let’s fucking play!