It started the way these things always do—microphones and bullshit. Liv Morgan standing there, all fire and glitter, talking louder than her body could cash. She had Raquel beside her, a human wall, the muscle to back up the mouth. And Michael Cole, that poor bastard, caught in the middle like some worn-out bartender who’s heard every bad pickup line and every dumb bar fight excuse a hundred times before.
“Did you two take out Jade Cargill?” Cole asked, like a man who knew the answer before he even opened his mouth.
Liv didn’t even blink. She said no—then, faster than a drunk spinning around on a barstool, she said maybe. Maybe they did. Maybe they didn’t. Maybe Jade deserved it. Who cares? Jade’s not here, but Liv’s still standing, still holding gold. The crowd booed. Liv fed off it. She wanted them angry. She was damn near begging for it.
Then the world turned sideways.
Bianca Belair came stomping down the ramp, no boots, no socks, just bare feet on cold concrete like she crawled out of bed ready to kill someone. It’s always the ones with no shoes you gotta worry about—they’ve already given up on dignity. Michael Cole took one look at Bianca, said to hell with it, and got out of there like a man who knows when the shots are about to fly. Smart man.
Bianca hit Liv like a car crash, and the whole thing went to hell. Naomi came flying in behind her, Bayley hot on her heels, and suddenly SmackDown was a dive bar on Saturday night—hair pulling, cheap shots, bodies flying. Alexa Bliss was off to the side, watching it all like some ghost that hadn’t made up her mind if she was haunting the place or just passing through.
Liv screamed like a banshee who couldn’t decide if she was in pain or just pissed off. Raquel tried to play bouncer, but there’s only so much you can do when the fists are already flying. Even Roxanne Perez got dragged into the mess, her face a mix of confusion and regret, like a rookie who accidentally walked into the wrong bar and ordered milk.
And through it all, Liv kept screaming. About Jade. About the titles. About how she didn’t miss anyone, especially not Jade. The words didn’t matter. It was the tone, the volume, the sheer desperation of someone who knows the truth is closing in, and the only way out is to yell louder than the facts.
By the time the dust settled, nobody looked good. Not Liv, not Raquel, not Bianca with her bare-ass feet. It was chaos for the sake of chaos. The kind of thing WWE calls a “moment” and the rest of us just call Tuesday night.
And somewhere, Jade Cargill was probably watching, feet up, smile wide, thinking: All I gotta do is show up, and these idiots are finished.
But for now, it’s Liv and Raquel’s mess to clean up. And if they’ve got any sense left, they’ll watch their backs—and their throats—because the shoeless killer is still out there, and she’s just getting started.
