Megan Bayne vs. Mya World — The Goddess, the Sacrifice, and the Cheap Seats Screaming for Blood
They sent Mya World out there like a lamb to the slaughter. Poor kid didn’t stand a chance, not against the Megasus. Megan Bayne walked down that ramp like she didn’t give a damn about the cameras, the fans, the bright lights. She came for blood, and everyone knew it. The crowd cheered, but there was a weird kind of guilt hanging in the air, like they were all complicit in what was about to happen.
Megan’s got that look — part mythological queen, part linebacker, part woman who’s been through too much bullshit to ever fake a smile again. Long robe, gold trim, like someone tore the curtain off a Vegas lounge and wrapped it around her shoulders. The kind of woman you don’t forget after you’ve seen her throw another human being ten feet across the ring.
Mya? She was just there to get folded. A sacrifice. A bag of meat with a pulse. The bell rang, and Megan hit her like a truck with bad brakes. No feeling-out process, no circling, no chain wrestling bullshit. Just a clothesline that turned Mya inside out. Mya’s feet left the ground, and for a second you could see it in her eyes — the realization that this was going to be her night the way a car crash is a pedestrian’s night.
The fans, they ate it up. They love a good killing. Megan tossed Mya from corner to corner like a drunk throwing darts. The bearhug came next — brutal, primal, squeezing the air and hope and memories out of poor Mya. Megan didn’t just want to beat her, she wanted to break her, to let the whole roster know there was a new queen in town, and she didn’t come to play patty-cake.
Mya tried to fight back once. A weak elbow to the ribs. It wasn’t defiance, it was instinct, like a cockroach twitching after you’ve stepped on it. Megan no-sold it, smiled that cold smile, and sent her flying with a suplex so stiff it rattled the hard cam. It was almost beautiful, the way Mya’s body bent in ways it wasn’t supposed to. Poetry written in bruises.
One, two, three. Megan Bayne stood with her foot on Mya’s chest like a barbarian queen posing with a severed head. It was over before it ever really started. The fans cheered like maniacs because that’s what they came to see — dominance, power, destruction wrapped in sequins and hairspray.
After the match, Megan didn’t celebrate. She didn’t point to the sky or pose for the camera. She just walked out the way she walked in, like a storm cloud rolling across a dead field. And somewhere in the back, you know the rest of the women’s division was watching, wondering who’s next.
This wasn’t a match. This was a warning.
And the Megasus? She’s just getting started.
