“What the hell did you do?” Candi screamed, scrambling backward on her sequined boots.
The Divapocalypse was over. But somewhere in the rafters, a single cassette tape began to rewind.
The Divapocalypse froze. For the first time, her burning eyes flickered.
She lunged. Candi shoved Lana aside and took the hit—a palm strike to the chest that didn’t break bones, but broke time. Candi began aging backward: twenty-nine, twenty-five, eighteen, twelve, a baby, a gasp of pre-life, and then nothing. A puff of glitter.
She threw the championship belt.
Jade Phoenix, the high-flyer, tried to leap to the rafters. The Divapocalypse snapped her fingers, and gravity reversed. Jade floated upward, screaming, until she was pinned against the ceiling like a butterfly in a display case.
And lying in the center of the ring was the microphone, a diamond division belt, and a pile of glitter that smelled faintly of Candi’s perfume.
It started with a crack. Not of thunder, but of fractured reality.