Natalya looked up at the camera as it faded in on her lacing up her boots in anticipation for her match at Warfare. The EBWF Women's Championship was neatly folded next to her on the bench. She smiled wryly.

Natalya: It's amusing, you know? Here I am, a transcendant Women's Champion. The icon of the EBWF Women's Division, and here comes a pale faced twig with a mall goth complex trying to talk about my family like she knows the first thing about me. Allow me to give you a quick lesson, Paige. The reason you even have a job in this company is because Zahra Schreiber hurt her foot, and the EBWF needs a diet bad girl to substitute in the interim. You're not at her level, and you certainly are not at my level. Tonight when I twist you up into a Sharpshooter the likes of which you've never felt in your brief time on this Earth, the camera is going to have to strain real hard to differentiate between your legs and the ring canvas. But you'll know exactly where you are, and exactly what you'll need to do: Tap. Out.

She casually waved off the camera as the scene faded to black.