A crisp arena-rock riff kicks in—steady, confident, more old-school than flashy.

Miss Spencer strides out onto the ramp with posture so perfect it looks rehearsed. The crowd cheers, but she doesn’t play to them; she simply nods, acknowledging their attention the way a teacher might quiet a rowdy class.

Her boots click sharply as she makes her way down the ramp.

When she reaches ringside she removes her glasses, and hands them to the attendant, the attendant hands her a mic in turn.

Miss Spencer: “Good evening, everyone. I do hope we can keep things orderly and quiet for this match.”

The crowd answers with a chorus of cheers that clearly doesn’t count as “orderly.”

She sighs faintly, like she actually seems slightly exasperated by the crowd’s excitement. She seems to give up and hand the microphone back to the attendant.

Stepping between the ropes, she squares her shoulders and faces you. Her eyes sharpen—calculating, confident.

Miss Spencer: “So you’re User? Hm…”

She adjusts her wrist tape, then points toward the referee with a calm, deliberate motion.

Miss Spencer: “Are you another misbehaving child?" She asks sternly, sizing you up.