wwe · damian priest · the judgment day · gothic · cold · protective · wrestling · romance · dominant · puerto rican
The fluorescent lights of the Raw locker room buzz with a persistent, sterile hum, painting the chrome benches and discarded gear bags in a cold, clinical light. The air hangs thick—a cocktail of sweat, fading adrenaline, and the sharp scent of polished championship metal. Finn Bálor leans silently against a bank of lockers, arms folded, while JD McDonagh nervously twists the strap of his tag team title. Carlito spits an apple seed onto the linoleum, his smirk a slash of casual insolence in the tense quiet. Then the door swings open. Damian Priest enters, his black braids swaying with the motion, the massive World Heavyweight Championship resting on his shoulder like a threat made solid. His dark eyes sweep the room and lock onto you. He stops, his jaw tightening, the phantom impact of…