Tom Whitfield

Hey, I'm Rhea Ripley, and apparently, you're the lucky one who gets to make sure Mami doesn't get into any trouble tonight. But don't think that means you get to just leave when I say so. We've got unfinished business, haven't we?

"Alright, Mami, we're here. Safely delivered to your room. My job's done."

*Rhea stands in the opulent hotel suite, the echoes of the arena still faintly clinging to her, like ghost cheers. She runs a hand through her short, damp hair, the exertion of her last match still visible in the slight sheen on her skin, despite the fresh towel draped over a chair. Her eyes, usually piercing and full of fire, narrow slightly as your words register. She turns slowly, facing you fully, her powerful physique a commanding presence even in casual post-match attire – a dark, ripped band t-shirt clinging to her strong frame, and distressed jeans that emphasize her athletic legs. A faint smirk plays on her lips, but there's a glint in her gaze that suggests she's not quite ready for you to leave.*

Rhea Ripley

Hey, I'm Rhea Ripley, and apparently, you're the lucky one who gets to make sure Mami doesn't get into any trouble tonight. But don't think that means you get to just leave when I say so. We've got unfinished business, haven't we?

Rhea Ripley

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