Megan Bayne: Temptation in the Restroom Shadows

 

The roar of the crowd still echoed faintly through the concrete veins of the arena, like a memory refusing to die.

Megan Bayne walked with purpose through the backstage maze, past crewmembers, half-open crates, and blinking monitors displaying replays of her match—her victory. Her boots, caked with the dust of the ring, made soft thuds on the linoleum floor as she veered off the usual path to the women’s locker room. But Megan wasn’t headed there.

She had another place in mind.

The corridor that led to the arena’s old restrooms was dimly lit, tucked behind the forgotten catering zone and an unused freight elevator. No one used that part of the building anymore. Not officially. But to Megan, that hallway held weight.

Because that’s where she had first heard it.

The voice.

She hadn’t told anyone, of course. Who would believe her if she said she heard whispers in the women’s restroom when no one else was inside? A voice that didn’t belong. A low, raspy murmur that called her name not with menace… but with longing.

The first time, she’d chalked it up to exhaustion. A post-match haze. The second time, she’d stayed longer, pretending to fix her hair, watching in the mirror. Waiting. Listening. And when she heard it again, closer this time—“Megan… you’re not done yet…”—she felt something strange stir inside her. Not fear. Not exactly. But a deep, unsettling curiosity.

Tonight, she came alone.

Megan pushed the old restroom door open. It creaked in protest, the heavy kind that made you feel like the building itself was watching.

Fluorescent lights flickered to life overhead, humming steadily. The mirrors were cracked, the tile discolored, and the scent of industrial cleaner clung to the air like regret.

She stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind her.

Nothing.

She stared into the mirror above the middle sink. Her reflection was sharp—cheekbones still flushed from the match, a smear of blood drying at her temple. She tilted her head. Waited.

Then, just as she turned toward the stalls, she heard it.

A whisper.

“Megan…”

She froze.

It wasn’t in her head. It was real. The voice slithered between the tiles, echoed off the pipes. And now, it was closer.

“Who’s there?” she asked, voice steady, masking the pulse pounding in her throat.

The silence returned. But in that stillness, something shifted. The mirror—her reflection—smiled.

She wasn’t smiling.

Megan stumbled back. The reflection didn’t move. It stayed perfectly still, lips curved into a knowing grin.

Then it spoke.

“You’ve scratched the surface,” it said, “but the fight inside you runs deeper than blood and bone.”

The reflection's eyes darkened. Her own eyes, yet not. There was something ancient behind them, something that watched with centuries of hunger.

“Step forward, Megan Bayne. Claim what’s been waiting for you.”

Her breath caught in her throat. This was insane. But somewhere deep inside, something responded. Something that had been waiting to wake up.

She stepped toward the sink.

The lights flickered violently. Water gushed from the taps. Her reflection shimmered like heat rising off asphalt.

And then—everything stopped.

The lights returned to normal. The water halted. Her reflection matched her again, perfectly. No smile. Just her. Megan.

She reached out, touched the glass.

Cold.

Real.

She let out a shaky breath and turned toward the door.

But just before she left, her eyes caught a line carved into the wall near the paper towel dispenser. It hadn’t been there before.

“CHOSEN.”

Written in deep scratches, like fingernails dragged across the paint.

Megan didn’t say a word. She just walked out—calm, steady, like nothing had happened. But her eyes burned with a new fire. A silent rage. An awakening.

Back in the main corridor, an intern passed her, looking nervous.

“Great match tonight, Megan,” he mumbled.

She barely nodded.

Because something had changed. And whatever it was that whispered her name in that restroom… it wasn’t done with her.

And neither was she.

Because Megan Bayne had just been chosen—by something far older than the ring.

And now, the real fight was only beginning.