Kate Jackson Wasn’t Meant to Find Room 17 — But She Did

A sealed envelope. A forgotten door. And a woman who never walks away from the unknown.

It started with a voice.

Not loud. Not urgent. Just close enough to her ear to skip her spine like static.

"Room seventeen. No cameras. No questions."

Kate Jackson didn’t turn her head. She was finishing her match, sweat tracing lines along her neck as the crowd's roar faded to background hum. The moment she stepped backstage, the usual noise — staff, scripts, instructions — seemed to silence itself.

She walked past her locker.

Past catering.

Past her own reflection in the steel door.

And stopped when she saw the faded number on the side hallway: 17.

It shouldn’t have been there. No doors were numbered here. Not unless they were meant to be forgotten.

The handle turned easily.

---

Inside was dim.

The air smelled like heat and dust — a utility room converted into something secret. A small black table. One chair. And on it, a bottle of water, an old speaker, and a phone that wasn’t hers.

It lit up as soon as she sat.

A text.

“You handled Davenport well. But the real test starts now.”

Kate didn’t react. Just unscrewed the water cap and leaned back.

She remembered her training: always let them talk first.

Then, the speaker crackled.

A male voice. Calm, American accent. Too smooth to be real.

“We’ve watched you. Since before NXT. Since Japan. You don’t play for the crowd — you play for control.”

Another pause.

“We want to see how far you'll go when no one's watching.”

Kate’s lips curled slightly. “And if I walk out?”

“Then we know you’re not who we thought you were.”

The silence between them thickened.

---

Outside the room, the arena continued its show — pyro bursts and entrance themes echoing through vents. But Kate stayed seated, studying the room like it was another opponent. A mirror on the side wall showed her profile — calm, elegant, lethal.

Then the door opened.

A woman entered.

Tall. Blonde. Green eyes like ice.

Not a stranger.

Tasha Vane. A former tag partner from the indies. Someone she hadn't seen in three years.

No smile. No hug. Just a stare.

“You knew I’d come,” Kate said flatly.

“I knew you’d listen.”

The woman tossed a card on the table. Black. Silver lettering. No logo.

Kate picked it up.

"Obsidian Division."

She'd heard the rumors. A shadow group inside the industry — running tests, pulling strings, planting seeds. People who decided who climbed faster… and who vanished without notice.

“Why me?” she asked.

Tasha stepped closer. “Because you’re not just good in the ring. You’re surgical. You see things the rest of them never notice. And because you don’t crave fame — you use it.”

---

Kate stood slowly, slipping the card into her boot.

“This isn’t a contract.”

“No. It’s a key.”

“To what?”

Tasha smiled. “That’s what you’ll find out.”

She turned, walking away.

But before leaving, she looked back once.

“One more thing, Kate.”

“Mm?”

“This room… wasn’t the first test. It was the third.”

The door shut behind her.

---

Kate stood there, heart slowing again, mind racing now. How many matches had they watched? What conversations had they recorded? What decisions had already been made… on her behalf?

She didn’t panic.

She never panicked.

She walked back into the hallway, her body language cool and composed, every inch the star no one could rattle.

On her way back to her locker, someone handed her her match card for next week.

She didn’t look at it.

Didn’t have to.

Whatever happened next — Kate Jackson would face it her way.

No questions. No cameras.

And definitely no fear.