If you ask the average wrestling fan who Dani Luna is, they might blink, shrug, and mumble something about NXT UK or that time she tagged with Jody Threat in TNA. But in the smoky halls of England’s battered indie circuit, where the lights flicker and the ring ropes are frayed like the nerves of a man five days into a bender, they know her. And they respect her. Because Dani Luna doesn’t ask for the spotlight—she shoves her way into it with a suplex and a stare that could peel paint off a battleship.
Born Chloe Smyth on March 2, 1999, Dani Luna didn’t come into wrestling with a silver spoon or a famous last name. She came with fists. She came with forearms. She came with the kind of silent rage that eats through opponents and then asks for dessert.
She made her debut in December 2016 the way most future legends do—by losing. A lot. Her first match was a loss to Lana Austin. Then a 2-on-1 beatdown. Then more losses. It was the kind of stretch that would break most people. But Dani? She just kept showing up. Bruised, broke, but never broken.
Because Dani Luna didn’t want fame.
She wanted respect.
THE INDIE YEARS: BAPTISM BY FIRE AND BEER STAINED MATS
Between 2017 and 2019, Dani bounced between the kinds of indie promotions where the crowd’s chants smell like stale ale and desperation. Dragon Pro. Preston City. British Empire Wrestling. These weren’t glamorous gigs. These were school gym matches on cold nights where the only pyro came from the radiator sputtering behind row three.
And she won titles. Quietly. Like a thief in the night. She’d beat you, shake your hand, then disappear before the afterparty even started. There was a storm behind her eyes even back then—something that couldn’t be taught in dojos or performance centers. A working-class fury that screamed, I don’t need to be famous—I need to be feared.
NXT UK: THE PROMISE, THE PRISON, AND THE EXIT
When Luna made her WWE debut in 2019, it felt like her coronation. Finally, the big stage. The lights. The chance. She wrestled under the NXT UK banner and rubbed elbows with names like Rhea Ripley and Piper Niven.
But the truth is, WWE didn’t know what to do with Dani Luna.
She wasn’t a cartoon. She wasn’t a swimsuit. She wasn’t built for Vince McMahon’s fantasy world of shiny veneers and Instagram angles. She was built for fights. And in a company that prioritizes moments over momentum, that’s a death sentence.
Still, she did what she always did—showed up and fought. She formed a stable, Subculture, with Flash Morgan Webster and Mark Andrews. It was punk rock with an armlock. Grit with guyliner. And it clicked—for a minute.
Then came August 2022.
WWE, in its infinite logic, cut her loose. No warning. No send-off. Just the cold steel of a corporate axe.
They forgot her name.
She never forgot who she was.
BACK TO THE STREETS: REVPRO AND RESURRECTION
Revolution Pro Wrestling didn’t forget her.
By the end of 2022, she was back in the mix—no longer a prospect, but a goddamn predator. In December, she beat Kanji and became the Southside Women’s Champion. Then, just to twist the knife, she beat Alex Windsor for the Undisputed British Women’s Championship at Uprising 2023.
Dani Luna wasn’t just winning. She was making a point.
That point was: You should’ve never let me go.
Her reign lasted 252 days—a warpath of broken ribs and broken egos. She didn’t pose. She didn’t preen. She just wrestled like her rent was due and the lights were about to be shut off.
TNA: THE LAST OF THE FIGHTERS
Total Nonstop Action Wrestling—reborn, rebranded, refusing to die like a cockroach soaked in gasoline—scooped her up in 2023. They didn’t try to change her. They didn’t polish her. They let her be Dani Luna: heavy-handed, thick-shouldered, eyes like steel wool.
She teamed with Jody Threat to form Spitfire, a team so feral they made the tag ropes look like nooses. On March 8, 2024, at Sacrifice, they beat MK Ultra (a team name that sounds like a bad acid trip) to win the TNA Knockouts World Tag Team Championship.
It wasn’t a coronation. It was a mugging.
They defended the belts like gangsters protecting turf. Ash and Heather by Elegance, Carlee Bright and Kendal Grey, even Wendy Choo and Rosemary, the goth queen of TNA—they all took Ls at the hands of Spitfire.
Then, of course, wrestling happened.
At Sacrifice, they lost. Then came the rematch at Under Siege. Another loss. And just like that, the fire burned out. Spitfire disbanded. No hugs. No tears. Just silence.
Sometimes partnerships die with a bang.
This one died with a shrug.
DANI LUNA NOW: A WRECKING BALL IN THE DARK
So here she stands—25 years old, already a veteran, already the cautionary tale and the redemption arc. She’s tasted the bright lights and been thrown out the back door. She’s wrestled in the dark for fifty quid and in front of pay-per-view cameras for gold.
Dani Luna is what wrestling used to be.
She’s sore knees and silent bus rides. She’s chipped nail polish and clenched jaws. She’s every girl who lifted weights while the others posed, every wrestler who got told “you’re not marketable” by a guy who never took a bump in his life.
She’s the punk rock mat tactician. The bruiser in the shadows. The fighter who doesn’t ask for main events—just opponents with guts.
THE FUTURE: UNWRITTEN, UNYIELDING
What’s next for Dani Luna?
Maybe a solo run in TNA. Maybe another title. Maybe she disappears again—back to the indies, where the air smells like mildew and the crowds are real.
But one thing’s for sure:
She’ll fight. And it’ll hurt. And it’ll be worth it.
Because Dani Luna isn’t here for your applause.
She’s here for your respect.
And if you don’t give it willingly—she’ll take it by force.
