Some people get into wrestling to be loved. Others to be feared. Viva Van stormed in like a haunted church bell — clanging, defiant, soaked in grit and glam, and already halfway to hell.
Born Victoria Tran in Los Angeles, California — where the sun is always up but the dreams are often down — she grew up in a Vietnamese-American household with a love for horror films and one towering specter: The Undertaker. It made sense. The Deadman understood shadows, and so did she. While her peers giggled at sitcoms and chased mall security, she was neck-deep in death metal and crimson-tinted wrestling tapes. The world told her to major in accounting. She gave it a shot. Miserable. Drowning in spreadsheets. Chained to fluorescent lights. Then, with a rebellion disguised as clarity, she pulled the plug, changed her major to marketing, and walked away from normal.
That walkaway wasn’t some whimsical turn — it was destiny kicking down the door in spiked boots.
Viva Van didn’t ease into wrestling. She was forged in chaos — a literal car accident rerouted her trajectory, wrecked her routine, and opened the bloodied door to wrestling school. And not just any school. Rikishi’s. That’s right. Trained by a WWE Hall of Famer and molded under the silent weight of the Anoa’i dynasty, she didn’t just learn wristlocks — she learned the slow, painful art of survival.
She debuted in 2018 and it wasn’t long before the indie scene began buzzing like a live wire after a lightning strike. She tore up the West Coast — PCW Ultra, Hoodslam, DEFY — a hellcat in fishnets who brought a heavy metal soundtrack to every beatdown. When she stepped through the curtain, it wasn’t about playing a role. She was the role. A walking contradiction. A bruiser in corpse paint. A death metal priestess with a head full of snarls and fists full of receipts.
Impact Wrestling noticed. AEW called. Ring of Honor came next. But she was never just a guest. She was the uninvited dinner guest who breaks the table in half and asks for dessert. She crossed borders like a fever dream, taking her act to AAA, CMLL, and NJPW Strong — proving she wasn’t just local thunder. She was a global storm.
At CMLL she went toe-to-toe for the World Women’s Championship. At NJPW Strong, she stood out in a land known for stiff shots and silent audiences. And at every stop along the way, she didn’t just collect mileage. She collected scars, stories, and the respect of everyone smart enough to see what was coming.
They told her she was too different. Too tattooed. Too loud. Too her. WWE gave her a look — twice — then passed. Their mistake. She didn’t bend. She doubled down.
In 2025, All Elite Wrestling made it official. She signed the dotted line and kicked the door off its hinges. On May 3, 2025, she beat Tokyo Joshi’s Yuki Kamifuku and claimed the Vietnam Pro Wrestling Women’s Championship — not just a belt, but a symbol. A first-generation kid from L.A. representing a country she holds in her heart, screaming into the void that she belongs.
Her in-ring style? Imagine a nightclub fistfight choreographed by Slayer and filmed in black-and-white. She blends lucha chaos with Japanese stiffness, indie grind with polished sadism. She’s not flashy for the sake of it. She’s violent for the artof it. Her moves don’t just pop — they echo. She’s part pain conductor, part scream queen, part technician with venom in her veins.
And she’s not just a wrestler. She’s the vocalist for Mocking of the Trinity, a death metal band that sounds like your last heartbeat before the lights go out. It’s not a gimmick. It’s who she is. She lives the life. She breathes distortion. Her screams aren’t fabricated for the crowd. They come from the same place her suplexes do — somewhere deep, raw, and carved into bone.
Model? Sure. She’s graced the pages of Gothic Girl and Tattoo Envy. But this isn’t a diva posing. This is a banshee with a branding iron. Victorya Van Tran doesn’t smile for the camera — she dares it to flinch.
And now she’s an entrepreneur, because of course she is. HellBent Glam — a makeup line for the damned and the divine. She sells eyeliner the same way she sells dropkicks: with edge, intensity, and zero apologies.
Viva Van isn’t here to be your role model. She’s here to be your cautionary tale, your bad decision, your fight-or-flight moment personified. She didn’t crawl through the mud for fame. She rose out of it to tell girls who don’t belong that they just might belong more than anyone else.
She’s not a hero.
She’s not a villain.
She’s a movement.
And if you don’t feel the tremors yet, give it time.
The death metal queen of the wrestling underground is just getting started.
And she’s bringing hell with her.
