The first image flashes violently: Alastor’s red eyes snap open in the pitch black, his ever-present grin forming underneath the television static. A moment later, we cut to Balor Wolfe, standing motionless under a blood-red spotlight, dressed in a black suit and white shirt, the Infernal Crown Championship faintly reflecting the light.

 

The music surges as the pace picks up. Wildfire explodes through a curtain of sparks, screaming into the lens. The MAWLiWOOD BLONDES spin mid-suplex, flashes from their vintage cameras popping like fireworks. RADE steps forward from darkness, lifting his mask slightly to reveal blood-stained teeth glistening beneath then lowers the mask as the glow intensifies. Damian Blackheart stalks through a rusted hallway dragging thick chains, his eyes empty. Lynx crouches on a turnbuckle, bathed in moonlight as his hair drifts on the breeze. Moon, Blood Drawn, El Cerrador, Uncle Insamity, Venom Cartel, and The End Begins all flash in rapid, aggressive succession—each shot more chaotic than the last.

 

 

Finally, the visuals slow.

 

Balor Wolfe stands alone in the center of the ring beneath a red spotlight. The Infernal Crown Championship is held high above his head, his face calm but intense. In the background, Alastor and Eros remain barely visible, flanking him like silent phantoms. The screen warps and burns into:

 

 

[LIVE – INSIDE THE ARENA]

 

The camera cuts to a deafening arena as the lights swirl and the crowd erupts. Pyro blasts from the stage as strobe lights scan across the audience. The unmistakable voice of Jackson Creed cuts in over the chaos.

 

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to MAWL: Frequency of the Damned! We are LIVE, and the blood’s already boiling here tonight. I’m Jackson Creed, alongside Lightning Lenny Cruz and the one and only Sinclair DeVille—and this is a night you do not want to miss.”

 

 

Lenny Cruz jumps in, practically buzzing with excitement. “You can feel it in the air, Jackson. We’ve got the final matches of Round One in the Ether Championship Tournament, the Signal Tag Team titles are up for grabs starting tonight—and our main event? It’s the Infernal Crown Champion himself, Balor Wolfe, going one-on-one with the high-rising Elijah.”

 

 

Sinclair DeVille chuckles coldly. “And if you think Wolfe’s walking out without bruises—or worse—you haven’t been watching closely. Elijah’s dangerous. The Fatal 4-Way is a warzone. And I have it on good authority that RADE is in a very... giving mood tonight.”

 

Creed continues, keeping the energy rolling. “Let’s take a look at tonight’s full lineup!”

 

[TONIGHT’S MATCH CARD – ON SCREEN GRAPHICS]

Opening the night, the final round-one match in the Ether Championship Tournament: RADE faces off with the mysterious Solemn Guardian.

Then, it's Moon against the twisted pairing of Blood Drawn.

El Cerrador squares off against Uncle Insamity in what promises to be a wild, lawless bout.

The Signal Tag Team Championship Tournament kicks off as Venom Cartel go head-to-head with The End Begins in round one.

Wildfire looks to blaze a path through the brackets as he takes on James D.

In a chaotic, unpredictable Fatal 4-Way, it’s Stitches the Clown, Luciano, Ivan Volkov, and Jacen Tarot all colliding for a chance to rise through the wreckage.

And finally, in your main event, it’s a non-title showdown between the reigning Infernal Crown Champion, Balor Wolfe, and one of the most talented strikers in the company, Elijah.

 

Lenny Cruz leans in. “Every single match tonight has the potential to reshape MAWL moving forward. Champions will be made, and more than a few bones might break along the way.”

 

Sinclair scoffs. “Good. Let’s break something already.”

 

Jackson Creed brings it home. “It’s Frequency of the Damned. It’s MAWL. And the madness begins… right now!”

 

[CAMERA PANS TO THE RING]

 

The lights begin to fall as the crowd rises to its feet. The bell is about to ring. “Classic” Jenny Caldwell stands at ringside as the opening match is moments away.

 

 

RADE vs Solemn Guardian — kicks off the night.

 

 OPENING MATCH

The Ether Championship Tournament – Round One

 RADE vs Solemn Guardian

 

The lights go completely out. The arena is filled with sounds of owls hooting and clocks ticking.

 

 

Red smiley faces show in hologram around the arena in time with the bell. Ann "Atomic" Lee steps out to the stage, illuminated only by the red glow in the dark mask that she removes from her face. Astrd immediately holds her microphone down as she learned from Ash the microphone is turned off.

 

 

Her smirk is illuminated by the glow of the mask. The music has kept in the ticking of the clock and bell, not so much as a skip but as a purposely extended opening.

 

Ann: And the Guardian made a promise to protect his newfound realm, to keep the Frequency safe from the Damned who seek its control and ruination. The Guardian foreswore to the people that he would ensure no harm. The Guardian thought in good faith that he would stay true to his oath and be successful in his mission. The Guardian presumed that being more bone than man he would be of no interest to the Blood Collector. 

 

In this last statement and only in this last statement is the Guardian correct. He in of himself holds no interest, but he stands in the way of the mission, he hinders the collection, and as such he must feel the crushing weight of 355 pounds and the promises failed and the ruination of the Frequency by the Damned. The man who will bring you this is known in children’s tales as der Blutsammler.

 

HE. IS.

 

 

The keyboard finally kicks in and the appearances of the red smiley faces intensify rhythmically as a towering figure enters behind her.

 

Ann: RADE. 

 

Rade walks down the ramp with Ann leading him, both illuminated mostly by the glow in the dark masks.

 

 Ann stands in front of Rade and stares up as if being baptized from the sky. Rade spits blood upwards and it rains on her. She smiles wickedly to the camera and leaves the ring.

 

 

Black smoke covers the front view as Solemn Guardian walks out carrying a tome, Ominous bells and ringing with the hiss of snakes, the caws of ravens and soft chanting playing through the sound system.

 

 

ASTRID VALE (tone: reverent and cinematic):
“And his opponent…”

 

[A quiet moment. The music swells—strings and distant choir echoing over a slow, thunderous drumbeat.]

 

ASTRID VALE (measured, clear):
“Standing five feet, eleven inches tall… weighing in at one hundred and sixty-five pounds…”

 

[Beat. Her expression hardens with purpose, eyes flicking to the ramp.]

 

ASTRID VALE (voice low, deliberate):
“Born in the Palace of Hell… and now standing guard where light dares not reach…”

 

[Her tone rises—not loud, but piercing.]

 

ASTRID VALE:
“From Huntington, West Virginia…”

 

[A half-second pause—then, powerfully delivered:]

 

ASTRID VALE:
“He is… The Solemn Guardian.”

[Bell Rings – DING DING DING!]

 

Jackson Creed: "And the Ether Championship Tournament is officially underway! RADE versus The Solemn Guardian—two of the eeriest forces in MAWL clashing under the gaze of Vanya Cross, who might be the only person in this building less phased than these two monsters."

 

Lenny Cruz: "I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again—if you’re not nervous around RADE, you're not human. But look at Guardian! He’s not backing down one bit!"

 

Sinclair DeVille: "Of course not, Cruz. He thinks he’s a herald of the apocalypse. RADE just is the apocalypse. There’s a difference."

 

Jackson: "Guardian circles the ring with purpose, black cloak already removed, tome set down in the corner. And there’s the first lunge—Guardian darts in with a forearm shot! RADE rocks slightly!"

 

Lenny: "That was clean! Guardian using that speed—here comes another! And another! Quick succession, he’s not letting the big man breathe!"

 

Sinclair: "Which is ironic, considering RADE might not need to breathe at all."

 

Jackson: "Guardian off the ropes—BIG low dropkick to the knee! RADE stumbles forward, down to one! Guardian springs to the second rope—DIVING AXE HANDLE to the back of the head! The monster is down to both knees!"

 

Lenny: "That’s the play! That’s the strategy! You can’t match power with RADE, but if you keep him grounded, you’ve got a shot!"

 

Jackson: "Guardian now—runs the ropes again—goes for the basement clothesline—NO! RADE catches him! Just snatches him out of mid-sprint like he was plucking a crow from the air!"

 

Sinclair: "And now the mood really shifts. He caught him like a toy."

 

Jackson: "RADE stands tall with Guardian in his arms—and just throws him across the ring with a tossing body slam! The crowd gasps as Guardian hits spine-first near the ropes!"

 

Lenny: "That’s the first domino. Guardian had fire, had momentum—but now he’s in the forest, and something’s moving in the dark."

 

Jackson: "RADE doesn't rush. He never does. He stalks Guardian, walking with slow, ominous steps. Vanya Cross kneels beside the downed Guardian for a moment... like a ritual before judgment."

 

Sinclair: "I’ve seen that look before. It’s the kind of moment where something gets broken. Sometimes a bone. Sometimes a soul."

 

Jackson: "Guardian pulls himself up using the ropes—RADE is there—HEADBUTT! No mask strike yet, but it was all skull, and Guardian reels!"

 

Lenny: "He’s treating Guardian like prey. One strike at a time, no wasted motion."

 

Jackson: "Irish whip from RADE—Guardian hits the turnbuckles HARD—here comes the follow-up—RAIDING AVALANCHE CLOTHESLINE! RADE doesn't even break stride, just flattens him."

 

Sinclair: "You know what's scarier than a fast monster, Jackson? A patient one. One that knows it has time to hurt you."

 

Jackson: "RADE peels Guardian from the corner now... into a back body drop! The height! Guardian lands like a stone and arches in pain."

 

Lenny: "And Vanya’s not blinking. That ref’s just watching RADE operate like it’s clockwork."

 

Jackson: "RADE stands in the center now, blood tube in the mask twitching slightly... And Guardian—trying to get up again. He’s got fight in him."

 

Sinclair: "Which RADE will enjoy. The harder they fight, the more blood he gets to share."

 

Jackson Creed: “We are deep into this opening round contest, and The Solemn Guardian is learning the hard way what it means to share a ring with der Blutsammler. RADE has slowed the pace to a crawl—and every move is punishing.”

 

Lenny Cruz: “RADE doesn’t just hurt you, Jackson—he makes you regret stepping in the ring at all. Guardian’s no rookie, but man… this is a different kind of monster.”

 

Sinclair DeVille: “It’s like watching a sermon delivered with violence. And Vanya Cross just kneels, watching RADE work—almost reverent. I love it.”

 

Jackson: “RADE with that crushing forearm—thud—across Guardian’s spine again! He’s got him kneeling, and now RADE just walks around him. Slow, deliberate. No wasted movement. Every step… calculated.”

 

Lenny: “It’s psychological too, man. Guardian’s already got a mind half-buried in prophecy and doom, and now he’s in there with the thing that haunts those prophecies!”

 

Jackson: “RADE yanks Guardian up—what a powerful Irish whip—Guardian SLAMS into the corner again, and RADE follows with a body avalanche! Just FLATTENED him!”

 

Sinclair: “And no hurry to follow up. He’s not trying to win yet—he’s savoring this.”

 

Jackson: “RADE now grabs Guardian—LIFTS—vertical suplex, holds it… still holding… ten seconds now… drops him like dead weight!”

 

Lenny: “And Vanya Cross kneels again. That’s not officiating, that’s a funeral rite.”

 

Jackson: “But wait—Guardian’s moving! He’s still alive in there! RADE goes to pick him up—but GUARDIAN WITH A FOREARM TO THE GUT! Another! Another! He's fighting back!”

 

Lenny: “YES! There’s still something left! Guardian with the comeback spark—off the ropes—FLYING CLOTHESLINE! RADE staggers but doesn’t fall!”

 

Sinclair: “Big mistake. If you’re gonna strike the bear, don’t miss.”

 

Jackson: “Guardian off the ropes again—DUCKS a backhand—SPRINGBOARD CROSSBODY—NO! CAUGHT IN MID-AIR!!”

 

Lenny: “No no no no—”

 

Jackson: “RADE transitions—FALLAWAY SLAM! Throws him halfway across the ring again!”

 

Sinclair: “Momentum is a myth when you're in there with RADE. Hope? A distraction. Guardian should’ve kept praying.”

 

Jackson: “RADE slowly stands in the center of the ring again, arms slightly out, as if absorbing something unseen. Guardian’s down, clutching his ribs. And Vanya Cross… is kneeling again.”

 

Lenny: “RADE is dragging this out. This isn’t just punishment, it’s a message.”

 

Jackson: “And if Guardian doesn’t find something—anything—to turn this tide, we may be moments away from a trip… 7 Feet Under.”

 

Jackson Creed: “We’re entering deep waters now, folks—The Solemn Guardian is still fighting, but RADE has him worn down, nearly folded in half after that last fallaway slam.”

 

Lenny Cruz: “It’s hard to explain how oppressive RADE’s control feels until you see it like this. It’s like every second he doesn’t end the match is just him choosing not to.”

 

Sinclair DeVille: “That’s what happens when you’re not just a wrestler, but a force of nature. Guardian was dancing around flames earlier. Now he’s being dragged into the fire.”

 

Jackson: “And RADE is lining up now… wait a second—he’s got Guardian by the head… oh no…”

 

Lenny: “Oh no no no—he’s lifting him—DON’T LET HIM—”

 

Jackson: “GESICHTSMOERDER! The Face Killer! Guardian is caught—RADE HEADBUTTING HIM REPEATEDLY WITH THE MASK! One… two… three—AND NOW IT’S A FLURRY! HE’S DRIVING THAT MASK INTO GUARDIAN’S SKULL OVER AND OVER!”

 

Sinclair: “That’s metal on bone, boys. That’s not just pain—that’s deletion.”

 

Jackson: “RADE lets him crumple and hooks the leg! Vanya Cross slides in—”

 

Crowd: ONE! TWO!—KICKOUT!

 

Lenny: “WHOA!!”

 

Jackson: “GUARDIAN KICKS OUT AT TWO! RADE is… stunned. Not angry—yet. But stunned.”

 

Sinclair: “That should’ve been it. You could see it in his posture—he thought that was the kill shot.”

 

Jackson: “And now RADE—slowly—rises, walking straight to Vanya Cross. He’s in the ref’s face, towering over them like a punishment waiting to happen. Vanya doesn’t flinch.”

 

Lenny: “You think anyone who wears a black contact lens and refs RADE matches for fun is gonna back down?”

 

Jackson: “RADE glares… and finally turns around—BUT GUARDIAN! ROLL-UP! SMALL PACKAGE!”

 

Crowd: ONE! TWO! THR—NOOOOO!

 

Lenny: “SO CLOSE! That was this close, Jackson! Inches!”

 

Sinclair: “That would’ve been the biggest theft in tournament history. I would’ve demanded an investigation.”

 

Jackson: “RADE scrambles to his feet—but Guardian’s up too! Somehow, some way—he’s moving on instinct now! A shot to the legs! Another! Spinning forearm! He’s not letting RADE breathe!”

 

Lenny: “That’s what you gotta do! Speed! Desperation! Keep pushing until something cracks!”

 

Jackson: “RADE swings wide—Guardian ducks! Off the ropes—shoulder block—RADE stumbles! Guardian off the other side—FLYING FOREARM! RADE still won’t go down!”

 

Sinclair: “You’re swatting flies with purpose, but that bear is still standing, gentlemen.”

 

Jackson: “Guardian now—DUCKS a back elbow—hooks the waist—THE CONCILIATION! HE HIT THE SAMOAN DROP!! HE HIT IT!!”

 

Crowd: BIG POP – gasp then roar of disbelief

 

Lenny: “WHAT?! HE GOT HIM UP?! HE GOT HIM UP!! HE DROPPED HIM!!”

 

Jackson: “RADE is down! The monster is on the mat! But Guardian—Guardian’s not moving either!”

 

Sinclair: “He used everything in the tank just to lift him. And now he’s got nothing left.”

 

Jackson: “Both men down. Vanya Cross kneels between them. The crowd is on their feet. This is what the Ether Championship Tournament is about. Pain. Survival. Heart.”

 

Lenny: “This is it! Guardian just proved he can take the mountain down! Now the question is—can he climb it before it crushes him again?”

 

Jackson Creed: “Both men down… and Vanya Cross begins the count—”

 

Crowd: ONE! … TWO! … THREE! …

 

Lenny Cruz: “Come on Guardian… you gotta move…”

 

Crowd: FOUR! … FIVE! … SIX!

Jackson: “There it is! RADE rising like something out of a nightmare, but Guardian is right there too! He’s up! HE’S UP!”

 

Sinclair DeVille: “Barely. Guardian looks like he saw death… and decided to punch it.”

 

Jackson: “And punch it he will—RIGHT HAND! Another! Off the ropes—FLYING FOREARM! RADE goes back! Guardian stays on it—SPINNING BACKFIST! HEADBUTT! And now—RUNNING BULLDOG!”

 

Lenny: “He’s emptying the tank! It’s everything he’s got left, and the crowd is coming unglued!”

 

Jackson: “RADE’s up to his knees—GUARDIAN OFF THE ROPES—DOUBLE AXE HANDLE! RADE DROPS!”

 

Lenny: “GO! FINISH IT!”

 

Jackson: “Guardian grabs him—turns him—KICK TO THE GUT—AND—THE HOLY PRECIPICE!! STUNNER CONNECTS!! RADE DROPS LIKE A CORPSE!”

 

Crowd: THUNDEROUS ROAR!

 

Sinclair: “No way! That can’t be—”

 

Jackson: “THE COVER! GUARDIAN WITH THE COVER—HOOKS THE LEG—NO HOOK—IT’S A ROLL-UP STYLE PIN!!”

 

Crowd: ONE! TWO! THREE!

 

Lenny: “HE GOT HIM!! HE GOT HIM!!”

 

Jackson: “BUT WAIT—VANYA CROSS WAVES IT OFF! THEY’RE WAVING IT OFF! VANYA SAW GUARDIAN’S FOOT UNDER THE ROPE!!”

 

Crowd: Collective gasp, then rising BOOS

 

Sinclair: “Yes! Ring awareness, baby! You can hit your apocalyptic nonsense all day, but if you’re not pinning legal, it don’t count!”

 

Jackson: “Guardian had no idea! He’s already celebrating—he’s pointing to the crowd—WAIT—Vanya’s telling him!”

 

Lenny: “Look at his face… it’s like watching a prophecy get ripped out of reality.”

 

Jackson: “But he doesn’t quit! Guardian grabs RADE by the arm—yanks him to his feet—KICK TO THE GUT AGAIN—GOING FOR A SECOND HOLY PRECIPICE!!”

 

Sinclair: “Nope—RADE SHOVES HIM OFF—STRAIGHT AT THE REF!”

 

Jackson: “Vanya Cross bails! Smart move—they drop and roll out of the ring just in time!”

 

Lenny: “But Vanya didn’t see what’s coming next—”

 

Jackson: “Guardian turns around—RADE PRESSES ONTO HIS MASK—HE’S GOT SOMETHING PLANNED!”

 

Sinclair: “Look closely—OH—OH NO!”

 

Jackson: “BLOOD MIST!! STRAIGHT INTO GUARDIAN’S EYES!! HE CAN’T SEE!!”

 

Lenny: “CHEAP! CHEAP! DISGUSTING!”

 

Jackson: “RADE grabs Guardian—lifts him high—7 FEET UNDER!!! HE SPIKED HIM! GUARDIAN IS OUT!”

 

Sinclair: “That’s it! Roll the bell, dig the grave!”

 

Jackson: “RADE hooks the leg—ref slides back in—Vanya doesn’t know what happened!”

 

Crowd: ONE! … TWO! … THREE!

 

Lenny: “NOOOOO!!”

 

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

 

Jackson: “RADE STEALS IT! RADE ADVANCES!”

 

Crowd: Rain of boos, thunderous and vicious

 

Sinclair: “Justice. Black forest style.”

 

[Music hits: "Mitternacht" by E Nomine – arena goes dark, red smiley holograms swirl again]

 

Ring Announcer – Astrid Vale (over the chaos):

“Here is your winner… advancing to the next round of the Ether Championship Tournament…
RADE.”

 

 

Jackson: “The crowd is furious, Guardian’s still clutching at his face—he had this match won. He earned it. But RADE… RADE stole it like the monster he is.”

 

Lenny: “He spit blood into his eyes! How is that allowed?!”

 

Sinclair: “In the Black Forest, everything’s allowed. And now Guardian gets to walk away knowing he was seconds from glory… but you can’t out-predict the bump in the night.”

 

 

Camera fades in on LUCIANO pacing just outside a large black double door marked “𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑” – each A stylized like deer antlers. He’s dressed in an obnoxiously expensive suit, tapping one perfectly polished shoe against the cold concrete floor with loud, aggravated rhythm. His face is twisted in frustration.

 

 

Camera fades in on LUCIANO pacing just outside a large black double door marked “𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑” – each A stylized like deer antlers. He’s dressed in an obnoxiously expensive suit, tapping one perfectly polished shoe against the cold concrete floor with loud, aggravated rhythm. His face is twisted in frustration.

 

 

Luciano:
(Muttering)
This is unbelievable. Do you know who I am? I don’t wait for people—I am the waitlist.

 

 

Suddenly, from around the corner of the hallway, ALASTOR appears, deep in conversation with a trembling MAWL staffer holding a clipboard. Alastor’s voice is smooth, chipper, but carries an unnatural echo—as if several voices speak beneath his own. His cane clicks as he walks, his tall frame casting a jagged shadow in the flickering overhead lights.

 

Alastor:
(Cheerfully, but clearly distracted)
Oh yes, yes, the chatter was electrifying—last week’s chaos was a delightful cacophony. The screams, the chants, the… dismemberments! A lovely frequency, wouldn’t you say?

 

 

Luciano:
(Demanding)
About time. I’ve been standing out here waiting like some nobody on a dark match. We need to talk, now.

 

Alastor’s smile twitches ever so slightly. His eye flickers crimson for just a second—but the grin stays plastered across his face.

 

Alastor:
(Calmly)
Of course. Hold my calls, won’t you?

 

Assistant:
(Confused)
You… you control radio waves with your mind. Why do you even get calls—?

 

Alastor turns his head, ever so slightly. His eye glows brighter. The assistant freezes in place. The air thickens.

 

Assistant:
(Gulp)
YES SIR!

 

The assistant runs in the opposite direction without looking back. Alastor gestures toward his open door with a velvet-cloaked hand.

 

Alastor:
Please, do come in.

 

They enter. The office is dimly lit by antique lamps and an old-time radio playing soft swing music in the background. A mounted deer skull grins from the wall behind the desk. Alastor sits down smoothly in his high-backed leather chair and gestures politely to the seat opposite him.

 

Alastor:
A seat, for the gentleman?

 

Luciano scoffs and stays standing, arms folded tightly. He starts pacing like a lion in a cage.

 

Luciano:

Gentleman? I don’t need manners, I need respect. You knew a big star like me was on the draft sheet—you should’ve rolled out a red carpet. Instead? That loser Elijah gets a main event match with Balor? You clearly protecting him from me! And what do I get? A meaningless four-way with scrubs!

(He points at the wall, then the ceiling, ranting more animatedly)
I’m not some filler. I’m not a warm-up act. I’m Luciano! I should be opening and closing your little horror show! You think I came to MAWL to be forgotten!?

He goes on. And on. Alastor doesn’t say a word—just leans back, fingers steepled, smiling like a fox waiting for a chicken to finish flapping.

 

Finally, Luciano finishes, panting slightly.

 

Alastor:
(Quietly, smoothly)
Done?

 

(Beat. Then he rises—slowly. His smile never fades, but his voice grows deeper, colder with every word.)

 

Alastor:
You do not demand things from me, Luciano. You ask. Politely. Like a gentleman.
You want to be a star? Then you need stage presence—something more than perfume and ego.
Elijah is in the main event because he’s earned it. Because I want to see what happens when he rattles Balor’s cage.

(He walks from behind the desk, the lights in the room dimming slightly as his shadow stretches unnaturally)

You? You’d last thirty seconds. Maybe. If Balor felt merciful.

And that little four-way? You were there to fill a number, darling. A ghost on the dial.

(He stops inches from Luciano, now towering. His voice crackles with static and heat)

But your greatest offense? Not taking the chair that was offered. That, Luciano… is simply rude.

 

Alastor’s form begins to shift—his outline distorting, his smile widening unnaturally, small horns beginning to curl from his head as his suit flickers into a tattered version with crawling shadows.

 

Alastor:
Now… before I decide you need to deal with me, I suggest you see yourself out.

 

Luciano gulps. His bravado shatters behind a plastic smirk.

 

Luciano:
(Backing away quickly)
Right… right, well, great chat. I’ll just… go focus on my match. Can’t keep the people waiting!

 

He practically stumbles out the door.

 

Alastor sighs, adjusts his bowtie, and with a shimmer, his more human form returns. He straightens his cuffs and lowers back into his chair.

 

Alastor:
(Pleasantly)
Goodbye now~.

 

Camera fades out with the old radio skipping to a slow, haunting jazz number.

 

 

James D is Backstage in Catering helping himself to some food-

 

 

-when WildFire walks up to him.

 

 

WildFire : “Hi how ya doing? You are James D right? “THE MOST INTERESTING PERSON IN THE WORLD” ?”

 

WildFire :”So I am WildFire, I’ll be facing you in the 1st round of the ETHER championship Tourney.”

 

WildFire extends his hand.

 

James D looks at the extended hand with confusion.

 

WildFire :”Uhh this is where you shake my hand, then say stuff…”

 

James D : …

 

WildFire : “Yes Words, string a few together,make a sentence or two..”

 

James D : …

 

WildFire : “Strut your stuff, show your personality …. ” 

 

James D : …

 

WildFire : “Oh I get it this is your strategy right?  Say nothing, keep it close to the vest, mysterious stuff, the quiet persona. Basically you’ll prove everything you need to prove in the ring and not before.”

 

James D: …

 

WildFire : “Yes I get it,  actions speak louder than words blah blah blah, cool as a cucumber .”

 

WildFire :”Ok I get it, all part of your strategy , I can respect that. I’m still gonna kick your ass though.”

 

WildFire : “I’ll cya in the ring !”

 

WildFire turns and walks away.

 

James D still looks confused, he finishes chewing his food and swallows it.

 

James D :”Who the Hell was that?”

 

 

[The segment opens inside Alastor’s office.]

 

 

Alastor sits at his desk, his long fingers tapping erratically at a keyboard, visibly uncomfortable. His glowing red eye twitches.

 

 

Helper (nervously pointing at the screen):
"So if you just right-click here, it’ll open the settings, and then you can—"

 

Alastor (growling through gritted teeth):
"I don’t care if it opens the Gates of Babylon, I told you already—this… plastic demon box—won’t obey."

 

[He jabs a key again. The screen flashes. A pop-up appears. His eye twitches harder.]

 

Alastor:
"It mocks me."

 

[A knock echoes from the door.]

 

Alastor (still typing angrily, not looking up):
"Enter…"

 

 

[Alastor abruptly stands—his chair sliding back with a squeak—as he forcefully shoves the computer off the desk. It crashes to the floor in a mess of cracked plastic and sparks.]

 

Alastor (with a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes):
"Ah, Mr. Spears. Right on time."

 

[The helper stares at the shattered PC in horror.]

 

Helper (stammering):
"Uh—I… I’ll just… I’ll come back later—"

[He bolts out of the office.]

 

[JP watches the helper leave, raises an eyebrow, then shrugs and takes the seat Alastor gestures to.]

 

Alastor:
"I’ll keep this mercifully brief. The MAWL United States Championship… is no longer an active title. Legal matters. Trademark squabbles. Pitiful pencil-pushers with too much power and no sense of pageantry."

 

JP (leaning forward, defensive):
"Wait—what? You’re telling me that after everything I did—every fight, every bruise—I gotta just hand this over?"

 

Alastor (calmly):
"I’m afraid… yes."

 

JP (rising from his chair, pacing):
"You’ve gotta be kidding me. I earned this. I didn't get lucky, I didn’t kiss ass—I fought for it. I carried that title when no one else gave it a damn thought. And now you want it back?"

 

[There’s a beat. JP looks at the belt one last time—then rips it off his shoulder and places it on the desk.]

 

JP:
"Fine."

 

[Alastor slowly sets the belt aside. His voice shifts, more measured now.]

 

Alastor:
"Your frustration is noted… and not unwarranted. But let me offer you what scraps of good news I can muster. The week after our inaugural Ether Champion is crowned… you, Mr. Spears, will be granted a championship opportunity. A direct compensatory title shot."

 

JP (narrowing his eyes):
"Then I want it in the main event of that show."

 

[Alastor shoots him a slow, unimpressed look. The air turns a degree colder.]

 

Alastor:
"Bold request…"

 

JP (shrugs, defiant):
"It’s only fair."

 

[A long pause. Alastor grins a sharp smile.]

 

Alastor:
"Very well."

 

[They shake hands—Alastor’s grip firm, JP’s unshaken. JP turns and walks out of the office, into the hallway. His footsteps echo—until they stop. Standing just ahead is Damian Blackheart, cloak and cane, mask hanging off one hand.]

 

 

Damian Blackheart (calm, eerie):
"Favourable treatment for you my boy eh? As far as I'm concerned; you've earned nothing, least of all my respect. Best of luck sunshine."

 

JP (stepping past, not breaking stride):
"Shame it won’t be you I’m facing, spooky."

 

[Damian doesn’t respond—he just slowly walks away into the shadows of the corridor, wry grin plastered across his face]

 

JP (to himself, jaw clenched):
"And that… I’ll make sure of."

 

[Segment ends with JP walking on, fire in his eyes.]

 

 

 The Ether Championship Tournament – Round One

 Moon vs  Blood Drawn

 

 

A colorful lightshow dances across the entrance gate. A generic wrestling video plays on the titan-tron, as Moon makes his way to the ring. 

 

 

Moon's tall frame and broad shoulders cast an imposing figure. He's dressed in his Royal Moon Prince attire. The lights illuminate the golden trimming on his outfit. A fierce energy seems to emanate from him. His hair is white; and his dark eyes, alight with excitement, have fire in them.

 

As Moon enters the ring he removes his royal attire and the crowd in the arena witness his impressive physique. Moon is quite handsome. His toned and tight body make a great first impression. His six pack abs and bulging biceps look very impressive.  

 

 

ASTRID VALE (voice smooth, calm, with a celestial rhythm):
“The following contest is scheduled… for one fall.”

 

[She lets the pause breathe—then continues, her voice a little softer, as if invoking something sacred.]

 

ASTRID VALE:
“Introducing first…”

 

[A gentle wind sound effect rises under the music, stage fog swirling at the ramp.]

 

ASTRID VALE (measured pacing):
“Standing six feet tall… weighing in at two hundred pounds…”

 

[Her eyes lift slightly, like addressing something distant and beautiful.]

 

ASTRID VALE (with quiet reverence):
“From Pune, India…”

 

[She leans slightly into the name, drawing it out with grace and presence.]

ASTRID VALE:
“He is… MOON.”

 

 

The arena goes dark, and the sound of a slow, ominous drumbeat fills the air before this theme music begins. A blood-red spotlight illuminates the stage as he slowly makes his way to the ring. He stares down the crowd with cold, predatory eyes before stepping into the ring and roaring to signal his dominance.

 

 

ASTRID VALE (tone: low, commanding):
“And his opponent…”

 

[The hum intensifies—slow, heavy footsteps echo under it.]

 

ASTRID VALE (with weight):
“Standing six feet… six inches tall… weighing in at two hundred and eighty-five pounds…”

 

[She turns slightly toward the ramp, eyes narrowing as the tone deepens.]

 

ASTRID VALE (voice tightening, like steel being drawn):
“Born and billed… from Steelhaven.”

 

[A single beat of silence. Then she drops her voice for maximum effect.]

ASTRID VALE:
“He is… Blood. Drawn.”

 

[The bell rings.]

 

 

Jackson Creed:
"We are officially underway in the opening round of the Ether Championship Tournament—Moon versus Blood Drawn. Two warriors, two styles, and only one can advance."

 

 

Lenny Cruz:
"Oh, this is gonna be tight, Jackson. You've got Moon’s disciplined precision, trained at the highest level—and then you've got that cold, relentless brute force from Blood Drawn."

 

 

Sinclair DeVille:
"Let’s be real. One of these men looks like a prince, the other looks like what’s left after the kingdom burns. Let’s see who’s still standing in ten minutes."

 

[They circle slowly. Moon settles into a tight martial stance. Blood Drawn remains loose, low, eyes locked.]

 

Jackson:
"No rushing here—both men showing patience. This feels more like a measured dance than a fight—for now."

 

*[They lock up. Moon transitions into a quick snapmare, then lands a sharp kick to the spine. Blood Drawn grimaces, pushes up—levels Moon with a shoulder block!]

 

Lenny:
"Oof! That shoulder hit like a train. Moon’s down but already back up!"

 

Jackson:
"Moon rushes back—gets caught in a side headlock. Pushes out—leapfrog—arm drag from Moon! Clean technique!"

 

Sinclair:
"Enjoy that moment, folks. Moon’s going to need a few more of those before he gets folded like laundry."

 

[Moon moves quickly—Blood Drawn ducks under and hits a back elbow! Moon stumbles—comes back—low dropkick to the knee! Blood Drawn drops—Moon bounces off the ropes—running knee lift!]

 

Jackson:
"Moon finds that rhythm! He’s combining speed and accuracy—wait, caught again! Blood Drawn with the dragon screw!"

 

Lenny:
"That’s gonna slow Moon down. A twist like that wrecks your balance fast."

 

[Blood Drawn lifts Moon—whips him to the corner—charges, but Moon backflips over him—lands behind! Two quick palm strikes—snap German suplex! Crowd pops!]

 

Jackson:
"Beautiful counter from Moon! Picture-perfect bridge and all!"

 

Sinclair:
"Not bad, not bad. But he better stop admiring his own work and finish it."

 

[Moon grabs the wrist—tries to whip Blood Drawn—reversal—Moon clings to the ropes—Blood Drawn charges—Moon low-bridges him to the apron! Moon joins him! Now both men are trading forearms dangerously close to the edge.]

 

Lenny:
"This is where it gets scary. Apron warfare, baby!"

 

Jackson:
"They’re teeing off—back and forth! These strikes are echoing through the arena!"

 

[Moon goes for a strike—Blood Drawn ducks—lifts Moon into a fireman’s carry—and DROPS him back-first across the edge of the apron! Moon crumples on the outside.]

 

Jackson:
"OH! A sickening landing! Moon just got dumped spine-first on the hardest part of the ring!"

 

Sinclair:
"That thud echoed like a door slamming shut. This could be over right here."

 

[Blood Drawn rolls under the ropes into the ring. He stands up slowly, eyes fixed on the fallen Moon, not saying a word. Referee Danny Rayes checks Moon, then starts the count.]

 

Danny Rayes:
"ONE!"

 

Jackson:
"This is bad—Moon’s clutching his back. That landing looked brutal."

 

Danny:
"TWO!"

 

Lenny:
"Moon’s gotta find something—he doesn’t want to end this tournament on a countout."

 

Danny:
"THREE!"

 

[Moon’s fingers twitch—he rolls onto his side, gritting his teeth.]

 

Danny:
"FOUR!"

 

Jackson:
"Blood Drawn’s not celebrating. He’s just watching. That’s almost more unnerving."

 

Danny:
"FIVE!"

 

*[Moon’s arm reaches up—grabs the apron skirt as he tries to pull himself vertical…]

Danny Rayes:
"SIX!"

 

Jackson Creed:

"Moon’s arm is hooked on the apron—but he’s still down! His back has to be screaming right now!"

Danny:
"SEVEN!"

 

Lenny Cruz:
"C’mon, Moon! Dig deep!"

 

[Moon plants his foot, grimacing as he drags himself up—then lunges under the bottom rope just before the count continues.]

 

Danny:
"EIGHT!"

 

Jackson:
"He’s in! Moon just barely beats the count!"

 

Sinclair DeVille:
"And right back into the slaughterhouse. Moon should’ve stayed down. That was the smart play."

 

[Blood Drawn doesn’t hesitate—he rushes across the ring and stomps on Moon’s back the second he rolls in. He drags Moon up and clubs him between the shoulder blades, sending him face-first to the mat.]

 

Jackson:
"Blood Drawn not wasting a second—he’s back on Moon with ruthless aggression!"

 

Lenny:
"Alright, come on—where’s the honor we saw earlier?! This isn’t the same energy!"

 

Sinclair:
"You want honor? Go to a sword museum. This is the Ether Tournament. You win or you get scraped off the mat."

 

[Blood Drawn yanks Moon up by the wrist and whips him into the ropes—on the rebound, he catches him into a massive powerslam!]

 

Jackson:
"Big impact with that powerslam! All that momentum, driven right through Moon’s back again!"

 

[Blood Drawn immediately hooks the leg.]

 

Danny:
"ONE!... TWO—kickout!"

 

Sinclair:
"He’s not even trying to win yet, he’s just breaking Moon apart one slam at a time."

 

Lenny:
"That’s the problem! He’s not trying to win, he’s trying to injure!"

 

Sinclair:
"Oh cry me a river, Cruz. You think anyone gets a trophy for playing nice in Steelhaven? Grow up."

 

Lenny:
"There’s a difference between being ruthless and being a scumbag!"

 

[Blood Drawn hauls Moon up again—short-arm knee strike to the ribs! Moon folds over—Blood lifts him into the air and drives him down with a modified side spinebuster!]

 

Jackson:
"That’s the second thunderous slam in less than a minute—and again he goes for the cover!"

 

Danny:
"ONE!... TWO—kickout again!"

 

Lenny:
"Moon’s still got fight, but you can see it—he’s slowing down. That back is a major target now."

 

Sinclair:
"And Blood Drawn is the type of guy who doesn’t stop until the gears break. This is what real control looks like."

 

[Blood doesn’t show frustration. He drags Moon by the arm, then plants a heavy elbow into the spine for good measure. With deliberate pace, he pulls Moon into a seated position—wraps his arm across the chin and neck—and locks in a tight rear chinlock.]

 

Jackson:
"And now we move to the methodical phase—Blood Drawn applying that rest hold, wearing Moon down, cutting off oxygen, controlling the pace."

 

[Danny crouches to check the hold. Moon grimaces, trying to shift his weight, but Blood Drawn leans back, applying pressure.]

 

Lenny:
"Come on, Moon. Don’t let this guy slow you down!"

 

Sinclair:
"No, no, let him feel it. This is the difference between hype and grit. Moon flies—Blood Drawn crushes. Simple math."

 

[The crowd starts to clap, trying to rally Moon. Blood Drawn’s eyes stay locked forward, breathing heavy but calm, grinding down.]

 

Jackson:
"This is a dangerous spot for Moon. He needs to find space, needs to breathe. If he doesn’t break this hold soon, Blood Drawn might smother this tournament run out of him."

 

Jackson Creed:
"Moon’s in deep trouble here—he’s been grounded, his back’s a wreck, and Blood Drawn is just squeezing the life out of him with that chinlock."

 

Lenny Cruz:
"Yeah, but Moon’s not out yet! Look at that—he’s shifting! He’s fighting it!"

 

[Moon gets a foot under him—then the other—slowly powering up, teeth gritted. The crowd claps faster. He lands an elbow to the gut—then another—and finally breaks free with a sharp back elbow! But as Moon hits the ropes, Blood Drawn snatches him and launches him with a belly-to-belly suplex!]

 

Sinclair DeVille:
"And just like that—moment over. Welcome back to the pain parade."

 

Jackson:
"Massive release suplex! Moon looked like he was airborne forever before he crashed down!"

 

[Moon tries to crawl to the corner, using the ropes—but Blood Drawn stalks. He hoists Moon up onto his shoulder and drives him down with a thunderous running powerslam! The ring shakes.]

 

Lenny:
"OHHH! That might’ve cracked the ring in half!"

 

Jackson:
"But look—he’s not going for the pin!"

 

Sinclair:
"Because he’s not finished yet. He wants to send a message. Blood Drawn ends people—he doesn’t just beat them."

 

[Blood Drawn stands, breathing through his nose, cold and steady. He backs into the corner, slaps the mat once, and crouches low—arms extended.]

 

Jackson:
"This could be it—he’s lining Moon up for the Red Tide Slam!"

 

Lenny:
"No, no, turn around, Moon! He doesn’t see it coming!"

 

*[Moon stumbles up to his feet—Blood Drawn charges—but Moon counters at the last second—spikes him with a DDT!! Both men crash to the mat!]

 

Jackson:
"COUNTER! Moon drills him with a desperation DDT!"

 

Sinclair:
"Where the hell did that come from?!"

 

[Both men are down, the ref looking ready to count. Moon rolls to his side, gasping. Blood Drawn clutches the top of his head, stunned for the first time in the match.]

 

Lenny:
"That was Moon’s window—and he cracked it wide open!"

 

[Moon clutches the ropes—pulling himself up with visible strain. He’s breathing heavy, chest rising and falling rapidly. The crowd is on its feet.]

 

Jackson:
"Moon’s alive, but barely. Can he press this advantage before it slips away?"

 

[Moon turns and bursts into motion—elbow strike to the jaw! Palm strike to the chest! Backhand across the face! Blood Drawn stumbles!]

 

Lenny:
"Here he comes!! He’s throwing EVERYTHING at Blood Drawn!"

 

[Moon follows with a jumping knee to the chin! Then a low spinning kick to the thigh! High knee to the ribs! He pushes forward with a furious roar—ROUNDHOUSE KICK TO THE TEMPLE! Blood Drawn drops like a felled tree!]

 

Jackson:
"MOON WITH A LIGHTNING-FAST ROUNDHOUSE!! HE NAILED IT!"

 

[Moon collapses on top for the cover—hooking the leg deep.]

 

Danny Rayes:
"ONE!... TWO!... THR—NO!!!"

 

Sinclair:
"He kicked out?! HOW?!"

 

Lenny:
"That was the shot! That was it! I swear that was three!"

 

Jackson:
"An inch away! A heartbeat from the biggest upset of the tournament so far! Moon can’t believe it—and neither can this crowd!

"

[Moon lies on his back, staring at the lights, chest heaving, sweat pouring. Across from him, Blood Drawn is barely stirring—his fingers twitching on the mat.]

 

Jackson:
"Moon is back in this—but what more does he have left to give?"

 

[Both men are stirring now. Blood Drawn pushes up to a knee, eyes wide and wild. Moon is slumped in the corner, sucking air. The crowd is electric.]

 

Jackson Creed:
"We are deep in the red here—both men are running on fumes, and yet somehow, somehow, they’re still standing!"

 

Lenny Cruz:
"They’ve gone through everything but the kitchen sink—and even that might come next! This could swing any direction!"

 

Sinclair DeVille:
"They’ve gone from a technical display to a full-on war. And if you’re in that locker room? You’re watching this and praying you get the other side of the bracket!"

 

*[Moon stumbles forward—Blood Drawn charges in—Moon ducks under—Moonstrike attempt!—but Blood Drawn blocks it—lifts Moon!—looking for the Red Tide Slam—Moon elbows free! Lands behind—grabs the waist—Blood Drawn switches behind him—German suplex lift—Moon flips out—lands on his feet!]

 

Jackson:
"Every move answered! Every strike dodged or reversed!"

 

*[Blood lunges—Moon sidesteps—grabs him—tries to lift—Blood Drawn breaks free—grabs Moon—looking for the Descent—Moon spins out of it—goes for a roundhouse kick—caught by Blood—who pulls him into a short-arm knee strike!]

 

Lenny:
"NOPE—blocked! Switched! Moon almost had him there!"

 

Sinclair:
"I’ve never seen two men miss this much and still look this good doing it. This is chaos ballet!"

 

**[Blood goes for the Vein Crusher—military press into gutbuster—but Moon wiggles out mid-lift and lands behind—tries to grab a waistlock—Blood turns it into a standing switch—Moon rolls forward—roll-up!]

 

Danny Rayes:
"ONE!... TWO—KICKOUT!"

 

Jackson:
"Roll-up from Moon! Blood Drawn just barely escapes!"

 

[Both men scramble—Blood Drawn reaches out—SCHOOLBOY ROLL-UP!]

 

Danny:
"ONE!... TWO—NO!!"

 

Lenny:
"ANOTHER roll-up! Moon kicks out! This is absolute madness!"

 

[Moon rolls through—leaps behind—CRUCIFIX PIN! Blood Drawn struggles—Danny slides into position—]

 

Danny Rayes:
"ONE!... TWO!... THREE!!!"

 

[Bell rings!]

Jackson:
"HE GOT HIM! MOON GOT HIM!"

 

Sinclair:
"You’ve GOT to be kidding me!"

 

Lenny:
"WHAT A FINISH! THAT WAS A BLINK-AND-YOU-MISS-IT THREE COUNT!"

 

[Moon immediately rolls out of the ring, dropping to his knees on the floor outside, arms raised in exhausted triumph. Blood Drawn sits up in the ring, stunned, his eyes wide and breathing heavy.]

 

Ring Announcer – Astrid Vale (center ring, microphone raised):
"Here is your winner… advancing to the next round of the Ether Championship Tournament… MOOOOOOOOOON!"

 

 

[The crowd erupts as “Titanic” (epic remix) hits the speakers. Moon gets to his feet on the outside, clutching his ribs, still gasping—but smiling.]

 

Jackson:
"Moon steals one from the jaws of defeat! He survives the storm of Blood Drawn and just barely squeaks out the win!"

Lenny:
"That could’ve gone either way. That was a coin flip of a final stretch, Jackson!"

 

Sinclair:
"Oh please. That wasn’t a win, that was an escape act. Moon should be counting blessings, not victories."

 

[Moon backs up the ramp, hand raised, eyes locked on Blood Drawn in the ring. He mouths “Next round,” before bowing to the crowd. Blood Drawn simply watches, nodding once—cold, unreadable.]

 

Jackson:
"Moon moves on, but make no mistake—both men just made a statement tonight. The Ether Championship Tournament is alive and dangerous!"

 

 

The camera opens up to an over top view of a desk with a single candle flickering. 

 

A hand, clad in a black fingerless glove, reaches into frame holding something. It puts down a worn-down pencil and a weathered, dirt-streaked sketchbook. The pages are yellowed and wrinkled, stained like they’ve been through a storm.

 

The hand opens the sketchbook and begins to draw. As the pencil touches paper, we hear Jacen’s voice. Calm. Haunting. Like a lullaby on the edge of a nightmare.

 

 

JACEN TAROT (Voiceover):

“The Heretic walked until his boots bled black… searching for a home that didn’t want him. Searching for fire in a forest made of silence. You ever try to find your way with no stars in the sky? He started to forget the sound of his own name. And the more he forgot… the more the madness crept in.”

 

[CAMERA: CLOSE-UP]

 

The pencil sketch reveals the full figure of Jacen Tarot… shirtless, muscular, wearing black pants with “HERETIC” scrawled across the waist and a pentagram on the thigh. Black boots. Black gloves. Greaser leather jacket.

The background is filled in… a tangled forest, gnarled branches, no sky.

 

The sketchbook begins to flip rapidly, turning into a flipbook animation. The hand no longer turns the pages; they flip on their own, like possessed parchment. The sketch of Jacen walks through the forest.

 

JACEN TAROT (V.O.):

“But I don’t want to go among mad people…”

 

[FLIPBOOK PAGE]:

That exact quote, handwritten in jagged charcoal appears on the pages as they flip.

“But I don’t want to go among mad people…”

 

The sketched Jacen approaches a twisted tree. In its branches sits a grinning cat with the head of ALASTOR, the GM of Frequency… he has a wide, knowing smile, eyes like polished razors.

 

 

JACEN TAROT (V.O.):

“The cat looked down and said, ‘Oh… you can help that.’”

[FLIPBOOK - CAT GRINS WIDER]

”‘We’re not all mad here. They’re mad… but you’re not mad.’”

 

Jacen’s sketched face turns, confused, eyes narrowing in charcoal expression.

 

JACEN TAROT (V.O.):

“And I asked… ‘How do you know I’m not mad?’”

“The cat blinked slow.”

”‘You can’t be,’ he said… ‘or you wouldn’t have come here.’”

 

[FLIPBOOK ZOOM]:

Zooming tighter and tighter on Alastor’s cat-faced grin as it begins to laugh maniacally. The sound grows, echoing, overlapping, a crescendo of warped joy.

[FINAL FLIPBOOK PAGE]:

Bold, scorched lettering:

“FREQUENCY”

 

 

The page bursts into flame, curling at the edges. The sketchbook starts to burn.

 

[CAMERA MOVEMENT]:

From overhead to eye-level, drifting down past the rising smoke to reveal Jacen Tarot, now in the flesh, crouched by the fire. 

His face glows dimly in the orange light… pale skin, shadowed eyes, devilish grin.

 

 

JACEN TAROT:

“Luciano… Ivan… Stitches…”

A pause. The fire crackles.

“I’ll be seeing you… tonight.”

 

[HARD CUT TO BLACK]

A faint whisper:

“The Heretic is here.”

 

 

Setting: MAWL backstage, near a makeup station.

 

 

The Edge Runners—Johnny and V—are quietly hydrating, chilling, when the MAWLiwood Blondes come storming around the corner with that signature over-the-top, big Hollywood entrance vibe—loud, grinning, and way too into their own greatness.

 

 

Mark "Red Carpet" Anderson:

"Look at this! The backup dancers are still here! I thought the stagehands cleared y’all out after our main event."

 

Winston "High Risk" Lewis:

"Seriously, man, it’s way past the afterparty. Y’all sticking around for autographs or just waiting to carry our bags?"

 

Johnny raises an eyebrow but stays cool.

 

Johnny:

"Y’all always this loud or is that just part of the debt payment plan?"

 

Mark (grinning, quick):

"Oh, we’re loud because we win. You boys? You’re the kinda guys they put in the trailer to make the real stars look better. Cute tricks, though."

 

Winston (mock serious):

"Yeah, I loved your last flick—‘Fast and Flukey: Tokyo Trips.’ Five stars. Fell flat right in the first scene."

 

Johnny (grinning now, glancing at V):

"That’s funny. Real funny. I’d laugh, but I’m too busy headlining while you two are stuck working off Alastor’s tab."

 

Mark:

"Careful now. Yeah, we owe Alastor. Big deal. At least we know who’s cutting our check. Y’all out here wrestling for exposure like it’s a charity event."

 

Winston:

"And we don’t miss payments. Ever. You? Y’all about to get evicted from relevance."

 

The standoff is electric. Just as Johnny steps forward—

Alastor suddenly materializes behind them, his Shadow Security already moving into position like they’ve been here the whole time.

 

 

Alastor:

"Gentlemen, let’s not waste this glorious tension in a hallway. The audience deserves this scene in full. The violence, the betrayal, the heartbreak—I will set the stage for you. Soon."

 

Winston (smirking):

"Don’t keep us waiting, boss. We got lines to deliver and faces to smash."

 

Mark (pointing at Edge Runners):

"Y’all bring the stunts. We’ll bring the spotlight."

 

The Blondes walk off, cracking jokes and bumping each other’s shoulders like they just won the whole exchange, while Johnny and V share a knowing glance.

 

V (calmly):

"They’re good."

 

Johnny (grinning):

"Yeah. But we’re better."

 

 

Camera cuts to backstage where MAWL’s bright-eyed interviewer Eli Ray stands in front of a splattered American flag backdrop, microphone in hand.

 

 

He beams with his usual warmth, though a flicker of concern dances in his eyes as he stands next to the wild-eyed maniac himself — UNCLE INSAMITY.

 

 

The sounds of his theme have just faded from a nearby monitor. Uncle bounces slightly on his heels, eyes darting wildly, his stars-and-stripes face paint cracked from sweat and madness.

 

Eli Ray:
“Ladies and gentlemen, I'm here with the... err... very patriotic competitor in tonight’s Ether Championship Tournament — Uncle Insamity! Uncle, you're moments away from facing El Cerrador in round one. This is your first shot at gold here in MAWL. Any thoughts?”

 

Uncle Insamity grins wide. Too wide. He leans uncomfortably close to Eli, eyes bulging, saliva nearly flinging with each word.

 

Uncle Insamity:
“OHHH Eli, my sweet apple pie of an announcer boy, El Cerrador thinks he's gonna CLOSE THE DOOR on Uncle Sam tonight?! Well, guess what — THIS UNCLE’S KICKIN’ THAT DOOR DOWN AND SHOVIN’ FIRECRACKERS STRAIGHT INTO HIS—"

 

Eli Ray: (interrupting quickly, trying to keep control)
“Right! Uh—right, we get the message! But with how wild this tournament's already been, are you concerned at all about—"

 

A metallic CLANG cuts Eli off. Suddenly, a blur crashes into Uncle Insamity from off-screen — STITCHES THE CLOWN charges in like a freight train from hell, tackling Insamity into the stacked production crates behind them!

 

 

Eli Ray:
“HEY! WHOA—WHAT THE HELL?!”

 

Stitches begins mauling Uncle with frightening calm and brutality — smashing him into steel boxes, whipping him into pipes, and clubbing him with anything not bolted down. Uncle screams and flails wildly but can’t gain control. The polka dot patriot is overwhelmed.

 

Eli stumbles back as a storage lid SMASHES across Uncle’s arm — a sickening CRACK echoes through the hallway. Uncle howls in pain, clutching his elbow, body twitching against the wall as stagehands rush into frame.

 

 

Uncle Insamity:
“AAAAUGHHHHHHHH—MY GODDAMN AMERICAN BONE!!!”

 

Stagehand #1:
“Call medical! We need help now!”

 

Stitches, breathing heavy, tilts his head like a broken marionette. He slowly turns toward Eli Ray, whose eyes are wide with shock and fear. The clown steps forward, face twitching with painted madness.

 

Stitches the Clown: (low and guttural)
“…Looks like a spot just opened up…”

 

(He raises a gloved finger, tapping Eli gently on the nose.)

 

Stitches the Clown:
“Guess I’ll have to take it.”

 

With that, he turns and lumbers toward gorilla position, dragging his deflated purple balloon behind him. As he disappears into the shadows, the camera zooms in on Uncle writhing on the ground, clutching his mangled arm as medics swarm around him.

 

Eli Ray: (barely holding it together)
“L-Ladies and gentlemen… it looks like... Uncle Insamity is out of the Ether Tournament… and... Stitches the Clown is in. What the hell does this mean for the bracket?! Back to you at ringside…”

 

 

 The Ether Championship Tournament – Round One

 El Cerrador vs  UNCLE INSAMITY (replaced by Stitches the Clown)

 

The lights pulse low and heavy as the Ether Tournament bracket flickers on the tron. Tension hums through the MAWL Arena. A moment passes before the clear, commanding voice of Ring Announcer Astrid Vale takes the air. She stands dead center in the ring, poised, expression firm, clipboard in hand.

 

 

Astrid Vale (ring mic):
“Ladies and gentlemen… by order of General Manager Alastor, tonight’s scheduled Ether Championship Tournament Round One match has been officially adjusted.”

 

Gasps and murmurs ripple through the crowd as the tron graphic flickers from “Uncle Insamity vs. El Cerrador” to a new graphic:

 

🩸 EL CERRADOR vs. STITCHES THE CLOWN 🎈

 

Astrid Vale:
“Following a backstage assault that has rendered Uncle Insamity medically unable to compete… this match will now feature Stitches the Clown as his replacement. In the name of fairness and competition, there will be no byes in this tournament… only earned victories.”

 

 

Sinclair DeVille (commentary):
“Ahhh, music to my ears, Jackson. Alastor upholding the sanctity of this tournament—no passes, no pity. Just pure chaos and opportunity. Bravo.”

 

 

Lightning Lenny Cruz:
“Sanctity? Sinclair, are you serious? Stitches broke Uncle’s arm! That’s not earning a spot, that’s stealing it with a crowbar and a clown giggle!”

 

 

Jackson Creed:
“Like it or not, the match is set—and Senior Official Carter Vale is in the ring, checking both competitors. Let’s get this thing going.”

 

 

The camera cuts to Carter Vale, arms crossed, giving both men a cold stare. His wristwatch glints under the lights. On one side of the ring, El Cerrador stands stone-still in his red and black lucha mask, bouncing lightly on his feet, eyes locked on the monster across from him.

On the other—Stitches the Clown leans into the corner ropes, arms wide, laughing… louder… louder…

 

 

DING DING DING

 

Jackson Creed:
“AND HERE WE GO—wait a second! EL CERRADOR ISN’T WAITING!”

 

Before the bell’s echo dies, El Cerrador EXPLODES across the ring—right hand, left kick, back elbow! The crowd roars as he unleashes a flurry of strikes, keeping low and fast, like a matador diving in and out of danger!

 

Lightning Lenny Cruz:
“That’s the right strategy! Hit and move, don’t let that freak get a grip on you!”

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“Oh, come on—this is practically a mugging. Stitches didn’t even finish laughing yet.”

 

Jackson Creed:
“El Cerrador not giving him one second of control! Another low kick to the thigh! A jab to the ribs! Cerrador’s staying on him like glue!”

 

Stitches tries to throw a wild clothesline—Cerrador ducks! Hits the ropes! Returns with a basement dropkick to the knee!

 

Jackson Creed:
“Smart wrestling—he’s chopping the tree down! Stitches is tall, but that base is wide. Take it out, and he’s just a carnival attraction with no wheels.”

 

Carter Vale counts the rope separation as Cerrador backs off for half a second.

 

Carter Vale:
“One!”

 

Cerrador circles—Stitches stumbles forward, still laughing, and swings—misses again—Cerrador drops behind—quick low chop block!

 

Lightning Lenny Cruz:
“El Cerrador is fighting like a man possessed—precision strikes, no wasted motion. He wants this win bad.”

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“He’s trying to survive. And to be fair, that’s the right instinct when you’re trapped in a ring with a man who probably sleeps inside a furnace.”

 

Stitches rolls out of the ring to regroup—NO! Cerrador grabs him by the wrist and yanks him back toward the ropes. He throws a forearm into Stitches’ gut—another—another! The ref counts again.

 

Carter Vale:
“One! Two! Three! Four!”

 

Cerrador breaks the hold JUST before the five.

 

Jackson Creed:
“Carter Vale on top of it as always—firm but fair. And El Cerrador is keeping this all inside the rules, despite the adrenaline rush.”

 

Stitches staggers out of the corner, holding his gut. El Cerrador takes a step back, crouches—rushing body shot! The impact echoes! He bounces off the ropes—goes for a shoulder thrust—

—

 

Jackson Creed:
“He goes low—WAIT—NO!”

—

 

Stitches doesn’t move. He just swats Cerrador out of the air like a fly with one monstrous forearm!

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“OH! That’s it! THERE he is! Welcome to the funhouse, Cerrador. The clown's clocked in!”

 

Lightning Lenny Cruz:
“He caught him clean! Cerrador’s down—and Stitches is standing tall now. That was like getting hit with a lead pipe!”

 

El Cerrador writhes on the mat, grabbing his chest. Stitches towers over him, head tilted, a slow grin peeling across his face as blood from his own busted lip mixes into the paint. He crouches low, just watching Cerrador struggle… breathing heavily… giggling softly.

 

Jackson Creed:
“Momentum shifts fast here in MAWL… and Stitches the Clown has just ripped it away.”

 

Camera cuts to a wide shot—Stitches standing in the center, El Cerrador crawling to the ropes, Carter Vale watching closely.

 

Jackson Creed:
“This Ether Championship match is just getting started, folks—and with Carter Vale calling it down the middle, you can bet this war is only going to get uglier.”

 

Jackson Creed:
“We are back in the middle of Ether Championship Tournament action, and after a strong start from El Cerrador, this match has taken a dark, dark turn.”

 

In the ring, Stitches the Clown stalks El Cerrador like a hunter savoring the slow kill. Cerrador is on all fours, chest heaving, still reeling from that brutal forearm moments ago. Stitches licks his teeth—blood and paint dripping from his twisted grin—as he grabs Cerrador by the mask and yanks him to his knees.

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“Oh, look at this artistry. This is performance, this is theatre. This is Stitches.”

 

Lightning Lenny Cruz:
“It’s a horror show! That man ain’t wrestling—he’s torturing him!”

 

Stitches tilts his head sharply, then just begins unloading a flurry of headbutts, each one cracking against Cerrador’s skull with sickening thuds.

 

Jackson Creed:
“Stitches raining down with a barrage of headbutts! He’s not even aiming—he’s just smashing! And Cerrador’s in real danger here.”

 

With a manic laugh, Stitches shoves Cerrador into the corner—then CRUSHES him with a running crossbody! The whole ring shakes on impact. Cerrador slumps to the bottom turnbuckle, gasping.

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“Turn out the lights, he's in the clown house now.”

 

Carter Vale:
“One! Two! Three! Four—”

(Stitches backs off, arms wide like a circus performer taking a bow.)

 

Stitches (audible):
“Round and round the luchador goes... where he stops? Nobody knows!”

 

Stitches grabs Cerrador by the legs and yanks him to the center of the ring—then hauls him up and launches him with a fallaway slam—into the turnbuckle! The crowd groans on impact.*

 

Jackson Creed:
“That was vicious! A fallaway slam into the buckles! El Cerrador is barely moving!”

 

Lightning Lenny Cruz:
“And Stitches isn’t even trying to win yet—he’s just picking him apart!”

 

Stitches drops to his knees beside Cerrador, then slowly leans in, nose almost touching his mask. He whispers something—inaudible—but horrifying enough to make the crowd murmur. Then, with a cackle, he grabs a handful of Cerrador’s hair and SLAMS his head into the canvas. Over. And over. And over again.

 

Carter Vale:
“One! Two! Three!”

 

Stitches stops, releases, and spreads his arms wide. He soaks in the heat from the crowd, laughing like it fuels him.

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“He’s painting his masterpiece! This is beautiful destruction.”

 

Lightning Lenny Cruz:
“It’s sick is what it is. Carter Vale might have to start thinking about calling this. Cerrador hasn’t gotten a shot in since the shift.”

 

El Cerrador crawls slowly, trying to stand—Stitches allows it, watching gleefully. When Cerrador gets to his feet—WHAM!—a snap DDT plants him headfirst into the mat!

 

Jackson Creed:
“Snap DDT! That could’ve ended it—but Stitches isn’t going for the pin! He’s just… laughing again.”

 

Stitches grabs Cerrador by the arm—twisting it behind his back—then DRIVES a knee into the shoulder before locking in a cruel nerve pinch, digging his fingers deep into the trap muscles. He stares into Cerrador’s mask, eyes wide, lips twitching.

 

Carter Vale:
“Do you give up?”

 

El Cerrador (faint):
“No…”

 

Lightning Lenny Cruz:
“That’s guts right there. That’s the kind of pride that makes El Cerrador who he is. But how much more can he take?”

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“He’s gonna take all of it, Lenny. That’s the price of admission.”

 

Stitches finally lets go of the hold—then stands, raises a boot, and STOMPS Cerrador’s chest with both feet over and over, cackling like a demon.

Carter Vale steps in—

 

Carter Vale:
“One! Two! Three! Four—!”

 

Stitches pulls away again, arms outstretched, inviting the boos with glee. He runs his tongue across his teeth.

 

Jackson Creed:
“I don’t know what’s keeping El Cerrador conscious—but whatever it is, it’s being tested. Stitches is treating him like a chew toy.”

 

Stitches drags Cerrador upright once again—hooks the arms—then lifts him and holds… holds… then lets him CRASH down with a punishing backbreaker hold, keeping him stretched across the knee.

 

Stitches (mocking):
“Smile, amigo… you’re on the big stage now.”

 

He drops Cerrador to the mat with a THUD, then rolls out of the ring for a second—pulls himself to the apron—and just sits, swinging his legs like a child.

 

Jackson Creed:
“This is a dangerous, dangerous man. And right now, El Cerrador is fighting not just to stay in this match—he’s fighting to survive it.”

 

Lightning Lenny Cruz:
“But if there’s one thing we know about El Cerrador—it’s that he doesn’t quit. He doesn’t run. He finds a way.”

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“He better find a miracle while he’s at it, because this clown isn’t done. Not even close.”

 

The camera zooms in on Carter Vale, who kneels beside Cerrador, checking his condition. He gets a faint nod. Carter stands, solemn-faced, and backs away.

 

Jackson Creed:
“El Cerrador is still in it—but for how much longer? Part three is coming, and if Stitches stays in this zone, the only thing left for Carter Vale to do might be to count to ten… or call for help.”

 

Jackson Creed:
“If you’re just joining us—El Cerrador has been getting mauled by Stitches the Clown. This has been less a wrestling match and more a psychological dissection—”

 

Lightning Lenny Cruz:
“Yeah, and El’s been barely breathing! But he’s still in it! He’s still fighting!”

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“Why, though? Just go home, take your loss, maybe tape your ribs back together. Nobody would blame you.”

 

Stitches re-enters the ring, standing tall over El Cerrador once again. He yanks the luchador up with two handfuls of gear and hoists him between his legs.

 

Jackson Creed:
“Uh oh… he’s going for it. This could be the end. Big Top Bomb incoming—”

 

Stitches winds up theatrically—mocking the crowd with a spinning flourish—and lifts El Cerrador high into the air for the Sit-Out Powerbomb—

 

BUT CERRADOR WRIGGLES OUT MID-LIFT—

AND LOCKS IN A STANDING STRETCH—EL ESTIRÓN MEXICANO!

 

Jackson Creed (shouting):
“He countered it! HE COUNTERED IT INTO EL ESTIRÓN MEXICANO!! Out of nowhere!!”

 

Lightning Lenny Cruz:
“That’s ring IQ, baby! That’s knowing how to take a beating and still have a plan ready!”

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“How is he still conscious?! He looked like a haunted sock puppet five minutes ago!”

 

Cerrador has one of Stitches' arms hooked behind the neck and the other stretched straight back, wrenching the shoulder at a sickening angle! His legs drive forward into Stitches' spine as he grits his teeth beneath the mask. The crowd is now fully behind him—chanting:

“CERR-A-DOR! CERR-A-DOR!”

 

Carter Vale (kneeling):
“Do you submit? Stitches—DO YOU SUBMIT?!”

 

Stitches doesn’t respond—he’s just letting out high-pitched shrieks, not tapping, but screaming. His painted mouth is wide open, twisted in agony. The red around his lips has started to drip, blending paint and sweat and spit.

 

Jackson Creed:
“El Cerrador has turned this match around in one perfect counter—and now he’s wrenching that shoulder like he’s trying to rip the clown apart!”

 

Lightning Lenny Cruz:
“He might! Listen to Stitches scream—he’s not laughing anymore, that’s real pain!”

 

Carter Vale checks again. Stitches slams his boot on the mat—then slowly gets one foot under him. Then the second. He powers to a kneeling base—then shoves forward—breaking the hold! Both men collapse apart!

 

Jackson Creed:
“Stitches broke the hold—but not without damage! That arm has to be half-dead!”

 

Cerrador scrambles up first—eyes locked in, adrenaline kicking in full. He sprints at Stitches—dropkick to the chest! Stitches stumbles back into the corner. El follows up—springboard back elbow! The clown slumps, dazed!

 

Lightning Lenny Cruz:
“El’s doing what he does best now—Lucha Libre instincts! Strike and move!”

 

Cerrador sprints across the ring—leaps to the top rope with zero hesitation—corkscrew crossbody! It lands!

 

Jackson Creed:
“Lucha rhythm activated! This is where Cerrador can turn the tide permanently!”

 

Stitches sits up slowly, groaning. Cerrador hits the ropes—low dropkick to the face! He kips up immediately and motions to the crowd. He grabs Stitches by the legs—steps through—hooks—twists—*

AND LOCKS IN HIS FINISHER: “LA SENTENCIA FINAL”
(A HIGH TORQUE MODIFIED CLOVERLEAF WITH A BODY WRAP)!

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“NO, NO, NO—GET OUT OF IT, YOU CARNIVAL PSYCHO! YOU CAN’T LOSE TO THIS MASKED MOP!”

 

Jackson Creed:
“CERRADOR’S GOT IT LOCKED! DEEP! MIDDLE OF THE RING! THIS COULD BE IT!”

 

Stitches claws the mat, dragging his blood-slick gloves over the canvas. He screams again—raw, primal, cracking—but still, does not tap. Carter Vale drops to one knee, asking again.

 

Carter Vale:
“Stitches! Do you submit?!”

 

Stitches shakes his head violently, smearing face paint across the mat as he snarls through the hold.

 

Lightning Lenny Cruz:
“He’s not giving it up—but how long can he last in this?! That hold is NASTY!”

 

El Cerrador lets out a shout of effort, twisting deeper, wrenching harder, his entire body arched with tension. The camera catches a flash of the pain in Stitches’ face as his arm trembles, half-useless.

 

Jackson Creed:
“This match is hanging by a thread—one clown scream away from a tap-out! But still, Stitches refuses!”

 

Wide shot: the crowd is on their feet. Stitches still trapped. El Cerrador still locked in, yelling, teeth gritted under his mask. Carter Vale right there.

 

Jackson Creed:
“We could be seconds away from a submission—or one last eruption from Stitches. Something has to give.”

 

Jackson Creed:
“El Cerrador has it locked in! ‘La Sentencia Final’ is deep—center of the ring! Stitches is screaming in agony!”

 

Lightning Lenny Cruz:
“He’s gonna tap, Jackson—Stitches is gonna tap! He’s got nowhere to go!”

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“Don’t say that! Don’t you dare say that!”

 

Stitches claws desperately at the canvas—his paint smeared, his fingers twitching. El Cerrador’s body is coiled like a vice, straining every muscle to rip the clown in half. The crowd is rabid. Then—

 

Jackson Creed:
“Wait a second—what the hell is that?! Something’s happening on the stage!”

 

The camera cuts wide—through the smoke and light, a figure emerges—shoving past med techs and yelling security. A wild blur of red, blue, and bandages.

 

 

Uncle Insamity.

His left arm is heavily bandaged and limp, swinging at his side like dead weight. But his right eye is laser-locked on the ring. He’s pushing aside a tipped-over wheelchair and half a gurney as he stumbles with purpose toward the apron.*

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“No no no! What is he doing here?! This lunatic’s supposed to be in a cast, not in combat!”

 

Lightning Lenny Cruz:
“He’s not here to fight, Sinclair. He’s here for revenge! Look at his eyes! He’s gonna kill that clown!”

 

Senior Official Carter Vale spots the intrusion and immediately exits the ring, moving to intercept Insamity with the help of security and med staff.

 

Jackson Creed:
“Carter Vale is trying to stop this from getting worse—but look in the ring! Look in the ring!”

 

*As Carter’s back is turned—STITCHES TAPS OUT.
Hand slamming the mat, body twitching—he gave up.

 

Lightning Lenny Cruz:
“He tapped! HE TAPPED! STITCHES TAPPED OUT!”

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“BUT THERE’S NO REF! CARTER DIDN’T SEE IT!”

 

Jackson Creed:
“Oh my god—El Cerrador thinks he just won—but Carter Vale’s still outside!”

 

El Cerrador releases the hold, panting, confused, glancing to the side to see the ref occupied. He gets up—walks to the ropes—leans out to yell for the referee—

 

Jackson Creed:
“He’s calling Carter back in—he has no idea the match is still going!”

 

He puts one leg through the ropes to get Carter’s attention—

BOOM.

**Stitches runs up behind and kicks the middle rope—RIGHT INTO CERRADOR’S GROIN.

 

Lightning Lenny Cruz:
“OH COME ON! That’s disgusting! That’s cheap! That’s—ugh!”

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“Sometimes, pain’s the punchline!”

 

Cerrador folds in half, gasping, still draped over the ropes. One of the med staff, trying to climb up to intervene, gets shoved violently off the apron by Stitches—colliding into the other staff and guards below in a domino collapse!

 

Jackson Creed:
“He just took out the entire medical team! Everyone’s down!”

 

Stitches grabs Cerrador by the mask—hooks the rope—FINAL STITCH!
Rope-hung DDT spikes Cerrador directly onto the canvas.

 

Carter Vale, seeing the ring cleared, slides back in just in time for the cover.

Carter Vale:
“One! Two! Three!”

 

DING DING DING!

 

Ring Announcer Astrid Vale (barely heard through the chaos):
“Here is your winner... advancing in the Ether Championship Tournament... STITCHES THE CLOWN!”

 

 

Jackson Creed:
“Unreal. Absolutely unreal. El Cerrador had it won! He made that monster tap—but the referee never saw it!”

 

Lightning Lenny Cruz:
“He should be moving on—not this freak! That’s not justice, that’s robbery!”

 

Stitches rises slowly, arms wide, head tilted as his music—“Laugh Now, Die Later”—plays again. He soaks it in... but he’s not done.

Uncle Insamity slides into the ring, clutching his side, and tackles Stitches with one good arm! The crowd erupts!*

 

Jackson Creed:
“UNCLE INSAMITY ISN’T DONE! ONE ARM BE DAMNED—HE’S FIGHTING!”

 

Insamity throws wild strikes, clubbing Stitches in the side and head—but Stitches absorbs them, slowly turning, grinning. He hits back—knee to the gut—then grabs Uncle by the throat with both hands.

 

Lightning Lenny Cruz:
“He’s trying to fight—but that arm is gone! He’s fighting with a loaded deck!”

 

Stitches DRAGS Uncle out of the ring—slams him into the commentary table side—

 

Sinclair DeVille (getting up):
“Hey hey hey—I need my space here!”

 

He clears off the announce table—monitors, papers, headsets flying—then turns to grab Insamity—

BUT STANDING BETWEEN HIM AND THE TABLE IS… ALASTOR.

 

 

The arena goes cold. The lights dim. Stitches freezes mid-step. The music stops.

 

Camera tightens on Alastor’s face—smiling faintly, not even winded.

 

Alastor (off mic, caught on a hot camera feed):
“Drop him. Now.”

 

Stitches breathes heavily—eyes wide—considering.
One heartbeat.
Two.
Three.

 

He slowly lowers Uncle Insamity to the floor. Then raises his hands in surrender, backing away—laughing again. That deep, broken giggle that echoes off the floorboards.

 

His theme kicks back in—"Laugh Now, Die Later"—and he exits slowly, arms spread wide.

 

Jackson Creed:
“Stitches walks away... but he knows. He knows he just crossed a line—and Alastor was waiting.”

 

Alastor kneels down beside Uncle Insamity, checking him carefully. He waves med techs over—this time they come rushing.

 

As the camera zooms in, Alastor looks directly at Uncle—soft for the first time—and mutters:

Alastor (audible):
“You didn’t need to do that, you stubborn fool...”

 

Fade to black as the screen echoes with Alastor’s voice, and the faint sound of the crowd’s confused, electrified roar.

 

 

The entrance to what looks like an ancient room, it looks old but somewhat inviting….

 

An angered voice is heard from inside accompanied by the sound of things being thrashed around

 

“Have they forgotten? Has Nyame the Sky God, gone back on his bargain.???”

 

The doors open, and the camera is guided inside to see a collection, the stories over the years.

 

 

The Cryptic One Elijah, sits in the centre surrounded by his stories, with one book in hand as usual.

He stares into the Sky as if in a trance with a slow single tear falling to the side of his face…

 

Elijah becomes aware of the camera facing him, and releases the book from his hand to the table….stretching out that hand to the camera.

 

Elijah: This wasn't Nyame, no…not after all this time…..so if this wasn't Nyame …… then it was you! 

You!?, the one’s I have taken stories for, you who I have given reality and imagination, despair and hope, possibilities and experiences to learn from.

 

Elijah turns full face to the camera

 

Elijah - You!!!!!

 

The sound of critters moving around is loudly heard and voices whispering behind to get louder and louder, as the camera pans around to figure out where it’s coming from

 

 

Elijah once again grabs the camera and becomes the focal point and all other sound ceases.

 

Elijah - A world without stories, a world without imagination…….Anansi will not allow this again.

MAWL, WILL… HEAR …..THE STORIES!!!!!!

 

Elijah pushes the camera away from him, the camera quickly refocuses to the spot where Elijah was and begins looking around to realize, Elijah is no longer in the library…and only the book remains…

 

 

The camera opens to the quiet hum of the locker room. Workout bags line the benches, posters of past shows and custom art of the Radio Silence emblem hang proudly on the walls. In the center of the room, Balor Wolfe is shadowboxing in front of a mirror, The Infernal Crown Championship folded neatly beside him on a bench. His breathing is steady. Focused.

 

 

From the hallway, Zagreus steps into frame. His posture is relaxed, but there’s weight in his eyes—a week’s worth of thoughts unsaid. He stops just a few feet from Balor, watching his mentor warm up.

 

 

Zagreus:
Hey… Wolfe?

 

[Balor doesn’t stop moving, but he glances over his shoulder.]

 

Balor Wolfe:
Yo. What’s up, kid?

 

Zagreus:
Just… wanted to thank you again. For last week. You didn’t have to do that, but you did.

 

[Balor throws one more combo, then exhales, dropping his arms.]

 

Balor Wolfe:
Z, you’re family. That’s what family does.
But… I gotta ask. Why did it mean that much to you? You’ve never really cared about titles before. Not like this.

 

[There’s a pause. Zagreus looks down for a beat, then slowly steps forward, sitting on the bench across from the championship. His tone softens, like it’s something he hasn’t fully admitted even to himself.]

 

Zagreus:
Because I feel like I’m always… in the background. You. Alastor. Even Johnny and V. Everyone shines. And I’m proud of all of you. I love this crew more than anything. But sometimes… I feel like I’m just there. Just the fast kid who follows. I wanted the Ether Championship to prove that I’m just as good as you. That I’m not in anyone’s shadow.

 

[Balor turns away from the mirror slowly. The air stills. He walks over and sits next to Zagreus on the bench. The room gets quiet.]

 

Balor Wolfe (serious, but warm):
Zagreus... I already know you are.
And the truth is—you do too. You don’t need a belt to be seen. You don’t need to prove anything to us. And if you ever feel like you’re falling behind… you know where we’ll be.

 

Zagreus (softly):
Right behind me?

 

Balor Wolfe (smiling):
Right beside you.

 

[Zagreus exhales a laugh—half relief, half emotion. He nods, then leans in for a quick hug. Balor pulls him in tight, claps a hand on his back, then lets go.]

 

Zagreus:
Thanks, Wolfe. That… that means a lot.

 

Balor Wolfe (grinning, already turning back to his warm-up):
Now get outta here before you make me cry and screw up my pre-match stretch.

 

Zagreus (laughing, wiping his eyes):
Alright, alright. Don’t tear your god aura or whatever.

 

[Zagreus heads out, a little taller now. Balor smiles to himself, breathes in deep, then returns to his routine—fists flying like fire as the scene fades out.]

 

 

Scene opens in the dimly lit backstage corridor. A cold, steel door behind Magnus slams shut. The camera slowly pans up from his black combat boots, past the cargo pants and tactical vest, to his broad, tattoo-covered shoulders. His face is unreadable—expressionless and calculating, eyes like ice. The dim red glow of a utility light above casts eerie shadows across his face. Magnus doesn’t look at the camera at first. He speaks low, steady, voice like gravel dragged across metal.

 

 

MAGNUS:
“Last week... I was beaten.”

 

He lifts his head, staring directly into the camera now. His voice doesn’t waver. There’s no shame. No emotion. Just cold fact.

 

MAGNUS:
“It was not a fluke. It was not stolen. I was taken down. And for a moment... the mission faltered.”

 

A pause. His gloved hands slowly clench and unclench.

 

MAGNUS:
“But make no mistake. A loss does not define me. It reveals what must be rebuilt. Reinforced. Made stronger.”

 

He steps forward slightly—never raising his voice, but his presence grows heavier.

 

MAGNUS:
“I was forged in iron. Tempered in war. Every scar on my skin is a lesson in failure—and in survival. You do not break a man like me with one loss. You awaken him.”

 

He lifts one wrist, tightens the black leather strap slowly, methodically.

 

MAGNUS:
“I don't need a spotlight. I don’t need applause. I don’t chase belts for pride. I complete the mission. I serve the GM’s will. And I will rise again… not for redemption.”

 

He glares dead into the lens—voice now like a final warning.

 

MAGNUS:
“I rise… to remind this roster what happens when the machine behind the mission resets its sights. When the force that follows orders without question… returns to the battlefield.”

 

A long beat of silence. Then, simply:

 

MAGNUS:
“Prepare yourselves. This… was just the recalibration.”

 

He turns and walks away without another word. The camera lingers on the darkened hallway behind him, the thud of his boots fading, replaced by silence. Cut to black.

 

 

 Signal Tag Team Championship Tournament – Round One

 Venom Cartel vs  THE END BEGINS

 

ASTRID VALE (with serpentine coolness):
“The following… is a tag team contest—scheduled for one fall.”

 

[She pauses. The crowd buzzes as the music coils in the background.]

 

 

[Green fog enters the arena as the lights turn a shade of kelly green that gradually slides to and from hunter green. The camera comes from a low angle to see Donna Matrix's boots and slightly behind her Bowen Baneclaw's boots. The camera slithers upward, slowly at first and then Donna Matrix's cat o' nine ethernet cables cracks at it and it picks up speed to see the green reflecting in their glasses.]

 

 

ASTRID VALE (voice low, sharp):
“Introducing first…”

 

[A slow build begins—she lets it ride, then strikes like a cobra.]

 

ASTRID VALE (with dramatic rhythm):
“From the underground shadows of nowhere you can find on a map... weighing in at a combined weight of venom and vengeance…”

 

[A sly smile tugs at her lips. She draws out the name with flair.]

 

ASTRID VALE:
“They are… VENOM... CARTEL.”

 

 

The arena falls into darkness. The snaking guitar opening of “It’s All Over”  trickles through the arena with footage on the titantron of buildings and monuments crumbling before the drums drop, at which Tron and the runners show a full Atomic Mushroom and Fire Walls explode on the stage, from the rafters, and around the ring itself. The lights drop to a crimson red and the runner shows in military font
"THE END BEGINS."

 

From the Fire-

Genesis, only his eyes and hair visible on his face and the fire reflecting in his pupils. The red highlights the camo that comprises the remainder of his outfit and give him a terrifying glow.

 

 

Omega X emerges slowly behind him, towering as if the Gods themselves,hair and eyes white as static and emotionless, with only white samurai pants and a tattoo of a black Omega with a Red X almost like a blade scar running through it.

 

 

ASTRID VALE (tone: dark, cinematic, prophetic):
“And their opponents…”

 

ASTRID VALE (with rising cadence):
“From the edge of time itself… born not to fight for the future—”
[Beat.]
“—but to end it.”

 

Genesis lets out a sharp “HAI!” and they slowly storm their way to the ring, both sets of eyes locked firmly on the Venom Cartel staring into and through them. Omega steps over the ropes with relative ease as Genesis climbs the Turnbuckle and walks to the middle of the top rope, where he perches, positioning himself directly behind Omega X. Genesis moves his hands upwards as a hologram of an Earth forms between them. Omega puts his arms in an X above his head, then shoots them down as the hologram explodes into a firework X. 

 

ASTRID VALE (strong, finality in her voice):
“Together, they are the final word… the last echo... and the silence that follows.”

 

ASTRID VALE:
“They are… THE END BEGINS!”

 

DING DING DING!

 

 

Jackson Creed:
“There’s the bell, and we are underway! Bowen Baneclaw starting off for Venom Cartel, while Genesis steps to the center for The End Begins… and this crowd is on edge.”

 

 

Lenny Cruz:
“You can feel it, man—two total wrecking crews about to collide. Genesis? Precision power. Bowen? Stone-cold killer instinct. Let’s GO.”

 

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“A technician and a tactician. I’d say it’s going to be chess—but let’s be real, this is war.”

 

Genesis doesn’t wait. He explodes forward—collar and elbow tie-up—but transitions instantly into a hip toss with authority. Bowen hits the mat hard and rolls to a knee, eyes narrowed.

 

Jackson:
“And Genesis showing that military precision right away. That wasn’t just a toss—that was a message.”

 

Sinclair:
“‘Get in line or get laid out,’ I believe is the message he’s sending.”

 

Bowen circles up, nods like he respects the move, then lunges again—but Genesis ducks low and muscles him up into a back suplex, driving Bowen’s spine into the canvas!

 

Lenny:
“Whew! Bowen felt that. That’s Queens meeting Judgment.”

 

Genesis yanks Bowen to his feet and whips him into The End Begins' corner, where Omega X looms like a living apocalypse.

 

Jackson:
“And now the tag to Omega X—listen to this crowd’s reaction.”

 

Sinclair:
“That’s not a pop, Jackson. That’s reverence. Omega X isn’t cheered. He’s witnessed.”

 

Omega steps through the ropes like a machine made of meat and concrete. He grabs Bowen as if he weighs nothing and lifts him up in a military press, holding him high—

 

Jackson:
“That’s 240 pounds of Baneclaw—just held up there like a gym prop!”

 

Omega drops Bowen across his knee with a gutbuster, then casually shoves him to the mat.

 

Lenny:
“That’s scary, man. No emotion. No trash talk. Just raw, systematic pain.”

 

Omega drags Bowen to the middle of the ring and drops a brutal elbow to the sternum—hard enough to echo.

Jenny Caldwell drops down—
ONE…
TWO—
Bowen kicks out, clutching his ribs.

 

Jackson:
“Early pinfall attempt from Omega X, and Bowen may already be feeling internal damage.”

 

Sinclair:
“You can’t let these two dictate pace. That’s not just dangerous—it’s career-shortening.”

 

Omega doesn’t waste time—he hauls Bowen up and launches him into the ropes—goes for a Big Boot—but Bowen ducks! Rebounds—Genesis blind tags in just as Bowen slides under Omega’s legs!

 

Jackson:
“Heads up tag by Genesis!”

 

Genesis leaps the ropes—high knee to the face of Bowen before he can stand!

 

Lenny:
“DAMN! That’s why they’re dangerous—Genesis just exploded back into this match!”

 

Genesis hits the ropes—sliding lariat to the back of Bowen’s neck!

Jenny drops again—
ONE…
TWO—
Kickout again!

 

Jackson:
“Venom Cartel might be on the ropes here in the early going. They haven’t landed a clean offensive move yet.”

 

Genesis pulls Bowen up and traps him in a side waistlock, looking for a slam—but Bowen grabs the tights—rakes the eyes behind Jenny’s back!

 

Lenny:
“Aw, come on! That’s dirty—classic Cartel move!”

 

Sinclair (chuckling):
“Oh, you mean effective? I think you mean effective, Lightning.”

 

Genesis stumbles back, blinking—and Bowen CHARGES, taking out the knees with a chop block!

 

Jackson:
“And just like that, momentum shifts—Bowen went to the streets, and it paid off.”

 

Bowen crawls—tag to Donna Matrix!

 

The crowd buzzes as Donna storms in, immediately targeting Genesis’ leg with a stomping frenzy, then a sharp elbow to the inner thigh.

 

Lenny:
“Here comes Matrix, and she’s not just flashy—she’s surgical when she wants to be.”

 

Sinclair:
“Surgical and sadistic. She smells weakness like blood in the water.”

 

Genesis tries to roll away, but Donna yanks him back by the ankle and drives her knee into the hamstring—three times—then spits toward Omega X.

 

Jackson:
“And you saw that. That’s pure disrespect.”

 

Omega steps in—but Jenny Caldwell intercepts him, ordering him back to the corner—

—which gives Venom Cartel their opening.

 

Bowen slides in behind Jenny’s back—double team! He hits a Russian Leg Sweep as Donna connects with a ripcord forearm to Genesis’ jaw!

 

Jackson:
“Classic Cartel—ref distracted, teamwork activated.”

 

Lenny:
“They're getting away with murder out here!”

 

Sinclair:
“What are you gonna do about it, Lightning? Complain harder?”

 

Jenny turns back—Bowen’s out of the ring. Donna covers—

ONE…
TWO…
GENESIS KICKS OUT!

 

The crowd roars as Genesis survives the assault, but the momentum is shifting fast.

 

Jackson:
“And now it’s The Cartel in control—dirty or not, they’ve grounded The Order.”

 

Lenny:
“It’s not just about power anymore—it’s about surviving the venom.”

 

Jackson Creed:
“We’re back in it, and Venom Cartel is swarming like jackals. Genesis has been isolated since that blind tag, and Donna Matrix is showing no mercy.”

 

Donna has Genesis grounded in the center of the ring, arms stretched behind his back in a Modified Surfboard, her knee jammed between his shoulder blades. She leans back, lips curled into a smile.

Lenny Cruz:

“Look at the torque! She’s trying to rip his shoulders clean off!”

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“It’s beautiful, Lenny. Like a symphony of suffering. I swear I saw a tear roll down Genesis’ face—and not from emotion.”

 

Genesis growls low, gritting his teeth. He tries to roll, shifting his hips—but Donna releases just enough to drive her elbow into his spine before dragging him toward her corner.

 

Jackson:
“Smart tag strategy now—dragging him into Cartel territory.”

 

TAG TO BOWEN.

Bowen steps in, calm and dangerous, before stomping down hard on Genesis’s exposed arm.

 

Sinclair:
“Bowen’s just dismantling this man piece by piece.”

 

Genesis fights up to a knee, trying to swing—but Bowen side steps and grabs a Single-Leg Takedown, flipping Genesis down before dropping his full body weight with a falling elbow across the leg.

 

Lenny:
“He’s targeting the same leg Donna worked earlier! They’re not just brawling anymore—this is strategy.”

 

Jackson:
“This is turning into something dangerously calculated. Genesis is hurt, Omega X is pacing that apron like a caged beast, and the Cartel is working with precision.”

 

Bowen methodically pulls Genesis up and traps the leg—DRAGON SCREW—twisting Genesis violently before rolling into a knee bar.

 

Jenny Caldwell drops to check—
“Do you want to give it up?!”
Genesis growls “NO!”

 

Lenny:
“He’s not quitting—but I’m telling you, that knee is cooked. Omega’s gonna have to get in soon, or this is over before it begins.”

 

Genesis claws his way toward the ropes. Donna yells at Jenny, drawing her attention again—

AND BOWEN BITES GENESIS’ WRIST!

 

Jackson:
“Oh, come on! Ref didn’t see it—Bowen just sank his teeth into the man’s arm!”

 

Lenny:
“That’s disgusting! What is wrong with these two?!”

 

Sinclair:
“That’s Queens hospitality, baby. You step into Bowen’s house, don’t be shocked when you leave with bite marks.”

 

Genesis screams in pain, finally lunging for the ropes—he gets there! Jenny calls for the break. 1… 2… 3… Bowen lets go at 4.

 

Jackson:
“Genesis is hanging on by muscle memory and fury right now. But that leg? That arm? Cartel has left their mark.”

 

Bowen drags him up again—goes for a Side Kick to the Knee—but Genesis catches it!

 

Lenny:
“He caught it! He’s still in this!”

 

Genesis swings with his free arm—BLACK MASS—NO! Bowen ducks and hits a DDT out of the missed spin!

 

Jackson:
“Just when Genesis had an opening, Cartel slams it shut again!”

 

TAG TO DONNA.

She leaps over the top rope and drops a double axe handle to Genesis’ back before he can crawl.

 

Lenny:
“This is getting hard to watch, man. Genesis is crawling, but he’s not going anywhere with one good leg.”

 

Donna mounts him and starts laying in closed fists to the back of the neck—Jenny starts the count—1! 2! 3! 4! Donna stands up at the last second and throws her hands up innocently.

 

Sinclair:
“What? She stopped at four. Can’t penalize style.”

 

Omega X is now leaning over the ropes, hand outstretched, barely moving but boiling with rage. The crowd starts clapping rhythmically, urging Genesis to move.

 

Jackson:
“Listen to this crowd trying to will him back to life! The End Begins may be powerful—but right now, they’re being dissected.”

 

Donna yanks Genesis up by the hair, smirking—and goes for a ripcord lariat—but Genesis ducks! He backdrops her over his shoulder!

Lenny:
“He got her over! He needs that tag—right now!”

 

Genesis crawls, dragging his battered body inch by inch. Donna rolls to her feet, scrambles—she dives for his leg—NO! Genesis leaps forward—TAG TO OMEGA X!

 

Jackson:
“HERE COMES THE JUDGMENT!”

 

Sinclair:
“Oh no.”

 

The arena ERUPTS as Omega steps over the ropes—dead stare locked on both members of the Cartel.

 

Jackson Creed:
“Genesis has made the tag—and Omega X is in the ring! And now… business has changed.”

 

Lenny Cruz:
“Somebody call the insurance adjuster—'cause the Cartel’s about to file a claim on a wrecking ball named Omega X!”

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“No, no, no… Ref, get in there! That’s a giant, not a man!”

 

Donna Matrix charges him without hesitation—roundhouse kick to the chest—barely fazes him. She goes for another—

BOOM!

 

Omega X catches her leg, yanks her off the ground by the ankle like a ragdoll—and swings her into the turnbuckle spine-first!

 

Jackson:
“Good LORD! Donna Matrix just got folded in half!”

 

Sinclair:
“You can’t do that to people!”

 

Bowen Baneclaw storms in from the apron to help her—runs full speed—BIG BOOT FROM OMEGA X! It sounds like a gunshot in the arena.

 

Lenny:
“HE TOOK HIS HEAD OFF! THAT’S NOT A BOOT—THAT’S A DEATH SENTENCE!”

 

Bowen rolls out of the ring under the bottom rope, clutching his jaw as the crowd begins to roar.

 

Jackson:
“Omega X has cleared the ring! One man—two bodies down!”

 

Donna tries to crawl away, reaching for the ropes—but Omega X grabs her by the back of the neck like she’s nothing more than a file folder.

 

He yanks her upright—elevated claw hold! She flails as her boots lift off the mat.

 

Lenny:
“You can see her spine twisting from here! That’s not just pain—that’s paralysis waiting to happen!”

 

Sinclair:
“Caldwell, do something! This isn’t a match—it’s a war crime!”

 

Donna scratches at his arm, claws his face—he lets go, only to whip her into the ropes—

—Donna rebounds—Omega X catches her—spins—and plants her with a thunderous Back Body Drop that sends her halfway across the ring!

 

Jackson:
“There’s gravity—then there’s Omega X.”

 

Lenny:
“And Cartel just discovered terminal velocity the hard way.”

 

Genesis is now back on the apron, shaking out the leg, fire returning to his eyes.

 

Donna slowly crawls toward her corner, stunned, dazed—

TAG TO BOWEN.

 

Bowen’s back in—but slower now. Cautious. He circles Omega X, who simply turns and watches him like a predator waiting for the first mistake.

 

Sinclair:
“Bowen’s smart. He’s not running in wild. He knows what Omega X is. You don’t play speed chess with a bulldozer.”

 

Bowen shoots in—low single leg takedown attempt—NOPE.

 

Omega X hooks the waist—Release German Suplex! Bowen’s boots hit the turnbuckle as he flips head over heels.

 

Jackson:
“Sweet mercy! He just got suplexed into the next quadrant of the ring!”

 

Lenny:
“I think Bowen just saw the curvature of the Earth!”

 

Omega slowly turns back to his corner. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t need to. He walks to Genesis—

TAG.

 

Jackson:
“And here comes The Order to join The Judgment!”

 

Genesis limps in, but his eyes are blazing. Donna stirs in the corner. Bowen is flat on his back.

 

Sinclair:
“If they hit that team finisher now, this thing might be over.”

 

Lenny:
“The Cartel started dirty, but they’re drowning in divine punishment now!”

 

Jackson Creed:
“Genesis is legal—Donna’s down, Bowen’s barely up—and this is where The End Begins could finish it all!”

 

Genesis stalks Bowen as he rises—limping, but full of fire. Bowen stumbles back to his feet—

BOOM!
“GET IN LINE!” – Seven Star Lariat!

 

Jackson:
“HE FLIPPED HIM INSIDE OUT! Genesis with the signature strike!”

 

Genesis drops down—hooks the leg—

Jenny slides in—
ONE!
TWO!—

BROKEN UP BY DONNA MATRIX!

 

She dives in with a double axe handle to the back of Genesis’s head, yanking him off the pin!

 

Lenny Cruz:
“Donna saves the match! Venom Cartel are hanging on by a thread—but man they’re fighting to the last!”

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“And that’s the danger—just when you think you’ve got them down, they inject that venom right in your jugular.”

 

Donna scrambles to drag Bowen toward the corner—but Genesis grabs her leg! She kicks him off—and Bowen tags himself back in!

Bowen explodes in—LEG LARIAT! Right to Genesis’s jaw!

 

Jackson:
“A signature from Bowen Baneclaw! That one connected flush!”

 

Bowen drops into the cover—

ONE!
TWO!—

OMEGA X BREAKS IT UP WITH A BOOT TO THE SPINE!

 

Lenny:
“I don’t care who you are—that boot will make you forget your birth certificate!”

 

Sinclair:
“How is Genesis still moving?! This match is chaos now—pure anarchy in motion!”

 

Donna charges Omega X—dropkick to the back! He stumbles—Genesis grabs her—

BIG BOOT from Genesis! Donna goes down again!

The crowd is on their feet as all four bodies collide in the ring. Caldwell is trying to get control—

 

Jackson:
“This has broken into a riot—nobody knows who the legal man is anymore!”

 

Bowen swings at Omega X—Omega blocks, grabs the throat—

TAG! Genesis slaps Omega’s back from behind!

Omega hoists Bowen up—Electric Chair Position!

 

Genesis climbs the turnbuckle—high above the chaos—

 

Lenny:
“They’re going for it! THEY’RE GOING FOR IT!”

 

Jackson:
“TAG TEAM FINISHER INCOMING—THIS IS ‘THE RISE AND FALL OF CIVILIZATION!’”

 

Omega launches Bowen upward—

Genesis stands tall—catches him—

MOONSAULT FRONT SLAM FROM THE TOP!
THE RING EXPLODES ON IMPACT!

 

Jackson:
“THE END HAS ARRIVED!”

 

Genesis floats into the pin—Omega stands guard—

Jenny Caldwell slides in—
ONE!
TWO!
THREE!!!

DING DING DING!

 

[The arena erupts.]

 

RA Announcer Astrid Vale:
"Here are your winners… and advancing in the Signal Tag Team Championship Tournament… THE END… BEGINS!"

 

 

“It’s All Over” by Three Days Grace hits as red light floods the arena and the crowd rises in a mix of awe and adrenaline.

 

Genesis kneels over Bowen, chest heaving. Omega X stands behind him, arms crossed in a silent X.

 

Lenny Cruz:
“Man… what a WAR. That wasn’t just a win—that was survival.”

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“Venom Cartel threw every trick in the book, and honestly? On another night, it might’ve worked. But tonight? Fate caught up with ‘em.”

 

Jackson Creed:
“The End Begins move on in the tournament—but they were tested. This was no easy fight. And you’ve gotta wonder—if that’s Round One… what’s left when the dust settles?”

 

Camera fades on The End Begins standing tall, silhouetted in the crimson light, as the tournament bracket graphic fades in over the screen…

 

 

The locker room is dim—most of the overhead lights off, just a single buzzing fluorescent above casting a flickering glow. A bench lies overturned. A deflated purple balloon sits in the corner like a corpse.*

 

And pacing back and forth like a caged animal is Stitches the Clown—chuckling low, then muttering, then chuckling again. He’s just completed his second lap across the room when he turns for a third—

 

 

Stitches (muttering):
“He taps, he squeals, he bends, he breaks... and still they cry foul. Boo hoo. No encore.”

 

He spins, heading toward the mirror—only to nearly walk straight into someone. Standing silently in front of him, grinning... is Alastor.

 

 

The Radio Demon is calm—his red eyes gleaming—but his smile doesn’t reach them. There’s tension under his stillness, a barely restrained edge, like a knife pressed against silk.

 

Alastor (cool, cutting):
“What exactly made you think... you get to play with my show like that?”

 

Stitches takes a step back, grinning, arms wide like a magician who just revealed the wrong card but still demands applause.

 

Stitches:
“Ooooh… spooky spooky. You only like chaos when it’s your chaos, huh?
When you’re the one pulling the strings—not when someone cuts them for fun!”

 

He starts pacing again—side to side—never quite looking Alastor in the eye for long.

 

Stitches (continuing):
“I was making a move, see? Having fun. Stirring the pot. You like that, right? Or is it only fun when the Devil’s holding the ladle?”

 

Alastor watches him like a wolf watches a dancing deer—his grin unmoving, but the air around him thickening.

 

Alastor:
“You mistake indulgence for approval.
You mistake tolerance… for weakness.
And worst of all, you mistake me for someone with patience.”

 

Stitches stops pacing. Just for a moment. The room grows quiet. No giggle. No mutter. Just breathing.

 

Alastor (stepping forward):
“You pull a stunt like that again—and it won’t be a table I clear off next.
It’ll be you.”

 

With that, Alastor turns. His form drifts—not walks—into the shadows in the far corner of the room. And then—he’s gone. Vanished. No sound. No trace.

 

Stitches blinks. The corner where Alastor vanished stays still and dark.

 

Stitches (to the empty room):
“Oooh… spooooky Radio Demon.”

 

He laughs—high-pitched and ragged. The laugh echoes around the locker room, bouncing off lockers and tile like a carousel gone mad.

 

 

WildFire’s still wiping sweat off his arms when Mark "Red Carpet" Anderson and Winston "High Risk" Lewis pull up, clearly fresh from their own victory lap.

 

 

Mark (grinning):

"WildFire, my man! You still smell like the Fourth of July, brother! You alright? You ain’t crispy, are ya?"

 

 

Winston (laughing):

"For real though, you gotta teach us how to walk through flames like you do and not look like we’re about to scream for our moms."

 

WildFire gives them a small smile, brushing some lingering ash from his glove.

 

 

WildFire:

"Hey, you either run into the heat, or you run from it. I guess I’m just built different."

 

Mark (nodding with real respect now):

"Yeah you are. Takes stones to do what you do. I mean, we jump off things, sure. But you? You burn for this. That’s badass."

 

Winston leans in, like he’s sharing the night’s master plan.

 

Winston:

"Yo, we’re hitting the town tonight. Paint it red. You in? First rounds on us."

 

WildFire’s smile fades just a little, but his voice stays warm.

 

WildFire:

"I’ll roll with you, but I don’t drink. Seen too many wrecks. Too many people I cared about didn’t make it home because of that mess."

 

The Blondes exchange a quick look, a rare, serious moment between them.

 

Mark (quiet, genuine):

"Yeah, respect, man. Real talk. Ain’t gotta drink to party with us. We just like having good people around."

 

Winston (grinning, lightening the mood):

"Besides, somebody’s gotta drive when we start acting like lunatics."

 

They bump fists. The bond is sealed.

 

Mark:

"Hey, you’re family now. Fire or no fire. You ride with us anytime. Ain’t about the drinks. It’s about who’s in your corner when the heat’s on."

 

WildFire (grinning):

"Sounds good to me. Let’s hit it."

 

They walk off, tossing playful jabs, swapping road stories, and cracking each other up.

It’s a brotherhood moment—one that feels small now but will echo loud when things get real later.

 

 

Location: MAWL Interview Set – sleek black-and-silver backdrop with the MAWL logo pulsing faintly in neon hues. Overhead lights cast a soft glow.  Veronica Vale stands centered in frame, microphone in hand, while Neonyx Notorio lounges on a tall stool beside her—mask gleaming, arms folded, legs kicked out like he owns the place.

 

 

VERONICA VALE:
“Neonyx Notorio… last week, your Ether Championship Tournament run came to a halt in what many are calling a show-stealing match against Lynx. With so much buzz around it—what’s your reflection now that the dust’s settled?”

 

 

NEONYX NOTORIO (relaxed, tapping a silver ring against the mic stand):
“Show-stealing, huh? Yeah, sounds about right. Every time I step in that ring, somebody’s calling it a classic the next day. That’s just what happens when the name’s Notorio.”
(leans forward slightly)
“But real talk—Lynx had it. He capitalized. I blinked, he struck. Happens. That’s the dance. One slip and you’re done, especially when you're throwin' high-velocity heat like I do.”

 

VERONICA VALE (measured, one eyebrow just slightly arched):
“Some critics say it wasn’t just one slip—that your theatrics and showboating cost you the match. Any regrets about your performance?”

 

NEONYX NOTORIO (smirking under the mask):
“Regrets? Vale, the only thing I regret is not doing a second backflip off that middle rope. I don’t play it safe—I perform. I electrify. I make ‘em gasp before I make ‘em count the lights. Whether I win or lose, they remember me. Every. Time.”

 

VERONICA VALE (cool and composed):
“So, what now? You regroup? Rethink the approach?”

 

NEONYX NOTORIO (snorts lightly, shakes his head):
“Nah, I reload. The approach works. Look around—you see anybody else gettin’ this much attention after a loss? I’m still the one they talk about. This isn’t some downward spiral. It’s a reset. Next time? I’m not just stealin’ the show. I’m takin’ the whole damn night.”

 

VERONICA VALE (tightening focus):
“Final question, Notorio. Do you wish Lynx luck in the rest of the tournament?”

 

NEONYX NOTORIO (sits up slightly, voice drops low with a sharper edge):
“Yeah. I do. Lynx? Win the whole thing.”
(leans in closer to the mic, tone confident but sincere)
“'Cause if you go all the way, if you take that trophy and stand on top? Then me losin’ to you? That’s me gettin’ clipped by the apex predator. And I’ll eat that. I respect that. You win it all, Lynx—make it known that the only one who stopped the Young Dragon... was the king of the damn mountain.”

 

Notorio stands from the stool, adjusts one glove, flicks his fingers toward the camera with a lazy swagger, and walks off the set without another word.

 

VERONICA VALE (turns smoothly to face the camera, expression cool as ice):
“Neonyx Notorio. Still glowing. Still dangerous. Still Notorious. Back to ringside.”

 

 

The Ether Championship Tournament – Round One

Wildfire Vs James D

 

 

Arena light go out as the crowd goes silent

The Titantron goes all white, as the name "WildFire" is displayed on the main screen, before he makes an appearance

 "Better than the Best!!!", "12 out of 10 !!!", "8 stars out of 5 !!!","Simply the Greatest EVER!!!"

WildFire charges out of the crowd sliding into the ring

 

 

WildFire kneels in the center of the ring both arms raised

                  Fireworks Explode from the 4 ring posts as "I Wanna Rock" by Twisted Sister plays

 

 

ASTRID VALE (tone: bold, electric):
“The following contest is scheduled… for one fall!”

 

[The crowd fires up. Astrid leans slightly toward the ramp, energy pulsing in her voice.]

 

ASTRID VALE:
“Introducing first…”

 

[Beat. Flames surge on the screen as his name begins to flash.]

 

ASTRID VALE (with fire in her cadence):
“Standing six feet, two inches tall… weighing in at two hundred and twenty-five pounds…”

 

[She smirks, her voice flaring up with dramatic rhythm.]

 

ASTRID VALE:
“Born in Edmonton, Alberta…
He is the rising heat—
the spark that starts the storm—
this is… WILDFIRE!”

 

 

As his theme music plays over the PA system, James holds back until the song kicks in and then makes his way out from behind the curtain.

 

 

As he moves into the sight of the fans, he's met with boos but this just brings a smile to his face. The boos continue to rain down towards James but it doesn't phase him as he makes his way down the ramp. James rolls into the ring and then stands in the corner as he awaits his opponent's entrance.

 

ASTRID VALE (tone: confident, smooth):
“And his opponent…”

 

[Beat. The city’s heartbeat echoes faintly—a subway rumble, distant sirens.]

 

ASTRID VALE (measured, cool):
“Standing six feet, one inch tall, weighing in at one hundred and ninety pounds…”

 

[She tilts her head, a knowing smile playing at the corners of her lips.]

 

ASTRID VALE:
“Billed from the city that never sleeps…
New York, New York…

The Self Proclaimed Most Interesting Man in the World”

 

[Her voice rises with flair for the name.]

 

ASTRID VALE:
“He is… JAMES D.”

[The bell rings]

 

 

Jackson Creed:
“And here we go! Round One of the Ether Championship Tournament is officially underway — James D versus WildFire, two of MAWL’s most arrogant competitors… and I say that with respect.”

 

 

Lenny Cruz:
“With respect?! Come on, Jackson — these are two of the biggest egos in the whole damn building! WildFire thinks he’s a god and James D thinks he’s a TED Talk in wrestling boots!”

 

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“And they’re both right. I love this. This is what MAWL is all about — legacies, technique, and attitude. The fans don’t know who to boo louder, and I, personally, am eating it up.”

 

[The crowd is torn at the start, half booing, half buzzing as the two men circle.]

 

Jackson Creed:
“James D looking laser-focused early. Collar-and-elbow tie-up… and James switches right into a headlock! Quick chain wrestling from the so-called ‘Most Interesting Man in the World.’”

 

Lenny Cruz:
“WildFire tries to push off—nope! James hangs on tight like a pitbull!”

 

Jackson Creed:
“Now WildFire fights back, backing James into the ropes, sends him off—James rebounds… LOOK OUT—WildFire just grabs the ropes and—he bails out of the ring!”

 

[Boos immediately rain down]

 

Lenny Cruz:
“You’ve got to be kidding me! He just ran from a basic exchange!”

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“That’s not running, Lightning. That’s thinking. You’re looking at a new and improved WildFire. The same man, yes, but now with a little MAWLwood polish. Hanging around the Blondes is paying off.”

 

[Referee Danny Rayes begins the count.]

 

Jackson Creed:
“Referee Danny Rayes up to a count of three… four… and WildFire casually rolls back in at five, not a care in the world.”

 

Lenny Cruz:
“Oh come on! If you wanna win a title, FIGHT! Don’t play mind games like some Bond villain’s hot-headed cousin.”

 

Jackson Creed:
“James comes back in fast with a right hand—BLOCKED by WildFire—James with a kick to the gut instead! Hooks him—vertical suplex? No—WildFire slips behind!”

 

[WildFire shakes his head and slides right back out under the bottom rope.]

 

[More boos erupt from the crowd]

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“Smart. Real smart. Why go through a suplex if you can just step outside, breathe, and reset the board?”

 

Lenny Cruz:
“Reset the—? He’s not resetting, Sinclair, he’s retreating! There’s a difference!”

 

Jackson Creed:
“Referee starts another count… James D is pacing like a caged animal, yelling for WildFire to ‘man up.’ Count of four… five again—WildFire slides in—AND SLIDES RIGHT BACK OUT.”

 

[The crowd is now actively jeering, louder than before]

 

Lenny Cruz:
“Oh that is so cheap!”

 

Jackson Creed:
“This is the third time now, and James D’s had ENOUGH—he’s going after him!”

 

[James D storms out of the ring, shouting, “Fight me, coward!” WildFire smirks, backing up slightly.]

 

Lenny Cruz:
“James is chasing him now—NO WAIT—WildFire sidesteps, GRABS THE BACK OF JAMES' HEAD—AND SHOVES HIM HEAD-FIRST INTO THE STEEL RING POST!”

 

[The crowd groans collectively as James drops to a knee, dazed.]

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“YES! Genius! GENIUS! Did I not say the MAWLwood Blondes are helping WildFire sharpen his strategic edge?!”

 

Lenny Cruz:
“You mean helping him find every cheap shortcut in the book?”

 

Jackson Creed:

“WildFire rolls back into the ring while James is clutching his jaw… and look at this—WildFire’s tapping his temple like he just outsmarted the world!”

 

[WildFire circles the ring, pointing to his head, soaking in the mix of boos and laughs from the crowd.]

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“That’s not just brains — that’s branding. This is a new era of WildFire, and it smells like victory and expensive cologne.”

 

Jackson Creed:
“And as James D tries to shake the cobwebs outside, WildFire’s already set the tone — control through manipulation. Round One of the Ether Tournament just got real interesting.”

 

[Continuing from the previous moment – James D still recovering outside after being rammed into the post. Referee is up to a count of 4.]

 

Jackson Creed:
“Count of five now… James D shakes the cobwebs loose and slides back in under the bottom rope—”

 

Lenny Cruz:
“And WildFire is ON HIM instantly!”

 

Jackson Creed:
“WildFire stomping away on the back of James’ neck! He’s relentless now—elbow drop—RIGHT to the base of the skull!”

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“You see? That’s the predator instinct! He didn’t need to throw hands with James when he could let James throw himself into steel! Then you pounce — that's chess, not checkers.”

 

[WildFire drags James up by the arm and yanks him into a short-arm clothesline, then immediately drops a knee across the back of James’ neck.]

 

Jackson Creed:
“James D in real trouble now. WildFire has a clear target—and he’s picking it apart like a surgeon with a grudge.”

 

Lenny Cruz:
“This is where WildFire gets dangerous. When he finds an opening, he digs in like a tick and doesn’t let go.”

 

[WildFire pulls James up again—whips him into the ropes—goes for a back body drop—BUT—]

 

Jackson Creed:
“Wait—COUNTER—James D puts the brakes on—waistlock—BELLY TO BACK SUPLEX!”

 

[The crowd gasps as both men hit the mat hard — James lands the suplex, but clutches his own neck immediately afterward.]

 

Lenny Cruz:
“Big move by James—but look at him! He landed awkwardly on his own neck trying to drop WildFire!”

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“You hate to see it, or do you? That’s what happens when your ego says ‘I can still throw people,’ but your spine says, ‘You sure about that, champ?’”

 

Jackson Creed:
“James trying to shake it off—he’s holding his neck, clearly in pain. That landing hurt him more than it hurt WildFire!”

 

[James tries to crawl toward WildFire to stay on him—but WildFire is already rising, and now he’s grinning.]

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“Oh he smelled that. You can see it in his eyes—he saw the whiplash, saw the grimace, and now he’s locked on. This is going to get nasty.”

 

Lenny Cruz:
“James might’ve gotten himself right back into the match—and handed WildFire the blueprint to destroy him.”

 

[WildFire kicks at the side of James' neck, then pulls him up—snapmare into a stiff kick to the spine—then drives his forearm across the back of James' head, wrenching it downward into a side chinlock, grinding pressure onto the neck.]

 

Jackson Creed:
“Side chinlock locked in, and that’s a lot of torque right now on a clearly compromised neck. James D is fighting, but WildFire is using every inch of that five-count to wear him down.”

 

Lenny Cruz:
“Danny ‘Quickcount’ Rayes already warning him to break! WildFire lets go—BUT LOOK AT THAT—he just drops a knee right on the neck again!”

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“That’s ring IQ, gentlemen. When you see blood in the water, you don’t throw it a life raft. You tear it apart and paint your boots with it.”

 

Jackson Creed:
“James D is in a bad way now—WildFire has zeroed in and is dissecting the neck with precision and cruelty. This Ether Championship Tournament has only just begun—and already these two are leaving it all in the ring.”

 

[Continuing with WildFire firmly in control, James D is on the mat clutching his neck. The crowd is buzzing — disliking both men, but increasingly respecting the brutality of the bout.]

 

Jackson Creed:
“James D is struggling here. That suplex earlier might’ve done more harm than good — and WildFire is absolutely dissecting him now.”

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“I keep saying it — this is what happens when you hang with the MAWLwood Blondes. You start to think in layers. That’s not just pain WildFire’s dishing out — it’s a message.”

 

Lenny Cruz:
“Yeah, well that message might have permanent consequences if he keeps dropping knees on that neck! Somebody’s gonna have to ice him and his ego at this rate.”

 

[WildFire yanks James D up again, this time wrenching the neck violently in a modified neckbreaker — then immediately transitions into a seated stretch, digging his knee into James’ back and pulling the arms back to torque the shoulders and spine.]

 

Jackson Creed:
“Stretching him out like a bowstring—look at the torque! James D is in trouble again!”

 

[James fights toward the ropes… fingertips brushing the bottom rope… until WildFire releases the hold on his own — only to plant a hard boot into the side of the neck again.]

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“See that? Beautiful. No wasted motion, just brutality and timing. WildFire is cooking tonight.”

 

Lenny Cruz:
“He’s cooking alright, but the longer he plays with his food, the more time he gives James D to recover — and say what you will about James, he’s stubborn as hell.”

 

[WildFire drags James to the ropes and places his neck across the second rope. He steps on the back of James' head, using the full four-count until Rayes threatens a DQ. WildFire finally steps back, smugly holding up his hands.]

 

Jackson Creed:
“WildFire walking the line of disqualification like a tightrope. Rayes giving him a serious warning now, but the damage is done.”

 

[James uses the ropes to pull himself up, gasping and holding his neck. WildFire stalks in again—but James ducks under a lariat—tries for a rebound—WildFire CUTS HIM OFF with a jumping knee to the jaw!]

 

Lenny Cruz:
“Oof! Right when James D starts to build something—bam! That neck again! It’s like WildFire has a GPS tracker on it!”

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“Don’t fix what isn’t broken, Lenny. This is wrestling at its most efficient.”

 

[WildFire whips James into the corner—runs in for a splash—but James gets the boot up! WildFire stumbles back—James climbs up quickly to the second rope and dives—WildFire tries to catch him—BUT JAMES SPINS—T-BONE SUPLEX OUTTA NOWHERE!]

 

Jackson Creed:
“T-BONE SUPLEX! James D just planted him!”

 

Lenny Cruz:
“That’s his signature! He caught WildFire overcommitting, and bam, turned it into a suplex clinic!”

 

[But James can’t move. He’s flat on the mat, both arms clutching his neck, face twisted in pain.]

 

Jackson Creed:
“But he can’t capitalize! The damage to that neck is too much—he’s barely rolling over!”

 

**[Referee Danny Rayes checks both men—no movement—he begins the count.]

“ONE… TWO…”

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“This match could end right here. WildFire’s rattled, and James is wrecked — neither man may make it to their feet in time.”

 

“THREE… FOUR…”

 

Lenny Cruz:
“James needs this time—needs to breathe, reset, and find something! That T-Bone just bought him a lifeline!”

 

“FIVE…”

[Both men begin to stir slowly — James crawling, WildFire rolling to a knee, both battered.]

 

Jackson Creed:
“It’s a race now! After everything these two have thrown at each other — who wants to move on in the Ether Tournament more?”

 

[Continuing as both men are struggling to their feet at the referee’s count of eight…]

Jackson Creed:

“Referee Danny Rayes is up to nine—ONE second away from a double countout here in this brutal first-round Ether Tournament match!”

 

Lenny Cruz:
“Come on, James, get up! Don’t let this end like this!”

 

[Suddenly, the MAWLTron flashes gold, and music hits—“Hollywood Royalty” by Royal Deluxe. The crowd erupts into a confused reaction as RED CARPET MARK ANDERSON bursts onto the ramp and sprints toward ringside.]

 

 

Jackson Creed:
“Wait a minute! That’s Mark Anderson of the MAWLwood Blondes!”

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“Yes! Star power, baby! The Blondes are here and business just picked up!”

 

[As the referee turns to intercept Mark—arguing, pointing to the entrance— James D slowly gets to his feet. From behind the crowd barrier, HIGH RISK WINSTON LEWIS slips over the barricade, a glinting metal object in hand.]

 

 

Lenny Cruz:
“No—NO NO NO—That’s Winston Lewis—and he’s got the CAMERA!”

 

[WHACK! Winston smashes the signature vintage camera across the side of James D’s head just as he turns.]

 

Jackson Creed:
“HE CLOCKED HIM! Lewis just used that camera like a baseball bat!”

 

[WildFire, seeing his opening, dives over and covers James D as Winston disappears back into the crowd. Mark Anderson waves frantically for the ref.]

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“Beautifully orchestrated! Showmanship, timing, execution—this is peak MAWLwood!”

 

[The referee turns back to the ring just in time—drops down—counts:]

“ONE!”

“TWO!”

 

[James’ foot SHOOTS onto the bottom rope.]

 

Lenny Cruz:
“HE GOT THE FOOT ON THE ROPE! HE’S STILL IN THIS!”

 

Jackson Creed:
“WildFire can’t believe it, and the Blondes look more annoyed than panicked—they’re moving again—headed toward the timekeeper’s table!”

 

[Mark and Winston rush to the ringside audio setup, arguing and pretending to grab microphones “for an interview,” clearly trying to get the ref’s attention again. The crowd starts cheering, louder now… until—]

 

Jackson Creed:
“WAIT A MINUTE—IT’S THE EDGE RUNNERS!”

 

Lenny Cruz:
“JOHNNY! V! THE EDGE RUNNERS JUST HIT THE RAMP!”

 

 

[The camera swings to show Johnny and V charging down, leaping over the barricade, and taking down the Blondes with wild fists. The crowd is roaring now.]

 

Jackson Creed:
“The cavalry has arrived! Johnny and V aren't letting this slide!”

 

[The referee moves to break up the ringside brawl between the Blondes and Edge Runners—but in the chaos, a stray mic goes flying, bouncing off the mat and into the ring near WildFire.]

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“You know… sometimes the universe just gives you gifts, Jackson.”

 

[Back in the ring, James D has somehow regained control—he grabs WildFire from behind, hooks him—prepping for The D-Stroyer. The crowd rises.]

 

Lenny Cruz:
“He’s got him! James D’s gonna do it! WildFire’s about to—”

 

[But as James sets up—WildFire grabs the mic off the mat and SLAMS it into James D’s throat! A sickening thud echoes. James stumbles back, gagging, coughing, struggling to breathe.]

 

Jackson Creed:
“NO! Right to the throat with that mic! The referee didn’t see a thing!”

 

Lenny Cruz:
“You’ve gotta be kidding me!”

 

[WildFire doesn’t wait—he scoops James up in one smooth motion—lifts him across his shoulders—FALLING CRUCIFIX PIN —slam! — and James is crushed beneath him.]

 

Referee Danny Rayes turns from the ringside brawl—dives in—

 

“ONE!”

“TWO!”

“THREE!”

 

[Bell rings as WildFire rolls off, grinning and gasping. The crowd is a storm of boos and cheers, half in awe, half furious.]

 

Astrid Vale (Ring Announcer):
“Here is your winner… advancing to the next round of the Ether Championship Tournament… WIIIIILD…FIIIIIRE!”

 

 

[The Blondes scramble into the ring, grabbing WildFire by the arms, pulling him out of the chaos. The Edge Runners see them escaping—Johnny shouts, V is right behind—but the Blondes drag WildFire over the barricade and disappear into the crowd.]

 

Jackson Creed:
“And they’re gone! WildFire, with the help of the MAWLwood Blondes, steals this one and escapes into the night!”

 

Sinclair DeVille:
“Steals? No, no, no. That was high drama, high stakes, and high IQ. The Edge Runners came late, and WildFire cashed in on an opportunity. That’s how legends move.”

 

Lenny Cruz:
“Please. That wasn’t wrestling — that was a damn heist. James D got robbed.”

 

Jackson Creed:
“And the Ether Championship Tournament rolls on — but you better believe there’s gonna be fallout from this one. The Edge Runners are not going to forget this.”

 

[Fade out on WildFire being pulled up the stairs by the Blondes, arms raised like a champion, mic still in hand.]

 

 

Camera slowly creeps in on a candlelit backstage area. Incense burns. Bone charms hang from a rack of pipes. The dim hum of swamp bugs fills the silence. Vernon Gravewater paces like a preacher in private prayer, muttering to himself, gripping his driftwood staff tight as though it’s alive in his hands.

 

 

Vernon Gravewater (muttering)
(head down, pacing in half circles)
“Time be movin’ backwards 'round here. Moon gone silver. Blood runnin’ uphill. The signs… they ain’t just comin’. They already here. He comin’. Yes… TRAGEDEIGH. The son of sorrow. The masked requiem. And I will raise him from the dirt with chants older than flame. He will take over. His voice gonna turn bones to ash…”

 

(he stops and looks over his shoulder, as if feeling something watching him. Then chuckles nervously and turns back to muttering.)

 

“Aztec don't see it comin’. He think the world still got rules. But I been out in the fog. I seen the storm wearin' skin…”

 

The camera pans slightly to reveal someone standing behind him. Vernon turns slowly, his voice catching mid-thought as the figure in red enters from the shadows with a calm smile.

 

 

Alastor
“Well now. What a delightful little sermon to stumble upon backstage. Mister Gravewater, welcome… to the show.”
(He tips his top hat and leans lightly on his cane, red eyes gleaming with that ever-pleasant malice.)
“Shame you weren’t drafted. But perhaps that’s the universe giving you a little push. To be… great.”

 

Vernon Gravewater
(startled but trying to regain his composure, offering a shaky smile)
“Ah… Alastor. Didn’t see you there, friend. Just… preparin’ the segment. Blood Hour, y’know. Spirits don’t schedule themselves. Ain’t nothin’ goin’ on down here but candles and old words…”

(he steps slightly to the side, trying to block a ritual circle chalked on the floor behind him)
“Just a little cleanin’... nothin’ that need worryin’. Surely a man of your pedigree got better shadows to stalk, hmm?”

 

Alastor
(grinning, spinning the top of his cane lazily with one gloved finger)
“Oh, Vernon. You do sell it well. But let’s not waste time pretending.”
(He steps closer, voice lowering into a calm rumble)
“I know what you’re trying to do. I know exactly what you’re trying to bring here. TRAGEDEIGH. The drowned hymn in flesh. And Aztec? Oh, he’s an old friend.”
(He smiles, more predator than person.)
“Owes me a favor or three.”

 

Vernon Gravewater
(visibly rattled, eyes darting side to side)
“Now listen here, you talkin’ like a man touched by heatstroke. Aztec don’t owe nobody nothin’ but pain. And you? Soundin’ like you writin’ ghost stories for the kids.”

 

Alastor
(chuckling, delighted)
“Oh, nonsense, good man. I know what you’re doing. I approve.
Just do me a kindness, would you?”
(leans in, whisper-soft)
“When you’re finished… bring him to my office. He and I have a few things to discuss.”
(With a final tip of the hat, Alastor melts into the shadows like smoke dissolving in fog.)

 

Vernon stares at the space where Alastor stood. He looks rattled. Spooked. He breathes deeply. Then something flickers across his face—

—not fear, but realization.
Alastor knows.
Alastor wants this.

 

Vernon Gravewater (smiling crookedly)
“…He ain’t stoppin’ me. Nah. He holdin’ the door open.”
(He grips his staff tighter, eyes wide with creeping delight.)
“Praise be.”

 

Lights flicker as the segment fades out with a rising chant in the distance.

 

 

The office is dim and elegant, lit only by the flicker of an old film projector looping static and jazz visuals on the wall. Alastor stands behind his desk in full crimson pinstripe regalia, hands resting on his cane. A clipboard sits in front of him, the name “Stitches” crossed out. He taps it thoughtfully before looking up toward the door.

 

 

Alastor (to his assistant):
“Send in Mr. Verne. Let’s see if the stars still shine on short notice.”

 

 

Moments later, the door creaks open. All-Star Eric Verne steps in, wearing his Screamer, Alabama track jacket and jeans. He looks energized, like he’s already halfway to the ring.

 

Eric Verne:
“You called for the All-Star?”
He smirks, eyes scanning the vintage room.
“Or you just wanted someone who looks good in gold?”

 

Alastor:
Smiles thinly, voice smooth like a velvet dagger.
“Mmm... as much as I appreciate flair, I called you here because fate has opened a door. There’s a spot in tonight’s four-way match—one of the competitors suffered a… scheduling mishap.”

He leans in slightly.

“I need someone who can deliver energy, flash, noise. Someone who can make the people feel like they’re watching something they shouldn’t blink through.”

 

Eric Verne:
Eyes widening, taking a slow, excited breath.
“You’re askin’ me to jump in—just like that?”

 

Alastor:
“Oh no, Mr. Verne. I’m not asking. I’m offering. A chance to show the world why you wear stars on your sleeves—and whether you deserve any on your shoulders.”

Eric Verne:
Grins ear to ear. The switch flips from chill to full-on fired up.
“You damn right I do! I’ll turn that ring into a launchpad, and whoever’s in there better keep up or get left behind.”

 

He’s already backing toward the door, bouncing on his heels.

 

Eric Verne: “I’m gonna make sure that crowd remembers the name Eric Verne! Just lemme get changed, and I’ll bring Screamer to the MAWL!”

 

He slaps the doorframe on the way out, the energy almost crackling off him.

 

Alastor:
Turning back to his desk, chuckling softly as the door closes behind Eric.
“Let’s see if the All-Star explodes… or ascends. Either way, the crowd will get a show.”

 

The jazz in the background slows to a low, ominous note as the scene fades.

 

 

 Fatal 4-Way 

Stitches the Clown (replaced by All-Star Eric Verne) vs Luciano vs Ivan Volkov vs  Jacen Tarot

 

 

The arena darkens as Luciano's music hits, and spotlights flicker between dark red and white. Luciano slowly walks out onto the stage, pausing momentarily to look around, sunglasses reflecting the lights.

 

 

He then confidently strides down the ramp, his intense gaze never leaving his opponent. Reaching ringside, Luciano climbs the steel steps, pausing dramatically before stepping through the ropes. Once inside, he removes his sunglasses and leather vest, revealing his heavily tattooed physique, and stares down his opponent with a cold, calculated expression.

 

 

ASTRID VALE (tone: cool, slightly sharp):
“Ladies and gentlemen… per his own demand…”

[Beat. Crowd reacts.]

 

ASTRID VALE (with strong, confident delivery):
“…he is entering first.”

 

[The lights follow Luciano as he soaks it in.]

 

ASTRID VALE (pacing her words with a deliberate rhythm):
“Standing six feet, three inches tall… weighing in at two hundred and ninety-four pounds…”

 

[She draws in a short breath, then delivers it like a decree:]

 

ASTRID VALE:
“From Brooklyn, New York…
He is the self-proclaimed headline,
the main attraction…
LUCIANO.”

 

 

Ivan enters the arena to a symphonic metal theme with heavy drums and ominous chanting. He walks slowly and deliberately, glaring at the audience, before ripping off his coat in the ring to reveal his massive frame.

 

 

[Crowd ERUPTS in massive boos as Ivan Volkov steps out onto the stage, stone-faced, with Viktor Dragovich at his side, smirking with his ever-present cane. They glare at the ring.]

 

ASTRID VALE (tone: sharp, commanding, with gravitas):
“And his opponent…”

 

[The war drums build slowly—like something grim and unstoppable approaching.]

 

ASTRID VALE (measured and heavy):
“Standing six feet, four inches tall… weighing in at two hundred and seventy-eight pounds…”

 

[She glances toward the ramp, eyes narrowed.]

 

ASTRID VALE:
“Billed from Volgograd, Russia…”

 

[Beat. The crowd buzzes with anticipation. Her final delivery hits like steel.]

 

ASTRID VALE (cold, final):
“He is… IVAN. VOLKOV.”

 

The arena is suddenly swallowed by darkness. The energy from the crowd fades into a tense silence as every light in the building shuts off. Only the faint hum of electricity can be heard. The sound of an ominous crow echoes through the arena. The screen flickers to life with the image of a dimly lit fortune teller’s table. A mysterious fortune teller, draped in shadowy veils and surrounded by candlelight, slowly flips a tarot card—revealing The Death Card. Smoke swirls around her as the haunting melody of “Oblivion” by Lo Key begins to play.

 

 

The beat grows louder and darker, syncing with the rhythmic pulse of lights flickering in the arena. Jacen Tarot steps into view, from the darkness.

 

 

The only light follows him from behind, casting a long, eerie shadow across the stage. He wears a black leather jacket. 

 

Hand in hand we walk with you now. 

 

Jacen stands at the top of the ramp with his arms out in a T position as he tilts his head slightly.

 

 Oblivion accept us now, Forgive us for all that we are. 

 

Jacen Tarot approaches the ring slowly, eyes cold and calculating. He slides under the bottom rope with a deliberate, smooth motion, rising to his feet in the center of the ring.

 

 Into the gates of Shadowland… We walk now 

 

The beat to the song picks back up. As the lights flicker again, he stands motionless, his arms extended wide, head tilted back slightly, embracing something not seen. He makes his way over to the corner and sits in it on the mat. 

 

ASTRID VALE (tone: dark, hushed, prophetic):
“And their final opponent…”

 

[A slow pause. Smoke creeps along the ramp. The music grows louder, pulsing like a heartbeat.]

 

ASTRID VALE (steadily rising):
“Height… six feet, two inches.
Weight… two hundred and forty-five pounds.”

 

[She tilts her head slightly, grey eyes flashing under violet light.]

 

ASTRID VALE (tone sharpened like a blade):
“Hometown… unknown.
Real name… unknown.
But the cards… they don’t lie.”

 

[She pauses. The crowd leans in.]

 

ASTRID VALE (cold and deliberate):
“He is… Jacen ‘The Heretic’... TAROT.”

 

 

Star fireworks build up in crescendo at the entrance to the rhythm of the synth/piano as the crowd gets increasingly hype. When Tinie starts rapping Eric Verne jumps out onto the stage and the star fireworks explode ALLLL around him.

 

 

ASTRID VALE (tone: crisp, electric, with flair):
“And finally… making his entrance…”

 

[Beat. Crowd is already hyped. The lights follow him like he’s on a stage.]

 

ASTRID VALE (with playful emphasis):
“Standing five feet, nine inches tall… weighing in at two hundred and one pounds…”

 

[She takes a step forward, projecting with clarity and rhythm.]

 

ASTRID VALE:
“Born in Mobile… but billed from Screamer, Alabama…”

 

[She raises the mic higher, voice rising with proud, star-studded flair:]

 

ASTRID VALE (loud, confident):
“He is the highlight, the headline, the ALL-STAR...
ERIC!
VERNE!”

 

Eric gets the crowd pumped as he gives them very intent high fives. During the parts of the song that go "OH! OH! OH!" he cups his hands like Sting and sings them out, which the crowd gives back. He backflips over the ropes.

 

Bell Rings – DING DING DING!

 

 

Jackson Creed:
And we are underway in this high-stakes four-way collision—All-Star Eric Verne, Ivan Volkov, Jacen Tarot, and Luciano—sharing one ring, no partners, no tags, and only one winner.

 

 

Lenny Cruz:
Man, the energy in here is wild! All four corners stacked with dangerous personalities—especially that psycho Volkov.

 

 

Sinclair DeVille:
Dangerous? Please. You want dangerous? Look at Luciano. That’s the guy who should be standing across from Balor Wolfe for the title tonight. This is beneath him, and he knows it.

 

In the ring, Luciano is the first to step out of his corner, waving a hand dismissively as he points across at All-Star and Jacen.

 

Jackson Creed:
Luciano already barking orders—he’s shouting that he’s better than All-Star Eric Verne and Jacen Tarot, and says he deserves to be in the title match… not Ivan Volkov.

 

Sinclair DeVille:
He’s absolutely right, Creed. The man’s got style, brutality, and charisma—everything you need to carry a promotion. This match is an insult.

 

Lenny Cruz:
Yeah, well, he just insulted the wrong guy—

 

Luciano turns to face Ivan, jabbing a finger toward him—

 

Jackson Creed:
AND IVAN VOLKOV SHUTS HIM UP WITH A MONSTROUS EUROPEAN UPPERCUT!

 

Lenny Cruz:
WOOOOOOO! That shot echoed into next week! Luciano’s legs turned to spaghetti!

 

Luciano stumbles backward like a ragdoll, careening straight into Jacen Tarot—

 

Jackson Creed:
Jacen with a STIFF elbow strike—right to the jaw! Luciano stumbles again—

 

—RIGHT into All-Star Eric Verne, who throws a lightning-quick forearm to the chin, spinning Luciano halfway around—

 

Sinclair DeVille:
This is mugging! It’s a coordinated hit job on Brooklyn’s finest!

 

Jackson Creed:
AND NOW IVAN GRABS HIM—OVERHEAD BELLY-TO-BELLY SUPLEX!!

 

Luciano CRASHES to the mat with impact and rolls out under the bottom rope, clutching his back as he drops to the ringside floor.

 

Lenny Cruz:
That’s a first-class eviction notice, and Ivan just paid the rent early!

 

Jackson Creed:
And now the ring clears to three—Jacen and Eric waste no time, going straight at Volkov!

 

Jacen and Eric rush in opposite sides—Verne hits low with a basement dropkick to Ivan’s thigh, while Jacen comes in high with a forearm smash to the temple.

 

Jackson Creed:
They’re using smart tactics—doubling up on the biggest threat in the match.

 

Lenny Cruz:
Gotta chop the giant down if you wanna survive. Volkov’s dangerous when he’s vertical!

 

Ivan staggers back into the corner from the hits. Jacen charges first with a running splash—then Eric follows it up with a jumping back elbow.

 

Jackson Creed:
Ivan is getting mauled here—Jacen and Verne with back-to-back attacks, and now they’re both working together—double Irish whip—Volkov sent into the opposite corner!

 

Ivan barrels into the far turnbuckles—his massive frame rattling the entire ring—but staggers out stunned.

 

Lenny Cruz:
He’s still on his feet?! You’ve gotta be kidding me!

 

Jackson Creed:
And now—DOUBLE DROPKICK from Jacen and Eric! And that FINALLY sends Volkov tumbling through the ropes and to the outside!

 

Sinclair DeVille:
Oh come on! Two-on-one the whole time! Let the man breathe!

 

Lenny Cruz:
You try breathing after getting dropped on your spine by a Soviet brick wall!

 

Jackson Creed:
And now we’re down to Jacen Tarot and All-Star Eric Verne—both men circling each other with intensity. This is where it gets real

 

The crowd rises as both men reset to neutral. They lock up quickly—Verne with a go-behind, Jacen rolls through, switches to a wristlock—Verne kip-ups and reverses—

 

Jackson Creed:
Clean chain wrestling now—Jacen controlling the wrist—Verne flips out of it and SNAPMARE takedown! Off the ropes—low dropkick to the back!

 

Jacen sits up in pain, holding his spine as Verne pops up and gets the crowd pumped with a clap over his head. He doesn’t notice Jacen rising behind him—

 

Jackson Creed:
Jacen turns—BACK SUPLEX—no! Verne flips out and lands on his feet! Both men spin and go for simultaneous kicks—both catch each other!

 

Lenny Cruz:
We got a stalemate! These two are feelin’ it now!

 

They slowly lower their legs, both staring each other down. The crowd responds with a round of respectful cheers as tension builds again.

 

Sinclair DeVille:
Cute. But remember—Luciano is still out there. Ivan’s still out there. You don’t win this match with flips and standoffs. You win it with brutality.

 

Jackson Creed:
And there’s no shortage of that waiting outside the ropes, I can promise you that. But right now—Tarot and Verne are stealing the spotlight!

 

Jackson Creed:
We’re back in a deadlock—Jacen Tarot and All-Star Eric Verne, two technicians matching each other step for step. The crowd’s eating it up!

 

Lenny Cruz:
This is what you get when two pure athletes square off. They’re not trying to brawl—they’re trying to out-think each other.

 

Sinclair DeVille:
All that finesse? Pointless. You know who wins fights? Guys with intent. Like Luciano.

 

Suddenly, the camera swings just in time to catch Luciano sliding back into the ring—Singapore cane in hand.

 

Jackson Creed:
Wait—wait a minute—Luciano’s back in and—OH! HE CRACKS JACEN IN THE BACK WITH THAT SINGAPORE STICK!

 

Lenny Cruz:
RIGHT between the shoulder blades! Jacen crumbles!

 

Before All-Star can react—
CRACK!
—Luciano jabs the stick right into Verne’s midsection, doubling him over.

 

Jackson Creed:
And now Verne takes the shot—Luciano just lighting both men up with that cane!

 

Jacen rolls to the mat, face contorted in pain. Verne clutches his stomach as Luciano stands tall over both men.

 

Sinclair DeVille:
Now this is what I’m talking about! Equalizer in hand, control established, and look at him—LOOK at him—he’s reminding everyone who the star really is!

 

Luciano SLAMS the cane down again—first across Jacen’s back, then across Verne’s ribs. Both men writhe on the canvas.

 

Luciano (yelling):
“I’M BETTER THAN ALL OF YOU! YOU HEAR ME?! ALL OF YOU!”

 

Jackson Creed:
Luciano is just raining down punishment—and now he’s posing with the cane in one hand, arms stretched out—like he just conquered the ring—

 

Lenny Cruz:
BUT HE HASN’T SEEN WHAT’S BEHIND HIM!

 

The camera angle widens, revealing Ivan Volkov stepping over the top rope behind Luciano—silent, towering, his shadow stretching over him like a horror movie monster emerging from the dark.

 

Sinclair DeVille:
No. No. Nononono. Turn around, Luciano. Turn around!

 

Crowd:
“OOOOOOOOOOH—”

 

Jackson Creed:
Luciano turns—
AND GETS TURNED INSIDE OUT BY A LARIAT FROM IVAN VOLKOV!!

 

Lenny Cruz:
SWEET MOTHER OF IMPACT!! LUCIANO JUST DID A FULL FLIP IN THE AIR!

 

Luciano crashes to the mat in a heap, the Singapore cane bouncing away as the crowd explodes in response.

 

Jackson Creed:
Ivan Volkov just decapitated him with that clothesline! That might’ve knocked the designer shoes off him!

 

Sinclair DeVille:
Okay, that was uncalled for. I want to review that footage—Vanya should’ve stopped him!

 

Ivan surveys the ring—Jacen groaning, Eric clutching his ribs, Luciano a crumpled mess. Slowly, Volkov grabs Jacen first—

 

Jackson Creed:
Jacen Tarot—LIFTED HIGH—Overhead powerslam! He gets spiked into the canvas!

 

Verne tries to get to his feet—Volkov turns to him—

 

Lenny Cruz:
Oh no, All-Star’s walking right into the storm—

 

Jackson Creed:
AND NOW VERNE GETS LAUNCHED—GUTWRENCH SLAM! Folded in half on impact!

 

Both Jacen and Eric roll out of the ring in opposite directions, clutching their backs and ribs respectively. Ivan slowly rises in the center.

 

Jackson Creed:
Ivan Volkov stands alone in the ring now—three bodies down, three men scattered—and look at this…

 

Ivan slowly raises both arms, palms open, the lights glinting off his icy expression.

 

Sinclair DeVille:
He’s basking in it. That’s what this is. Look at him—he knows no one here can stop him.

 

Lenny Cruz:
That’s not confidence—that’s a warning to anyone in this match, or this company, that Ivan Volkov doesn’t need to win pretty—he just wins.

 

Jackson Creed:
The Siberian Titan has cleared the field… but this match is far from over

 

Jackson Creed:
Ivan Volkov has cleared the ring and made a statement—but this match continues, and the other three are starting to stir.

 

Camera pans around the outside of the ring — Luciano, Jacen, and All-Star Verne are each pulling themselves up against the apron or barricade.

 

Lenny Cruz:
Man, they look like they’ve just survived a car crash. And Ivan’s still standing in the middle like he’s just warming up!

 

Sinclair DeVille:
Because he is. That’s what separates Volkov from the rest—he doesn’t just throw people around—he enjoys it.

 

Ivan’s expression turns focused as he eyes the chaos outside the ring—then with shocking speed, he steps through the ropes and drops down to ringside.

 

Jackson Creed:
Uh oh… Ivan Volkov exiting the ring—and he’s picking up speed!

 

Ivan takes off into a sprint, running along ringside with startling momentum—

 

Jackson Creed:
—AND JUST LEVELS LUCIANO WITH A RUNNING SHOULDER BLOCK!

 

Luciano goes flying into the barricade with a loud CRACK, the fans in the front row recoiling as he crumples to the floor.

 

Lenny Cruz:
WHOOOA! That was a human freight train! Luciano just got flattened!

 

But Ivan doesn’t stop running—he keeps his pace, rounding the next corner—

 

Jackson Creed:
And now Jacen’s in his sights—ANOTHER SHOULDER BLOCK—AND DOWN GOES TAROT!

 

Sinclair DeVille:
Somebody stop this man! He’s treating the ringside area like a demolition derby!

 

Ivan rounds the final corner—All-Star Eric Verne staggers forward near the steel steps, unaware—

 

Jackson Creed:
Here comes Volkov for the hat trick—

 

But at the last second—

 

Lenny Cruz:
LOW DROPKICK! RIGHT TO THE KNEE!

 

Jackson Creed:
IVAN GOES FACE-FIRST INTO THE STEPS!

 

Volkov’s momentum sends his massive frame crashing into the steel—his face bouncing off the top step with a loud CLANG. He slumps down, arms draped over the bottom step.

 

Sinclair DeVille:
No! No! He was in total control!

 

Lenny Cruz:
Not anymore! Verne just played spoiler, and I love it!

 

Jackson Creed:
Incredible awareness from All-Star Eric Verne—who, let’s not forget, had maybe ten minutes of warning before getting added to this match tonight.

 

Lenny Cruz:
That’s Alabama grit, baby. Track star, power base, high-flyer—he’s got that underdog thing working right now, and the crowd's starting to feel it.

 

Eric pulls himself up, breathing heavily, and slides back into the ring where Jacen and Luciano are also climbing in, one from each side.

 

Jackson Creed:
And now we’re back to a dangerous triangle inside the ring—Verne, Jacen, and Luciano, all battered, all hungry, and no Ivan Volkov in sight… for now.

 

Luciano charges at Jacen—big right hand! Jacen fires back with a forearm! Verne steps in—right hand to Jacen! Luciano swings on Verne—Verne ducks—chop to the chest!

 

Lenny Cruz:
We’ve got a slugfest on our hands!

 

Sinclair DeVille:
This is where Luciano THRIVES—don’t trade with him, boys.

 

Jacen stuns Luciano with a sharp elbow—Eric follows with a gut shot—Jacen and Verne share a quick look—nod—and grab Luciano by the arms—

 

Jackson Creed:

Wait a minute—double Irish whip—

 

Lenny Cruz:
NO! They’re going BIGGER—

 

Jackson Creed:
DOUBLE BACK BODY DROP—AND LUCIANO GETS LAUNCHED OVER THE TOP ROPE!!

 

Luciano soars through the air and—

 

Jackson Creed:
HE LANDS RIGHT ON TOP OF IVAN VOLKOV!!

 

Ivan had just gotten to his hands and knees—only to have 294 pounds of Luciano crash down on his back and shoulders, sandwiching him back into the floor.

 

Crowd:
“OOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!”

 

Lenny Cruz:
DOWN GOES THE TITAN!! You couldn’t have planned that landing better if you tried!

 

Sinclair DeVille:
That was assault with a body! Somebody check on both of them!

 

Jackson Creed:
Ivan was just starting to recover—and now Luciano’s broken body has re-buried him!

 

Lenny Cruz:
Meanwhile, look who’s left standing in the ring… Jacen Tarot… All-Star Verne…

 

Jackson Creed:
We’re back to the chess match—and we’ve got a crowd on their feet!

 

Jackson Creed:
Jacen and the All-Star are trading haymakers, neither one giving an inch! We’re deep into the storm now—who’s gonna blink first?!

 

Lenny Cruz:
This is pure will, baby! No wasted motion—both men going move for move!

 

Sinclair DeVille:
If you ask me, Verne’s out of his depth. Jacen’s got that killer instinct—he’ll snap the thread when it suits him.

 

Jacen ducks a wild right hand, spins—REVELATION!—flipping neckbreaker plants Verne clean!

 

Jackson Creed:
OH! Revelation outta nowhere! Tarot’s got him DEAD TO RIGHTS!

 

Referee Vanya Cross:
ONE!... TWO!...

 

Lenny Cruz:
NO—BROKEN UP BY LUCIANO!!

 

Luciano dives in at the last second, stomping the back of Jacen’s head to break the fall. He quickly tries to pull Jacen up for a follow-up—

 

Jackson Creed:
Wait—Tarot’s countering—HE’S GOT HIM!

 

Sinclair DeVille:
NO WAY—

 

Jackson Creed:
HEXAS CLOVERLEAF! Tarot’s got Luciano twisted like a pretzel! Center of the ring! That torque—he’s pulling that spine into two different ZIP CODES!

 

Lenny Cruz:
LUCIANO’S GONNA TAP! HE’S GOT NOWHERE TO GO!!

 

Luciano’s hand hovers above the mat—fingers twitching—

 

Crowd:
OOOOOOOOOOHHHH!!

 

Suddenly, from off-camera, a sickening CRACK echoes—

 

Jackson Creed:
WHAT THE—?!

 

Jacen’s head whiplashes forward as a Singapore cane is wrapped around his skull—splintering on impact! He collapses, clutching his head, breaking the hold instinctively.

 

Lenny Cruz:
WHO THE HELL—?!

 

The camera pans out to show a familiar silhouette crouching just outside the ropes… twisted smile… bloodstained gear…

 

 

Jackson Creed:
IT’S GILBERTO J!!! GILBERTO J JUST ASSAULTED JACEN TAROT WITH A SINGAPORE CANE!!

 

Sinclair DeVille:
HAHAHA! Now that’s what I call jungle law, gentlemen!

 

Gilberto slowly slithers back down to ringside, leaning against the bottom rope, grinning ear to ear like a deranged animal admiring its kill.

 

Back in the ring, Ivan Volkov climbs in—expression unchanging. He grabs Luciano and Verne in each hand—

 

Jackson Creed:
Double scoop—AND HE JUST TOSSES THEM LIKE GARBAGE OVER THE TOP ROPE!!

 

Crowd explodes!

Lenny Cruz:
Ivan Volkov is terrifying, man!

 

Jacen stumbles up—barely conscious—

 

Jackson Creed:
Tarot’s on dream street, but he’s trying to fight—IVAN’S GOT HIM!!

 

Sinclair DeVille:
NO ESCAPE, HERETIC!

 

Jackson Creed:
RED WINTER EXECUTION!!! GOOD LORD, HE DRILLED HIM!!

 

Jacen bounces off the mat like a ragdoll—Volkov falls into the cover!

 

Referee Vanya Cross:
ONE!... TWO!... THREE!!

 

DING DING DING!!

 

The crowd erupts into a loud, chaotic mix of awe, heat, and disbelief as the bell rings. Gilberto J, still grinning maniacally, watches from the floor, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the shattered cane shaft.

 

Jackson Creed:
And Ivan Volkov steals the win—but let’s not kid ourselves—Gilberto J just changed EVERYTHING.

 

Lenny Cruz:
Jacen had that won! That Cloverleaf was locked in TIGHT—and now he’s laid out because some psycho jungle king wanted to make a statement?!

 

Sinclair DeVille:
Oh please. In the jungle, it’s kill or be killed—and tonight, Gilberto J just reintroduced himself with authority.

 

Astrid Vale (ring mic):
“Here is your winner… THE SIBERIAN TITAN… IVAAAAAAN VOLKOV!!”

 

 

Ivan stands tall over the broken body of Jacen Tarot, his cold eyes scanning the carnage. Gilberto, still crouched, slowly rises… arms wide, mock-bowing toward the ring.

 

Jackson Creed:
Ivan Volkov wins the match… but this one’s gonna leave scars—on bodies… and egos.

 

Ivan Volkov’s music — a thundering symphonic metal track — echoes through the arena as he rises to his feet, towering over the wreckage left behind. His manager, a sharp-suited Russian handler in dark shades and a blood-red tie, slides into the ring and raises Ivan’s hand triumphantly.

 

Jackson Creed:
Ivan Volkov did what he always does—he conquered. But let’s not forget… that was only possible because of Gilberto J and that damned Singapore cane.

 

Lenny Cruz:
Jacen was about to make Luciano tap! That Hexas Cloverleaf was in deep! This match was stolen from him—plain and simple!

 

Sinclair DeVille:
No such thing as theft in the jungle, gentlemen. Only survival.

 

As Ivan poses atop the second rope—arms stretched wide, expression cold—his theme blaring, the cheers and boos mix into a disorienting wave. Below him, Jacen Tarot is barely stirring, clutching his head in pain.

Suddenly—

 

Jackson Creed:
Wait a minute—Gilberto J has slid back into the ring!

 

The crowd reacts instantly—low buzz, growing louder as Gilberto J slowly rises to his feet, standing behind the downed Tarot like a predator over fallen prey. His expression is unreadable—lips curled into a small, eerie smile. The shattered remnants of the cane still clutched loosely in his hand.

 

Ivan turns on the turnbuckle… and locks eyes with Gilberto J across the ring.

 

Lenny Cruz:
Oh no. Not again. What the hell is he gonna do now?

 

For a long, tense moment, Gilberto and Ivan stare at one another. Ivan’s manager barks something in Russian, but Ivan doesn’t respond. Instead…

Ivan steps down off the turnbuckle, walks toward Jacen’s body… then glances back at Gilberto with a slow, deliberate nod.

 

Sinclair DeVille:
Did… did Ivan just give him the green light?

 

Sinclair DeVille:

There’s… something wrong with the air in here. You feel that?

 

Jackson Creed:

Everyone’s on edge. Volkov just made his statement. But he—he didn’t leave the ring…

 

Lenny Cruz:

Gilberto J is just standing there. Staring through Jacen Tarot like he’s not even flesh and blood.

 

Jacen Tarot crawls, dazed and broken from the chaos of the match. The lights flicker once—twice—then go dim. A hum rises from the crowd like static in the lungs.

 

Gilberto J tilts his head slowly, as if listening to something no one else can hear. No motion. No mercy. Only silence.

 

Jackson Creed:

That… that isn’t rage on his face. That’s something else. Something sent.

 

Then, with spine-chilling grace—he moves.

 

He kneels beside Jacen, whispering something in his ear. Tarot reacts with a twitch… and a whimper.

 

Gilberto J (soft, eerie tone):

“The Jungle has spoken.”

 

Suddenly—Gilberto disappears.

 

The crowd gasps.

 

Lenny Cruz:

WH-WHAT?! He’s gone! He VANISHED!

 

The lights flash again. This time—he’s behind Jacen. Tarot turns in confusion—

 

BOOM!

 

—Factor G delivered like judgment, Jacen’s body rattling off the canvas.

 

Sinclair DeVille:

That was like watching a ghost pass a sentence.

 

Gilberto rises. The lights strobe. He vanishes again.

 

Then reappears—on the turnbuckle. He sits cross-legged, watching Jacen writhe. Laughing softly.

 

Jackson Creed:

This man doesn’t just attack. He orchestrates dread.

 

A second Factor G—even harsher than the last.

 

Security rushes in. Gilberto’s eyes snap toward them—but he smiles.

 

A slow, serpentine rise. He waits. Then lunges forward with precision—Singapore cane cracking across two guards in seconds. The crowd erupts in terrified disbelief.

 

Lenny Cruz:

This is more than chaos. This is some kind of awakening!

 

Gilberto doesn’t scream. He doesn’t roar. He whispers to Jacen amid the wreckage:

 

Gilberto J (calm, deliberate):

“You were chosen to be broken. Welcome to the Jungle.”

 

He spreads his arms. The lights go black.

 

Only one spotlight remains.

 

Jacen Tarot lies motionless in its glow.

 

Jackson Creed (hushed):

He never attacked in anger. This… this was a ritual.

 

Sinclair DeVille:

The Jungle doesn’t speak twice. Jacen Tarot has been marked.

 

Fade to black.

 

 

The low hum of fluorescent lights sets the tone. The room is dimly lit, a mixture of cozy chaos and pre-match ritual. Posters, gear bags, and discarded water bottles decorate the benches and floor. Balor Wolfe is front and center—methodically stretching, shirtless, taping his wrists with surgical focus. His hair is pulled back, face half-shadowed, and his aura electric.

 

 

On the bench across from him sits Eros, legs crossed, chin resting in one hand, the other swirling a protein drink he has no intention of drinking. His gaze is glued to Balor like he's watching art in motion. A smirk tugs at his lips.

 

 

Eros:
(softly, amused)
You know, you make “intense brooding preparation” look like a damn fashion shoot.

 

Suddenly, the door creaks open. In strut the Edge Runners, Johnny and V, talking loud and fast—until they spot Eros watching Balor. They exchange a glance, mischief flaring in their eyes.

 

 

Johnny:
(grinning as he plops beside Eros)
Aww, look at you. Front-row seat to your boyfriend's pre-match thirst trap.

 

 

V:
(leans in on the other side)
Might wanna wipe your chin, Eros, you're practically drooling.

 

Eros:
(snapping back without missing a beat)
At least I didn’t cost James D his match against Wildfire.

 

Johnny:
(blinking)
Okay, whoa—that’s not—technically, that wasn’t—

 

V:
(interjects)
He had his foot on the ropes! And we didn’t even know Mark was gonna—

 

Eros:
(cutting them both off, cool as ever)
Relax. Iocor.

 

The two pause, visibly confused.

 

Eros:
(grinning)
It means “joking” in Latin. Chill. You two are fun to poke.

 

The tension defuses. Johnny leans back. V chuckles.

 

Eros:
Anyway, you and the Blondes next week in the Final Four... Worried?

 

Johnny:
(laughing)
Worried? About those blond himbos?

 

V:
They got biceps, not brains. We’re good.

 

Eros:
(nods slowly, only half-listening now)
Mm. Well, if I were you? I’d make sure that little camera they carry around never makes it ringside.

 

He glances at them out the corner of his eye with a knowing smirk.

 

Eros:
Just a feeling.

 

The words hang. You can see the gears turning behind Johnny and V’s eyes. They glance at each other, suddenly a little less cocky.

Balor walks over, taping finished, hair down, body warm and battle-ready. He leans in and kisses the top of Eros' head gently.

 

Balor Wolfe:
Eros, my love? Ready to help me steal the show?

 

Eros:
(rising, standing chest to chest with him)
Always.

 

Eros grabs Balor’s dog mask and helps him slide it on with ceremony. Then he drapes the jacket over his shoulders like a coronation, hands him the Infernal Crown Championship, and takes it back with reverence, holding it like it’s a sacred artifact.

 

Eros:
I’ll hold onto this. Go burn the house down.

 

Balor smirks through the mask and heads for the door. Eros follows right behind him, giving Johnny and V a two-fingered salute.

 

Eros:
Ciao, chicos. Don’t let a camera flash be your downfall.

 

They exit, the door clicking shut behind them.

 

Johnny:
(still staring at the door)
...You think he knows something?

 

V:
(muttering)
I hate when he does that.

 

[Fade to black.]