The screen is black.

A low rumble rises—crowd noise swelling like distant thunder—then the first hit of the music slams in as the UTA logo flashes across the screen in sharp, strobing cuts.

Quick shots roll like a highlight reel loaded with adrenaline: ladders tipping over, bodies crashing; a close-up of the UTA Contract briefcase swinging above a ring; a hand slapping the mat; a referee waving frantically; a championship belt catching the light; the Fighting Championship sitting on its podium like a prize that doesn’t care who gets hurt; Hakuryu’s cold stare; Kaine’s violent grin; the Tag Team Titles hoisted high; a flash of Chris Ross clutching the UTA Championship; Valentina Blaze’s United States Championship held tight against her chest; Gunnar Van Patton’s one-eyed glare under harsh light.

The final cut is a wide aerial of Mullett Arena. The crowd is on its feet, a sea of signs and noise, the ring lit like a beacon in the center of it all.

The shot dives down toward ringside, and we land on the announce desk.

John Phillips: "Ladies and gentlemen… welcome to Brand New Day: 2026—Day 2!"

John’s voice rides the roar of the building. He’s leaning forward with that big-fight energy, headset tight, eyes bright.

John Phillips: "We are coming to you live from Mullett Arena in Tempe, Arizona, and if you thought Day 1 was chaos… if you thought Day 1 was a statement… Day 2 is the payoff!"

Mark Bravo: "Day 1 was the warning label, John! Day 2 is the part where you ignore it and do it anyway!"

Mark is already half-standing, gesturing toward the ring like he’s trying to fist-bump the entire crowd at once.

John Phillips: "We’ve got new champions, we’ve got grudges, we’ve got contracts on the line, and tonight—tonight—history is going to be written in real time!"

The camera pans across the crowd. A sign reads: BRAND NEW DAY, BRAND NEW VIOLENCE. Another: TREY MACK WHO? Another: LONG LIVE THE EMPIRE. Another: ROSS UNFILTERED.

Mark Bravo: "Let’s talk about what Day 1 did to Day 2, because it did a lot. It rearranged the whole deck, baby!"

John Phillips: "It absolutely did. Day 1 gave us momentum, it gave us bruises, it gave us answers… and it gave us questions that only Day 2 can settle."

On the big screen, a graphic flashes: UTA CONTRACT LADDER MATCH — OPENS THE SHOW.

John Phillips: "The UTA Contract Ladder Match opens the night. Six unsigned talents. One briefcase. One year contract. And a shot later tonight that could change someone’s life in the span of a few hours."

Mark Bravo: "And we met some of them already! We met the ones who talk, the ones who stare, the ones who act like they own the place—"

Mark points at the camera, grinning.

Mark Bravo: "—and that’s why I love it. It’s a ladder match, John! It’s not an interview. It’s not a handshake. It’s a car crash with a contract inside!"

John Phillips: "And that contract doesn’t just mean a name on a roster. It means opportunity. It means spotlight. It means the UTA Universe is going to find out who’s ready to earn their place the hard way."

Graphics roll: UTA FIGHTING CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH — TITLE ON THE LINE.

John Phillips: "And then… the first-ever UTA Fighting Championship will be decided tonight."

Mark Bravo: "Ohhhh, I’ve been waiting for this one. This is different. This ain’t your usual 'hit a finisher, cover, go home' situation."

John Phillips: "Fighting Championship rules. Submission or referee stoppage only. Each competitor gets one rope break—one. Grab it again, and the hold stands. The match doesn’t stop. The pain doesn’t stop."

Mark Bravo: "One rope break is crazy, man. That’s like giving somebody one parachute pull and then telling them 'good luck'."

The camera cuts to a quick shot of the Fighting Championship on its display pedestal backstage—gold gleaming under a spotlight.

John Phillips: "And the stakes go even further. The champion that emerges tonight—if they can successfully defend that title five consecutive times—earns a UTA Championship match. That’s not a rumor. That’s not a maybe. That’s a promise."

Mark Bravo: "Five defenses and you get a shot at the top of the mountain. So whoever wins it tonight? They’re not just holding a title… they’re holding a ladder to the biggest prize in this company."

Graphics roll: UTA WOMEN’S UNITED STATES CHAMPIONSHIP — VALENTINA BLAZE (C) VS EMILY HIGHTOWER.

John Phillips: "Valentina Blaze puts her Women’s United States Championship on the line tonight against former champion Emily Hightower."

Mark Bravo: "And it matters how we got here, John. Valentina didn’t hide. Valentina didn’t duck. She offered the rematch herself. That’s champion behavior."

John Phillips: "And Emily Hightower knows exactly what that title feels like. She knows what it costs. Tonight she gets the chance to take it back… and Valentina gets the chance to prove that she didn’t just win it—she earned the right to keep it."

Graphics roll: WRESTLEZONE CHAMPIONSHIP — GUNNAR VAN PATTON (C) VS TBD.

John Phillips: "The WrestleZone Championship is on the line tonight as well, with Gunnar Van Patton defending."

Mark Bravo: "That man is a problem. A big, angry, one-eyed problem!"

John Phillips: "Gunnar doesn’t need chaos. Gunnar creates it. Whoever walks into that ring with him tonight is walking into a fight with a man who likes it when things get ugly."

Graphics roll: UTA CHAMPIONSHIP — CHRIS ROSS (C) VS TREY MACK.

The crowd noise spikes at the sight of Chris Ross on the screen. Some cheers. Some boos. Mostly raw reaction.

John Phillips: "And in our main event… the UTA Championship will be defended."

Mark Bravo: "Chris Ross has to deal with a brand new problem."

John Phillips: "Trey Mack—making his presence felt immediately. A challenge laid down, an attack delivered, and now a title match on Day 2."

Mark Bravo: "And listen, Trey Mack might not have been a household name to the UTA crowd before this weekend, but anybody who knows wrestling? Anybody who knows what it means when a guy like that walks into a building with that kind of confidence?"

Mark Bravo: "That’s a threat."

John Phillips: "And Chris Ross—unfiltered, unapologetic, and champion—doesn’t exactly respond well to threats."

The camera sweeps the crowd again. The building is alive. People standing. People pointing at the stage. People waiting for the first theme to hit.

Mark Bravo: "But before we get to any of that, John… there’s something else everybody’s been talking about all night."

John Phillips: "Tomorrow night—tonight—Day 2—we will also learn the first inductee into the UTA Hall of Fame Class of 2026."

The crowd buzzes immediately, a different kind of noise—anticipation, speculation.

Mark Bravo: "That announcement is going to shake the building. You can feel it. People been guessing all day!"

John Phillips: "And it’s the perfect way to frame what Brand New Day is all about. The future fighting for contracts. Champions fighting to keep what they earned. New titles being born. And legends being honored."

Mark Bravo: "Past, present, future—UTA does it all, baby!"

John stands slightly, voice rising as the camera centers on the ring.

John Phillips: "So buckle up. Because Day 2 starts right now, and the first sound you’re about to hear could be the beginning of someone’s entire career… or the beginning of someone’s entire downfall."

Mark Bravo: "Hit the music! Let’s get dangerous!"

The camera holds on the stage as the crowd rises even louder—waiting for the opening entrance of the night.

The camera sweeps across the arena as a steel ladder stands ominously in the center of the ring, unfolded just enough to remind everyone what tonight is about. Another ladder leans against the barricade at ringside. Above the ring, suspended by cables, hangs a black briefcase stamped with the UTA logo in bold silver lettering.

John Phillips: “Ladies and gentlemen, this is one of the most dangerous opportunities the UTA has ever offered. Six unsigned competitors. One ladder. One contract. And a guaranteed shot at the WrestleZone Championship later tonight.”

Mark Bravo: “No safety net, no long-term deal, no promises beyond one year and one *massive* opportunity. You climb that ladder, you change your life. You fall off it? You might not get up the same.”

The camera tilts upward, lingering on the briefcase swaying slightly above the ring.

John Phillips: “For five of these competitors, this is their first taste of the United Toughness Alliance. But for one… this is about coming home.”

Mark Bravo: “And that’s what makes this match terrifying, JP. Hunger meets experience. Desperation meets history.”

The arena lights dim, and a neon haze washes over the stage—greens and purples cutting through the darkness as an upbeat electronic beat kicks in.

John Phillips: “Here we go!”

Jace Van Ardent bursts through the curtain with a loose bounce in his step, shadow-kicking the air as he points out into the crowd. He grins, soaking in the reaction, then pivots toward the ring like he’s already mapped out the flight path.

Mark Bravo: “That’s Jace Van Ardent—pure motion, pure confidence. This kid doesn’t walk, he flows.”

Jace jogs down the ramp, slapping the barricade once before sliding into the ring. He pops to his feet in one smooth motion, hops to the second rope, and throws a quick thumbs-up salute to the fans before dropping back down.

John Phillips: “Speed, balance, and fearlessness. In a ladder match, that’s a dangerous combination.”

Mark Bravo: “Yeah, but ladders don’t care how smooth you are, Johnny. One bad landing and all that grace turns into gravity real quick.”

Jace backs into a corner, eyes locked upward on the briefcase, jaw tightening as he rolls his shoulders and bounces lightly on the balls of his feet—already thinking three steps ahead.

The lights snap to black.

A low, distorted guitar hum creeps through the sound system, slow and deliberate, before erupting into a grinding riff that rattles the arena. Deep red lights pulse in time with the music as smoke pours across the stage.

John Phillips: “Ohhh, listen to that reaction.”

Mark Bravo: “That’s not party music, JP. That’s ‘someone’s about to get hurt’ music.”

Rafe Sable steps through the curtain with his head lowered, jaw clenched, eyes cold. He doesn’t acknowledge the crowd at first—he just rolls his neck side to side like he’s loosening up for a fight. Then he looks up… and stares straight through the camera.

John Phillips: “Rafe Sable—intensity personified. This man fights like he’s got something to prove every second he’s breathing.”

Sable walks down the ramp with purpose, boots thudding against the metal grating. Fans lean over the barricade shouting, some cheering, some jeering—but he ignores them all. Halfway down the ramp, he stops and cracks his knuckles, eyes flicking up to the briefcase.

Mark Bravo: “That’s a man who doesn’t care about the contract. He cares about the climb. He cares about the pain. And if ladders are involved? That just means he doesn’t have to hold back.”

Rafe reaches ringside and grabs the ladder leaning against the barricade. He lifts it slightly, testing the weight, then slams it down hard against the floor with a metallic *CLANG* that echoes through the building.

John Phillips: “Sending a message early.”

Sable slides into the ring under the bottom rope, rises slowly, and drags a thumb across his throat before turning his back to the hard camera. He paces once, twice… then stops dead center and looks up at the briefcase, lips curling into a grim smile.

In the opposite corner, Jace Van Ardent doesn’t stop moving—but his eyes never leave Rafe Sable.

Mark Bravo: “You feel that tension already? We’re not even done with the entrances.”

The arena settles into that uneasy in-between—one man bouncing with nervous energy, another standing like a storm cloud. The ladder in the center of the ring suddenly feels less like a prop and more like a warning.

John Phillips: “Two styles already in stark contrast. Van Ardent wants to fly, Sable wants to hurt you. And we’ve still got four more competitors to make their first impression on the UTA audience.”

Mark Bravo: “First impressions matter, JP. Especially when your résumé is blank and the only thing you can put on it is what you do tonight. You don’t just need to win. You need to be unforgettable.”

A sharp orchestral hit cuts through the darkness. The lights shift to a clean, regal white as gold spotlights sweep the crowd in slow, deliberate arcs.

Then the music hits: dramatic, cinematic, swelling like the opening of a prizefight. A gold-trimmed spotlight locks onto the stage as smoke rolls low across the entranceway.

John Phillips: “Oh, this feels different.”

Mark Bravo: “This feels expensive.”

Darren Valiant steps through the curtain in a long, tailored coat with metallic accents that catch the light every time he moves. He pauses at the top of the ramp, chin lifted, posture perfect—like he’s posing for a poster that already exists in his head.

He extends his arms slowly, letting the crowd take him in. Some cheer. Some boo. He welcomes both like they’re applause meant for him either way.

John Phillips: “Darren Valiant making his UTA debut, and he is doing it like a man who believes this place has been waiting for him.”

Mark Bravo: “Because he probably does, JP. Look at that. He’s not walking to the ring like he’s in a ladder match. He’s walking to the ring like he’s in a coronation.”

Valiant takes a single step forward, then another, letting the music breathe. Halfway down the ramp, he stops again, turning to the left side of the crowd, one hand pressed to his chest in a slow, theatrical gesture.

Mark Bravo: “I’ll say this: the man understands branding. If you’re going to introduce yourself to a new audience, you make sure they remember the silhouette.”

John Phillips: “And the confidence is real, but confidence can be a liability in a match like this. Ladders don’t respect poise.”

Valiant finally reaches ringside and circles the ring once, eyes scanning the ladders like he’s evaluating tools on a workbench. He stops in front of the steel steps, sets his coat open with one precise motion, then climbs the steps slowly, never rushing.

He wipes his boots on the apron with exaggerated care, then steps through the ropes and stands tall. Inside the ring, the contrast is striking: Van Ardent spring-loaded and restless, Sable coiled and predatory, Valiant calm and statuesque.

John Phillips: “Three competitors. Three mindsets. And every second that briefcase swings above them, the pressure gets tighter.”

Valiant turns toward the hard camera and points upward with a single finger, then lowers it and mouths, clearly, deliberately:

Darren Valiant: “This is mine.”

Rafe Sable smirks without looking away from the briefcase. Jace Van Ardent bounces once harder, jaw set, eyes bright. The ladder match hasn’t started yet, but the ring already feels crowded with intent.

The lights drop again, this time plunging the arena into near-total darkness.

A sudden burst of white strobes flashes in rapid succession as a sharp, high-tempo beat kicks in—fast, punchy, and relentless. The crowd reacts instantly, a ripple of excitement rolling through the building.

John Phillips: “Oh, here we go.”

Mark Bravo: “This is the kind of music that makes you nervous if you’re standing on a ladder.”

Maxwell “Max” Jett explodes through the curtain at full speed, sliding to a stop at the top of the ramp on one knee before popping to his feet. He throws his arms wide, soaking in the noise, then points straight at the ring with both hands.

Jett paces side to side, bouncing on his toes, nodding his head to the rhythm like the energy is barely contained inside him.

John Phillips: “Max Jett lives at a speed most people can’t keep up with. And in a ladder match, that pace can be a weapon—or a liability.”

Mark Bravo: “This kid doesn’t wait for moments, JP. He creates them. Sometimes recklessly.”

Jett sprints halfway down the ramp, skids to a stop, then turns back toward the crowd, throwing up his arms again as if demanding more noise. He nods in approval, then bolts the rest of the way to the ring.

Without slowing down, Max leaps onto the apron, grabs the top rope, and slingshots cleanly into the ring, landing on his feet and immediately rolling through to a standing position.

John Phillips: “That’s athleticism on full display already.”

Jett climbs the nearest turnbuckle in one fluid motion, crouches low, then springs up and points skyward—directly at the briefcase. He doesn’t pose long, hopping back down and pacing the ring like a caged animal.

Mark Bravo: “Look at him. He’s not intimidated by the ladders. He’s not intimidated by the experience gap. He’s looking at that briefcase like it’s a finish line.”

As Max Jett turns, he comes face-to-face with Darren Valiant. The two lock eyes for a brief moment—youthful volatility staring down polished arrogance—before Jett smirks and brushes past him.

In the corner, Rafe Sable watches with narrowed eyes. Jace Van Ardent stops bouncing just long enough to clock Jett’s speed. The ring grows tighter, the tension thicker.

John Phillips: “Four competitors in, and we still haven’t seen the two most intriguing stories in this match.”

Mark Bravo: “One of them knows this place better than anyone else in that ring. And the other might be the hungriest man in the building.”

The music fades, the lights dim again… and the crowd begins to buzz in anticipation.

The lights do not immediately come back up.

Instead, a low, familiar rumble rolls through the arena—something heavier, slower, charged with memory. The crowd reaction changes before the music even fully hits, recognition cutting through anticipation.

John Phillips: “Listen to that.”

Mark Bravo: “That’s not curiosity, JP. That’s history.”

The lights rise into a stark, steel-blue wash as Graysie Parker steps through the curtain.

She stops at the top of the ramp, not in a rush, not in a pose. Her eyes scan the arena, the ring, the ladders—and for just a moment, there’s something heavy in her expression. Not nerves. Not fear. Recognition.

John Phillips: “Graysie Parker. Former WrestleZone Champion. The only competitor in this match who has stood on top of this company before.”

Mark Bravo: “And the only one who knows exactly what she lost.”

The crowd response swells as Graysie takes her first step down the ramp. It’s not unanimous cheers, but it’s loud—and it’s earned. She walks with purpose, shoulders squared, every step deliberate.

Halfway down the ramp, she stops.

Graysie looks up at the briefcase hanging above the ring. Her jaw tightens. She nods once, slowly, like she’s answering a question only she can hear.

John Phillips: “This isn’t about making a name for Graysie Parker. It’s about reclaiming one.”

Mark Bravo: “Everybody else in that ring wants a future. Graysie wants her past back—and that can make someone real dangerous.”

She resumes her walk, eyes never leaving the ring now. At ringside, she pauses again, resting a hand briefly on the apron before sliding under the bottom rope.

Once inside, Graysie rises to her feet and turns slowly, taking in every competitor—Van Ardent, Sable, Valiant, Jett. No theatrics. No gestures. Just assessment.

John Phillips: “Look at the body language. She’s been here. She’s done this. And she knows how fast it can all disappear.”

Graysie backs into a corner and finally looks up again at the briefcase, this time longer. The ladder in the center of the ring feels closer now. The stakes feel heavier.

Five competitors stand in the ring. Five different paths. Five different reasons.

Mark Bravo: “And we’re still missing one.”

The lights drop one final time.

The arena goes completely dark.

No music. No strobe. Just silence.

Then—one deep bass note hits, low enough to feel in the chest rather than hear. A slow pulse of red light spreads across the stage like a warning flare.

John Phillips: “Oh… this just changed.”

Mark Bravo: “When they cut the sound like that, JP, it means somebody wants you paying attention.”

The bass note hits again. And again. With each pulse, the red light sharpens, tightening into a focused beam at the entrance.

On the fourth beat, the music finally kicks in—dark, deliberate, heavy with atmosphere rather than speed. The kind of sound that doesn’t rush… it stalks.

Kairo Bex steps through the curtain.

He doesn’t pose. He doesn’t gesture. He simply stands there, framed by red light and drifting smoke, eyes locked forward like he’s already visualized the outcome.

John Phillips: “Kairo Bex. The hunger on this man is unmistakable.”

Mark Bravo: “Everybody else walked out here trying to introduce themselves. Kairo Bex walked out here like he already belongs.”

Kairo takes a slow step forward, then another, letting the music breathe. The crowd noise builds organically—curiosity turning into anticipation.

Halfway down the ramp, he stops. He tilts his head upward, eyes finding the briefcase suspended above the ring. There’s no smile. No nod. Just focus.

John Phillips: “That contract represents security. It represents validation. And for Kairo Bex, it represents momentum.”

Mark Bravo: “And momentum is dangerous in a match like this. Especially when you don’t second-guess yourself.”

Kairo resumes his walk, boots steady, unhurried. At ringside, he doesn’t circle. He doesn’t stall. He steps onto the apron and pauses—turning his head slightly to look into the ring.

Inside, Graysie Parker meets his stare. The veteran and the outsider lock eyes. Neither flinches.

John Phillips: “That’s experience staring down ambition.”

Mark Bravo: “And neither one is blinking.”

Kairo steps through the ropes and moves toward the center of the ring, stopping just short of the ladder. He places one hand on it—just briefly—before letting go.

He backs into an open space, rolling his shoulders once, eyes still drifting upward toward the briefcase.

Six competitors now stand in the ring. The ladder looms between them. Above it all, the contract sways ever so slightly.

John Phillips: “This is it. Six unsigned talents. One year guaranteed. One WrestleZone Championship opportunity later tonight.”

Mark Bravo: “You don’t win this match by being tough. You win it by being willing.”

The referee signals to ringside. The bell is raised.

Every competitor glances upward one last time.

The bell rings.

The bell echoes—and the ring explodes into motion.

Rafe Sable charges first, not toward the ladder, but straight at Darren Valiant, driving a shoulder into his midsection and slamming him back into the corner. The impact rattles the ropes.

John Phillips: “And there it is! Sable wasting no time!”

Mark Bravo: “That’s instinct, JP. Take out the biggest ego before it gets ideas.”

On the opposite side of the ring, Maxwell Jett and Jace Van Ardent circle each other for half a second—then explode simultaneously, trading rapid-fire strikes. Jett ducks a kick, fires back with a sharp forearm, and the two spill through the ropes to the apron.

John Phillips: “Van Ardent and Jett—speed versus speed!”

Graysie Parker doesn’t hesitate. She steps toward the ladder, grabs it with both hands, and yanks it down flat—only for Kairo Bex to immediately step in, planting a boot against it to stop her.

The two lock eyes again, closer now, tension crackling.

Mark Bravo: “That’s experience meeting resistance. Kairo Bex is not backing up.”

Graysie swings first—an open-hand strike that snaps Kairo’s head to the side. She follows with a second, then a third, driving him back a step.

John Phillips: “Graysie Parker asserting herself early!”

Kairo fires back with a stiff right hand of his own, rocking Graysie back into the ladder. The metal rattles loudly as she absorbs the impact.

Mark Bravo: “And Bex answers! No intimidation here!”

Across the ring, Sable hoists Valiant out of the corner and whips him toward the center—but Valiant reverses at the last second, sending Sable crashing chest-first into the ladder instead.

The ladder tips… then falls flat with a thunderous CLANG.

John Phillips: “That ladder is already a weapon!”

Valiant doesn’t admire the moment. He stomps Sable once, twice, then grabs the ladder and shoves it through the ropes to the outside, clearing space in the ring.

Mark Bravo: “Smart move. Control the battlefield.”

Meanwhile on the apron, Jett and Van Ardent trade blows precariously. Van Ardent springs off the middle rope—springboard dropkick!—sending Jett tumbling to the floor below.

John Phillips: “Van Ardent takes flight early!”

Jace lands on the apron, steadies himself, then looks out at Jett sprawled on the floor. He grins… then looks up at the briefcase.

Inside the ring, Graysie Parker ducks another strike from Kairo and snaps off a quick knee to the ribs, forcing him down to one knee.

Mark Bravo: “This is where Graysie’s experience shines. She knows when to slow it down.”

Graysie grabs the fallen ladder again and starts to raise it—only for Darren Valiant to rush in and crack her across the back with a forearm, stopping her cold.

John Phillips: “Nobody gets a clean climb this early!”

The ladder match has fully ignited—six bodies, steel everywhere, and no one willing to give an inch as the briefcase sways high above, untouched… for now.

Graysie stumbles forward from the forearm, catching herself on the ropes as Darren Valiant steps in, chest puffed out, already signaling that this ring is his stage.

Mark Bravo: “That’s the danger, JP. You take one second to breathe in a ladder match and someone takes your spine out from behind.”

Valiant reaches for the ladder again, dragging it back toward the center of the ring with calculated precision. He starts to stand it up—slow, deliberate—when Rafe Sable storms back into frame.

Sable drives a boot into the ladder, knocking it back down, then grabs Valiant by the collar and hurls him through the ropes to the floor.

John Phillips: “Sable just erased Darren Valiant from the ring!”

Mark Bravo: “That’s one way to shut down a presentation.”

Valiant crashes hard at ringside, rolling and clutching at his shoulder as Sable turns back toward the ring—only to get clipped from behind by Kairo Bex.

Kairo unloads with compact, sharp strikes—forearm, elbow, forearm—backing Sable toward the corner. Sable fires back with a headbutt that stops Kairo cold, but it’s Graysie Parker who steps in next.

Graysie snaps a short kick into Sable’s thigh, then another, chopping the base out from under him. She hooks him around the waist and drives him down to the mat.

John Phillips: “Parker cutting the legs out from under Rafe Sable!”

Graysie rises quickly and gestures toward the ladder—this time Kairo nods once and moves with her. The two lift it together and begin setting it up beneath the briefcase.

Mark Bravo: “You don’t see this often. Temporary alliances in ladder matches—but sometimes experience recognizes opportunity.”

Before the ladder can fully stand, Maxwell Jett slides back into the ring at full speed and launches himself forward—dropkick straight into the ladder!

The ladder snaps backward, clipping Graysie and Kairo both and sending them sprawling in opposite directions.

John Phillips: “Max Jett just blew that plan up!”

Jett doesn’t stop. He grabs the ladder, pops it upright in one fluid motion, and starts climbing—fast. Rung after rung, no hesitation.

Mark Bravo: “That’s the pace advantage right there!”

Jace Van Ardent springs back into the ring and sees Jett halfway up. Without breaking stride, he sprints and leaps—springboard off the ropes—crashing into the ladder and sending Jett flying backward off the rungs!

Jett flips awkwardly and slams onto the mat as the ladder teeters wildly before collapsing.

John Phillips: “Van Ardent takes him out of the sky!”

Van Ardent lands and rolls through, popping back up to his feet. The crowd reacts as he looks down at Jett… then up at the briefcase.

He drags the ladder upright again, adrenaline surging, and starts to climb—only for a hand to clamp around his ankle.

Rafe Sable yanks him down hard, Van Ardent hitting the mat chest-first. Sable follows with a stomp to the back, then another.

Mark Bravo: “No flight plan survives contact with Rafe Sable.”

Sable turns toward the ladder and hoists it up—not to climb, but to swing. He brings it down across Van Ardent’s back with a sickening metallic thud.

John Phillips: “That’s not about winning the contract—that’s about sending a message.”

As Van Ardent writhes on the mat, Sable finally plants the ladder beneath the briefcase and begins to climb… but from behind, Graysie Parker is already back on her feet.

She rushes in and tips the ladder sideways, sending Sable crashing down to the mat in a heap.

Mark Bravo: “Veteran instincts! Graysie knows when the window opens—and when to slam it shut!”

The ladder falls again. Bodies are down all over the ring. The briefcase still hangs above them, swaying gently, untouched—taunting every single one of them.

This war is just getting started.

Graysie Parker stands alone for just a moment, chest heaving as she surveys the wreckage around her. The crowd noise swells—not because she’s won, but because they recognize control when they see it.

John Phillips: “This is Graysie Parker’s comfort zone. Chaos, timing, survival.”

Mark Bravo: “She’s not rushing. She knows the match doesn’t end on the first climb—it ends on the last one.”

Graysie drags the ladder upright again, carefully this time, centering it beneath the briefcase. She tests it with one firm shake, then places a boot on the first rung.

The crowd begins to buzz.

Before she can climb higher, Darren Valiant slides back into the ring, eyes wild now, arrogance replaced with urgency. He grabs Graysie from behind and spins her around—sharp elbow strike to the jaw.

John Phillips: “Valiant cutting her off!”

Graysie stumbles but fires back immediately—short forearm, then another. The two trade blows in the center of the ring, ladder looming inches away like a silent threat.

Mark Bravo: “This is experience versus entitlement right here.”

Valiant ducks a strike and snaps Graysie down with a sudden neckbreaker. She hits hard and rolls toward the ropes as Valiant turns his attention back to the ladder.

He starts climbing—measured, confident, already reaching upward—when Maxwell Jett reappears out of nowhere.

Jett sprints and leaps, grabbing the ladder halfway up and rocking it violently side to side.

John Phillips: “Jett shaking the ladder!”

Valiant loses his balance and drops down awkwardly. As soon as his boots hit the mat, Rafe Sable charges in and levels him with a brutal lariat.

Sable doesn’t stop. He hauls Valiant up and whips him into the corner, then follows with a crushing running knee that snaps Valiant’s head back.

Mark Bravo: “That’s punishment, not strategy.”

On the opposite side of the ring, Jace Van Ardent pulls himself up using the ropes, shaking out his back. He spots the ladder still standing and makes his move.

Van Ardent sprints, leaps, and starts climbing from the opposite side—fast, smooth, almost reckless.

John Phillips: “Van Ardent climbing from the blind side!”

He reaches for the briefcase—fingertips brushing leather—when Kairo Bex explodes back into the frame.

Kairo grabs the ladder and yanks it backward just enough to unseat Van Ardent. Jace tumbles off, twisting midair and crashing to the mat.

Mark Bravo: “That’s awareness. That’s timing.”

Kairo doesn’t follow him down. He turns and immediately starts climbing himself—no wasted motion, no pause.

The crowd rises as Kairo ascends rung by rung, eyes locked upward.

But behind him… Graysie Parker is back on her feet.

She grabs the ladder, braces herself, and begins climbing up the opposite side.

John Phillips: “Parker and Bex—both climbing!”

The two meet near the top, exchanging strikes while balancing precariously. Forearms snap back and forth, the ladder swaying with every impact.

Mark Bravo: “This is where legacies are written—or erased.”

Graysie lands a sharp headbutt, rocking Kairo. He slips down one rung. She climbs higher.

Graysie reaches up… fingertips grazing the briefcase.

John Phillips: “She’s got it—Graysie Parker is right there!”

The crowd erupts as Graysie steadies herself, one hand on the ladder, the other reaching again—

—when Rafe Sable barrels into the ladder from below.

The ladder tips violently. Graysie loses her balance and crashes down hard, rolling away clutching her ribs as the ladder collapses to the mat.

Mark Bravo: “No! Sable just took it all away!”

Graysie lies stunned, inches from reclaiming everything she lost.

Kairo Bex rolls through the fall, popping back to his feet faster than anyone else.

He looks down at Graysie… then up at the briefcase.

And he moves.

Kairo Bex drags the ladder upright again—faster now, urgency replacing patience. His breathing is heavy, but his hands are steady as he centers it beneath the briefcase.

John Phillips: “Kairo Bex is capitalizing on the moment!”

Mark Bravo: “This is where instinct matters, JP. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t gloat. He moved.”

Kairo starts climbing, rung by rung, eyes fixed upward.

But the ring is not done with him.

Maxwell Jett explodes back into frame, springing off the ropes and leaping onto the ladder from the side. The impact rattles the metal violently.

John Phillips: “Jett with no regard for his own safety!”

Kairo clings to the ladder as Jett scrambles upward, the two meeting near the middle. They trade strikes—fast, sloppy, desperate—each blow threatening to send one of them crashing down.

Mark Bravo: “This is not about form anymore. This is about survival.”

Jett lands a sharp forearm and climbs higher, reaching toward the briefcase—

—until Darren Valiant reenters the equation.

Valiant slides into the ring, grabs the ladder, and tips it just enough to unseat both men. Kairo and Jett spill off opposite sides, hitting the mat hard.

John Phillips: “Valiant saving the match for himself!”

Valiant pulls the ladder back upright, eyes blazing now, desperation bleeding through the polish. He starts climbing quickly—faster than before.

Halfway up, Rafe Sable storms in again.

Sable doesn’t tip the ladder.

He lifts it.

John Phillips: “Wait—wait—”

Sable hoists the ladder with Valiant still on it and slams it forward, dumping Darren face-first into the turnbuckles in a sickening collision.

Mark Bravo: “That’s barbaric!”

The ladder crashes down. Valiant crumples to the mat, unmoving.

Sable turns—and walks straight into a flying strike from Jace Van Ardent.

Van Ardent connects flush, staggering Sable backward. Jace follows with another strike, then another, building momentum.

John Phillips: “Van Ardent finding another gear!”

Jace grabs the ladder and sprints toward the ropes, vaulting himself upward and springboarding onto the rungs in one smooth motion.

The crowd rises as he climbs—fast, fluid, fearless.

He reaches for the briefcase—

—when Graysie Parker surges back to life.

Graysie grabs the ladder and yanks it back, sending Van Ardent crashing down to the mat.

Mark Bravo: “That’s experience screaming ‘not yet.’”

Graysie doesn’t hesitate. She pulls the ladder back into position and starts climbing again.

The crowd swells, sensing it.

John Phillips: “This might be it!”

Graysie climbs higher. Higher. Her hand reaches up—grabbing the briefcase handle.

John Phillips: “She’s got it! Graysie Parker has the briefcase!”

The arena erupts.

Graysie unhooks one side—

—when suddenly the ladder shifts violently.

Below her, Rafe Sable and Darren Valiant slam into the base of the ladder from opposite sides.

The ladder buckles.

Graysie loses her grip.

She falls—crashing hard to the mat, the briefcase swinging free above her once more.

Mark Bravo: “No! She was seconds away!”

Graysie lies on her back, staring upward, disbelief etched across her face.

And once again—Kairo Bex is the first one moving.

He pulls himself up using the ropes, locks eyes on the ladder… and starts toward it.

The moment is coming.

Kairo Bex reaches the ladder and pulls it upright one last time. His movements are slower now, fatigue finally visible, but there’s no hesitation—only resolve.

John Phillips: “This is it. This is the window.”

Mark Bravo: “Everybody else is down. If he’s got it in him, now is the time.”

Kairo starts climbing.

One rung. Two. Three.

Behind him, Graysie Parker stirs. She rolls to her side, wincing, clutching at her ribs—then looks up.

She sees Kairo climbing.

The crowd comes alive as Graysie forces herself to her feet, every step a fight. She reaches the ladder and grabs the side, pulling herself upward after him.

John Phillips: “Graysie Parker is not done!”

Mark Bravo: “She refuses to let this slip away!”

Graysie climbs with urgency now, pain etched across her face. She reaches Kairo near the top and fires a forearm into his back. Kairo staggers but holds on.

Another forearm. Then another.

Kairo turns, meeting her eye-to-eye. The two trade blows high above the ring, the ladder swaying dangerously beneath them.

John Phillips: “This is everything—past versus future!”

Graysie lands a headbutt that snaps Kairo’s head back. He drops one rung.

The crowd roars as Graysie climbs higher, reaching again for the briefcase.

Mark Bravo: “She’s right there again!”

Graysie grabs the handle—both hands this time—and starts working the latch.

Kairo looks up… then reaches out.

He grabs Graysie’s ankle.

Graysie kicks wildly, trying to shake him loose, one hand still gripping the briefcase.

John Phillips: “Kairo Bex hanging on by sheer will!”

Kairo pulls himself up one rung, then another, fighting gravity and pain. He releases her ankle—then surges forward, driving his shoulder into Graysie’s midsection.

The impact knocks the wind out of her.

Graysie’s grip slips.

She falls—crashing hard to the mat below.

Mark Bravo: “No… not again…”

Graysie rolls onto her side, eyes wide, staring up in disbelief as the crowd reacts in stunned shock.

Kairo steadies himself at the top of the ladder. He reaches up, unhooks the briefcase cleanly…

…and pulls it free.

John Phillips: “HE GOT IT! KAIRO BEX HAS THE CONTRACT!”

The bell rings furiously as Kairo clutches the briefcase to his chest and carefully climbs down.

Mark Bravo: “One year. Guaranteed. And a WrestleZone Championship match later tonight. His life just changed.”

Kairo drops to the mat and sinks to one knee, breathing hard, staring down at the briefcase like it might vanish if he lets go.

Across the ring, Graysie Parker sits up slowly, devastation written across her face. She looks at Kairo… then at the briefcase… then lowers her head.

John Phillips: “Graysie Parker was seconds away from reclaiming her place. And it was taken from her.”

Kairo rises to his feet and climbs the turnbuckles, holding the briefcase high. The crowd reaction is loud, mixed, electric.

Six competitors entered unsigned.

One of them is leaving with everything.

Kairo Bex stands tall.

And later tonight… he challenges for the WrestleZone Championship.

Kairo Bex drops down from the turnbuckles and turns—nearly colliding with Graysie Parker as she surges to her feet.

Graysie shoves past him hard, nearly knocking the briefcase into Kairo’s chest. He stumbles back a step, surprised, as officials rush toward the ring.

John Phillips: “Oh—Graysie Parker is not taking this well.”

Mark Bravo: “Would you? She had it. Twice. That was her contract.”

Graysie snaps, kicking the middle rope violently, then the bottom rope—each impact echoing with a sharp twang. She turns and screams toward ringside, veins standing out in her neck.

Graysie Parker: “That was MINE! You hear me? MINE!”

The referee tries to step in, raising his hands, but Graysie swats him away and storms toward the ropes.

She steps through and nearly rips the top rope down as she exits, shoving past a production assistant on the apron.

John Phillips: “This is raw emotion. This is years of frustration boiling over.”

Graysie hits the floor and spins toward the crowd, pointing and shouting, face twisted with rage.

Graysie Parker: “You wanted this! You wanted to see me fall again!”

She kicks the barricade hard, then slams her fist against it, drawing a loud reaction from the front row.

Mark Bravo: “She feels robbed, JP. And when someone like Graysie Parker feels robbed, that anger doesn’t just disappear.”

Inside the ring, Kairo Bex watches silently, briefcase clutched tightly in his hands, unsure whether to celebrate or stay clear.

Graysie storms up the ramp, yelling at fans on both sides—shoving away outstretched hands, pointing, screaming.

Graysie Parker: “I BUILT THIS PLACE! I BUILT IT!”

She stops halfway up the ramp and turns back toward the ring, eyes burning as she locks onto Kairo.

For a moment, it looks like she might charge back down.

Instead, she throws her arms out wide in disgust, shaking her head violently.

John Phillips: “That look tells you everything. This isn’t over—not for Graysie Parker.”

Graysie turns and storms through the curtain, still shouting as the noise fades.

In the ring, Kairo Bex finally lifts the briefcase again—this time with more certainty.

Mark Bravo: “That celebration just got a whole lot heavier.”

The camera lingers on Kairo’s face—determined, conflicted—before cutting away.

The camera cuts to the exterior entrance corridor of the arena—one of those concrete, industrial hallways that echoes every footstep. Security gates. Loading bay doors. A few fans pressed behind barriers hoping for a glimpse of someone important.

And then they get it.

Chris Ross walks into frame with the UTA Championship slung over his shoulder like it belongs there. Valentina Blaze is beside him, Women’s United States Championship around her waist, her eyes scanning the environment like she already knows trouble is part of the job description.

John Phillips: "Chris Ross and Valentina Blaze arriving here tonight—and you can’t help but notice, Mark—champions walk different."

Mark Bravo: "Ross got that title like a warning sign, man. And Valentina? She’s carrying hers like she’s daring somebody to test it."

Ross smirks at something Valentina says off-mic, shifts the title on his shoulder, and keeps moving—completely at home in the chaos of an arena hallway.

Then—out of nowhere—

A shadow explodes into frame.

Clovis Black.

John Phillips: "WAIT A MINUTE—"

Clovis hits Ross low, driving his shoulder into Ross’ midsection like a battering ram. Ross stumbles back one step, and Clovis keeps driving until Ross’ back slams into the wall with a sickening thud.

Mark Bravo: "OH MY GOD!"

Ross’ championship slips off his shoulder and clatters to the concrete. Valentina yells and reaches for Clovis, but Clovis shoves forward again—then hooks Ross and lifts him with brute force, turning and slamming him down onto the concrete like he’s throwing a man through the floor.

Ross lands hard, the sound echoing down the corridor.

Valentina Blaze: "Hey! HEY! GET OFF HIM!"

Clovis drops to a knee over Ross and starts driving forearms down—short, heavy shots to the side of Ross’ head and jaw, each one snapping Ross’ body against the concrete. Ross tries to cover, tries to roll, but Clovis keeps him pinned in place with sheer weight and violence.

John Phillips: "This is an assault!"

Mark Bravo: "This is a mugging, John! This is a straight-up mugging in the hallway!"

Valentina backs up half a step, panic and fury mixing, shouting down the corridor.

Valentina Blaze: "SOMEONE! GET SOMEONE OUT HERE!"

She looks around frantically, then kneels, trying to grab Ross’ arm to pull him away—but Clovis’ next forearm makes her recoil. She’s not afraid of a fight, but Clovis is moving like a machine.

Then—footsteps.

Slow. Casual. Almost amused.

Trey Mack steps into the scene like he’s walking into a party late and still expects people to be happy he arrived. He takes one look at the destruction, then looks to Clovis with a calm nod.

John Phillips: "That’s Trey Mack!"

Mark Bravo: "Of course it is. Of course it is."

Trey holds up a hand—not frantic, not desperate—just a simple signal.

Trey Mack: "A’ight… a’ight, big man. That’s enough."

Clovis freezes for a beat, forearm still hovering, then slowly rises off Ross like he’s been called off a kill.

Ross is on his side now, one forearm tucked under him, trying to push up, face tight with pain.

Trey steps closer, crouches just enough to be in Ross’ eyeline, smiling like this is friendly.

Trey Mack: "See you tonight, playa."

Ross’ eyes burn up at him—anger, disbelief, that familiar champion’s rage—but he’s hurt and he’s down and Trey knows it.

Trey rises, gives Valentina a quick glance like she’s not even the point of the scene, then turns away with the same casual swagger he arrived with. Clovis follows him without another look, walking off like an obedient wrecking ball.

John Phillips: "That was deliberate. That was calculated."

Mark Bravo: "Trey Mack didn’t stop it because he felt bad. He stopped it because he wanted Ross breathing for tonight."

The camera zooms in on Valentina now as she drops beside Chris, her hands hovering—she wants to check him, but she’s also looking up the corridor, furious, calling again for help.

Her face is tight with concern as she finally places a hand on Ross’ shoulder, trying to get him to respond.

Valentina Blaze: "Chris… hey—look at me. Stay with me. Help is coming."

The shot tightens on her expression—anger and worry fused together—before the feed cuts away, leaving the image of the UTA Champion on the concrete and his ally hovering over him, ready to fight the whole building if she has to.

The screen fades to black.

Then—an old film-grain effect rolls in. The UTA logo appears in monochrome, flickering like it’s being projected from a reel. A single piano note hits… then another… slow, deliberate.

On screen, white text fades in:

UTA HALL OF FAME

CLASS OF 2026

FIRST ANNOUNCEMENT — TONIGHT

John Phillips: "We told you earlier tonight that the first inductee into the UTA Hall of Fame Class of 2026 would be revealed here on Day 2…"

Mark Bravo: "But this isn’t just an inductee, John. This is a whole era getting its flowers."

The music shifts—piano layered with a slow beat. The film grain dissolves into fast cuts: a blur of arena lights, a barricade shaking, a referee shouting. The footage is stylized—high contrast, dramatic, like a memory that still hits you in the chest.

On screen, a voiceover begins—deep, documentary tone.

Voiceover: "They didn’t arrive to be accepted."

Quick cut: a silhouette of three figures walking down a ramp.

Voiceover: "They arrived to take over."

Cut: a chair being lifted. Cut: a body hitting the mat. Cut: a crowd reaction—half laughter, half shock.

Voiceover: "In an era where rules were suggestions…"

Cut: a referee waving off chaos. Cut: a cameraman stumbling backward to keep up. 

Voiceover: "…they built a legacy out of doing the unthinkable."

Cut: a gold cart. The music swells. The screen flashes a name in bold, distressed font:

BOBBY DEAN

Cut: Bobby Dean in a frenzy of motion—wild expression, reckless momentum as he drives a Hov-a-Round down the street. A fan’s sign shakes in the background. The crowd is roaring.

Voiceover: "The chaos you could see coming… and still couldn’t stop."

Another text slam:

CANCER JILES

Cut: Cancer Jiles with that unmistakable swagger—hands raised, mouth running, body language screaming confidence. Cut: a close-up of a smirk. Cut: an opponent’s eyes widening.

Voiceover: "The mastermind with a mouth like a matchstick… and the patience to light the fuse."

Another hit. Another name:

DOOZER

Cut: Doozer throwing someone like they were luggage. Cut: a hard impact. Cut: a slow-motion shot of a clenched fist and a grim stare.

Voiceover: "The force that made the jokes feel dangerous… and the danger feel inevitable."

The music drops out for a beat.

Three silhouettes fill the screen—side by side—backlit by stage lights. The camera pushes in… and then freezes.

Text fades in over the frozen image:

THE eGG BANDITS

Voiceover: "Together… they were never just a group."

Cut: crowd chanting. Cut: a ring post rattling. Cut: a referee’s hands pushing bodies apart. Cut: a belt being held overhead. Cut: a moment of laughter, then a moment of brutality.

Voiceover: "They were a culture."

Voiceover: "A riot."

Voiceover: "A legend you couldn’t sanitize… even if you tried."

The music returns—bigger now, triumphant with edge. The UTA Hall of Fame emblem appears, glowing gold over the footage.

On screen text:

UTA HALL OF FAME — CLASS OF 2026

FIRST ANNOUNCEMENT

The footage hard-cuts to black.

Then, one by one, names appear in silence—each with a heavy sound hit.

BOBBY DEAN

CANCER JILES

DOOZER

Final card:

THE eGG BANDITS

UTA HALL OF FAME — CLASS OF 2026

One last line fades in beneath it:

FULL HALL OF FAME CEREMONY — DATE TO BE ANNOUNCED

The screen fades back to the live arena. The crowd is buzzing, reacting like they just got hit with a wave of nostalgia and adrenaline at the same time.

John Phillips: "There you have it. The first announcement for the UTA Hall of Fame Class of 2026—"

John Phillips: "The eGG Bandits. Bobby Dean. Cancer Jiles. Doozer."

Mark Bravo: "That’s not just three names, John. That’s a whole chapter of UTA history."

John Phillips: "And remember—this is only the announcement. The Hall of Fame ceremony itself will take place at a later date. But tonight, we honor the legacy with the first reveal… and we continue building the future right here on Day 2."

The camera lingers on the crowd—some fans clapping, some chanting, some laughing like they just remembered a dozen stories at once—before the show transitions onward.

The camera cuts backstage to a crowded, buzzing hallway near the medical area—trainers moving with purpose, production staff weaving through with headsets, and the distant roar of the arena bleeding through the walls like a heartbeat.

Melissa Cartwright is already in position, microphone in hand, her hair slightly windswept like she had to jog to get here. The camera pans and catches Kairo Bex entering frame—sweat-soaked, breathing hard, a bandage taped across one shoulder, but smiling like he just stole electricity from the building.

He has the briefcase—UTA contract—clutched tight to his chest like it’s not just paper inside. It’s proof.

Melissa Cartwright: "I’m Melissa Cartwright and I am here with the winner of the UTA Contract Ladder Match… Kairo Bex."

Kairo’s head snaps to her, and even in the exhaustion, the grin comes easy.

Kairo: "Pronounded Bey, just spelled with the X."

Melissa nods immediately—no hesitation this time.

Melissa Cartwright: "Kairo Bex. You’ve done it. You just survived a ladder match—six competitors, absolute chaos—and you walked out with a one-year UTA contract."

She gestures to the case in his hands.

Melissa Cartwright: "How are you feeling right now?"

Kairo looks down at the briefcase like he’s making sure it’s still real. His chest rises and falls. He wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist, and you can see his hands shaking—not fear, adrenaline.

Kairo: "How do I feel?"

He laughs once—short, almost disbelieving—then looks back up and his eyes are bright.

Kairo: "I feel… alive."

Kairo: "I feel like every bruise is a signature."

Kairo: "I feel like I just got dragged through steel and gravity… and I still came out holding the thing everybody else wanted."

John Phillips: "That contract means security. It means opportunity. It means Kairo Bex is officially UTA."

Mark Bravo: "It also means he got hit with a ladder seventeen times and smiled through it, John. I’m not saying he’s crazy… but I’m not not saying it."

Kairo presses the briefcase against his ribs and nods, almost grounding himself.

Melissa Cartwright: "But Kairo—this isn’t over. Not for you. Because the winner of that ladder match doesn’t just get the contract."

Melissa takes a breath and the tone shifts—because now it becomes real.

Melissa Cartwright: "Later tonight… you challenge Gunnar Van Patton for the WrestleZone Championship."

Kairo’s grin fades to something sharper. Focused. The kind of focus that comes when the dream turns into danger.

Melissa Cartwright: "You’ve barely had time to catch your breath. Gunnar Van Patton is fresh. Gunnar Van Patton is violent. Gunnar Van Patton is the champion."

Melissa Cartwright: "What goes through your mind when you realize your first night under contract… could also be the night you walk out with a championship?"

Kairo inhales slow. He rolls one shoulder—winces—then steadies himself.

Kairo: "What goes through my mind is… this is why I came."

Kairo: "Everybody loves the idea of opportunity—"

Kairo: "—until it shows up with teeth."

He taps the briefcase lightly with his knuckles, then lifts his eyes toward the camera.

Kairo: "Gunnar Van Patton is the kind of man people warn you about."

Kairo: "The kind of man you’re supposed to avoid if you wanna have a long career."

Kairo: "But I didn’t come here to have a long career."

Melissa’s eyebrows lift.

Kairo: "I came here to have a loud one."

Mark Bravo: "Ohhh! I like that. I like that a lot."

John Phillips: "He understands the moment. That’s not just bravado—that’s intent."

Melissa Cartwright: "Kairo, we’ve seen Gunnar. We know what he does. He slows the pace. He breaks people down. He doesn’t need to rush because he believes the fight always ends his way."

Melissa Cartwright: "How do you beat someone like that when you’re already hurt?"

Kairo looks down at his taped shoulder again, then back up with a half-smile that feels like a challenge.

Kairo: "You don’t beat him by matching him."

Kairo: "You beat him by making him uncomfortable."

Kairo: "You beat him by making him chase something he can’t catch."

Kairo: "You beat him by being faster than his anger."

Kairo’s tone sharpens, the exhaustion giving way to adrenaline again.

Kairo: "Everybody thinks they can prepare for pain."

Kairo: "But nobody prepares for embarrassment."

Kairo: "And if I can make Gunnar look slow—"

Kairo: "—if I can make the champ swing and miss—"

Kairo: "—if I can make this whole building realize the WrestleZone Championship is one mistake away from changing hands…"

He lifts the briefcase slightly.

Kairo: "Then I don’t care how much I’m hurting. I’ll climb again."

Melissa nods, impressed, but still cautious because the reality of Gunnar is looming.

Melissa Cartwright: "Last question. What do you want to say to Gunnar Van Patton right now—before you step into that ring with him later tonight?"

Kairo leans toward the camera, eyes steady. The Neon Ace energy is still there—but now it’s tempered by the seriousness of what’s coming.

Kairo: "Gunnar."

Kairo: "You’re the champion because you break people."

Kairo: "And I respect that."

Kairo: "But tonight… you’re fighting someone who already fell off the ladder."

Kairo: "Someone who already tasted the floor."

Kairo: "Someone who already got up."

He pats the briefcase again.

Kairo: "I didn’t win this by being careful."

Kairo: "So if you’re expecting a scared kid with a contract…"

Kairo: "You’re gonna get a problem."

Kairo steps back, exhales, and for a moment the exhaustion hits him again. But he keeps standing tall, clutching that briefcase like it’s oxygen.

Melissa Cartwright: "Kairo Bex—winner of the UTA Contract Ladder Match. Officially under contract for one year… and later tonight, challenging Gunnar Van Patton for the WrestleZone Championship."

Kairo nods once, then walks out of frame toward the trainers, still holding the briefcase tight as the camera lingers on the bandage on his shoulder and the determination in his eyes.

Mark Bravo: "He’s riding adrenaline and ambition, John."

John Phillips: "And later tonight, we find out if that’s enough to survive Gunnar Van Patton."

Backstage. A long, narrow hallway of concrete and steel. The fluorescents overhead flicker with a cold, electric hum — not enough to be distracting, but enough to feel intentional, like the building itself is bracing for something. The distant crowd is a low, steady vibration under the floor, a reminder that thousands of people are out there… but none of them matter in this moment.

Jarvis Valentine rounds the corner first.

His walk is steady. Deliberate. Centered. The kind of walk that doesn’t announce itself, but commands attention anyway. His shoulders are square. His posture is upright. His breathing is controlled. In his right hand, he carries a bottle of water — clear, simple, unshaken. The bottle doesn’t sway. His grip doesn’t tighten. His steps don’t falter.

He moves like a man who has trained himself to eliminate noise — internal and external.

From the opposite end of the hallway, Gunnar Van Patton appears.

Heavy boots. Slow, weighted steps. A Ghost energy drink in his hand, the can already dented from the pressure of his grip. He takes a drink without breaking stride. The sound of the metal flexing under his fingers is quiet, but sharp. His presence shifts the air — not louder, but heavier, like a storm front rolling in, thickening the atmosphere with every step.

He moves like a man who has survived too much to pretend the world is anything but hostile.

They see each other long before they stop.

Jarvis’s eyes narrow just slightly — not in anger, but in recognition. He adjusts nothing. His pace remains the same. His breathing remains even. His grip on the water bottle stays relaxed. But his focus sharpens, like a camera lens tightening on a subject.

Gunnar’s jaw tightens. His shoulders square. His steps slow by a fraction — not hesitation, but calculation. His one visible blue eye locks onto Jarvis with the cold, assessing stare of a soldier reading terrain. The Ghost can creaks again under his grip.

Neither man changes course.

Neither man softens their posture.

The hallway feels smaller with every step they take toward the center.

When they finally stop, it’s at the exact same moment — perfectly aligned, perfectly opposed.

Water in one hand.

Caffeine in the other.

Stillness facing pressure.

Yin facing yang.

Silence.

Not empty.

Not awkward.

A silence that measures.

A silence that weighs.

A silence that recognizes its reflection in the other man.

Jarvis stands still, water bottle at his side. His eyes lock onto Gunnar’s — calm, investigative, unblinking. He studies posture, breathing, micro‑tension in the shoulders, the way Gunnar’s fingers flex around the can. A journalist’s instinct sharpened into a fighter’s discipline. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink. He simply observes.

Gunnar doesn’t move either. One blue eye fixed on Jarvis, reading him like a battlefield. His breathing slows. His stance settles. His grip on the can tightens just enough to make the metal groan. A soldier’s assessment. A predator’s patience. He doesn’t posture. He doesn’t lean. He simply exists — heavy, grounded, immovable.

They are opposites.

But equal.

Two philosophies pressed into the same square of concrete.

The silence stretches.

And stretches.

And stretches.

It becomes a presence of its own — thick, dense, suffocating. The kind of silence that feels like it could snap if either man breathed too deeply. The kind of silence that makes the hallway feel colder. The kind of silence that makes the distant crowd feel a mile away.

Jarvis’s grip on the water bottle remains steady. His shoulders remain level. His breathing remains controlled. But his eyes sharpen — not with hostility, but with clarity. He sees the tension in Gunnar’s jaw. The way the soldier’s stance shifts weight to the balls of his feet. The way the Ghost can bends under pressure.

Gunnar’s stare doesn’t waver. He notes the steadiness of Jarvis’s posture. The lack of flinch. The absence of fear. The way Jarvis’s breathing never changes. The way the water bottle never trembles. The way the man stands like a pillar — not rigid, but rooted.

Two men.

Two worlds.

Two methods.

One collision point.

Finally — finally — Gunnar breaks the silence.

His voice is low. Steady. Stripped of warmth. Stripped of pretense. A simple statement delivered with the weight of a verdict.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Ah reckon yer missin’ somethin’.”

Jarvis doesn’t blink. Doesn’t shift. His reply is calm, precise, and grounded — the counterweight to Gunnar’s pressure.

Jarvis Valentine: “Strange coming from a man who wins a championship and doesn’t respect it enough to wear it.”

The air tightens again — yin and yang locked in place, neither giving ground, neither stepping back.

The hallway stays locked in that same charged stillness. Jarvis’s words have landed, but Gunnar doesn’t blink. The crushed Ghost can groans again under his grip, metal warping like it’s trying to escape.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Seasons Beatin’s told the tale plain. Same night. Same lights. Same damn battlefield. Ya walked out without the gold ya came in with… an’ Ah walked out with more.”

Jarvis’s posture stays centered, water bottle steady at his side.

Jarvis Valentine: “And yet you walked out hiding the symbol of it. I lost a title, yes — but I didn’t lose myself. You won one, and you refuse to carry it.”

Gunnar’s eye narrows — not in anger, but in recognition of the challenge.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Ah don’t need to sling gold over my shoulder to prove a damn thing. That belt ain’t a trophy. It’s bait. It draws the wicked outta the dark so Ah can put ‘em down.”

Jarvis steps forward half an inch — matching Gunnar’s earlier movement exactly.

Jarvis Valentine: “A championship isn’t bait. It’s responsibility. It’s a standard. You don’t hide a standard. You uphold it. You show the world what it means.”

Gunnar’s jaw flexes. The can bends further in his hand.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Standards don’t stop wolves. Violence does. That title brings the demons to my door, an’ Ah’m the one who smites ‘em. That’s the job.”

Jarvis’s eyes sharpen — investigative, unblinking.

Jarvis Valentine: “The job is to elevate the place you stand in. To carry the weight with integrity. To show the next man what excellence looks like. You treat the title like a weapon. I treat it like a legacy.”

Gunnar’s voice drops lower, colder.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Legacy don’t mean nothin’ if ya ain’t standin’ at the end of the night.”

Jarvis doesn’t flinch.

Jarvis Valentine: “And standing means nothing if you abandon what you stood for.”

A long beat.

Neither man moves.

Neither man breaks eye contact.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Ah walked out heavier.”

Jarvis Valentine: “And I walked out unbroken.”

The hallway feels like a fault line — two men who lived the same night, walked out with opposite outcomes, and now stand face‑to‑face with the weight of what those outcomes mean.

Neither man steps back. Neither man breaks eye contact. The tension doesn’t fade — it shifts, deepens, sharpens.

Gunnar’s fingers dig into what’s left of the crushed Ghost can, metal folding under the pressure like it’s surrendering to him.

Gunnar Van Patton: “UTA’s slippin’, Valentine. Ah see it every damn week. More rot. More ego. More men struttin’ around like they built this place when they ain’t earned a thing. It’s gettin’ worse. Ah can smell it in the concrete.”

Jarvis’s posture stays centered, water bottle steady at his side. His voice is calm, but the conviction behind it is unmistakable.

Jarvis Valentine: “I see the cracks. I see the chaos. But I also see the people trying to fix it. The ones who still believe in what UTA can be. This place isn’t dying — it’s struggling. And struggling things can be rebuilt.”

Gunnar steps in half an inch — the same distance Jarvis stepped earlier. Perfect symmetry. Perfect opposition.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Rebuilt? Ya don’t rebuild a house full of termites. Ya burn it down an’ start fresh. This place is crawlin’ with men who’d sell their soul for a shortcut. Folks who ain’t got the spine to stand on their own two feet.”

Jarvis’s eyes narrow — not in anger, but in focus.

Jarvis Valentine: “And that’s exactly why it needs people who won’t abandon it. People who don’t run when things get ugly. People who believe UTA can be more than the worst men in it.”

Gunnar’s jaw tightens. His voice drops lower, colder.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Belief don’t stop corruption. Belief don’t stop men like Ross. Belief don’t stop the rot spreadin’ through the roster. Ah’ve seen what happens when ya trust a broken system. It breaks ya next.”

Jarvis steps forward the same half inch — matching Gunnar’s presence perfectly.

Jarvis Valentine: “And I’ve seen what happens when good people walk away. The wrong ones take over. The loudest ones drown out the rest. The place becomes exactly what you fear it already is.”

A long beat.

Neither man moves.

Neither man blinks.

Gunnar Van Patton: “UTA’s a battlefield. Always has been. Always will be. Only question is who’s left standin’ when the smoke clears.”

Jarvis Valentine: “UTA is a legacy. A community. A place where the right people can still make a difference — if they don’t give up on it.”

Gunnar’s eye narrows, reading Jarvis like terrain.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Hope’s a fragile thing to bring into a warzone.”

Jarvis doesn’t blink.

Jarvis Valentine: “And fear is a terrible thing to build a future on.”

The air between them feels colder. Sharper. Like the hallway itself is choosing sides.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Ah see UTA fallin’ apart.”

Jarvis Valentine: “I see UTA worth fighting for.”

Two men.

Two visions.

One future neither is willing to surrender.

The hallway feels like it’s shrinking around them, the fluorescent lights overhead flickering just enough to make the air feel unstable. The concrete walls seem to lean inward, trapping the heat radiating off both men. The tension is so thick it feels like a third presence in the space — something alive, something watching, something waiting for the first spark to ignite.

Gunnar’s fingers tighten around the Ghost can until the metal gives way with a violent, crunching collapse. The crushed aluminum trembles in his fist like it’s trying to escape. Jarvis’s grip on the water bottle tightens in response — not fear, but readiness. His posture is centered, grounded, unshakable, the stance of a man who refuses to be moved by force alone.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Ya lost that UTA title ‘cause when the moment came, ya weren’t willin’ to do what it took to keep it. Ross beat ya fair — sure. But don’t pretend that bastard wouldn’t have crossed a line if he needed to. He’s always been ready to get his hands dirty. Everyone knows his history. Same as me.”

Jarvis steps forward — slow, deliberate, controlled. One inch. Then another. Gunnar doesn’t move, but the air between them tightens like a wire pulled to the point of snapping. Their chests nearly touch. Their breath mixes. Their eyes lock with a force that feels like two storms colliding head‑on.

Jarvis Valentine: “Chris Ross beat me clean. He earned that win. I’m not ashamed of that, and I’m not rewriting it. But I’m not going to start fighting like the men who poison this place — the ones who cheat, who manipulate, who drag UTA into the gutter just to get ahead. I won’t become what I’m trying to stand against.”

Gunnar’s jaw flexes. His nostrils flare. He leans in, voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble that vibrates in the chest more than the ears. His shoulders rise with a slow inhale, the kind that precedes either a punch or a sermon.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Ah want ya to stop pretendin’ this place rewards good men. It don’t. It never has. Ross proved that when he took yer title. Ah proved it when Ah took Tyger’s.”

Jarvis’s expression doesn’t change — but something behind his eyes sharpens. A shift. A focus. A refusal. His voice stays level, but the steel beneath it is unmistakable.

Jarvis Valentine: “Tyger II fought with honor. He fought with integrity. He fought the right way. And you beat him because he refused to become you.”

Gunnar’s stance widens — not a threat, but an instinct. A fighter’s instinct. A man who has lived too long in violence to ever fully relax. His fingers flex once, the crushed can squealing in protest.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Tyger’s got heart. More’n most. Ah felt it in every strike he threw. But heart ain’t enough in a place like this. He fought clean. Ah fought to win. That’s why Ah walked out with the WrestleZone title.”

Jarvis steps in again — the same inch, the same pressure, the same refusal to yield. Their foreheads are almost touching now. The tension is suffocating. The hallway feels like a powder keg waiting for a spark. The air between them is hot, electric, dangerous.

Jarvis Valentine: “And what’s the cost of winning your way? How many lines do you cross before you’re no different from the men you claim to hunt? Before you’re no different from the ones who rot this place from the inside?”

Gunnar’s eye narrows — a predator’s focus locking onto prey, except Jarvis refuses to be prey. His voice drops even lower, almost a growl, the sound of a man who has seen too much darkness to fear stepping into it again.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Ah ain’t them. Ah don’t cheat for glory. Ah don’t lie for applause. Ah do what needs doin’ to put down the wicked. If that means gettin’ my hands dirty, then so be it. Dirt washes off. Failure don’t.”

Jarvis’s voice becomes a whisper — not soft, but sharp. A scalpel, not a shout. A blade, not a plea.

Jarvis Valentine: “And I won’t become a monster to fight monsters. If I win, I win the right way. If I lose, I learn. But I don’t abandon who I am. Not for Ross. Not for you. Not for anyone.”

Gunnar’s breathing grows heavier. Jarvis’s chest rises with slow, deliberate control. Their fists clench at their sides — Gunnar’s knuckles whitening, Jarvis’s fingers flexing once, then stilling. Their shoulders brush. The contact is electric, dangerous, a warning neither man heeds.

The hallway vibrates with the threat of violence. The air feels charged, like static before a lightning strike. One wrong word. One wrong breath. One wrong twitch — and the entire building would hear the impact.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Yer principles cost ya the UTA title.”

Jarvis Valentine: “And your methods cost you your soul.”

Silence.

Not empty — lethal.

A silence that feels like the moment before a gunshot.

A silence that feels like the world holding its breath.

They stand there, inches from erupting, neither willing to be the one who breaks first. The silence between them stretches long enough to feel dangerous. The air is thick, unmoving, as if the hallway itself is afraid to breathe. Their foreheads are nearly touching, their fists clenched, their bodies coiled like two predators waiting for the other to blink first.

Then Gunnar shifts — not backing down, not breaking eye contact, but moving just enough to break the physical deadlock. He turns his wrist, draws his arm back, and with a sharp, practiced snap of his elbow, he launches the crushed Ghost can across the hall. It whistles through the air and drops cleanly into the nearest trash can without touching the rim. The echo rings like punctuation, a sharp metallic report that cuts through the thick quiet.

Jarvis doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t move at all. His eyes stay locked on Gunnar’s, steady, unshaken, unbroken. Ready to retaliate at a moment’s notice.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Calm yerself. We ain’t doing this tonight. But hear me clear — it’ll happen soon enough. This place is changin’. Fast. Darker. Meaner. An’ if ya don’t change with it… it’s gonna eat ya alive.”

Jarvis’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t step back. He doesn’t blink.

Jarvis Valentine: “I’ll survive. I always do. And I won’t have to damn myself to do it.”

Gunnar’s lips curl — not a smile, not a sneer, something colder. Something like recognition. Something like regret.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Survival ain’t about heart. Ain’t about talent. Ain’t even about winnin’. It’s about knowin’ when the world’s turnin’ on ya… and bein’ willin’ to turn with it.”

Jarvis’s eyes narrow, the faintest flicker of defiance sparking behind them.

Jarvis Valentine: “I’m not bending just because the world does.”

Gunnar doesn’t back up. He doesn’t break eye contact. He doesn’t even blink. Instead, he shifts — one slow, deliberate step — not away from Jarvis, but beside him. Shoulder to shoulder. Two men standing inches apart, facing opposite directions down the hallway like sentinels guarding different futures.

Jarvis stares straight ahead. Gunnar does the same. Their shoulders touch — barely — but the contact is electric, a silent collision of philosophies neither man is willing to surrender.

For a moment, they look like allies.

For a moment, they look like enemies.

For a moment, they look like the two pillars holding up the entire weight of UTA.

Gunnar Van Patton: “An’ as for my soul… that ain’t none of yer concern. The Lord knows what Ah’m doin’. He knows why Ah’m doin’ it. An’ He damn sure ain’t opposed to me puttin’ down the wicked.”

Jarvis’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t turn. He doesn’t give Gunnar the satisfaction of a reaction. He speaks forward, into the empty hall, as if addressing the future itself.

Jarvis Valentine: “If you’re wrong about that… you’ll answer for it.”

Gunnar’s eyes narrow, the faintest flicker of something — not doubt, not fear, but the weight of conviction meeting resistance.

Gunnar Van Patton: “We’ll see.”

He steps forward, breaking the shoulder‑to‑shoulder line, boots grinding against the concrete. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t need to. His presence lingers like smoke, like heat, like a warning carved into the air.

Jarvis stays where he is, staring straight ahead, breath steady, shoulders squared. The hallway feels different now — not lighter, not darker, just… changed. Shifted. Tilted on a new axis.

Gunnar’s footsteps fade down the corridor, each one slower than the last, like he’s giving Jarvis time to reconsider everything he just heard.

Jarvis doesn’t.

He stands firm. Unmoved. Unshaken.

And somewhere down the hall, Gunnar stops — just for a second — before continuing on.

Neither man says another word.

Neither man needs to.

The line between them has been drawn.

And it isn’t going anywhere.

The arena dips into darkness again, but this time it feels heavier—like the building itself is bracing. A low red glow bleeds out from the floor lights and crawls up the crowd in waves. The graphic flashes across the screen one more time, stark and simple:

UTA FIGHTING CHAMPIONSHIP — INAUGURAL TITLE MATCH
SUBMISSION OR REFEREE STOPPAGE ONLY
ONE ROPE BREAK PER COMPETITOR
5 SUCCESSFUL DEFENSES = UTA CHAMPIONSHIP SHOT

John Phillips: "This is the first ever Fighting Championship match. A brand-new title, a brand-new path… and a rule set that does not forgive."

Mark Bravo: "This belt is basically a dare, John. It’s like UTA looked at the whole roster and said, "If you want a shortcut to the top… bleed for it." Five defenses and you cash it in for a UTA Championship match? That changes careers."

John Phillips: "And the rope break rule changes instincts. You get one. You use it once. After that, if you reach again, nothing stops. The hold stays. The punishment stays."

Mark Bravo: "One rope break is the most evil thing I’ve ever loved. That’s a 'choose your moment of mercy' rule. And everybody chooses wrong the first time."

The lights flicker—once, twice—then drop into a sick, pulsing crimson. A distorted, bass-heavy thump rolls through the speakers, followed by the snapping percussion of "Dead Bite" as the crowd reaction rises immediately.

John Phillips: "Here comes Kaine."

A single spotlight hits the stage and Kaine appears in it like a figure cut out of a nightmare. The face paint is stark—bone white carved into something skeletal, dark hollows around the eyes that make every stare look deeper than it should. He doesn’t pose like a hero. He doesn’t soak in applause. He stands perfectly still for a beat… and then tilts his head, like he’s listening for fear.

Mark Bravo: "The profile might read like some fan-favorite rebel… but UTA knows what he really is. This man has been a full-blown heel since he showed up."

John Phillips: "He’s embraced the darkness. He’s embraced the chaos. And tonight, in a match where you have to force a tap or force a stoppage—Kaine is in his element."

Kaine takes two short steps forward, then stops again. His shoulders rise and fall once—slow, deliberate—like he’s breathing in the noise just to prove he can. Then he starts down the ramp with that unsettling rhythm: a quick burst, a pause, a stare, then another burst. Fans along the barricade flinch when he snaps his head toward them, and he smiles when they do.

Mark Bravo: "Look at him, John. He’s not walking to a match, he’s walking to a scene."

John Phillips: "And keep in mind, under these rules, he can’t steal a win. There’s no flash pin. There’s no sudden three-count. If he wants to be the first Fighting Champion, he has to do it the hard way."

Mark Bravo: "Which is perfect, because Kaine doesn’t want easy. Kaine wants memorable."

At ringside, Kaine slides a palm across the apron like he’s testing the surface. He climbs up slowly, stepping onto the apron and turning his head toward the hard camera, eyes wide and unblinking.

Kaine: "DEAD BUT ALIVE!"

The crowd answers with a loud mix of boos and cheers. Kaine’s grin spreads like he just won something already.

John Phillips: "He feeds off both. That’s the danger."

Mark Bravo: "He doesn’t care if you love him or hate him. He just wants you loud while he hurts somebody."

Kaine slips between the ropes and pops up fast, pacing a tight circle. He drags a hand across his own chest and looks down at the canvas like it’s a map. Then he backs into his corner, resting his arms on the top rope, chin lifted—waiting.

John Phillips: "And waiting for him… the man who debuted with a statement on Day One. The man who advances with precision. Hakuryu."

Mark Bravo: "That’s the clash right there. Kaine is a riot. Hakuryu is a ritual. One of them becomes the first champion… and both of them are going to try to make the referee the one who ends it."

Kaine paces his corner like a caged animal, one hand on the top rope, the other tapping his own chest in time with the music fading out. He keeps looking up the ramp, jaw working, eyes wide and hungry. The crowd noise shifts again—because they know who’s next.

John Phillips: "Kaine is ready to turn this into a scene. But the man coming out… he doesn’t do scenes. He does outcomes."

Mark Bravo: "Yeah, Kaine wants a horror movie. Hakuryu wants a lesson plan."

The arena lighting drains to near-black. Not the fun kind of dark—an oppressive kind, like the building is holding its breath. A cold white spotlight snaps on at the stage… then another… then a thin strip of blue light like moonlight across ice.

John Phillips: "And there’s that atmosphere again."

Mark Bravo: "That’s the feeling you get right before your stomach tells you to leave and your brain tells you you paid for this ticket."

Sinja appears first.

He steps through the curtain with the calm of a man walking into a place he already owns. Not a hype man. Not a cheerleader. A disciple with purpose. He pauses at the top of the ramp and scans the ring—Kaine, the referee, the ropes, the corners—like he’s checking the conditions for something sacred and violent.

John Phillips: "Sinja at Hakuryu’s side again. Loyal disciple, manager-type presence, and he’s been locked in all weekend."

Mark Bravo: "He doesn’t clap, he doesn’t scream. He observes. That’s the scary part."

Sinja takes one slow step aside… and the spotlight widens.

Hakuryu emerges into the light like he’s been there the whole time and the curtain was the only thing keeping anyone from noticing. No smile. No glare. No acknowledgment of the crowd. Just a steady gaze down the ramp toward the ring—toward Kaine—toward the title waiting to be claimed.

John Phillips: "Hakuryu debuted on Day One and left no doubt. He advanced by referee stoppage, and now he’s one match away from becoming the first UTA Fighting Champion."

Mark Bravo: "And he did it in the worst way for the other guy—he made it feel inevitable. Like the end was scheduled."

Kaine pushes off the ropes and leans forward, lips curling into a grin, almost laughing at the sight. He spreads his arms wide in his corner as if welcoming the violence.

Kaine: "Come on! Come on!"

Hakuryu doesn’t answer. He simply starts walking.

Each step is measured. Controlled. Like the ramp is a path he already knows in the dark. Sinja trails a half-step behind and slightly to the side, keeping the lane clear, eyes never leaving the ring.

John Phillips: "No theatrics. No wasted motion. It’s like he’s conserving everything for what happens after the bell."

Mark Bravo: "And under these rules, you should. Because you can’t steal this. You can’t flash-pin this. You have to make a person quit… or you have to make the referee decide they’ve seen enough."

Hakuryu reaches ringside and stops. He looks at the apron, then the ropes, then Kaine. Kaine bounces on the balls of his feet in the corner, shaking his arms out like he’s warming up for a street fight.

John Phillips: "And remember—one rope break each. One. If you grab again, there is no break."

Mark Bravo: "That means every hold is a gamble. You spend that rope break too early, and later on? Later on you’re praying to a rope that won’t save you."

Hakuryu steps onto the apron in one smooth motion and slips between the ropes without fanfare. He walks to the center of the ring and stops. Still. Silent. The exact opposite of Kaine’s twitchy, hungry energy.

Sinja remains at ringside, hands clasped in front of him, eyes fixed on the referee now—watching for signals, watching for timing, watching for the moment control becomes official.

Kaine leaves his corner and circles, shoulders rolling, head tilting, like he’s trying to get inside Hakuryu’s head by sheer weirdness. Hakuryu doesn’t turn with him much—just pivots enough to keep him in front, posture perfect.

John Phillips: "Two completely different storms about to collide."

Mark Bravo: "And only one walks out as the first ever UTA Fighting Champion… with that countdown to five defenses starting immediately."

The referee calls both men in, holding up one finger toward each of them as he reiterates the rules—submission or stoppage, one rope break. Kaine nods aggressively, almost bouncing. Hakuryu gives no visible reaction at all.

The referee backs away and signals to the timekeeper.

Kaine and Hakuryu take their first steps forward—close enough now that the tension feels audible.

DING DING!

Kaine explodes off the bell like a man shot out of a cannon—charging forward with a wild forearm aimed at Hakuryu’s head. Hakuryu shifts just enough that the strike skims, and Kaine’s momentum carries him past. Kaine whips around immediately, eyes wide, grinning like he enjoys the miss almost as much as the hit.

John Phillips: "Kaine came out swinging!"

Mark Bravo: "He’s trying to make this ugly immediately. He doesn’t want Hakuryu settling into that calm rhythm."

Kaine steps in again, throwing a second strike—Hakuryu catches the arm at the wrist and bicep, redirects it, and snaps Kaine down with a tight arm drag. Kaine hits the mat, rolls through, and pops back up fast, laughing—then charges again.

Mark Bravo: "Kaine’s one of those guys who smiles when you hit him. That’s not toughness, that’s a problem."

Kaine reaches for a clinch, trying to force a brawl at close range—Hakuryu meets him with a firm collar tie and immediately turns it into position, steering Kaine’s head, controlling his posture like he’s guiding him. Kaine tries to wrench free with a shove—Hakuryu pivots and snaps a short, sharp kick into Kaine’s thigh. Not flashy. Just effective.

John Phillips: "Hakuryu already targeting the base—"

Mark Bravo: "Of course he is. That’s his language: take away the legs, take away the fight."

Kaine answers with violence—he lunges and rakes a forearm across Hakuryu’s face, then shoves him into the ropes. Hakuryu rebounds—Kaine drops low and clips him with a hard shoulder to the midsection, folding Hakuryu over and sending him stumbling back a step.

John Phillips: "Kaine with a tackle—he just tried to blast him off his feet!"

Kaine follows with stomps—two, three—aimed at the ribs and hip. The referee warns him to keep it clean, and Kaine throws his hands up like he’s offended by the concept of rules.

Kaine: "What? This is fighting!"

Mark Bravo: "He’s right in spirit, wrong in paperwork."

Hakuryu rolls away from the stomps and rises quickly—Kaine rushes again, swinging a big right—Hakuryu ducks and slides behind, catching Kaine’s waist. Kaine immediately throws elbows back—Hakuryu slips the first, absorbs the second on the shoulder, then trips Kaine’s leg and drags him down into a controlled sprawl of bodies on the mat.

John Phillips: "Hakuryu’s already taking him down—"

Hakuryu transitions smoothly, catching Kaine’s wrist and twisting it into a tight lock. Kaine’s grin fades just a little as his arm gets pulled into an angle it doesn’t like. Kaine kicks his legs, trying to scramble to the ropes out of instinct.

Mark Bravo: "That’s the rope break temptation right there."

Kaine reaches—fingertips brushing the bottom rope—then he yanks his arm back and rolls hard, forcing his shoulder through the pressure to escape without spending the rope break. He pops to his feet and backs up, shaking his arm out, expression shifting from playful to annoyed.

John Phillips: "Smart from Kaine—didn’t burn the rope break early."

Mark Bravo: "He’s a heel, not an idiot. There’s a difference."

Sinja watches from ringside, eyes flicking between Kaine’s movement and Hakuryu’s hands—silent, still, like he’s timing a metronome only he can hear.

Kaine feints forward, then suddenly darts to the side and snaps a kick into Hakuryu’s ribs, following with a second kick that lands higher—Hakuryu absorbs, steps in, and catches the third attempt, gripping Kaine’s leg at the shin.

John Phillips: "Hakuryu caught the kick!"

Kaine hops on one foot and swings a forearm down—Hakuryu ducks and yanks the leg forward, dumping Kaine onto his back. Kaine hits hard, but immediately rolls toward the ropes again on instinct, trying to create space.

Mark Bravo: "He keeps drifting to the ropes because that’s where you feel safe."

John Phillips: "But safe is an illusion tonight."

Hakuryu closes in and drops into Kaine’s space, pressing down across the hips to keep him grounded. He starts to work the leg—hands on the ankle, twisting the foot inward and forcing Kaine’s knee to take pressure. Kaine grits his teeth and kicks free, scrambling to a knee, then popping up with a sudden burst of aggression.

Kaine charges and finally lands something flush—an elbow that catches Hakuryu near the jaw, snapping his head sideways. Kaine follows with a second elbow, then a third, driving Hakuryu backward toward the corner. Kaine’s grin returns—meaner now.

Kaine: "You like control? Try this!"

Mark Bravo: "There’s the heel. There’s the attitude. He’s trying to turn this into his kind of chaos."

Kaine rushes the corner and drives a shoulder into Hakuryu’s midsection, then another. He grabs the back of Hakuryu’s head and tries to snap him down—Hakuryu braces, hands on Kaine’s wrists, refusing to be pulled into a sloppy brawl.

John Phillips: "Kaine is getting physical—he’s trying to wear Hakuryu down early."

The referee steps in, demanding space. Kaine backs up with exaggerated innocence—then, the second the referee turns, Kaine rakes the eyes.

John Phillips: "Eye rake! Right in front of—"

Mark Bravo: "Heel behavior! And it’s on brand! He’s done nothing but cheat and take shortcuts in UTA, and tonight he’s trying to steal a moment of weakness!"

Hakuryu staggers out of the corner, blinking hard, one hand near his face. Kaine pounces immediately, grabbing Hakuryu by the neck and whipping him—hard—into the ropes.

Hakuryu rebounds—Kaine swings a wild lariat—Hakuryu ducks and keeps moving, using momentum to reset his vision, then pivots and snaps a low kick into Kaine’s thigh again, right where it matters.

John Phillips: "Even half-blinded, Hakuryu goes back to the leg!"

Mark Bravo: "Because technique doesn’t need perfect eyesight. It needs timing."

Kaine snarls and storms forward again, looking to crash into him… and Hakuryu lowers his level, ready to turn that momentum into another takedown.

Kaine storms in with a nasty swinging forearm, trying to smash Hakuryu’s rhythm off the rails. Hakuryu dips under it, catches the waist for a heartbeat, and Kaine immediately throws a back elbow—Hakuryu slips the worst of it but eats a glancing shot to the cheek. Kaine turns, grabs the back of Hakuryu’s head, and yanks him down into a front facelock, grinding his forearm across the jaw like he’s sanding wood.

John Phillips: "Kaine trying to grind him down—front facelock, forearm pressure across the face!"

Mark Bravo: "That’s not a hold, that’s disrespect. He’s trying to make Hakuryu uncomfortable, make him angry, make him sloppy."

Kaine jerks Hakuryu forward and snaps him down to the mat, then throws himself on top and starts raining short punches—legal enough in the referee’s eyes to keep going, brutal enough to change the temperature in the ring. The crowd reacts louder with each shot, half thrilled, half unsettled.

Kaine: "Stay down!"

Hakuryu covers up, then shifts—he traps Kaine’s punching arm at the wrist and rolls his shoulder through. In one clean movement, he slides his hips out and turns the scramble into a tight arm control, wrenching Kaine’s wrist and elbow into a lever. Kaine’s posture snaps forward, the punch party ending instantly.

John Phillips: "Hakuryu turned it! He turned it into an arm trap!"

Mark Bravo: "That’s what I’m talking about. Kaine brings a bar fight—Hakuryu brings a wrench."

Kaine snarls and tries to crawl toward the ropes out of instinct again—Hakuryu drags him back toward the center by the trapped arm, refusing to let the ropes become a comfort blanket. Kaine reaches anyway, fingertips out… then pulls back and rolls hard, forcing a scramble just to get free without spending the rope break.

John Phillips: "He keeps thinking ropes, but he’s not using them. That tells you he understands the rule."

Mark Bravo: "He understands it… he just hates it."

Kaine pops up and immediately throws a boot to the body—Hakuryu catches part of it on the forearm, but it lands enough to push him back. Kaine follows with another kick, then a third, and suddenly he’s got Hakuryu corralled near the ropes. Kaine grabs a handful of hair and yanks him forward, then snaps a knee up into the ribs.

John Phillips: "Kaine is landing damage now—knees to the body!"

Mark Bravo: "This is what he does. He finds a seam and he tears it open."

Kaine whips Hakuryu into the ropes again and goes for a big boot—Hakuryu sidesteps, and Kaine’s boot thuds into the top rope instead, jolting his balance. Hakuryu steps in and chops the inside of Kaine’s planted leg with a short kick—then another—then he hooks the ankle and yanks, dumping Kaine down to the mat near the ropes.

John Phillips: "Leg attack again—Hakuryu keeps chopping the base!"

Kaine scrambles and grabs the bottom rope—out of instinct—just to pull himself upright. The referee watches closely, reminding him that rope breaks don’t apply unless he’s actually in a hold… and even then, only once.

Mark Bravo: "Even touching the rope right now is like muscle memory. Kaine is living on instincts, and instincts get you killed in this rule set."

Hakuryu steps in, closes distance, and this time he doesn’t let Kaine stand up clean. He hooks the leg and twists, turning Kaine’s knee inward as he drops his weight—Kaine’s face tightens immediately. This is the first time he looks less like a monster and more like a man who feels pain.

John Phillips: "Knee torque—Hakuryu has him in trouble!"

Kaine reaches for the ropes—his fingers brush the bottom rope—and he grabs it.

John Phillips: "Rope break! Kaine used it!"

Mark Bravo: "That’s it! That’s the one! He just spent his lifeline!"

The referee steps in and forces Hakuryu to release. Hakuryu does—immediately—rising to his feet and taking one calm step back. Kaine clutches his knee and drags himself up using the ropes, jaw clenched, eyes burning now with a more focused anger.

John Phillips: "Now Kaine has no rope breaks left. The next time Hakuryu catches something… Kaine can’t buy time with the ropes."

Mark Bravo: "Now every hold is a cliff. And you already jumped once."

Kaine pushes off the ropes fast, trying to attack before that reality settles. He swings—Hakuryu ducks and steps in, catching Kaine’s arm, twisting it, pulling him off balance. Kaine tries to yank back—Hakuryu answers with a sharp kick to the thigh and a quick drag down to the mat again.

Kaine scrambles, furious, and in the scramble he rolls out under the bottom rope to the floor—choosing the outside as an escape route since the ropes can’t save him in a hold anymore.

John Phillips: "Kaine bails to the outside!"

Mark Bravo: "That’s not cowardice—that’s survival. He doesn’t want to be trapped in there with no rope break."

Hakuryu steps to the ropes and watches him. No rush. No chase yet. Just observation. Kaine leans on the barricade, shaking his leg out, then turns back to the ring and shouts.

Kaine: "You want to fight? Come fight!"

Sinja’s eyes track Kaine’s position at ringside, then flick to Hakuryu—silent, composed. Hakuryu steps through the ropes and drops to the floor with a smooth landing.

John Phillips: "Hakuryu is going to the outside—and under Fighting Championship rules, the referee can still stop it if this gets out of control."

Mark Bravo: "And Kaine… Kaine might have just invited the wrong kind of violence out here."

Hakuryu lands on the floor with almost no sound—knees bent, posture steady—like he expected the outside to be part of the equation all along. Kaine is already backing toward the barricade, eyes wide, grin sharp, shaking out the leg he just spent his rope break trying to save.

John Phillips: "Kaine wanted the outside. He thinks it gives him freedom."

Mark Bravo: "And it gives him excuses. No rope breaks out here, no clean breaks, no rhythm. This is where Kaine lives."

Kaine slaps the top of the barricade twice and spreads his arms like a conductor. The crowd reacts—boos, cheers, that uneasy noise that always means something stupid is coming.

Kaine: "Come on! Come on!"

Hakuryu closes the distance—calm, measured—eyes fixed on Kaine’s center mass. Kaine suddenly lunges first, swinging a wild forearm meant to knock Hakuryu’s head off. Hakuryu slips just enough that it glances, then Kaine immediately follows with a boot to the ribs that thuds and forces Hakuryu back a step.

John Phillips: "Kaine got him with the boot!"

Mark Bravo: "That’s the outside advantage—he’s not trying to outwrestle you, he’s trying to dent you."

Kaine grabs Hakuryu by the shoulder and whips him toward the steel steps—Hakuryu digs his heel in, stops short, and turns—Kaine charges anyway—Hakuryu sidesteps and Kaine’s shin bangs the edge of the steps with a metallic thud.

John Phillips: "Kaine clipped the steps!"

Mark Bravo: "That’s what happens when you’re moving like a horror movie and the world is made of metal."

Kaine shakes it off with a snarl and immediately rakes at Hakuryu’s face again—another blatant heel move—then tries to shove Hakuryu into the post. Hakuryu braces with both hands, stops the momentum, and turns his body—redirecting Kaine instead.

Kaine hits the post shoulder-first and recoils. Before he can reset, Hakuryu snaps a hard kick into Kaine’s thigh—right above the knee—then another to the calf. Kaine’s leg dips, his grin flickering into irritation.

John Phillips: "Hakuryu is right back to the leg! He’s chopping it down out here!"

Mark Bravo: "And Kaine already burned his rope break. That matters in his head now. Every time that leg gets hit, he’s thinking, "If he gets me in a hold again, I don’t get saved.""

Kaine answers with fury. He grabs Hakuryu by the back of the neck and slams him chest-first into the barricade. The railing rattles, fans jumping back as Hakuryu’s body jolts against it.

Kaine: "This is my fight!"

Kaine throws another forearm to the back, then a second, grinding Hakuryu into the barricade like he’s trying to scrape him off the show entirely. The referee is outside now too, leaning in, warning Kaine to watch it as the crowd starts getting louder.

Referee: "Hey! Enough! Keep it under control!"

Mark Bravo: "Under control is not in Kaine’s vocabulary, ref!"

Kaine hooks Hakuryu by the arm and tries to whip him again—this time toward the announce area. Hakuryu plants, twists free, and suddenly snaps Kaine down with a quick arm control—turning it into a jarring shoulder-and-wrist crank right on the floor. Kaine yelps, more out of surprise than pain, then scrambles to roll away.

John Phillips: "Hakuryu caught the arm—he’s twisting joints on the floor!"

Mark Bravo: "That’s the difference. Kaine throws bombs. Hakuryu removes hinges."

Kaine rolls to a knee and swings a backhanded strike—Hakuryu leans away, then cracks another kick into the leg. Kaine’s knee buckles, and he slams a fist into the mats at ringside out of sheer rage.

Kaine: "Stop kicking me!"

John Phillips: "That’s the first honest thing Kaine’s said all night."

Kaine’s eyes dart—he spots the timekeeper’s area, the bell table, the clutter of production gear. A flicker of that heel instinct hits and he backs toward it, daring Hakuryu to follow.

Mark Bravo: "Uh-oh. When Kaine starts looking around like that, he’s not looking for strategy. He’s looking for objects."

Hakuryu steps forward—still measured—still silent. Kaine suddenly lunges and drives Hakuryu back-first into the edge of the announce table. The monitors wobble. John and Mark both flinch back instinctively as the table shakes under the impact.

John Phillips: "Hey—HEY! Not our table!"

Mark Bravo: "It is absolutely our table! We lease this table!"

Kaine hooks Hakuryu by the head and tries to smash him down onto the tabletop—Hakuryu catches himself, palms flat, resisting—then spins out, slips behind Kaine, and sweeps the damaged leg. Kaine drops hard to a knee with a grimace that finally looks real.

John Phillips: "Leg sweep! Kaine is down on that knee!"

Mark Bravo: "You can feel the momentum shifting. Hakuryu’s not matching chaos—he’s strangling it."

Hakuryu reaches for Kaine’s ankle again—looking to drag him back toward the center, away from anything Kaine can grab—

but Kaine, desperate and furious, scrambles and snatches at the edge of the bell table—fingers curling around something metallic as he pulls it toward himself.

John Phillips: "Kaine is grabbing—"

Mark Bravo: "Oh no. Oh no, don’t do that."

The referee steps closer immediately, hands up, voice rising.

Referee: "Kaine! Put it down! Put it down!"

Kaine’s eyes lock on Hakuryu with a feral grin—like he just found the shortcut he was hoping existed. Hakuryu stands over him, silent, watching… and the crowd noise spikes as everyone realizes the match is about to cross into something the referee may have to stop.

Kaine’s fingers curl around the edge of a steel chair half-tucked beneath the bell table. He yanks it free with a sharp scrape against the floor and pops up to his feet like he just found religion. The crowd reaction spikes—boos, cheers, and that universal "oh no" noise.

John Phillips: "Kaine’s got a chair!"

Mark Bravo: "Of course he does! Because when your rope break is gone and your leg is cooked, you start shopping for solutions!"

The referee immediately steps between them, palms out, voice rising.

Referee: "Kaine! No! Put it down! Put it down right now!"

Kaine doesn’t put it down. He raises it—just a little—eyes locked on Hakuryu like a dare. He circles one step… then swings the chair like he’s trying to take Hakuryu’s head off.

Hakuryu slides back at the last possible second. The chair whooshes through air and clanks off the barricade instead, vibrating in Kaine’s hands. Fans recoil. Kaine snarls, irritated that his shortcut didn’t cash immediately.

John Phillips: "Hakuryu got out of the way—chair hit the barricade!"

Mark Bravo: "That’s steel on steel. That stung Kaine’s hands and it woke the whole building up."

Kaine turns and swings again—this time lower, aiming for ribs. Hakuryu catches the chair with both hands, absorbing the impact, and the two men lock into a tug-of-war on the floor. Kaine yanks wildly, trying to rip it free and swing again. Hakuryu’s grip is calm—tight—controlled.

John Phillips: "They’re fighting for the chair!"

Mark Bravo: "Kaine is panicking. Hakuryu is negotiating."

Kaine drives a knee up into Hakuryu’s midsection. Hakuryu’s body folds slightly, and Kaine rips the chair free—finally—then immediately tries to bring it down across Hakuryu’s back.

Hakuryu pivots, and the chair slams into the edge of the announce table with a loud crack, rattling the monitors again. Kaine recoils, then shoves Hakuryu hard, trying to send him into the steps.

John Phillips: "Kaine is swinging for the fences—"

Mark Bravo: "He doesn’t want to win. He wants to end something."

Hakuryu stumbles toward the steps but plants and stops short—then snaps a kick into Kaine’s damaged leg. The kick lands clean. Kaine’s knee buckles. The chair dips in his hands.

John Phillips: "Leg kick! Hakuryu chopped him down again!"

Kaine snarls and swings anyway, sloppy now. Hakuryu ducks under, steps inside the arc, and clamps both hands onto Kaine’s wrist and forearm—twisting. The chair slips from Kaine’s grip and clatters to the floor.

Mark Bravo: "He disarmed him! He just took the weapon out of Kaine’s hands with technique!"

Kaine lunges to grab it back—Hakuryu steps on the chair, pinning it for a beat, then cracks another short kick into Kaine’s thigh. Kaine yelps and stumbles backward, favoring the leg badly now.

John Phillips: "Kaine’s leg is getting chewed up out here!"

Mark Bravo: "And he’s got no rope break to bail him out if this goes back inside and Hakuryu latches on."

Kaine’s eyes dart—he sees an opening and does what heels do: he grabs the ring bell off the timekeeper’s table with his free hand.

John Phillips: "He’s got the bell now!"

Mark Bravo: "That’s not a weapon, that’s a lawsuit!"

The referee rushes in again, louder this time, trying to stop it before it becomes irreversible.

Referee: "NO! KAINE! DROP IT!"

Kaine raises the bell like a trophy and smirks at the referee—then whips it forward toward Hakuryu’s head.

Hakuryu slips just enough—still gets clipped. The bell catches the side of his shoulder and jawline with a sick metallic thud. Hakuryu staggers a step, head snapping sideways. The crowd erupts at the sound alone.

John Phillips: "He got him! The bell—he clipped him with the bell!"

Mark Bravo: "That’s Kaine’s UTA run in one moment right there. He finds the line and he sprints past it!"

The referee immediately gets in Kaine’s face, furious, pointing and shouting warnings. Kaine just spreads his arms, acting offended.

Kaine: "What?! You wanted fighting!"

John Phillips: "This is getting out of control!"

Hakuryu shakes his head once—hard—clearing the fog. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t posture. He steps forward.

Kaine swings the bell again, desperate to capitalize—Hakuryu catches Kaine’s wrist mid-swing. The control is instant. Hakuryu twists the wrist downward and steps in close, shoulder-to-shoulder, taking Kaine’s balance away with a sharp trip to the same damaged leg.

Kaine drops to a knee—bell still in hand—then Hakuryu wrenches the wrist again. The bell slips free and drops with a heavy clang to the floor.

Mark Bravo: "Hakuryu just stripped him again! Kaine can’t hold onto anything because that leg won’t support him!"

Kaine tries to scramble backward—Hakuryu follows and grabs the ankle, dragging him away from the clutter and back toward the ring. Kaine claws at the floor, furious, trying to kick free, but Hakuryu keeps him moving.

John Phillips: "Hakuryu is dragging him back toward the ring—back toward the center where there’s nowhere to hide!"

Mark Bravo: "And with no rope break… Kaine’s about to find out what real panic feels like."

Sinja stands near the corner, eyes locked on the re-entry lane, posture perfectly still. Hakuryu shoves Kaine under the bottom rope and follows him in.

Kaine rolls onto his back inside the ring, chest heaving, leg throbbing, and he looks up at Hakuryu with a glare that’s half rage, half worry. Hakuryu steps in—silent—calm—closing the distance like the ring just became a laboratory again.

John Phillips: "Back inside—this is the worst place for Kaine to be right now."

Mark Bravo: "He poked the bear, he grabbed the bell, he swung for the head… and now he’s trapped in here with a man who doesn’t need a weapon to break you."

Hakuryu bends down and reaches for Kaine’s leg again—looking to lock something in—while Kaine’s hands start scrambling, desperate to push him away before the hold can settle.

Hakuryu drops to a knee and clamps onto Kaine’s ankle with both hands, immediately twisting the foot inward and dragging the knee into a painful angle. Kaine’s body jolts—his leg bucks—and he scrambles with both hands for any leverage he can find.

John Phillips: "Hakuryu has the leg again—this is where he lives!"

Mark Bravo: "And Kaine has no rope break. None. If this gets locked, he’s either getting out with violence… or he’s getting out with luck."

Kaine rolls his hips hard, trying to spin through the torque. Hakuryu follows the roll, keeping the ankle trapped, then slides his own hips tighter—changing the angle from a simple ankle twist into something that threatens the knee. Kaine’s face paint can’t hide the grimace.

Kaine: "Get off me!"

Kaine tries to kick with his free leg—Hakuryu leans back just enough to avoid the worst of it, then re-centers and tightens again. Kaine’s hands reach for the ropes out of sheer reflex—his fingers hover—then he yanks them back, furious with himself, because the ropes are useless now.

John Phillips: "You can see him thinking about the ropes, and then remembering they don’t matter anymore."

Mark Bravo: "That’s psychological damage. That’s the rule doing its job."

Kaine manages to post a palm on Hakuryu’s face and shove—enough to create a sliver of space. He uses the moment to yank his leg free and scramble to his knees. Hakuryu rises with him instantly, like a shadow that never stops following.

Kaine throws a wild forearm—Hakuryu slips it. Kaine throws another—Hakuryu ducks, steps in, and snaps Kaine down with a quick inside trip. Kaine hits the mat again and immediately rolls to the corner, desperate for distance even if the ropes can’t save him from holds.

John Phillips: "Kaine is trying to find air!"

Mark Bravo: "Air doesn’t exist in this match. It’s all pressure."

Kaine drags himself up in the corner, one arm on the middle rope, the other clutching his leg. Hakuryu closes in, posture calm, and Kaine’s eyes dart—looking for anything, any trick, any object.

He spots the chair again—still near the ropes from the chaos outside. Kaine lunges, trying to hook it with his fingertips and pull it in.

John Phillips: "Kaine is reaching for that chair—"

The referee moves to intervene, but he’s a step late—Kaine drags the chair into the ring with a scraping screech and tries to swing it from his knees.

Hakuryu steps in and eats the shot on his forearms—steel clanging against bone. The impact makes Hakuryu’s arms jolt, but he doesn’t fall. He doesn’t back away. He simply grabs the chair with both hands… and yanks.

Mark Bravo: "Hakuryu just absorbed it!"

John Phillips: "And he’s taking the chair!"

Kaine tries to hold on—Hakuryu rips it free with a sudden violent pull that sends Kaine sprawling backward. The crowd erupts as Hakuryu stands over him with the chair in his hands.

Mark Bravo: "Uh-oh. Kaine created this."

Hakuryu looks down at the chair, then down at Kaine. No expression. No hesitation. Kaine’s eyes widen just a fraction—enough to show something close to fear—then he tries to roll away.

John Phillips: "Referee is warning him—this is a title match, this is under fighting rules, but the official can stop it if it goes too far!"

Hakuryu takes one step and swings the chair down—not at the head, not flashy—straight across Kaine’s ribs and shoulder with a brutal, controlled crack. Kaine screams and rolls, clutching his side.

Kaine: "AHH—"

Mark Bravo: "That’s payback. That’s the bell. That’s the eyes. That’s everything."

Hakuryu follows and strikes again—another chair shot, this one across the back as Kaine tries to crawl away. Kaine’s limbs spasm; he tries to get to his knees, but the damaged leg collapses under him.

John Phillips: "Kaine can’t even stand!"

Mark Bravo: "His leg is gone, his ribs are getting crushed, and there’s no rope break to save him from anything. This is spiraling!"

The referee steps in, hands up, shouting at Hakuryu to stop. Hakuryu pauses for a half-second—just long enough to look at the referee—then looks back down at Kaine as Kaine tries to crawl again.

Hakuryu raises the chair a third time and brings it down hard across Kaine’s shoulder and upper back. Kaine collapses flat, face turned to the side, breathing ragged.

John Phillips: "Kaine is down! Kaine is not defending himself!"

The referee drops to a knee beside Kaine, checking his responsiveness, one hand on Kaine’s shoulder. Kaine twitches, tries to push up—fails. The referee looks at Hakuryu—then looks at Kaine again.

Referee: "Kaine! Kaine, respond! Give me something!"

Kaine’s hand moves weakly, clawing at the mat. He tries to rise. The knee buckles. He collapses again with a pained gasp.

Mark Bravo: "That’s it. He’s done. He’s done."

Hakuryu takes a step forward, chair still in hand, and Kaine flinches on the mat—pure instinct. The referee steps in front of Hakuryu, waving both arms wildly now.

Referee: "STOP! THAT’S IT! THAT’S IT!"

DING DING DING!

John Phillips: "Referee stoppage! It’s over! Hakuryu has done it!"

Mark Bravo: "First. Ever. UTA Fighting Champion! And Kaine has nobody to blame but himself—he brought the weapons, he brought the chaos, and Hakuryu brought consequences!"

Hakuryu lowers the chair and steps back, silent, composed, as officials slide into the ring to check on Kaine. Sinja climbs onto the apron—still calm—and watches Kaine being tended to without celebration, as if the damage was simply the final page of the plan.

John Phillips: "Hakuryu wins by referee stoppage, and now—listen to this—his road is clear. He’s the inaugural Fighting Champion, and if he can defend that title five consecutive times, he earns a UTA Championship match."

Mark Bravo: "Count to five, baby. One defense is a statement. Five defenses is a career rewrite. Hakuryu just became the most dangerous man in the company because every defense is a step closer to the biggest title shot there is."

The referee retrieves the new championship belt and holds it up. The arena lights brighten slightly as the reality settles: history just happened. Hakuryu accepts the title without raising it high, without posing—he simply takes it, looks at it for a moment, then turns his gaze outward, as if already looking at defense number one.

John Phillips: "A new year. A new title. And a new champion who doesn’t even need words."

Mark Bravo: "And the scariest part? He looks like he’s just getting started."

Sinja demands a microphone and enters the ring.

The lights drop to near-black. A single spotlight cuts through the darkness and lands dead center in the ring. A deep gong echoes—heavy enough that it seems to vibrate through the seats.

Hakuryu stands motionless beneath the light, the UTA Fighting Championship held against his body like an artifact instead of a prize. His eyes are fixed forward, unblinking. At ringside, Sinja stands close—disciple and handler—microphone already in hand, expression carved from ice.

John Phillips: "You can feel the temperature in this building change."

Mark Bravo: "That gong isn’t entrance music, John. That’s a warning siren for your soul."

Sinja raises the microphone slowly… but before he speaks, Hakuryu finally moves. Not much—just enough. He lifts his chin a fraction, and the spotlight seems harsher for it.

Hakuryu: "静まれ。勝者が語る。"

The crowd reacts instantly—boos crashing down like rain, mixed with scattered shouts and uneasy laughter.

Sinja: "Be silent. The victor is speaking."

Mark Bravo: "Oh, that’s gonna go over great."

John Phillips: "They don’t like being commanded, but Hakuryu doesn’t look like he cares."

Hakuryu’s gaze never shifts. Sinja steps half a pace forward, presenting the message like a decree.

Hakuryu: "この勝利は祝福ではない。"

Sinja: "Hakuryu says this victory is not a celebration."

More boos. Hakuryu doesn’t flinch.

Hakuryu: "これは警告だ。"

Sinja: "It is a warning."

Hakuryu slowly removes his robe. Not dramatic—deliberate. The fabric falls away to reveal scars and symbols across his torso: old damage, old stories, marks that look earned and lived-in.

John Phillips: "That’s not for show. Those are miles."

Mark Bravo: "That’s a ledger, John. That’s a career written in pain."

Hakuryu: "このリングに入る者は、全員、代償を払う。"

Sinja: "Anyone who steps into this ring will pay a price."

The crowd’s noise changes—less “boo the heel” and more “what did he just promise us?”

Hakuryu: "敗者は忘れられるべき存在だ。"

Sinja: "Losers deserve to be forgotten."

Hakuryu raises a clenched fist—not in victory, not in salute. It’s a stamp in the air. A seal.

Hakuryu: "だが、私は忘れない。"

Sinja: "But Hakuryu never forgets."

A beat. Hakuryu’s stare hardens. Sinja’s mouth curls into the faintest smirk, like he’s been waiting for the part that makes people recoil.

Hakuryu: "私は首を集める。"

The crowd gasps—then a fresh wave of boos, louder now, sharper.

John Phillips: "Did he just—"

Mark Bravo: "He did. And I hate that I’m listening."

Sinja: "Not bodies. Not blood. Heads. Symbols of broken pride. Proof that another challenger stood across from Hakuryu… and failed."

Hakuryu: "壁に掛けるためだ。"

Sinja: "Hung as reminders. Not of violence… but of dominance."

Hakuryu steps closer to the camera. The spotlight makes him look carved out of shadow and bone. Sinja turns slightly, angling the microphone so the words feel like they’re aimed at the locker room as much as the crowd.

Hakuryu: "英雄を名乗る者たちよ、来い。"

Sinja: "Heroes… step forward."

Hakuryu: "お前たちの名は、私の戦績になる。"

Sinja: "Your names will become part of his record."

John Phillips: "And remember what that record means with this championship—five successful defenses earns you a UTA Championship match. Five."

Mark Bravo: "That’s the real terror. This isn’t just a belt—it’s a path. Every defense is a step closer to the biggest title shot in the company."

Sinja lowers the microphone slightly, letting the next line land in the silence between boos.

Hakuryu: "恐怖からは逃げられない。"

Sinja: "You cannot run from fear—"

Hakuryu: "私は恐怖だ。"

Sinja: "Because Hakuryu is fear."

The gong hits one final time—louder than before. Hakuryu turns his back to the crowd, championship in hand, and begins to walk away as the boos intensify. Sinja follows at his shoulder, calm as ever, like this wasn’t a promo… it was a proclamation.

The camera cuts backstage to the medical area—bright lights, white walls, organized chaos. A trainer is kneeling near an open kit. Another is holding an ice pack. A medic has a clipboard out, ready to do protocol.

Chris Ross is seated on the edge of a bench, shoulders forward, breathing steady but heavy. There’s a faint redness near his hairline, and he’s rolling his jaw like he’s checking that everything still works. The UTA Championship sits beside him on the bench, close enough that his forearm can rest over it like a guardrail.

Valentina Blaze stands in front of him, arms crossed, eyes sharp—equal parts protective and furious.

Trainer: "Chris, we need to take you in—"

Ross lifts a hand without even looking at the trainer.

Chris Ross: "No."

The trainer blinks, trying again.

Trainer: "Sir, you took shots to the head—"

Chris Ross: "I said no."

Ross stands up from the bench, slow and deliberate. He plants both feet like he’s testing balance. His eyes lock onto the medic with the clipboard and he shakes his head once—final.

John Phillips: "Medical trying to do their job, but Chris Ross—he’s not interested."

Mark Bravo: "Ross is the kind of guy that gets hit by a truck and argues with the truck driver. He ain’t sittin’ out, John."

Valentina steps closer, voice low but intense.

Valentina Blaze: "Chris… you don’t have to prove anything right now."

Ross turns to her, and for a moment the fire softens into something more grounded. He nods once, like he heard her… but he’s already decided.

Chris Ross: "I’m fine."

Valentina Blaze: "You got dropped on concrete."

Chris Ross: "And I’m still standing here talkin’ to you, aren’t I?"

He reaches down, picks up the UTA Championship, and slings it over his shoulder. The motion is smooth, practiced, but there’s a slight stiffness that he refuses to acknowledge.

Chris Ross: "Listen to me."

Ross steps in closer to Valentina, lowering his voice so it’s just for her. The camera catches it anyway—the intensity in his eyes, the way his words come out like they’re carved from something heavier than anger.

Chris Ross: "Everything’s good."

Chris Ross: "Don’t let this get in your head."

Chris Ross: "Don’t let this mess with what you gotta do tonight."

Valentina’s brow furrows.

Valentina Blaze: "My match—"

Chris Ross: "Your match."

He points lightly toward her championship belt, emphasizing the words like they’re a command.

Chris Ross: "Emily Hightower. That title. You stay locked in."

Chris Ross: "I don’t want you thinking about Clovis Black."

Chris Ross: "I don’t want you thinking about Trey Mack."

Chris Ross: "You go out there and you handle your business."

Valentina’s expression shifts—she hates it, because she wants to fight, but she understands the point. She nods slowly, eyes still burning.

Valentina Blaze: "And what about you?"

Ross’ lips curl into something that isn’t a smile… but it’s close. More like a promise.

Chris Ross: "Me?"

Chris Ross: "Tonight… Trey Mack is gonna get an introduction to the UTA."

Ross taps the title on his shoulder with two fingers, then looks straight into the camera like he’s speaking to Trey through the lens.

Chris Ross: "Like only Chris Ross can give."

John Phillips: "That’s not bravado. That’s a warning."

Mark Bravo: "That’s a threat wrapped in a belt, John."

A medic steps forward again, still trying to insist.

Medic: "Chris, we need to at least check your—"

Ross waves him off without even looking.

Chris Ross: "I said I’m fine."

He steps past them like they’re furniture, Valentina turning with him. She pauses for a half-second, glaring back at the medics like it’s their fault they can’t physically restrain him.

Then she follows Ross out of frame, and the camera catches the last thing visible: the UTA Championship over Ross’ shoulder, his posture straightening with every step, refusing to show weakness even when he clearly should.

John Phillips: "Chris Ross is not backing down."

Mark Bravo: "And Trey Mack might’ve wanted him alive… but he might regret wanting him awake."

The feed cuts backstage. The noise of the arena is muffled, replaced by the low hum of the production area. Melissa Cartwright stands just off the curtain, microphone in hand, posture composed—but her eyes flick briefly toward the entrance behind her.

Melissa Cartwright: “I’m here with Graysie Parker, after what can only be described as a heartbreaking loss in the UTA Contract Ladder Match. Graysie—”

Graysie Parker steps aggressively into frame, eyes wild, hair disheveled, breathing still heavy. She doesn’t wait for the question to finish.

Graysie Parker: “Don’t.”

Melissa instinctively takes a half-step back.

Melissa Cartwright: “Graysie, you were seconds away from securing a one-year contract and—”

Graysie Parker: “Seconds?”

Graysie laughs sharply, the sound hollow and dangerous.

Graysie Parker: “I had it. I had my hands on it. That contract was already mine, and everyone in that building knows it.”

She steps closer to Melissa, crowding her space. The camera tightens.

Graysie Parker: “You want to know how I feel? I feel like this place looked at everything I did before… everything I survived… and decided it didn’t matter anymore.”

Melissa Cartwright: “Graysie, no one is questioning your legacy—”

Graysie Parker: “Legacy doesn’t pay the bills, Melissa.”

Graysie jabs a finger toward the camera.

Graysie Parker: “Legacy doesn’t stop ladders from getting kicked out from under you. Legacy doesn’t stop opportunity from being ripped out of your hands by people who haven’t earned half of what I have.”

She exhales sharply, nostrils flaring.

Graysie Parker: “That ring? That crowd? That company? I bled for it. And tonight it spat me out like I was disposable.”

Melissa swallows, trying to keep the interview on track.

Melissa Cartwright: “What does this mean for your future with the UTA?”

Graysie turns slowly back toward Melissa. Her voice drops.

Graysie Parker: “Careful.”

Melissa freezes.

Graysie Parker: “You ask me about my future like I don’t belong here. Like I need permission.”

Graysie leans in, eyes locked on Melissa’s.

Graysie Parker: “Let me make this very clear. I don’t need a ladder. I don’t need a briefcase. And I sure as hell don’t need anyone’s approval.”

She straightens up, jaw clenched.

Graysie Parker: “Someone took something from me tonight. And when that happens… I don’t move on.”

Graysie steps past Melissa, shoulder-checking her slightly as she exits frame.

Melissa watches her go, visibly shaken.

Melissa Cartwright: “Graysie Parker… clearly not finished with the United Toughness Alliance.”

The camera lingers on Melissa’s uneasy expression before cutting back toward the arena.

The camera sweeps across the arena as the crowd stays hot from the opening ladder match. Ladders are being rolled up the ramp, officials clearing stray hardware, the ring crew doing a final check of the ropes and turnbuckles like they’re resetting the world for something heavier.

On the big screen, a highlight package rolls: six bodies crashing, rungs bending, the briefcase swinging like a pendulum over chaos—then one final image freezes: KAIRO BEX perched on the ladder’s top, hands ripping the briefcase down like he just stole the future.

John Phillips: "What a way to start Day Two. Kairo Bex just earned a one-year UTA contract… and now, because of that briefcase, he goes straight into a WrestleZone Championship match."

Mark Bravo: "That’s the kind of night that can change your whole life. You go from ‘unknown’ to ‘signed’ and then—boom—five minutes later you’re staring at a champion who doesn’t believe in mercy."

John Phillips: "And that champion is Gunnar Van Patton. He won the WrestleZone Championship at Seasons Beatings and has carried himself like the belt is a military-issued weapon ever since."

Mark Bravo: "Gunnar doesn’t ‘defend’ titles. He enforces them."

The ring announcer stands center-ring as the lights dim slightly, letting the hard-cam graphic take over the screen.

WRESTLEZONE CHAMPIONSHIP
GUNNAR VAN PATTON (c) vs. KAIRO BEX

John Phillips: "And you’ve got a fascinating clash of styles. Kairo is pure pace—angles, springboards, sudden cutters. Gunnar is Strong Style and punishment—suplexes, knees, that grim, methodical pressure."

Mark Bravo: "Speed versus brutality. Neon versus… whatever darkness Gunnar crawled out of."

The house lights dim slowly, not all at once, but in a rolling fade that sweeps across the arena like a tide pulling back from the shore. A low hum rises from the crowd — anticipation, curiosity, the electricity of a moment everyone knows is important. Then the first pulse hits: a soft neon blue strobe, followed by pink, followed by a crisp white flash that syncs perfectly with the opening beat of “Neon Pulse.”

The music isn’t loud at first. It’s clean, glossy, almost delicate — a hip‑hop rhythm wrapped in shimmering synths. The crowd recognizes it instantly and the hum becomes a roar. The neon wash spreads across the stage, painting the entrance ramp in shifting color. The beat sharpens. The lights tighten. And then—

Kairo Bex steps through the curtain.

He doesn’t explode out. He doesn’t sprint. He just appears — shoulders loose, chin lifted, a small, confident grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. The crowd erupts for him, and he lets that energy wash over him for a heartbeat before he starts moving. His ribs are heavily taped, the bruising visible even under the neon glow, but he carries himself with that unmistakable Kairo rhythm: light on his feet, smooth in his posture, gliding rather than walking.

Mark Bravo: “He’s hurt, but he’s not hiding it. That’s gutsy… or reckless. Hard to tell with kids like him.”

John Phillips: “He’s proud of what he earned tonight. And he should be. That ladder match took years off careers, and he still walked out with the contract.”

Kairo points to the hard‑cam — not a dramatic gesture, just a clean, sharp acknowledgment — then rolls his shoulders and starts down the ramp. Every step is measured, but not cautious. He’s not limping. He’s not dragging. He’s moving like a man who refuses to let pain dictate his pace.

Fans along the barricade reach out, and he taps a few hands as he passes, but he never breaks stride. His eyes stay locked on the ring, scanning it like a chessboard, calculating angles, imagining springboards, mapping out the geometry of the fight he knows is coming.

Mark Bravo: “He’s trying to stay loose. That’s smart. Tight muscles around taped ribs? Recipe for disaster.”

John Phillips: “He’s been in big fights before, Mark. He knows how to manage himself.”

Mark Bravo: “Sure. But he’s never been in one with Gunnar Van Patton waiting at the other end.”

Kairo reaches the ring, slides under the bottom rope with a fluid motion that looks effortless despite the damage, and pops up instantly. He hops to the second rope, throws a crisp salute to the crowd, and lands soft — but the moment his boots hit the mat, there’s a tiny hitch in his posture. A wince. Barely visible, but real.

The crowd sees it. They cheer louder, as if volume alone can hold him together.

Kairo bounces in place, testing his footing, rolling his neck, shaking out his arms. He’s hurting. But he’s ready.

The music fades. The neon dies. The arena plunges into a low, heavy darkness.

For a moment, there is nothing. No music. No lights. Just the murmur of thousands of people waiting for something they know is coming.

Then—

BOOM.

“Boots and Blood” doesn’t start — it detonates. The opening scream tears through the speakers like a blade, and the strobe lights erupt in violent bursts, each flash slicing the darkness into jagged frames. The crowd’s reaction shifts instantly: not fear, not excitement, but a deep, instinctive awareness that the tone of the night has changed.

Gunnar Van Patton steps through the curtain.

He doesn’t pause. He doesn’t acknowledge the crowd. He doesn’t even look at the WrestleZone Championship — the belt hangs from his right hand like a piece of gear he forgot to put away. His posture is relaxed but loaded, like a man who has spent his entire life preparing for violence and sees no reason to pretend otherwise.

John Phillips: “There’s the champion. And he looks… exactly like the man Kairo didn’t need to face at less than one hundred percent.”

Mark Bravo: “He’s not here to make a moment. He’s here to end one.”

Gunnar walks straight down the ramp, each step heavy but efficient. No wasted motion. No theatrics. The strobe lights catch the scars across his arms, the tattoos, the cold focus in his expression. He looks like a man who has already accepted the outcome of the match — not because he’s arrogant, but because he’s certain.

Fans reach out toward him, but he doesn’t look left or right. He doesn’t even seem aware of them. His eyes are locked on the ring, on Kairo, on the fight.

Mark Bravo: “That’s the thing about Gunnar. He doesn’t need to posture. He doesn’t need to raise the belt. His presence does the talking.”

John Phillips: “And Kairo’s standing tall. He’s not backing down.”

Mark Bravo: “He’s also taped together like a discount action figure. Standing tall only gets you so far.”

Gunnar reaches the ring, hits the apron low, and slides under the bottom rope with the smoothness of a man who has done it a thousand times. He rises in one fluid motion, front handspring, feet under him, eyes locked on Kairo the entire time.

He tosses the championship to the referee without looking at it. Not disrespect — indifference. The belt is a fact, not a trophy.

Then he backs into his corner, crouches low, and begins adjusting his gloves, tightening the straps, checking his pads. Every movement is deliberate, practiced, ritualistic. He breathes slow. Controlled. Focused.

Kairo watches him. Gunnar watches back. The crowd feels the tension coil tighter and tighter, like the air itself is bracing for impact.

John Phillips: “This is a collision of two completely different worlds. Kairo’s speed, creativity, and heart… against Gunnar’s power, discipline, and absolute refusal to play games.”

Mark Bravo: “And only one of them walked in here fresh. That matters. It matters a lot.”

The referee holds up the WrestleZone Championship. The crowd roars. Kairo straightens his posture despite the pain. Gunnar doesn’t move at all.

The referee steps back after checking Gunnar’s gloves, giving the two men space. The crowd hasn’t settled since the entrances; the noise rolls in waves, rising and falling as fans try to decide whether to cheer for heart or brace for violence. Kairo keeps bouncing in place, but the rhythm is tighter now, more controlled. Every breath pulls at the tape around his ribs, and every pull reminds him exactly what he’s walking into.

Gunnar pushes off the turnbuckles with a slow, deliberate motion. He doesn’t stalk. He doesn’t posture. He just walks toward the center of the ring like a man approaching a job he’s done a thousand times. Kairo steps forward to meet him, shoulders squared, chin up, refusing to give an inch of ground.

Mark Bravo: “Look at the difference in how they’re standing. Gunnar’s planted like a tree. Kairo’s trying to stay loose enough to keep from seizing up.”

John Phillips: “He has to. If he stiffens up, those ribs are going to betray him.”

Mark Bravo: “They already are.”

The referee instinctively moves between them, but Gunnar doesn’t even acknowledge him. His one good eye stays locked on Kairo, studying him, measuring him, dissecting him. Kairo doesn’t blink. He doesn’t look away. But there’s a tension in his jaw that wasn’t there a moment ago — the tension of a man who knows he’s being evaluated by someone who sees through him.

Gunnar lifts a hand. Not a strike. Not a threat. Just a simple, open‑palm gesture that freezes the moment in place. The crowd quiets almost instantly, confused by the sudden shift in energy. Kairo’s brows knit, unsure what he’s looking at.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Walk away, kid.”

The words hit the air like a cold wind. The crowd reacts in a confused ripple — some boo, some gasp, some fall silent. Kairo’s eyes widen, not in fear, but in disbelief.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Ya won yer contract. You earned yer shot. Ain’t nobody takin’ that from ya.”

He steps closer, voice low but clear, the kind of tone that carries without needing to be loud.

Gunnar Van Patton: “But you ain’t whole. And Ah ain’t interested in beatin’ a man who ain’t whole. There ain’t no glory in it.”

Kairo’s breathing sharpens. His fists clench. The crowd leans in.

John Phillips: “Gunnar Van Patton… offering mercy? That’s—”

Mark Bravo: “That’s a veteran lookin’ at a wounded opponent and givin’ him a chance to live to fight another day. It’s not mercy. It’s logic.”

Kairo shakes his head, but Gunnar continues, tone steady, unbothered.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Turn around, kid. Go get patched up. See Avril when yer a hundred percent. She’ll have a contract waitin’ for ya.”

Kairo steps forward, closing the distance until they’re nearly chest‑to‑chest. The crowd rises with him, sensing the defiance building in his posture. Gunnar doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t tense. He just watches.

Gunnar Van Patton: “This here’s yer only chance.”

Kairo’s answer is a slap.

Kairo Bex: “Don’t get blinded by the spotlight shining on me.”

It’s not a desperate swing. It’s not a wild shot. It’s clean, sharp, and loud enough to echo off the rafters. Gunnar’s head snaps to the side, but his body stays rooted, unmoved. The crowd explodes into a roar that shakes the barricades. Kairo stands firm, chest heaving, eyes burning with something that looks a lot like pride and a little like fury.

John Phillips: “Kairo Bex just rejected the champion’s offer in the loudest way possible!”

Mark Bravo: “And he just signed up for the consequences.”

Gunnar turns back slowly. Not with rage. Not with shock. With disappointment — the kind that feels heavier than anger. His jaw flexes once, a small, controlled movement. He exhales through his nose, a short, irritated snort.

Gunnar Van Patton: “It’s yer funeral, kid.”

Kairo raises his fists immediately, ready to go. Gunnar doesn’t raise his. He just straightens his posture, shoulders rolling back, the last trace of restraint evaporating from his stance. The referee, sensing the shift, signals for the bell.

The sound rings out like a starting gun.

DING DING DING

And Kairo moves first.

The bell’s final vibration hasn’t even faded before Kairo bursts into motion. He doesn’t rush blindly; he glides, cutting a tight crescent around Gunnar with footwork so light it barely whispers against the canvas. His taped ribs rise and fall in sharp, controlled breaths, each inhale a reminder of the ladder match that carved him up earlier in the night. But he keeps moving, never letting the champion get a clean angle.

Gunnar turns with him, pivoting on the balls of his feet, shoulders squared, posture relaxed but coiled. He doesn’t chase. He doesn’t reach. He just tracks Kairo’s orbit with the calm patience of a man who’s hunted before and knows exactly how long the chase will last.

Mark Bravo: “Gunnar’s lettin’ him run. That’s not mercy — that’s a man waitin’ for the right shot.”

John Phillips: “Kairo can’t afford to stand still. If he does, he’s done.”

Kairo darts in with a quick low kick to the thigh — a sharp, snapping strike. It lands clean, but Gunnar barely shifts. Kairo’s already sliding back out of range, circling again, forcing Gunnar to keep turning. The crowd pops for the speed, the precision, the defiance.

Gunnar steps forward once, a single heavy stride that cuts off part of Kairo’s angle. Kairo immediately pivots away, firing a pair of jabs to the ribs and shoulder. They land, but Gunnar absorbs them like he’s being tapped with a pencil.

Mark Bravo: “Those shots are connectin’, but they ain’t doin’ a thing. He’s hittin’ a man built outta concrete.”

John Phillips: “He’s not trying to hurt Gunnar with those — he’s trying to stay unpredictable.”

Kairo feints left, then springs right, twisting into a spinning back kick aimed at Gunnar’s midsection. The impact echoes — a clean, crisp thud — but Gunnar only exhales, the slightest tightening of his core absorbing the blow. Kairo lands light, but the torque sends a jolt through his taped ribs. He winces, just for a heartbeat, and Gunnar’s eye narrows.

The champion steps in again, faster this time. Kairo slips away by inches, ducking under a reaching arm and firing a basement dropkick to Gunnar’s knee. It lands flush, staggering the bigger man half a step.

The crowd erupts.

John Phillips: “Kairo found an opening! That dropkick staggered the champion!”

Mark Bravo: “Yeah, and now he’s gotta find about twenty more before Gunnar gets his hands on him.”

Kairo pops up, breath sharp, eyes bright. He darts in again, peppering Gunnar with a flurry — a kick to the calf, a palm strike to the chest, a quick tilt‑a‑whirl attempt. Gunnar blocks the tilt‑a‑whirl with raw strength, catching Kairo mid‑rotation and forcing him to bail out, rolling away before he’s trapped.

The crowd roars as Kairo springs up, resets, and circles again. He’s faster. He’s sharper. He’s landing shots. But none of them are slowing Gunnar down.

Gunnar straightens fully, rolling his neck once, the faintest hint of irritation crossing his face. Not anger — annoyance, like a man swatting at a persistent fly.

Mark Bravo: “He’s makin’ Gunnar work, I’ll give him that. But this is a dangerous game. You can only dance around a wolf for so long.”

Kairo darts in again, this time with a rapid‑fire kick combo — shin, thigh, hip, chest — each strike crisp, each landing with a satisfying smack. The crowd counts along with every hit. Gunnar absorbs them all, barely shifting, his expression flattening into something colder.

Kairo leaps into a springboard attempt — maybe a crossbody, maybe a feint — but Gunnar steps forward at the exact moment Kairo plants his foot on the ropes.

Kairo aborts mid‑motion, flipping backward to avoid being caught, landing on his feet but stumbling slightly as his ribs seize.

John Phillips: “Kairo almost got caught there! Gunnar read that springboard like a book!”

Mark Bravo: “That’s the problem with bein’ flashy when you’re hurt. Your body hesitates before your brain does.”

Kairo shakes out his arms, trying to reset the rhythm. He circles again, but Gunnar’s steps are different now — smaller, tighter, cutting off angles, shrinking the ring with every shift of his weight.

Kairo sees it. The crowd sees it. Gunnar is closing the distance.

Kairo fires a quick dropkick to the knee again — but Gunnar steps back, letting it miss by inches.

Kairo lands awkwardly, ribs flaring, and Gunnar steps in.

The air changes.

Mark Bravo: “Uh‑oh. He’s got him lined up now.”

Gunnar cuts off Kairo’s escape with a single, predatory step, the kind that doesn’t look fast but somehow erases all available space. Kairo’s back hits the turnbuckles, and he immediately tries to slip out to the side, pivoting his hips, reaching for daylight. But Gunnar’s arm shoots out like a steel bar, blocking the lane with effortless precision. The crowd reacts with a low rumble — they know exactly what it means when Gunnar Van Patton corners someone.

Kairo’s eyes dart left, then right, searching for an angle, but Gunnar is already closing in. The champion’s posture tightens, shoulders rolling forward, chin lowering, his entire frame shifting into that unmistakable stance: the stance of a man about to inflict damage.

The first strike comes fast — a stiff right hand that cracks against Kairo’s jaw with a sharp, echoing pop. Kairo’s head snaps sideways, his body jolting from the impact. He tries to bring his guard up, but Gunnar is already moving.

The second shot is a rib punch, short and compact, driven straight into the taped section with surgical accuracy. Kairo’s breath explodes out of him in a pained gasp, his body folding around the blow. He tries to twist away, but Gunnar’s forearm pins him in place.

Mark Bravo: “That’s Gunnar’s wheelhouse. Trap him, hit him, hurt him.”

John Phillips: “Kairo’s ribs can’t take many of those!”

Gunnar fires another rib shot — then another — each one placed with the cold precision of a man who knows exactly where his opponent is weakest. Kairo’s knees buckle slightly, his hands instinctively dropping to protect his midsection, leaving his jaw exposed.

Gunnar doesn’t waste the opening. He snaps Kairo’s head back with a short, brutal uppercut that lands flush under the chin. Kairo slumps into the corner, dazed, ribs heaving, eyes glassy.

The champion grabs Kairo by the wrist, fingers digging into the tape, and yanks him out of the corner with a violent jerk. Kairo stumbles forward, barely catching his footing before Gunnar spins and launches him across the ring with a blistering Irish whip.

Kairo sprints toward the far turnbuckles, but he doesn’t crash. He turns his body at the last second, catching himself with a hand on the top rope and a foot on the middle rope. The motion is smooth, instinctive — the reflex of a man who’s lived his entire career on improvisation and aerial creativity.

Using that planted foot as a springboard, Kairo pushes off and launches himself backward into the air, twisting into a clean, high‑arching crossbody aimed straight at the champion. The crowd rises with him, sensing the desperation, the hope, the spark of momentum.

Gunnar simply steps aside.

No rush. No flourish. No hesitation. Just a calm, almost bored sidestep that leaves Kairo flying through empty space.

Kairo crashes ribs‑first onto the canvas with a brutal smack. The sound is ugly — a flat, heavy thud that echoes through the arena. His body bounces once before he curls inward, hands clutching his torso as the pain spikes through him like a knife.

John Phillips: “Oh no—Kairo hit the mat full force! Those ribs took everything!”

Mark Bravo: “That’s what happens when the other guy doesn’t cooperate with your plan.”

Kairo tries to push himself up, but his arms tremble violently under him. He gets one knee under his body, then another, fighting through the pain, refusing to stay down. The crowd rallies behind him, clapping, stomping, chanting his name. He forces himself upright, teeth clenched, sweat dripping down his forehead, his entire body shaking from the impact.

He gets to his feet — barely.

Gunnar is already turning.

The champion pivots sharply, hips snapping, shoulders following, and unleashes a devastating roundhouse kick straight to Kairo’s chest.

CRACK.

The impact is monstrous. Kairo’s entire body whips backward, his legs flying out from under him as he’s blasted off his feet. He hits the mat flat on his back, arms splayed, legs limp, the air driven completely out of his lungs.

Mark Bravo: “That’s a Van Patton roundhouse. You stand up too fast, he puts you right back down.”

John Phillips: “Kairo’s chest… his ribs… he might not even know where he is right now!”

Kairo lies on the mat, gasping, clutching his ribs, his face twisted in agony. Gunnar stands over him, calm, composed, breathing steady — the picture of a man who has just begun his work.

The champion’s control is now total, and the crowd knows it.

Gunnar hauls Kairo upright, one hand twisted in the challenger’s hair, the other clamped around his wrist. Kairo’s legs barely respond, wobbling beneath him as he’s forced to stand. His ribs rise and fall in shallow, uneven spasms, every breath a losing battle. The crowd noise swells — a desperate, pleading roar — as Gunnar pulls him out of the corner and squares him up in the center of the ring.

Kairo tries to plant his feet. He tries to steady himself. He tries to look like a man still in this fight. But his body betrays him. His knees shake. His ribs seize. His breath catches in his throat.

Gunnar sees all of it.

He steps in and fires a short, brutal right hand into Kairo’s ribs. The impact lands with a deep, sickening thud that echoes through the arena. Kairo’s entire torso folds around the blow, a sharp gasp ripping from his throat.

John Phillips: “That’s a clean shot to the ribs — Gunnar’s staying disciplined.”

Mark Bravo: “Why wouldn’t he? That’s the target. That’s the weakness.”

Gunnar doesn’t give Kairo a second to react. He snaps a left hook into the same rib cluster, even harder. Kairo’s legs buckle, his body collapsing sideways, but Gunnar catches him by the back of the neck and yanks him upright again.

Then comes the knee.

Gunnar drives it straight into the taped ribs with ruthless precision. Kairo’s body jerks violently, his mouth opening in a silent cry as he’s lifted off the mat for a moment before dropping back down, barely catching himself on trembling legs.

John Phillips: “Kairo’s trying to stay up, but those ribs are taking a beating.”

Mark Bravo: “He’s upright enough for Gunnar to keep hittin’ him. That’s the problem.”

Gunnar pulls him in again — another knee, sharper, deeper, perfectly placed. Kairo’s legs give out completely this time, and he drops to one knee, clutching his torso, his face twisted in agony.

The crowd groans in unison, the sound rolling through the arena like a wave of shared pain.

John Phillips: “He needs distance. He needs space to breathe.”

Mark Bravo: “He’s not gettin’ either. Gunnar’s glued to him.”

Gunnar grabs Kairo by the chin, forcing him upright again, and snaps a short elbow across the jaw. Kairo’s head whips sideways, sweat spraying off in an arc. His legs wobble, but Gunnar keeps him pinned upright with a forearm across the chest.

Then Gunnar fires a stiff bodyshot — a compact, piston‑like punch that lands flush on the ribs. Kairo’s entire body convulses, his breath exploding out of him in a painful wheeze as he collapses forward, arms wrapped around his torso.

John Phillips: “That one landed clean. Kairo felt every bit of it.”

Mark Bravo: “And Gunnar’s not even close to done.”

Gunnar grabs a fistful of Kairo’s hair and drags him back into the corner. Kairo’s arms drape over the ropes like dead weight, his legs trembling uncontrollably. His ribs rise and fall in shallow, uneven spasms, every breath a battle he’s losing.

Gunnar steps in close, posture tight, eyes locked on the target he’s been carving up since the bell. He fires a short right hand into the ribs — then a left — then another right. Each one lands with a dull, sickening thud. Kairo’s body jerks with every impact, his face contorting in agony.

John Phillips: “Gunnar’s not rushing. He’s picking his shots.”

Mark Bravo: “That’s what makes it worse. He’s not swinging wild — he’s dissecting him.”

Gunnar pulls back half a step, lines up his shot, and fires a brutal kick straight into Kairo’s ribs. The sound is sharp and ugly — a crack, a thud, a gasp all at once. Kairo collapses to both knees, clutching his torso, his entire body shaking uncontrollably.

The crowd erupts in a mixture of panic and fury, chanting Kairo’s name, begging him to rise, begging for anything to shift the momentum.

Kairo tries to push himself up — one hand, then the other — but his arms shake violently. His ribs seize. His breath catches. But he pushes anyway. He pushes because he refuses not to.

John Phillips: “He’s still fighting through it. That’s heart.”

Mark Bravo: “Heart doesn’t fix broken ribs.”

Kairo gets one knee under him. His ribs spasm. His breath stutters. Sweat drips from his chin onto the canvas.

He gets the second knee under him.

Gunnar steps forward.

He forces Kairo upright again, one hand hooked behind the challenger’s neck, the other gripping his wrist. Kairo’s legs barely respond, wobbling beneath him as he’s hauled to his feet. His ribs rise and fall in shallow, uneven spasms, every breath a losing battle. The crowd noise swells — not hopeful, not confident, but desperate. They can feel the danger tightening around Kairo like a vice.

Kairo tries to swing — a weak, looping punch that barely travels six inches — and Gunnar brushes it aside with a flick of his forearm. Then he snaps a short elbow across Kairo’s jaw. Kairo drops to a knee, dazed, ribs screaming.

John Phillips: “Kairo’s trying to fire back, but his body’s just not giving him anything.”

Mark Bravo: “And Gunnar’s makin’ sure it stays that way.”

Gunnar places a palm on the back of Kairo’s head and shoves him flat to the mat. Kairo hits chest‑first, a sharp grunt escaping him as his ribs compress under his own weight. He tries to push up — one hand trembling, the other clutching his side — but Gunnar steps in and fires a stiff, downward kick to the ribs. Not a wind‑up. Not a PK. Just a punishing stomp meant to keep him down.

Kairo spasms, rolling onto his side.

Gunnar grabs him by the wrist, yanks him upright with a violent jerk, and immediately pops his hips — launching Kairo overhead with a belly‑to‑belly suplex that sends him crashing hard onto the damaged ribs.

Kairo bounces off the canvas and curls inward, gasping.

John Phillips: “That belly‑to‑belly wasn’t just power — he threw Kairo right onto the injury.”

Mark Bravo: “That’s Gunnar. You don’t just throw a man — you throw him where it hurts.”

Kairo tries to crawl away, dragging himself toward the ropes, but Gunnar stalks him. He waits until Kairo gets one hand on the bottom rope — a tiny victory — and then he steps in and drives a short knee into the ribs. Kairo collapses sideways, clutching his torso.

Gunnar grabs him by the hair, drags him upright again, and hooks an arm around the waist. With a violent twist of the hips, he launches Kairo with an exploder suplex that sends him skidding across the canvas like a rag doll.

Kairo lands on his side, rolling to his stomach, ribs screaming.

John Phillips: “Exploder! And Kairo bounced — that’s all rib cage!”

Mark Bravo: “He’s gettin’ tossed like luggage. Gunnar’s not even breathin’ hard.”

Kairo tries to rise — one hand trembling, ribs spasming — and Gunnar steps in with a short, sharp Muay Thai knee to the side. The impact folds Kairo over, his breath exploding out of him in a broken gasp.

Gunnar doesn’t let him fall. He grabs a fistful of hair, jerks him upright, and immediately cinches the waist from behind. The crowd knows what’s coming — they can feel the shift in Gunnar’s posture, the tightening of his frame.

Then Gunnar rips him backward with a German suplex that spikes Kairo high on the shoulders and ribs.

Kairo lands hard, rolling onto his stomach, barely conscious.

John Phillips: “German suplex! That one might’ve taken the last of the air out of him.”

Mark Bravo: “He’ll breathe when Gunnar lets him.”

Gunnar rolls to his knees, stands, and walks a slow circle around Kairo’s broken frame. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t pose. He just watches Kairo struggle — one hand trembling, ribs seizing, breath stuttering.

Then he steps in and drives a short, snapping kick into the ribs. Not a big wind‑up. Not a showy strike. Just a stiff, punishing reminder that Gunnar Van Patton is not finished.

Kairo curls inward, gasping.

Gunnar crouches beside him, one hand on his knee, studying him like a mechanic examining a broken engine.

Then he grabs Kairo by the jaw, forces him to look up, and speaks in a low, cold drawl.

Gunnar Van Patton: “That spotlight ya love… it’s gonna burn yer ass.”

Kairo is on his hands and knees, ribs trembling with every shallow breath. Sweat drips from his chin onto the canvas in uneven splatters. His torso spasms each time he tries to inhale. The damage is obvious — the kind of damage that ends nights, ends matches, ends careers. But he’s still moving. Barely. Painfully. Stubbornly.

Gunnar stands a few feet away, posture loose, shoulders relaxed, breathing steady. He watches Kairo struggle like a man watching a wounded animal try to stand. Not impressed. Not amused. Just faintly irritated that the fight isn’t over yet.

Kairo tries to rise. His right knee plants. His left foot slips. His ribs seize halfway up, forcing him to brace on one shaking arm. He grits his teeth, jaw clenched so tight the muscles in his neck stand out like cables.

Gunnar steps in, reaches down, and clamps a hand around the back of Kairo’s gear. With one violent jerk, he yanks Kairo upright — not smoothly, not gently, but like he’s hauling a stubborn piece of equipment off the ground. Kairo’s legs buckle, but he catches himself on instinct alone, one arm wrapped around his ribs.

John Phillips: “Kairo shouldn’t even be vertical right now. Those ribs are a mess.”

Mark Bravo: “Vertical just means Gunnar gets to throw him again.”

Gunnar shifts his grip, sliding his hand from Kairo’s waistband to the inside of his arm. He turns his hips, plants his feet, and with a sudden, violent twist, hurls Kairo with a rib‑crushing side belly‑to‑belly suplex. Kairo’s body flips through the air and crashes onto the canvas with a sickening thud, landing squarely on the damaged side.

Kairo bounces once, rolls onto his stomach, and curls inward, both arms wrapped around his torso. His breath comes out in a broken, wheezing gasp.

He lies there for a moment. Then his fingers twitch. Then his hand claws at the mat. Then he tries to push himself up.

John Phillips: “He’s… he’s trying to get up again.”

Mark Bravo: “He’s either got the biggest heart in the building or the smallest sense. Maybe both.”

Kairo gets one knee under him. His ribs seize. His breath stutters. Sweat drips from his forehead in a steady line. He tries to rise — and collapses halfway up, catching himself on his forearm.

Gunnar doesn’t move. He just watches. Calm. Patient.

Kairo tries again. One knee. Then the other. He forces himself upright, swaying, barely balanced, one arm glued to his ribs.

Gunnar steps forward, grabs Kairo by the back of the neck, and drives him chest‑first into the turnbuckles. The impact knocks the air out of him instantly. Kairo’s arms drape over the ropes like dead weight, his torso trembling from the shock.

Before Kairo can even turn around, Gunnar grips him by the back of his attire and pulls him into a side waist lock. Van Patton immediately plants him with a belly-to-back suplex. Kairo’s body bounces off the mat, landing in a heap.

John Phillips: “That’s an absolutely textbook suplex.”

Mark Bravo: “Flawless brutality on display, John.”

Kairo lies on his back, one knee bent, one arm wrapped around his torso, the other reaching blindly for anything that might help him rise. His breath is ragged, uneven, desperate. The crowd murmurs — some horrified, some in awe, all of them feeling the brutality.

He rolls to his side. Plants a hand. Pushes.

He gets to his knees. Barely.

Gunnar steps behind him, clamps both hands around the waist, and with a violent pop of the hips, launches him with a release German suplex. Kairo flips through the air and crashes onto his shoulders and ribs, skidding across the canvas before coming to rest on his stomach.

Kairo doesn’t move at first. His body twitches once. Twice. Then his hand reaches out, fingers clawing at the mat. He drags a knee under himself. His ribs spasm violently, but he keeps pushing.

John Phillips: “He’s still… he’s STILL trying to get up.”

Mark Bravo: “He’s gonna get himself broken in half. Gunnar ain’t done throwin’ him.”

Kairo reaches his knees again. His entire torso shakes. His breath is a wet, rattling sound. He tries to rise — and nearly collapses — but he catches himself on the ropes, using them like a lifeline.

Gunnar approaches slowly, methodically, like a man walking toward a task he’s done a thousand times. He grabs Kairo by the arm, pulls him away from the ropes, and shoves him upright. Kairo sways, barely balanced, but he’s standing.

Gunnar steps in close, grabs a handful of Kairo’s jaw, and forces him to look up.

Kairo’s answer isn’t just verbal. It’s physical. He plants his foot. He straightens his back. He refuses to fall.

Kairo Bex: “I don’t melt in the spotlight.”

Gunnar’s expression doesn’t change — but something in his posture tightens. A subtle shift. A coiling of violence.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Yer tougher than a two dollar steak, kid. Ah’ll give ya that.”

With that said, Gunnar delivers a patented roundhouse that makes the entire arena cry out in horror.

Kairo lies there. Trembling. Broken. Barely conscious.

Then he moves.

His hand reaches out. His fingers dig into the canvas. He tries to rise again. Van Patton can only look down at him and sigh, shaking his head.

John Phillips: “He’s… he’s still trying. He won’t stay down.”

Mark Bravo: “And Gunnar’s about to make him regret every second of it.”

Kairo gets one knee under him. His ribs seize. His breath stutters. But he keeps pushing. He keeps rising. He keeps refusing.

Kairo is barely upright. His ribs twitch with every breath, his torso spasms when he tries to straighten, and his legs shake beneath him like they’re deciding whether to quit. Gunnar stalks forward with the slow, inevitable confidence of a man who has already decided how the next few seconds will go. He reaches out, clamps a hand around Kairo’s forearm, and starts to muscle him into position for another rib‑shattering throw.

Kairo’s body screams at him to fold. To drop. To stay down.

But instinct — that Neon Ace instinct — fires first.

He twists his trapped arm downward, slipping free with a sharp, desperate drop of his shoulder. Gunnar adjusts instantly, reaching again — but Kairo pivots, slides behind him, and fires a quick spinning back kick to the back of Gunnar’s knee. It’s not a power shot. It’s a balance breaker.

Gunnar’s stance shifts. His base opens for a heartbeat.

John Phillips: “Kairo found a window! That’s the first clean angle he’s had all match!”

Mark Bravo: “He ain’t hurtin’ Gunnar — he’s disruptin’ him.”

Gunnar turns, irritated, reaching to clamp down again — but Kairo darts sideways, ribs screaming, and grabs the ropes for stability. Gunnar lunges, looking to shut this down immediately.

Kairo jumps.

He plants one foot on the middle rope, then the top rope, and springboards backward, twisting his body mid‑air. Gunnar reaches up to catch him—

—and Kairo hooks the head mid‑rotation and spikes him with a tornado DDT.

The arena explodes.

John Phillips: “Tornado DDT out of nowhere! He absolutely spiked him!”

Mark Bravo: “That’s the Neon Ace! That’s the stuff you can’t scout!”

Gunnar hits the mat hard, rolling to his side, stunned for the first time all match. Kairo lands rough, bouncing off his ribs, immediately clutching his torso in agony — but he’s alive. He’s moving. He’s breathing fire again.

The crowd surges behind him, chanting his name, pushing him to keep going.

Kairo forces himself upright, using the ropes like a crutch. Gunnar is on one knee, shaking off the shock, irritation turning into something sharper.

Kairo sees him rising.

Kairo sees the opening.

Kairo sprints.

He plants, pivots, and cracks Gunnar across the jaw with the Mirage Kick, the running bicycle knee landing flush and snapping Gunnar’s head back.

The arena detonates.

John Phillips: “MIRAGE KICK! KAIR—O—BEX JUST ROCKED THE CHAMPION!”

Mark Bravo: “Gunnar didn’t expect that! Nobody expected that!”

Kairo collapses beside him, both men down, the crowd shaking the building with noise. For the first time all match, Gunnar Van Patton is rattled. For the first time, Kairo has real momentum.

And for the first time, the match feels like it could swing either way.

Kairo is hunched over, one arm wrapped tight around his ribs, breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. The earlier flurry bought him space, but not comfort. His torso is a live wire of pain — but he’s upright. And for Kairo Bex, upright is enough.

Gunnar rises with slow, deliberate steadiness, shaking off the shock with a tightening jaw. He steps forward, reaching to clamp down and smother the comeback before it breathes.

Kairo moves first.

He slips sideways, light on his feet despite the pain, and flicks a quick low side kick into Gunnar’s thigh — not to hurt him, just to make the big man shift his stance. Gunnar adjusts, weight shifting, and Kairo uses that half‑beat to slide past him, forcing the pace upward.

John Phillips: “Kairo’s moving again! This is where he’s dangerous!”

Mark Bravo: “He ain’t tryin’ to knock Gunnar down — he’s tryin’ to make him chase.”

Gunnar turns, reaching again, but Kairo is already in motion. He hits the ropes, rebounds, and fires a running single‑leg dropkick, his boot snapping into Gunnar’s chest and knocking the champion backward onto one knee.

Kairo doesn’t stay in front of him. He darts past, hits the ropes again, and rebounds low, sliding under Gunnar’s reaching arms. He pops up behind him, ribs screaming, and fires a sharp kick to the back of Gunnar’s leg, buckling the big man just enough to force him down to both knees.

The crowd roars as Kairo circles, keeping his distance, forcing Gunnar to turn and chase.

Gunnar lunges — fast, violent, looking to grab anything he can — but Kairo ducks under the grab, plants a hand on the mat, and whips into a handspring back elbow, catching Gunnar across the jaw as he rises.

The impact snaps Gunnar’s head sideways. He stumbles, not down, but off‑balance.

John Phillips: “That’s the speed difference! Gunnar can’t get a grip on him!”

Mark Bravo: “He’s makin’ the champ play tag. Bad idea for a big man.”

Kairo lands rough, clutching his ribs, but he forces himself upright. He hits the ropes again — every step a jolt of pain — and rebounds into a basement dropkick, smashing both boots into Gunnar’s chest and knocking him flat.

The arena erupts.

Kairo rolls through the landing, grimacing, but he doesn’t stop. He grabs the ropes, pulls himself up, and watches Gunnar push to one knee again, shaking off the flurry.

Kairo sprints toward the corner, hops to the second rope, then the top, and twists into a springboard dropkick, both boots slamming into Gunnar’s jaw and sending him sprawling onto his back.

John Phillips: “SPRINGBOARD DROPKICK! KAIR—O—BEX IS FLYING NOW!”

Mark Bravo: “He ain’t lettin’ Gunnar breathe. That’s the whole game.”

Kairo crashes down on his ribs again, grimacing, but he rolls to his feet, feeding off the crowd’s roar. He stumbles, catches himself on the ropes, and sees Gunnar rising — slower this time, breathing heavier, the pace finally catching up to him.

Kairo moves.

He hits the ropes again, rebounds, and snaps a sharp jumping knee strike into Gunnar’s jaw — not the Mirage Kick, but a quick, rising knee meant to keep the big man rocked.

Gunnar drops to one knee, dazed.

The crowd surges to its feet.

Kairo steadies himself, ribs screaming, but eyes locked on the opening.

Gunnar pushes up again — slower, unsteady, still rocked.

Kairo sees the moment.

Kairo takes it.

He sprints toward the ropes, planting one hand on the top strand as he slingshots himself into a tight, angled run. Gunnar rises just enough to turn toward him—

Kairo launches.

He leaps off his plant foot, body tilting sideways, leg chambering high—

—and cracks Gunnar across the mouth with a Golden Ratio–style leaping sidekick, the impact snapping the champion’s head back like he got hit by a flashbulb of neon light.

John Phillips: “GOOD LORD! KAIR—O—BEX JUST TOOK HIS HEAD OFF!”

Mark Bravo: “That’s the shot he needed! That’s the one that flips a match on its axis!”

Gunnar collapses flat, stunned, arms splayed. The crowd detonates, the noise rolling through the arena like a wave.

Kairo lands rough, immediately curling around his ribs, gasping — but smiling through the pain. Because for the first time all night…

…the match belongs to him.

Gunnar is flat on the canvas after the leaping sidekick, staring up at the lights for the first time all match. The crowd is molten, chanting Kairo’s name in a rolling wave. Kairo lies beside him, curled around his ribs, sucking in air that barely comes. Every breath hurts. Every movement hurts. But the momentum is his.

He forces himself onto his knees, then to his feet, using the ropes like a crutch. The crowd rises with him. Gunnar rolls to his side, shaking off the impact, but he’s slow — slower than he’s been all night.

Kairo sees it. He feels it. He moves.

Gunnar pushes up to one knee, then two, trying to stand. Kairo darts in, feinting high, then drops low and snatches Gunnar into a lightning‑quick inside cradle, folding the big man up with sudden, acrobatic precision.

Referee: “ONE! … TWO—!”

Gunnar explodes out of it, powering free with raw strength. Kairo rolls backward from the force, ending up on his knees, clutching his ribs but grinning through the pain. The crowd roars — that was close.

John Phillips: “Kairo almost stole it! That was a heartbeat away!”

Mark Bravo: “That’s the flash tech stuff! Gunnar didn’t see that comin’ at all!”

Gunnar rises, irritated now, shaking his head as he tries to reset. Kairo pulls himself upright using the ropes, ribs screaming, but he doesn’t hesitate. He sprints toward the corner, hops to the second rope, then the top in one smooth rhythm, and hurls himself off in a tight corkscrew crossbody, his body spinning in a neon spiral before he crashes flush across Gunnar’s chest.

Both men hit the mat hard, and Kairo hooks the far leg tight.

Referee: “ONE! … TWO—!!”

Gunnar kicks out with authority, sending Kairo rolling halfway across the ring. The crowd gasps, then erupts again, the tension rising with every near fall.

Kairo ends up on his knees, one arm wrapped around his ribs, the other pressed to the mat to keep himself upright. He’s hurting — badly — but he’s alive. And the crowd is with him, chanting, stomping, urging him to keep going.

Kairo drags himself toward the corner, ribs clutched tight, every step a tremor of pain. The crowd rises with him, sensing the desperation, the danger, the heart it takes for him to even think about going high again. He reaches the corner and leans into it, forehead pressed to the top turnbuckle, breathing in short, broken bursts.

He grabs the ropes.

He pulls.

He climbs.

One foot on the bottom rope.

A shaky breath.

Another on the second.

His body trembles under its own weight.

The arena quiets — not silent, but tense, like everyone is holding the same breath. Kairo’s ribs spasm as he reaches for the top rope, fingers trembling, sweat dripping from his chin. He pauses, eyes squeezed shut, fighting through the pain.

John Phillips (hushed): “He shouldn’t even be up there… but he’s still going.”

Mark Bravo: “This is guts. Pure guts. He’s runnin’ on fumes.”

Kairo forces himself upright, boot sliding onto the top turnbuckle. He wobbles, steadies, and slowly straightens, one arm wrapped around his ribs, the other reaching out for balance. The crowd swells behind him — a rising wave of hope, fear, and disbelief.

He turns his head, looking down at Gunnar.

Gunnar is still on one knee.

Still hunched.

Still motionless.

Too motionless.

Kairo doesn’t see the twitch in Gunnar’s fingers.

He doesn’t see the tightening of his jaw.

He doesn’t see the shift in his stance.

But the crowd does.

A ripple of noise rolls through the arena — not cheers, not boos, but a warning.

John Phillips: “Wait—”

Gunnar MOVES.

Not a step. Not a lunge. A detonation.

He surges to his feet and sprints toward the corner, covering the distance with terrifying speed — a 241‑pound missile fired with military precision. The crowd erupts in shock as Gunnar closes the gap in a heartbeat.

Mark Bravo: “NO WAY—HE’S ALREADY THERE!”

Gunnar doesn’t climb — he runs the buckles. One boot hits the middle rope, the next hits the top, his body rising like a predator pouncing. Before Kairo can even turn fully, Gunnar is right in front of him, eye patch glinting, expression carved from cold violence.

Kairo’s eyes widen.

He’s trapped.

He’s hurt.

He’s too slow.

Gunnar’s arm snaps around Kairo’s head and traps his arm in a brutal head‑and‑arm clinch.

No words.

No warning.

No hesitation.

And then he launches.

The top‑rope head‑and‑arm suplex detonates like a bomb. Kairo is ripped off the turnbuckle, flipping through the air in a helpless arc before CRASHING down on the back of his neck and shoulders. The impact is catastrophic — the kind of landing that makes the entire arena recoil.

John Phillips: “Kairo landed HARD! That’s a nightmare fall!”

Mark Bravo: “That’s Gunnar Van Patton at full speed. You don’t walk away from that.”

Kairo bounces once, then lies twisted on the mat, motionless except for the faint twitch of his fingers. His ribs seize. His breath is gone. His body is wrecked.

Gunnar lands on one knee, chest heaving, eyes cold and predatory. He doesn’t go for a cover. He doesn’t need to. He just watches Kairo suffer, savoring the violence like a man who’s been starving for it.

The momentum doesn’t just shift.

It dies.

Kairo lies sprawled on the canvas after the top‑rope head‑and‑arm suplex, his torso seizing in tight, painful spasms. Every breath is a jagged scrape. His hand trembles against the side of his body, trying—and failing—to shield the damage. The crowd buzzes with a low, horrified murmur, the kind that says everyone knows the match has crossed a line.

Gunnar Van Patton rises slowly, rolling his neck, the calm settling over him like a man who’s finally decided to stop pretending this is a contest. He walks toward Kairo with that deliberate, predatory stride—no rush, no wasted motion.

He crouches beside the broken Neon Ace, studying him with a flat, disappointed stare.

Gunnar Van Patton (quiet, flat): “Ah gave ya a chance to walk away.”

He shakes his head once—slow, almost pitying.

Gunnar Van Patton: “But you kept comin’. Now look at ya.”

Kairo tries to inhale, but the breath catches halfway, his torso tightening violently.

Gunnar reaches down and grabs the medical tape wrapped around Kairo’s midsection—the tape keeping him functional, the tape he’s been relying on all match.

Gunnar tears it.

Not carefully.

Not slowly.

He rips it off in one savage pull, peeling it away from sweat‑soaked skin and battered flesh.

Kairo’s scream is immediate and raw, his body folding inward as the sudden exposure sends a shockwave through his ribs.

John Phillips: “Oh no… Gunnar just tore the tape off! Kairo’s ribs are wide open!”

Mark Bravo: “This is Van Patton gettin’ serious. Real serious.”

Gunnar doesn’t give Kairo a second to recover. He grabs a fistful of Kairo’s gear and yanks him upright, dragging him into a standing position even as Kairo’s legs buckle beneath him.

Then Gunnar snaps him into a Muay Thai clinch—hands locked behind Kairo’s head, elbows tight, posture perfect. Kairo’s body jerks forward, ribs exposed, breath trapped.

The first knee lands like a sledgehammer.

Kairo’s entire torso jolts.

The second knee lifts him off the mat.

The third folds him around Gunnar’s thigh like a broken hinge.

Kairo tries to fight back—a desperate, wild swing of his right hand, more survival instinct than strategy.

Gunnar catches it at the wrist.

Effortless.

He lifts the arm high, stretching Kairo’s torso open, exposing every bruise, every welt, every screaming inch of his ribs.

Mark Bravo: “Oh no… he’s got him wide open!”

Gunnar’s expression doesn’t change. No smile. No snarl. Just cold, efficient violence.

He drives a right hand into Kairo’s ribs.

Then another.

Then another—each one a piston, each one landing with surgical precision, each one knocking the air out of Kairo in sharp, broken bursts.

Kairo’s knees give out, but Gunnar holds him up by the wrist, keeping the ribs exposed, keeping the punishment going.

John Phillips: “Somebody stop this! He’s destroying the injury!”

Mark Bravo: “This is Gunnar Van Patton. He don’t stop till somethin’ breaks.”

Gunnar leans in just enough for the camera to catch the next line, voice dropping to a razor‑thin whisper.

Gunnar Van Patton: “How’s that spotlight feelin’ now?”

Finally, Gunnar releases the wrist and lets Kairo collapse to his knees, coughing, eyes unfocused, body trembling from the barrage.

Gunnar takes two steps back, eyes locked on the opening he’s created. Then he hits the ropes with purpose—no wasted motion, no theatrics—and comes charging back toward the kneeling Neon Ace.

He plants his boot and drives Kairo’s face into the canvas with a brutal curb stomp, the force snapping Kairo flat and sending a shock through the entire arena.

Kairo lies facedown, torso twitching, breath stuttering, his body instinctively curling as the pain radiates through his exposed ribs.

Gunnar stands over him, chest rising slow, controlled, predatory.

Any mercy is gone.

Kairo lies facedown after the curb stomp, ribs twitching, breath stuttering in shallow, broken bursts. The crowd claps and stomps, trying to will him back into the fight. Somehow — impossibly — he hears them.

He pushes an elbow under himself.

Then a knee.

Then another elbow.

He rises to all fours, shaking, sweat dripping from his chin, his torso spasming with every attempt to breathe. The crowd roars — a desperate, hopeful roar.

John Phillips: “Listen to this place! They’re trying to drag him back into this match!”

Mark Bravo: “He shouldn’t even be standin’. But that’s Kairo — too stubborn to stay down.”

Kairo staggers upright, swaying, one hand pressed against his battered side. He turns toward Gunnar and throws a punch — a weak, looping shot born more of defiance than strength.

Gunnar catches it.

Effortless.

Like catching a falling leaf.

Mark Bravo: “Oh, that ain’t gonna cut it. Not against Van Patton.”

Kairo throws another with his free hand — slower, sloppier. Gunnar blocks it with a forearm and steps in, chest to chest, overwhelming him with sheer presence.

Kairo tries a third punch, a desperate swing meant to show he’s still alive.

Gunnar doesn’t even blink.

He buries a knee into Kairo’s midsection, folding him in half.

John Phillips: “That knee just shut him off! Kairo’s body gave out!”

Kairo drops to a knee, coughing violently, ribs screaming.

Gunnar grabs him by the head, hauls him upright, and snaps his arms under Kairo’s in a tight double underhook.

Mark Bravo: “Oh no… oh NO. He’s got him locked.”

John Phillips: “This is bad. This is REALLY bad.”

Gunnar lifts.

Not with grace — with force.

Not with finesse — with finality.

He rips Kairo off the mat and DRIVES him down with a release double underhook powerbomb that shakes the ring, Kairo bouncing off the canvas before collapsing flat, eyes glassy, body limp.

John Phillips:“GOOD LORD! Kairo just got SPIKED!”

Mark Bravo: “That’s the kind of powerbomb that ends weekends. Maybe careers.”

Gunnar never leaves his feet. He stays planted, already positioned at Kairo’s legs the instant the powerbomb hits.

Without hesitation, he reaches down, hooks both legs, and yanks Kairo into place. He pivots, turns, and snaps him over into a Texas Cloverleaf, sitting deep and wrenching back with brutal, perfect form — bending Kairo’s spine and ribs in ways the human body was never meant to bend.

Kairo screams — a raw, broken sound — his hand clawing at the mat, searching for anything, any escape, any miracle.

John Phillips: “He’s gonna tear him apart! Somebody stop this!”

Mark Bravo: “Tap, kid! TAP! Don’t let this man break you in half!”

Kairo reaches out — fingertips brushing the canvas — and finally, with no breath left, no strength left, no ribs left to protect him…

He taps.

The referee calls for the bell immediately.

DING DING DING

John Phillips: “It’s over! It’s over! Kairo had no choice!”

Mark Bravo: “That wasn’t a match. That was a message.”

Gunnar Van Patton doesn’t release the hold right away. He waits just long enough to make a point — just long enough to remind everyone that mercy is a choice he rarely makes.

Then he lets go, Kairo collapsing to the mat in a heap.

Gunnar rises, chest steady, expression cold — the victor not by chance, but by domination.

The bell rings. The referee retrieves the WrestleZone Championship and approaches Gunnar Van Patton with both hands on the belt, presenting it like a man returning a weapon to its owner.

Gunnar takes it slow, draping the title over his shoulder without a hint of celebration.

John Phillips: “Kairo showed unbelievable heart tonight. He refused to quit, he kept getting up… but against Gunnar Van Patton, sometimes heart just isn’t enough.”

Mark Bravo: “Van Patton is a different breed. That was violent, that was decisive, and that was Gunnar doing exactly what Gunnar does.”

Kairo is still on the mat, ribs twitching, breath shallow. The medics hover but don’t touch him yet — not with Gunnar still standing over him.

Van Patton steps in close and crouches beside him, boots planted, belt hanging off his shoulder. His voice is low, clipped, and unmistakably Texan.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Ya stayed in it.”

A beat. He studies Kairo like he’s assessing battlefield damage.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Longer’n Ah figured.”

Kairo’s eyes flicker, barely tracking him.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Ya ain’t ready for that spotlight yer cravin’. Not yet.”

He taps two fingers against Kairo’s chest — firm, not cruel.

Gunnar Van Patton: “But ya got somethin’. Somethin’ worth seein’ again.”

John Phillips: “That’s respect. Real respect. Gunnar doesn’t hand that out.”

Mark Bravo: “And he sure as hell doesn’t say it unless he means it.”

Gunnar rises, adjusts the title on his shoulder, and finishes the thought with the weight of a door quietly opening.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Get yerself right. When yer back to a hundred… call Avril. Contract’ll be waitin’ for ya.”

John Phillips: “My God… he just opened the door for him.”

Mark Bravo: “He opened the door to another fight. And if Kairo takes it… he’d better come back stronger than he’s ever been.”

Gunnar steps through the ropes without looking back. No pose. No victory lap. Just a man walking away from a job done clean.

Kairo remains on the canvas, broken but not beaten, the weight of the offer hitting him harder than any strike tonight.

The camera cuts backstage to the women’s locker room corridor. The atmosphere is quieter here, insulated from the roar of the crowd. Emily Hightower sits on a bench, already in her ring gear, wrists taped, boots laced. Across from her stands her father, David Hightower, arms folded, calm but intense.

Emily rolls her shoulders once, then exhales slowly.

Emily Hightower: “I don’t need a speech.”

David smiles faintly.

David Hightower: “Good. Because I ain't here to give you one.”

He steps closer, lowering his voice.

David Hightower: “You know what tonight is. You know what that title meant to you. And you know exactly why it’s 'posed to be coming home.”

Emily nods, jaw set.

Emily Hightower: “I let it slip once. I won’t let it happen again.”

She stands, stretching her neck from side to side, eyes sharp now.

Emily Hightower: “That championship isn’t just a belt. It’s proof. Proof that I belong at the top of this division. Proof that every mile, every sacrifice… meant something.”

David studies her for a moment, then places a hand on her shoulder.

David Hightower: “You don’t have to prove anything to me. Or to anyone else back here.”

He leans in slightly.

David Hightower: “But if you want it back, you take it back the way you always have. Head up. No fear. No hesitation.”

Emily lets out a short breath, then smiles—just barely.

Emily Hightower: “I’ve been chasing this moment since the day I lost it.”

She reaches down, picks up her jacket, and shrugs it on.

Emily Hightower: “Tonight, the United States Championship stops being a memory.”

She steps toward the door, stopping for just a second.

Emily Hightower: “Tonight… it comes back with me.”

David nods once, firm and proud.

David Hightower: “Go finish it.”

Emily pushes the door open. Arena noise floods in as she disappears down the hallway toward the entrance.

The camera lingers on David Hightower for a beat—then fades out.

The feed cuts backstage again. This time the atmosphere is tense—raw, unsettled. Melissa Cartwright stands in front of a concrete wall near the loading area, microphone in hand. The sound of the arena hums faintly in the distance.

Melissa Cartwright: “Earlier tonight, Chris Ross was attacked during his arrival at the arena by Clovis Black. I’m standing by now with Trey Mack, who is scheduled for a championship match later tonight—”

Trey Mack steps into frame with an easy grin, dressed casually, championship confidence radiating off him. He adjusts the collar of his jacket as if this is just another night at work.

Trey Mack: “You know what they say, Melissa. Big shows bring big emotions.”

The camera widens slightly.

Behind Trey Mack, partially obscured by shadow, stands Clovis Black.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink. His arms hang at his sides like dead weight, eyes fixed forward, jaw clenched. The contrast is stark—Trey all swagger and charm, Clovis all menace.

John Phillips: “Clovis Black looming behind Trey Mack… this feels deliberate.”

Mark Bravo: “That’s not an accident, JP. That’s a message.”

Melissa Cartwright: “Trey, earlier tonight you intervened in that attack—yet moments later, you told Chris Ross ‘see you tonight.’ What exactly did you mean by that?”

Trey chuckles softly, shaking his head.

Trey Mack: “I meant exactly what I said.”

He glances over his shoulder briefly—not at Clovis, but toward the camera.

Trey Mack: “See, Chris Ross loves to talk about what the UTA is supposed to be. Tradition. Respect. Legacy.”

He shrugs.

Trey Mack: “But tonight? Tonight’s about reality.”

Clovis Black takes one slow step forward. The sound of his boots on concrete echoes. He stops just behind Trey’s shoulder.

Melissa Cartwright: “And where does Clovis Black fit into that reality?”

Trey smiles wider.

Trey Mack: “Clovis doesn’t fit into anything.”

He turns slightly, gesturing toward Clovis without fully facing him.

Trey Mack: “Clovis *is* the thing you don’t plan for. He’s what happens when you underestimate the moment.”

Clovis Black tilts his head just slightly. His eyes never leave the camera.

John Phillips: “This is unsettling.”

Mark Bravo: “That man hasn’t said a word and I already want him ten feet away from me.”

Melissa Cartwright: “And your championship match later tonight—does tonight’s chaos affect your mindset at all?”

Trey’s expression sharpens just a touch.

Trey Mack: “Nah.”

He steps closer to the camera.

Trey Mack: “If anything, it sharpens it. Because while everybody else is worried about what just happened… I’m focused on what’s about to happen.”

He glances back again—this time directly at Clovis.

Trey Mack: “Right?”

Clovis Black does not respond.

He simply cracks his neck once. Loud.

Melissa Cartwright: “Chris Ross has already vowed that tonight, you’ll get an introduction to the UTA like only he can give—”

Trey laughs, cutting her off.

Trey Mack: “Good.”

He leans in, tone calm but edged.

Trey Mack: “Because introductions work both ways.”

Trey steps out of frame, brushing past the camera. Clovis Black remains behind for a moment longer, staring straight ahead.

Slowly, Clovis turns his head toward Melissa.

They lock eyes.

Clovis says nothing.

Then he turns and follows Trey out of frame.

Melissa exhales shakily.

Melissa Cartwright: “Back to you.”

The feed cuts away.

The camera cuts to a wide shot of Mullett Arena, the building still humming from everything this weekend has already delivered. A “BRAND NEW DAY” graphic blazes across the big screen, then dissolves into a new title card—one the crowd reacts to immediately, because this one has history.

UTA WOMEN’S UNITED STATES CHAMPIONSHIP
VALENTINA BLAZE (c) vs. EMILY HIGHTOWER

John Phillips: "Day Two rolls on, and we have ourselves a huge championship match—Valentina Blaze defends the Women’s United States Championship against former champion Emily Hightower."

Mark Bravo: "And what I love about this—this isn’t some forced bracket nonsense. This happened because Valentina Blaze walked out on Day One and offered Emily the rematch herself."

John Phillips: "That’s right. Valentina didn’t duck her. Valentina didn’t stall. She said, ‘You want your title back? Take your shot on this weekend.’ That is a champion’s mindset."

Mark Bravo: "Or a champion who likes the heat. Because Emily Hightower doesn’t just wrestle you—she drags you into a scrap yard and makes you earn oxygen."

The crowd buzzes louder as the arena lights shift—orange and ember tones washing over the audience like a living flame. A low bass rumble crawls through the speakers, and the ramp fills with a thin layer of smoke that rolls like heat off asphalt.

John Phillips: "And here comes the champion."

“Firestarter” hits and the place instantly pops—hands go up, phones come out, and the mood changes from tense to electric. Valentina Blaze bursts through the curtain with that fearless bounce in her step, not walking so much as surging forward like the match already started backstage.

She stops at the top of the ramp, turns her palm toward the hard camera, and traces a small “spark” in the air with her fingertip—slow, deliberate—then flicks her wrist like she’s lighting a fuse.

Valentina Blaze: "Light it up!"

The crowd answers immediately, roaring back at her as she throws the “Light it up!” hand gesture again—two quick flashes of her fingers like she’s striking a match twice for emphasis.

Mark Bravo: "There it is. She’s not shy. She’s not subtle. She’s a champion who wants you to see her coming."

John Phillips: "And she earned that right at Seasons Beatings. Valentina Blaze won that championship and then turned around on Day One and invited the fight again—this time against the woman she took it from."

Valentina starts down the ramp with a brisk jog, slapping hands on the aisle side—quick touches, fast smiles—but her eyes keep drifting to the ring like she’s checking distance, angles, the feel of the space. Halfway down, she breaks into a full sprint for a few steps, then slows again, soaking in the noise.

At ringside, she slides in like a missile—low and smooth—then pops up with a sharp pivot, throwing both arms out as the crowd spikes again. She paces once, rolls her shoulders, and looks up at the title in her hands as if to remind herself it’s real.

John Phillips: "Valentina’s speed is obvious, but what’s impressed me most is her composure. She’s fearless, yes—but she’s not reckless."

Mark Bravo: "She’s going to need both tonight, because Emily Hightower is the kind of opponent who smiles at pain and calls it ‘Tuesday.’"

Valentina steps to the ropes and looks toward the entranceway, expression tightening from showman grin to locked-in focus. She bounces lightly on her toes, then raises her hands, shadow-kicking once—just a small snap of the hip—like she’s reminding the building that this title lives on impact.

Valentina Blaze: "Let’s go!"

She backs into her corner and grips the top rope, waiting. The champion doesn’t look nervous—she looks eager, like she’s proud this weekend is forcing everyone to show who they really are.

The flame-colored wash fades, replaced by a colder palette—deep blues and bright whites—like the arena’s temperature just dropped ten degrees. The crowd hum changes too, because they recognize what this lighting means: the challenger isn’t here to dance. She’s here to fight.

John Phillips: "And now… the former champion."

Mark Bravo: "This is the rematch Valentina Blaze offered with her whole chest on Day One. No excuses. No delays. Emily Hightower gets her shot."

The bass hits heavy, and then the music swells into something determined and defiant—less “party,” more “march.” Emily Hightower steps through the curtain with a composed glare, jaw set, shoulders squared, like she’s already replaying the moment she lost the championship and she’s refusing to let it happen twice.

She pauses at the top of the ramp and slowly scans the arena—left to right—taking in the crowd like she’s drawing strength from every reaction. Then she turns her eyes to the ring and locks onto Valentina Blaze with a look that says: you wanted this, now live with it.

Emily Hightower: "You offered it. Now you’re going to regret it."

The crowd reacts—cheers for the confidence, a few boos for the threat—but mostly it’s that “oh this is real” noise. Emily doesn’t posture. She just starts down the ramp at a steady pace, each step deliberate, like she’s counting beats and keeping her own heart rate under control.

John Phillips: "Emily Hightower has been here before. She’s held that Women’s United States Championship. She knows what it feels like—and she knows what it costs to keep it."

Mark Bravo: "And she’s not the type to accept a loss and move on. Emily’s the type to circle back and make you pay for it."

Emily reaches ringside and stops short of the apron, never taking her eyes off Valentina. Valentina stands in her corner with the title resting on her shoulder, chin lifted, refusing to blink first.

Emily takes one more second—breath in, breath out—then slides into the ring clean and rises to her feet with no wasted motion. She paces once, then lifts her arms briefly to the crowd, not soaking it in, just acknowledging it.

John Phillips: "You can feel the difference in their energy. Valentina is adrenaline and fire. Emily is focus and steel."

Mark Bravo: "And sometimes steel beats fire. Because steel doesn’t get emotional. It just cuts."

Emily steps to the center and points at the title on Valentina’s shoulder. Valentina steps forward too, meeting her in the middle. The referee stands between them, raising the championship high for everyone to see.

UTA WOMEN’S UNITED STATES CHAMPIONSHIP

The crowd pops as the belt glints under the lights. The referee turns it side to side, then hands it off to the timekeeper.

Referee: "Alright. Clean break. Listen to my commands."

Emily nods once. Valentina nods too—faster, more eager.

Valentina Blaze: "Let’s make it count."

Emily Hightower: "It will."

The referee backs away, looking from one competitor to the other. Both women settle into their stances—Valentina light on her feet, bouncing. Emily grounded, hands up, ready to absorb and answer.

John Phillips: "Valentina Blaze offered this rematch, and now she has to prove it wasn’t arrogance—it was confidence."

Mark Bravo: "Because if Emily takes that title back tonight, Valentina’s going to have to live with the fact she opened the door herself."

The referee checks both corners, then calls for the bell.

DING DING!

They circle immediately—Valentina bouncing, testing distance with small feints, Emily steady and patient, hands high, eyes locked on Valentina’s hips and shoulders instead of her face.

John Phillips: "You can see it already—Emily’s tracking movement. She’s not chasing the head fakes."

Mark Bravo: "And Valentina is trying to bait her into reaching. If Emily reaches, Valentina burns you."

Valentina steps in with a quick low kick to the thigh—light, more of a tap than damage—then darts out. Emily doesn’t flinch. She steps forward one pace and swings a calm, stiff jab of a forearm, testing Valentina’s guard.

Valentina slips it and answers with a sharp chop to the chest—Emily absorbs it and returns one of her own, louder, heavier, landing with a smack that makes Valentina’s eyes widen.

John Phillips: "Emily Hightower with a return chop—she’s matching intensity right out of the gate."

Valentina Blaze: "Okay!"

Valentina grins—half respect, half challenge—and springs into motion, snapping a quick round kick to Emily’s ribs. Emily catches the leg under her arm, immediately trying to slow the pace.

Mark Bravo: "There it is. Emily wants to plant her. Valentina wants to fly."

Emily steps in and sweeps Valentina’s standing leg—Valentina hops once, then twists and slips her captured leg free, landing on her feet and immediately firing a spinning backfist that just grazes Emily’s cheek.

Emily’s head turns slightly. She smiles—small, cold—like she appreciates the attempt but doesn’t fear it.

Emily Hightower: "You’re fast. So what."

Valentina answers by hitting the ropes—rebound—then cutting in with a running forearm that snaps Emily’s head back a fraction. Valentina follows with a dropkick that catches Emily high on the shoulder and sends her stumbling into the corner.

John Phillips: "Valentina with that burst! She’s trying to drown Emily early."

Valentina charges the corner—Emily steps out at the last second, and Valentina hits the turnbuckles hard, catching herself on the ropes. Emily immediately clamps her in a waistlock from behind and plants her with a tight German suplex that folds Valentina’s shoulders to the mat.

The crowd pops at the snap.

Mark Bravo: "And Emily answers with strength! That’s how you stop a sprinter—trip the legs and slam the lungs."

Emily floats over and hooks a leg for the cover.

Referee: "One… two—"

Valentina kicks out, rolling her shoulder up with urgency. Emily doesn’t argue. She immediately drags Valentina up and drives her into the corner, pressing a forearm across the face to soften her up.

Referee: "Break—"

Emily breaks at four and cracks Valentina with a short elbow to the jaw. Valentina’s knees dip, but she fires back with a quick slap to Emily’s chest—then a second—trying to create space with anger.

Valentina Blaze: "Not tonight!"

Valentina slips under Emily’s arm and switches behind, shoving Emily chest-first into the turnbuckles. She steps back and hits a running knee to the lower back—then grabs Emily by the wrist and whips her across the ring.

Emily hits the ropes—rebound—Valentina drops low, looking for a trip—Emily leaps over her, lands, and immediately catches Valentina with a swinging neckbreaker that snaps Valentina down.

John Phillips: "Neckbreaker! Emily is so good at turning a scramble into control."

Emily sits up and pulls Valentina into a grounded headlock, cinching it tight. Valentina kicks her legs, trying to find leverage, then plants her feet and pushes—trying to stand.

Mark Bravo: "And that’s the fight within the fight. Emily wants it slow. Valentina wants it chaotic."

Valentina stands, elbows into the ribs to break the grip—Emily squeezes tighter and yanks her back down. Valentina refuses to stay there, twisting her hips, pushing up again, finding her base.

John Phillips: "Valentina’s composure is impressive. She’s not panicking. She’s solving."

Valentina finally shoots her legs up and snaps a quick headscissors, rolling Emily forward and forcing the hold to break. Both women scramble up at the same time—Valentina quicker—Emily steadier.

They meet center-ring and lock eyes.

Emily Hightower: "You wanted this."

Valentina Blaze: "I still do."

They step in simultaneously—forearm from Emily, forearm from Valentina—both landing at once. The crowd cheers as the strikes trade, each one louder, each one more personal.

The forearm exchange builds—Emily’s are heavier, meant to dent. Valentina’s are faster, meant to rattle. The crowd starts counting along with the rhythm as both women trade shots in the center of the ring.

John Phillips: "Neither woman backing down. Face versus face, pride versus pride."

Mark Bravo: "And you can feel the respect in it, but also the edge. Emily wants her title back. Valentina wants to prove offering the rematch wasn’t a mistake."

Emily steps in and fires a stiff kick to Valentina’s thigh, then a second—checking the base—before snapping a short back elbow that catches Valentina on the cheek.

Valentina stumbles—then answers with a lightning quick round kick to the body, followed by a sharp spinning back kick that thumps Emily in the ribs and makes her take a step back.

Valentina Blaze: "Come on!"

Valentina sprints the ropes and comes back with a running crossbody—Emily catches her at the waist and tries to swing her into a slam—Valentina slips down and lands behind, then snaps a quick chop block to the back of Emily’s knee.

Emily drops to one knee. Valentina immediately runs again and hits a low, sliding dropkick that catches Emily in the shoulder, knocking her onto her back.

John Phillips: "Valentina’s speed is turning into strategy now—she’s chopping at the base!"

Valentina hooks the leg.

Referee: "One… two—"

Emily kicks out hard, forcing Valentina to roll off.

Mark Bravo: "Emily kicked out like she was offended by the count."

Valentina pops up and backs toward the corner, measuring. She slaps her own chest twice, trying to pump herself up, then charges with a running knee toward Emily’s head.

Emily rolls out of the way at the last second. Valentina’s knee hits the mat and she winces. Emily is up instantly, grabbing Valentina’s arm and twisting into an arm wringer, then yanking her down into a grounded armlock.

John Phillips: "Emily is so good at capitalizing on one mistake. One moment, and she’s got control."

Emily grinds the arm, leaning her body weight into it. Valentina squirms, tries to roll, tries to kick her way free. Emily keeps the pressure tight, forcing Valentina’s shoulder to take the strain.

Emily Hightower: "Slow down."

Valentina shakes her head, teeth clenched, refusing.

Valentina Blaze: "Not… my… style."

Valentina uses her legs to hook Emily’s head and snaps her forward, rolling through and forcing a break. Both women scramble up again—Emily first this time—stepping in with a stiff lariat that flips Valentina inside out.

Valentina hits the mat and rolls to her side, clutching her jaw.

Mark Bravo: "That’s Emily’s kind of answer. One big shot changes the whole conversation."

Emily drags Valentina up and whips her into the corner. She charges in with a heavy corner splash—Valentina slips out at the last moment and Emily hits buckles chest-first. Valentina immediately jumps onto Emily’s back, hooking her arms, trying to pull her into a quick roll-up out of the corner.

Referee: "One… two—"

Emily powers out and stands, dragging Valentina up with her and tossing her forward with a release German that sends Valentina skidding across the mat.

John Phillips: "Release German! Emily is throwing her around now!"

Valentina crawls toward the ropes, trying to get her bearings. Emily follows and grabs her by the waist—looking for another suplex—Valentina blocks, feet planted, then fires three quick back elbows into Emily’s face.

Emily staggers back. Valentina spins and snaps a sudden superkick that catches Emily right on the jaw.

Emily drops to a knee. The crowd erupts.

John Phillips: "Superkick! Valentina just rocked her!"

Mark Bravo: "That’s the kind of shot that can end a match if you follow it right."

Valentina wipes her mouth, eyes fierce, and backs up, ready to burst into something bigger—ready to press the advantage—while Emily shakes her head on one knee, trying to clear the fog and get her guard back up.

Valentina takes off—fast—looking to capitalize while Emily is still foggy. She hits the ropes and comes back with a running knee aimed at the jaw.

Emily slips to the side at the last second and catches Valentina in a sudden clinch, redirecting that speed into a hard slam—Valentina hits the mat and bounces, the air leaving her lungs.

John Phillips: "Emily used Valentina’s speed against her! Perfect timing!"

Mark Bravo: "That’s veteran instinct. You don’t try to outrun Valentina—you let her run into the wall."

Emily hooks the leg for a cover.

Referee: "One… two—"

Valentina kicks out, turning onto her side and immediately scooting away, trying to create distance. Emily doesn’t let her breathe—she grabs Valentina’s wrist and hauls her up into a tight front facelock, then drives her backward into the corner.

Emily begins delivering short, nasty body shots—ribs, ribs, then a forearm across the jaw. Valentina’s guard comes up late, eating the impact.

John Phillips: "Emily is working the body. If she can take Valentina’s gas tank, she takes away the champion’s greatest weapon."

Emily backs up two steps and charges in with a corner clothesline. Valentina slips out, and Emily hits the turnbuckles again—Valentina immediately springs onto the middle rope, using it like a trampoline, and snaps a quick kick to the side of Emily’s head.

Emily stumbles out of the corner. Valentina lands, turns, and fires a rapid combination—forearm, backfist, low kick—trying to keep Emily turning and off balance.

Mark Bravo: "Valentina is in that rhythm now—once she starts chaining, it’s hard to interrupt."

Valentina hits the ropes and comes back with a running dropkick to the chest that sends Emily back toward the ropes. Valentina pops up and follows with a second rope run, looking for something bigger—

Emily steps forward and catches her with a sudden spinebuster that flips Valentina down hard.

The crowd gasps at the impact.

John Phillips: "Spinebuster! Emily just cut her in half!"

Mark Bravo: "That’s the equalizer. That’s the ‘stop dancing’ button."

Emily rolls Valentina over and hooks both legs for a deeper cover.

Referee: "One… two…"

Valentina kicks out again—strong—but the kick-out is slower now. The champion rolls to her stomach, breathing harder, blinking like she’s recalibrating.

John Phillips: "Valentina still alive, but you can see the toll. Emily is making every counter count."

Emily rises and grabs Valentina by the arm, yanking her up into a standing position. She pulls Valentina in and snaps her down with a crisp suplex—then, without letting go, drags her right back up again.

Mark Bravo: "Emily’s starting to stack. This is where former champions remind you why they were champions."

Emily lifts again—Valentina blocks with her legs, hooking Emily’s ankle to prevent the lift. Valentina throws a quick elbow to the ribs, then another, and finally breaks free, staggering back toward the ropes.

Emily steps in—Valentina snaps a sudden superkick—Emily ducks under it and catches Valentina’s leg, trapping it.

John Phillips: "She caught the kick!"

Emily spins Valentina down with a dragon screw, twisting the knee and dumping Valentina to the mat. Valentina clutches at her leg, face twisting with pain as the crowd reacts to the change in target.

Mark Bravo: "Oh, that’s nasty. You attack the leg, you attack the speed. Emily is thinking like a thief—steal the thing Valentina needs most."

Emily drags Valentina toward the center and drops into a leg submission—tight, grounded—wrenching the knee and ankle in a painful knot.

John Phillips: "Submission attempt! Emily trying to force the tap!"

Valentina yells, hands slapping the mat—not tapping, just fighting. She rolls her hips, trying to relieve the pressure. Emily adjusts, tightening. Valentina reaches forward, trying to crawl—inch by inch—toward the ropes.

Valentina Blaze: "No! No!"

The crowd starts to clap, urging her forward. Valentina drags herself, fingertips stretching—Emily tries to pull her back—Valentina kicks with her free leg, forcing space, then finally manages to hook the bottom rope with her fingers.

Referee: "Rope break!"

Emily holds for a beat, then releases, standing over Valentina with a stare that says she’s not done and she’s not going away.

Emily Hightower: "You offered this. Now pay for it."

Valentina pulls herself up with the ropes, limping, shaking out the damaged leg, eyes fierce as she forces her posture tall again. The champion is hurt—but she’s still fighting, and the match is starting to feel like it’s leaning toward something bigger.

Valentina uses the ropes to pull herself upright, the leg wobbling as she tests it. Emily stands in the center, hands on her hips, breathing steady—waiting for Valentina to step away from the rope like a hunter waiting for prey to leave cover.

John Phillips: "Emily is changing the match. The speed is starting to get taxed. That leg is becoming a story."

Mark Bravo: "And this is what happens when you offer a rematch to someone like Emily Hightower—she doesn’t come back for a photo. She comes back with a plan."

Valentina pushes off the ropes and limps toward center ring, refusing to show the pain too much. Emily steps in and throws a sharp kick to the knee—Valentina flinches, but fires back with a quick forearm to the jaw.

Emily answers with a forearm of her own. Valentina answers again. They trade—two, three, four strikes—until Valentina suddenly changes levels and snaps a low kick to Emily’s thigh, trying to even the playing field.

Valentina Blaze: "You want my leg? Earn it."

Valentina bursts forward—imperfectly now, but still fast—ducking under Emily’s swing and springing off the middle rope into a quick corkscrew-style body splash that clips Emily and knocks her backward.

John Phillips: "Valentina finding flight even on one leg!"

Valentina crawls to Emily and hooks the leg for a cover, grimacing as she tries to plant weight on the bad knee.

Referee: "One… two—"

Emily kicks out and rolls immediately, preventing Valentina from chaining. Valentina pushes up, shaking out the leg, jaw set.

Mark Bravo: "That leg is affecting everything. Even the cover. Even the follow-up. That’s why Emily attacked it."

Valentina tries to keep the pace anyway—she hits the ropes and comes back with a running forearm—Emily catches her and snaps her down with a sudden powerslam that rattles the ring.

Emily floats into the cover.

Referee: "One… two—"

Valentina kicks out, rolling to her side and immediately clutching her ribs now too, the damage spreading.

John Phillips: "Near fall for Emily. This is turning into a war of attrition."

Emily drags Valentina up by the wrist and tries to whip her—Valentina stumbles on the bad leg but keeps moving. Emily steps in and tries another dragon screw—Valentina hops and twists, barely avoiding it, then snaps a sudden enzuigiri that catches Emily behind the ear.

Emily drops to a knee. Valentina uses the moment, sprints—limps—into the ropes, rebounds, and hits a running dropkick that knocks Emily down fully.

Mark Bravo: "Valentina is refusing to slow down. Even with the leg, she’s trying to keep it frantic."

Valentina backs into the corner, shaking her arms loose, then climbs—carefully—one step at a time. The crowd rises, sensing something big. Valentina steadies on the top rope, wincing as she puts weight on the damaged leg.

John Phillips: "High risk here. With a compromised leg, this is dangerous for the champion."

Valentina leaps—looking for a big splash—

Emily rolls out of the way.

Valentina crashes to the mat and clutches her knee instantly, pain flashing across her face. The entire building groans at the impact.

Mark Bravo: "Oh no. That landing… that landing is the nightmare."

Emily is on her immediately, grabbing the leg and twisting—yanking Valentina into a brutal single-leg crab variation, sitting deep and pulling the leg back while keeping her own weight low.

John Phillips: "Emily’s got the leg again! Deep submission!"

Valentina screams, clawing at the mat, reaching for the ropes. Emily drags her back toward center, scooting with her hips, refusing to let the champion find escape.

Emily Hightower: "Tap. Tap and I’ll stop."

Valentina shakes her head furiously, tears threatening from pain and frustration, but she refuses. She inches forward, forearms shaking. The crowd claps, chanting her name in rhythm.

Valentina Blaze: "I’m… not… done!"

Valentina finally manages to roll her hips and kick free with her other leg, forcing Emily to lose the angle. Valentina scrambles to the ropes again, pulling herself up—still limping, but still alive.

Emily stands and steps in quickly, looking to capitalize while Valentina is vulnerable—

Valentina snaps a desperate superkick that catches Emily flush.

Emily staggers back, stunned. Valentina, breathing hard, slaps her own chest and tries to summon one more burst—one more rally—while the crowd roars at the sudden swing.

Emily shakes her head, trying to clear the fog, but Valentina doesn’t give her the chance. The champion limps forward on pure willpower and fires another quick kick—lower this time—catching Emily in the thigh and forcing her stance to widen.

John Phillips: "Valentina is fighting through a compromised leg and still finding shots. That’s heart."

Mark Bravo: "That’s stubbornness too. But sometimes stubbornness wins championships."

Valentina hits the ropes—her stride uneven—rebounds and throws a running forearm that snaps Emily’s head to the side. She follows with a second, then a sharp backfist, trying to keep Emily turning, trying to keep her from setting her feet.

Emily answers by stepping in and catching Valentina by the waist, trying to throw her—Valentina slips out behind and clips Emily with a quick low dropkick to the knee. Emily drops to one knee again.

John Phillips: "Great adjustment by Valentina—if Emily is attacking her leg, Valentina’s returning the favor."

Valentina backs up, eyes locked, and calls her shot.

Valentina Blaze: "This is mine!"

She charges—trying to hit something decisive—Emily springs up and catches her, turning her momentum into a sudden scoop slam. Valentina crashes down and rolls, clutching her back, the bad knee twisting under her as she tries to sit up.

Mark Bravo: "Emily is still so strong in the clinch. Valentina can strike her, but if she gets caught, she gets planted."

Emily pounces, grabbing the leg again and yanking Valentina toward center. She tries to lace the leg into another submission—Valentina kicks free, scrambling and popping up with a flash of panic and fire.

Valentina runs—limps—toward the corner and uses the ropes to springboard, twisting in mid-air into a sharp kick that catches Emily across the face.

Emily stumbles back into the ropes. Valentina meets her there, grabbing the wrist and trying to whip her—Emily reverses—Valentina hits the ropes and rebounds—Emily swings a lariat—Valentina ducks and spins, snapping a quick spinning heel kick that clips Emily in the jaw.

Emily drops to a knee again, breathing harder now. The crowd rises, sensing that Valentina is building toward something.

John Phillips: "Emily is getting rocked in pockets. Valentina is finding those opening windows."

Valentina grabs Emily by the wrist, yanks her upright, and attempts a quick snap suplex—Emily blocks. They struggle—Valentina’s leg wobbles—Emily shifts her hips and lifts, turning it into a hard suplex of her own that drops Valentina again.

Emily hooks the leg.

Referee: "One… two—"

Valentina kicks out, shoulder up, but the kick-out is slower now. Emily sits up and immediately drags Valentina into a tight side headlock on the mat, grinding again, trying to smother the champion’s bursts.

Mark Bravo: "Emily’s doing the right thing. Don’t let Valentina breathe. Don’t let her reset. Make her live in the slow lanes."

Valentina tries to push up—Emily leans her weight down harder. Valentina’s face tightens; she shifts her hips and uses her legs to scissor Emily’s head, rolling through to break the hold again. Both women scramble up.

Valentina gets there first, but she’s limping. Emily sees it and charges—Valentina sidesteps at the last second, sending Emily into the turnbuckles. Valentina follows immediately with a running knee to the lower back—then grabs Emily’s arm and tries to pull her out of the corner.

Emily whips around and catches Valentina with a sudden elbow to the face, stopping her mid-motion. Valentina staggers back. Emily steps forward and plants her with a brutal DDT, spiking Valentina down.

John Phillips: "DDT! Emily just spiked her!"

Mark Bravo: "That could be it. That could be the end of the rematch."

Emily rolls Valentina over, hooks the leg tight, shoulders down.

Referee: "One… two—"

Valentina kicks out again—barely—but she kicks out. The crowd erupts at the resilience, and Emily’s expression flashes with frustration for the first time.

Emily Hightower: "Stay down!"

Emily grabs Valentina by the wrist and drags her up, looking to finish—looking to put a definitive stamp on the rematch—while Valentina sways on her feet, eyes narrowed, fighting through pain and refusing to let go of the championship she chose to defend this weekend.

Emily keeps hold of Valentina’s wrist and hauls her up. Valentina’s legs wobble—one knee clearly compromised—but she stays upright through grit and pure stubborn instinct. Emily pulls her in close, looking for another heavy, match-ending drop.

John Phillips: "Emily’s trying to end it right now. She’s looking for that one clean, decisive finish."

Emily hooks Valentina—Valentina slips her hips and twists out, landing a sudden forearm to the jaw. Emily answers with one of her own. Valentina answers back. They trade again—both exhausted, both refusing.

Mark Bravo: "You can tell this is deeper than a belt. This is ego. This is pride. This is ‘who are you when it hurts?’"

Valentina takes a step back, shakes out the bad leg, and fires a desperate superkick—Emily catches it again, trapping the leg under her arm.

John Phillips: "Emily caught it!"

Emily yanks Valentina forward, trying to dump her with another dragon screw—Valentina hops once, twice—then twists and rips her leg free at the last second, landing awkwardly but staying upright. Emily lunges—Valentina catches her with a sudden knee strike to the body, then a quick backfist to the cheek.

Emily stumbles back into the ropes. Valentina follows, grabs the top rope with one hand to steady herself, then springs forward with a running forearm that knocks Emily off the ropes and down to a knee.

John Phillips: "Valentina is fighting through everything. She’s finding ways!"

Mark Bravo: "That’s championship survival right there."

Valentina limps in and tries to hook Emily for a quick pinning combination—Emily shoves her off. Valentina rolls through, pops up, and hits the ropes again—almost stumbling—then comes back with a low dropkick that catches Emily in the shoulder and knocks her down fully.

The crowd rises as Valentina crawls into a cover, hooking the leg as best she can with the bad knee screaming.

Referee: "One… two—"

Emily kicks out hard, forcing Valentina to roll away. Valentina sits up, breathing heavy, eyes fierce—like she’s refusing to accept the concept of losing.

John Phillips: "I’ll tell you what—Valentina Blaze is showing the same kind of resilience we expect to see out of Chris Ross. That refusal to fold. That refusal to quit."

Mark Bravo: "That’s a great comparison. Chris Ross lives on grit and stubborn pride, and Valentina’s got that same engine tonight. You can’t teach that. You either have it or you don’t."

Valentina drags herself up using the ropes and gestures to the crowd, trying to pull noise into her lungs. Emily, meanwhile, rolls to her side, blinking, resetting her jaw, then pushes up with a calmer—but angrier—focus.

They stand at the same time. Valentina bounces once on the good leg, testing the bad one, then steps forward anyway. Emily meets her with a stiff chop—Valentina answers with a slap and a forearm. Emily answers with a kick to the knee. Valentina winces but fires back with a quick jab and a spinning back kick to the ribs that makes Emily grunt.

Emily Hightower: "You’re not taking this from me twice!"

Valentina Blaze: "Then come get it!"

Emily charges—Valentina sidesteps, tries to roll her up—Emily blocks and grabs the waist—Valentina slips behind and shoves Emily toward the corner. Valentina follows with a running knee to the lower back—then reaches up, climbing to the second rope with caution, leg trembling.

John Phillips: "Valentina is going upstairs again, but that leg—"

Valentina leaps from the second rope into a twisting strike—Emily catches her in mid-air and slams her down with a brutal spinebuster, rattling the ring and drawing a roar from the crowd.

Mark Bravo: "Caught! Emily is not letting her fly anymore!"

Emily sits up, hair falling across her face, breathing hard now too. She wipes her mouth, then grabs Valentina’s leg again—immediately—trying to trap it and end it in pain if she can’t end it in three.

Emily turns the leg and starts to lace it—Valentina fights, twisting, kicking, crawling—trying to get away before the hold locks in. Emily drags her back toward center, hands tight on the ankle and knee.

John Phillips: "Emily is going right back to the knee. She knows what that means. She knows if she can immobilize Valentina, she can take the title back."

Valentina, face contorted, plants her free foot and boots Emily in the shoulder—once—twice—forcing Emily to release and stumble back. Valentina rolls away, pulling herself up by the ropes again, refusing to die.

Emily stands and stalks forward. Valentina turns from the ropes, both hands raised, chest heaving—ready to fight again, even if she’s running on fumes.

Emily closes in with purpose—no wasted steps—hands up, ready to grab that leg again, ready to drag Valentina back down. Valentina steadies herself on the ropes for half a breath, then steps forward anyway, chin lifted like she’s daring Emily to take it.

John Phillips: "Valentina’s body is screaming at her to stop, and she’s ignoring it."

Mark Bravo: "That’s what champions do. And it’s why she offered the rematch—because she believes she can survive it."

Emily throws a stiff kick toward the knee—Valentina checks it as best she can, then fires a quick forearm to the jaw. Emily answers with a forearm of her own, snapping Valentina’s head to the side.

Valentina’s hand goes to her mouth. She wipes, sees a hint of red, and her eyes sharpen.

Valentina Blaze: "Okay… okay."

She bursts—limping but fast—into the ropes, rebounds, and catches Emily with a running dropkick that sends Emily into the corner. Valentina follows immediately, rushing in with a corner forearm—then another—trying to keep Emily trapped.

John Phillips: "Valentina’s trying to stack in the corner. If she can keep Emily pinned there, she can buy her leg time to recover."

Valentina backs up, looking for one more corner shot—Emily steps out suddenly and catches Valentina charging, scooping her up and slamming her down hard. Valentina bounces and rolls, clutching her back, the knee twisting again as she tries to sit up.

Mark Bravo: "Emily’s counters are so clean. She’s not wasting motion—she’s just redirecting Valentina into impact."

Emily grabs Valentina by the wrist and pulls her up. Valentina throws a desperate elbow—Emily ducks under it and hooks Valentina’s waist, lifting her into a tight, controlled slam that plants her again.

Emily doesn’t go for the cover this time. She immediately grabs the leg and twists, trying to force the knee to comply. Valentina screams and kicks with her free foot, trying to knock Emily away.

John Phillips: "Emily’s not even chasing the three count right now. She’s chasing control—she wants Valentina unable to explode."

Emily steps through the legs, trying to set up another punishing submission. Valentina claws at the mat, twisting her hips, refusing to let Emily lock it in clean. Emily adjusts, trying to cinch—Valentina suddenly rolls through, grabbing Emily’s arm and yanking her forward into a small-package pinning predicament.

Referee: "One… two—"

Emily kicks out, but the sudden pin forces her to break her grip and scramble. Valentina rolls away and springs up—barely—then fires a sharp superkick that catches Emily flush and knocks her back into the ropes.

The crowd erupts again.

Mark Bravo: "Valentina is surviving on surprise right now. Every burst is a jailbreak."

Emily rebounds off the ropes, stumbling forward—Valentina meets her with a spinning back kick to the ribs, then grabs the wrist and tries to whip her. Emily reverses—Valentina hits the ropes and comes back—Emily swings for a lariat—Valentina ducks, spins, and snaps an enzuigiri that catches Emily behind the ear.

Emily drops to one knee. Valentina, breathing hard, sees the opening and backs toward the corner, slapping her own chest again, trying to summon one last big sequence.

John Phillips: "Valentina loading up. She’s looking for something definitive."

Valentina charges—going for a big running knee—Emily catches her again, wrapping the waist and lifting—Valentina twists mid-air and lands behind, shoving Emily forward. Emily turns—Valentina hits a sharp step-up knee to the face, staggering Emily back.

Valentina tries to follow with a second strike—her bad leg buckles for half a second—and Emily immediately capitalizes, grabbing the leg and sweeping it out from under her.

Valentina crashes down, clutching the knee, face twisted in pain.

Mark Bravo: "That’s it. One wobble and Emily pounced. That leg is the whole match now."

Emily steps through and turns, beginning to lace the leg into a deep, ugly hold again—Valentina’s hands fly to Emily’s boot, trying to pry it off before it locks. Emily grits her teeth and pulls back, trying to cinch it tighter.

Valentina screams, then scrambles, twisting her body sideways, inching toward the ropes with pure desperation as the crowd claps and chants again, pushing her forward.

John Phillips: "Valentina’s trapped—she’s got to find the rope or this is over!"

Valentina stretches—fingertips reaching—eyes squeezed shut—dragging herself inch by inch…

…until her hand finally slaps the bottom rope.

Referee: "Rope break!"

Emily releases and sits back on her heels, frustration flashing again. Valentina clutches the rope, breathing like she’s trying to inhale the entire arena.

Emily Hightower: "You can’t keep doing that."

Valentina Blaze: "Watch me."

Emily stands and backs into her corner for a second, measuring. Valentina pulls herself up again—slow, limping, but refusing—and both women stare across the ring at each other, the match balanced on a knife’s edge… and still not ready to end.

Emily rolls her shoulders and steps out of her corner with purpose, eyes locked on Valentina’s knee like it’s a target painted in neon. Valentina stands near the ropes, still shaking the leg out, forcing herself to bounce just enough to look steady.

John Phillips: "This match has turned into a battle over one limb. Emily keeps coming back to the leg, and Valentina keeps finding ways to survive."

Mark Bravo: "And let’s not forget—Valentina chose this. Day One, she looked Emily in the eye and offered the rematch. No ducking. No waiting. She said, 'Come take it.' Now Emily’s trying to take it with interest."

Emily closes distance and reaches for the leg—Valentina snaps a quick forearm to the jaw to keep her honest, then a second forearm. Emily answers with a short elbow that catches Valentina on the cheek and staggers her back.

Emily immediately hooks the waist and tries to throw Valentina down—Valentina twists free and chops the chest, then fires a quick kick to the body. Emily absorbs it and steps in with a stiff kick to the knee again.

Valentina winces, but she explodes anyway—she darts past Emily, hits the ropes, and rebounds into a flying forearm that knocks Emily backward. Valentina follows with a low dropkick to the shin that drops Emily to a knee.

John Phillips: "Valentina is fighting on instinct right now. She’s not letting Emily get set."

Valentina grabs Emily’s wrist and yanks her up, trying to build to something bigger—Emily shoves her off and swings a lariat—Valentina ducks and tries to springboard off the ropes.

Her bad leg slips for half a beat.

Emily pounces, catching her mid-launch and driving her down with a hard slam. Valentina bounces and grabs at her ribs again, the damage stacking.

Mark Bravo: "Every time the leg betrays her for even a second, Emily’s there. Like a shark smelling blood."

Emily drags Valentina toward the center and drops into a cover.

Referee: "One… two—"

Valentina kicks out again, but it’s labored. Emily doesn’t waste time—she grabs the leg and twists, trying to drag Valentina into another deep hold.

Valentina lashes out with her free foot, booting Emily in the shoulder—then again—forcing Emily to release and stumble back.

Valentina rolls to the apron, using the ropes to pull herself upright. Emily charges—Valentina drops her shoulder and snaps the top rope down, sending Emily spilling chest-first over the rope to the floor.

John Phillips: "Emily to the outside!"

Mark Bravo: "That’s a veteran move by Valentina. Buy yourself two seconds. Two seconds is oxygen."

Valentina takes a breath on the apron, shaking out the knee. The crowd claps, trying to pull her back to life. Emily pushes up on the floor, jaw tight, and looks up at Valentina with a glare that could cut glass.

Valentina steps along the apron, lining up—then launches into a diving forearm to the outside that catches Emily and knocks her back a step. The crowd erupts.

John Phillips: "Valentina took the risk! She hit her on the floor!"

Valentina lands and immediately favors the knee, but she grits her teeth and presses forward, rolling Emily back toward the ring. She tries to slide Emily in—Emily resists, grabbing the apron and pulling herself back out.

Valentina reaches down to grab her—Emily snatches the leg and yanks, pulling Valentina off-balance. Valentina drops hard on the apron edge, clutching the knee as the crowd groans.

Mark Bravo: "And Emily goes right back to it. The leg. Always the leg."

Emily steps in and drives Valentina’s knee into the ring post—sharp and brutal. Valentina yells out, collapsing to the floor and clutching the joint like it’s on fire.

John Phillips: "No! Knee into the post!"

Emily rolls Valentina back into the ring and slides in after her, hooking the leg tight for the cover.

Referee: "One… two…"

Valentina kicks out—barely—shoulder lifting at the last possible moment. The crowd explodes at the survival.

John Phillips: "She got out! Valentina is refusing to let this title go!"

Mark Bravo: "That’s that Chris Ross kind of grit again—just refusing to die when the math says you should."

Emily sits up, furious now, and grabs Valentina’s leg immediately, twisting into a brutal kneebar-style angle, trying to hyperextend the joint. Valentina screams, hands pounding the mat, face contorted.

Emily Hightower: "Give it back!"

Valentina drags herself forward on her elbows, inch by inch, eyes squeezed shut. Emily tries to pull her back—Valentina kicks wildly with her free foot, catching Emily in the face and forcing her to loosen the hold for a split second.

Valentina uses that split second to roll—twisting her hips—slipping her knee free and scrambling toward the ropes again.

John Phillips: "If Emily locks that fully, it’s over. Valentina has to escape!"

Valentina grabs the ropes and hauls herself up, limping badly now. Emily rises too, stalking forward with the calm of someone who believes she’s already won—she just hasn’t collected it yet.

Emily swings a lariat—Valentina ducks and snaps a desperate superkick that catches Emily flush. Emily staggers. Valentina fires a second superkick—Emily drops to a knee.

The crowd rises, roaring, as Valentina steadies herself and looks like she’s about to gamble everything on one last burst.

John Phillips: "Valentina has Emily rocked—this could be her window!"

Valentina steps back, breathing hard, measuring… and Emily, on one knee, looks up with a stubborn glare that says she’s not done either.

Emily rises from that second superkick on one knee like a woman too stubborn to stay rocked. She shakes her head once, hard, and swats Valentina’s leg out from under her with a brutal sweep—Valentina’s bad knee buckles and she crashes to the mat.

John Phillips: "Emily Hightower just took the foundation out from under the champion!"

Mark Bravo: "That’s it! That’s how you beat Valentina Blaze—take away the legs, take away the speed, take away the spark!"

Valentina crawls—instinctively—toward the ropes. Emily is on her immediately, hauling her back by the ankle and dragging her to center ring like she’s pulling a door shut. Emily steps through and snaps the leg again, twisting the knee with a vicious torque that makes Valentina scream.

Valentina Blaze: "Ahhh—!"

Emily releases just long enough to stand over her, chest heaving, eyes narrowed. She points down at Valentina and the championship belt at ringside like she can already see it coming back to her shoulder.

Emily Hightower: "Mine."

Emily grabs Valentina by the wrist and yanks her up into a front facelock, then drives her down with a sharp DDT—clean, decisive—center ring.

The crowd gasps as Valentina bounces off the mat and lies there, blinking, trying to find her bearings through pain.

John Phillips: "DDT again! Emily’s got the champion in deep waters!"

Emily hooks the leg tight—stacking Valentina down—shoulders flat.

Referee: "One… two…"

Valentina’s shoulder twitches—barely—

—and Emily yanks her up before the count can finish, frustration turning into a storm. She doesn’t want a lucky escape. She wants a statement.

Mark Bravo: "Oh, she’s not even taking the three. Emily wants to break her. She wants to take that title back and make it hurt."

Emily pulls Valentina upright and rocks her with a forearm, then another. Valentina wobbles on the bad knee, trying to swing back, but Emily catches her with a stiff kick to the knee that drops her again.

Emily backs up—measuring—then charges with a running knee strike that smashes into Valentina’s ribs and folds her in half.

John Phillips: "Emily is pouring it on—this could be it!"

Emily drags Valentina up by the hair and wrist—just enough to stand her—then snaps her down with a heavy slam and immediately drops into another cover, hooking deep, leaning her weight forward.

Referee: "One… two—"

Valentina kicks out again—barely—but the motion is slower, weaker. Emily sits up, eyes blazing. She looks toward the hard cam for a split second like she’s letting the whole world know what’s next.

Emily Hightower: "You should’ve never offered it!"

Emily pulls Valentina up one more time, cinching her in—setting for something bigger, something final—

And then the camera catches movement in the crowd.

Someone vaults the barricade.

John Phillips: "Hey—HEY!"

Mark Bravo: "What the—"

The figure hits the floor at ringside and slides into the ring like a missile—no hesitation—no security in sight—

—and SPEARS EMILY HIGHTOWER nearly in half.

The arena detonates into shock.

John Phillips: "SPEAR! SPEAR TO EMILY HIGHTOWER!"

Mark Bravo: "WHO IS THAT—"

The intruder pops up, hair wild, eyes furious, breathing like she’s been holding this in since the opening bell of the weekend.

John Phillips: "IT’S GRAYSIE PARKER! IT’S GRAYSIE PARKER!"

Mark Bravo: "She lost the opening ladder match! She LOST the contract match—she shouldn’t even be here!"

Graysie stands over Emily with a snarl, then stomps down—once, twice—pure rage. Emily tries to crawl toward the ropes, stunned, and Graysie drags her back by the ankle and hammers her with clubbing forearms.

John Phillips: "This is not sanctioned! This is not part of the match!"

The referee immediately waves his arms and calls for the bell.

Referee: "Call for the bell! Call for the bell!"

DING DING DING!

John Phillips: "The referee has called for the bell! This match is thrown out!"

Mark Bravo: "Graysie Parker is furious! She’s supposed to be on her way out of this weekend with nothing—no contract, no briefcase—and she’s taking it out on everybody!"

Graysie turns—sees Valentina trying to pull herself up using the ropes—still the champion, still breathing, still fighting—

—and Graysie storms across the ring and blasts her with a spear too, driving Valentina down with violent force.

John Phillips: "NO! She just speared the champion!"

Mark Bravo: "This is anger! This is somebody snapping!"

Valentina clutches her knee and ribs, rolling in agony. Graysie doesn’t care. She rains down punches—fast, reckless—rage spilling out with every strike.

Valentina Blaze: "Get—off—!"

Emily tries to sit up—Graysie turns and stomps her back down, then snaps her head up by the hair and screams in her face.

Graysie Parker: "I WAS SUPPOSED TO HAVE THAT!"

John Phillips: "She lost the ladder match earlier for the one-year contract—she lost her shot—and now she’s here hijacking a championship bout!"

Mark Bravo: "She shouldn’t be in this ring, she shouldn’t be in this building, and somebody needs to get out here right now!"

Graysie stands in the center of the ring, chest heaving, glaring at both women—Emily down and stunned, Valentina down and clutching her leg—then she kicks at the Women’s United States title belt at ringside, knocking it off the table like it disgusts her.

Officials finally start pouring down the ramp—security late, but coming fast—while the crowd roars in a mix of shock, anger, and adrenaline.

John Phillips: "This is chaos on Day Two! Graysie Parker is making a statement the worst way possible!"

Mark Bravo: "She’s sending a message: if she can’t have the contract, nobody gets to have a clean win. That’s what this is!"

Graysie backs into the corner, eyes still burning, refusing to leave as officials step onto the apron—while Emily and Valentina both try to recover in the wreckage of a match that was seconds away from crowning a possible new champion.

Black screen.

No music. No crowd.

Just the low hum of electricity.

Fade in.

A small, nondescript room. Concrete walls. One narrow window high near the ceiling letting in cold, gray light. Somewhere far from the arena. Somewhere forgotten.

Eli Creed stands near the window, hands clasped behind his back, staring out at nothing in particular. His posture is calm. Deliberate. Still.

Across the room, Troy Lindz sits on a metal folding chair. Street clothes. Hood up. Elbows resting on knees. Head lowered.

No bags. No gear. No preparation for a match.

John Phillips: “This isn’t a locker room.”

Mark Bravo: “No. This feels like somewhere you go to think… or to decide.”

The camera lingers. Time stretches.

Troy finally breaks the silence.

Troy Lindz: “They’re loud tonight.”

Eli doesn’t turn.

Eli Creed: “They’re always loud.”

A beat.

Eli Creed: “That’s how they hide from themselves.”

Troy exhales through their nose, a short, humorless breath.

Troy Lindz: “Chris Ross. Trey Mack. Titles. Contracts.”

Troy lifts their head slightly.

Troy Lindz: “Everyone out there chasing something.”

Eli finally turns from the window.

Eli Creed: “Chasing implies movement.”

He steps closer, stopping a few feet away.

Eli Creed: “Most of them are just running in circles.”

Troy leans back in the chair, eyes fixed on the floor now.

Troy Lindz: “And me?”

Eli studies them for a long moment before answering.

Eli Creed: “You’re learning how not to.”

That lands.

Troy clenches their jaw, then nods once.

Troy Lindz: “They think the punch was the story.”

Eli’s expression hardens slightly.

Eli Creed: “No.”

He steps closer.

Eli Creed: “The punch was punctuation.”

Troy looks up at him now.

Troy Lindz: “So what’s this?”

Eli gestures vaguely around the room.

Eli Creed: “This is the space between.”

Another pause.

Eli Creed: “Between reaction and intent. Between noise and meaning.”

Troy stands slowly, the chair scraping lightly across the floor.

Troy Lindz: “I don’t feel finished.”

Eli allows himself the smallest smile.

Eli Creed: “Good.”

He steps aside, clearing Troy’s path to the door—but Troy doesn’t move toward it.

Troy Lindz: “I’m not going back yet.”

Eli nods.

Eli Creed: “You’re not supposed to.”

Troy pulls the hood back, standing taller now. Calmer.

Troy Lindz: “Let them think I disappeared.”

Eli meets their eyes.

Eli Creed: “Disappearance creates anticipation.”

Troy nods once more.

No handshake. No embrace.

Just understanding.

Eli turns back toward the window.

Eli Creed: “Break wasn’t an ending.”

Troy Lindz: “It was a lesson.”

Eli Creed: “Bend wasn’t failure.”

Troy Lindz: “It was survival.”

A final beat.

Eli Creed: “And build…”

Troy finishes it quietly.

Troy Lindz: “Happens when no one is watching.”

The camera pulls back as the two stand in silence, separated by purpose, connected by intent.

Fade to black.

Text fades in:

BREAK.

BEND.

BUILD.

Fade out.

Black screen.

The sound of waves hitting concrete.

Fade in.

Long Beach, California.

Early morning light cuts across cracked sidewalks. Palm trees sway in the distance. Trey Mack walks alone, hood up, hands in his pockets. Streetwear. Sneakers scuffed from miles, not fashion.

He passes murals. Corner stores. Faded signage that’s seen better decades.

Trey’s voice comes in—low, steady, unpolished.

Trey Mack: “I came up right here.”

Quick cuts: alleyways, chain-link fences, the shoreline, a bus rolling past.

Trey Mack: “Ain’t nobody handin’ out nothin’. Not hope. Not chances. Not mercy.”

Trey stops at a familiar corner. Looks around. A beat.

Trey Mack: “Where I’m from, you learn early… if you don’t take what’s yours, somebody else will.”

Cut.

Old boxing gym. The kind that smells like sweat and rust. Flickering fluorescent lights. Peeling paint. A heavy bag hangs crooked.

Trey, shirtless now, hands wrapped. He drives a brutal combination into the bag. THUD. THUD. THUD.

Trey Mack: “I ain’t supposed to be here.”

Hard punches. The chain rattles. The bag swings wild.

Trey Mack: “Coulda been another statistic.”

Faster cuts.

Hooks. Uppercuts. Sweat flying.

Trey Mack: “Another Black man dead.”

Punch.

Trey Mack: “Or locked up.”

Punch.

Trey leans against the ropes, breathing hard.

Trey Mack: “But my momma didn’t raise no fool.”

He straightens.

Trey Mack: “And she damn sure didn’t raise no punk bitch.”

Cut.

Rapid montage.

Trey Mack in other promotions—launching into a moonsault.

Standing moonsault.

Flying splash.

A heavyweight moving like gravity don’t apply.

Trey Mack: “I earned every ounce of this.”

Back to the gym. Trey drives the bag back with everything he’s got.

Trey Mack: “Every mile. Every bruise.”

Punch.

Trey Mack: “Every door slammed in my face.”

Punch.

Trey Mack: “And yeah…”

The bag snaps off center.

Trey Mack: “Sometimes I had to take it from the ones holdin’ me down.”

Cut.

Quick flash: Chris Ross being ambushed by Clovis Black on Day 1.

Another flash: Ross hit again at the start of Day 2.

Back to Trey in the gym, staring into the mirror.

Trey Mack: “Tonight ain’t no different.”

Cut.

Nightfall. Long Beach skyline in the background.

Trey Mack stands still now. Arms crossed. Expression cold. Confident. Unapologetic.

Trey Mack: “They didn’t wanna give me what I earned.”

A beat.

Trey Mack: “So I took it.”

He lifts his head, eyes locked forward.

Trey Mack: “Just like I’m gonna take that belt off Chris Ross.”

The image darkens.

One last shot of Trey Mack, silhouetted against the city.

Trey Mack: “I’m Trey Mack.”

Trey Mack: “Tonight…”

A pause.

Trey Mack: “I become the UTA Champion.”

Cut to black.

The arena lights drop.

Not all the way to black—just enough to drain the color from the room.

A low, heavy bassline rolls through the building, slow and deliberate, like a heartbeat echoing through concrete.

John Phillips: “Here we go.”

Mark Bravo: “This just got real.”

Purple and gold lights pulse faintly along the entranceway.

Then—movement.

Trey Mack steps through the curtain first.

Streetwear. Hood up. No rush. No bounce this time. Just a measured walk forward, eyes locked on the ring like he’s already pictured the ending.

The bassline thickens as Trey rolls his shoulders once, cracks his neck, and takes another step down the ramp.

John Phillips: “This is not the playful Trey Mack we’ve seen before.”

Mark Bravo: “Nah. This is ‘business at midnight’ Trey Mack.”

A step behind him…

Clovis Black emerges from the shadows.

No music. No gesture. Just presence.

Hood up. Sleeveless coat hanging heavy off his frame. His eyes don’t scan the crowd—they cut straight through it.

The reaction is immediate. A ripple of unease rolls through the arena.

John Phillips: “And there’s Clovis Black.”

Mark Bravo: “I don’t like that he’s quiet. Quiet means he’s thinking.”

Trey doesn’t look back.

He doesn’t need to.

Clovis follows half a step behind, close enough to be felt but not close enough to be instructed. This isn’t bodyguard energy. This is warning energy.

Trey reaches the midpoint of the ramp and stops.

He slowly lifts his head and looks out over the crowd.

No smile. No taunt.

Just a nod—like he’s acknowledging that all of this exists… but it doesn’t change anything.

Mark Bravo: “That man believes this is already his.”

John Phillips: “Confidence or delusion—we’re about to find out.”

Trey resumes the walk, boots thudding against the ramp with purpose.

At ringside, he stops again.

He looks at the ring.

Then he looks at the UTA Championship resting on the timekeeper’s table.

For just a moment, his jaw tightens.

Clovis steps closer now, finally drawing level with Trey.

He leans in—not whispering, not speaking—just close enough to remind everyone that Trey Mack is not walking into this alone.

John Phillips: “Clovis Black has been looming over this entire night.”

Mark Bravo: “And you don’t bring a man like that unless you expect trouble.”

Trey steps up onto the apron and wipes his boots carefully.

Deliberate. Respectful. Ritual.

He steps through the ropes and enters the ring.

Once inside, he moves to the center and slowly spreads his arms—not wide, not flashy—just enough to feel the building.

Clovis remains at ringside.

Arms crossed. Back straight. Eyes locked on the ring like it’s his job to make sure nothing interferes with the outcome.

Mark Bravo: “You feel that, JP? That’s pressure.”

John Phillips: “Trey Mack looks ready. Clovis Black looks dangerous. And we haven’t even seen the champion yet.”

Trey backs into his corner and pulls the hood down.

He finally cracks a grin—small, sharp, confident.

He taps his chest once.

Then he turns his eyes toward the entranceway.

Waiting.

The camera lingers on Trey Mack in his corner, elbows resting casually on the ropes. He looks loose. Too loose for a man about to fight for the biggest prize in the company.

John Phillips: “This is the calm before the storm, Mark. Trey Mack looks like a man who thinks the work is already done.”

Mark Bravo: “That confidence is dangerous, JP. But so is overconfidence—especially when you’re staring down a champion like Chris Ross.”

Trey rolls his neck slowly, eyes drifting to Clovis Black at ringside. Clovis doesn’t nod. Doesn’t react. He just stands there, unmoving, like a sentry.

John Phillips: “Clovis Black has already left his mark on this night. Chris Ross didn’t even make it into the building clean.”

Mark Bravo: “And Ross waved off medical. Tough guy move. Brave… or stupid.”

Trey steps forward, resting his forearms on the top rope, staring toward the entrance with a half-smirk.

Mark Bravo: “Look at that. That’s not a man worried about payback.”

John Phillips: “No—but it’s a man daring it to show up.”

The lights in the arena dim again.

The crowd begins to buzz—anticipation rippling outward as the final piece of the night falls into place.

Trey straightens, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet now. His jaw tightens just a bit.

Mark Bravo: “You can say what you want about Trey Mack, but he knows how to flip the switch.”

John Phillips: “Because the champion is next.”

Clovis Black shifts for the first time, stepping closer to the ring steps, eyes locked on the entranceway.

Trey wipes his hands together once, slow and deliberate.

The arena falls into that familiar hush—the kind that only happens when everyone knows what’s coming.

The champion is about to arrive.

A single note cuts through the arena.

Sharp. Familiar.

The crowd erupts as the lights snap to full intensity, white and gold flooding the entranceway.

John Phillips: “There he is.”

Mark Bravo: “And listen to this place.”

Chris Ross steps through the curtain.

UTA Championship strapped firmly around his waist. Ring gear on. Tape tight around his ribs. Jaw set.

There’s no wasted motion. No pose. No theatrics.

Just the champion.

John Phillips: “You want to talk about pressure? That man has carried this company on his back.”

Mark Bravo: “And he’s doing it tonight hurt. That’s not speculation—that’s fact.”

Ross pauses at the top of the ramp and looks out at the crowd. The reaction swells even louder.

He nods once. Short. Appreciative.

Then his eyes lock onto the ring.

More specifically—onto Trey Mack.

John Phillips: “These two have been circling each other all night.”

Mark Bravo: “And Trey Mack’s grin just disappeared.”

Indeed, Trey’s smile fades. He straightens fully now, posture tightening.

At ringside, Clovis Black’s jaw clenches. His eyes never leave Ross.

Ross starts down the ramp.

Every step deliberate. No rush. The belt glints under the lights with each movement.

John Phillips: “Chris Ross isn’t here to chase. He’s here to defend.”

Mark Bravo: “And you defend different than you attack.”

Halfway down the ramp, Ross stops.

He lifts the championship belt and turns slightly, showing it to the crowd on both sides.

The reaction is thunderous.

John Phillips: “That championship means something around here.”

Mark Bravo: “And tonight, somebody’s gonna try to take it.”

Ross lowers the belt and resumes his walk.

At ringside, he stops in front of Clovis Black.

The two lock eyes.

Clovis doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

Ross doesn’t flinch.

Mark Bravo: “That stare-down right there? That’s gasoline.”

Ross steps past Clovis and climbs the ring steps.

He steps through the ropes and enters the ring.

Inside, Trey Mack moves toward the center. The two stand face to face.

No words. No shoving.

Just tension.

John Phillips: “This is the main event. This is what Brand New Day was built around.”

Ross slowly unfastens the championship belt and hands it to the referee.

The referee holds it high.

The crowd roars.

Ross backs into his corner, eyes never leaving Trey.

Trey rolls his shoulders once more, exhaling.

Clovis Black takes one step back from the apron, arms crossed again.

Mark Bravo: “Everything else tonight was buildup.”

John Phillips: “This… is the moment.”

The referee signals for the bell.

It rings.

The UTA Championship match is underway.

The bell echoes through the arena.

Trey Mack doesn’t rush.

He steps out of his corner slowly, chin high, eyes locked on Chris Ross. Ross stands still, hands low, breathing measured.

Mark Bravo: “Look at this. Trey Mack wants to talk before he wants to fight.”

Trey circles once, then stops directly in front of the champion.

Trey Mack: “This it?”

Ross doesn’t respond.

Trey Mack: “This the guy they said runs this place?”

The crowd reacts loudly. Ross remains unmoved.

John Phillips: “Chris Ross is absorbing this. He’s done this dance before.”

Trey leans in closer.

Trey Mack: “You look tired, old man.”

Ross’s jaw tightens—but he still doesn’t swing.

Mark Bravo: “That’s experience right there. Let him talk.”

Trey smirks.

He reaches out…

…and shoves Ross’s face to the side with an open hand.

The crowd gasps.

John Phillips: “Ohhh, you don’t do that.”

Ross turns his head back slowly.

Then—

CRACK.

A thunderous right hand from Chris Ross snaps Trey Mack’s head back.

Mark Bravo: “WELCOME TO THE UTA!”

Ross follows immediately with another right. And another.

Trey staggers backward, hands coming up too late as Ross unloads with heavy, clubbing shots, driving him toward the ropes.

John Phillips: “Ross has had enough!”

Trey tries to cover up—Ross rips a right to the body, then a right to the jaw.

Trey stumbles into the corner.

Ross closes the distance and fires again—big right hand after big right hand, the crowd roaring with each impact.

Mark Bravo: “This is what happens when you wake the bear!”

The referee steps in, urging Ross to back off.

Ross takes one step back—then steps right back in with one final, brutal right hand that drops Trey to a knee.

John Phillips: “Chris Ross sending a message early!”

Trey Mack kneels near the corner, blinking, trying to shake the cobwebs loose.

Ross stands over him, breathing hard, eyes locked on his challenger.

Chris Ross: “Welcome to the UTA.”

The crowd explodes.

Clovis Black takes a slow step closer at ringside, eyes narrowing.

The war has officially begun.

Trey Mack shakes his head violently, forcing himself back to his feet using the ropes. His expression has changed—no grin now, no swagger.

John Phillips: “That woke him up.”

Mark Bravo: “Yeah, and sometimes that’s the most dangerous version of a guy like Trey Mack.”

Trey steps forward and swings wildly—Ross ducks under it and fires another right hand that snaps Trey’s head to the side.

Ross follows with a short knee to the midsection, doubling Trey over.

John Phillips: “Ross staying compact. Staying violent.”

Ross grabs a front headlock and snaps Trey down to the mat, then immediately drops a forearm across the upper back.

Trey rolls to his side, clutching at his ribs.

Mark Bravo: “And remember—those ribs were taped earlier, JP. Ross is zeroing in.”

Ross hauls Trey back up by the arm and whips him hard into the ropes. Trey rebounds—Ross plants him with a stiff shoulder block that sends him flipping onto his back.

The crowd pops loudly.

John Phillips: “The champion in control!”

Ross backs up a step and gestures for Trey to get up.

Mark Bravo: “That’s confidence—but it’s also bait.”

Trey pushes himself up slowly, eyes locked on Ross. As Ross steps in, Trey suddenly explodes—low kick to the thigh, then another.

Ross stumbles just slightly.

John Phillips: “There’s that shift! Trey Mack changing levels!”

Trey fires a sharp forearm, then another, backing Ross up toward the ropes. He follows with a quick snap kick to the ribs.

Mark Bravo: “Smart target. Very smart.”

Ross grits his teeth and answers with a heavy chop to the chest that echoes through the arena.

Trey winces—but fires back with a blistering forearm smash.

The two trade strikes in the center of the ring, each shot drawing louder reactions from the crowd.

John Phillips: “This is turning into a fight!”

Ross gains the advantage again—right hand, then a second—sending Trey back into the ropes. Ross shoots him off—

—Trey ducks under and leaps!

Ross turns just in time to see Trey fly—standing dropkick catches Ross square in the chest, sending him crashing into the corner.

Mark Bravo: “There’s the athleticism!”

Trey doesn’t stop. He charges and follows with a running forearm, then pulls Ross out of the corner and snaps him down with a sudden neckbreaker.

Ross hits the mat hard.

Trey drops to a knee beside him, breathing hard, nodding to himself.

John Phillips: “Trey Mack has found his footing.”

At ringside, Clovis Black folds his arms tighter, eyes tracking every movement.

Trey looks down at Ross… and says just loud enough to be heard:

Trey Mack: “Now we fight.”

The crowd roars as Trey pulls Ross back to his feet.

This main event is officially underway.

Trey pulls Ross up by the wrist and fires him into the ropes again. Ross rebounds—Trey leapfrogs, turns, and explodes forward with a running back elbow that rocks the champion.

John Phillips: “That speed from a heavyweight is unreal.”

Mark Bravo: “You blink and he’s already airborne.”

Ross stumbles but stays upright. Trey charges again—Ross sidesteps and hammers him with a short right hand that stops him in his tracks.

Trey shakes it off and fires back with a kick to the ribs. Ross grunts, absorbing it, then answers with a stiff forearm to the jaw.

John Phillips: “These two are daring each other to fall.”

Trey snaps a quick knee into Ross’s midsection and whips him into the corner. He rushes in—Ross explodes out with a sudden clothesline that flips Trey inside out.

The crowd erupts.

Mark Bravo: “That’s veteran timing right there!”

Ross drops to one knee, breathing hard, then crawls over and hooks the leg.

John Phillips: “Cover!”

One.

Two—

Trey kicks out hard, rolling his shoulder and pushing Ross away.

Mark Bravo: “Too early. But that’ll get your attention.”

Ross rises and grabs Trey by the head, pulling him up for another right—Trey ducks under and sweeps Ross’s leg out from under him.

Ross hits the mat on his side. Trey follows with a quick stomp to the ribs, then another.

John Phillips: “Trey Mack staying on those ribs.”

Trey backs up two steps, measuring—then leaps, driving a standing moonsault down across Ross’s torso.

Ross cries out, rolling toward the ropes.

Mark Bravo: “That’s 250 pounds moving like a cruiserweight!”

Trey hooks the leg this time.

One.

Two—

Ross kicks out, grimacing as he clutches his side.

John Phillips: “Ross is hurt.”

Mark Bravo: “And Trey Mack knows it.”

Trey sits up and smirks, nodding again. He grabs Ross by the chin, forcing him to look up.

Trey Mack: “You feel that yet?”

Ross answers by grabbing Trey’s wrist and yanking him forward into a sudden headbutt.

Trey staggers backward, stunned.

John Phillips: “Desperation from the champion!”

Ross pushes himself up, shaking off the pain, and unloads with another heavy right hand, then another, driving Trey back toward the ropes again.

The crowd rises to its feet.

Mark Bravo: “This is turning ugly—and we’re still early.”

Ross whips Trey across the ring—Trey rebounds and launches himself—flying crossbody!

Ross catches him.

In one motion, Ross pivots and slams Trey down hard with a powerslam that rattles the mat.

John Phillips: “What strength!”

Ross rolls through, staying on top, and presses Trey down for another cover.

One.

Two—

Trey kicks out again.

Ross sits back on his heels, breathing hard, sweat already dripping from his brow.

Mark Bravo: “Neither one of these guys is giving an inch.”

At ringside, Clovis Black steps closer to the apron, eyes narrowing.

The referee turns and warns him back.

Clovis doesn’t argue.

He just smiles.

The tension tightens as Ross drags Trey back to his feet.

This fight is only escalating.

Ross pulls Trey up by the arm and drives him back into the corner with a hard shoulder thrust. Then another. And another.

John Phillips: “Ross going to the body again. He knows exactly where to hurt him.”

Trey slumps against the turnbuckles. Ross steps back two paces and charges—

—Trey explodes out of the corner with a sudden boot to the face.

Ross staggers.

Mark Bravo: “That’ll stop anybody.”

Trey follows immediately—snap suplex, clean and fast, rolling through and popping back to his feet.

The crowd reacts as Trey hits the ropes and comes back—running senton crashing across Ross’s chest.

John Phillips: “Trey Mack turning up the tempo!”

Trey hooks the leg.

One.

Two—

Ross kicks out again, rolling toward the ropes and using them to pull himself up.

Mark Bravo: “Ross is getting worn down, JP.”

Trey stalks him, waiting. As Ross turns—Trey snaps a short kick to the thigh, then another, chopping Ross’s base out from under him.

Ross drops to one knee.

Trey rebounds off the ropes—sliding knee strike to the face.

John Phillips: “That connected flush!”

Ross collapses to the mat. Trey covers again.

One.

Two—

Ross kicks out, but slower this time.

Mark Bravo: “That kickout didn’t have the same snap.”

Trey sits back on his heels and exhales sharply, frustration starting to creep in. He looks toward the ropes—Clovis Black stands there, arms folded, eyes locked on Ross.

The referee shoots Clovis a warning glance.

Trey waves it off. He doesn’t need help yet.

Trey pulls Ross up again and hooks him—looking for something bigger—

Ross suddenly shifts his weight and counters, dropping Trey backward with a sudden DDT.

John Phillips: “Out of nowhere!”

Both men are down.

The referee begins the count as the crowd buzzes.

Mark Bravo: “This is where conditioning matters.”

Ross rolls onto his side first, grimacing as he clutches his ribs. Trey pushes up to his hands and knees, shaking his head.

They rise at nearly the same time.

Ross swings—Trey ducks and fires a forearm. Ross answers with a right hand. Trey fires back.

They trade in the center of the ring again, neither backing down.

John Phillips: “This has turned into a war of attrition.”

Ross wins the exchange—right hand, then another—forcing Trey back toward the ropes. Ross whips him across—

Trey rebounds, leaps—

—Ross catches him mid-air again!

Ross pivots, muscles Trey up, and drives him down with a brutal spinebuster.

Mark Bravo: “That’ll rattle your organs.”

Ross stays on him, rolling Trey onto his back and pressing down hard for the cover.

One.

Two—

Trey kicks out, but just barely.

John Phillips: “That was close.”

Ross rolls off and sits up slowly, chest heaving. He wipes sweat from his face and looks down at Trey, who’s breathing just as hard.

At ringside, Clovis Black’s smile fades. He steps closer again.

The referee notices—and moves to block his path.

Mark Bravo: “Clovis Black is getting antsy.”

Ross pulls himself back to his feet.

He drags Trey up by the arm.

The champion is setting something up.

And Trey Mack knows it.

Ross pulls Trey in, looking to cinch him up—Trey senses it and fights free, throwing short elbows to the side of Ross’s head.

John Phillips: “Trey Mack refusing to get locked down.”

Ross absorbs the elbows and answers with a sharp knee to the midsection, folding Trey over. Ross hooks the head and snaps Trey down to the mat, then rolls through and drags him right back up.

Mark Bravo: “Ross chaining offense together. That’s championship pacing.”

Ross sends Trey into the corner again and follows—Trey gets the boot up at the last second, catching Ross flush.

Trey climbs the ropes quickly and leaps—diving clothesline takes Ross down.

John Phillips: “Trey Mack creating space!”

Trey doesn’t slow down. He hits the ropes and comes back—running standing moonsault connects clean across Ross’s chest.

The crowd roars as Trey hooks the leg.

One.

Two—

Ross kicks out again, but the reaction tells the story.

Mark Bravo: “That was closer than Trey wants to admit.”

Trey pushes up to a knee, frustration flashing across his face. He slaps the mat once, then grabs Ross by the head, dragging him up.

Trey fires a forearm, then another, backing Ross toward the ropes. He whips Ross across—Ross reverses—

Trey rebounds and explodes upward with a flying forearm smash.

Ross staggers into the ropes, arms draped over the top rope.

John Phillips: “Ross is getting rocked!”

Trey charges—Ross counters at the last second, lifting Trey up and dumping him over the ropes to the apron.

Trey barely hangs on, gripping the top rope.

Mark Bravo: “Danger zone!”

Ross steps through the ropes and meets Trey on the apron. The two trade strikes precariously, each shot threatening to end the match the hard way.

Ross lands a heavy right hand. Trey answers with a sharp kick to the thigh.

Trey suddenly springs upward—jumping knee on the apron snaps Ross’s head back.

Ross stumbles—Trey hooks him and drops him neck-first across the top rope.

John Phillips: “That’ll take the wind out of you.”

Ross falls back into the ring clutching his throat and ribs.

Trey slingshots himself back inside and immediately goes for another cover.

One.

Two—

Ross kicks out again, rolling his shoulder and gasping for air.

Mark Bravo: “Ross is surviving, but he’s paying for it every time.”

Trey stays on him, locking in a front facelock and grinding Ross down to the mat, leaning his weight into the hold.

Ross fights it, pushing to his feet inch by inch.

The crowd claps rhythmically as Ross muscles Trey back upright.

Ross breaks free and fires a sudden right hand, then another, then a third.

Trey staggers back—Ross grabs him and hurls him into the corner with authority.

John Phillips: “Here comes the champion!”

Ross charges in—Trey slips out at the last second. Ross crashes chest-first into the turnbuckles.

Trey grabs Ross from behind and snaps him down with a quick German suplex.

Ross rolls through to his knees—Trey follows with a brutal soccer kick to the back.

Mark Bravo: “That was nasty.”

Trey stands over Ross, chest heaving now, sweat dripping to the mat.

At ringside, Clovis Black leans forward slightly, eyes locked in.

Trey looks down at Ross… then glances briefly toward Clovis.

The message is clear.

This is far from over.

Trey drags Ross back to his feet and snaps off a sharp elbow to the side of the head. Ross fires back with a right hand that lands flush, forcing Trey to stumble a step.

John Phillips: “Ross still has plenty of fight left in him.”

Trey shakes it off and rushes in—Ross ducks and hooks Trey around the waist, driving him down hard with a sudden belly-to-belly suplex.

Mark Bravo: “That’s raw strength.”

Ross doesn’t go for the cover. He pulls Trey up again, turning him and cracking him with another heavy right hand.

Trey drops to one knee. Ross steps in and lands a sharp kick to the chest, knocking Trey flat on his back.

John Phillips: “Ross starting to dictate the pace again.”

Ross backs up two steps, then charges—Trey rolls out of the way at the last second.

Ross skids to a stop and turns—Trey springs up and levels him with a sudden running dropkick.

Mark Bravo: “What timing!”

Ross hits the mat and rolls toward the ropes. Trey follows, dragging him back to the center by the ankle.

Trey drops a knee across Ross’s ribs, then another, then a third, grinding the air out of the champion.

John Phillips: “Those ribs are a bullseye.”

Trey grabs Ross by the head and pulls him up, looking for another big move—Ross counters, hooking Trey’s arm and yanking him forward into a short-arm clothesline.

Trey flips and crashes to the mat.

Mark Bravo: “Ross with the counter!”

Ross drops to one knee, breathing hard, then crawls over and covers.

One.

Two—

Trey kicks out again, forcing Ross to roll away.

John Phillips: “Still not enough.”

Ross pushes himself back to his feet, clearly feeling the accumulation. He grabs Trey by the arm and pulls him up, setting him against the ropes.

Ross whips Trey across—Trey rebounds and launches himself, going for another flying attack—

Ross catches him and pivots, driving Trey down with a hard sidewalk slam.

Mark Bravo: “That’ll rattle you.”

Ross sits up slowly, sweat pouring now, then drags Trey back up.

He looks toward the corner for just a moment.

John Phillips: “Ross might be thinking about something big.”

Trey senses it and throws a desperate elbow, catching Ross in the jaw. Ross staggers—Trey follows with a kick to the ribs.

Trey hits the ropes and comes back—leaping clothesline knocks Ross down again.

Mark Bravo: “Every time Ross builds momentum, Trey Mack cuts him off.”

Trey drops to a knee beside Ross, breathing hard, sweat dripping off his chin.

At ringside, Clovis Black straightens up, hands tightening into fists.

The referee shoots him another warning glance.

Inside the ring, Trey pulls Ross back to his feet once more.

This fight keeps rolling.

And neither man is backing down.

Trey Mack drags Chris Ross up again, this time driving a sharp knee into the ribs, then another. Ross grunts loudly, folding forward as Trey wraps him up and hammers a short forearm across the back.

John Phillips: “That’s cumulative damage. Trey Mack is trying to break the champion down piece by piece.”

Trey pulls Ross in and snaps him down with a sudden DDT, planting him hard. Ross rolls to his stomach, clutching his side.

Mark Bravo: “Those ribs have taken a beating all night.”

Trey doesn’t cover. He grabs Ross by the arm and hauls him up, marching him toward the ropes.

With a sharp shove, Trey sends Ross tumbling through the ropes to the outside.

Ross hits the floor hard, landing on his side near the barricade.

John Phillips: “Ross sent to the floor!”

Trey follows to the ropes, leaning over and barking at the referee, throwing his arms up in exaggerated frustration.

Trey Mack: “You gonna count or what? Do your job!”

The referee steps toward Trey, hands raised, warning him back.

Behind them…

Clovis Black moves.

He takes off at full speed around the ring, boots pounding the floor, building momentum like a freight train.

Mark Bravo: “Hey—HEY—”

Ross pulls himself up using the barricade, still shaking his head, trying to clear the fog.

He turns—

—and Clovis Black cuts him in half.

A massive spear explodes into Ross’s midsection, driving him backward into the barricade with a sickening crash.

John Phillips: “NO! NO! THAT’S A SPEAR!”

Mark Bravo: “That would end anybody!”

Ross collapses to the floor in a heap, arms limp, ribs crushed between Clovis’s shoulder and the steel barricade.

Clovis rises slowly, chest heaving, eyes dead as he looks down at Ross.

Inside the ring, Trey finally turns back toward the outside, feigning surprise.

Trey Mack: “Hey! What happened out there?”

The referee spins around just in time to see Clovis already backing away, hands raised innocently.

John Phillips: “The referee never saw it!”

Mark Bravo: “That was a setup, JP. A perfect setup.”

Clovis slips back into position at ringside, expression unreadable.

Trey leans over the ropes, staring down at the fallen champion with a slow, satisfied nod.

Chris Ross lies motionless on the floor.

The damage has been done.

And the night just took a very dark turn.

Trey Mack slips through the ropes and drops down to the floor, rolling his shoulders as he approaches the wreckage left behind.

John Phillips: “This is where it gets dangerous.”

Mark Bravo: “Ross hasn’t even had time to react after that spear.”

Chris Ross is still down near the barricade, one arm draped across his ribs, the other barely pushing against the floor.

Trey reaches down and grabs Ross by the hair, yanking his head up.

Trey Mack: “C’mon, champ.”

Ross groans, barely able to stand as Trey drives a hard knee into his midsection.

Ross folds, dropping back to one knee.

John Phillips: “That’s just cruel.”

Trey pulls Ross up again and whips him shoulder-first into the barricade.

The impact echoes. Ross collapses forward, gasping.

Mark Bravo: “Those ribs might be shattered.”

Trey backs up two steps and charges—crushing Ross with a running shoulder into the barricade for a second time.

Ross slumps to the floor.

Trey looks back toward the ring as the referee begins the count.

Referee: “Four!”

Trey crouches and hauls Ross up, draping his arm over his shoulder.

He drags Ross toward the ring apron, letting him drop chest-first across the edge.

John Phillips: “That apron is the hardest part of the ring.”

Trey steps back and drives a sharp knee into Ross’s ribs against the apron.

Ross cries out and slides down to the floor again.

Mark Bravo: “This is systematic.”

The referee’s count continues.

Referee: “Six!”

Trey finally hooks Ross by the waistband and rolls him back under the bottom rope.

Ross slides across the mat, landing near the center of the ring, barely moving.

Trey follows him in, stepping through the ropes and immediately dropping a knee across Ross’s ribs.

John Phillips: “There’s no mercy here.”

Trey hooks the leg, pressing his weight down hard.

One.

Two—

Ross kicks out, barely, rolling his shoulder just enough.

Mark Bravo: “HOW?”

Trey sits back on his heels, disbelief flashing across his face.

Trey Mack: “Stay down!”

At ringside, Clovis Black cracks his neck slowly, eyes never leaving Ross.

Trey stands and pulls Ross up again.

The challenger smells blood.

And the champion is running on pure will.

This match keeps escalating.

Trey drags Ross up by the arm again, this time pulling him into a front facelock and grinding his forearm across Ross’s face.

John Phillips: “Trey Mack is trying to smother him now.”

Ross struggles, one hand clutching his ribs, the other bracing against Trey’s hip. Trey hammers a short knee into the midsection, then another.

Mark Bravo: “That’s just vicious.”

Trey snaps Ross down to the mat and floats over, dropping a hard elbow across the chest.

Ross rolls onto his side, gasping, trying to create space.

Trey follows, grabbing Ross by the wrist and yanking him up into a short-arm strike—Ross ducks it and answers with a desperate right hand.

John Phillips: “There’s life!”

Ross fires another right, then a third, backing Trey up a step. Ross winds up and swings—Trey blocks it and answers with a stiff forearm to the jaw.

Ross stumbles into the ropes.

Trey rushes—Ross explodes forward with a sudden clothesline that turns Trey inside out.

Mark Bravo: “Out of sheer instinct!”

Both men are down again.

The crowd claps rhythmically, trying to will Ross back to his feet.

Ross pushes to his knees first, sweat pouring down his face. Trey follows a moment later, shaking his head violently.

They rise at the same time.

Ross swings—Trey ducks and goes behind, snapping Ross down with a quick snap dragon screw that twists Ross to the mat.

John Phillips: “That’ll take the legs out!”

Trey drops a knee across the thigh, then another, then stands and stomps down hard.

Ross shouts in pain, grabbing at his leg now as well as his ribs.

Mark Bravo: “It’s all breaking down for the champion.”

Trey backs up and measures—then leaps, crashing down with a standing senton across Ross’s midsection.

Ross arches in pain.

Trey hooks the leg again.

One.

Two—

Ross kicks out again.

John Phillips: “Unbelievable heart!”

Trey slaps the mat in frustration and grabs Ross by the head, pulling him up once more.

He lifts Ross—looking for something big—Ross shifts his weight mid-air and drops Trey down with a sudden inside cradle.

Mark Bravo: “Counter!”

One.

Two—

Trey kicks out and scrambles back to his feet.

The two lock eyes again.

Ross is battered. Trey is frustrated.

Neither man is backing off.

The main event keeps rolling.

Trey Mack hauls Chris Ross up, hooking him tight around the waist.

John Phillips: “This could be it—Trey’s looking to end this.”

Trey muscles Ross up, starting to lift—

—but Ross shifts his weight at the last possible second.

Ross drops his hips, slips an arm free, and twists—

—spinning out and snapping Trey forward with a sudden snap powerslam that rattles the ring.

Mark Bravo: “WHERE DID THAT COME FROM?!”

The crowd explodes as Trey bounces off the mat, clutching his back.

Ross doesn’t stop.

He pushes himself up, adrenaline surging, and staggers to his feet. Trey sits up—

—and Ross levels him with a massive lariat that nearly turns him inside out.

John Phillips: “DESPERATION—but it landed!”

Trey collapses flat on his back.

Ross drops to a knee, breathing hard, one hand pressed against his ribs. He winces—then grits his teeth and forces himself back up.

The crowd rises as Ross backs into the corner.

Mark Bravo: “Chris Ross is emptying the tank right now.”

Trey rolls to his side, trying to push up—

Ross charges out of the corner and scoops him up on pure instinct, driving him down with a thunderous slam.

The impact echoes.

John Phillips: “THAT MIGHT HAVE TURNED IT!”

Ross crawls over and drapes an arm across Trey’s chest.

One.

Two—

Trey kicks out, but barely—his shoulder popping up at the last fraction of a second.

Mark Bravo: “He almost had him!”

Ross rolls onto his back, staring up at the lights, chest heaving.

For the first time in several minutes…

Momentum has shifted.

Chris Ross is still in this fight.

And somehow—against all odds—he may be dragging it back his way.

Trey Mack pushes himself up first, unsteady but defiant, dragging Chris Ross up with him.

John Phillips: “Both men back to vertical—and this is dangerous territory.”

Trey fires a right hand.

Ross answers immediately with one of his own.

The crowd roars as they trade—right hand from Trey, right hand from Ross—neither giving ground.

Mark Bravo: “This is pride now. Pure pride.”

Ross digs deep and snaps a boot into Trey’s midsection.

Trey doubles over.

Ross steps in, pulling Trey’s head down between his legs, wrapping his arms around the waist.

John Phillips: “Powerbomb position—Ross is looking for something huge!”

Suddenly—movement at ringside.

Clovis Black leaps up onto the apron.

He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t gesture.

He just stares straight ahead at Chris Ross.

Mark Bravo: “Oh no. Not now.”

Ross freezes for half a second—then shoves Trey away and turns toward Clovis.

Chris Ross: “Get off my apron!”

Clovis doesn’t respond.

He grips the top rope with both hands.

Daring him.

And then—

“Holiday” hits.

The crowd erupts in confusion.

John Phillips: “WAIT—WHAT?!”

Mark Bravo: “That’s—no—no way—”

From the crowd—

MAXX MAYHEM.

Kendo stick in hand.

Eyes wild. Smile unhinged.

He vaults the barricade and swings up—

CRACK.

The sound echoes through the building as the kendo stick detonates across Clovis Black’s back.

John Phillips: “MY GOD!”

Mark Bravo: “HE JUST BROKE HIM IN HALF!”

Clovis screams, grabbing his back as he tumbles off the apron and crashes to the floor.

Ross spins around just in time to see Maxx standing there.

Kendo stick in hand.

Grinning like a man who came for nothing but violence.

John Phillips: “Maxx Mayhem and Chris Ross—these two HATE each other!”

Mark Bravo: “This ain’t help. This ain’t friendship. This is chaos!”

Maxx steps forward and brings the stick down again.

WHACK.

Again.

WHACK.

Again.

WHACK.

Clovis writhes on the floor, trying to crawl away as Maxx rains down shot after shot with violent intent.

John Phillips: “This is payback—or madness—or both!”

Maxx finally stops.

He looks up at Ross.

They lock eyes.

No nod. No acknowledgment.

Just history.

Maxx smirks.

He tosses the kendo stick into the ring.

Then, without another word, he vaults back over the barricade and disappears into the crowd.

Mark Bravo: “Why is he here?”

John Phillips: “Because Maxx Mayhem doesn’t need a reason.”

Ross stands frozen, breathing hard, eyes tracking where Maxx vanished.

Behind him…

Trey Mack is stirring.

The stick lies in the ring.

And the main event just became something else entirely.

Chris Ross stands frozen.

He looks down at the kendo stick lying near his boot.

Then at Trey Mack, dragging himself up with the ropes.

Then back to the stick.

John Phillips: “This is a moment of truth.”

Mark Bravo: “Pick it up. End it. You walk out champion anyway—so what?”

Ross bends down.

He picks up the kendo stick.

The referee immediately steps in front of him, hands up.

Referee: “Chris—don’t do it! You use that, you’re disqualified!”

John Phillips: “And if that happens, Ross still keeps the UTA Championship.”

Mark Bravo: “That’s the smart play! Pride doesn’t pay the bills!”

Trey Mack pulls himself fully upright, leaning against the ropes.

He sees the stick in Ross’s hands.

He laughs.

Trey Mack: “Oh… that’s how it is?”

He pushes himself off the ropes and staggers forward.

Trey Mack: “Can’t do shit on your own, huh?”

The crowd buzzes.

Trey Mack: “C’mon then, champ.”

Trey drops to his knees in the center of the ring.

He throws his arms out wide.

Trey Mack: “DO IT.”

Ross’s jaw tightens.

Trey Mack: “Show the world what you really are.”

Trey Mack: “Just another white man holdin’ a Black man down.”

The arena is electric now.

John Phillips: “This is uncomfortable.”

Mark Bravo: “This is pressure.”

Ross grips the stick tighter.

He looks at Trey.

He looks at the referee.

He looks at the crowd.

For a moment… it looks like he’s going to swing.

Then—

Ross exhales.

He shakes his head.

And tosses the kendo stick aside.

The crowd ERUPTS.

John Phillips: “HE WON’T DO IT!”

Mark Bravo: “That’s—damn it—that’s who Chris Ross is.”

Ross steps toward Trey.

And in that instant—

Trey Mack lunges forward.

VICIOUS low blow.

Ross crumples instantly, collapsing to the mat in agony.

John Phillips: “NO! NO!”

The referee immediately calls for the bell.

DING. DING. DING.

Mark Bravo: “That’s it! That’s a disqualification!”

John Phillips: “Trey Mack couldn’t get Chris Ross to betray himself—so he showed the world he doesn’t care at all!”

Trey doesn’t stop.

He stomps down on Ross.

Once.

Twice.

The referee grabs at him—Trey shoves the official away.

John Phillips: “Somebody stop this!”

Trey steps back…

Then explodes upward—

STANDING MOONSAULT.

He crashes down across Ross’s body.

The bell keeps ringing.

Trey drops to one knee beside Ross.

He grabs Ross by the hair and yanks his face up.

The camera zooms in tight.

Trey Mack: “This ain’t over!”

He releases Ross and rises to his feet.

Standing over the fallen champion.

Trey Mack: “YOU’RE DONE!”

Ross, battered and shaking, starts to push up.

Hands.

Knees.

The champion refuses to stay down.

And Trey Mack is still standing over him.

The night is far from finished.

Chris Ross is barely on his hands and knees.

Trey Mack backs up two steps.

John Phillips: “No… no no no—”

Trey breaks into a sprint.

He leaps—

One foot plants square on the back of Chris Ross’s head.

He drives him down.

CURB STOMP.

John Phillips: “OH MY GOD!”

Mark Bravo: “THAT’S IT—THAT’S ENOUGH!”

Ross’s body goes limp, face planting hard against the mat.

No movement.

Nothing.

The referee dives toward Ross as Trey Mack backs away.

Trey’s music hits.

The boos are immediate. Deafening.

Trey turns and sprints toward the corner, leaping onto the middle rope, then the turnbuckle.

He throws his arms out wide.

Soaking it in.

Mark Bravo: “He doesn’t care. He does not care.”

Trey shouts down at the crowd, jaw wide, veins visible, barking insults we can’t even fully catch over the noise.

At ringside, Clovis Black—barely upright—uses the barricade to pull himself back to his feet.

He winces, one hand pressed against his back, eyes still locked on the ring.

Trey hops down from the corner and looks at Chris Ross sprawled out on the canvas.

Unconscious.

Motionless.

Trey waves him off dismissively.

Like he’s nothing.

John Phillips: “Chris Ross may have won this match by disqualification… but at what cost?”

Mark Bravo: “There are no winners right now.”

The camera zooms in tight on Chris Ross.

Eyes closed.

Chest barely rising.

Officials surrounding him.

Then the camera cuts back up.

Trey Mack stands tall in the ring, still shouting at the booing crowd, arms out wide, defiant.

Unapologetic.

Dangerous.

The UTA Championship lies beside Ross.

Unclaimed by Trey.

But not untouched.

The copyright graphic fades in.

The boos continue.

Fade to black.