The camera fades in from black as a roaring crowd fills the 713 Music Hall in Houston, Texas. Bright lights sweep across the arena as pyro erupts from the stage, sending a wave of energy through the packed building. Fans stand on their feet, many holding signs supporting their favorite UTA stars as the broadcast officially begins.

The camera pans the sea of fans as chants begin to echo throughout the venue.

Crowd: "U-T-A! U-T-A! U-T-A!"

The camera cuts to ringside where the familiar voices of the United Toughness Alliance sit behind the commentary desk.

John Phillips: "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Victory! We are coming to you LIVE from the 713 Music Hall in Houston, Texas and I cannot tell you how electric this crowd is right now!"

Mark Bravo: "John, everything that went down at No Love Lost has this entire company on edge. The United Toughness Alliance just wrapped its Las Vegas residency and now we're hitting the road for the Victory tour. And let me tell you something — Houston showed up tonight."

John Phillips: "They absolutely did, Mark. The fallout from No Love Lost is still being felt across the UTA locker room and tonight we begin the march toward Victorious. Every win matters. Every loss matters. And tonight's card is stacked from top to bottom."

Mark Bravo: "You said it. We're talking hungry competitors, rising stars, and one championship match that could change the entire landscape of the Fighting Division."

The camera cuts to a wide shot of the arena again as fans wave signs reading “IRON DOMINION,” “TYGER II,” and “NEON ACE.”

John Phillips: "Let's take a look at what we have coming your way tonight here at Victory."

Mark Bravo: "We kick things off with a fascinating matchup — Kairo Bex stepping into the ring with Vance Stone."

John Phillips: "Kairo Bey — the Neon Ace — has had a rough stretch as of late. A string of losses has left many wondering if the young star can get himself back on track."

Mark Bravo: "But he's not getting an easy night, John. Vance Stone makes his official UTA in-ring debut tonight, and you better believe he's looking to make a statement."

John Phillips: "And let's not forget the looming presence of Eli Creed. Ever since implementing what he calls the Creed Method, he's been watching closely from the shadows."

Mark Bravo: "Which means anything could happen when these two lock up tonight."

The camera cuts briefly to excited fans near ringside.

John Phillips: "Then we have a match that fans have been buzzing about all week — Tyger II going one-on-one with Trey Mack."

Mark Bravo: "Now THIS is a fight. Trey Mack has been clawing his way up the ranks, trying to prove he's one of the most dangerous threats in the UTA."

John Phillips: "And Tyger II continues to carve out his own legacy. The son of a legend, stepping into the ring with a supernatural presence and a style unlike anyone else in the locker room."

Mark Bravo: "When those two collide, it's going to be fast, violent, and probably a little chaotic."

John Phillips: "Also tonight — Maxwell 'Max' Jett returns to action after an impressive showing at No Love Lost."

Mark Bravo: "I'll give him this much — he backed up the talk. But going two-and-oh won't be easy tonight."

John Phillips: "Because standing across the ring from him will be Jaxson Ryder."

Mark Bravo: "One half of U.S.A and a guy who desperately wants to get himself back on track after some recent setbacks."

John Phillips: "Two competitors with something to prove. That one could steal the entire show."

Mark Bravo: "And speaking of dangerous situations, Troy Lindz steps into the ring tonight against Malachi Cross."

John Phillips: "Ever since embracing what Eli Creed calls the Creed Method, Troy Lindz has looked like an entirely different competitor."

Mark Bravo: "Yeah, but Malachi Cross isn't exactly the guy you want to test your new philosophy against."

John Phillips: "Cross has been lurking in the shadows recently, and when someone like that resurfaces — it usually means bad things for whoever is standing across the ring."

The crowd begins buzzing louder as the commentary team transitions to the main event.

John Phillips: "But our main event tonight — the UTA Fighting Championship will be on the line."

Mark Bravo: "And what a defense it could be."

John Phillips: "Hakuryu successfully defended the Fighting Championship at No Love Lost against former UTA Champion Jarvis Valentine."

Mark Bravo: "And that win means Hakuryu is now just TWO defenses away from cashing in the Fighting Championship for a guaranteed UTA Championship opportunity."

John Phillips: "But standing in his way tonight is one of the most dangerous forces in the entire UTA."

Mark Bravo: "Gideon Graves."

The camera briefly shows a fan holding an Iron Dominion sign as boos mix with cheers.

John Phillips: "The Iron Dominion powerhouse has made it clear he wants championship gold, and tonight he has the chance to claim the Fighting Championship."

Mark Bravo: "And if Graves wins tonight, everything changes. No more Hakuryu countdown. No more title cash-in opportunity. Just Iron Dominion holding another piece of power in the UTA."

John Phillips: "Houston, buckle up. Victory begins right now!"

The crowd erupts as the camera cuts to the stage and the first match graphic flashes across the screen.

The loading bay door groans open as the Unholy Wolf Brigade sweeps into the arena like a pack returning from war. Gunnar Van Patton leads them, hobbling forward on crutches, every step a violent argument with pain. His right leg is swallowed by a heavy-duty brace, straps cinched tight. A massive bandage wraps around his skull, hiding dozens of stitches beneath faint streaks of dried blood. Across the upper half of his face, tied tight behind his head, is a bright red bandana—Raiden‑style—concealing the damaged eye beneath it.

Theron Tkachuk walks at Gunnar’s left, silent and towering, his presence cold enough to chill the hallway. Avril Selene Kinkade keeps pace beside him, posture immaculate, expression carved from ice. She lingers near Theron with the same instinctive precision she always does—no warmth, no sentiment, simply preference. Arkady Bogatyr jitters on Gunnar’s right, bouncing on the balls of his feet, restless as a live wire. Torunn Sigurjonsson follows behind them, warpaint streaked across her face, jaw set like stone.

The camera crew scrambles backward as the wolves advance.

Melissa Cartright steps into frame, microphone raised, smile tight with nerves.

Melissa Cartwright: "Gunnar—Gunnar, I’m sorry to stop you, but I’ve just been informed by General Manager Scott Stevens that tonight, on Victory, you are scheduled to defend the WrestleZone Championship against Maxx Mayhem."

Gunnar freezes mid‑step. Not gradually. Not with warning. He stops like he hits a wall. The red bandana hides his expression, but the tension in his shoulders makes the rage unmistakable.

Gunnar Van Patton: "Darlin’… Ah got forty stitches in mah damn skull… Ah got a leg that ain’t worth two cents… an’ Ah’m walkin’ on crutches like a long‑tailed cat in a room full’a rockin’ chairs… an’ you’re tellin’ me Scott Stevens books me in a title defense tonight… against Maxx Mayhem?"

Melissa swallows—audibly, nervously.

Torunn moves before anyone else. She marches straight up to Melissa, shoulders squared, eyes narrowed, posture radiating the kind of cold, Icelandic fury that promises broken bones. She looms over the interviewer, close enough that Melissa instinctively steps back, microphone trembling in her hand. Torunn doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. Her presence alone is a threat.

Melissa’s voice wavers.

Melissa Cartwright: "I—I’m just relaying what production told us. It’s official."

Gunnar’s grip tightens on the crutch until the metal creaks. He pivots toward Avril, jabbing the crutch in her direction.

Gunnar Van Patton: "Avril. Explain. Now."

Avril turns her head with the slow, disdainful precision of a monarch acknowledging a servant. Her voice is crisp, clipped, and unmistakably British—each syllable sharpened to a legal scalpel.

Avril Selene Kinkade: "There is no sanctioned title defense on file. No contractual amendment. No medical clearance. No liability waiver. In short, Sergeant Van Patton, this announcement is procedurally unsound and flagrantly improper."

Her tone is cold. Clinical. Utterly humorless.

Gunnar Van Patton: "Spare me the legal bullsh*t. Ya know damn well what’s goin’ on. This is that yellow-bellied bastard Stevens takin’ advantage ‘cause his half‑brothers already did the damage. The Fatus stop me from winnin’ the UTA title, they damn near cripple me, an’ now Stevens is bookin’ me hurt ‘cause he knows Ah ain’t in no shape to wrestle."

Theron signs sharp and violent, "Let's kill everyone".

Arkady nods in agreement, a sinister smile stretching across his face.

Torunn remains planted in front of Melissa, still glaring down at her like a wolf deciding whether the prey is worth the effort. Avril remains perfectly still—hands folded, posture immaculate.

Gunnar leans in close to Avril, voice dropping to a lethal whisper.

Gunnar Van Patton: "Go do your f*ckin’ job… an’ fix this."

For the first time, Avril’s mask shifts. Not much—just the faintest tightening at the corner of her mouth, a microscopic flare of the nostrils. A hint of offense. A warning. Then it vanishes beneath aristocratic frost.

Avril Selene Kinkade: "Very well. I shall address the matter immediately. Do try not to exacerbate your injuries further while I correct this… farce."

Her tone is still cold, still precise—but now with a razor‑thin edge beneath it. A hairline crack. A quiet rift forming.

She turns and walks away with glacial composure, heels clicking sharply against the concrete. She does not look back. Theron watches her go for a moment, then resumes his silent guard beside Gunnar.

Gunnar looks back at Melissa, chest rising and falling with barely contained fury.

Gunnar Van Patton: "How’s about you return the favor an’ tell Stevens somethin’ for me, darlin’."

Melissa hesitates, still shaken.

Melissa Cartwright: "O‑okay… what?"

Gunnar leans in until the camera catches the fire burning in his one visible eye.

Gunnar Van Patton: "Ah ain’t dead yet."

Torunn shoves Melissa out of their path with a single arm, allowing Van Patton to hobble through, the Brigade falling in behind him like wolves scenting blood as they disappear down the hallway.

[Backstage Interview Area – Hakuryu stands silently with the UTA Fighting Championship over his shoulder. His disciple and manager Sinja stands beside him as the interviewer nervously holds the microphone.]

Hakuryu:
「俺は白龍だ。UTAファイティングチャンピオン…そしてUTAで一番の男だ。」

Sinja (translating):
“My master says you are looking at Hakuryu… the UTA Fighting Champion… the number one ranked wrestler in this company.”

Hakuryu:
「ジャービス・バレンタイン…元世界王者。」

Sinja:
“Jarvis Valentine… former world champion.”

Hakuryu:
「奴はタップしなかった。」

Sinja:
“Jarvis Valentine didn’t tap out.”

Hakuryu (slight smirk):
「だが、俺の腕の中で意識を失った。」

Sinja:
“But Hakuryu forced him to pass out.”

Hakuryu:
「それが本当の敗北だ。」

Sinja:
“My master says that is a far worse fate. A man can choose not to tap… but when your body gives up and your lights go out… your pride goes with it.”

Hakuryu (taps the championship on his shoulder):
「世界王座は近い。」

Sinja:
“Hakuryu says the World Championship is getting closer.”

Hakuryu:
「だが、この団体はまだ俺を侮辱する。」

Sinja:
“But the disrespect placed before him continues.”

Hakuryu:
「ギデオン・グレイブス。」

Sinja (laughs softly):
“Gideon Graves.”

Hakuryu:
「去年の十一月から戦っていない男を俺の前に立たせるのか？」

Sinja:
“You haven’t even stepped into a ring since November of last year… yet they put you in front of the number one ranked wrestler in UTA.”

Hakuryu:
「それは俺への侮辱だ。」

Sinja:
“My master says that is an insult to him… and to this championship.”

Hakuryu:
「グレイブスは言う…鋼は曲がるが、自分は曲がらない。」

Sinja:
“Gideon Graves likes to boast that steel may bend… but he never will.”

Hakuryu (cold stare into the camera):
「俺は鋼を折る。」

Sinja:
“Hakuryu says he doesn’t bend steel…”

Hakuryu:
「お前は小枝のように折れる。」

Sinja:
“…he breaks it.”

Hakuryu:
「お前も同じだ。」

Sinja:
“And Gideon Graves will snap the same way… like a twig.”

Hakuryu (raises the championship slightly):
「次の勝利を手に入れ、俺は報酬を受け取る。」

Sinja:
“When Hakuryu secures another victory, he will collect his bounty.”

Hakuryu:
「そして次は…世界王座だ。」

Sinja (leaning into the camera):
“And after that… the only thing left in Hakuryu’s path… is the World Championship.”

The camera cuts straight to the commentary desk. The crowd is still buzzing, a restless, electric hum rolling through the arena after the shocking locker‑room scene. Fans are on their feet, pointing, shouting, trying to process what they just witnessed.

John Phillips: “Ladies and gentlemen, if you’re just joining us, tonight’s WrestleZone Championship match has taken a dramatic and unprecedented turn. One week ago at No Love Lost, Gunnar Van Patton suffered catastrophic injuries at the hands of the Fatu Twins—forty stitches to the skull, a severe concussion, and major knee damage. He has not been medically cleared. He cannot defend the title.”

Mark Bravo: “He shouldn’t even be walking, John! The man looks like he got jumped by a snowblower and a grizzly bear. He’s held together with tape, stitches, and pure spite.”

John Phillips: “But earlier tonight, Scott Stevens informed Gunnar that the title had to be defended. No postponements. No exceptions. Avril Selene Kinkade immediately went to war with UTA’s legal team, and the only way they would approve a substitute was under hardcore rules. No disqualifications. No countouts. No referee discretion.”

Mark Bravo: “Basically the lawyers said, ‘Fine, you can have a replacement—but we’re not taking responsibility for whatever happens.’ And honestly? Smart. If the Unholy Wolf Brigade is involved, you want the rulebook in a shredder.”

John Phillips: “Avril pushed for Arkady Bogatyr to take Gunnar’s place, but Gunnar—barely conscious—chose Theron Tkachuk instead. A man we have never seen compete in UTA. No tape. No interviews. No public matches. Nothing.”

Mark Bravo: “John, if a man with forty stitches and a scrambled brain points at the silent giant in the corner and says, ‘That one,’ you listen. Gunnar knows something we don’t.”

The crowd begins to stir again, a low rumble of anticipation rolling through the arena. A few fans point toward the upper levels, unsure, uneasy.

John Phillips: “We don’t know his style. We don’t know his temperament. We don’t know his background. All we know is that Gunnar Van Patton trusts him with the WrestleZone Championship.”

Mark Bravo: “And that’s the part that scares me. Gunnar didn’t hesitate. He didn’t blink. He didn’t even look at Arkady. He said ‘Theron’ like he was naming a weapon.”

Before Phillips can continue, the arena lights don’t dim—they vanish.

Instantly.

As if the entire building has been dropped into the Arctic night.

The crowd gasps. A few scream. The sudden darkness feels heavy, suffocating, predatory.

John Phillips: “What—what just happened to the lights?!”

Mark Bravo: “John… I think we’re about to meet him.”

“Death March” by Motionless in White erupts through the darkness, the opening chords pounding like war drums. The crowd quiets without being told to. The air feels colder. Heavier. Like something ancient has stepped into the arena.

A single spotlight snaps on deep in the crowd, cutting through the black like a blade.

Fans jolt as the beam lands on a hooded figure standing perfectly still among them.

Theron Tkachuk.

The hood is pulled low, shadowing most of his face. A black wolf‑jaw gaiter mask covers his mouth—skeletal fangs painted in stark, predatory detail. Strands of sleek black hair spill from beneath the hood. His ice‑blue eyes glint like frost catching moonlight.

And draped over his right shoulder… the WrestleZone Championship belt.

John Phillips: “There he is… that’s Theron Tkachuk. Gunnar Van Patton’s chosen substitute. And he’s not coming down the ramp—he’s emerging from the crowd.”

Mark Bravo: “John… he looks like he walked out of a blizzard to collect a debt.”

Theron doesn’t move.

He stands like a ghost carved out of winter—silent, unreadable, immovable.

The crowd instinctively steps back, giving him space without being asked.

Then he begins to walk.

Not fast. Not slow. Just inevitable.

The crowd parts around him like he’s a glacier advancing—unstoppable and indifferent.

John Phillips: “Look at the way the fans are moving aside… he’s not pushing anyone. They’re just—getting out of his way.”

Mark Bravo: “Wouldn’t you?! That’s not a man, John. That’s a warning.”

Theron descends the steps with cold, deliberate purpose, the title belt still draped over his shoulder. He doesn’t look at the fans. He doesn’t acknowledge the music. He simply advances, each step controlled, each movement precise.

Down below, Maxx Mayhem is pacing at ringside, pounding his trash‑can lid against the apron like a war drum. He’s vibrating with anticipation, eyes wild, waiting for Theron to reach the floor.

John Phillips: “Maxx Mayhem is watching him like a predator spotting another predator.”

Mark Bravo: “Maxx is loving this! He wanted chaos—he’s getting a walking apocalypse!”

Theron reaches the lower bowl. He stops at the edge of the crowd, the spotlight still locked on him. The WrestleZone Title gleams on his shoulder like a silent declaration.

Maxx sees him.

And Maxx Mayhem—chaos incarnate—lights up like a kid on Christmas morning. He drops the trash‑lid, screams something unintelligible, and bolts up the arena steps, shoving fans aside as he charges straight toward the silent monster in the crowd.

John Phillips: “MAXX MAYHEM ISN’T WAITING FOR ANYTHING! HE’S GOING STRAIGHT FOR THERON TKACHUK!”

Mark Bravo: “HARDCORE RULES, BABY! CLOCK IN AND SWING HARD!”

Theron doesn’t move.

Not an inch.

The title belt still draped over his shoulder, gleaming like a warning as Maxx barrels toward him through the sea of fans.

The collision course is set.

The crowd splits.

The air tightens.

And the fight is seconds from detonating.

Maxx Mayhem rockets up the arena steps like a human missile, boots hammering against concrete, shoving fans aside with gleeful disregard. Drinks spill. Popcorn flies. Fans scream and scatter as he barrels forward, eyes wide, grin feral, arms swinging like he’s trying to punch the air itself into submission.

Theron Tkachuk stands perfectly still in the spotlight, the WrestleZone Title draped over his shoulder, the wolf‑jaw mask staring down the oncoming storm. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t brace. He simply watches Maxx approach with those cold, unreadable eyes.

John Phillips: “Maxx Mayhem is charging straight into the unknown! He has no idea what Theron Tkachuk is capable of!”

Mark Bravo: “He doesn’t care, John! Maxx sees a monster and thinks, ‘Cool, let’s hit it with a trash can!’”

Maxx leaps the final step, screaming like a man possessed—

—and Theron calmly lifts the WrestleZone Title from his shoulder and lets it fall to the concrete.

The belt hits the floor with a heavy metallic thud that echoes through the upper bowl.

Maxx swings the trash‑can lid—full force, reckless, joyful—

—and Theron’s free hand shoots up, catching it mid‑air with terrifying, effortless calm.

The entire arena gasps.

John Phillips: “HE CAUGHT IT! THERON TKACHUK JUST CAUGHT THE WEAPON MID‑SWING!”

Mark Bravo: “OH THAT’S BAD, JOHN! THAT’S REAL BAD! MAXX JUST HIT THE ‘WAKE THE BEAR’ BUTTON!”

Maxx tries to yank the lid back—no movement. He tries again—nothing. Theron’s arm doesn’t budge. His stance doesn’t shift. He holds the lid like it’s a child’s toy.

Maxx’s eyes widen—then he bursts into manic laughter, leaning in nose‑to‑mask with the silent giant.

Theron doesn’t blink.

He just tightens his grip.

Then he moves.

One step forward.

One shift of weight.

One heavy, blunt forearm—

—and it lands across Maxx’s jaw with a sound like a tree splitting.

Maxx’s head snaps sideways. His body whips around. He crashes into a row of seats, knocking them over like bowling pins. Fans scatter, screaming, stumbling over each other to get out of the blast zone.

Maxx hits the concrete, rolls, pops back up—laughing, blood on his lip, eyes wild. Tkachuk removes his jacket and launches it into the crowd.

John Phillips: “Maxx Mayhem is laughing through that shot! That forearm would have knocked most men unconscious!”

Mark Bravo: “Maxx isn’t most men! He’s a crash test dummy with a pulse!”

Maxx charges again—swinging wild punches, elbows, anything he can throw. Theron absorbs the first shot with a slight turn of his head. The second with a shift of his shoulder. The third with nothing but stillness.

Maxx keeps swinging, screaming, laughing, throwing everything he has—

—and Theron’s expression never changes.

Then Theron fires back.

A rib‑shot that sounds like a baseball bat hitting a heavy bag.

A downward forearm that nearly buckles Maxx’s knees.

A short elbow to the jaw that sends Maxx stumbling into a fan’s lap.

John Phillips: “Theron Tkachuk is absorbing these shots like they’re nothing! Maxx Mayhem is throwing bombs and getting no reaction!”

Mark Bravo: “John… he’s hitting a glacier. You don’t punch a glacier. The glacier wins.”

Maxx grabs a fan’s plastic beer cup and hurls it at Theron’s face. It splashes across the wolf‑jaw mask. Theron doesn’t react. Maxx grabs a metal chair from the row and swings it overhead—

—Theron steps in, catches the chair by the frame, rips it from Maxx’s hands, and hurls it down the steps like it weighs nothing.

The chair bounces off the concrete, clattering violently as fans scream and dive out of the way.

Maxx’s grin widens.

Theron’s expression stays frozen.

Maxx lunges again—Theron meets him with a brutal tackle, driving him backward into a cluster of seats. The impact sends chairs collapsing, fans scattering, drinks exploding into the air like confetti.

John Phillips: “THIS IS ABSOLUTE MAYHEM IN THE UPPER BOWL! THEY’RE DESTROYING EVERYTHING UP THERE!”

Mark Bravo: “THIS IS BEAUTIFUL! THIS IS ART! THIS IS WHAT HARDCORE WRESTLING IS SUPPOSED TO BE!”

Theron grabs Maxx by the back of the head and slams him face‑first into a metal railing. Maxx bounces off it, staggering, laughing, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

He spits a mouthful of red onto the concrete and screams something incoherent at Theron.

Theron answers with a clubbing forearm that sends Maxx tumbling down three steps, crashing into a pile of knocked‑over chairs.

Maxx rolls, pops back up, and hurls a seat cushion at Theron’s head.

Theron doesn’t even blink as it bounces off his mask.

Mark Bravo: “JOHN, HE JUST GOT HIT WITH A CHAIR CUSHION AND DIDN’T EVEN LOOK AT IT! THAT’S A SUPERVILLAIN!”

Maxx grabs a fan’s half‑eaten nachos and flings them at Theron. Cheese splatters across the wolf‑jaw mask. Theron doesn’t react. Maxx laughs so hard he nearly falls over.

Theron steps forward—slow, inevitable, predatory.

Maxx swings again—Theron catches the punch, twists Maxx’s wrist, and hurls him sideways into a concrete pillar. Maxx hits with a thud that echoes through the arena.

He slumps for a moment—then starts laughing again.

John Phillips: “Maxx Mayhem is taking an unbelievable amount of punishment!”

Mark Bravo: “He’s not taking it, John—he’s ordering seconds!”

Theron grabs Maxx by the back of the neck and drags him down the steps, bouncing him off railings, seats, and concrete as they descend toward the lower bowl. Fans scatter in every direction, creating a widening path of destruction.

Maxx tries to fight back—wild elbows, headbutts, kicks—but Theron absorbs them with irritation, not pain.

Theron slams Maxx into a railing so hard the entire section rattles.

Maxx collapses to a knee, wheezing, still laughing.

Theron reaches down, grabs him by the hair, and yanks him back to his feet like he weighs nothing.

John Phillips: “They’re fighting their way down toward the floor! This match hasn’t even touched the ring yet!”

Mark Bravo: “WHO NEEDS A RING?! THIS IS A STREET FIGHT WITH TICKETS!”

Theron shoves Maxx forward, sending him tumbling down the last few steps. Maxx crashes onto the concrete walkway below, rolling, coughing, laughing, pounding the floor with his fist like he’s having the time of his life.

Theron descends after him—slow, cold, inevitable—like winter coming down a mountain.

The crowd roars as the two men collide again, fists flying, bodies slamming into railings, fans scattering in every direction.

The fight is no longer a match.

It’s a riot.

And it’s only getting worse.

Maxx Mayhem tumbles down the last few concrete steps, crashing onto the walkway below in a heap of limbs and laughter. He rolls onto his back, coughing, wheezing, pounding the floor with his fist like he’s having the time of his life. Fans scatter in every direction, climbing over seats, diving behind railings, trying to get out of the blast radius.

Theron Tkachuk descends after him—slow, cold, inevitable—like winter coming down a mountain. Every step is deliberate. Every movement is controlled. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t posture. He simply advances, the spotlight following him like it’s afraid to lose him.

John Phillips: “They’ve made it down to the lower bowl, and this is absolute chaos! Fans are scrambling to get out of the way!”

Mark Bravo: “This isn’t a match, John! This is a natural disaster with theme music!”

Maxx pushes himself up to his knees, still laughing, still bleeding from the lip. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smears the red across his cheek like war paint, and screams something incoherent at Theron.

Theron answers by grabbing Maxx by the back of the head and hurling him into the steel guardrail. Maxx hits with a clang that echoes through the arena. The railing shudders. Fans behind it recoil like they’ve just seen a car crash.

Maxx slumps for a moment—then pops back up, staggering, laughing, pounding the rail with both fists like he’s trying to hype it up.

John Phillips: “Maxx Mayhem is absorbing an unbelievable amount of punishment!”

Mark Bravo: “He’s not absorbing it, John—he’s auditioning for more!”

Maxx lunges forward, grabbing a fan’s souvenir popcorn bucket and smashing it over Theron’s head. Popcorn explodes everywhere, raining down like confetti. Theron doesn’t react. He doesn’t even blink. Kernels slide down the wolf‑jaw mask like snowflakes.

Maxx grabs a plastic drink tray and swings it like a frying pan. It smacks against Theron’s shoulder and shatters into pieces.

Theron doesn’t move.

Mark Bravo: “JOHN, HE JUST GOT HIT WITH A DRINK TRAY AND DIDN’T EVEN LOOK AT IT! THAT’S A SUPERVILLAIN!”

Maxx backs up, laughing, arms wide, daring Theron to come at him.

Theron obliges.

He steps forward and drives a knee into Maxx’s ribs with enough force to lift him off the ground. Maxx folds over, wheezing, stumbling backward into a merchandise cart. Shirts, hats, and foam fingers spill everywhere.

Theron grabs Maxx by the back of the neck and slams him face‑first into the cart. The whole structure tips, crashing onto its side, sending merch flying like debris in a storm.

John Phillips: “They’re destroying the merchandise area! This is out of control!”

Mark Bravo: “I HOPE THEY BREAK THE SNOW GLOBES! I HATE SNOW GLOBES!”

Maxx crawls out from under a pile of shirts, grabs a foam finger, and jabs it into Theron’s face like a sword. The foam bends instantly. Theron doesn’t react. Maxx throws it aside and grabs a metal clothing rack instead.

He swings it like a battering ram—

—Theron sidesteps, grabs the rack mid‑swing, and rips it out of Maxx’s hands. He hurls it across the walkway, where it crashes into a trash can and sends it rolling down the aisle.

Maxx charges again—Theron meets him with a brutal shoulder block that sends Maxx flipping over a row of chairs and crashing into the concrete floor on the other side.

John Phillips: “THERON TKACHUK JUST SENT MAXX MAYHEM INTO THE NEXT ZIP CODE!”

Mark Bravo: “HE GOT FREQUENT FLYER MILES FOR THAT ONE!”

Maxx crawls out from under the chairs, coughing, laughing, dragging himself upright using the railing. He spits onto the floor, wipes his mouth, and screams at Theron to bring it on.

Theron obliges again.

He grabs Maxx by the wrist, yanks him forward, and whips him into a concrete support pillar. Maxx hits hard, bouncing off it like a ragdoll, collapsing to the floor in a heap.

Fans gasp. Some cheer. Some cover their mouths. Some back away like they’re afraid the fight might spill into their laps.

John Phillips: “Maxx Mayhem is being ragdolled all over the arena!”

Mark Bravo: “He’s gonna need a chiropractor, a priest, and a new spine!”

Maxx crawls away, dragging himself along the floor, laughing through the pain. He reaches a concession stand, grabs a plastic nacho tray, and flings it at Theron. Cheese splatters across the wolf‑jaw mask again.

Theron doesn’t react.

Maxx grabs a soda machine cup and throws it. Then another. Then another. He’s pelting Theron with drinks like a child throwing snowballs at a tank.

Theron keeps walking.

Maxx backs up, trips over a fallen chair, and scrambles to his feet. He grabs a metal stanchion pole from a crowd‑control barrier and swings it like a baseball bat.

Theron catches it mid‑swing.

Maxx’s eyes go wide.

Theron rips the pole out of his hands and snaps it across his knee.

Mark Bravo: “HE JUST BROKE A METAL POLE! A METAL POLE, JOHN! WHAT IS HE MADE OF?!”

John Phillips: “This is terrifying. Theron Tkachuk is terrifying.”

Maxx stumbles backward, hands raised, laughing nervously now. Theron steps forward, grabs Maxx by the throat with one hand, and shoves him backward into a rolling equipment crate.

The crate tips, crashes, and spills cables and gear across the floor.

Maxx rolls out of the wreckage, coughing, clutching his ribs, still laughing, still refusing to stay down.

Theron advances again—slow, cold, inevitable—like a storm that refuses to pass.

John Phillips: “They’re heading toward the entrance ramp! This fight is tearing through the entire arena!”

Mark Bravo: “GOOD! TAKE IT TO THE PARKING LOT! TAKE IT TO THE ROOF! TAKE IT TO THE MOON!”

Maxx staggers toward the ramp area, using the guardrail to stay upright. Theron follows, relentless, unstoppable, the crowd parting around him like he’s a force of nature.

The riot is moving.

The violence is escalating.

And the ring is still nowhere in sight.

Maxx Mayhem staggers along the lower bowl walkway, clutching his ribs, laughing through the pain as he uses the guardrail to stay upright. Theron Tkachuk follows behind him with the cold inevitability of a glacier, each step measured, each movement controlled, the crowd parting around him like he’s a force of nature.

Maxx turns, sees Theron closing in, and immediately grabs the nearest object—a fan’s souvenir drink cup—and hurls it at Theron’s head. It bounces off the wolf‑jaw mask and splashes soda across his chest.

Theron doesn’t react.

John Phillips: “Theron Tkachuk is completely unfazed! Maxx Mayhem is throwing everything he can get his hands on!”

Mark Bravo: “He’s throwing drinks at a polar bear, John! It’s not gonna work!”

Maxx grabs a nacho tray from a startled fan and flings it like a frisbee. It smacks Theron in the shoulder, cheese and chips exploding everywhere. Theron keeps walking. Maxx backs up, laughing, slipping on spilled nacho cheese, nearly falling over.

Theron reaches him.

Maxx swings a wild right hand—Theron catches it mid‑air, twists Maxx’s wrist, and yanks him forward into a brutal short‑range elbow to the jaw. Maxx’s head snaps back, and he stumbles into a cluster of fans, knocking them aside like bowling pins.

He collapses over a row of seats, legs tangled, arms flailing, laughing like a man who’s lost all sense of self‑preservation.

John Phillips: “Maxx Mayhem is being tossed around like a ragdoll!”

Mark Bravo: “He’s gonna need a chiropractor, a priest, and a new skeleton!”

Theron steps over the fallen chairs and grabs Maxx by the back of the neck, dragging him upright. Maxx tries to fight back—wild elbows, frantic punches—but Theron absorbs them with irritation, not pain.

Theron drives Maxx backward, slamming him spine‑first into a concrete support pillar. The impact echoes through the arena. Fans gasp and recoil.

Maxx slumps, wheezing, clutching his back—then starts laughing again.

Mark Bravo: “JOHN, HE’S LAUGHING! HE JUST GOT INTRODUCED TO A CONCRETE PILLAR AND HE’S LAUGHING!”

Theron grabs Maxx by the wrist and whips him across the walkway. Maxx crashes into a metal trash can, sending it flying. It rolls down the aisle, scattering debris everywhere.

Maxx crawls out of the wreckage, grabs the trash can lid, and hurls it like a discus. It clangs off Theron’s shoulder. Theron doesn’t react.

Maxx grabs the entire trash can and charges with it like a battering ram—

—Theron steps aside, grabs Maxx by the back of the head, and sends him crashing face‑first into the railing. Maxx flips over it and lands in the row below, chairs collapsing under him.

John Phillips: “MAXX MAYHEM JUST WENT OVER THE RAILING!”

Mark Bravo: “HE’S TAKING THE EXPRESS ELEVATOR TO THE NEXT SECTION!”

Theron steps over the railing with one smooth motion, dropping down into the next row. Fans scramble, climbing over seats, diving out of the way, spilling drinks and snacks everywhere.

Maxx crawls up the steps, dragging himself by the railing, leaving a trail of chaos behind him. He grabs a fan’s foam finger and jabs it into Theron’s face like a sword.

The foam bends instantly.

Theron doesn’t blink.

Maxx throws it aside and grabs a metal folding chair from the aisle. He swings it overhead—wild, reckless—

—Theron catches the chair mid‑swing, rips it out of Maxx’s hands, and smashes it across Maxx’s back with a thunderous crack.

Maxx collapses onto the steps, rolling down three rows, limbs flailing, laughing hysterically.

John Phillips: “THERON TKACHUK JUST FOLDED MAXX MAYHEM IN HALF!”

Mark Bravo: “HE HIT HIM SO HARD THE CHAIR IS FILING A WORKERS’ COMP CLAIM!”

Maxx lands at the bottom of the section, sprawled across the concrete. He pushes himself up, coughing, wheezing, still laughing. He grabs a fan’s souvenir soda and chugs it, then spits it into the air like a fountain.

Theron descends the steps after him—slow, cold, inevitable—like a storm rolling downhill.

Maxx grabs a metal stanchion pole from a crowd‑control barrier and swings it like a baseball bat. Theron catches it mid‑swing, twists it out of Maxx’s hands, and snaps it across his knee.

The pole breaks in half.

The crowd erupts.

Mark Bravo: “HE JUST BROKE A METAL POLE! A METAL POLE, JOHN! WHAT IS HE MADE OF?!”

John Phillips: “This is terrifying. Theron Tkachuk is terrifying.”

Maxx backs up, hands raised, laughing nervously now. Theron steps forward, grabs Maxx by the throat with one hand, and shoves him backward into a rolling equipment crate.

The crate tips, crashes, and spills cables and gear across the floor.

Maxx rolls out of the wreckage, coughing, dragging himself upright using the guardrail. He spits onto the floor, wipes his mouth, and screams at Theron to bring it on.

Theron obliges.

He grabs Maxx by the back of the head and hurls him into a merchandise table. Shirts, hats, and foam fingers explode into the air as Maxx crashes through the display.

John Phillips: “THEY’RE DESTROYING THE MERCH TABLE!”

Mark Bravo: “NOOO! NOT THE LIMITED‑EDITION FOAM FINGERS!”

Maxx crawls out from under the merch pile, grabs a t‑shirt, and flings it at Theron’s face. It flutters harmlessly to the floor.

Theron steps forward, grabs Maxx by the waistband, and deadlifts him into the air like a sack of flour. He walks forward—carrying Maxx overhead—before dumping him onto a row of chairs with a crash that sends metal bending and fans screaming.

Maxx rolls off the chairs, coughing, laughing, dragging himself toward the aisle.

Theron follows.

The riot continues.

The crowd scatters.

The violence escalates.

And the ring is still nowhere in sight.

Maxx Mayhem stumbles out of the lower bowl and onto the flat concrete leading to the ramp, clutching his ribs, laughing through the pain as he drags himself forward. Fans scatter behind him, climbing over seats, diving behind railings, desperate to get out of the blast radius. Theron Tkachuk follows with that same cold, inevitable walk — no bounce, no wasted motion, just forward pressure.

Maxx reaches the base of the ramp, plants both hands on the metal, and hauls himself upward, boots scraping against the steel grating. He slips once, catches himself, and keeps climbing, laughing like a man who thinks he’s winning a fight he’s clearly losing.

John Phillips: “Maxx Mayhem is dragging himself up the ramp! He’s trying to get higher ground!”

Mark Bravo: “Higher ground?! Against THAT guy?! That’s not strategy, that’s a dare!”

Theron steps onto the ramp behind him, the spotlight following him like a predator tracking its prey. Maxx reaches the top, turns around, and immediately grabs the nearest object — a lighting rig cable — swinging it like a whip.

Theron keeps walking.

Maxx snaps the cable across Theron’s chest. It bounces off the wolf‑jaw mask and tactical fatigues with no effect. Maxx swings again — Theron catches the cable mid‑air, yanks Maxx forward, and drives a heavy knee into his gut.

Maxx folds over, wheezing, stumbling backward across the stage.

John Phillips: “Theron Tkachuk is absorbing everything Maxx throws at him!”

Mark Bravo: “He’s not absorbing it, John — he’s IGNORING it!”

Maxx backs into a lighting truss, grabs a loose metal clamp, and hurls it at Theron’s head. Theron tilts his head slightly — the clamp whistles past and clatters across the stage. Maxx charges with a wild clothesline — Theron ducks, pivots, and shoves Maxx forward.

Maxx slams chest‑first into the LED wall.

The entire screen glitches violently, static rippling across the massive display.

John Phillips: “THE LED WALL IS GLITCHING! MAXX HIT IT LIKE A CAR CRASH!”

Mark Bravo: “THE WALL IS BEGGING FOR MERCY!”

Maxx bounces off the screen, staggering sideways, laughing through the pain. He grabs a production crate, shoves it toward Theron, and sprints across the stage like a man trying to outrun gravity.

Theron steps around the crate and follows.

Maxx reaches the very edge of the stage — the long drop to the floor below looming behind him. He turns, wild‑eyed, chest heaving, and swings a desperate right hand.

Theron blocks it, grabs Maxx by the wrist, and twists.

Maxx screams, drops to a knee, then laughs through the agony.

Theron lifts him by the arm and hurls him across the stage.

Maxx skids across the metal grate, rolling, tumbling, crashing into a stack of lighting cases. The cases topple, spilling cables and equipment everywhere.

John Phillips: “MAXX MAYHEM JUST GOT LAUNCHED ACROSS THE STAGE!”

Mark Bravo: “HE’S GONNA NEED A MAP TO FIND HIS WAY BACK!”

Maxx crawls out from under the fallen cases, coughing, dragging himself upright using the edge of the stage. He spits onto the metal, wipes his mouth, and slaps himself twice, screaming at Theron to come finish it.

Theron obliges.

He grabs Maxx by the hair, yanks him upright, and drives a headbutt into his forehead. Maxx stumbles backward, nearly falling off the stage. He catches himself at the last second, teetering on the edge.

Theron steps forward.

Maxx swings a wild elbow — Theron catches it, pulls Maxx in, and lifts him overhead in a military press.

John Phillips: “OH MY GOD — THERON TKACHUK HAS MAXX MAYHEM PRESSED OVER HIS HEAD!”

Mark Bravo: “DON’T DROP HIM! DON’T DROP HIM! …ACTUALLY, DROP HIM!”

Theron walks toward the center of the stage with Maxx held high, the crowd roaring in disbelief. Maxx kicks wildly, laughing, screaming, flailing — but Theron’s grip doesn’t waver.

He steps forward —

plants his feet —

and SLAMS Maxx down onto the metal grate with a thunderous crash.

The entire stage shakes.

Maxx’s body bounces off the steel, rolling onto his side, coughing, laughing weakly.

Theron stands over him, silent, unreadable, the wolf‑jaw mask staring down like a death omen.

The ramp is a warzone.

The stage is wreckage.

And the ring is finally seen in the distance.

Maxx Mayhem is still rolling, tumbling, half‑falling down the ramp from the beating atop the stage, boots scraping sparks off the metal as he tries to catch himself. He finally slams onto the incline, skidding several feet before he manages to hook an arm around the guardrail and stop his slide. He’s coughing, wheezing, laughing like a man who’s forgotten what pain is supposed to feel like.

Up on the stage, Theron Tkachuk steps forward into the spotlight. No rush. No flourish. Just that cold, inevitable walk — the Dire Wolf descending the mountain after its prey. The crowd roars as he reaches the top of the ramp, the metal grating groaning under his boots.

John Phillips: “Maxx Mayhem is trying to get back to his feet, but Theron Tkachuk is coming down that ramp like a force of nature!”

Mark Bravo: “He’s not walking, John — he’s HUNTING!”

Maxx pulls himself upright using the guardrail, chest heaving, blood on his lip, sweat pouring down his face. He turns, sees Theron halfway down the ramp, and immediately charges — reckless, wild, fearless.

Theron meets him with a shoulder block that sends Maxx flipping backward down the incline. Maxx hits the ramp, rolls, bounces, and crashes onto his back, laughing through the agony.

John Phillips: “THERON JUST RAN THROUGH HIM!”

Mark Bravo: “LIKE A FREIGHT TRAIN MADE OF REGRET!”

Maxx scrambles up again, slipping on the metal, grabbing at the rail to steady himself. He lunges with a wild punch — Theron sidesteps, grabs Maxx by the back of the head, and slams him face‑first into the ramp. Maxx’s skull bounces off the steel with a hollow clang.

Maxx rolls onto his back, clutching his face, laughing like a lunatic.

Theron grabs him by the ankle and drags him down the ramp, Maxx’s body scraping across the metal, boots leaving streaks behind him. Maxx claws at the grating, trying to slow himself, but Theron’s grip doesn’t budge.

John Phillips: “Theron Tkachuk is dragging Maxx Mayhem like he’s hauling a carcass!”

Mark Bravo: “MAXX IS GONNA NEED A NEW SET OF SKIN AFTER THIS!”

Maxx kicks wildly, catches Theron in the thigh, and manages to twist free. He rolls to the side, grabs the guardrail, and pulls himself upright. He rips a fan’s sign out of their hands and swings it like a weapon.

Theron swats it aside with one hand.

Maxx swings again — Theron catches the sign mid‑air, snaps it in half, and hurls the pieces down the ramp.

Maxx charges — Theron meets him with a knee to the gut that folds him in half. Maxx collapses to all fours, coughing, gagging, still laughing through the pain.

Theron grabs him by the waistband and the back of the neck, lifts him, and throws him down the ramp like a sack of sand. Maxx slides on his stomach, arms flailing, boots scraping sparks as he skids toward ringside.

John Phillips: “MAXX MAYHEM IS SLIDING DOWN THE RAMP LIKE A HUMAN TOBOGGAN!”

Mark Bravo: “HE’S GONNA HIT THE RING LIKE A BOWLING BALL!”

Maxx slams into the bottom of the ramp, rolling onto the ringside mats. He tries to stand — his legs wobble, his arms shake, but he’s still laughing, still daring Theron to come finish the job.

Theron reaches the bottom of the ramp, stepping off the incline with that same cold, controlled menace. Maxx throws a desperate punch — Theron blocks it, grabs Maxx by the throat, and shoves him backward into the barricade.

The barricade rattles violently, fans recoiling from the impact.

John Phillips: “They’ve reached ringside! The ramp is a warzone behind them!”

Mark Bravo: “AND THE RING IS ABOUT TO BECOME A CRIME SCENE!”

Maxx slumps against the barricade, coughing, laughing, barely able to stand. Theron steps toward him, silent, unreadable, the wolf‑jaw mask staring down like a death omen.

The ring is finally within reach.

And Maxx Mayhem is barely conscious enough to realize it.

Theron Tkachuk drags Maxx Mayhem along the ringside floor like he’s hauling a carcass, the Dire Wolf finally corralling the chaos toward the ring. Maxx tries to crawl away, laughing through the pain, but Theron grabs him by the back of the neck and slams him chest‑first onto the apron. Maxx bounces off it and collapses to the mats, coughing, wheezing, still grinning like a man who doesn’t understand the concept of danger.

Theron doesn’t give him a second. He hauls Maxx up by the waistband and the back of the head, lifts him, and drives him spine‑first into the barricade. The steel rattles violently, fans recoiling from the impact.

John Phillips: “Theron Tkachuk is in complete control! Maxx Mayhem is getting dismantled outside the ring!”

Mark Bravo: “He’s getting hit like he owes Theron rent!”

Maxx slumps to a knee, clutching his ribs, laughing through the agony. Theron steps forward, grabs him by the hair, and yanks him upright. Maxx swings a wild punch — Theron blocks it with one forearm and answers with a heavy downward clubbing shot that drops Maxx to all fours.

Theron stalks him — slow, cold, inevitable — and grabs Maxx by the back of the head again, dragging him toward the corner of the ring. Maxx tries to fight back, throwing frantic elbows that bounce harmlessly off Theron’s ribs.

Theron shoves him toward the ring steps.

Maxx stumbles.

Theron lowers his stance.

The crowd rises.

They know what’s coming.

Theron surges forward.

A full‑speed charge.

A freight train in human form.

Maxx’s eyes widen — then light up with manic joy.

He sidesteps.

Theron barrels past him —

and SMASHES shoulder‑first into the steel steps.

The top half of the steps explodes off its base, skidding across the floor. The bottom half shifts violently, scraping the mats.

The crowd erupts.

John Phillips: “THERON TKACHUK JUST HIT THE STEPS AT FULL SPEED!”

Mark Bravo: “THE STEPS ARE FILING A RESTRAINING ORDER!”

Theron is down on one knee, one hand on the floor, head lowered — not hurt, but stunned. It’s the first real mistake he’s made all match.

Maxx sees it.

Maxx LOVES it.

He drops to the floor immediately, laughing like a man who just found a new religion, and rips the ring skirt upward with both hands.

The crowd roars.

Maxx’s grin widens.

He reaches under the ring…

…and pulls out a dented metal trash can stuffed with weapons.

Kendo sticks.

A chain.

A stop sign.

A baking sheet.

A crowbar.

A steel pipe.

A bag of something that rattles ominously.

Mark Bravo: “OH NO. OH YES. OH NO. OH YES!”

John Phillips: “Maxx Mayhem has found the hardware!”

Theron is still recovering from the collision. Maxx drags the trash can out, dumps the entire contents across the floor, and kicks the can itself into the ring.

He grabs the first weapon his hand touches — a kendo stick — and turns toward the Dire Wolf with a grin that says he’s about to enjoy every second of this.

The brutality is about to begin.

Maxx Mayhem stands over the wrecked steel steps, laughing like a man who just watched divine justice happen in real time. Theron Tkachuk is still down on one knee, one hand braced on the floor, the Dire Wolf shaking off the collision with slow, deliberate breaths. Maxx grips the dented trash can full of weapons with both hands, lifts it overhead, and brings it crashing down across Theron’s back.

The metal buckles around the impact, the weapons inside rattling like bones in a drum.

Theron drops to both hands. Maxx howls with manic joy.

John Phillips: “Maxx Mayhem is taking full advantage of that mistake!”

Mark Bravo: “He’s hitting him with a whole apartment’s worth of bad decisions!”

Maxx slams the trash can down again — this time across Theron’s shoulders. The can dents further, folding around the Dire Wolf’s frame. Theron tries to rise — Maxx boots him in the ribs, sending him rolling toward the apron.

Maxx pounces, mounting Theron’s back and raining down wild, frantic punches — lefts, rights, hammerfists, anything he can throw. Theron absorbs them, muscles tensing, forearms tightening, but Maxx keeps swinging, laughing through every shot.

Theron pushes up to one knee — Maxx grabs the trash can again and smashes it across the side of Theron’s head.

The can folds nearly in half.

Theron slumps against the apron, dazed but not broken. Maxx wipes sweat from his face, breathing hard, grinning like a man who just found a new favorite toy. He grabs Theron by the mask and shoves him under the bottom rope, rolling him into the ring like a corpse being dumped into a grave.

Maxx slides in after him, dragging the mangled trash can with him.

John Phillips: “Maxx Mayhem is bringing the weapons into the ring!”

Mark Bravo: “And the ring is about to regret it!”

Maxx flips the trash can upright, reaches inside, and pulls out the first thing his hand touches — a kendo stick. He twirls it once, screams, and cracks it across Theron’s back.

CRACK.

Theron’s body jerks, but he doesn’t fall.

Maxx swings again.

CRACK.

The stick splinters. Maxx tosses it aside and reaches into the can again.

He pulls out the baking sheet.

CLANG.

Across the back.

CLANG.

Across the head.

Theron drops to one knee.

Maxx laughs, throws the sheet aside, and digs deeper.

He pulls out the stop sign.

The crowd roars.

Maxx charges and swings it like a medieval shield.

WHAM.

Theron staggers.

Maxx hits the ropes, rebounds, and slams the sign into Theron’s chest again, bending the metal around the impact.

Theron drops to both knees.

John Phillips: “Maxx Mayhem is unloading everything he has!”

Mark Bravo: “He’s hitting him with traffic violations!”

Maxx tosses the stop sign aside and reaches into the can again. He pulls out the chain, wraps it around his fist, and charges with a chain‑wrapped right hand aimed at Theron’s jaw.

Theron catches his arm.

The entire arena freezes.

Maxx’s grin flickers.

Theron rises — slow, cold, inevitable — still gripping Maxx’s fist.

Maxx tries to yank free. Theron doesn’t budge. Maxx swings with his free hand — Theron blocks it and shoves Maxx backward with one violent push that sends him stumbling into the ropes.

Maxx rebounds, frantic, wild, desperate — and dives back into the trash can.

He pulls out the steel chair.

He snaps it closed.

He raises it high.

The crowd explodes.

John Phillips: “Maxx Mayhem has the steel chair! He’s lining up Theron Tkachuk!”

Mark Bravo: “THIS IS ABOUT TO GET VERY LOUD AND VERY ILLEGAL!”

Maxx stalks forward, chair raised, eyes locked on the Dire Wolf.

Theron Tkachuk is rising again.

And Maxx Mayhem is ready to swing.

Maxx Mayhem stands over the staggering Dire Wolf, steel chair already raised high above his head, breath ragged, sweat dripping, eyes wild with adrenaline. Theron Tkachuk pushes up from one knee, blood streaking down his face, the wolf‑jaw mask still covering most of it.

Maxx screams and swings.

CRACK.

The chair detonates against Theron’s skull with a sickening metallic blast, the steel folding around the impact point like it’s made of tinfoil. Theron’s body snaps backward, collapsing flat onto the canvas, arms splayed, legs limp, blood beginning to pool beneath his hairline.

John Phillips: “THERON TKACHUK IS DOWN! MAXX MAYHEM JUST CAVED HIS SKULL IN!”

Mark Bravo: “THE CHAIR IS DEAD! THE CHAIR IS SO DEAD!”

Maxx drops the ruined chair and throws his arms wide, screaming at the crowd, pounding his chest, feeding off their shock. He slides out of the ring, laughing, flips the apron skirt up, and drags a folding table out from underneath the ring. He slams it onto the floor, kicks the legs open, and slaps the tabletop twice like he’s christening a sacrificial altar.

Inside the ring, Theron Tkachuk moves.

Barely.

A twitch of the fingers. A shift of the shoulder. A slow, deliberate breath.

Maxx doesn’t see it. He’s too busy taunting the fans, too busy hyping himself up, too busy promising carnage.

Theron pushes up to one knee.

Blood runs down his face in thick, crimson trails.

He reaches up… grabs the wolf‑jaw mask… and pulls it down, exposing his face fully for the first time since the match began.

The crowd gasps.

Theron rises.

Slow.

Cold.

Inevitable.

He whips his hair back with one violent jerk, spraying blood everywhere, revealing a face carved from stone and streaked with red. His eyes lock onto Maxx with a predator’s focus.

John Phillips: “THERON TKACHUK IS BLEEDING! BUT HE’S GETTING UP!”

Mark Bravo: “HE LOOKS LIKE HE JUST WALKED OUT OF A HORROR MOVIE!”

Maxx finally turns — and freezes.

Theron is standing.

Theron is staring.

Theron is coming.

Maxx slides back into the ring, fists clenched, laughing through the fear. He charges and unloads with wild punches — lefts, rights, hooks, hammerfists — each one landing flush on Theron’s jaw, cheek, temple.

Theron staggers at first.

Then less.

Then not at all.

Maxx keeps swinging, frantic, desperate, screaming with every shot.

Theron just stands there.

Taking it.

Absorbing it.

Growing colder.

Growing stiller.

Growing inevitable.

Maxx’s punches slow. His breathing falters. His eyes widen.

Theron finally fires back.

A single, brutal right hand.

Maxx’s head snaps sideways.

Another.

Maxx stumbles.

A third.

Maxx drops to a knee.

A fourth — a haymaker that echoes through the arena.

Maxx collapses onto his back, gasping, eyes wide, the manic grin finally fading.

John Phillips: “THERON TKACHUK IS UNLOADING! MAXX MAYHEM IS GETTING DESTROYED!”

Mark Bravo: “HE’S THROWING HAYMAKERS LIKE HE’S TRYING TO KNOCK DOWN A WALL!”

Maxx scrambles, desperate, wild — and jabs a thumb straight into Theron’s eye.

Theron recoils, blinking hard, blood mixing with tears.

Maxx darts to the ropes, hits them at full speed, rebounds—

—and runs straight into the Deep Six.

Theron snatches him mid‑charge, spins him violently, and plants him in the center of the ring with a thunderous crash that shakes the canvas.

John Phillips: “DEEP SIX! DEEP SIX! THERON TKACHUK JUST PLANTED MAXX MAYHEM!”

Mark Bravo: “MAXX JUST GOT SPUN LIKE A BAD DECISION!”

Theron Tkachuk rises from the Deep Six, blood dripping down his face, chest heaving, eyes locked on Maxx Mayhem with cold, predatory focus. Maxx tries to crawl away, clutching his ribs, gasping for breath, but Theron grabs him by the back of the head and drags him upright like he’s hauling a carcass.

He shoves Maxx backward into the corner — hard. Maxx’s spine hits the turnbuckles with a dull thud, his arms draping over the ropes, legs barely holding him up.

Theron steps in close.

Too close.

Maxx’s eyes widen.

Theron pins him in the corner with one massive forearm across the chest, trapping him like prey caught in a snare.

John Phillips: “Maxx Mayhem is trapped! Theron Tkachuk has him pinned in the corner!”

Mark Bravo: “This is about to get VERY unpleasant!”

Theron cocks his right hand back.

And unloads.

A massive right hand crashes into Maxx’s cheek, snapping his head sideways. Maxx’s knees buckle, but Theron holds him up with the forearm across his chest.

Another right hand — this one to the eye.

Maxx’s head jerks violently, his face already swelling, his breath hitching.

Another — to the jaw.

Maxx’s mouthpiece nearly flies out. His legs give out completely, but Theron keeps him pinned upright, refusing to let gravity save him.

Theron fires another right hand. And another. And another.

Each one lands with the thud of a sledgehammer hitting wet earth.

Maxx tries to laugh — he really does — but the sound dies in his throat. His face contorts, his eyes glaze, his body slumps harder against the ropes.

Theron doesn’t stop.

He unleashes a barrage of brutal, piston‑like right hands — eye, cheek, jaw, cheek, jaw, eye — each one more devastating than the last. Maxx’s head snaps back and forth like it’s barely attached.

John Phillips: “THERON TKACHUK IS DESTROYING MAXX MAYHEM IN THAT CORNER!”

Mark Bravo: “MAXX CAN’T EVEN LAUGH ANYMORE! THAT’S HOW YOU KNOW IT’S BAD!”

Maxx’s arms fall limp over the ropes. His legs wobble. His face is a swollen, bloody mess. He tries to lift a hand, tries to defend himself, but it’s useless — Theron swats it aside and buries another right hand into his jaw.

Maxx’s body sags.

Theron steps back just long enough to let Maxx collapse to his knees…

…then grabs him by the hair and yanks him upright again.

The brutality isn’t over.

Not even close.

Theron yanks Maxx upright by the hair, dragging him out of the corner like a ragdoll. Maxx’s legs barely work, his face a swollen, bloody ruin, his arms hanging limp at his sides. Theron positions Mayhem’s head between his legs and looks around the arena, before doing the cutthroat gesture.

Mark Bravo: “That’s some sign language everyone knows.”

The crowd rises.

They know what’s coming.

Tkachuk hooks him around the waist, lifts him, and marches him toward the ropes with cold, mechanical purpose.

John Phillips: “Oh no… oh NO… he’s not—”

Mark Bravo: “HE IS! HE ABSOLUTELY IS!”

Theron hoists Maxx higher, shifting his grip, muscles tightening beneath blood‑slick skin. Maxx’s head lolls backward, eyes half‑open, barely conscious.

Theron steps to the ropes.

And powerbombs Maxx Mayhem OVER the top rope.

Maxx sails through the air—

—and CRASHES through the table on the floor.

The table explodes beneath him, splintering into jagged pieces as Maxx’s body folds violently on impact. The crowd erupts in a mixture of shock and awe, the kind of noise that only comes from witnessing something catastrophic.

John Phillips: “MAXX MAYHEM JUST GOT POWERBOMBED THROUGH A TABLE FROM INSIDE THE RING!”

Mark Bravo: “HE’S DEAD! HE’S ACTUALLY DEAD! CALL SOMEBODY!”

Maxx lies motionless in the wreckage, limbs twisted, chest barely rising. Theron doesn’t celebrate. He doesn’t pose. He doesn’t acknowledge the crowd.

He simply steps through the ropes and drops to the floor with the calm inevitability of a man finishing a job.

He grabs Maxx by the wrist and drags him out of the debris, hauling his limp, lifeless body across the floor. Maxx’s boots leave streaks in the dust as Theron pulls him toward the ring like a hunter dragging a carcass.

Theron rolls him under the bottom rope.

Then follows.

He kneels beside Maxx, hooks an arm under his neck, and locks in Hypothermia — the blood‑choked sleeper, the cold embrace of the Dire Wolf.

Maxx doesn’t fight.

He can’t.

His arms twitch once… twice… then fall limp.

John Phillips: “Maxx Mayhem is fading! He’s fading fast!”

Mark Bravo: “He’s not fading — he’s GONE!”

The referee checks the arm.

It drops.

Checks again.

It drops.

Checks a third time—

It drops.

The bell rings.

John Phillips: “THERON TKACHUK HAS DONE IT! MAXX MAYHEM HAS PASSED OUT!”

Mark Bravo: “THE DIRE WOLF JUST PUT HIM TO SLEEP!”

Theron releases the hold and lets Maxx’s body slump to the canvas, motionless.

The Dire Wolf rises slowly, blood dripping from his face, chest heaving, eyes cold and unblinking.

He has won.

The bell rings the instant Maxx Mayhem’s arm drops for the third time. Theron Tkachuk releases Hypothermia immediately, letting Maxx’s limp body spill onto the canvas like a marionette with its strings cut. The Dire Wolf rises slowly, blood dripping from his face, chest heaving, but his expression never changes — cold, steady, unblinking.

The referee grabs Theron’s wrist and raises it high. The crowd erupts, a mixture of shock, awe, and raw adrenaline. Medical staff rush past Theron to check on Maxx, but the Dire Wolf doesn’t spare them a glance.

John Phillips: “THERON TKACHUK HAS DONE IT! MAXX MAYHEM IS OUT COLD — AND THE WRESTLEZONE CHAMPIONSHIP STAYS WITH GUNNAR VAN PATTON!”

Mark Bravo: “Gunnar Van Patton picked the right man! He picked the ONLY man who could survive this kind of war!”

Theron stands in the center of the ring, blood‑soaked and unmoving, as the referee retrieves the WrestleZone Championship. The belt is handed to him — not as his own, but as the symbol of the man he fought for.

Theron doesn’t raise it. He doesn’t pose. He simply drapes it over his shoulder with quiet, deadly purpose.

John Phillips: “Theron Tkachuk didn’t just win a match… he defended a championship for a man too injured to stand. Gunnar Van Patton trusted him — and that trust was rewarded.”

Mark Bravo: “Van Patton made the call of his career. He put the title in the hands of a monster… and the monster delivered.”

Theron steps through the ropes and drops to the floor, walking past the shattered remains of the table — the splintered wood, the twisted metal, the crater where Maxx’s body hit. He never looks back.

He climbs the ramp slowly, the WrestleZone Title still draped over his shoulder, blood still dripping from his chin, leaving a crimson trail behind him.

At the top of the stage, he pauses for only a heartbeat — not to celebrate, but to acknowledge the weight of what he’s done.

Then he disappears behind the curtain.

The Dire Wolf has fulfilled his duty.

Gunnar Van Patton remains the WrestleZone Champion.

And the legend of Theron Tkachuk grows.

The Unholy Wolf Brigade’s locker room is dim, quiet, and tense. Gunnar Van Patton sits on a bench, leg braced, crutches leaning beside him. Arkady paces in tight circles like a caged animal. Torunn leans against a locker, arms folded. Theron sits on a low stool, eyes closed, silently lost in his thoughts. The door opens with a sharp click of heels.

Avril Selene Kinkade enters with her usual glacial composure, posture immaculate, expression unreadable. She lingers near Theron as always, though her eyes are fixed on Gunnar.

AVRIL SELENE KINKADE: "Sergeant Van Patton. The matter is addressed. UTA has retained a new legal team—one specifically tasked with handling your affairs. Their intent, of course, is to ensure any resolution favors Mr. Stevens."

Gunnar snorts, unimpressed.

AVRIL SELENE KINKADE: "Despite their… predispositions, I negotiate terms. You are permitted to appoint a representative from the Unholy Wolf Brigade to defend the WrestleZone Championship on your behalf."

Arkady stops pacing. His head snaps up, eyes wide.

AVRIL SELENE KINKADE: "However, the match must be contested under street fight rules. No disqualifications. No count-outs. Total liability waiver."

Arkady practically vibrates with excitement.

AVRIL SELENE KINKADE: "I take the liberty of informing the legal team that Arkady Bogatyr is the likely candidate."

Arkady explodes with energy, bouncing on his toes, fists pumping.

ARKADY BOGATYR: "HELL YEAH! Major league ass‑kicking is back in town—"

Gunnar raises a hand. Arkady freezes mid‑celebration.

GUNNAR VAN PATTON: "Sit it down, Volk. It ain’t gonna be you."

Arkady blinks, stunned. Torunn arches an eyebrow. Avril’s eyes narrow—just slightly—as she turns her gaze back to Gunnar.

AVRIL SELENE KINKADE: "Sergeant Van Patton… I select Bogatyr because he is the most strategically appropriate choice."

Gunnar stares back at her, unblinking behind the red bandana.

GUNNAR VAN PATTON: "Ah heard what ya said, but you ain't the general here. Ah am."

Avril is not accustomed to being overruled, and a faint spark of fire flickers in her eyes as she focuses on her client.

Van Patton turns his head toward the biggest wolf in the room.

GUNNAR VAN PATTON: "Tkachuk, yer up."

Theron’s eyes burst open. He snatches a roll of tape from his bag and begins wrapping his fists with cold, deliberate precision, while heading towards the door. Arkady grumbles, disappointed. Torunn nods approvingly. 

Avril’s jaw tightens by a fraction—another tiny crack in the ice. She couldn't care less if Arkady suffered great bodily harm at the hands of Max Mayhem, but Tkachuk was quite a different matter. Avril drapes the WrestleZone title over the coldblooded Canadian's shoulder before staring daggers at the alpha wolf. 

AVRIL SELENE KINKADE: "Very well. If that is your decision… Sergeant Van Patton."

Gunnar and Avril lock eyes—his burning with defiance, hers with frosted disapproval. A rift growing in width with every passing second, with neither willing to back down.

Theron gets a pat on the back from Torunn and she signs "wolves against the world" to him, which gets a nod in reply.  Arkady and his tag partner bump fists before Tkachuk makes his way out the door and towards the ringside area.

The tension between Van Patton and Kinkade lingers long after he is gone.