Las Vegas.

Midnight.

The desert, eerily silent outside the hospital window. 

Inside, a dim room glows with soft, yellow light; the heart monitor’s rhythmic beep keeps time like a ticking bomb.

The camera lingers on the bruises.

Cheekbone. Jawline. Temple, stitched up with twelve angry threads. The gauze wrapping around his midsection rises and falls with each labored breath. Eric Dane Sr. is seated upright in a hospital bed, arms folded across his lap, shoulders square despite the pain.

A half-empty cup of ice water sits untouched on the tray. The TV above is muted, glowing with the remnants of some late-night news cycle already forgotten.

He doesn’t look at the camera when he begins.

ERIC DANE SR. [low]
I was supposed to be in a damn tuxedo.

I was supposed to shake hands and smile and maybe—maybe—take a bow for the kids who still chant my name like I ain't been gone longer than most of 'em have been alive.

Instead?

Instead, I'm sittin' here... watchin' the blood dry under my fingernails, wonderin' how the hell I let that piece of shit put me on the floor twice.

Twice.

He breathes in through his nose, grimacing. The kind of pain that lingers.

ERIC DANE SR.
I knew who he was. Knew what he was. Chris Ross didn’t sneak up on anybody. Hell, I respect that kind of anger when it comes honestly.

But what he did out there?

That wasn’t a message. That was a goddamn massacre.

And he made sure it had my name on it.

The elder Dane finally turns to the camera. Cold eyes. Cerulean steel. You could drown in what they’ve seen.

ERIC DANE SR.
He didn’t just want to hurt the boy. He wanted to make sure I watched him do it.

Make sure I couldn’t stop it.

Make sure everybody saw the mighty fall. The legend crumble. The old man finally eat shit and stay down.

Problem is…

I don’t stay down. It's not in my nature.

Eric leans forward slightly, and even that subtle movement looks like hell.

ERIC DANE SR.
I ain’t strappin’ the boots back on. You can forget that right now.

I’ve had my wars. I’ve spilled my oceans. The DEFIANCE you remember? That man has already died a dozen deaths.

But what you've woken up, Chris?

What you pulled outta that bloodstained floor in Vegas?

That ain’t the wrestler.

That’s the man.

That’s the consequence.

The heart monitor ticks on. Still steady. Still alive.

ERIC DANE SR.
So here’s what happens next.

I heal.

And you pray, Ross.

You pray that’s all I do.

Fade out.

The last image is Eric Dane’s stitched-up face bathed in flickering hospital light. One eye closed. The other?

Still burning.

SMASH CUT FROM BLACK]

🔥🔥🔥
BOOM!
A wall of fire explodes across the screen. Guitars wail. A distorted voice howls.

🎵 "WELCOME TO THE SOUTH..." 🎵

[ON SCREEN]
⚠️ LIVE FROM BIRMINGHAM, ALABAMA ⚠️
UTA x ICW PRESENTS…

🧨 THE GREAT SOUTHERN TRENDKILL 🧨

[QUICK-CUT MONTAGE]

• CHRIS ROSS standing atop a mountain of bodies, steel chair raised like a war trophy

• GRAYSIE PARKER storming down the ramp to “Sweet Home Alabama”, Iron Crown held high

• TODDERRICK DAVENPORT III exiting a limousine in white shades, flanked by the Rich Young Grapplerz

• JACK HAVOC screaming into the camera, drenched in blood

• DUCHESS VAUGHN and ASTRID REICHERT nose-to-nose, fists clenched

• A mystery silhouette in a leather jacket flicking a switchblade open

[VO – RAPID FIRE, ABSURDLY HYPED]:
🔥 TWO COMPANIES.
🔥 ONE RING.
🔥 NO MERCY.
The legends come home.
The outlaws run wild.
And the toughest SOBs in the game paint the canvas RED.

[SFX: Screeching tires. Cut to drone shot of The Foundry. Packed. Loud. Pulsing.]

🎙️ “From the Vegas fallout to the Heart of Dixie—who survives the TRENDKILL?”

[FINAL SHOTS – IN RAPID SEQUENCE]:

• A superkick in mid-air

• A flaming table exploding

• A mystery boot stomping the UTA logo

• The Iron Crown held aloft

• ERIC DANE JR. staring into the camera with fire in his eyes

[VO – FINAL LINE. DEAD SERIOUS.]

🩸 THE GREAT SOUTHERN TRENDKILL

🗓️ Live from Birmingham. August 15. Tickets on sale now.

DON’T. MISS. HISTORY.