Augusta,
GA – The Singletary Arena
Catering
provided by Abdullah the Butcher’s House of Ribs and Chinese Food
Black
screen.
A low
metallic hum builds under silence.
A single
heartbeat.
Then
another.
Then—
IMPACT.
A burst of
white light.
Fast cut
montage begins.
Mina
Harker’s eyes — calm, unreadable.
Korbi Kong
breathing heavy, jaw tight, fists taped.
They stand
inches apart from a previous encounter.
Neither
blinking.
Voiceover
— calm, grave:
“At
Warzone… hatred is not shouted.”
Cut.
“It is
endured.”
Jack
Lumber raising a championship high in slow motion.
The Wicked
Prophet kneeling in shadow, whispering something unheard.
Old
footage flashes:
their
first collision
a bloodied stare
a handshake refused
“Legacies
are not defended…”
Prophet
smirks into the camera.
“…they are
tested.”
Thaddeus
Zestwell screaming at ringside.
Owen
Zestwell staring back, expression torn between anger and regret.
A
childhood photo flashes for half a second —
two brothers in amateur singlets.
Then smash
cut back to present-day rage.
“Some
wars…”
A punch
lands in slow motion.
“…are born
at home.”
Ruby Howl
gripping her title.
Aurora
Storm watching from the stage.
The crowd
divided.
The belt
gleams.
“Gold does
not crown champions.”
Aurora
steps forward.
“It
reveals them.”
Scarlett
Howl standing alone in the ring, title raised, arena lights burning white.
The crowd
roaring around her like a storm.
She closes
her eyes.
The noise
cuts to silence.
The Dark
Dominion marching in formation.
Count Vlad
at the front.
No music.
Just boots
hitting the ramp.
A wall of
black and crimson.
“And when
the Dominion moves…”
Vlad lifts
his chin slightly.
“…the
world answers.”
Rapid-fire
cuts now:
Korbi
charging
Mina smiling
Lumber swinging
Prophet laughing
Owen diving
Thaddeus collapsing
Ruby screaming
Aurora rising
Bloodline war cry
Sicilians spitting insults
Fangs striking
Bodies falling
Crowds erupting
The
montage accelerates.
Heartbeat
returns.
Faster.
Faster.
FASTER.
Then—
Dead
silence.
Black
screen.
The
voiceover whispers:
“At
Warzone…”
A final
flash:
every
champion standing alone in darkness.
“…careers
end.”
Flash.
“Titles
fall.”
Flash.
“Wars
settle.”
The
Warzone logo slams onto screen.
Sound
explodes back into the arena.
Hard cut—
Arena
lights.
Crowd
roaring.
Camera
sweeps the Singletary Arena.
J.R.
Holland:
“Hello wrestling fans and welcome back to another installment of the HCW
Wrestling Newsletter — and tonight, Shockwave stands on the edge of Warzone.
Every rivalry you saw in that preview… detonates in just days.”
Clarkus
“C.K.” Kentus:
“You can feel it in this building. Nobody’s relaxed. Nobody’s smiling. This
isn’t hype anymore — this is countdown.”
Quick cut
to fans chanting WAR-ZONE.
J.R.
Holland:
“Contracts have been signed. Challenges have been issued. And before this night
is over, tensions are going to snap.”
Clarkus
“C.K.” Kentus:
“And if anyone thinks they can save it for the pay-per-view? They don’t know
this roster. These people don’t wait.”
Camera
settles on the ring.
J.R.
Holland:
“We start tonight with Korbi Kong in action… and given what we just witnessed,
that may be the most dangerous place to begin.”
Hard cut
to entrances.
Arena
lights brighten over the Singletary Arena as the referee steps into position
and the crowd continues buzzing from the cold open.
A burst of
red-white-and-blue pyro explodes across the stage.
The
opening horns of bombastic glam-rock patriotism hit the speakers.
Mini
American flags rain down from cannons.
The giant
screen fills with a waving digital flag.
Out step Ainsley
America and LeePurty Belle — The All American Sweethearts —
mock-serious, overdramatic, saluting like they’re arriving at a national
ceremony instead of a wrestling match. Ainsley beams at the camera like she
expects applause.
The crowd
gives her the exact opposite.
A
thunderstorm of boos.
Ainsley
gasps theatrically, clutching her chest like she’s personally offended by the
audience.
LeePurty
shakes her head at the fans, mouthing “unbelievable.”
They strut
down the ramp, tossing miniature flags with exaggerated grace, posing at every
step as if they’re doing the crowd a favor by existing.
J.R.
Holland:
“Ainsley America truly believes she is a public service announcement come to
life… and judging by this reaction, Augusta disagrees.”
Clarkus
“C.K.” Kentus:
“They’re just jealous, J.R. That’s what happens when excellence walks into a
building. People panic.”
Ainsley
climbs the apron and turns outward, spreading her arms wide like a conquering
hero. LeePurty applauds her from ringside like a proud stage mother.
Ainsley
steps through the ropes and continues waving, smiling bigger the louder the
boos get.
The music
cuts.
The arena
drops into a low rumble.
Then—
A single
heavy drum hit.
The lights
dim.
Korbi
Kong’s theme explodes through the arena.
The
reaction is instantaneous.
The
loudest pop of the night so far detonates off the ceiling.
Korbi
steps onto the stage and the sound somehow grows louder.
She
doesn’t rush.
She stands
there for a moment, breathing it in — jaw tight, eyes focused, absorbing the
energy like fuel.
Then she
starts down the ramp.
Fans reach
over the barricade and Korbi slaps hands, nodding, locking eyes with people in
the front row. A kid holds up a sign with her name on it — she taps the sign,
points at the kid, and keeps walking.
This isn’t
celebration.
This is
communion.
J.R.
Holland:
“That reaction says everything. Korbi Kong has become the emotional center of
this audience… and tonight she carries all of that into the ring.”
Clarkus
“C.K.” Kentus:
“And that kind of pressure cracks people, J.R. Cheers don’t win matches. Focus
does.”
Korbi
slides into the ring and immediately climbs the second rope, raising a fist.
The arena answers with another roar.
Across the
ring, Ainsley forces a smile, but her eyes betray irritation.
Korbi
drops down, staring straight at her opponent now.
The crowd
settles into a tense hum.
The
referee steps between them.
The bell
is seconds away.
The bell
rings and Korbi explodes forward before Ainsley can even finish circling.
They
collide in a tight lock-up and Korbi immediately drags her down, snaking her
arm into position and rolling through into a tight arm triangle. Ainsley fires
a desperate Justice Jab that snaps Korbi’s head back — the crowd gasps — but
Korbi absorbs it and tightens the choke with frightening precision.
J.R.
Holland:
“She’s not letting go — Korbi came in with a plan and she’s executing it
instantly!”
Ainsley
kicks wildly, reaching for the ropes, but Korbi rolls her hips and seals the
hold. The Sweetheart’s movement slows almost at once.
Clarkus
“C.K.” Kentus:
“That’s panic! She’s trapped — she’s got nowhere to go!”
Ainsley
taps.
The bell
rings.
The arena
detonates.
Korbi
releases immediately and rises to her feet, chest heaving. Ainsley rolls out of
the ring coughing as LeePurty scrambles to pull her away.
Korbi
doesn’t celebrate.
She looks
up the ramp.
The crowd
noise shifts — not louder, but sharper.
Mina
Harker is standing on the stage.
No music.
No pose.
Just
stillness.
The camera
cuts between them.
Korbi’s
jaw tightens.
Mina’s expression is unreadable.
They
stare.
The arena
falls into a strange hush, thousands of people holding their breath at once.
J.R.
Holland (quietly):
“She didn’t come out to interrupt… she came out to witness.”
Clarkus
“C.K.” Kentus:
“That’s not mind games, J.R. That’s a warning.”
Korbi
takes a step toward the ropes.
Mina
doesn’t move.
After a
long beat, Mina turns and disappears into the darkness backstage without
another glance.
Korbi
stays in the ring, eyes locked on the curtain where she vanished.
The crowd
slowly starts chanting.
WAR-ZONE.
WAR-ZONE.
WAR-ZONE.
We cut
away on Korbi’s face — focused, furious, ready.
Camera
cuts backstage in one continuous tracking shot.
Ryan
Mercer is already walking.
No hard
transition music.
No segment graphic.
Just movement.
The arena
noise hums faintly in the distance.
Mercer
speaks calmly as she moves through the corridor.
Ryan
Mercer:
“We’re only minutes into Shockwave and you can already feel how different
tonight is. Warzone isn’t a promotion anymore — it’s a deadline. Everyone in
this building knows something ends there.”
Crew
members pass her.
A trainer wheels a case by.
Two wrestlers stand watching a monitor in silence.
No one is
joking.
No one is relaxed.
Mercer
turns a corner — and nearly runs into Aurora Storm walking with purpose, gear
bag slung over her shoulder.
She pivots
instantly.
Ryan
Mercer:
“Aurora — Aurora, one second.”
She stops.
No smile.
No theatrics.
Just
controlled intensity.
Ryan
Mercer:
“You just watched Korbi make a statement out there. Warzone is days away. Where
does that leave you tonight?”
Aurora
doesn’t look at Mercer at first.
She looks
straight into the camera.
Aurora
Storm:
“It leaves me done waiting.”
A beat.
Aurora
Storm (cont.):
“I didn’t come here to orbit someone else’s spotlight. I came here to take it.”
Mercer
nods slightly.
Ryan
Mercer:
“And Ruby Howl?”
Aurora’s
eyes sharpen.
Aurora
Storm:
“Ruby’s holding something that doesn’t belong to her anymore. At Warzone… I’m
taking it.”
Footsteps.
Mercer
glances to the side.
Ruby Howl
steps into frame.
No music.
No announcement.
Just
presence.
The
hallway suddenly feels smaller.
Aurora
turns slowly.
They stand
inches apart.
Neither
speaks.
Ruby looks
at the title slung over her shoulder… then back at Aurora.
Aurora
doesn’t blink.
Mercer
quietly steps backward, physically removing himself from the space.
The camera
lingers.
The
silence stretches.
A crew
member in the background freezes, unsure whether to move.
Finally
Ruby smirks — just a fraction — and walks past Aurora without touching her.
Aurora
doesn’t turn to follow.
She keeps
staring forward.
The
message is clear:
This isn’t
settled.
Not even
close.
Cut back
to the arena.
Camera
cuts back to ringside and the crowd is still buzzing from what just happened
backstage.
J.R.
Holland:
“You could feel that hallway tighten, Clarkus. That wasn’t hype — that was two
champions circling each other before the storm.”
Clarkus
“C.K.” Kentus:
“That wasn’t tension, J.R., that was a deadline. Ruby knows Aurora isn’t
bluffing, and Aurora knows she’s out of time. That’s what Warzone does — it
forces decisions.”
J.R.
Holland:
“And speaking of decisions, we are about to step into one of the most personal
rivalries on this entire card.”
Music
hits.
A bright,
upbeat riff blasts through the arena and Clover Fincastle bursts onto the stage
to a warm, rolling cheer. He throws a fist in the air, grinning wide, soaking
in the energy like it’s oxygen. Clover jogs down the ramp slapping hands,
pointing to fans in the front row, feeding off the crowd’s optimism.
J.R.
Holland:
“Clover Fincastle has become one of the emotional sparks of this roster — and
tonight he steps directly into the Zestwell family war.”
Clarkus
“C.K.” Kentus:
“And that’s a terrible place to be. This isn’t just a match for Thaddeus — it’s
a message to his brother.”
Clover
slides into the ring and bounces on the balls of his feet, shaking out his
arms, ready. He climbs the corner and raises both hands as the crowd answers
with a pop.
His music
cuts.
The lights
dim.
A low,
grinding tone rolls through the arena.
Thaddeus
Zestwell steps onto the stage slowly, jaw clenched, eyes already locked on the
ring. There’s no pose. No showmanship. Just cold anger walking on two legs.
The crowd
rains down boos.
Thaddeus
doesn’t acknowledge a single one of them.
He walks
straight down the ramp, never taking his eyes off Clover, like the rest of the
building doesn’t exist.
J.R.
Holland:
“That is not a man thinking about wins and losses. That’s a man thinking about
family betrayal.”
Clarkus
“C.K.” Kentus:
“And he’s going to make Clover pay for it. Wrong place, wrong night, wrong
opponent.”
Thaddeus
steps through the ropes and immediately paces, rolling his shoulders, staring
across the ring with a look that promises violence.
The
referee steps in.
The crowd
swells.
The match
is seconds away.
The bell
rings and Thaddeus storms forward like he’s trying to end the match in the
opening seconds. He scoops Clover and drives him down with a brutal Jersey
Driver that rattles the ring. Clover barely has time to breathe before Thaddeus
yanks him back up and hammers him again, trying to overwhelm him early.
J.R.
Holland:
“Thaddeus is wrestling like a man trying to erase someone, not beat them!”
Clover
fires back with a sudden Kinshasa that snaps Thaddeus upright and flips the
momentum. The crowd surges as Clover stacks offense — a piledriver, a Death
Valley Driver — forcing Thaddeus to scramble instead of dominate. Every time
Clover builds rhythm, Thaddeus answers with something heavy: a bearhug that
crushes the air out of him, a legdrop that shakes the canvas.
Clarkus
“C.K.” Kentus:
“This is personal violence. Clover isn’t just fighting a wrestler — he’s
fighting a grudge!”
They spill
outside and back in, trading impact for impact. Clover survives the bearhug,
survives another slam, and plants Thaddeus with an inverted exploder that gets
the crowd roaring. The pace slows just long enough for both men to stagger to
their feet.
Then—
Movement
at the stage.
Owen
Zestwell appears.
No music.
The arena
erupts.
Thaddeus
sees him.
Everything
stops.
His face
changes from fury to disbelief to pure rage in one heartbeat.
J.R.
Holland:
“Owen’s here!”
Thaddeus
steps toward the ropes, screaming at his brother. The referee is yelling,
Clover is crawling behind him — but Thaddeus is locked onto Owen like the ring
doesn’t exist anymore.
Owen
doesn’t charge the ring.
He doesn’t
attack.
He just
stands there.
Arms
crossed.
Watching.
That
distraction is all Clover needs.
He surges
up, hooks Thaddeus from behind, and launches him with a German Suplex that
folds him in half.
The
referee slides into position.
ONE…
TWO…
THREE.
The bell
explodes.
The crowd
detonates.
J.R.
Holland:
“Clover steals it — but Owen created the opening!”
Thaddeus
rolls onto his side, stunned, then whips his head toward the stage. Owen is
already backing away, eyes never leaving his brother.
Thaddeus
scrambles to his feet and lunges toward the ropes, screaming, but security
floods the aisle before he can give chase.
Clover
stands in the corner catching his breath, almost shocked at the victory, while
Thaddeus is being physically restrained, still trying to break free.
Clarkus
“C.K.” Kentus:
“This isn’t over — this just poured gasoline on it!”
The final
shot is Thaddeus fighting security, veins bulging, pointing at Owen as the
crowd roars.
The family
war just escalated.
The ring
is already set when we return from break.
A long
black table sits in the center with two chairs facing each other. A single
contract rests in a leather folder under a spotlight. Security lines the aisle.
Not excessive — but deliberate.
The arena
hum is different now.
This isn’t
match noise.
This is
anticipation.
Max
McGillicutty stands in the ring, microphone in hand.
Max
McGillicutty:
“Ladies and gentlemen… the following contract signing is for a match at Warzone
years in the making.”
The crowd
reacts immediately.
He lets it
breathe.
Max
McGillicutty:
“At Warzone… Jack Lumber and the Wicked Prophet end this.”
Music
hits.
Jack
Lumber steps onto the stage to a thunderous ovation. He doesn’t pose. He
doesn’t grandstand. He just walks — steady, focused, eyes locked on the ring
like he’s walking into a courtroom.
J.R.
Holland:
“That’s not celebration. That’s resolve.”
Lumber
slides into the ring and takes his seat without a word. He stares at the
contract like it’s already a gravestone.
The music
cuts.
Silence.
Then
Prophet’s theme creeps in — low, eerie, almost whispered.
The
temperature in the building drops.
The Wicked
Prophet emerges slowly, smiling like a man arriving to a funeral he planned. He
stops at the top of the ramp and surveys the crowd with amusement before making
his way down.
Clarkus
“C.K.” Kentus:
“That smile right there is why this feud never dies. He enjoys the damage.”
Prophet
enters the ring and sits opposite Lumber. The grin never leaves his face.
Max stands
between them.
Max
McGillicutty:
“For five years, this rivalry has defined eras in HCW. Warzone is the final
chapter. No excuses. No interference. No escape.”
He slides
the contract toward Lumber.
Jack signs
immediately.
No
flourish.
No
hesitation.
He pushes
the folder back.
The crowd
pops.
Prophet
picks up the contract slowly, reading every page like he’s savoring it. He
looks up at Lumber.
Wicked
Prophet:
“You always rush the ending, Jack. That’s why you never understand the story.”
He signs.
Closes the
folder gently.
Slides it
back.
The match
is official.
Max nods
and steps away — but doesn’t leave the ring yet. He’s watching them like a
referee waiting for a fight bell.
The two
men stand.
They’re
inches apart.
No
shouting.
No
swinging.
Just
breathing.
Five years
in one stare.
J.R.
Holland (quietly):
“You’re watching two men who already fought this match a hundred times in their
heads.”
Prophet
leans in close.
No mic.
We don’t
hear what he says.
But
Lumber’s jaw tightens.
For a
moment, it looks like the explosion is coming.
Instead—
Jack steps
back.
He nods
once.
A promise,
not a concession.
Prophet
laughs softly.
Not
victory.
Not
relief.
Recognition.
They back
away at the same time.
Max
exhales, realizing the building had stopped breathing with him.
Clarkus
“C.K.” Kentus:
“That was more violent than a brawl.”
The crowd
roars anyway — not because something happened.
Because
something will.
Jack exits
first without looking back.
Prophet
stays in the ring, watching him leave, smiling faintly.
The camera
lingers on that smile.
Cut to
black for a beat.
Warzone is
inevitable.
Camera
fades in backstage.
Not the
hallway chaos we’ve seen earlier.
This is
quiet.
Intentional.
A single
overhead light hums.
The Dark
Dominion stands in formation.
Beastfang.
The Fangs of Despair.
The Nightstalkers.
Every member motionless.
Count Vlad
Dragomir stands at the front, hands folded behind his back like a general
inspecting troops. No one speaks. No one shifts their weight.
The camera
slowly pushes in.
Vlad
raises his chin slightly.
Count
Vlad Dragomir:
“For weeks… I have listened to the language of resistance.”
His tone
is calm. Aristocratic. Almost amused.
Count
Vlad Dragomir (cont.):
“They call it a war.”
A faint
smile.
Count
Vlad Dragomir (cont.):
“They misunderstand the word.”
The
Dominion behind him remains perfectly still — not statues, but soldiers waiting
for a command.
Count
Vlad Dragomir:
“War implies opposition. Equality. A contest.”
He shakes
his head once.
Count
Vlad Dragomir (cont.):
“At Warzone… there is no contest.”
A beat.
His eyes
sharpen.
Count
Vlad Dragomir:
“There is only correction.”
The
silence around him grows heavier.
Count
Vlad Dragomir (cont.):
“Cara Loco gathers strays and calls it unity. Bruiser. Brown. Knights and
dreamers clinging to the illusion of balance.”
He leans
forward slightly.
Count
Vlad Dragomir:
“We are not their opponents.”
A whisper.
Count
Vlad Dragomir (cont.):
“We are their ending.”
The camera
cuts briefly to the Dominion members — faces unreadable, breathing steady,
absolute in their loyalty.
Vlad steps
closer to the lens.
His voice
drops.
Count
Vlad Dragomir:
“Warzone is not a match.”
A beat.
Count
Vlad Dragomir:
“It is a purge.”
The word
hangs like smoke.
No music.
No sting.
Just the
hum of the light.
Vlad
lowers his gaze.
The
Dominion turns in unison and walks out of frame.
The camera
holds on the empty hallway for a long second.
Then cuts
back to the arena.
Camera
cuts back to ringside and for a moment neither announcer speaks. The crowd
noise fills the space, a low unsettled rumble.
J.R.
Holland:
“…There was no threat in that. No shouting. No rage. Just certainty. And
somehow that’s worse.”
Clarkus
“C.K.” Kentus:
“That wasn’t a promo, J.R. That was a verdict. The Dominion doesn’t think
they’re fighting for advantage — they think they’re enforcing order.”
J.R.
Holland:
“And in the middle of that ideology… Mina Harker steps into the ring next.
After what we saw earlier tonight, that may be the most dangerous place to be.”
Music
hits.
A gritty,
driving guitar riff bursts through the arena and Dixie Caverns storms onto the
stage to a warm wave of cheers. She throws her arms out wide, nodding to the
crowd, feeding off the support as she marches down the ramp with purpose.
J.R.
Holland:
“Dixie Caverns has never backed away from a fight, and she’s walking straight
into one tonight.”
Clarkus
“C.K.” Kentus:
“She’s walking into the orbit of the Dominion. That’s not bravery — that’s a
storm warning.”
Dixie
slides into the ring and climbs the corner, pointing to the crowd as they
answer with a pop. She drops down and paces, rolling her shoulders, eyes locked
on the stage.
The lights
dim.
A slow,
haunting tone rolls through the arena.
Count Vlad
Dragomir steps out first.
The boos
hit instantly.
He doesn’t
acknowledge them.
He stands
at the top of the ramp like a monarch surveying a province.
Then Mina
Harker steps out beside him.
No pose.
No smile.
Just calm.
The
reaction shifts from loud to sharp — a mixture of awe and unease.
J.R.
Holland:
“Listen to this building. That’s not just noise — that’s tension.”
Mina walks
ahead while Vlad follows at a measured pace, hands folded behind his back. She
never looks left or right. Her eyes are fixed on the ring — on Dixie.
Dixie
doesn’t move.
The two
women stare at each other as Mina reaches ringside.
Vlad stops
outside the ropes, choosing his position like a chess player selecting a
square.
Mina steps
through the ropes.
The
referee backs up instinctively.
The crowd
swells.
The match
is seconds away.
The bell
rings and Dixie attacks first, flying across the ring with a lightning-fast
hurricanrana that sends Mina rolling. The crowd pops as Dixie scrambles up,
trying to set a frantic pace before the Dominion can settle in.
J.R.
Holland:
“Dixie knows she cannot let Mina dictate rhythm — speed is her only advantage!”
Mina rises
slowly, expression unchanged, and answers with the Crimson Spiral that snaps
Dixie down. The match turns into a rapid exchange — hurricanranas, heel kicks,
neckbreakers — each woman refusing to yield momentum. Dixie lands The Candy
Dish and nearly steals control, but Mina fires back with a Ghoul’s Gaze that
rattles her.
Count Vlad
watches from ringside without blinking.
Not
cheering.
Not reacting.
Just
observing.
The tempo
shifts.
Mina stops
trading and starts hunting.
She traps
Dixie in the Nocturnal Embrace, body scissored tight, draining the fight from
her. Dixie elbows free, staggering upright, but Mina immediately crushes her
with a Bloodline DDT that shakes the canvas.
The crowd
gasps.
Then—
A roar
erupts from the stage.
Korbi Kong
steps out.
No music.
Just
presence.
The arena
explodes.
Mina
freezes mid-rise.
Vlad’s
head turns slowly.
For the
first time all match, Mina looks away from her opponent.
She looks
at Korbi.
The two
lock eyes across the distance.
No
movement.
No words.
The match
pauses without stopping.
J.R.
Holland (quietly):
“She’s here… and she’s not touching her.”
Clarkus
“C.K.” Kentus:
“She doesn’t need to. She’s already in Mina’s head.”
Dixie
tries to capitalize, lunging forward — but Mina moves on instinct, snapping a
spin kick that folds Dixie in half. She pulls her up immediately and plants her
with another Bloodline DDT.
Hard
impact.
This time
Mina never looks away from Korbi as she hooks the leg.
ONE…
TWO…
THREE.
The bell
rings.
Mina wins.
But she
doesn’t celebrate.
She rises
slowly, eyes still locked on Korbi.
Korbi
stands on the stage breathing hard, jaw tight, staring back like she’s
memorizing every detail.
Vlad steps
beside Mina, placing a hand lightly on the top rope, acknowledging Korbi with a
faint tilt of the head — a predator recognizing another.
The arena
is electric.
Mina takes
one step toward the ropes.
Korbi
doesn’t move.
After a
long beat, Korbi turns and disappears backstage.
Only then
does Mina look down at the ring… and at Dixie… like the match was a formality.
J.R.
Holland:
“This isn’t a rivalry anymore. This is gravity pulling them together.”
Mina exits
with Vlad in silence as the crowd chants:
WAR-ZONE
WAR-ZONE
WAR-ZONE
We cut
away on the echo.
Camera
fades in to a quiet backstage room.
Not the
hallway.
Not the
arena chaos.
A
controlled, neutral space.
Two chairs
angled slightly toward each other. A single light overhead. No crowd noise.
Just the faint hum of production equipment somewhere distant.
Ryan
Mercer sits between them, not facing the camera — facing the wrestlers.
Mina
Harker on one side.
Korbi Kong
on the other.
They are
close enough to touch.
They
don’t.
Ryan
speaks softly, like a documentary interviewer, not a wrestling host.
Ryan
Mercer:
“For weeks, this rivalry has escalated without exploding. Tonight you both
stood in the same building, watched each other compete… and still didn’t cross
that line. Why?”
Silence.
Mina
smiles faintly.
Not warm.
Measured.
Korbi
doesn’t look at Ryan. She’s watching Mina.
Finally
Mina speaks.
Mina
Harker:
“Because the line isn’t tonight.”
A beat.
Mina
Harker (cont.):
“The line is Warzone.”
Korbi
exhales slowly through her nose.
Not angry.
Containing
anger.
Korbi
Kong:
“You keep talking like you’re writing the ending.”
Mina turns
her head just enough to face her fully.
Mina
Harker:
“I am.”
A long
pause.
Ryan
doesn’t interrupt it.
The air
thickens.
Ryan
Mercer:
“Korbi… do you believe her?”
Korbi’s
eyes never leave Mina.
Korbi
Kong:
“No.”
A beat.
Korbi
Kong (cont.):
“But I believe she wants to.”
That lands
harder.
Mina’s
smile widens just a fraction.
Wrong
moment.
Wrong emotion.
Ryan
Mercer:
“You’ve both had opportunities to interfere. To sabotage. To escalate. Neither
of you has.”
Korbi
answers immediately.
Korbi
Kong:
“I don’t want excuses.”
Mina nods
slowly.
Agreement.
Mina
Harker:
“Neither do I. You must be at your best otherwise all we’ll hear is a sob
story.”
The room
goes still again.
Ryan
studies them.
This isn’t
a shouting match.
This is
two people preparing for surgery.
Ryan
Mercer:
“What happens at Warzone?”
Korbi
finally leans forward.
Korbi
Kong:
“One of us stops pretending this is a rivalry… and admits it’s survival.”
Mina leans
in too.
Their
faces are inches apart.
Mina
Harker:
“One of us doesn’t walk out.”
Ryan
doesn’t react.
She lets
it hang.
The
silence stretches uncomfortably long.
Neither
woman blinks.
Neither
woman backs away.
Finally
Ryan speaks, barely above a whisper:
Ryan
Mercer:
“That’s all we have time for.”
Neither
woman moves.
The camera
pulls back slowly.
They’re
still staring at each other as the shot widens.
Cut to
black.
No music.
No
transition sting.
Just the
sound of their breathing fading out.
VIGNETTE
— “THE CALL”
Black
screen.
A low,
distorted hum.
A faint
ringing tone echoes in the darkness.
INT.
DEMONIC LEGION CORRIDOR – NIGHT
Wilber
“Terrorfang” Townsend sits alone on a wooden equipment crate. The hallway is
dim. One overhead bulb flickers.
His mask
is still on.
His
breathing is slow. Controlled.
A phone
vibrates in his hand.
He stares
at it for a long moment before answering.
He does
not greet.
INTERCUT
WITH:
INT.
COUNT VLAD’S QUARTERS – NIGHT
Candlelight.
Velvet
drapery.
An ornate
desk carved from black wood.
A gloved
hand holds a crystal receiver.
Count Vlad
Dragomir leans back in a high-backed chair, one eyebrow slightly raised. His
tone is aristocratic, amused.
VLAD
DRAGOMIR
Ah… Wilber.
A pause.
VLAD
(cont.)
I was so looking forward to celebrating a victory..
Wilber’s
voice is low. Gravelled.
WILBER
It wasn’t supposed to end like that.
Vlad
smiles faintly.
VLAD
No. It was not.
A soft sip
from a glass.
VLAD
(cont.)
Tell me… what happened?
Wilber’s
breathing grows heavier.
WILBER
The Legion isn’t whole.
A beat.
WILBER
(cont.)
It’s fractured. Distracted.
It isn’t tight like the Dark Dominion.
That
pleases Vlad immensely.
He leans
forward slightly.
VLAD
Is that so?
A soft
chuckle.
VLAD
(cont.)
How… unfortunate.
Wilber
stares at the floor.
WILBER
Krampus changed the plan without telling Lilith.
Heyman walked beside me. Not her.
A muscle
in Vlad’s jaw twitches with satisfaction.
VLAD
And Lilith?
Wilber
hesitates only briefly.
WILBER
She’ll do what’s best for her.
A beat.
WILBER
(cont.)
Right now… she believes aligning with you helps her.
Vlad nods
slowly.
VLAD
Very good.
A shift in
tone.
VLAD
(cont.)
And Krampus?
Wilber
lifts his head slightly.
WILBER
He’s distracted.
A pause.
WILBER
(cont.)
Watching shadows instead of watching us.
Vlad’s
eyes narrow.
VLAD
Explain.
Wilber’s
voice lowers further.
WILBER
Grinch Heyman…
A beat.
WILBER
(cont.)
He may not be what he seems.
Silence.
Vlad does
not react outwardly, but his eyes sharpen.
VLAD
Oh?
Wilber
doesn’t elaborate.
He doesn’t
need to.
Vlad
smiles slowly.
VLAD
You are learning to observe.
A measured
breath.
VLAD
(cont.)
Remember who your master is, Wilber.
The word
hangs heavy.
Wilber’s
grip tightens around the phone.
WILBER
Yes.
Vlad’s
voice softens — almost paternal.
VLAD
Good.
A faint
echo of menace.
VLAD
(cont.)
Keep me informed.
The line
clicks.
Call
ended.
INT.
DEMONIC LEGION CORRIDOR – CONTINUOUS
Wilber
lowers the phone slowly.
The
hallway is silent again.
He rises.
Walks
toward a cracked mirror at the end of the corridor.
He stares
at his reflection.
For a
moment, nothing moves.
Then—
He removes
the mask.
Underneath:
sweat. Anger. Confusion.
He studies
himself.
His voice
is barely above a whisper.
WILBER
Who… is my master?
He tilts
his head slightly.
A long
pause.
He repeats
it.
WILBER
(cont.)
Who is my master?
His
reflection seems uncertain.
The
overhead bulb flickers once more.
Wilber
slowly places the mask back over his face.
The
monster returns.
Fade to
black.
Camera
comes up backstage in the loading corridor.
Concrete
walls.
Equipment cases stacked high.
The echo of the arena faint in the distance.
Cara Loco
is pacing, running a hand through his hair, scanning the hallway like a
recruiter on a deadline. He spots a road agent, shakes his head. Not who he
wants. Keeps moving.
Cara
Loco (muttering):
“No… no… too small… not crazy enough…”
He turns a
corner and nearly collides with a wall of fur and muscle.
Bruiser
“Cauliflower” McPugg is leaning against a crate, calmly taping his wrists,
completely at peace with the chaos around him. He looks up slowly.
Cara
freezes.
Grins.
Cara
Loco:
“Oh, that’s perfect.”
Bruiser
raises an eyebrow.
Bruiser
McPugg:
“That doesn’t sound safe.”
Cara steps
closer, hands already moving as he talks, energy spilling out of him.
Cara
Loco:
“I need monsters. Not wrestlers — monsters. Warzone is a 10-man war. Dominion
thinks they own the apocalypse. I’m building something louder.”
Bruiser
watches him without reacting.
Cara
points down the hall like he’s assembling an army in the air.
Cara
Loco:
“I’ve got Ashen Vicar.”
A beat.
Cara
Loco (cont.):
“I’ve got me.”
Another
beat.
He leans
in.
Cara
Loco (cont.):
“And I’ve got the World Champion — Zack Brown.”
That
lands.
Bruiser
stops taping.
Looks at
Cara.
Really
looks at him now.
Bruiser
McPugg:
“That’s a bad night for somebody.”
Cara nods
emphatically.
Cara
Loco:
“That’s the point.”
A moment
passes.
Bruiser
cracks his knuckles once.
Decision
made.
Bruiser
McPugg:
“I’m in.”
Cara claps
his hands like a kid who just won the lottery.
Cara
Loco:
“YES. Perfect. Beautiful. Warzone just got louder.”
He starts
backing away already, walking and talking at the same time.
Cara
Loco (calling back):
“See you at Warzone!”
Then he
literally bounds down the hallway, disappearing around the corner, still hyped.
Bruiser
watches him go.
Shakes his
head once.
A faint
grin.
He goes
back to taping his wrists.
Cut to
black.
Camera
cuts backstage.
Samoan
Stomper Raku
and Tumu “the Island Beast” Vaega stand shoulder to shoulder. No pacing.
No shouting. Just presence. Their breathing is steady. Their hands are taped.
Their eyes are already in the fight.
The camera
pushes in.
Raku steps
forward.
Samoan
Stomper Raku:
“Tonight isn’t about pride.”
A beat.
Samoan
Stomper Raku (cont.):
“It’s about warning.”
He looks
straight into the lens.
Samoan
Stomper Raku (cont.):
“The New Sicilians think this is business. A deal. A transaction.”
He shakes
his head slowly.
Samoan
Stomper Raku (cont.):
“This is blood.”
Tumu
exhales through his nose — a low, animal sound — and cracks his neck once.
Raku
continues:
Samoan
Stomper Raku:
“At Warzone… we fight armies.”
A beat.
Samoan
Stomper Raku (cont.):
“Tonight… we break messengers.”
Raku steps
back.
The two
men slap their chests once in unison.
The sound
echoes.
Hard cut
to the arena.
Red
spotlight.
Gold
spotlight.
A slick
orchestral sting hits.
Pierre
Boulay walks out first, immaculate suit, smug smile, arms open as if the boos
are applause. Behind him march the New Sicilians, moving like hired
executioners.
They enter
the ring slowly, soaking in the hatred.
Boulay
raises the microphone.
Pierre
Boulay:
“Augusta… you are witnessing refinement.”
The boos
grow louder.
He smiles
wider.
Pierre
Boulay (cont.):
“You mistake brutality for greatness. The Bloodline mistake noise for legacy.”
He
gestures toward the ramp.
Pierre
Boulay (cont.):
“They are champions by accident. We are inevitable by design.”
The
Sicilians laugh behind him.
Boulay
leans over the ropes.
Pierre
Boulay:
“Come defend your inheritance… before we repossess it.”
He lowers
the mic.
The crowd
erupts.
Tony
Calibur’s voice cuts through the chaos.
Tony
Calibur:
“Ladies and gentlemen… This match is for the World Tag Team Titles. In the ring, accompanied by their manager
Pierre Boulay (boos from the crowd) – The New Sicilians!”
“Next,introducing
the reigning World Tag Team Champions… Samoan Stomper Raku… and Tumu ‘the
Island Beast’ Vaega… THE SAMOAN BLOODLINE!”
War drums
pound through the speakers.
Raku and
Tumu explode onto the stage to a thunderous roar.
They don’t
pose.
They
march.
The belts
gleam as they storm down the ramp like warriors entering a battlefield.
J.R.
Holland:
“This isn’t ceremony anymore — this is collision!”
The
Sicilians retreat to their corner as the champions slide into the ring and hand
their titles to the referee without breaking eye contact.
The crowd
is standing.
The air is
electric.
The bell
is moments away.
The bell
rings and the champions hit like a storm.
Raku and
Dick Albano collide in the center and the impact echoes through the arena. Raku
hammers him with pectoral chops that sound like gunshots, but Dick answers with
a brutal apron slam that sends Raku spilling outside. The Sicilians try to slow
the pace, dragging the fight into ugly territory.
J.R.
Holland:
“The Sicilians want chaos — that’s where they thrive!”
Tumu tags
in and the ring shakes when he lands. Headbutts, spikes, grinding power. The
Bloodline start leaning on Dick with punishing double teams, forcing him to
survive instead of scheme.
But Dick
survives.
Eye
gouges.
Thumb to the throat.
Dirty little resets.
Every time
the champions build rhythm, he breaks it.
Clarkus
“C.K.” Kentus:
“That’s veteran survival — he doesn’t beat you, he unravels you!”
The match
turns into a war of attrition. Bodies fly. Corners shake. Raku and Tumu crush
Dick with a Samoan Death Stomp and splash combination that nearly ends it, but
Dick claws back with another eye rake, another choke, another stolen breath.
Then the
moment comes.
Raku is
outside the ring recovering after a spill.
Tumu is
dazed near the apron.
Dick
stumbles to his corner and Pierre Boulay hops onto the apron screaming at the
referee, waving papers, pointing at nothing — a classic distraction. The ref
turns to argue with him.
The crowd
roars.
Heavy
boos.
Warning.
Two
shadows slide in behind Dick.
The Fangs
of Despair.
They don’t
pose.
They don’t shout.
They
strike.
A brutal
double shot to the back of the head drops Dick like a puppet with its strings
cut. They shove him back toward center ring and disappear under the ropes in
one smooth motion.
The
Bloodline never see it.
The
referee turns back just as Raku rolls in.
Dick is
barely conscious.
J.R.
Holland:
“The Fangs of Despair just took out the New Sicilians — Dick’s out!”
Raku
doesn’t question it.
He lifts
Dick and drives him down with the Coco-Butt.
Hard
impact.
Raku hooks
the leg.
ONE…
TWO…
THREE.
The bell
explodes.
The
champions retain.
The crowd
roars — but the noise is confused, electric, uneasy.
Pierre
slides into the ring screaming, pointing at the entrance, demanding answers.
The Sicilians are furious. Dick is barely upright, being dragged to his feet by
his partner.
On the
stage…
The Fangs
of Despair stand in shadow.
Not
celebrating.
Watching.
The
Bloodline raise their titles — victorious but unaware of the politics that just
detonated behind them.
Clarkus
“C.K.” Kentus:
“That wasn’t about the belts. That was a message.”
The
Sicilians are shouting at the stage.
The Fangs
don’t respond.
They turn
and walk away.
The
champions stand tall.
But the
arena feels unstable.
Warzone is
coming.
The
Bloodline stand in the ring, titles raised, but they aren’t celebrating long.
Their eyes are drifting toward the stage now, sensing the shift in the air.
The New
Sicilians are still screaming, pointing, accusing.
Pierre
Boulay is losing his composure entirely.
The crowd
is buzzing, not cheering — buzzing.
On the
ramp…
The Fangs
of Despair stop one last time.
They don’t
turn around.
They don’t
gloat.
They just
stand there long enough for the message to land:
nothing is
stable.
Then they
disappear backstage.
The arena
noise swells into a roar.
J.R.
Holland:
“The champions survive… but the ground underneath HCW is cracking. Alliances
are splintering and Warzone is days away.”
Clarkus
“C.K.” Kentus:
“This isn’t a countdown anymore — this is collapse in slow motion. Nobody
trusts anybody, and that’s exactly how wars start.”
The camera
cuts between:
Bloodline
holding gold
Albano fury in the ring
empty stage
crowd on
their feet
J.R.
Holland:
“Everything you saw tonight ends at Warzone. Careers. Rivalries. Empires.”
A final
wide shot of the arena.
Clarkus
“C.K.” Kentus:
“And if you thought Shockwave was tense… you haven’t seen anything yet.”
J.R.
Holland:
“We’ll see you at Warzone.”
Hard cut
to black.
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