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The weight of the night presses down on me as I stand in the dimly lit hallway, my fists clenched at my sides. The roar of the crowd is muffled behind thick concrete walls, but I can feel their energy pulsing through the building, vibrating beneath my feet. The main event is minutes away. My shot at the UXW Heavyweight Championship.

I roll my shoulders, stretching out the tension coiling tight in my muscles. This is what I’ve worked for—what I’ve bled for. But there’s a different kind of pressure on me tonight. Not just the title, not just the company watching to see if I’m ready to carry the brand.

Natalie.

She’s here. Somewhere in this building, watching. I haven’t seen her but knowing she’s close is enough to throw my focus just enough to piss me off. I need to be locked in. Unshakable. But the thought of her, the way things ended between us, lingers like a ghost I can’t shake.

I exhale sharply, forcing the emotions down, compartmentalizing. One goal. One focus. Win the match.

I turn the corner near the locker rooms, my boots heavy against the floor, and nearly collide with a wall of green and black. Kyle “The Killer” Jenkins.

He’s already in his ring gear, his championship slung over his shoulder like it belongs there. His face paint stretches into a sinister smirk, his eyes gleaming with cocky amusement.

“Hope you’re ready for tonight, Pierce,” he says, voice dripping with arrogance. “Not that it’ll matter. The title’s staying with me.”

I don’t respond. Just stare.

Kyle tilts his head, like he’s studying me, trying to find a crack. When he doesn’t get a reaction, he steps in a little closer, dropping his voice.

“By the way,” he drawls, eyes sparking with something mean. “I saw your girl watching from the monitors earlier.” He pauses, letting it sink in, letting it fester. “Shame she’s gonna have to see you lose.”

I feel the shift inside me before I even move. My fist slams into the wall beside his head, hard, the drywall splintering beneath my knuckles. The sound ricochets down the hall, heads turning.

Kyle doesn’t flinch. Just smirks.

“Touched a nerve, did I?”

I breathe through my nose, my pulse hammering. Do not lose control.

My voice comes out low, controlled, lethal. “You don’t talk about her.”

He chuckles, like this is all a fucking game to him. Like he hasn’t just signed his own death sentence.

“We’ll see, champ. We’ll see.”

With that, he steps back, laughing under his breath as he walks off.

I stay frozen for a second, my chest rising and falling, the blood in my veins burning. I flex my fingers, shaking off the sting from the impact, but I barely feel it.

Let him talk.

Let him run his mouth.

I’m about to shut him up permanently.

Tonight, I take what’s mine.

I storm into the locker room, my blood still running hot from my run-in with Kyle. My jaw is tight, my pulse still hammering, but I can’t let this get to me. Not now. Not when I’m about to step into the biggest match of my career.

The room is quiet, just the dull hum of the overhead lights and the distant rumble of the crowd outside. I drag a hand through my damp hair, pacing for a second, trying to shake off the tension coiling tight in my chest. Breathe. Refocus.

I yank open my duffel bag and start changing, stripping off my hoodie and sweats. The black and gold wrestling trunks feel familiar, like armor, but my hands still flex with restless energy as I tape up my wrists. My reflection stares back at me from the full-length mirror in the corner—broad shoulders, thick muscles, tattoos stretching across my chest and arms. Battle-ready.

This is where I belong. In this space, preparing for war.

But my head isn’t clear.

I try to hype myself up, rolling my neck, shaking out my arms, but Kyle’s words linger. The thought of Natalie watching, hearing that bastard talk about her like she was some kind of prize to be passed around, fucks with me.

I exhale sharply, bracing my hands on the edge of the bench, gripping tight. I need to shake this off.

I’ve fought my whole damn life to get here. Sacrificed everything. This match isn’t just about winning a belt—it’s about proving that I’m the guy. The face of UXW. That every ounce of blood, every injury, every sleepless night spent chasing this dream has been worth it.

Kyle thinks he’s untouchable. He thinks he’s already won.

He doesn’t know what’s coming.

I slap my hands together, the sound echoing in the empty locker room. My heartbeat steadies, the adrenaline kicking in. Tunnel vision. This is what I do. This is who I am.

I adjust my knee pads, tug my boots tighter, and roll my shoulders one last time. No more distractions. No more doubts.

The sound of footsteps outside the door makes me look up. It’s time.

I crack my knuckles and smirk at my reflection.

Let’s fucking go.

The arena lights dim, the roar of the crowd swelling to a fever pitch, and my theme music kicks in. It’s loud, pounding, filling the entire building with an intensity that matches the blood racing through my veins. The announcer’s voice booms, echoing across the arena: “Introducing the challenger, from Miami, Florida, weighing in at 290 pounds… ‘The Titan’ RYAN PIERCE!”

The fans are on their feet, chanting, screaming, a sea of faces all turned toward me. I step out onto the stage, my head held high, my shoulders squared. I take a deep breath, letting the energy wash over me, trying to feed off it. I lift my arms, acknowledging the crowd, their signs flashing in my vision. Some have my name painted across them, others show my face, even more of them just have a simple “Pierce” slapped in big, bold letters. It’s surreal, knowing I’ve come this far, that I’m standing here in the main event. But something doesn’t feel right. The ache in my chest is back, heavier than ever, a constant reminder of what’s been torn apart these last few days. I shove it down, focusing on the ring ahead.

As I stride down the ramp, flashes of Natalie invade my mind, unbidden and unrelenting. Her wearing my t-shirt, nothing else, her hair a mess, eyes half-lidded and soft. That image clings to me like a ghost, sharp and painful. I force myself to blink it away, tightening my jaw, channeling all of that into pure focus as I reach the steel steps. I pause, looking around at the crowd, taking in their cheers, the adrenaline thick in the air. This is everything I’ve ever wanted. And yet… it feels hollow without her. She’s someone I didn’t know I needed.

I climb the steps, stepping through the ropes, and the buzz intensifies. I’ve worked for this moment my entire career, sacrificed everything for it. Now I just need to keep my head straight and leave everything else outside that ring. I need to focus on this moment. I need to make it all worth it.

Then—darkness.

The entire arena is swallowed in black, the sudden loss of light sending a ripple of unease through the crowd. A high-pitched, earsplitting screech cuts through the silence, jagged and unnatural, like metal grinding against bone. Then, a pulse—green strobe lights flicker erratically, slicing through the darkness in sharp, disorienting flashes. The entire scene takes on a nightmarish glow, shadows stretching and twisting across the arena.

The first ominous notes of Kyle Jenkins' entrance music boom through the speakers, low and guttural, creeping beneath the skin like something alive. The crowd erupts—a mix of exhilaration and dread—as the man himself steps onto the stage.

Kyle stands at the top of the ramp, his grin painted wide and sinister, a grotesque mask of malice. Dressed in black and green, his massive frame looms under the flickering lights, streaks of fake blood smeared across his skin. The UXW Heavyweight Championship gleams around his waist, the gold reflecting the erratic flashes of green light. In one hand, he clutches a chainsaw. He lifts it high, revving the engine, the roar so loud it drowns out the crowd’s screaming. Then— spray. A fine mist of crimson bursts from the blade, showering the fans closest to him. Some recoil, shrieking in horror; others surge forward, desperate to be touched by the chaos, by him.

The announcer’s voice booms, thick with weight, reverberating through the arena.

“And introducing the UXW Heavyweight Champion… from Atlanta, Georgia… weighing in at 327 pounds… KYLE ‘THE KILLER’ JENKINS!”

Kyle moves down the ramp with slow, deliberate steps, his eyes locked on the ring, on me. Every inch of his approach radiates danger, an unshakable aura of destruction barely leashed. He climbs the steel steps with a measured grace, slipping through the ropes before pressing his back into them, lifting the chainsaw high one last time. The arena is alive, pulsing, trembling with raw energy, feeding off his theatrics.

Then, in one fluid motion, he unbuckles the championship from his waist, tossing the chainsaw out of the ring before lifting the title high for the world to see. His painted grin stretches wider as he locks eyes with me. And in that instant, everything else fades—the roaring crowd, the flashing lights, the weight of the moment.

It’s just him and me.

And I know exactly what I have to do.

We stare each other down, an unspoken promise of what’s to come. I see the challenge in his eyes, the threat, and the anticipation crackling between us is like a live wire. Then, the bell rings, and I come to life.

We lock up, slamming into each other with every ounce of strength we’ve got, testing boundaries, feeling each other out. The crowd is wild, screaming at every strike, every grapple. I’m fighting like hell, trying to stay one step ahead, but he’s relentless, his strength like a freight train, his moves fast and brutal. Every hit lands hard, jarring me, but I keep coming back, refusing to give an inch.

The match drags on, each minute wearing me down, and it’s clear Kyle has the upper hand. He has me on the ground, over and over, a sadistic grin flashing across his face every time he pulls me up only to knock me down again. I can feel myself slowing, my muscles screaming, my mind fogging with exhaustion. But I dig deep, clawing at every last reserve of strength I have left, fighting for every inch.

And finally, I turn it around. Somehow, some way, I manage to get him where I want him. The crowd is on fire, the sound crashing over me as I hit him with a Titan's elbow , going for the pin. My heart races as the referee counts—one, two—but Kyle kicks out, just barely. The frustration mounts, but I push through, hauling him to his feet, landing punch after punch, backing him into the corner. I whip him across the ropes, hitting him with a Miami Mauler that sends him sprawling.

But then, as I’m setting up for the lockdown , I catch a glint of metal. Before I can react, something hard and cold crashes into my face. Pain explodes across my vision, blinding me, and I stumble back, tasting blood. Brass knuckles. The son of a bitch brought brass knuckles, because he knew he couldn’t beat me in a fair match.

Kyle doesn’t waste a second, pounding into me with the knuckles, each hit brutal and precise, blood dripping down my face. The ref is clueless, his back turned every time Kyle uses them, and I feel rage burning through the haze of pain. This is supposed to be my shot, my moment, my night, and he’s stealing it, using every dirty trick in the book.

I stagger to my feet, barely able to see through the blood, and charge at him, but he slams the knuckles into me again. I drop, my body refusing to move, my head spinning as the referee counts the pin. One. Two. Three.

“And STILL the UXW Heavyweight Champion… KYLE ‘THE KILLER’ JENKINS!”

The announcement is a punch to the gut. I lost. I fucking lost. Kyle stands victorious, arms raised as he basks in the crowd’s reaction, and I’m left sprawled in the ring, blood dripping from my face, staring up at the lights. It’s over. I blew my shot. Everything I’ve worked for, everything I sacrificed, gone. And the only thing I feel is emptiness, a hollow ache that’s somehow worse than the pain in my body.

I roll onto my knees, pushing myself up, my vision blurred. I can barely see straight, but I manage to stagger to the ropes, slipping out of the ring. The cheers and jeers from the crowd echo around me, mixing with the pounding in my head. I take a step toward the ramp, but something snaps. I turn, heading straight for the announce table, fury burning through me.

I slam my hands down, knocking everything off the table, sending papers, microphones, and monitors crashing to the floor. I grab a steel chair, folding it up, and start slamming it against the table, each hit fueled by the anger, the betrayal, the injustice of it all. “Where the fuck were you when he brought out the brass knuckles, huh?” I scream, my voice raw, echoing through the arena as I glare at the ref, who looks terrified. “You let him get away with it!”

My voice is ragged, nearly a roar, and before I know it, security is rushing toward me, at least a dozen of them surrounding me, hands up, trying to calm me down. I’m breathing hard, my hair wild, my face a mask of blood, rage filling every inch of me. I drop the chair, my body sagging as they close in, guiding me up the ramp, back toward the exit, away from the ring, away from everything.

And with each step, the weight of my decisions settles in, crushing me, suffocating me.