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There were no theatrics, no pandering. Just AJ, striding with quiet confidence and purpose. A man who had made a career proving people wrong. They stood across from each other in the ring. The referee held up the FCW North American title. The bell rang.
AJ started fast. A collar and elbow tie up turned into a standing switch. Nemeth tried to counter, but AJ floated over into a hammerlock. Nemeth twisted, ducked, and rolled out then flexed with a smirk, playing to the crowd. Boos rained down. AJ didn't flinch. He just nodded, almost amused.
The next exchange was lightning quick. AJ hit the ropes, ducked a clothesline, leapt into a phenomenal dropkick that landed flush on Nemeth's chest. The champ rolled out of the ring, clutching his ribs.
AJ Styles didn't wait. He hit the far ropes, launched himself with a running tope con hilo and took out Nemeth on the floor. The fans lost it.
"AJ! AJ! AJ!"
Styles got up first, rolled Nemeth back into the ring, and followed with a springboard forearm attempt, .but Nemeth rolled away, and when AJ landed on his feet, Nemeth caught him with a picture-perfect standing dropkick to the knee. AJ crumpled. Nemeth zeroed in.
What followed was a methodical dissection. Nemeth went after AJ's left leg like a man possessed. Stomps. Dragon screws. A figure four attempt that AJ fought out of. Nemeth taunted the crowd with every move, shouting, "This is your hero? This is the best TNA's got?"
AJ was grimacing but resilient. He began to fire back with right hands, staggering Nemeth into the corner. He whipped him across the ring, only for his own leg to give out mid sprint. Nemeth pounced with a neckbreaker. Two count.
Nemeth slowed the pace, grinding AJ down with a sleeper hold, wrenching his neck with precision. But AJ refused to fade. The crowd began to clap. AJ fought to his feet. Elbow. Another elbow. He broke free, hit the ropes, Nemeth countered with a back body drop, but AJ flipped out and landed on his feet. Pele Kick!
The crowd exploded.
Both men down.
The referee counted.
At six, they both stirred.
AJ was up first. Hobbled, yes, but full of fire. He ducked a wild swing and caught Nemeth with a spinning wheel kick. Then a clothesline. Then a snap brainbuster. Another two count.
AJ climbed the ropes, and hit a springboard 450 splash!
ONE.
TWO.
KICKOUT!
Nemeth barely survived.
AJ set up for the Styles Clash. He hooked Nemeth's arms, but Nemeth kicked and twisted out of it, rolling AJ into a small package!
ONE.
TWO.
AJ reversed the pin!
ONE.
TWO!
Nemeth kicked out and popped up with a superkick out of nowhere!
AJ dropped like a rock.
ONE.
TWO.
THR—KICKOUT!
The crowd gasped. Nemeth slammed the mat. He yelled at the referee, who held up two fingers.
"That was three! That was THREE!"
AJ stirred. Nemeth stalked him. He pulled him up for the Zig Zag, but AJ clutched the ropes and sent Nemeth crashing to the mat alone.
AJ limped to the top rope. The crowd stood. He jumped down, Spiral Tap!
Connected.
He covered.
ONE.
TWO.
THRE-.
No.
The ref stopped.
Nemeth had his foot on the rope.
The building groaned.
AJ couldn't believe it.
He pulled Nemeth to his feet again, signaling for one more Styles Clash.
But as he lifted, Nemeth manages to get out, and hit a low blow on AJ.
The ref didn't see it, as Nemeth grabbed the referee's shirt at the right second to obscure the shot.
AJ dropped to his knees in agony.
ZIG ZAG.
ONE.
TWO.
THRE- NO, KICKOUT!
AJ showed an unbelievable willpower which shocked Nemeth as he was flabbergasted by what happened. The fans erupted, stomping their feet, clapping in rhythm, chanting his name like a war drum, "AJ! AJ! AJ!"
The roar was deafening, the kind of support only someone who had clawed his way through doubt and injury could earn. And AJ Styles, battered and beaten, heard it all through the haze of pain.
Nemeth's face twisted in disbelief. He sat on his knees, eyes wide, mouth agape, shaking his head in utter frustration. He looked to the referee, pointing and yelling, "That was three! That was THREE!" But the ref stood firm, holding up two fingers, unmoved by Nemeth's fury.
And in that instant, as Nemeth kept arguing, AJ began to stir.
Nemeth, still cornering the ref, didn't see AJ rise with that slow, deliberate energy of a man who refuses to die. AJ ran to the ropes like a wounded, charging warrior and used them to propel himself with a burst of agility that defied the pain.
He launched into a running top rope moonsault, twisting in mid air and catching Nemeth in a stunning standing reverse DDT that brought the entire building to its feet.
The impact echoed through the ring like a thunderclap. Nemeth bounced off the canvas with a thud, eyes blank for a beat.
AJ sat up, chest heaving, sweat pouring down his face, his body screaming in agony, .but his mind was focused.
He pointed to the heavens.
The signal was clear.
Styles Clash.
The crowd erupted.
He reached down, hoisted Nemeth up, hooked both arms. No hesitation. No wasted motion. With one final effort, he lifted and planted Nemeth face first into the mat with the Styles Clash. The ring shook from the execution. AJ held the pin.
ONE!
TWO!
THREE!
The bell rang.
The crowd exploded into a frenzy as the referee raised AJ Styles' hand in the air. The building was alive with cheers, a wall of sound crashing over the ring.
The referee retrieved the FCW North American Championship and handed it to AJ, who stared at it for a moment, wide eyed, humbled, victorious, before gripping it tightly.
He climbed the nearest turnbuckle, eyes scanning the crowd, and hoisted the title above his head. The gold gleamed under the arena lights, shimmering like a reward for a battle hard fought.
"This is YOUR champion!" shouted the commentary team. "AJ Styles has done it! He's dethroned Nick Nemeth in an absolute war!"
Nemeth, meanwhile, rolled out of the ring slowly, one hand cradling his head, the other clutching his ribs. He stumbled up the ramp, clearly in pain and disbelief, as a wave of boos chased him all the way to the back. He didn't look back. Not once. And maybe it was shame, or frustration, or both.
But in the ring, AJ stood tall.
Victorious.
And then, the lights shifted. The atmosphere crackled anew.
The next match was ready.
Kofi Kingston and Taylor Rotunda were back, two men who had been taken out by the Wyatt Family weeks ago when they try to help Sandro. Injured. Left behind. But not broken.
Now they returned, united, determined, and ready to prove they still belonged. The fans welcomed them with huge cheers, especially for Kofi, whose boundless energy and undeniable charisma lit up the arena the moment his music hit.
They slapped hands with fans, nodded to the cameras, and stepped into the ring, stretching, psyching each other up.
And then came their opponents.
The Motor City Machine Guns.
Chris Sabin and Alex Shelley. Cool. Collected. Innovators of tag team excellence.
The crowd's reaction was immediate, dueling chants filled the air.
"Let's go Kofi! Let's go Taylor!"
"MCMG!"
It was face vs. face. Respect vs. determination.
Both teams stood in the ring and nodded at one another. There was no animosity, just mutual acknowledgment of skill and grit.
The bell rang.
Taylor started the match against Shelley. They circled each other, locked up, jockeyed for position. Shelley slipped behind, Taylor countered with a standing switch, but Shelley cartwheeled out and took Taylor down with an arm drag.
Taylor bounced back up and nodded. The two locked up again, this time Taylor powered Shelley into the ropes, but showed sportsmanship by backing off clean.
But it didn't stay that way.
Shelley tagged in Sabin, and suddenly the pace kicked up like someone hit fast forward. Sabin burst into the ring, ducked a clothesline, springboarded off the ropes into a crossbody that Taylor caught but Sabin transitioned into a spinning DDT on the landing!
Quick tag back to Shelley. MCMG were in sync.
Drop toe hold from Sabin, basement dropkick from Shelley.
Cover! one, two, kickout!
Kofi jumped on the apron, hand stretched out. Taylor crawled over, made the tag, and the crowd popped again.
Kofi exploded into action.
Springboard clothesline! Boom Drop! Leaping hurricanrana! Shelley tried to slow him down, but Kofi's speed overwhelmed him.
Tag to Taylor again. The young Rotunda hit a powerslam, and then Kofi tagged back in for a double team monkey flip. Kofi ran the ropes and hit a suicide dive onto Sabin on the outside!
The fans were loving every second. It was chaos in the best way. Near falls. Lightning tags. Precision offense.
At one point, Kofi hit a high crossbody on Shelley, and the ref counted two and a half. Everyone thought it was over. But Shelley kicked out.
Then MCMG rallied.
Sabin caught Taylor with a running enziguri, stunning him. Shelley tagged in. They called for the finish.
Taylor stood, dazed, trying to tag Kofi but Sabin pulled Kofi off the apron just as Shelley grabbed Taylor.
Skull and Bones.
The signature finish. Shelley hoisted Taylor into a falling neckbreaker while Sabin soared from the top rope with a diving crossbody.
Boom.
It landed clean.
ONE.
TWO.
THREE.
MCMG win.
The fans stood and applauded. Not because their favorite team won or lost, but because they had just witnessed a masterclass in tag team wrestling.
Kofi slid into the ring to check on Taylor. The two slowly stood, and then walked over to MCMG. For a second, the air was tense, but then Kofi and Taylor extended their hands.
Sabin and Shelley accepted.
Four hands clasped. Four warriors nodded. The crowd cheered again.
Respect. But the moment didn't last. Because for the next match, the lights dimmed.
The eerie, droning sound of Bray Wyatt's entrance theme echoed through the arena. The camera zoomed in on the entrance stage, and out came the cult leader, lantern in hand, a crazed, hollow grin painted across his face. Behind him, like monstrous shadows, walked Luke Harper and Erick Rowan.
Bray Wyatt soaked in the atmosphere like a man born from it. The fans watched with a mix of awe and unease.
In the ring stood his opponent.
Abyss.
The monster. The tortured soul of TNA. Masked. Heavy. Dangerous.
And if Bray Wyatt was a cult leader from another realm, then Abyss was the flesh and blood nightmare that crawled out of a swamp. They didn't run. They didn't brawl.
They stared. Long and hard. And the crowd leaned in. This was a different kind of match. It wasn't about wins and losses.
It was about madness.
The bell rang and all hell broke loose.
Bray struck first, wild fists pounding against Abyss's chest, but the monster didn't budge. He grabbed Bray and shoved him with such force he flew backward into the turnbuckles.
Bray laughed.
Actually laughed.
He stood, unsteady, arms wide.
"Hurt me!" he screamed.
Abyss obliged. Clothesline. Corner splash. Chokeslam.
Bray writhed, but still smiled.
Harper and Rowan banged on the mat, urging him on.
Abyss reached for a chair outside the ring. The ref tried to stop him, but Abyss ignored him. He tossed it into the ring but Bray, already moving, caught Abyss with a running crossbody.
Then came the punishment.
Bray pummeled Abyss with fists, then twisted his neck with that unnatural jerking motion. Sister Abigail attempted but Abyss shoved him off and delivered a Black Hole Slam!
The ref counted! one, two, kickout!
Bray began crawling like a spider, upside down, his back arched grotesquely. Abyss actually hesitated.
Then Harper and Rowan got involved. The ref got distracted. Bray pulled a spike from his coat, jammed it into Abyss's leg, the monster screamed.
SISTER ABIGAIL!
ONE.
TWO.
THREE.
Bray Wyatt wins. But he didn't stop there. He whispered to Abyss, something quiet, something dark, then kissed his forehead and laughed as Harper and Rowan stood behind him. He didn't come for a match. He came to baptize pain. And the show wasn't over yet.
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Name: Alessandro Zhang
Age: 19 (2009)
Birthplace: Orlando, Florida USA
Brand: FCW
Wrestling Style: Mixed Of All Style
Faction: Dragon Boom (Tag Team)
Championship History: 1x FCW Tag Team Champions & 1 FCW Florida Heavyweight Champion