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Mick leaned back on the bench and gave a mock groan. "Son, you think a good protected sledgehammer to the head's gonna rattle me? I've been set on fire, electrocuted, buried alive, and yeeted off a twenty foot cell like a crash test dummy. That shot was like getting kissed on the forehead by Tinkerbell."
Everyone in the room cracked up.
Stu, wanting to make sure that Mick was truly alright, crouched slightly beside him. "You sure, though? No dizziness, nausea?"
Mick patted him on the shoulder like a kindly uncle. "You boys protected the hell out of us. I'm fine. You got the angles perfect, Sandro. Seriously. The timing, the sell, the moment, that was art. The fans think I'm in a coma, and I'm sitting here wondering if I left a slice of pizza in my car."
Sandro nodded, relief in his eyes. "Thanks, Mick. That means a lot coming from you. I wanted it to look brutal, but not be brutal."
Mick grinned. "You nailed it."
Big E looked at Lashley and smirked. "Yo Bobby, you played the rage card hard, man. I thought you were gonna break Ryback's arm trying to get to Mick."
Lashley chuckled. "Man, that wasn't acting. That sledgehammer bit had me genuinely hot. Not 'mad at you' hot, but like, damn, we're really going for it hot. The emotion was real. I can't wait to go full throttle in that cage."
Drew leaned against the wall, arms crossed, face calm but eyes gleaming. "You know they're gonna put this segment on a loop all week. Probably cut a special video package before the pay per view. The crowd's gonna be thirsting for Sandro's blood."
"And they're gonna pay to see Bobby try to spill it," Stu added.
Sandro looked around at the people in the room, the warriors who'd just finished painting a masterpiece of violence in front of the world, and he felt a surge of gratitude.
Wrestling, for all its pageantry, for all the ego and politics and grind, still came down to trust. Tonight had worked because of trust. Everyone had done their job, not just professionally, but with heart.
The medics gave their final checks, noting both Mick and Lashley were cleared with no serious injuries. One of the trainers, a longtime veteran named Joe, walked over to Sandro with a pat on the back.
"You scared the hell out of us, Zhang. But damn if that wasn't the best main event segment we've seen in years."
Sandro offered a tired but proud smile. "Just doing our part to raise the bar."
As the crew began to disperse, the five members of the Undisputed System hung back in the hallway, leaning against the walls or sitting on nearby crates. The adrenaline had begun to wear off, replaced by the quiet satisfaction of a job well done.
Stu pulled out his phone and started scrolling through live reactions. "We've got the internet in an uproar. All of them was going nuts on how brutal and of course disrespectful we are, especially Sandro who hit Mick with a sledgehammer on the temple. Some also surprised by your strength Ryback, managing to hit and hold Lashley."
Ryback laughed. "Please. I didn't even hit him that hard. I was holding back. Lashley as well hold himself back. He could've bench presses me mid beatdown if he wanted."
Big E stood, arms crossed, nodding thoughtfully. "But seriously. That was a moment. That was history. That wasn't just heat. That was nuclear."
Sandro's face sobered slightly, the showman flickering into the man underneath. "Yeah. And now we gotta follow it up."
Drew chimed in, voice low and steady. "You will. We all will. The cage match? That's the exclamation point. No outside help. Just you and Lashley."
Sandro looked up at the ceiling, exhaling slowly. The steel cage was more than a gimmick. It was the final judgment. If he wanted to solidify his legacy, to etch the name Sandro Zhang into the granite of TNA history other than becoming a double champion, it would be done inside that unforgiving steel as one of the biggest heel in their history.
And he was ready.
Later that night, long after the arena had emptied, Sandro sat in a quiet corner of the locker room, alone for a few moments. The title belt rested across his lap, the gold shining under the flickering lights. His phone kept buzzing. Notifications. Praise. Outrage. Everyone had something to say. And Sandro had given them all something to feel.
He thought about the fans who hated him now, the kids who cried when he "assaulted" Mick Foley, the grown adults who tweeted threats and curses, the diehards who vowed they'd never watch again unless Lashley destroyed him at Against All Odds.
And he smiled.
Because in wrestling, real power didn't come from being loved or hated. It came from being unforgettable.
As he finally stood and packed his bag, Stu reappeared, his own duffel slung over one shoulder. "Car's ready," he said.
Hearing that, Sandro nodded his head, grabbed his bag, and walked alongside Stu into the parking lot, the cool night air wrapping around them like a calming blanket after the chaos of the show. The others followed shortly after, all of them riding the high of a segment that would be replayed a thousand times over in highlight reels and fan edits.
They piled into the SUV waiting for them, the tension from earlier fading into quiet camaraderie. The hotel wasn't far, and when they arrived, there was no wild celebration. Just quiet satisfaction. A job well done.
Once in his room, Sandro let the weight of the day melt off his shoulders. The belt, still in his bag, felt heavier than gold should. He didn't bother unpacking. Just kicked off his boots, threw his phone on the bedside table, and collapsed into the mattress. The adrenaline wore off slowly, sleep creeping in with heavy limbs and a racing mind. But eventually, it claimed him. And for the first time in weeks, he slept without dreaming.
Two weeks passed like smoke in the wind.
During that time, Sandro and the Undisputed System vanished from both FCW and TNA's weekly live programming. No cryptic promos. No backstage interviews. Not even a glimpse from the crowd or a quick cutaway. They were ghosts.
But instead of cooling the fire, the absence was gasoline.
The internet buzzed louder with each passing day. Fan theories ran rampant, some insisted Sandro was suspended, others believed they were planning something major, something game changing.
The sledgehammer incident with Mick Foley had struck a nerve, not just with the fans, but with the entire wrestling world. The silence, intentional and precise, became a masterclass in psychological warfare. By disappearing, they made everyone talk even more.
In FCW, the tension boiled over.
On the first Monday following the chaos, Dusty Rhodes and Steve Keirn made a surprise return, their appearances kayfabe, like they were recovering from the attack they took at the hands of Sandro and Big E.
The crowd erupted when Dusty's music hit, the American Dream himself walking slowly to the ring, flanked by Steve. The nostalgia hit hard, but so did the fury.
Dusty grabbed a mic and stood tall, looking straight into the hard camera.
"I been beat up. I been run down. I been spit on and kicked outta buildings. But what Sandro Zhang did wasn't just an attack, it was a declaration of war," he said, voice heavy with emotion. "You think you can run roughshod over my house while I'm gone? You think FCW gonna just roll over? Nah, baby. I'm back. Steve's back. And this reign of terror? It ends now. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Now."
The crowd roared in agreement, chants of "Dusty! Dusty!" filling the arena.
Meanwhile, over in the TNA Impact Zone, Lashley took to the ring alone, his expression carved from stone.
He stood under the spotlight, the mic in his hand feeling like a loaded weapon. "Sandro," he said, voice low but packed with venom. "What you did to Mick Foley, what you and your little gang did to me... you crossed a line. You wanna play games? Fine. But at Against All Odds, this ain't gonna be a match. This ain't about wins or losses. It's gonna be a beatdown. A lesson. And when I'm done, you'll beg to be forgotten."
The crowd exploded as Lashley threw the mic to the mat, the camera catching the fire burning in his eyes. The challenge was no longer just business, it was personal.
The second week brought more unexpected changes.
On FCW's live show, the crowd watched with anticipation as AJ Styles defended his FCW North American Title against Austin Creed. What they didn't expect was for Austin to pull off a shocking upset, pinning Styles clean and securing the title. The arena erupted. The belt had been brought back to FCW, and the homegrown fans roared in triumph for the heel wrestler.
The shock continued in the women's division. Rebecca Knox, the reigning FCW Divas and TNA Knockouts Champion, defended her FCW title against Davina Rose. In a match filled with emotion and storytelling, Davina pulled off what many thought impossible, she defeated Rebecca clean in the center of the ring becoming the new champion.
Now, it was Sunday. The night of TNA's Against All Odds pay per view.
Backstage, in the Undisputed System's locker room, Sandro was in his ring gear. His eyes were calm, but beneath the surface, a storm brewed. The roar of the crowd could be heard faintly from the corridors, a constant thrum of anticipation and energy.
Stu sat on one of the benches, flipping a coin idly while Ryback stretched in the corner, grunting as he pushed through his usual pre match routine. Drew leaned against the wall, arms folded, observing everything with that quiet look he always had before the big ones. Big E was pacing slightly, still too hyped to sit.
Meanwhile on the outside of Sandro's locker room, at a stadium in Nashville that TNA rented for the pay per view, the show had already hit a fever pitch. Fans were on their feet for nearly every match, chanting, shouting, crying out with emotion as TNA's finest gave them one hell of a night.
From high flying X Division chaos to bloody brawls and technical clinics, the arena was electric. Every promo landed. Every near fall had hearts in throats. TNA was proving they weren't just part of the wrestling world, tonight, they were the wrestling world.
But even with all the incredible action, everyone knew the main event was what they came for. The simmering blood feud. The war. The steel cage. Lashley vs. Sandro.
As the second-to-last match ended and the victors made their way backstage, the ring crew rushed in like a precision strike force. They began setting up the steel cage, thick reinforced bars, painted matte black, bolted together with cold steel and brutal purpose.
Piece by piece, the walls went up as the crowd buzzed louder with every clang and drill sound. This wasn't just any structure. This was a warzone waiting for warriors. This was the arena of reckoning.
And then, the lights dimmed.
The speakers boomed.
Bobby Lashley's music hit like a cannon blast.
The reaction was nuclear.
The crowd erupted into a wall of deafening cheers, fans on their feet, fists in the air, chanting his name like he was the savior of TNA. And tonight, in many fans' eyes, he was.
Lashley stepped onto the stage, a silhouette of rage and focus, his head low, shoulders squared. His black and red gear glistened under the spotlights as he started walking down the ramp, each step deliberate, heavy, like he was marching into battle. Not a hint of fear on his face. Just fury.
The ring announcer's voice echoed through the stadium.
"The following contest is a steel cage match scheduled for one fall, and it is for the TNA World Heavyweight Championship! Introducing first, the challenger, from Colorado Springs, Colorado, weighing in at 273 pounds… Bobby Lashley!"
As he reached ringside, the steel cage door was pulled open by the outside referee, who stood ready to seal the arena once the combatants were inside.
Lashley ducked in, walked straight to the center of the ring, and struck his pose, flexing, roaring, adrenaline surging through every vein. The fans answered in kind, screaming louder, chanting his name, rattling the steel of the cage.
Lashley backed into his corner, eyes locked on the entrance ramp, chest rising and falling with the weight of what was to come.
Then…
"Look in my eyes… what do you see?"
The unmistakable opening riff of "Cult of Personality" sliced through the arena.
The mood shifted like a cold front.
The boos were instant, volcanic and venomous. The fans were unhinged with hate, a tide of middle fingers and furious shouts rolling toward the stage.
Sandro Zhang walked out, slow and methodical, the TNA World Heavyweight Championship slung over his left shoulder. His expression was unreadable, ice carved into the shape of a man. But it wasn't just Sandro that made the crowd hiss like a pit of vipers, it was who came behind him.
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Name: Alessandro Zhang
Age: 20 (2010)
Birthplace: Orlando, Florida, USA
Brand: FCW
Wrestling Style: Mixed Of All Styles
Faction: The Undisputed System
Championship History: 1x FCW Tag Team Champions, 1x FCW Florida Heavyweight Champion, & 1x TNA World Heavyweight Champion