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Wrestler Name: 'The Platinum Standard' Madison Knox Gender: Female Pronouns: She/Her Age: 25 Height / Weight: 5'8" / 145 lbs Hometown (Billed From): Aspen, Colorado Alignment: Tweener (Babyface lean) Wrestling Style: Well Rounded Puroresu Hybrid Entrance Music: Santana - Into The Night ft. Chad Kroeger Entrance Description: The opening guitar of Into The Night echoes through the arena as platinum and gold lighting washes across the stage. Madison Knox steps through the curtain with a relaxed smile and effortless confidence. She doesn't pose dramatically or demand attention. She simply carries herself like someone who belongs wherever she chooses to stand. The camera focuses on her calm expression, designer sunglasses, and immaculate ring gear before pulling back to reveal the crowd. Some cheer. Some roll their eyes. Madison seems perfectly comfortable with either reaction. She walks to the ring at a measured pace, exchanging occasional high-fives with fans while maintaining an unmistakable sense of self-assurance. Upon entering the ring, she removes her sunglasses, hands them to ringside personnel, and takes a slow look around the arena before settling into her corner. She doesn't act like she's better than everyone else. She acts like she expects the best from herself. Ring Attire: Premium platinum-white wrestling gear accented with gold trim and subtle diamond-inspired patterns along the sides. Custom-made ring jackets featuring elegant embroidery rather than excessive branding. White wrist tape, white knee pads, and platinum-colored boots complete the look. Everything she wears looks expensive. Nothing looks gaudy. Out-of-Ring Appearance: Madison favors tailored designer clothing, luxury handbags, fitted blazers, and high-end casual wear. She carries herself with excellent posture and natural confidence. She is frequently seen arriving in luxury vehicles, staying in the finest hotels, and enjoying the lifestyle her success provides. Unlike many wealthy personalities, she neither flaunts nor hides her privilege. When questioned about her lifestyle, she simply answers honestly. In-Ring Psychology: Madison approaches wrestling the same way she approaches every challenge in life: thoroughly prepared. She studies opponents extensively before matches, identifying tendencies, weaknesses, and patterns. She is rarely caught off guard and adapts quickly when her initial strategy fails. Her pacing is methodical early before steadily increasing pressure throughout the contest. Madison believes matches are won through preparation and execution rather than emotion. She rarely panics. She rarely rushes. And she never wastes motion. Strengths: • Incredibly fit • Elite Ring IQ • Reliable worker • Charismatic • Exceptional conditioning • Highly adaptable • Excellent striker • Strong technical foundation • Maintains composure under pressure • Difficult to out-prepare Weaknesses: • Can underestimate less polished opponents • Occasionally overthinks situations • Reluctant to cheat even when it would benefit her • Pride can prevent her from backing down • Struggles with unpredictability • Sometimes fights through injuries she should not Moveset 25 Basic Moves 1. Arm Drag 2. Snapmare 3. Japanese Arm Drag 4. Hip Toss 5. Running Knee Strike 6. Dropkick 7. Basement Dropkick 8. European Uppercut 9. Forearm Smash 10. Standing Enzuigiri 11. Spinning Back Elbow 12. Running Bulldog 13. German Suplex 14. Northern Lights Suplex 15. Vertical Suplex 16. Dragon Screw 17. Russian Leg Sweep 18. DDT 19. Sling Blade 20. Missile Dropkick 21. Corner Clothesline 22. Backbreaker 23. Fisherman's Suplex 24. Sunset Flip 25. Spinebuster 15 Signature Moves 1. Platinum Trigger (Running Knee Strike) 2. Knox Out (Discus Forearm) 3. Diamond Cutter 4. Springboard Crossbody 5. Bridging German Suplex 6. Shining Wizard 7. Sit-Out Powerbomb 8. Corner Meteora 9. Falcon Arrow 10. Sliding Knee Strike 11. Regal Plex 12. Running Big Boot 13. Rope-Assisted Enzuigiri 14. Platinum Line (Short-Arm Lariat) 15. Knox Lock (Crossface Variation) Primary Finisher: The Platinum Standard A devastating Rainmaker-style ripcord lariat delivered with explosive precision. Secondary / Desperation Finisher: Knox Fortune Fireman's Carry into a spinning sit-out slam. Set-Up Moves (if any): • Dragon Screw Leg Whip • Platinum Trigger • Sliding Knee Strike Common Match Spots or Tendencies: • Targets legs to reduce mobility • Builds toward increasingly dangerous knee strikes • Frequently counters aerial attacks • Utilizes rope-assisted offense • Chains technical sequences into striking combinations • Constantly adjusts strategy throughout matches • Uses opponent momentum against them Preferred Match Pace: ☑ Varies by opponent Best Match Types: ☑ Singles ☑ Multi-Man ☑ Gimmick / Stipulation Selling Style: ☑ Fights Through Pain Crowd Interaction: ☑ Feeds off crowd Gimmick / Character Description: Madison Knox represents what happens when privilege meets discipline and opportunity meets ambition. Raised among the mountains of Aspen, Colorado, she grew up skiing black diamond slopes, hiking high-altitude trails, and embracing challenges that most people would avoid. Wealth gave her opportunities. The mountains taught her how to use them. Madison has never hidden where she came from, nor does she apologize for the advantages she was born with. What matters to her is what she chose to do with them. Beautiful, successful, and undeniably wealthy, Madison attracts attention the moment she enters a room. Whether she's arriving at a five-star resort, stepping into a boardroom, or walking down a wrestling ramp, she carries herself with effortless confidence. Yet beneath the luxury and elegance is an intensely competitive athlete who has spent her life pursuing excellence. Her appearance may turn heads, but her preparation and performance are what keep people talking. Many opponents expect a spoiled socialite when they meet her. They expect entitlement, arrogance, and shortcuts. Instead, they find a woman who spent years throwing herself down mountainsides at high speeds, learning that success requires balance, discipline, and the willingness to get back up after a hard fall. Madison may have trained with world-class coaches and enjoyed resources most wrestlers could only dream of, but she also put in the work required to justify every opportunity she received. As The Platinum Standard, Madison believes excellence is a choice. She expects the best from herself and encourages others to demand the same. She can be generous, charming, and supportive one moment, then brutally honest the next. Friends might tease her by calling her a snow bunny, but inside the ring she is every bit the competitor her reputation suggests. Whether fans admire her confidence or resent it, Madison Knox measures herself against one thing above all else: The highest standard she can possibly reach. Motivation: Madison is driven by the pursuit of excellence. Championships matter because they represent achievement. Respect matters because it must be earned. Legacy matters because it lasts. Her goal is not to prove that wealthy people belong in wrestling. Her goal is to prove that she belongs among the very best wrestlers in the world. Personality Traits: • Ambitious • Competitive • Confident • Honest • Loyal • Charismatic • Refined • Self-aware • Driven • Occasionally stubborn 🔻 BACKSTORY & MOTIVATION Short Bio/Backstory: Madison Knox was born into extraordinary wealth and spent her early life surrounded by opportunities many people never receive. Rather than hide from that reality, she embraced it. While others expected her to pursue business, entertainment, or high society, Madison discovered a passion for professional wrestling. Fascinated by the combination of athleticism, psychology, and performance, she dedicated herself to mastering every aspect of the profession. Training under elite coaches around the world, Madison developed into a polished Puroresu Hybrid competitor known for intelligence, precision, and adaptability. She arrived in AWS with one objective: To discover whether The Platinum Standard can survive among the very best fighters in the industry. Goals in AWS: • Win championship gold • Establish herself as a main-event competitor • Earn respect through performance rather than reputation • Elevate the standard of women's wrestling • Build a lasting legacy • Prove that success is earned every day, regardless of where you started

Wrestler Name: Saraya Ring Nickname(s): The Quiet Catastrophe The Blue Hour The Ghost in the Machine The Final Variable Real Name: Saraya Pronouns: She/Her Age: 31 Height / Weight: 5'8" / 145 lbs Hometown (Billed From): The Falkland Islands Alignment: ☑ Complex / Evolving Alignment Explanation: Saraya does not naturally divide the world into heroes and villains. To her, people are far more complicated than that. She sees contradictions everywhere. Kind people capable of cruelty. Dangerous people capable of kindness. Heroes who lie. Villains who love. Because of this, she rarely judges people according to conventional moral standards. This often creates tension with those around her. Saraya can be compassionate one moment and deeply unsettling the next. She may help someone simply because she believes they deserve the opportunity to become something greater. She may also dismantle someone emotionally because she believes the truth is more important than comfort. Whether that makes her a good person or a dangerous one depends entirely on who is telling the story. PRESENTATION & AESTHETIC Entrance MusicFor Your Entertainment – Adam Lambert Entrance DescriptionThe arena lights fade into shades of blue and silver. Not darkness. Twilight. The color of a day ending and something else beginning. As the opening notes of For Your Entertainment echo through the arena, the camera searches the stage before finally finding Saraya standing perfectly still beneath a single spotlight. She smiles. A small smile. A pleasant smile. The kind of smile that should feel reassuring. For some reason, it never does. Saraya walks toward the ring with effortless confidence, occasionally glancing toward individual fans in the crowd as though she finds them interesting. Sometimes she waves. Sometimes she points at someone. Sometimes she simply stares for a second too long. Nobody is ever quite certain what she is thinking. Once inside the ring she slowly removes her entrance coat and surveys the audience. Not arrogantly. Curiously. Like a scientist observing a phenomenon. Then she waits. Ring AttireBlack and midnight-blue wrestling gear Silver constellation patterns woven into the fabric Black boots Fingerless gloves Long dark entrance coat Minimal but striking silver jewelry Out-of-Ring AppearanceSaraya dresses elegantly but unconventionally. Long coats. Dark dresses. Tailored jackets. Vintage-inspired clothing. Always neat. Always deliberate. She carries herself with unusual poise and rarely appears rushed. Most people initially describe her as charming. The longer conversations last, the more uncertain they become. WRESTLING STYLE & PSYCHOLOGY Primary Wrestling Style☑ Hybrid ☑ High-Flyer ☑ Submission-Based ☑ Strong Style In-Ring PsychologySaraya treats every match as an opportunity to learn. She studies reactions. Patterns. Choices. Fear. Confidence. Desperation. Many wrestlers focus solely on victory. Saraya focuses on understanding. She wants to know what happens when pressure increases. What happens when someone begins to doubt themselves. What happens when hope returns. What happens when fear arrives. Winning matters. But information matters more. The result is a competitor who can appear playful one moment and ruthlessly efficient the next. StrengthsExceptional agility Elite speed Creative offense Adaptability Difficult to predict Strong submission game Psychological awareness Fearlessness under pressure WeaknessesCuriosity can distract her from obvious opportunities Often pushes situations further than necessary Can become fascinated by unusual opponents Occasionally underestimates emotional reactions Tendency to treat people as puzzles rather than individuals BASIC MOVES (25) Arm Drag Tilt-A-Whirl Headscissors Dropkick Running Knee Strike Enzuigiri Sling Blade Snapmare Hurricanrana Bulldog Running Meteora Northern Lights Suplex DDT Standing Moonsault German Suplex Poison Rana Crossbody Wheelbarrow Facebuster Dragon Screw Backstabber Tornado DDT Spinning Heel Kick Russian Leg Sweep Shining Wizard Sleeper Hold Octopus Hold SIGNATURE OFFENSE Signature MovesBlue Static – Springboard Knee Strike False Memory – Poison Rana Glass Garden – Running Meteora Ghost Signal – Sling Blade Dissonance – Tornado DDT Twilight Theory – Octopus Stretch Sleepwalker – Standing Spanish Fly Silent Broadcast – Running Shining Wizard Black Equation – Crossface The Echo Test – Backstabber Dead Frequency – Top Rope Meteora Signal Loss – Rolling Cutter The Missing Piece – Bridging Dragon Suplex Moonlit Error – Springboard Cutter The Last Question – Kimura Lock FINISHERS Primary FinisherEVENT HORIZON Springboard Poison Rana. A sudden burst of speed and violence that can end a match before opponents realize they are in danger. Secondary / Desperation FinisherTHE BEAUTIFUL PROBLEM Modified Rings of Saturn. Reserved for opponents she considers particularly difficult to solve. Set-Up MoveFalse Memory Used to disorient opponents before Event Horizon. Common Match Spots & TendenciesConstant changes in pace and direction Heavy use of rope-assisted offense Targets joints and neck Uses movement to create confusion Frequently counters larger opponents Appears calm regardless of circumstances Asks questions during matches that only her opponent can hear MATCH STYLE PREFERENCES Preferred Match Pace☑ Fast-Paced ☑ Varies by Opponent Best Match Types☑ Singles ☑ Technical ☑ Multi-Man ☑ Gimmick / Stipulation Selling Style☑ Story-Based Selling ☑ Heavy Seller Crowd Interaction☑ Feeds Off Crowd ☑ Antagonizes Crowd ☑ Stoic / Silent CHARACTER & STORY ELEMENTS Gimmick / Character DescriptionSaraya is driven by curiosity. Not ordinary curiosity. Relentless curiosity. She possesses an unusual fascination with human behavior and spends much of her time observing the motivations, fears, contradictions, and desires that drive people. Where others see a wrestler, she sees a story. Where others see a rival, she sees a mystery. Where others see conflict, she sees an opportunity to learn. This makes her extraordinarily insightful. It also makes her deeply unsettling. Saraya often understands things about people they would prefer remain hidden. Not because she possesses supernatural abilities. Because she pays attention when everyone else stops looking. MotivationSaraya wants answers. Why do people become what they become? Why do some people break while others endure? Why does love inspire sacrifice? Why does fear inspire cruelty? Why do people continue believing things that hurt them? Professional wrestling gives her access to situations where those questions can be explored under pressure. Every match is another opportunity to learn. Every rivalry is another chapter in an endless investigation. Personality TraitsPositive Traits Intelligent Perceptive Adaptable Fearless Creative Honest Negative Traits Obsessive Emotionally detached Invasive Manipulative Morally ambiguous Difficult to understand Ongoing or Potential StorylinesThe line between curiosity and obsession. Whether understanding someone creates responsibility toward them. Encounters with people driven by emotion rather than reason. The consequences of treating individuals as puzzles. Discovering rare people whose minds operate differently from everyone else's. Learning whether knowledge alone can ever replace genuine connection. BACKSTORY & MOTIVATION Short Bio / BackstoryMost people spend their lives trying to be understood. Saraya spent hers trying to understand everyone else. From an early age, she noticed something that others seemed to miss. People were inconsistent. The person who preached kindness could become cruel. The person who appeared fearless could secretly be terrified. The person everyone called a villain often possessed qualities no one wanted to acknowledge. These contradictions fascinated her. While others formed friendships naturally, Saraya found herself studying them. While others accepted social rules at face value, she questioned them. She became increasingly interested in the hidden motivations behind human behavior and the invisible forces that shaped people's decisions. Over time, observation became habit. Habit became passion. Passion became obsession. Saraya began collecting knowledge about people the way others collected memories. Patterns. Choices. Reactions. Secrets. Not because she wanted power over them. Because she wanted understanding. Eventually that fascination led her into combat sports and professional wrestling, where she discovered the perfect environment for her interests. Pressure. Pressure stripped away performance. Pressure stripped away masks. Pressure forced people to reveal themselves. Inside the ring, excuses became difficult. Fear became visible. Desperation became impossible to hide. For Saraya, wrestling became more than competition. It became a laboratory for understanding human nature. Years of competition transformed her into an elite athlete capable of matching intelligence with speed, creativity, and technical precision. Her reputation grew alongside her success. Opponents frequently described feeling examined rather than challenged. Conversations with her often left people wondering how she noticed details they had never spoken aloud. Now Saraya arrives in AWS surrounded by questions. Some believe she is brilliant. Others believe she is dangerous. Many cannot decide which possibility concerns them more. The truth is simpler. Saraya is searching for answers. The roster of AWS simply happens to be the largest collection of unanswered questions she has ever encountered. Goals in AWSUnderstand what truly motivates people under pressure. Test her theories against the most dangerous competitors in AWS. Discover individuals capable of surprising her. Continue exploring the relationship between identity and adversity. Learn whether understanding another person is the same thing as caring about them. Find answers to questions most people are too uncomfortable to ask.

Wrestler Name: Sarab Ring Nickname(s): The White Tide The Icebound King The Cartographer of Ruin The Last Navigator Real Name: Sarab Pronouns: He/Him Age: 34 Height / Weight: 6'4" / 265 lbs Hometown (Billed From): The Falkland Islands Alignment: ☑ Complex / Evolving Alignment Explanation: Sarab is not interested in being a hero or a villain. He believes most people make decisions based on emotion, impulse, fear, pride, or desire. Sarab believes those things distort judgment. He attempts to operate through observation, reason, and logic instead. The problem is that logic can justify almost anything once a conclusion has been reached. Some weeks Sarab may expose a bully, defend an underdog, or dismantle corruption. Other weeks he may tear apart someone who simply disagrees with him. He does not view himself as good or evil. Only correct. PRESENTATION & AESTHETIC Entrance MusicHoist The Colours — Hans Zimmer Entrance DescriptionThe arena lights dim until the building is bathed in deep ocean-blue shadows. A distant ship's bell rings once. Then again. Then silence. Fog rolls across the entrance stage as the opening notes of Hoist The Colours begin to play. Sarab emerges slowly from the darkness wearing a long white military-style coat trimmed with silver. His expression never changes. His posture is perfect. His eyes remain fixed on the ring. He does not acknowledge signs. He does not point at the crowd. He does not pose. He walks forward with the calm certainty of a man arriving exactly where he expected to be. The camera focuses heavily on his face and eyes, searching for emotion that never seems to appear. Upon entering the ring, Sarab removes his coat with deliberate care, folds it neatly, places it in the corner, and waits. No theatrics. No grand gestures. Only patience. The crowd reaction varies wildly. Some cheer his composure. Others boo his arrogance. Most find themselves unsettled without fully understanding why. Ring AttireWhite and silver tights Navy blue trim Black boots White wrist tape Silver compass emblem stitched onto the gear Long white military-style entrance coat Out-of-Ring AppearanceOutside the ring, Sarab dresses with the same precision he applies to everything else. Tailored suits Long wool coats Polished dress shoes Minimal accessories Expensive but understated watches He speaks softly. Never rushes. Never raises his voice unless absolutely necessary. His calm demeanor often makes people more nervous than shouting ever could. WRESTLING STYLE & PSYCHOLOGY Primary Wrestling Style☑ Hybrid ☑ Technical ☑ Submission-Based ☑ Strong Style In-Ring PsychologySarab approaches wrestling as both combat and investigation. The opening minutes of every match are spent gathering information. He studies movement patterns, breathing habits, emotional reactions, and defensive tendencies. Every strike serves a purpose. Every hold asks a question. Every counter provides information. By the midpoint of most matches, Sarab believes he understands his opponent better than they understand themselves. The frightening part is how often he proves correct. Unlike many cerebral wrestlers, Sarab is not physically limited. When his analysis reaches a conclusion, he possesses the strength to enforce it personally. To Sarab, violence is not emotional. Violence is communication. StrengthsExceptional ring intelligence Elite conditioning Heavyweight strength Submission expertise Psychological warfare Patience under pressure Adaptability during long matches Excellent counter wrestling WeaknessesPride in his own conclusions Difficulty understanding emotional decision-making Can become obsessed with proving a point Occasionally underestimates passion-driven opponents Reluctant to abandon a strategy once committed SIGNATURE OFFENSE Signature MovesDead Reckoning – Rolling Elbow Strike Polar Shift – Pop-Up European Uppercut White Current – Release German Suplex Icebreaker – Running Corner Knee Strike Cold Latitude – Dragon Sleeper North Sea Driver – Sit-Out Driver The Sounding Line – Bridging Tiger Suplex Undertow – Uranage onto Knee King's Survey – Delayed Brainbuster Deep Water – Crossface Storm Front – Discus Lariat Bearing Zero – Arm-Trap Elbow Sequence The Long Winter – STF White Horizon – Avalanche Back Suplex Chartmaker – Hammerlock Lariat FinishersPrimary FinisherThe Silent Sea Modified Cobra Clutch into a spinning Uranage. The move arrives suddenly and feels almost unavoidable once secured. Secondary / Desperation FinisherAbsolute North Rear Naked Choke. No theatrics. No motion. Only inevitability. Often results in referee stoppages rather than traditional submissions. Set-Up MoveDead Reckoning A sudden rolling elbow used to disorient opponents before either finisher. Common Match Spots & TendenciesTargets neck, shoulders, and upper back Cuts off momentum aggressively Frequently attacks an opponent's strongest weapon Uses submissions to create openings rather than simply seek victory Rarely wastes movement Constantly adapts throughout matches Prefers calculated punishment over reckless offense MATCH STYLE PREFERENCES Preferred Match Pace☑ Slow & Methodical ☑ Varies by Opponent Best Match Types☑ Singles ☑ Technical ☑ Gimmick / Stipulation Selling Style☑ Story-Based Selling ☑ Moderate Seller Crowd Interaction☑ Stoic / Silent ☑ Ignores Crowd CHARACTER & STORY ELEMENTS Gimmick / Character DescriptionSarab is what happens when relentless logic is given the body of a heavyweight destroyer. Most intellectual wrestlers manipulate from the shadows. Most powerhouse wrestlers lead with emotion. Sarab does neither. His mind operates like a strategist's. His body operates like a siege weapon. He studies people relentlessly, searching for the hidden principles that govern their actions. Every rivalry becomes an investigation. Every confrontation becomes a puzzle. Every match becomes a controlled experiment designed to reveal truth. He does not seek to embarrass opponents. He seeks to understand them. Unfortunately, understanding often requires pressure. And Sarab has no hesitation applying it. MotivationSarab seeks understanding. He believes every person follows a pattern. Every fear has a source. Every obsession has an origin. Every act of violence has a reason. Professional wrestling provides the perfect environment to uncover those truths because pressure strips away pretense. Titles matter. Victories matter. But only because they validate conclusions already reached. Personality TraitsPositive Traits Intelligent Disciplined Patient Honest Composed Observant Negative Traits Arrogant Detached Obsessive Inflexible Difficult to emotionally connect with Views people as problems to solve Ongoing or Potential StorylinesDiscovering situations where logic fails Learning whether understanding truly creates wisdom Struggles between observation and empathy Obsession with solving specific opponents The consequences of treating people as systems rather than individuals BACKSTORY & MOTIVATIONShort Bio / BackstoryMost people spend their lives searching for certainty. Sarab spent his searching for patterns. Long before professional wrestling, Sarab became fascinated by the invisible structures that govern human behavior. Every decision seemed to follow a route. Every fear had an origin. Every ambition left tracks if someone cared enough to look. Where others saw chaos, he saw systems. Where others saw emotion, he saw variables. Where others saw conflict, he saw information. The fascination became an obsession. Sarab discovered early that people rarely reveal who they truly are when life is comfortable. They reveal themselves under pressure. Under fear. Under stress. Under consequence. Pressure reveals truth. That realization eventually led him into combat sports. What began as curiosity evolved into mastery. Years of training transformed him into an elite athlete possessing both remarkable strength and exceptional technical ability. Yet physical dominance was never the objective. Strength was merely another tool. A means of testing theories more directly. A method of forcing hidden truths into the open. As his reputation grew, so did the stories surrounding him. Opponents described feeling examined rather than challenged. Interviews often ended with people wondering whether Sarab understood something about them they had not yet realized themselves. Now he arrives in AWS carrying that reputation. Not because he is loud. Not because he is violent. Because he watches. Because he listens. Because he studies. And because when Sarab reaches a conclusion, he acts upon it with the certainty of a man who has already calculated every outcome. Goals in AWSTest his theories against the most dangerous competitors AWS can offer Discover opponents capable of surprising him Prove that understanding is more powerful than instinct Expose what pressure reveals about every wrestler he encounters Determine whether logic truly provides all the answers he believes it does

Tag Team Name:Vixens of Violence Team Members:Harley Dimter & Calista Abreu Pic Bases:Tiffany Stratton (Harley Dimter) & Stephanie Vaquer (Calista Abreu) combined weight:257 Alignment:Heel Hometown:Philadelphia,PA (Harley) & Rio De Janerom Entrance Theme:"Again" By Flyleaf (Harley and Calista Tag team) "Again" By Flyleaf blasts throughout the arena The Vixens of Violence (Calista Abreu and Harley Dimter) are seen walking through the crowd as they are ignoring everyone as they are being booed then they climb over the guard rail then they walk up the steps and climb into the ring as they climb on opposite middle turnbuckles then they raise their hands then they jump down off the middle turnbuckles Move Set Double Suplex Double DDT Double Back body drop Double DDT Double Dropkick Double Back Body Drop Finishers Vixen's Venom (Hart Attack) Vixen's Sepcial (Bearhug (Abreu) / Jumping heel kick enzuigiri (Harley) combination) Violence is 4 Ever (Wheelbarrow hold (Abreu) / Cutter (Harley) combination)

🛑 BASIC INFORMATION Team Name: West Texas Hangmen Members: 2 Member 1: Buck Rawlins Member 2: Wade Mercer Debut Date in AWS: TBD Hometown/Location Billed From: Amarillo, Texas Alignment: ☑ Heel Manager/Valet (if any): None 🧠 GIMMICK & CHARACTER DESCRIPTION Gimmick Summary (1-2 sentences):Two bitter former members of the legendary West Texas Hangmen who believe modern wrestling rewards the wrong people. They see themselves as the last men willing to say what everyone else is afraid to say and hurt whoever needs hurting. Detailed Persona/Backstory:The original West Texas Hangmen were one of the most feared groups to ever come out of Texas wrestling. Four men. Buck Rawlins. Wade Mercer. Boone Carter. Beau Carter. Together they built a reputation on violence, intimidation, and taking whatever they wanted. Over time the business changed. Buck and Wade grew resentful. Every new generation became a problem. Every new idea became a problem. Every new star became a problem. Meanwhile Boone Carter received an opportunity to wrestle in Japan. He took it. To Boone it was work. To Buck and Wade it was betrayal. Beau Carter eventually left wrestling entirely, choosing to build a life outside the business rather than remain trapped inside it. The group collapsed. Twenty years later Buck and Wade have reformed the Hangmen name. Not because they miss what they had. Because they blame everyone else for losing it. Women main eventing. Masked wrestlers becoming icons. Champions who inspire people. The Hangmen view all of it as proof that wrestling has forgotten what it is supposed to be. Their mission is simple: Punish the people they believe don't belong. 🎭 CHARACTER INFLUENCES / INSPIRATIONS Comparable Real-World Acts:Stan Hansen Ole Anderson The West Texas Rednecks The Harris Brothers Southern territorial wrestling bullies Modern culture-war provocateurs Unique Traits / Calling Cards:Constantly complain about modern wrestling. Openly mock symbolism and emotional storytelling. Refer to opponents as "kids." Attack personal symbols and identities. Believe respect is taken, not earned. Present themselves as truth-tellers while acting like bullies. 🎯 IN-RING STYLE & STRATEGY Wrestling Style(s):Southern Brawling Powerhouse Wrestling Dirty Fighting Old School Tag Wrestling Psychological Bullying Team Chemistry & Tag Strategy:Buck acts as the ring general. Wade acts as the attack dog. Buck controls pace, isolates opponents, and dictates positioning. Wade overwhelms opponents through aggression and intimidation. Together they target weaknesses relentlessly and frequently attack whatever matters most to their opponents emotionally. Signature Team Moves:Amarillo Stampede (Double Running Shoulder Block) Dust Storm (Corner Splash + Running Big Boot) Branding Iron (High-Low Clothesline Combination) Cattle Drive (Assisted Spinebuster) Tag Team / Faction Finisher(s):The Hanging Tree Running Lariat from Buck and Running Big Boot from Wade delivered simultaneously. West Texas Justice Buck lifts an opponent into a Powerbomb while Wade delivers a Clothesline to the back of the head during the descent. Submission Move(s):Last Rites Buck applies a Boston Crab while Wade traps the opponent's upper body. 🎤 PROMO STYLE Mic Skills / Delivery Style:Buck: Calm. Dismissive. Quietly hateful. Speaks as though everything he says is obvious common sense. Wade: Loud. Aggressive. Confrontational. Constantly looking for a reaction. Together they function like a preacher and his attack dog. Catchphrases / Taglines:"AWS forgot. We're here to remind 'em." "Somebody's gotta pay." "This business ain't for everybody." "The world moved on. We didn't." "Judge. Jury. Hangman." "We're here to set things right." 🩸 SIGNATURE ENTRANCE Entrance Theme Song:"Hell Yeah" – Rev Theory Entrance Description:The sound of a truck engine fills the arena. The video screen shows dusty Texas highways, barbed wire fences, cattle pens, abandoned wrestling venues, and weathered Texas landscapes. Buck and Wade emerge wearing jeans, boots, work shirts, and cowboy hats. No pyrotechnics. No spectacle. No acknowledgment of the crowd. Buck walks with calm confidence. Wade openly antagonizes fans. They move toward the ring like two men heading to collect a debt. Inside the ring Buck removes his hat. Wade paces like a caged animal. 💀 NOTABLE FEUDS / RIVALRIES Potential: Sol Azteca Astra Mortis Boone Carter Beau Carter (if he ever returns) Any wrestler representing inclusion, progress, or modern wrestling culture 🏆 ACCOMPLISHMENTS (AWS or elsewhere) Former regional tag champions throughout Texas independent promotions. Former members of the original West Texas Hangmen. 🔒 OPTIONAL EXTRAS Weapons of Choice:Bullrope Steel Chain Cowboy Belt Branding Iron Style Steel Rod Entrance Visuals/Logos:A weathered Texas star positioned behind a black gallows silhouette. Primary colors: Black. Rust Red. Weathered Steel. Backstage Segment Themes:Dive bars Rural roads Pickup trucks Old wrestling gyms Gas stations Looking for confrontations Complaining about modern wrestling Picking fights with people they view as different 🔻 MANAGER INFORMATION Ring Name: None Real Name (Optional): N/A Nickname(s): N/A Date of Birth / Age: N/A Hometown: N/A Pronouns: N/A Alignment: N/A Debut: N/A 🔻 VISUALS & PERSONALITY Appearance Description:Buck Rawlins 45 years old. Weathered face. Gray beard. Cowboy hat. Denim work shirts. Looks like a man who spent forty years angry at the world. Wade Mercer 42 years old. Large build. Balding. Permanent sneer. Work boots. Looks like the guy every bar owner hopes leaves early. Image Base (Celebrity or Wrestler for Reference):Buck Rawlins Stan Hansen mixed with Barry Windham. Wade Mercer Trevor Murdoch mixed with Bull Buchanan. Entrance Theme Music:Same as team entrance. Entrance Description:See team entrance. Catchphrase(s):"Somebody's gotta pay." "Judge. Jury. Hangman." "This business ain't for everybody." Character Traits:☑ Sadistic ☑ Calculated ☑ Loudmouth ☑ Intimidating ☑ Manipulative ☑ Other: Bitter, Judgmental, Resentful 🔻 MANAGERIAL STYLE & ROLE Not Applicable 🔻 BACKSTORY & MOTIVATION Short Bio/Backstory:Former members of the original West Texas Hangmen alongside Boone Carter and Beau Carter, Buck Rawlins and Wade Mercer never moved on after the group fell apart. While Boone found success in Japan and Beau left wrestling behind, Buck and Wade remained trapped in the past. They now blame modern wrestling for every failure, disappointment, and missed opportunity in their lives. Goals in AWS:Force AWS to acknowledge them. Punish wrestlers they view as symbols of modern wrestling. Destroy masks, titles, and symbols that inspire people. Reclaim relevance through fear. Prove that the old ways were better. Notable Feuds or Alliances:Potential: Sol Azteca Astra Mortis Boone Carter Future anti-modern wrestling alliances AWS Legacy (If returning/established character):Former members of the original West Texas Hangmen alongside Boone Carter and Beau Carter. Making their first appearance in AWS as a reunited duo.

Name: Silas Sloane Veyne In Ring Name: The Harrower Nickname(s): The Pattern Eater The Quiet Diagnosis The Man Behind Your Eyes The Pulse-Taker The Last Thought Before Sleep The Violence Analyst The Chair in the Dark The Blackglass Butcher Gender: Male Birthdate: October 13th, 1998 Alignment: Tweener / Psychological Horror / Hardcore Specialist Pic Base: Bill Skarsgård Visual Reference: Hemlock Grove era — pale, elegant, predatory, emotionally unreadable. Not vampire-coded directly, but carrying that same eerie rich-boy menace, haunted stillness, and too-pretty-to-be-safe energy. Height: 6'4" Weight: 198 lbs Hometown: Veyne Point, California Billed From: Blackglass, California Entrance Theme Music: “Bye Bye Bye” by NSYNC — Dark Country Version Wrestling Style: Psychological Hardcore Specialist / Predatory Brawler / Unnatural Technician Gimmick: Silas Sloane Veyne, known in AWS as The Harrower, is a psychological hardcore specialist who does not rely on sermons, demons, or religious punishment. He believes every person is made of patterns: habits, tells, fears, routines, lies, pain responses, and survival instincts. In ordinary matches, he studies those patterns. In hardcore matches, he tears them open. The Harrower does not use weapons because he lacks skill. He uses them because weapons make people honest. A chair shot reveals panic. A table reveals hesitation. A cable around the throat reveals how badly someone wants to keep breathing. To Silas, violence is not chaos. Violence is a language, and he is fluent. He does not present himself as evil. He presents himself as accurate. Every promo feels less like a threat and more like a diagnosis. Every match feels like an examination. Every hardcore match feels like an autopsy performed while the body is still fighting back. Ring Entrance: The arena does not go dark immediately. That is the first thing people notice. The lights stay normal. The crowd noise continues. The cameras sweep the building as if nothing unusual is happening. Then, slowly, the sound begins to thin. Not cut out. Not explode. Thin. The audience becomes muffled, distant, almost underwater. A low guitar twang begins to crawl through the speakers. The melody is familiar. Too familiar. Then the dark country version of “Bye Bye Bye” by NSYNC begins to play, slower and meaner than memory wants it to be. The tron flickers to life with a close-up of an eye staring directly into the camera. No words. No warning. Just the eye, unblinking, while fragments of old AWS promos distort across the screen in broken audio. Opponents laughing. Opponents threatening. Opponents promising victory. Each line warped until it sounds less like confidence and more like evidence. Silas Sloane Veyne steps through the curtain without hurry. He wears a long black coat, black gloves, and a calm expression that never quite reaches his eyes. There is no grand gesture. No roar. No appeal to the crowd. He simply stands on the stage and looks over the arena as if he is reading the room’s medical chart. The crowd reacts with uneasy fascination. Some cheer. Some boo. Some laugh when they recognize the song, then slowly stop laughing when Silas does not. Silas walks to the ring with slow, deliberate steps, occasionally tilting his head when a fan shouts too loudly, as if filing the sound away for later. At ringside, he pauses near the apron and looks underneath the ring. He does not pull out a weapon yet. He only looks. As if checking inventory. At the apron, he pauses near the nearest camera. “You always tell me who you are.” He climbs the steps, wipes his boots on the apron, and enters between the ropes. Once inside, he removes his gloves finger by finger and places them carefully in the corner. Then, almost casually, he pulls a folded steel chair from beneath the bottom rope and sits in the center of the ring. He does not swing it. He does not pose with it. He simply sits there, watching his opponent like the chair is not a weapon yet. Only a question. Basic Moves: 1. Wrist Lock Takedown 2. Short-Arm Knee Strike 3. Snapmare into Spine Kick 4. Neck Crank 5. Corner Body Shots 6. Back Elbow to the Temple 7. Dragon Screw 8. Stomp to the Hand 9. Rope-Assisted Choke 10. Jawbreaker Counter 11. Spider-Walk Escape 12. Joint Manipulation 13. Head Trap Knee Strikes 14. Rope-Hung Neck Crank 15. Backwards Crawl Lariat 16. Illegal Throat Thrust 17. Eye Socket Press 18. Inverted Dragon Sleeper 19. Twisting Spine Stomp 20. Corner Contortion Choke 21. Chair-Assisted Knee Drop 22. Guardrail Face Scrape 23. Cable-Assisted Choke 24. Table Edge Rib Shot 25. Kendo Stick Throat Jab 26. Ring Step Shoulder Ram 27. Trash Can Lid Uppercut 28. Chair Wedge Corner Smash 29. Apron Neckbreaker 30. Concrete Floor DDT Trademark Maneuvers: 1. Missing Time A sudden snap German suplex delivered after Silas freezes in place for several seconds, making the opponent hesitate before he strikes. 2. The Recall Silas uses the opponent’s own signature move against them, performed coldly and deliberately, as if proving he understood them better than they understood themselves. 3. Sleep Study A grounded sleeper hold with body scissors, applied while Silas calmly speaks into the opponent’s ear. 4. The Wrong Angle Silas catches an opponent mid-charge and twists them into an inverted neckbreaker, making the landing look sudden and unnatural. 5. Quiet Hands A banned finger-bending sequence where Silas isolates the hand, bends the fingers back, then stomps the wrist before the referee can fully intervene. 6. The Sleep Paralysis Silas mounts the opponent’s back, traps both arms with his legs, and presses their face into the mat while whispering down at them. 7. Uncanny Valley Silas ducks a strike by bending backward too far, then snaps forward into a headbutt or throat thrust. 8. The Broken Posture A standing abdominal stretch modified with a neck crank and wrist trap, forcing the opponent into a distorted, puppet-like shape. 9. Mirror Response Silas copies the opponent’s stance or taunt, waits for them to react, then strikes with a sudden knee to the ribs or jaw. 10. Bye Bye Bend A banned-looking cattle mutilation variation where Silas hooks the arms, folds the opponent backward, and rocks them side to side while smiling. 11. Static Feedback Silas wraps a camera cable or loose cord around the opponent’s throat, pulls them backward into a backbreaker, then releases before the referee can call for a stoppage. 12. Blackglass Baptism A chair-assisted Russian leg sweep, driving the opponent backward into the steel while Silas lands beside them calmly. 13. The Impact Study Silas wedges a chair in the corner, pauses to watch the opponent’s breathing, then sends them face-first into it with a sudden drop toe hold. 14. Autopsy Notes A series of methodical chair shots to different body parts: ribs, back, leg, shoulder, never rushed, each strike treated like documentation. 15. Table Manners Silas lays the opponent across a table, sits beside them for one unsettling second, then drives an elbow, knee, or senton through them. 16. The Exit Wound A sudden Sabu-style springboard or chair-assisted leg lariat that looks reckless but lands with eerie precision. 17. The Sandman Smile Silas absorbs a weapon shot, smiles faintly through the pain, then answers with a brutal kendo stick or chair shot of his own. Finishers: 1. Pattern Break Ripcord knee strike into a twisting neckbreaker, sometimes delivered onto a chair. 2. Black Room Method A crossface/chickenwing hybrid submission designed to trap the opponent’s arms and force panic. In hardcore matches, Silas may use a cable, glove, or broken table fragment across the face to intensify the hold. 3. The Harrowing An elevated DDT delivered after Silas forces the opponent to look toward a handheld camera, mirror, or the arena screen. In hardcore matches, this may be delivered onto a chair, exposed floor, or broken table. 4. Bye Bye Violence A chair-assisted double knee facebreaker where Silas traps the opponent’s head, drops backward, and drives both knees upward while the chair adds impact. Favorite Weapon: Steel chair / handheld mirror / camera cable / black leather glove / kendo stick / broken table fragments Favorite Match Type: Hardcore Match / Last Man Standing / Falls Count Anywhere / No Escape Match / Raven’s Rules-style Match Character Strengths: Silas is patient, observant, and disturbingly comfortable in violent environments. Hardcore matches do not rattle him; they clarify him. He can turn almost anything into a weapon and uses pain, blood, exhaustion, and panic as tools to expose an opponent’s patterns. He is not the strongest or fastest wrestler in AWS, but he is one of the most unsettling because he makes opponents feel watched, predicted, and exposed. The more chaotic the match becomes, the calmer Silas appears. That calmness makes him dangerous. Character Weaknesses: Silas can become too fascinated with proving a psychological point instead of simply winning. His hardcore style invites damage, and while he is willing to suffer, he is not indestructible. Opponents who thrive in pure chaos, refuse to be studied, or force him into fast-paced reckless exchanges can disrupt his control. His hatred of being touched outside of match context can also be exploited psychologically if someone crosses that boundary. In matches, violence is expected. Outside the bell, unwanted touch can cause Silas to go still, cold, and dangerously focused. Catchphrases: “You always tell me who you are.” “I noticed something about you.” “You blink before you lie.” “I am not haunting you. I am remembering you correctly.” “The pattern was there. I only followed it.” “You do not fear me. You fear being understood.” “Weapons make people honest.” “Pain has excellent handwriting.” “Every impact tells the truth.” “Bye, bye, bye.” Quirks: Silas hates being touched casually or without permission. He does not react loudly. He simply goes still, as if every part of him has locked behind glass. His voice becomes softer, his eyes colder, and the room around him feels worse. Silas is strangely gentle with small animals, especially kittens. His adopted kitten, Mister Hush, is often found sleeping inside his coat backstage. Silas insists Mister Hush is not a mascot, emotional support animal, or weakness. Nobody believes him. Biography: Silas Sloane Veyne was not born loud. He was not born violent. He was born observant. Growing up in Veyne Point, Silas developed a reputation as someone who noticed things others missed: nervous habits, changes in tone, the way people smiled when they were lying, the way confidence collapsed when nobody applauded it. To most people, these were meaningless details. To Silas, they were doors. Veyne Point was beautiful in the way expensive places are beautiful when they are trying to hide rot. Black windows. Cold water. Long driveways. Families who spoke softly because raised voices meant the wrong people might hear. Silas learned early that silence was never empty. It carried footsteps, breathing, guilt, and the tiny sounds people made when they thought no one was paying attention. Before wrestling, Silas drifted through private security work, underground fight circles, and behavioral study programs that nobody in AWS has been able to fully verify. Some say he worked with interrogation specialists. Others claim he was removed from a clinical research project after becoming too interested in fear responses. Silas has never confirmed any of it. When asked, he simply smiles and says, “People become more honest when they are uncomfortable.” His first taste of wrestling did not come in clean rings or polished training schools. It came in warehouses, basements, fairgrounds, and back rooms where the canvas was stained, the chairs were real, and the crowd stood close enough to smell the blood. Silas learned quickly that violence stripped away performance. A proud man became honest when his ribs hit a guardrail. A liar became clear when a chair entered the conversation. A coward became visible when there was nowhere left to run. When Silas entered professional wrestling, he did not arrive like a traditional fighter. He did not promise championships, glory, or violence for violence’s sake. He promised examination. His earliest matches were strange, uncomfortable affairs where opponents found themselves being countered before they committed, mocked with their own movements, and dragged into increasingly violent environments where every weapon became part of the lesson. Chairs, cables, tables, mirrors, and concrete floors were not shortcuts to Silas. They were instruments. In AWS, Silas Sloane Veyne became The Harrower: a man who strips away bravado, identity, and certainty until only the raw nerve remains. He does not preach. He does not pray. He does not claim to be a monster. That would be too simple. Silas believes horror is not found in darkness, blood, or screaming. Horror is realizing someone has been watching closely enough to know exactly where to press. The Harrower’s hardcore style is not wild for the sake of being wild. It is Raven’s psychological suffocation, Sabu’s dangerous creativity, and Sandman’s weapon-born defiance filtered through a colder, more invasive mind. Silas can sit in a chair like Raven, fly through wreckage like Sabu, and swing violence like Sandman, but he does it all with the expression of a man taking notes. Now, The Harrower has come to AWS not to cleanse, punish, or save anyone. He has come to study them. To test them. To find the pattern beneath every champion, every rebel, every loudmouth, every hero, and every liar. If the ring is enough, he will use the ring. If it is not, he will use the chair, the table, the cable, the floor, the crowd barrier, the mirror, and the silence after impact. And once Silas Sloane Veyne finds that pattern, he does what he always does. He pulls.

The scene opens up at a convention where world elite is signing. The cameraman focuses and sees kofi and aj signing autos. Kofi looks different he has cut his hair and has on jeans. Aj sees the cameraman and begins to speak. So i am guessing you want some words from world elite about our upcoming match on kore against the battle beasts . A.j signs an auto. Battle beasts you might be big and tall but the bigger they are the harder they fall. You wanna talk about how we think we are the best. Kofi chimes in. It's because we are sure we might be on a little losing streak but that ends tonight when we run circles around you guys. I mean you guys have to catch us to use your power. A.j signs another auto. So battle beasts you can try all your power on us but at tge end of the night this will be another get right night for us. Kofi then speaks. You like your philosophy so much well maybe go become a school teacher but first tonight we teach you. We are not afraid of giants and we will find the win column, one way or another. The scene fades to black with world elite signing autos. ..

The camera opens before sunrise at an old municipal athletic field somewhere on the edge of Las Vegas. Not a stadium. Not a training center. Not a place built for cameras. Just a fenced in stretch of tired grass, cracked pavement, rusted bleachers, and floodlights that have not been turned on in years. A football field sits beyond the fence with faded lines barely visible in the dark. Near it, an old batting cage leans crooked in the morning wind. The netting has holes in it. The pitching machine is dead. A metal bucket full of baseballs sits beside it, half rusted from weather and neglect. An aluminum baseball bat rests against the cage. The camera lingers on it for a second. Then the sound of boots on gravel cuts through the quiet. Boone Carter walks into frame wearing blue jeans, an old black shirt, and his worn leather coat. His hair is damp from the cold morning air. His hands are taped already, but not cleanly. The tape looks like it was wrapped in the front seat of a truck by a man who has done it too many times to care if it looks good. He stops at the entrance of the batting cage and looks at the bat. For a long moment, he says nothing. The wind moves through the chain link fence. Boone reaches down, picks the aluminum bat up, and turns it over in his hands. He studies it like he is trying to decide whether it belongs there. Then he sets it back down against the cage. He does not swing it. He does not threaten anybody with it. He just leaves it there. BOONE CARTER: “That ain’t mine.” His voice is low. Rough. Still waking up, maybe. Or maybe it always sounds like that now. BOONE CARTER: “Heard it might be yours, Ethan.” Boone steps away from the bat and walks toward the middle of the cage. The old netting shifts around him in the wind. BOONE CARTER: “Aluminum bat. Red and white lights. Red hair. Red Rocket. American Championship over your shoulder. Two time world champion before most men even figure out what kinda wrestler they are.” He nods once, like he is giving the facts their due. BOONE CARTER: “That’s a hell of a lot to carry.” Boone looks toward the old football field beyond the cage. BOONE CARTER: “Youngest of six. First generation wrestler. Football player. Scholastic wrestler. Prodigy type. One of them boys who figured out early that if his lungs lasted longer than everybody else’s, he could make the whole room quit before he ever had to.” He lets out a small breath through his nose. BOONE CARTER: “I know that kind.” Boone picks up one of the baseballs from the bucket. It is scuffed and dirty. He turns it in his fingers. BOONE CARTER: “They love a kid like you. Don’t they?” He looks into the camera now. BOONE CARTER: “They love the music. They love the lights. They love the hand slappin’. They love the way you come down to that ring like the night still belongs to folks with enough energy to dance through it. They love hearin’ that nickname because it sounds like motion. Sounds like speed. Sounds like promise.” Boone drops the ball back into the bucket. BOONE CARTER: “Red Rocket.” A faint grin crosses his face, but there is no mockery in it. Not yet. BOONE CARTER: “Hell of a name.” The grin fades. BOONE CARTER: “But rockets got one job.” He steps closer to the camera. BOONE CARTER: “They burn.” The wind moves again. The netting scratches against the metal frame of the cage. BOONE CARTER: “They burn hot. They burn bright. Everybody looks up when they go. For a little while, it feels like nothin’ can touch ’em.” Boone points down at the dirt beneath his boots. BOONE CARTER: “Then gravity remembers.” He lets that sit there. BOONE CARTER: “And everything that burned’s gotta come back down.” Boone walks out of the batting cage and across the cracked pavement. The camera follows him as he heads toward the bleachers. They are old metal seats, bent in places, with chipped red paint worn down to silver underneath. He sits on the bottom row and rests his elbows on his knees. BOONE CARTER: “I ain’t out here to make fun of you, Ethan Murphy.” He says it plainly. BOONE CARTER: “That’d be stupid. You’re the AWS American Champion. You been world champion twice. You got enough cardio to make younger men hate their own lungs. You got enough talent to make a hard match look like somethin’ you were born doin’.” He looks down at his taped hands. BOONE CARTER: “And that right there is why I’m talkin’ to you.” Boone rubs his thumb over the tape across his knuckles. BOONE CARTER: “See, I heard what you said about that American Championship. Workhorse title. Toughness. Grit. Resilience. Carryin’ the values of a country on your shoulder like gold can explain a man.” He lifts his eyes. BOONE CARTER: “I understand work.” His voice tightens. BOONE CARTER: “I understand drivin’ six hours for seventy five dollars and a handshake. I understand wrestlin’ with a shoulder that should’ve been in a sling because the promoter already printed the poster and I already owed money. I understand sleepin’ in a truck outside a buildin’ just so I could save enough cash to get to the next town. I understand wakin’ up with my hands swollen so bad I had to run ’em under hot water before I could close ’em.” He leans back against the bleacher behind him. BOONE CARTER: “So when you call that belt a workhorse title, I don’t laugh.” Boone stares into the empty field. BOONE CARTER: “I listen.” The silence stretches. BOONE CARTER: “But then you said you wanted more.” He turns his head toward the camera again. BOONE CARTER: “You said you wanted that title to mean more than work. You wanted to steal thunder. Take spotlight. Outshine every champion in AWS. Beat champions so nobody could look at that American title and call it secondary without feelin’ like a liar.” Boone nods slowly. BOONE CARTER: “That’s good champion talk.” A harder look settles across his face. BOONE CARTER: “It’s dangerous talk too.” He stands from the bleachers. BOONE CARTER: “Because the second you tell men you wanna make a title mean more, you invite men like me to come see if you mean it.” Boone walks down the sideline of the old football field. His boots press into grass that has not been cut evenly. The morning light is starting to creep over the horizon now, dull and gray. BOONE CARTER: “Now I know what folks are gonna say. They’re gonna say Boone Carter saw a champion and started sniffin’ around gold. They’re gonna say the old man wants one last shot. One last payday. One last little taste of applause before his knees give out and somebody tells him it’s time to go home.” He stops walking. BOONE CARTER: “They ain’t completely wrong.” That admission hangs in the air, heavier than denial would have. BOONE CARTER: “I do need the money.” He looks straight into the camera. BOONE CARTER: “I said that before and I’ll say it again because I ain’t ashamed of the truth. I got bills. I got scars. I got years in this business that cost me more than they ever paid back. I got an empty house and a body that wakes up every mornin’ like it’s mad I made it through another night.” Boone’s jaw shifts. BOONE CARTER: “But don’t confuse needin’ money with beggin’ for gold.” His voice lowers. BOONE CARTER: “I ain’t askin’ for your title, Ethan.” He takes one step closer. BOONE CARTER: “I’m askin’ for the man underneath it.” There it is. The challenge begins to sharpen. BOONE CARTER: “One match.” Boone raises one taped finger. BOONE CARTER: “That’s all.” He drops his hand. BOONE CARTER: “Champion against old dog. Red Rocket against a man with too much road behind him. Your lungs against my hands. Your springboard against my timin’. Your pride against the part of me that still gets mean when somebody younger looks through me like I’m already gone.” Boone walks toward the center of the field now. BOONE CARTER: “You don’t gotta put the belt up.” He shakes his head. BOONE CARTER: “Bring it if you want. Leave it at home if you don’t. That choice is yours, AWS’s, whoever signs the papers. I ain’t standin’ here with my hand out beggin’ for a championship match.” His eyes narrow. BOONE CARTER: “I’m standin’ here tellin’ you that if you’re the kinda champion you say you are, then you oughta understand why I’m callin’ your name.” The wind is louder now. The sun is still not fully up. BOONE CARTER: “Because I ain’t tryin’ to take your place.” A long pause. BOONE CARTER: “I’m tryin’ to find out if I still got one.” That line lands without volume. It does not need any. Boone looks away for a moment, toward the faded scoreboard at the far end of the field. The numbers are blank. The bulbs are dead. BOONE CARTER: “That’s the part young men don’t think about yet.” He turns back. BOONE CARTER: “You think every loss is somethin’ to bounce back from. You lose at WrestleVersary, you hit the gym harder. You spar longer. You watch more film. You tell yourself to get better instead of bitter. That’s a good way to live when the future’s still bigger than the past.” He steps closer again. BOONE CARTER: “But when you get older, losses quit feelin’ like lessons and start feelin’ like warnings.” His voice gets rougher. BOONE CARTER: “You don’t just wonder what you did wrong. You wonder what left you. You wonder if the kid across from you beat you because he was better, or because some piece of you finally stayed down for good.” Boone taps the side of his own head. BOONE CARTER: “That thought gets in here.” Then he taps his chest. BOONE CARTER: “Then it gets in here.” His hand drops. BOONE CARTER: “And if a man lets it sit too long, it rots him.” The camera closes in slowly. BOONE CARTER: “So I ain’t lettin’ it sit.” Boone turns and heads back toward the batting cage. BOONE CARTER: “You said before that a place like AWS lets you cut loose. Lets you fight hard. Lets you go crazy. You said a man can be calm on the outside and a lunatic inside.” He stops beside the aluminum bat again. This time he looks at it with less curiosity. BOONE CARTER: “Son, every dangerous man I ever knew stopped braggin’ about the lunatic inside once he had to live with what it cost him.” Boone picks the bat up again. He weighs it in one hand. BOONE CARTER: “A lunatic breaks things because he can’t help himself.” Boone turns the bat over once. BOONE CARTER: “A fighter breaks things because he chooses to.” He sets the bat down carefully on the ground this time, not against the cage. He leaves it between himself and the camera. BOONE CARTER: “There’s a difference.” He steps over it. BOONE CARTER: “And I’m gonna show you.” Boone enters the batting cage again, but this time he does not look at the balls or the machine. He stands in the middle of the dirt and plants his boots. BOONE CARTER: “You got Murphy’s Law. Crossfire. Red Eyes. You got the backstabber, the Octopus hold, the springboard dropkick, the dives, the knees, the kicks, all that clean young man offense that makes people jump outta their seats.” He nods. BOONE CARTER: “It works.” Then his expression hardens. BOONE CARTER: “Until somebody refuses to give you the space for it.” Boone lifts his taped hands. BOONE CARTER: “I ain’t gonna wrestle your highlight reel.” He steps forward. BOONE CARTER: “I ain’t gonna stand where you want me. I ain’t gonna run when you need me tired. I ain’t gonna feed you that pretty comeback where you hit three moves in a row and everybody remembers why they believe in you.” His voice darkens. BOONE CARTER: “I’m gonna make you wrestle old.” That line returns, but now it feels like the center of the whole thing. BOONE CARTER: “I’m gonna put weight on you. I’m gonna make every breath feel rented. I’m gonna lean on your ribs until that gas tank starts lyin’ to you. I’m gonna hit you in places your conditionin’ coach can’t toughen. I’m gonna make you find out what kinda champion you are when your legs don’t answer fast enough and the crowd can’t carry you from underneath.” Boone takes another step. BOONE CARTER: “A Red Rocket’s only impressive while it’s movin’.” His stare locks into the lens. BOONE CARTER: “I’m gonna make you stop.” The wind hits the cage, making the old netting ripple around him like something trying to close in. BOONE CARTER: “That ain’t disrespect.” His voice is quieter now. BOONE CARTER: “That’s the respect.” Boone points down at the dirt. BOONE CARTER: “I wouldn’t be askin’ for this match if I thought you were easy. I wouldn’t say your name if I thought you were some paper champion with a shiny belt and a soft chin. I ain’t wastin’ what I got left on a boy who can’t tell me the truth about myself.” His eyes do not blink. BOONE CARTER: “But you can.” A silence follows. BOONE CARTER: “That’s why it’s gotta be you.” Boone steps out of the batting cage one last time. The sun is rising behind him now, throwing pale light across the field. It does not look beautiful. It looks cold. He walks back to the bleachers and picks up his leather coat. He slides it over his shoulder, then looks into the camera. BOONE CARTER: “Ethan Murphy.” He says the name like a formal challenge now. BOONE CARTER: “AWS American Champion. Two time world champion. Red Rocket. Workhorse. Hero. Young man with a whole lotta road still open in front of him.” Boone nods once. BOONE CARTER: “I’m askin’ you for one match.” His voice is steady. BOONE CARTER: “Not because I hate you.” He takes one step closer. BOONE CARTER: “Because I believe you.” Another step. BOONE CARTER: “I believe you when you say you want that title to mean more. I believe you when you say you wanna outshine champions. I believe you when you say you can take a loss and come back harder. I believe you’re tough enough, proud enough, and dumb enough in the way all real fighters gotta be dumb, to look at an old bastard like me and say yes.” Boone’s mouth tightens. BOONE CARTER: “So say yes.” There is no begging in it. Only pressure. BOONE CARTER: “Say yes, and I’ll give you the kinda fight that don’t care about your music. Don’t care about your nickname. Don’t care how many belts you held or how many people tell you that you’re special.” His voice lowers to almost a growl. BOONE CARTER: “Say yes, and I’ll give you the kinda fight that follows you home.” Boone lets that hang. BOONE CARTER: “The kinda fight where you wake up the next mornin’ and every sore spot on your body remembers my name before you do.” The wind moves again. Boone turns toward the old field, then looks back one final time. BOONE CARTER: “You wanted to make the American Championship mean more.” He nods toward the aluminum bat on the ground. BOONE CARTER: “Then stop polishin’ it.” His eyes cut back to the camera. BOONE CARTER: “Let it bleed a little.” A long silence settles. Boone starts walking away across the cracked pavement, coat over his shoulder, boots dragging through gravel. Just before he exits frame, he stops. He does not turn all the way back. Only his voice carries. BOONE CARTER: “And Ethan?” The camera holds on him from behind. BOONE CARTER: “If I find out I still got enough left to beat you, that ain’t a comeback.” He looks back over his shoulder. BOONE CARTER: “That’s a warning.” Boone walks out of frame. The camera stays behind on the empty field, the dead scoreboard, the old batting cage, and the aluminum bat lying untouched in the dirt. Fade to black.

BASIC INFORMATIONTeam Name: Tequila Rose Members: Member 1: "The Irish Rose" Avery McCullen Member 2: "Yankee Rose" Sarah Lee Jackson Debut Date in AWS: Hometown/Location Billed From: Dublin Ireland/ Lexington Virginia Alignment: ☐ Face ☐ Heel ☐ Tweener Manager/Valet (if any): ? GIMMICK & CHARACTER DESCRIPTIONGimmick Summary (1-2 sentences): Avery needed someone to help defend and keep the tag titles from the WXW. Detailed Persona/Backstory: Avery and Sarah seem like they are almost family even after such a short time Sarah considers her family. They are now tag team partners and will do everything that they can to win and hold onto the tag titles. ? CHARACTER INFLUENCES / INSPIRATIONSComparable Real-World Acts: (Optional: Mention acts they’re inspired by in wrestling/pop culture) Unique Traits / Calling Cards: ? IN-RING STYLE & STRATEGYWrestling Style(s): Brawling, Technical Team Chemistry & Tag Strategy: They work in tandem, and work off of each other. Signature Team Moves: Yolo: (You only live once) Sarah places Avery on her shoulders and Avery comes off hitting a crossbody on prone opponent. Tag Team / Faction Finisher(s):Double Barrel (Double Drop kick) Submission Move(s) (if applicable): Two Tequilas: (Both do the Tequila sunrise on either side of the opponent.) ? PROMO STYLEMic Skills / Delivery Style: Catchphrases / Taglines: ? SIGNATURE ENTRANCEEntrance Theme Song: "Whiskey Roses" Custom Song Entrance Description: The house lights go down as red, white, and blue lights start to go over the crowd before the lights switch to orange, green and white spotlights go over the crowd, and comes to a stop on the back of the stage. "Whiskey Roses" begins to play over the loud speaker as the tron comes to life with video's of Avery and Sarah in bars, getting into fights, before switching to Avery's past matches and Sarah's indie days. On the stage Avery comes out first, and waits for Sarah to come out. She comes out dressed in denim with the tassels. She runs her fingers along the rim of the hat as she looks over at Avery and nods. The two of them start to walk down the ramp interacting with crowd, taking pictures and signing autographs. They reach the ring, as they climb up onto the edge of the ring. They slip under the ropes and get onto the turnbuckles playing to the crowd, before getting down and preparing for the match. ? NOTABLE FEUDS / RIVALRIES (if applicable) ? ACCOMPLISHMENTS (AWS or elsewhere)Avery: Current WXW Tag Team Champion Tag Team Champion with Micheal Maddox AWS Sarah: Current WXW Tag Team Champions Indie Championships Rodeo Championships ? OPTIONAL EXTRASWeapons of Choice: Entrance Visuals/Logos: (Optional file or description) Backstage Segment Themes: (How they act off-camera)

AWS Roleplay Evaluation Rubric Storytelling — 20 Points Cohesion, pacing, structure, and narrative impact. Clear beginning, middle, and end Smooth transitions between scenes or ideas Strong opening and closing moments Maintains engagement and narrative clarity throughout Character Development — 15 Points Depth, emotion, and consistency of motivation. Distinct voice and personality Clear motivations and internal logic Emotional weight and believability Consistency with established character traits Creativity & Originality — 15 Points Unique concepts, presentation, and execution. Fresh ideas, angles, or storytelling approaches Creative formatting, environments, or themes Avoidance of clichés or overly recycled material Memorable moments or standout concepts Match Relevance — 15 Points Connection to opponent, feud, and event stakes. Direct engagement with opponent’s material Addresses match type, stipulations, or context Advances or reinforces the feud/story Avoids generic or copy-paste promo structure Psychology & Ring IQ — 20 Points Understanding of match flow, strategy, and applied in-ring logic. Demonstrates how the character intends to win Logical sequencing of offense, counters, and pacing Exploits opponent tendencies, weaknesses, or patterns Shows awareness of timing, momentum, and control Feels like a match, not just a speech Technical Quality — 15 Points Grammar, readability, and overall presentation. Proper spelling, grammar, and punctuation Clean formatting and paragraph structure Easy to read and follow Minimal distractions from errors ✅ Total: 100 Points 🧠 Judge’s Notes (Optional but Encouraged) Highlight strengths of each RP Identify areas for improvement Provide brief reasoning for close decisions

Astra-Ward Riot- Ward Drake- Ward Yrsa/Sig/Lilith-Ward everyone else: place them where you see fit

Mike Dimter-Ward Kassidy Dax-Ward Malachi Latu-Ward Sione Latu-Ward Apollo Latu-Ward Titus Manu-Ward

Tag Team Name:The Tongan Terror Squad Team Members:Apollo Latu and Malachi Latu Pic Bases:Hikuleo (Apollo) & Tanga Loa (Malachi) combined weight:494 Alignment:Babyface Hometown:Orlando.Florida Entrance Theme:"Guerrilas of Destiny" by Yonosuke Kitamura Entrance Description:"Guerrilas of Destiny" by Yonosuke Kitamura blasts throughout the arena then The Tongan Terror Squad (Apollo Latu and Malachi Latu) W/Sione Latu walk out onto the stage W/Sione Latu as the crowd erupts then they walk down the ramp then they climb into the ring Move Set Double Suplex Double DDT Double Back body drop Double Chokeslam Double boots Double Dropkick Finishers Tongan Special (Aided double arm DDT) Tongan Nightmare (Magic Killer)

Name: Sione Latu Nickname: DOB: Hometown: Orlando,Florida Billed from:San Diego,CA Height: 6'0" Weight: 210 lbs. Picture Base:Tama Tonga Alignment: Babyface Theme Music:"G.O.D (Firing Squad)" by No Name Tim and Kashis Keyz Entrance: "G.O.D (Firing Squad)" by No Name Tim and Kashis Keyzblasts throughout the arena....Sione Latu walks out onto the stage as the crowd erupts then he walks down the ramp then he climbs into the ring Year Started Wrestling: Primary Style: Techincal/Japanese Strong Style move set Fireman's Carry Flapjack) Jumping Butterfly DDT w/bodyscissors) Rope-Hung Swinging Neckbreaker) Spinning Tama Special (Spinning Alabama Slam) SRC (Cartwheel Death Valley Driver) Supreme Flow (Diving Splash) Tama Special (Alabama Slam) Tongan Special (Spinning Inverted DDT) Multiple Bulldog Variations Diving Leg Drop Jumping Reverse Multiple Chop Variations Double Karate Multiple Crossbody Variations Diving, sometimes while corkscrewing Slingshot Plancha Multiple DDT Variations Reverse Tornado Multiple Elbow Strike Variations Multiple Jumping Drop Running Corkscrew Spinning Multiple Hurricanrana Variations Frankensteiner Front Multiple Kick Variations Big Boot CCS Enzuigiri Drop Enzuigiri Spinning Heel Multiple Neckbreaker Variations Belly to Back Diving Fireman's Carry Jumping Rolling Neck Snap Multiple Powerbomb Variations Avalanche Spinout Multiple Slam Variations Front Olympic Power Reverse Spin Scoop Scoop Power Sidewalk, preceded by a Backbreaker Spinning Side, sometimes preceded by a Backbreaker Styles Clash (Belly to Back inverted mat slam, adopted from AJ Styles) Swinging Side Multiple Splash Variations Crawling Running to a cornered opponent Multiple Submission Variations Cobra Clutch Scissored Armbar Sharpshooter, sometimes preceded by a Sunset Flip Powerbomb Multiple Suplex Variations Arm Trap Hatch Belly to Back Dragon Exploder Fisherman Floatover Snap German Suplex Snap Spinning Back Brainbuster Capture Backbreaker Combination (Punches, Forearm Smash & Neckbreaker) Corkscrew Plancha Diving Clothesline Flapjack, sometimes preceded by a Fireman's Carry Flying Forearm Smash Jumping Headbutt Reverse STO, sometimes while jumping Right Hook Punch Samoan Drop Senton Atomico (Slingshot Senton) Shoulder Throw Running Spear Spinebuster Uppercut Finishers: Tongan Cutter (Jumping cutter, sometimes from the top rope) Tongan Special (Spinning Inverted DDT) Ash Wednesday (Lifting Single Underhook DDT)

Name: Titus Manu Nickname: DOB: September 11,1995 Hometown: San Diego,CA Billed from:San Diego,CA Height: 6'2" Weight: 242 lbs. Picture Base:"Main Event" Jey Uso Alignment: Babyface Theme Music:"So Close Now" By David Dallas Entrance:"So Close Now" By David Dallas blasts throughout the arena....Titus Manu W/The Kingdom walk out onto the stage as the crowd erupts then they walk down the ramp then he climbs into the ring Year Started Wrestling: Primary Style: Techincal 20 Common Moves (at least 10, the more the better): Dropkick Enzuigiri DDT Rolling Cutter Frog Splash Chop Neckbreaker Leg Drop Trademark Moves (up to four): Superkick Samoan Drop List Item 3 List Item 4 Finishing Moves (up to two): Samoan Dynasty (Samoan Spike) Samoan Special (Rock Bottom)

🔥 BASIC INFORMATION Wrestler Name: Zephyra Veyne Ring Nickname(s): The False Crown Breaker Heir to Nothing The Quiet Uprising Real Name (optional): Alexandra Veyne Pronouns: she/her Age: 27 Height / Weight: 5’10” / 175 lbs (legit heavyweight presence for women’s division) Hometown (Billed From): Solace Bay, New Zealand Alignment: ☑ Face 🎭 PRESENTATION & AESTHETIC Entrance Music: “Kingslayer” – Bring Me The Horizon (instrumental intro version into full drop) Entrance Description: The lights flicker—like a system glitching. A jet-engine hum rolls through the arena. Zephyra steps out slowly. Calm. Almost too calm. Eyes scanning—not the crowd, but the roster. Like she’s identifying threats. She doesn’t play to the crowd at first. She studies. Calculates. Then—mid-walk—something shifts. A small smirk. A nod to fans. She chooses them. Final pose: she looks up, hand raised slightly—not in triumph, but like she’s measuring the height of something invisible… a crown. Then she lowers it. Ring Attire: Steel grey base with deep red and muted navy accents (Starscream-inspired but subtle) Angular, jetline patterns across gear (fighter jet aesthetic) Black boots with metallic plating trim Fingerless gloves with reinforced knuckles Occasional entrance jacket with wing-like paneling Out-of-Ring Appearance: Hoodies, training gear, minimal flash Hair tied back, composed posture Quiet, observant, almost introverted Speaks softly—but when she does, it lands 🧠 WRESTLING STYLE & PSYCHOLOGY Primary Wrestling Style: ☑ Hybrid ☑ Technical ☑ Powerhouse ☑ Submission-Based In-Ring Psychology: Zephyra fights like she’s already seen the match play out. She assumes every opponent will betray structure, rhythm, or expectation—so she builds traps instead of sequences. Disrupts timing constantly Punishes repetition brutally Turns opponent strengths into liabilities She doesn’t outwrestle you. She out-thinks your intentions. Strengths: Elite fight IQ Brutal clinch and control game Exceptional counter-wrestling Mental pressure—forces mistakes Weaknesses: Over-analysis can slow her early Gives dangerous opponents too much “credit” Struggles against pure chaos fighters who don’t follow patterns Takes calculated risks that can backfire hard 💥 SIGNATURE OFFENSE Signature Moves: Engine Stall (Pop-up spinebuster into immediate mount strikes) Flight Path Correction (Snap powerslam into crossface transition) Turbine Lock (Standing arm-trap neck crank) Midair Intercept (Catching opponents mid-dive into slam) Finishers: Primary Finisher: “Crownbreaker Protocol” (Double underhook lift → sit-out powerbomb → roll-through into arm-trap submission) Secondary / Desperation Finisher: “Mutiny Trigger” (Sudden head-and-arm throw into brutal grounded strikes → choke finish) Set-Up Moves: Repeated limb targeting (usually shoulder/arm) Feints that bait opponent into overcommitting Common Match Spots or Tendencies: Lets opponent “start strong” to map their patterns Mid-match momentum flip via counter Corner pressure with shoulder strikes and control grappling Sudden, violent finish sequences once she “solves” you ⚡ MATCH STYLE PREFERENCES Preferred Match Pace: ☑ Varies by opponent Best Match Types: ☑ Singles ☑ Technical ☑ Hardcore ☑ Gimmick / Stipulation Selling Style: ☑ Story-Based Selling Crowd Interaction: ☑ Feeds off crowd (but selectively—earns it, doesn’t chase it) 🧬 CHARACTER & STORY ELEMENTS Gimmick / Character Description: Zephyra Veyne believes power always corrupts eventually. In her mind? Every champion. Every leader. Every “hero.” They’re just a Megatron waiting to happen. So she doesn’t fight people… She fights what they might become. And that’s what keeps her a babyface: 👉 She doesn’t tear people down for ego 👉 She challenges them to prove her wrong She creates chaos—but controlled chaos—to expose truth. Motivation: To dismantle false kings before they become tyrants. She doesn’t want the throne. She wants to make sure no one sits on it unchecked. Personality Traits: Quietly intense Hyper-observant Dry sense of humor Deeply principled beneath the paranoia Protective of fans and “good people” Ongoing / Potential Storylines: “You’re Becoming Something” Arc: Calls out rising stars before they turn Champion Watch: Targets dominant champions to “test their integrity” Chaos vs Chaos: Faces unpredictable wrestlers who break her system Trust Arc: Learns not everyone is destined to fall 🔻 MANAGER INFORMATION Ring Name: Lyra Hale Real Name (Optional): Lyra Hale Nickname(s): The Signal Voice of the Uprising Date of Birth / Age: 30 Hometown: Wellington, New Zealand Pronouns: she/her Alignment: Face Debut: 2026 🔻 VISUALS & PERSONALITY Appearance Description: Sleek black suits with subtle red lining Glasses, tablet in hand Always composed, analytical Image Base: Gemma Chan Entrance Theme Music: Ambient electronic tone layered under Zephyra’s theme Entrance Description: Walks slightly behind Astra, observing, occasionally whispering insights Catchphrase(s): “Patterns don’t lie.” “We’ve already seen how this ends.” Character Traits: ☑ Mysterious 🔻 MANAGERIAL STYLE & ROLE Primary Role: ☑ Manager ☑ Spokesperson Associated Wrestler(s): Zephyra Veyne Level of Involvement: ☑ Ringside Only ☑ Delivers Promos ☑ Leads Storylines Weapons/Props: Tablet (used to “analyze” opponents) Managerial Tactics: ☑ The Power Behind the Throne 🔻 BACKSTORY & MOTIVATION Short Bio: Zephyra Veyne rose through combat sports with a reputation for dismantling elite opponents—not just physically, but mentally. She saw patterns. Patterns in champions. Patterns in dominance. Patterns in downfall. Lyra Hale found her—not to control her, but to refine her vision. Together, they came to AWS not to chase gold… …but to audit power. Goals in AWS: Expose unstable champions Force the roster to evolve or collapse Prove that control beats dominance Notable Feuds or Alliances: Natural rivalries with dominant champions (Stryker-type figures 👀) Tension with chaotic wildcards who don’t follow patterns Potential uneasy alliances with pure babyfaces she respects

Ring Name * "Suplex Princess" Kassidy Dax Real Name * Kassidy Leanne Dax Also Known As Hometown/Billed * Newark, New Jersey Height * 5'5" Weight * 1`0 lbs. Blood Type: O+ Birth Date * 9/11/2001 Debut Year * 2021 Alignment * Babyface Cheating Tendency * Sometimes Rarely Never Gimmick * A larger than life fan favorite who shows there isn't an obstacle that can't be leaped over. Motivations * Glory; they are obsessed with winning and will stop at nothing to avoid defeat. Going for Gold; all they care about are title belts and winning them. They want to be the best. Fighting Styles * Technical Similar To Wrestler * Ivy Nile, Dani Lua What does he/she do when seeing blood? * Tries to open up the wound. Entrance Description * Moneytalks” by AC/DC hits the PA system and the very muscular blonde young woman emerges from behind the curtain . She pauses and stares around, for getting a reaction from the fans he spits out her gum and bats it towards the fans which gets mixed as she smirks and walks down to the ring. Dax charges up the steps and climbs from the apron into the ring, multicolored pyrotechnics goes off around the venue as fake $1000 bills rain down on the fanatics as both Dax raises both fists in the air. Wardrobe/Ring Gear * Black half short and sports with pink colored mess covering spots of skin, enters with a lime green waist-length leather coat, multicolored hair usually lime green and blue. Standard Moves * Various Suplexes Belly To Belly Suplex Spear Missile Dropkick Tilt-A-Whirl Headscissors Bitch Kick Huracanrana Legsweep DDT German Suplex Signature Moves * Royal Plex (Regal Plex) Shining Wizard Shiranui Running Double Knee Primary Finishing Move * Dax Driver (Bridging Dragon Suplex) Lime Squeezer (Cattle Mutilation) Green Crush Suplex (Bridging German Suplex) Secondary Finishing Move * Blue Crush ) The Peak (Gory Neckbreaker) Title Belt Strap Design or Custom Color? (example: camo, green, cheetah, hemp...etc.) * Neon Green and Blue Camo All Championships & Accolades * Brief Biography * Kassidy Dax, known to fans as "The Suplex Princess," is one of the most technically gifted wrestlers of her generation, combining athleticism, strength, and precision to dominate opponents. Born and raised in Orlando, Florida, Kassidy developed a passion for wrestling at an early age, idolizing technical greats known for their grappling and suplex mastery. She quickly became obsessed with perfecting the art of suplexes, earning her nickname due to her royal command of the move. Kassidy's career began in the independent circuit, where she rapidly gained a reputation for her wide variety of suplexes, each executed with flawless technique and often bridging into a pin. Her signature style involves outwrestling her opponents with a combination of technical holds, submissions, and, of course, suplexes, catching her foes off-guard with moves like her trademark "Royal Plex." Dax's rise to fame accelerated when she joined larger promotions, where her vibrant personality, crown-inspired ring gear, and undeniable skill made her a fan favorite. Known for her fierce competitive nature, Kassidy refuses to back down from any challenge, often outlasting bigger, stronger opponents through sheer determination and technique. She has participated in various high-profile tournaments, championship bouts, and classic matches, with her finishing move, the "Dax Driver," becoming synonymous with her victories. The Suplex Princess continues to evolve her style, incorporating new suplex variations into her arsenal, always aiming to stay one step ahead of her competition. Outside the ring, Kassidy is known for her close connection with her fans, often hosting wrestling clinics and sharing her knowledge of technical wrestling with younger talents. Her journey to the top of the wrestling world is far from over, and she is determined to one day claim the crown of a world champion. Additional information that commentators can mention? *

The room hums. Flicker… buzz… darkness… light again. A single overhead bulb struggles to stay alive. The walls are bare. Cold. Peeling. And in the corner— something moves. Yrsa Vinter doesn’t step into frame. She crawls into it. Bare feet dragging. Fingers scraping concrete. Head low like something sniffing a trail. Her hair hangs in tangled strands, black paint smeared across her eyes like war scars that never healed. She stops. Tilts her head. Sniffs the air. “…mm.” A smile. Too wide. Too wrong. “Two of you.” She taps her teeth with her thumb. “Two shiny… loud… important things.” Her eyes snap to the camera. Not focused. Not human. Locked. “Mike Dimter…” A low chuckle escapes her throat, almost a growl. “You carry a belt like it chose you.” She creeps forward a step. “Like it belongs on your bones.” She leans closer. Whispers now. “Everything belongs… until something stronger takes it.” Her head jerks slightly—like she heard something behind her. Nothing there. She smiles anyway. “Ethan Murphy…” A soft, almost curious tone now. “You’re different.” Beat. “I can smell it.” She inhales deeply. Eyes closing. Savoring it. “Not fear… not yet…” A grin creeps back. “But you will make a good sound when it comes out.” She suddenly SLAMS her palm against the wall. CRACK. The light flickers violently. “I don’t just want your titles.” She shakes her head, laughing under her breath. “No… no… no…” “I want the moment—” She bares her teeth fully now. “—when you realize they don’t matter.” She crouches low again, almost coiling. Like something about to spring. “You both stand tall… carry gold… talk like kings…” A pause. “…but I don’t hunt kings.” Her eyes narrow. Feral. Hungry. “I hunt noise.” A slow inhale. Then— A whisper, right into the camera. “And you two…” Smile widens. “…are very loud.” The bulb flickers harder. Faster. Faster. Yrsa tilts her head one last time. Almost playful. Almost childlike. “Run.” BLACK. The hum cuts. Silence.

WARNING This live event contains strong coarse language (L), and intense violence (V) which may be unsuitable for younger viewers. Do NOT try to do reenact anything you see from this event at home. The Crow's Nest in Las Vegas Event Date: 05/18/2026 Event Deadline: 05/18/2026 03:00 AM AJ Flare vs. Dirty DragónSingles MatchGold Rush TournamentTJ Alexander vs. JohnZo ScarySingles MatchGold Rush TournamentAvery McCullen vs. Chloe SchonerSingles MatchTimothy Sterling vs. Daron SmytheSingles MatchBoone Carter vs. Drake NygmaSingles MatchMike Dimter © vs. Il Monstro Oscuro vs. Mason HurstTriple Jeopardy MatchAWS Convergence Championship Card is subject to change. View full card

Boone turns and walks down the hallway, stopping at another door. He opens it, flicks the light on inside. A simple room. Bed. Nothing else. Boone says, “That’s yours.” He lets that sit for a moment before adding, “We start in the mornin’.” He doesn’t wait for a response, just turns and walks off, boots creaking against the old wood floor until the sound fades into the house. Morning doesn’t come with an alarm, it comes with quiet—the kind that settles in once you realize what’s missing. No traffic. No voices. Just still air and the low creak of the house shifting with the day. Sol sits on the edge of the bed, mask still on, elbows resting on her knees, hands loosely clasped. She isn’t thinking about loss. She’s thinking about movement—where things should have gone somewhere… but didn’t. Her hands rise slowly to the edges of the mask and pause, not hesitation, just awareness. Then she removes it and sets it carefully on the nightstand. Not discarded. Placed. She exhales once and stands, stepping into the hallway. Boone’s already awake, sitting at the table with coffee in one hand, staring at nothing in particular. He hears her steps, glances over, pauses just a fraction longer than he means to. Boone says, “‘Bout time you’re up… and look at that, mask’s off.” Sol steps forward, calm, answering, “It’s not needed here.” Boone nods once. “Guess not… just don’t get used to it.” He sets the cup down and stands. “C’mon.” Outside, the air is cool and still, the land stretching out around the house—fence lines, packed dirt, a barn worn by time instead of replaced. Boone doesn’t stop, just keeps walking, Sol following. They reach a fence, old wood leaning slightly, one post just a little off. Boone steps over it without breaking stride. “Fix that.” Sol stands there, looking at it, trying the nearest board—forcing it straight. It slips. Again—harder. Same result. She steps back, studies the whole thing, sees where the tension pulls, moves to the post instead. Pushes it inward, then adjusts the board. This time it holds. Not perfect. But it holds. Boone doesn’t turn. “Good enough… don’t fight it, set it.” She doesn’t fully understand yet. The feed bags come next. Boone nudges one with his boot and says, “Move those,” already walking away. Sol lifts too fast, gets pulled off balance, corrects mid-step, sets it down rough. She resets, tries again, slower, but stiff. Boone’s voice carries back, “You rush it… you waste it.” She adjusts, sets her stance first, then lifts. Cleaner. Still heavy. Boone steps closer, watching without making it obvious. “Too much… use what you need, not all of it.” She nods, not fully understanding, but something starts to change. By the last few bags, her movement is different. Not stronger—cleaner. Boone tosses a rope near the barn. “Wrap it.” She pulls tight. It slips. Tries again, harder. Still slips. Boone leans against the wall. “You pulled harder the first time… didn’t do nothin’.” She pauses, studies the angle, adjusts, wraps again, pulls differently. This time it catches. Boone nods once. “That’ll do.” They sit on the steps after. Boone hands her a sandwich. She looks at it. Sol says, “…this is not healthy.” Boone takes a bite. “This is food.” She glances toward the yard. “Where are the vegetables?” Boone motions toward the garden without looking. “Ain’t grown yet.” That’s enough. She eats. The rest of the day fills itself. Chickens scatter until she learns not to rush them. The cattle trough fills slow until she learns not to walk away. The garden fights her until she learns where to pull and where to leave. No instructions. Just work. By the end of the day, everything is done, and she still doesn’t understand why it mattered. The next morning comes earlier, not by choice but because her body won’t let her stay asleep. Everything is sore—shoulders, back, arms in ways she isn’t used to. She sits on the edge of the bed longer, letting it settle, then steps out. Boone’s already cooking. Bacon, eggs, coffee poured. He glances over. Boone says, “‘Bout time… still weird seein’ your face.” Sol sits slower this time. “You’ll get used to it.” Boone smirks faintly. “Don’t plan on it.” They eat. He notices her shifting. “Sore?” She exhales. “Yeah.” Boone lets out a quiet laugh. “Yeah… no one cares if you’re sore. Same in the ring, same out here… you just do it anyway.” She nods. “You just do it anyway.” Boone points at her. “Now you’re gettin’ it.” Outside, she questions the repetition. Sol asks, “Why are we doing the same thing again?” Boone lights a cigarette, shrugs. “Didn’t do it right the first time.” She pushes back, “It held.” Boone answers, “So do a lotta things that shouldn’t.” That sticks. The work repeats, but she moves differently—slower, more deliberate, cleaner. Soreness forces intention. By the end of the day, she’s doing more with less. The days blur after that. Three. Four. Five. No announcements. No milestones. Just repetition turning into understanding. By the fifth day, she’s up before the light. Boone’s already in the kitchen, but this time she steps in beside him without waiting, cracking eggs into the pan without hesitation. Boone glances over. “Don’t screw ‘em up.” Sol answers without looking up, “Then don’t distract me.” That almost earns a smile. Outside, she doesn’t stop at the fence—it’s already fixed. The feed bags aren’t a question anymore. The rope locks first try. The animals don’t scatter. The water gets set right from the start. The garden moves under her hands instead of against them. Boone watches from a distance now. When she finishes, she walks back and says, “I see it.” Boone studies her, nods once. “Yeah… you ain’t waitin’ on it no more.” She shakes her head. “No… I take it.” Boone exhales. “Good.” She asks, “Are we done?” Boone lets out a quiet laugh. “No… you paid for a month. You got a match to be ready for. You’re just gettin’ started… took me this long just to get your head outta that phone long enough to see what’s in front of you.” They go back inside. For the first time in nearly a week, both of them slow down. Boone sits, leans back. “Ain’t always goin’… an’ that’s another thing you need to learn. When movement’s needed… an’ when it ain’t.” The phone rings. He answers. “How much?” Pause. “Alright… I’ll be there.” He hangs up. Sol asks, “…another match?” Boone shrugs. “Yeah.” “When?” “Same day as yours… Drake Nygma.” She studies him. “He almost won the world title at Wrestleversery.” Boone shrugs. “The pay’s right.” She shifts on the couch. “You know if you win that sets you up main event level, right?” Boone shakes his head. “Ain’t worried about that… been there. Money’s right. That’s all that matters anymore.” She smirks slightly. “Could be in position to add another shelf in your room.” Boone exhales. “Ain’t worried about that neither… just makin’ sure I got a roof over my head and food in the fridge.” Boone pushes himself up after a moment and disappears into the next room, coming back with a bottle and two glasses. He sets them down, pours both, and slides one toward her. Sol looks at it and says, “…I don’t drink.” Boone shrugs, already taking his first sip. “Don’t have to… long as you don’t complain if I do.” She watches the glass, then picks it up anyway. She takes a small sip and exhales. “…that’s strong.” Boone nods. “Yeah… ain’t supposed to taste good.” She drinks again. More this time. Time passes. The bottle drops lower. Sol’s posture loosens. Her movements aren’t as controlled. She looks at him. “You don’t talk about it.” Boone doesn’t move. “What?” She shifts slightly. “Before… your matches.” Boone takes a slow sip. Doesn’t answer. She pushes further. “…why did you retire?” That question hangs. Boone looks at the glass. Then exhales. “Ain’t as dramatic as you probably think… body started givin’ out. Knees went first… back wasn’t far behind. Then one day… it just stopped bein’ worth it. Money wasn’t right… body wasn’t right… didn’t make sense no more.” Sol tilts her head. “…so you walked away.” Boone shrugs. “Yeah.” A beat. “Thought I was done.” Sol pushes up more now. “I’ve read the articles… I’m not asking why Boone Carter retired… I’m asking why you retired.” Boone looks at the bottle. “Ain’t enough left in here for that conversation.” He stands and walks out. Sol stays. Time passes. “…maybe that was too far.” The door opens. Boone walks back in, drops a photo album on the table, and sets a fresh bottle beside it. “Move your feet, kid.” She does. He drops down onto the couch beside her. “Didn’t say I wasn’t gonna have it with ya… said there wasn’t enough left in that bottle for it.” She opens the album. Polaroids. A little girl. Birthdays. First steps. Bike rides. Every moment labeled. Boone drinks. “Notice anything about those?” She looks up. “…I didn’t know you had a daughter.” Boone closes his eyes. “I ain’t in none of ’em… this business takes, don’t give back.” She flips. A picture of Boone younger, world title, the girl on his shoulders. “She was so happy that day… not about her daddy bein’ champion… just glad he was home.” She flips again. Then stops. A newspaper clipping. August 13, 2012. 8-Year-Old Girl Killed in Multi-Car Pileup. She looks up. “…that was the day after you won the King’s Memorial Tournament.” The bottle leaves his hand and smashes against the wall. She recoils. Boone grabs the album, closes it carefully. “No… that’s the day this fuckin’ business took the last thing I had left worth losin’.” His voice drops. “And I wasn’t there… they were on their way to pick me up from the airport. What was supposed to be a break… finally gettin’ back into the main event… that’s all I cared about. Hell, why shouldn’t I have? It’s what put food on the table… what built this house… what mattered.” His head lowers. “I told you… the man in that room don’t exist no more. And it wasn’t ’cause of my injuries… you seen it, I can still move when I need to. I couldn’t go back after that. The wife blamed me… said I was never there… said it wouldn’t have happened if I’d just been home.” A long pause. “She was probably right… hell, I don’t know anymore.” Sol leans forward slightly. “So the injuries were just an angle… so you could walk away without explaining it?” Boone nods. “Yeah… thought I’d come home, try again, be present this time… couldn’t make it work. She couldn’t get over it… and I couldn’t move past it.” He exhales. “She filed for divorce… took everything but the house and my truck. Didn’t have nothin’ left… no trainin’, no real education… been in that ring my whole life… so I went back to the thing that took everything from me.” He looks at her. “You told me this is more than a payday… it’s not. That’s all this is. The love I had for it… died that day.” He leans forward, fist slamming the table. “You go out there tryin’ to make moments… it don’t mean a damn thing. This… is the only moments that matter.” Silence follows. Then quieter, “Quit givin’ everything… when it don’t give a damn to give anything back.” He takes the album and walks off. Sol stays on the couch. Eventually, without realizing it, she passes out. Morning comes. The sound of a broom scraping the floor pulls her awake. Boone is sweeping up the broken glass from the night before. She pushes herself up slowly. Boone glances over. “Coffee’s in the pot, kid… ’bout last night—” She cuts him off. “It’s fine… you don’t have to explain.” Boone keeps sweeping. “No, kid… you didn’t deserve none of that. I ain’t tryin’ to make you like me. You go out there and be you… just remember… this business don’t give nothin’ back… so don’t be tryin’ to give it everything.” He keeps sweeping like that’s all that needed to be said.

The lobby of the ASW headquarters hums with low, constant noise—boots on tile, muffled conversations, the distant scrape of equipment being dragged somewhere deeper in the building. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a flat, lifeless glow that makes everything feel temporary. People pass through without stopping, checks get handed out, names get called, and by tomorrow it’ll all reset like none of it mattered. Boone Carter leans against a column near the wall, one boot crossed over the other, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. His hat sits low, just enough to shadow his eyes while he thumbs through his first payday after Wrestleversery. He counts it once. Then again. Slow. Not because he has to—because that’s how he’s always done it. Around him, nobody pays attention. He blends into the room like he belongs there… or like he’s been there too long. A voice cuts through the haze. “Excuse me, sir… you can’t smoke in here.” Boone doesn’t look up. Doesn’t react right away. He finishes his count, folds the bills, tucks them away. The cigarette drops from his lips, and he grinds it into the tile with the heel of his boot, slow and deliberate. Not rushed. Not apologetic. Just done. He tips his hat once—more habit than respect—and walks for the door without another word. To him, it’s simple. Another match. Another check. Same cycle. No attachment. Outside, the noise disappears almost instantly, replaced by open air and a quiet that settles deeper than it should. Boone makes it halfway to his truck before he sees her—sitting on the sidewalk with her back against the building, knees pulled in, head down. An envelope rests beside her. Unopened. He pauses just long enough to recognize it for what it is. He’s seen it a hundred times. First loss. First crack. He shakes his head and keeps walking. Ain’t his place. He grabs the truck door, starts climbing in—then stops halfway, hand still on the frame. A breath through his nose. Annoyed. Then he calls out without turning. “Head up, kid. First one’s always the roughest.” She lifts her head just enough for the mask to catch the light—Sol Azteca. “…yeah. I guess.” It’s quiet, uncertain. Her head drops again. Boone closes his eyes for a second, then steps back out of the truck. “What’s the matter? They short you?” Sol looks up again, sharper now. “It’s not about the money. I was trained for something. In Mexico… to respect it. In Japan… to perfect it. And when it mattered…” She pauses. “I didn’t use any of it.” Boone lets out a quiet chuckle. “You got your whole career in front of you and you talkin’ like it just ended.” He studies her, then shrugs. “Spent time over there myself. Japan.” That gets her. She’s on her feet instantly, bowing deep, hands extended in front of her. Boone laughs, shaking his head. “They really did a number on you in those dojos, didn’t they? Ain’t gotta bow to me. I ain’t nothin’ but a man tryin’ to get by.” She straightens, frustration creeping in. “Just a man? You’re a legend in Japan.” Boone shakes his head like the word doesn’t belong to him. “Ain’t no legend. Just a man.” He turns, climbs back into his truck. The passenger door swings open. Sol climbs in. Boone exhales. “Kid… get outta my truck. I ain’t that guy anymore. I’m here to get paid and go home.” Sol tosses the envelope into his lap. He looks at it. Tosses it back. “Ain’t lookin’ for handouts.” She presses it back into his chest. “Then earn it. Show me what I missed.” Boone sits there for a second, then exhales. “…persistent. I’ll give ya that.” He opens the envelope, counts. “Losing pays better than I remember.” She bumps his shoulder lightly. “So are you gonna help me or not?” Boone stares forward, then opens the glovebox and drops the envelope inside. The engine turns over. “Seatbelt. Long drive.” The highway stretches out endless and empty, headlights carving a narrow path through the dark. The engine hum settles in, steady and constant. Tires roll over worn asphalt, each seam sending faint vibrations through the frame. Every now and then—a bump, a shift, a quiet correction of the wheel. Movement that happens whether you think about it or not. Sol asks about Japan. Boone shrugs it off every time, like she’s talking about someone else entirely. “You know a lot about a man who ain’t been around in a long time.” He pulls a cigarette from his pocket and lights it in one motion. “You know those are going to kill you.” Boone exhales smoke slow. “Kid… after everything I’ve been through… if this is what takes me out, so be it. Knees blown out. Back’s shot. Shoulder barely moves.” “They worked Saturday.” “Worked enough.” Silence settles in. Not awkward. Just heavy. The radio crackles low, drifting in and out between stations. Miles pass. Lights from passing trucks flicker across Sol’s mask and disappear. She’s got her phone in her hand now, scrolling without really seeing. Boone glances over once, then back to the road. “Thought you wanted my help.” A pause. “And you sittin’ over there with your head stuck in that thing like the world’s gonna pass you by.” Sol doesn’t look up. “I don’t have to look. I feel it. The road… the movement. There’s a turn coming.” A second later—the road curves. Boone shakes his head. “That ain’t what I’m talkin’ about.” He drives another stretch in silence before speaking again. “I watched your match.” No response. “Watched your promo too.” He taps the wheel once with his thumb. “What was your plan?” The road hums beneath them. She doesn’t answer. Boone nods faintly. That’s all he needs. “It don’t matter how much you can feel something…” He reaches over, takes her phone— “…if you don’t know where you’re goin’ with it.” The window rolls down. The phone disappears into the dark. Sol turns sharply, but Boone doesn’t look at her. “That’s your problem. You feel everything… and you don’t do nothin’ with it. You walked in there talkin’ about control… and you didn’t control a damn thing.” Each word lands heavier. “You didn’t have a plan. Didn’t know where it ended. You were just… there.” A pause hangs between them. “You don’t wait for things to happen. You decide what happens next. You don’t move just to move. You move with a reason.” He taps the wheel again. “And every reason… oughta be goin’ somewhere.” Hours later, the truck pulls into a worn-down truck stop. Boone kills the engine. “Gotta get gas. Take a leak. Get food. I ain’t stoppin’ again.” He steps out. Sol doesn’t move. Boone looks back. “C’mon kid… what’s wrong now?” “…I don’t have any money.” Boone frowns. “What do you mean you ain’t got no money?” “I gave it to you. To teach me.” Boone shakes his head. “I told ya… you paid for room and board. Get the money out the glove box.” They’re back on the road a few minutes later. Boone digs into the bag, unwraps a sandwich, takes a bite— —and nearly spits it out. “What the hell is this?” Sol answers calmly. “Grilled chicken. Avocado. Cucumbers. Italian dressing.” Boone cuts her off. “This shit’s what’s gonna kill me.” “It’s healthy.” Boone stares at it. “If this is what healthy tastes like… I’ll stick to burgers.” He takes another bite anyway, forcing it down. “You lost food privileges. Next time you’re pumpin’ gas.” The truck rolls through the dark for another long stretch before finally pulling up in front of an old house sitting just off the road. No lights. No sound. Boone steps out. Sol follows. He walks up to the door, unlocks it, and pushes it open. Inside is dim and quiet. He reaches over, flicks on a light. A worn couch, an old table—nothing special. He tosses his keys onto the table. “Close the door.” She does. “C’mon.” He moves down the hallway. She follows. The floor creaks under their steps. The deeper they go, the quieter it gets. Boone stops at a door. Pulls a second key. Unlocks it. Opens it. The room is different. Walls lined with photos and newspaper clippings. Championships resting on shelves, dulled by dust. A large tournament trophy sits on a table in the center, the wood beneath it barely holding. Everything feels still. Untouched. Sol steps inside, eyes moving across everything. “This is—” Boone cuts her off. “Yeah.” She moves a little deeper in. “This is your legacy… your history…” Boone steps forward, places a hand on her shoulder—firm, but not rough—and guides her back out. “C’mon.” She looks back as she’s moved out of the room. The door shuts. The lock clicks. “That man ain’t walkin’ through that door to fight my next match.” A beat. “Moments don’t do that for you. Neither does legacy.” Boone looks at her. “You said you watched my matches. How’d I win ‘em?” Sol answers steady. “You wore them down. Controlled the pace… and finished it with your lariat.” Boone shakes his head. “No.” A pause. “I saw it.” He taps his temple. “One moment.” “And I took it.” Silence. “That’s it.” He shifts slightly. “You trained for perfection. You trained to endure. You trained to survive.” A pause. “That ain’t what they were teachin’ you.” His voice stays level. “They were teachin’ you how to end it. Again. Again. Again.” Another beat. “Not to make you tougher. So you wouldn’t hesitate.” Sol doesn’t answer. But she’s not slumped anymore. She’s thinking. Boone turns and walks down the hallway, stopping at another door. He opens it, flicks the light on inside. A simple room. Bed. Nothing else. “That’s yours.” A beat. “We start in the mornin’.”

AWS Convergeance Champion "The Bad Ass" Mike Dimter & Vera Eames are seen sitting backstage of the Pennhurst Asylum in Spring City,PA "The Bad Ass" Mike Dimter:Now usually i'd sit here and run my opponent down but that's only if I was named dropped first "The Bad Ass" Mike Dimter:Now it seems like wet wily forgot about about his match championship match "The Bad Ass" Mike Dimter:So it seems like i'm going to win by forfeit "The Bad Ass" Mike Dimter:Kind of a lame way to win but it looks like we will take it "The Bad Ass" Mike Dimter:So tonight will be such an easy night for us AWS Convergeance Champion "The Bad Ass" Mike Dimter & Vera Eames stand up and they walk away Scene Fades

AWS - Vin Halsted - The Game of Life ::Scene opens in the Real of Ascension and the World Below Their Ladders. Black. Not silence. Wind, but not the wind from their storm. This wind is heavier. Lower. Older. The camera rises through a haze of dust and smoke, revealing the Skyforge Dominion bleeding into a real‑world steel yard, Halsted’s chosen training ground. Steel beams twist at impossible angles. Concrete cracks glow faintly with molten gold. Lightning spirals in unnatural arcs. This is not their dreamscape. This is Halsted’s reality. A place where champions break themselves to rebuild stronger. A place where the Dominion answers only to him, and standing in the center of it, Vin Halsted. Breathing heavy. Hands taped. Eyes locked on the camera. He heard every word Mia and Rune said and now he answers. Halsted: Hard Mode… ::He smirks, slow, deliberate, wiping sweat from his brow.:: Halsted: I saw your little broadcast from the top of those ladders. Two silhouettes. Two speeches. Two storms you controlled like you were conducting a symphony. ::He exhales, long and steady.:: Halsted: Cute… But let’s get something straight. You didn’t climb above me. You climbed into my world. ::THE ASCENSION RESPONDS… The ground hums beneath Halsted’s boots. Lightning spirals overhead, not their lightning, not their storm. This one is jagged. Chaotic. Uncontrolled. The Dominion is reacting, not to them, but to him.:: Halsted: You said nightmares aren’t real until you wake up. ::He tilts his head, smirking again.:: Halsted: Funny, because I’ve been awake the whole time. You said I built storms, monsters, echoes of the past. ::He steps forward, boots crunching over broken concrete.:: Halsted: You’re right. I built them. I survived them. I trained in them, and I didn’t build them to impress you. I built them because I needed a place that could keep up with me. A place that could push me. Break me. Rebuild me. A place that could prepare me for teams like you. ::He wipes his hands on his tape, cracking his knuckles one by one.:: Halsted: Mia… You said I piss you off. Good. He steps closer to the camera.:: Halsted: Anger is honest. Anger is real. Anger means you feel the pressure. Anger means that you’re emotional and that means that I’m in your head. You feel slighted that I’m not impressed with the new, shiny toy… well, guess what, I’ve seen over a thousand shiny, new toys just like you who try to walk into my world and then they find out that they don’t have what it takes to share the squared-circle with me. You want to attack me and my legacy, well then maybe you should stop looking at a file and get to know the real me, up close and personal, because the real me is a patient, calculating and persevering man who bides his time who eviscerates any one who thinks they have the talent to step up or step in my way while I pick my shots. I earned every single title and accolade that is listed and not listed in my file. There’s a reason why the rest of the locher room knows who the fuck I am and you two are no different, because make no mistake, you and Rune are about to see the real face of Hell this weekend at Wrestleversary, so bring that fire and see how I turn it up against you in a blink of an eye. ::He nods once, acknowledging her composure.:: Halsted: Rune, You said hatred doesn’t win matches. You’re right. Control does and I’ve been controlling my climb since the day I came back to AWS. ::Halsted takes a deep breath in and out as the sweat continues to drip down his jawline.:: Halsted: You said you’ve been stuck in systems worse than mine. You said you don’t get retries. You don’t reset. You don’t go back to some castle when it goes wrong. ::He smirks.:: Halsted: Neither do I. I didn’t get a retry when I was exiled. I didn’t get a reset when the world moved on without me. I didn’t get a castle. I got these ruins. ::He gestures around him.:: Halsted: This place. This hell on Earth. This is where I rebuilt myself. Not on a ladder. Not in a storm. In the dirt. In the cold. In the dark. ::Halsted turns and takes in the torturous environment in a full 360 vantage point.:: Halsted: You said you’re already at the top. ::He laughs, not mocking, but knowing.:: Halsted: You’re holding the KORE Tag Team Titles. You’re standing on the ladders. You’re looking down at the division, but here’s the thing about being at the top… ::He lifts a bent steel beam with both hands, muscles straining.:: Halsted: The higher you climb… He drops it with a thunderous crash. Halsted: …the harder you fall. ::The echo of the steel beam clangs and bangs off of the walls of the harsh environment.:: Halsted: You said you solved my nightmare. ::He shakes his head slowly.:: Halsted: You didn’t solve it. You stepped into it. You said you outgrew my realm. ::He steps forward, eyes locked on the lens.:: Halsted: You didn’t outgrow anything. You just haven’t seen the parts I don’t show the world. You said this isn’t a boss fight. You’re right. It’s not, because boss fights end. Ascension doesn’t. You said this is a takeover. ::He smirks again.:: Halsted: Then you better bring more than a storm and a speech, because KD and I? We don’t get taken over. We don’t get overshadowed. We don’t get outgrown. We ascend. ::Halsted takes a slow breath in and out.:: Halsted: You said you define this division now. He shakes his head. Halsted: No. You defend it. KD and I? We redefine it. You said when the moment hits, it’s gonna be you. ::He smirks — slow, dangerous, certain.:: Halsted: No. When the moment hits… When the ladders shake… When the titles drop… When the storm breaks… It’s gonna be us. This isn’t as fucking game for us… This is life and life isn’t linear. ::Halsted steps closer to the camera. Close enough that the stormlight reflects in his eyes. Halsted: Mia. Rune. You climbed your ladders. You made your declarations. You told your story. Now let me tell you mine.::He breathes deep, steady.:: Halsted: I didn’t build a nightmare. I built a path. A path through exile. A path through ruin. A path through every division I’ve ever touched. And that path leads straight to WrestleVersary. Straight to you. Straight to the KORE World Tag Team Championships. You said you solved the nightmare. You said you outgrew the realm. You said this is a takeover. ::He smirks one last time.:: Halsted: Then step into the Ultra Nightmare, because at WrestleVersary? It’s not gonna be you. ::He taps his chest once.:: Halsted: It’s gonna be us. ALL. HAIL!! ::Scene fades to black. END SCENE.::

The darkness is complete, the kind that erases edges and distances until the room feels smaller than it is and larger at the same time. There is no sense of time here, no shifting light to measure it by, no sound to mark its passing. Only breath. Only presence. Sol Azteca sits with her back against the wall, legs drawn in just enough to stay grounded, her posture upright despite the hours that have already worn through her body. Her hands come together slowly, fingers interlacing before tightening as she bows her head. The words never leave her lips. They form in silence, shaped by memory more than language, something learned long before the ring, long before the mask. It is a quiet prayer offered into the dark, not for rescue, not for escape, but for steadiness, for clarity, for the strength to continue when everything else would rather stop. Her fingers shift, brushing against the small amulet resting beneath her gear. She draws it out carefully, holding it between her thumb and forefinger. Even in the dark, she knows its shape without needing to see it. The metal is cool and familiar. She presses it to her lips, finishing the prayer in that single, deliberate motion before tucking it back into place, close to her chest. The silence returns, thick and unbroken, until a sharp metallic scrape cuts through it. The slot in the door slides open, the sudden noise loud in a space that has offered nothing for hours. A tray is pushed through, small and careless, and the opening shuts just as quickly, leaving the echo to settle on its own. Sol does not move right away. When she does, it is controlled and measured. She leans forward until her hand finds the tray, fingers brushing the edges before settling on what it holds, two slices of bread, dry and stiff, and a small bottle of water. She draws it closer, running her thumb across the surface of the bread. Stale. She breaks one piece and brings it to her mouth without hesitation. There is no reaction, no pause, just necessity. Her other hand finds the bottle, twisting the cap open with a quiet click. She takes a measured drink, not too much, then lowers herself down until her back rests fully against the door. The metal is cold through her gear, grounding in a way the rest of the room is not. She sits there for a while, one piece of bread in one hand, the bottle in the other, breathing steady and controlled, until a faint sound reaches her. It is small and irregular, a quick skitter across the floor from somewhere off to her side. Her head tilts slightly, attention shifting without tension. The sound comes again, clearer this time, quick movement against concrete. A mouse. The first sign of life she has heard in… she does not know how long. Time does not exist here the way it should. It stretches, folds, disappears entirely. There is no way to measure it, no way to be sure how long she has been inside this space where nothing changes and nothing responds. The sound comes closer, then stops, waiting. A breath escapes her, and for just a moment, the corner of her mouth lifts, something close to a laugh that never fully forms but enough to soften the stillness around her. She tears a small piece from the bread and flicks it into the dark. It lands somewhere ahead of her with a soft tap. Silence follows, then movement again, faster now, less cautious. She does not follow it. She does not lean forward. She does not need to see it. She knows it is there. Knows it is moving. Her posture settles back against the door, the bottle resting loosely in her hand, the remaining bread untouched for now. The faint sounds continue for a moment longer before fading again into the quiet, but something has shifted. Not in the room, but in her. Her breathing stays even, but her thoughts begin to move, not racing, not scattered, just present in a way the silence could not suppress forever. Mexico comes back first, not all at once but in pieces. Heat pressed into the air, the kind that clings to your skin and does not let go. The noise of a small crowd packed too close together, voices overlapping, laughter, shouting, the sound of feet shifting against worn floors. It was never a grand arena, never meant to be, just a small space, barely enough room for a ring and the people who came to see it. She remembers the mask in her hands, too big at first, not worn in yet, the fabric stiff and unfamiliar, something that did not feel like hers, not yet. She had turned it over once, twice, fingers tracing the lines, memorizing it like it might change if she did not. Fourteen. Too young, some would have said. Not young enough, according to the way she had been trained. She remembers pulling it on, the way everything shifted the moment it settled into place. The world did not get smaller, it got clearer, focused, like the noise did not disappear, it just moved somewhere it could not distract her anymore. The bell had rung, and for a moment everything felt too fast, too loud, too much. Then she moved, and it all made sense. She remembers the match in flashes, movement, impact, the feeling of the canvas under her feet, the rhythm of it building with every second. Not perfect. Not clean. But hers. Then she remembers looking out, just once, and finding him. Her father. Standing there in the crowd, not shouting, not waving, just watching. There was something in his expression, something steady, something certain. Pride, maybe, or something deeper than that, something that did not need to be said. In that moment everything stopped. The noise, the movement, the world. It all fell away until there was nothing left but that single point of connection. And it was enough. More than enough. Her breathing deepens slightly as the memory settles, not fading but finding its place, before it shifts again. Japan. The air had been different there, colder, sharper, everything structured and deliberate in a way that left no room for uncertainty. The dojo was not welcoming. It was not meant to be. She remembers the first day, the way the room had gone quiet when she walked in, not out of respect, not out of curiosity, but assessment. She was different, foreign, an outsider stepping into something that had its own rules, its own expectations, its own unspoken hierarchy. They did not say much. They did not need to. It showed in the way they trained her, harder, longer, with less room for mistakes and even less patience when they happened. Movements repeated until they broke down and had to be built again from nothing. There were moments early on where it crossed a line, where it felt less like training and more like something else, pressure constant and unrelenting, testing not just her skill but whether she would stay at all. She remembers hitting the mat over and over again, getting up, then going again, then again, then again. Again. Again. Again. No acknowledgment. No encouragement. Just expectation. Until one day it changed, not in words, but in the way they stopped watching her differently, in the way the hits came back just as hard but no harder than anyone else’s, in the way the space around her no longer felt like it was pushing her out. She had proven it, not by saying it, but by staying. Her fingers tighten slightly around the bottle, then relax again. The darkness presses in the same as before. The room has not changed. The silence has not shifted. But her breathing is steady, grounded, present. The faint sound of movement across the floor is gone now, leaving the space empty again. She finishes the last of the bread in her hand, taking one more measured drink before lowering the bottle. There is nothing here to give her anything, no feedback, no reassurance, no resistance. And she does not need it. Her head rests lightly against the door behind her, posture still aligned, still balanced. The memories do not pull her away. They settle, part of the same rhythm, the same motion. Even here, in the dark, with no sense of time, no sense of space, no interruption, she continues.

Power and control are often mistaken for the same thing, but most people only ever experience the illusion of both. They believe control is having a plan, having options, having a voice in the moment… but real control isn’t what you think you have when everything is going right, it’s what remains when things stop following your script. Most people operate within systems they didn’t build, reacting to pressures they don’t fully understand, convincing themselves that small decisions equal ownership. They measure power by visibility, by volume, by the ability to impose themselves on a situation… but that’s not power, that’s dependency on conditions staying favorable. True power is quiet, structural, almost invisible… it doesn’t announce itself because it doesn’t need validation. It exists in the ability to shape outcomes without being seen doing it, to remove options rather than chase them, to influence the direction of events before others even realize they’re moving. And that’s where most people fall short… because they don’t control the environment, they respond to it. They don’t dictate outcomes, they navigate them. They think they’re steering… when in reality, they’re just very good at adjusting to a path that was already set long before they arrived. BRITTANI: You two keep circling the same idea… no limits, no stopping, no structure… like stripping something down to nothing somehow makes it stronger. It doesn’t. It just makes it incomplete. Riot, you didn’t evolve past limits… you never developed them. And that’s not an advantage… that’s a liability. Because limits aren’t restrictions… they’re tools. They define where pressure applies, where leverage exists, where outcomes can be controlled. And Sable… calling that “absence” doesn’t elevate it, it exposes it. Absence isn’t power… it’s the lack of ownership. No control, no leverage, no ability to shape what happens next. You don’t control outcomes… you just exist inside them and hope they break your way. And that’s the difference between us. You keep going, over and over, same direction, same approach, convincing yourself that motion equals dominance… but motion without direction is just waste. You don’t stop… because you don’t know when you should. You don’t adapt… you repeat. Same inputs, same reactions, same predictable cycle. You call it persistence… I call it pattern recognition. And once I see the pattern… I don’t chase it… I end it. Planners tend to be the ones who win, not because they cling rigidly to a script, but because they’ve already accounted for the moment the script breaks. Real planning isn’t about predicting a single outcome… it’s about mapping possibilities, anticipating shifts, and preparing responses before the situation ever demands them. To an outsider, it can look like adaptability, like instinct, like reacting in real time… but the truth is, those adjustments were considered long before they were needed. Every angle, every variable, every potential disruption has already been weighed, measured, and assigned a counter. That’s the difference… it’s not improvisation, it’s preparation revealing itself. The best planners don’t fear chaos because they’ve already built pathways through it. They don’t scramble when things change because change was always part of the equation. And when others are forced to react, to think, to catch up… the planner is already moving forward, not because they guessed right, but because they were ready for everything. BRITTANI: Sol, you keep talking about discipline… about movement… about how you adjust to whatever’s in front of you like that’s the advantage. But adjusting means you’re always a step behind. You react… I engineer. You move with the moment… I decide what the moment becomes. That’s the difference you don’t want to admit. You trust instinct… rhythm… feel… like if you stay in motion long enough, you’ll find the answer. I don’t look for answers… I build them. Every scenario, every shift, every outcome is accounted for before it ever happens. You feel your way through chaos… I remove it before it even starts. And then you talk about surviving it… enduring it… like that’s the goal. That’s where you’ve already lost. You’re trying to make it out of this… I’m walking out with everything. Because while you’re adapting to what’s happening… I’m the one deciding what happens next. There’s a particular kind of entitlement that doesn’t announce itself loudly at first… it settles in quietly, disguised as confidence, as self-worth, as something earned when it hasn’t been tested. And it becomes even more dangerous when it’s tied to appearance… when someone starts to believe that being beautiful isn’t just an advantage, but a qualification. The spotlight, in their mind, isn’t something to be earned through struggle, sacrifice, or substance… it’s something owed, something they assume will find them simply because they fit the image. But the truth is, beauty can open doors… it can draw attention, create opportunity, even shape perception… but it doesn’t sustain anything. It doesn’t carry you through pressure, it doesn’t protect you when the moment turns against you, and it certainly doesn’t prove you belong when everything is on the line. And that’s where the illusion starts to crack… because the spotlight isn’t loyal, it isn’t generous, and it doesn’t reward expectation. It exposes it. It asks a simple question beneath all the surface-level shine… what happens when the attention fades and all that’s left is performance? For those who confuse appearance with entitlement, that’s the moment where reality steps in… and the spotlight they thought they deserved becomes the very thing that reveals they never truly did. BRITTANI: Désirée, you keep saying you deserve this… like the title is some kind of crown waiting for the prettiest head in the room. It’s not. You don’t deserve anything… you market it. You package it, present it, sell it… and I’ll give you that, you’re good at it. But don’t confuse branding with earning. You don’t deserve the spotlight… you just know how to stand in it. And that’s where we separate. Because beauty? Image? Presence? I understand all of that better than you do. The difference is… you wear it. You rely on it. You let it define you. I weaponize it. I use it to control perception, to shift attention, to dictate how the entire room reacts before anything even happens. To you, it’s identity… to me, it’s leverage. And that title you keep talking about? You want it because of what it says about you… validation, recognition, confirmation that you belong at the top. I don’t need it for that. I control what it represents. I decide its value the moment I hold it. You want to wear it… I make it matter. The room is dim by design, lit almost entirely by the cold glow of a wall of state-of-the-art monitors, each one running a different feed… slowed footage, alternate angles, freeze frames paused at the exact moment something breaks. Brittani Bezos stands at the center of it, not seated, not relaxed… focused. One screen shows Riot Valkyrie in motion, relentless, repetitive… Brittani watches the pattern, not the chaos, tracking where it loops, where it fails to evolve. Another screen shifts to Sol Azteca, fluid, reactive, constantly adjusting… Brittani studies the transitions, the reliance on instinct, the microsecond decisions that can be predicted if you know where to look. A third captures Désirée Forte, all presentation and presence, every movement deliberate for perception… Brittani doesn’t watch the performance, she watches the gaps between it. Avery, Lindsey, each frame dissected the same way… not as opponents, but as systems to be broken down, categorized, solved. Her hand moves across a control panel, rewinding, isolating, zooming in… not searching for answers, but confirming them. There’s no emotion here, no intimidation, no doubt… just clarity. Because to Brittani, this isn’t preparation… it’s acquisition. Every tendency cataloged, every reaction anticipated, every variable accounted for before the match ever begins. By the time she steps into that environment, nothing will be unfamiliar… and that’s where control truly begins, long before anyone else even realizes they’ve already lost it. BRITTANI: I’ve been listening… watching… and the one thing you all have in common is how small your understanding of this really is. Avery… you pride yourself on endurance, on surviving, on taking everything a match throws at you and still standing. And that’s admirable… if survival was the goal. But it’s not. Endurance without control is just delayed failure. You don’t break… you just take longer to lose. You absorb, you push forward, you endure… but you never dictate. And that’s where I step in… because I don’t survive situations, I dismantle them. And that brings me to all of you. Every single one of you walking into this match thinking it’s going to take something from you… your control, your identity, your structure. You’re afraid of losing pieces of yourselves in that environment… afraid of what’s left when it’s stripped away. But that’s where you’re wrong. This doesn’t take anything. It doesn’t strip you down… it exposes what never worked in the first place. Every flaw, every inefficiency, every false sense of control you’ve been hiding behind… brought into the light whether you’re ready for it or not. And while you’re all trying to survive the environment… trying to hold onto whatever you think makes you dangerous… I’ve already moved past that. I don’t react to chaos. I don’t fear it. I don’t lose myself in it. I designed myself to own it.