EP: 009
DATE: 1.12.2026
ARENA: THE PINNACLE
The crowd is buzzing. The lights are hot. We cut to the commentary desk where Jason Johnson and Eryk Masters are settling in.
Jason Johnson: Welcome everyone to Zenith 009! We are live, and the energy in this building is already at a fever pitch. We have a massive night ahead of us—titles on the line, grudges to be settled, and later tonight, the absolute anarchy of the 20-Person World Championship Battle Royal!
Eryk Masters: Anarchy is right, Jason. Twenty fighters, zero rules, one survivor. It's going to be a train wreck in the best possible way, and I can't wait to see who walks out with the Gold.
Suddenly, the arena lights CUT TO BLACK.
Never had a choice, never let the opps win
Calm them nerves, got the whole world watching
Ready, set, go, and there ain't no stopping
Got one option
Light it up
The opening riff of "Everything Burns" by Tom Morello ft. Beartooth kicks in—heavy, slow, and grinding.
Jason Johnson: Wait… is this?
A single spotlight snaps on at the top of the ramp.
Jamie Johnson steps into the light.
The flashy gear is gone. He's wearing a matte black track jacket with a silver stripe down the sleeve. His expression is utterly devoid of emotion. Behind him, the Tron graphics shift to a stark, architectural blueprint style. Blue laser grids scan across the screen.
Eryk Masters: It is! It's Jamie Johnson! But he looks… cold. He looks like a machine.
Jason Johnson: We haven't seen Jamie in months. He went dark after his last run, and rumors said he was stripping his entire style down to the studs. He calls himself "The Benchmark" now.
Jamie slides into the ring. He ignores the fans reaching out over the barricade. He demands a mic. The music fades, leaving a heavy, uncomfortable silence.
Jamie Johnson: Listen to that.
He pauses, letting the crowd noise swell
Noise.
He looks around the arena with a scowl on his face.
Jamie Johnson: You people love the noise. You love the flashing lights. You love the unpredictability. You call it "excitement."
He walks to the center of the ring
Jamie Johnson: I call it... error. I call it waste.
Eryk Masters: Error? He's talking about the fans like they're a glitch in the system.
Jamie Johnson: I've been watching this company while I was away. I saw reckless ambition. I saw egos unchecked. I saw a locker room drowning in its own mess. You have forgotten the fundamentals. You have forgotten that without a foundation, the house collapses.
He stops pacing
I am not here to entertain you. I am here to correct you.
Jason Johnson: He sounds absolutely clinical.
Jamie Johnson: Tonight, there is a Battle Royal for the World Championship. To you, that match is a lottery. A beautiful disaster.
To me… it is simply a problem that needs to be solved.
Jamie's eyes narrow.
Jamie Johnson: You cannot build a legacy on luck. You build it on precision. You build it on consistency. I am not entering that ring tonight to "fight" or to "survive." I am entering to organize. I am entering to remove the variables, one by one, until the only thing left standing… is The Benchmark.
He raises the microphone slightly
Jamie Johnson: Chaos reigns in the SHOOT Project. But tonight... order takes the Gold.
MUSIC HITS: "Everything burns..."
Jamie drops the mic with a dull thud. He doesn't pose. He simply stares at the World Title belt sitting on the commentary table at ringside.
Jason Johnson: Jamie Johnson is looking at that title belt like it belongs to him by mathematical probability.
Eryk Masters: He's looking at it like it's the only thing in this building that makes sense to him, Jason. Jamie Johnson has returned, and he has returned with a purpose. The Benchmark is here and we're kicking this show off with a match for the Pantheon Championships! Want to give us a little info on what the Pantheon Championships are, Jason?
Jason Johnson: I'll give ya the whole deal! The Pantheon Championships are not simply tag team titles. They represent factional dominance, unit cohesion, and the power of groups who fight as one. In ancient mythology, the Pantheon was where gods ruled together. In SHOOT Project, the Pantheon is where the elite collectives prove their supremacy. The format is flexible, the titles can be defended anywhere from a 2v2 match up to a 4v4 match depending on how stories shake out. It's been really interesting to hear talk in the back of how to approach this strategically!
Eryk Masters: That's true, and kicking off the VERY FIRST Pantheon Championship match… the Empire looks to reclaim the gold from the Punch Line after the Punch Line successfully defeated the Collins Twins at Redemption. That match is NOW.
Backstage, and the cameras find The Empire in a festive mood, to say the least. Izzy Sia and Mike de los Huesos are fist bumping, chest bumping, head bumping, and in general being a nuisance–a condition that only worsens once they notice a camera. The yelling and boisterous activity tapers off as they both shoulder their Pantheon belts, and the Kamatayan is the first to speak, motioning towards him with her thumb.
Izzy: Credit where it's due, I thought you were gonna leave me high and dry out there.
Mikey: High but never dry, because I'm too dripped out and saucy, haaaaaanh! 'Sides, you the one who was out there dropping motherfuckers on their heads! But bring it right here, big dog, bring it in.
They embrace off a dap, clapping each other on the shoulders before banging the faceplates of the Pantheon belts against one another in a modified sort of high five. Izzy looks to the camera, sneering in her way, somewhere between aggression and good-natured shit talking.
Izzy: Get used to this. Understand? I want you to get it. I want you to grasp it. I want you to know, like 'scientific certainty' know, that I am not to be discounted. That Mike de los Huesos is not to be fucking discounted.
From her left, he pipes up, classic hypeman material.
Mikey: Empyrean Forge, Ridgewood Queens, goin' around the world with it and inside ya girl with it.
Izzy: The two of us? We could be knocked down. Dragged through the trenches. Lose everything. And then get up, dust ourselves off, and take everything from you. No rest, no warm ups. Knocking the rust off, getting into game condition? That's a problem other folk have.
Mikey: Dunno whether to slap most of y'all or laugh at most of y'all.
Izzy: But that's not just me. That's not just Mike. These are Pantheon Belts. And we represent the most dominant and dangerous entity in the industry right now. Not just who you see, either. Because I want you to remember something very, very important: two years ago, no one had heard of me. A year ago, I'd never held a belt. And the man who spotted that talent, who turned me and my graduating class into the strongest weapons imaginable? He's not retired. He's not resting. He's helming. We got these belts, sure. But The Empire as a whole got these belts. All of us. What you see is far from what you get. Shit, I could put in a call in the next five minutes and have Joey Burkhalter's lanky ass out the mothballs by morning.
With a point, Mike calls out to the camera.
Mikey: Redwood tall and almost as smart! Nah, just fuckin' with you Goldmember, miss you baby.
This leads to a lull, wherein Izzy drops the bravado just briefly, looking at her belt. Taking it in. Absorbing.
Izzy: Feels like a new era, right?
De los Huesos grins a mouthful of gold teeth.
Mikey: Like the hat game in '04. New champs, new rules, new drip, and of course, the top of the division no longer being represented by Canadians, who are sort of like if Yakub made a whole nation of customer service peeps. Maybe y'all forgot this is where I started in my career? Maybe y'all forgot I'm not just some bum? Maybe y'all forgot I'm here for a fuckin' reason?
Izzy: Feels like they forgot.
Mikey: Hope I helped y'all remember. But just in case I need to break it down even more for you, maybe some of y'all aint peep the science. Sometimes you gotta give sight to the blind. I feel this shit in the air, y'know? Like when you wake up and the sky looks like a shootout. They gonna start asking what the plans are, who we wanna link up with, who gonna get the opportunity. The honor. I keep trying to think of names, but I swear by the Great Skeleton, ain't a single one ever show up. Know why that is, diesel?
She crosses her substantial arms.
Izzy: Why is that, Michael?
Mikey: Because all I ever see is everyone's name. Get that? I don't care if you're a former champion, if you started last week, if you're coming out of retirement, if you angels, demons, robots, K-pop enthusiasts, ILA local number 40 out of Hudson Square, my cousins, her cousins, street dogs, axe clan, Raider Clan, Jackie Chan, Charlie Chan, tomato can, or South Oakland Sam. What's your homegirl say, Iz?
Izzy: Rico? "Who want it"? Words to live by. Because that's how champions behave, and if you're holding onto the hardware and ducking people, you're worthy of nothing. Not even my disdain. So you bring 'em. Management, you pick 'em. Y'all set it up.
Mikey: We'll knock 'em down.
He claps her on her substantial shoulder, grinning.
Mikey: Once we're out of here? Gallagher's 2000. Long Island City. Champagne room is on me.
The camera cuts to backstage, where two of the DeMONSTRance's fiercest warriors lie in wait for the main event. The Weapon of Mass DESTRUCTION, Sammy Rochester, sits in the corner, his massive hands petting the head of Arthur Pleasant's most loyal and fervent zealots, DEPRAVITY. She purrs as his bear paws stroke her hair, laying across his lap not unlike a cat, her face painted and clothed in what passes for her new ring gear.
DEPRAVITY: I know you're disappointed, Sammy, but there will be plenty more opportunities for you to break these fools in the future.
Sammy makes a sound somewhere between a growl and a whine, his shoulders slumping a little. DEPRAVITY turns over, laying on her back now, and bringing his hand to her belly, where it essentially covers her entire abdomen.
DEPRAVITY: I know, buddy. But they're scared of you, for obvious reasons, of course they're going to use underhanded tactics to keep you from your fun. What do you expect?
All of a sudden, a voice answers them from the shadows. Not Thunderwolf's…not Corey Lazarus', and no, not Ricky Tenet's either. This one…this one's altogether unexpected.
Aaron Dearinger: You freaks are so proud of yourselves, ain't ya.
The tan Texan casually strides into the shot, a red solo cup in hand. He's wearing a camo jacket and hat, and there's a wad of chew bulging in his left cheek; if the audience didn't know any better, he could pass for a truck driver. A light cheer goes up from the Pinnacle as he nonchalantly strolls over to where Sammy and DEPRAVITY are sitting, who look none too impressed themselves.
DEPRAVITY: Have you been there the whole time, old man? Creepy. Who let you backstage anyway?
Aaron ignores the slight. He's clearly here on a mission.
Aaron Dearinger: Real tough breakin' that lil' girls arms. Endangerin' an entire arena with your fire stunt.
Aaron spits a mouthful of tobacco juice into a red solo cup, disgusted.
Aaron Dearinger: Desecratin' the symbol of our lord and savior Jesus Christ the way you did. I ain't gonna lie to ya.
Dearinger takes a step towards Sammy, drawing his chest up.
Aaron Dearinger: I didn't much care for it.
DEPRAVITY: Aww, a real Jesus freak, huh? Listen, sometimes you gotta do something… drastic to break people out of the status quo. But don't worry, we're hardly done. What we've got in store will make all of that look like a tent revival.
She sits up, placing Sammy's hands around her waist.
DEPRAVITY: But you don't like that idea, huh? Who are you, anyway?
Aaron Dearinger: I'm Aaron Dearinger, one half of SHOOT Project's newest tag team, the Moonshiners. And me an' my pardner, Josh Kaine? We ain't scared of ya'll. And we ain't gonna stand for this bullshit neither. Now I know we ain't a couple of defenseless lil' girls…or some teenage greenhorn rookies you can toss around, God bless 'em. So how's 'bout it, big feller?
Dearinger gets right up to the two of them, and DEPRAVITY stands up, with Sammy following suit. She looks so small compared to the two men, but Sammy dwarfs even Aaron, staring daggers at him as his fists ball up. Aaron ignores the tiny woman, staring right back at the blank mask of Sammy Rochester. Sammy's chest starts to heave with barely contained rage.
There's a tiny gleam of sudden uncertainty in Aaron's blue eye…like he was second guessing this idea.
Too late now. He'd already committed.
Aaron Dearinger: How's 'bout pickin' on somebodies your own size?
DEPRAVITY: What an ironic thing to say given the current circumstances. Tag partners with little Joshy, huh? You think he's gonna be OK with you signing him up to fight the avatar of DESTRUCTION and his favorite side piece?
DEPRAVITY keeps Sammy at bay for now, looking up at Aaron and dragging a finger down his chest.
DEPRAVITY: If it's a tag team you're looking for, I'm pretty sure he'd rather I accommodate you in a different way.
Dearinger slaps her hand away, prompting Sammy to take a step forward. Now Aaron's on high alert.
DEPRAVITY: Your loss, old man. If it's a fight you want, maybe I'll just let Sammy here disassemble you here and now.
Sammy chuckles, a low rumble, like an avalanche. Aaron spits another glob of tobacco juice into the cup, eyes still on the giant.
Aaron Dearinger: He's welcome to try it…but I am a card carryin' Republican. I'll let you read between the lines on that one. No, we gonna do this the ol' fashioned way…the Moonshiners and DeMONSTRance at Zenith 010. No gimmicks, no traps. Just an ass-whuppin' that's been a long time comin'.
DEPRAVITY sighs, rolling her eyes.
DEPRAVITY: Fine, if you want to make us wait, I suppose that'll do. Might want to warn your partner that you signed him up for the slaughter. Give him my best, would you?
Sammy, seemingly incensed over the interruption of the so-called Moonshiner, pulls out his refurbished iPhone 13. He begins to frantically press the screen, hoping for something to just magically happen.
When nothing happens, Sammy looks down at Aaron Dearinger. The sloppy mouth sounds emanating from under the mask are a discomforting effect. Aaron's eye twitches and he takes a step back, unease starting to settle in; why was he doing this again? The monster is nearly twice the size of Dearinger…he looks like he could crush the old man's head like a pomegranate. But DEPRAVITY keeps the gargantuan calm and at bay.
DEPRAVITY: No, Sammy. Not now. Come, little buddy! I can help you make heart shapes on your phone with just the swipe of your finger!!
Sammy squeals under the mask and shifts his focus to Lou.
Aaron backs away, taking a deep breath as he does so. Like being in a cage with a grizzly bear.
The scene slowly fades.
Madison Seton hoists the Premier title over her shoulder, rolling out of the ring as Ricky Tenet pulls himself to his knees against the corner. He hangs his head against the ropes, his eyes slammed shut, and lets out a deep sigh.
Eryk Masters: Another tough break for Ricky Tenet tonight.
Jason Johnson: You have to feel for the kid, Eryk. His fiancée is at home with two broken arms after Redemption, and he promised that he'd bring it all home for her. That he'd use the title as bait to get justice for everything that happened…
Ricky pulls himself to his feet and leans against the ropes, shaking his head.
Ricky Tenet: …God…dammit…
clap. clap. clap.
His exit is interrupted by a slow, haunting clap, dripping with patronizing disdain. Ricky's attention - and, too, that of everybody else - turns to the top of the ramp, as the man offering this sarcastic applause makes his presence known. 'THE ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ.'
Jason Johnson: …and it looks like there was no bait needed.
Arthur Pleasant casually strolls onto the entrance stage, a microphone tucked between his arm and his body as he slowly claps for Ricky, his face contorted into his usual sinister smile.
THE ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: I was sincerely hoping that congratulations would be very much deserved, Richard.
THE ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ steps further down the ramp as Ricky readies himself, slowly backing up to the center of the ring. Tenet looks all around, expecting an ambush…
THE ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: Don't worry, my family has been given strict orders to leave the two of us alone right now.
Step. Step.
THE ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: I consider it a reward for their continued bravery and sacrifice, especially from my new SON AND DAUGHTER, CHANCE AND HANNAH KELSER, for offering their innocent little sister's health in tribute of our mission.
A combined GASP falls over the entire Pinnacle, audience and crew alike. Murmurs from the crowd grow into a cacophony of bitterness as Ricky tightens his fists, visibly trembling with rage inside the ring.
"FUCK YOU, ARTH-UR!!"
**CLAP, CLAP, CLAPCLAPCLAP**
"FUCK YOU, ARTH-UR!!"
**CLAP, CLAP, CLAPCLAPCLAP**
THE ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: I thank you all for this most esteemed reception, let us not forget that all growth comes with sacrifice, and Richard…
Pleasant makes his way to the ringside floor, inches from the ring apron. He lays a hand upon the bottom rope, caressing it with tender malice as Ricky, fuming just a few short feet away, cracks his knuckles, readying himself for another war.
THE ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: ...think of how much you can grow under a REAL father's watchful eye.
Another commotion grows from the crowd, louder and louder, a war chant that forms by the exit and snakes its way to the barricade like a fuse burning closer to the powder keg.
Eryk Masters: …someone has jumped the…?!?!
Jason Johnson: …IT'S LAZ!! IT'S LAZ!!
Arthur goes to speak once more but is knocked away with a laser-sighted elbow to the side of the head, courtesy of one COREY LAZARUS himself. Pleasant is sent reeling, finding no quarter as the Last Damn Icon follows close behind, drilling him with shot after shot. Strikes arrive from every angle, swift and heavy, shots so filled with fury that we can practically see the sparks fly from each meeting of Corey's limbs to Arthur's body and head.
Lazarus grabs Arthur by his hair and slams him, face-first, into the ring steps with a cold, wet THWUNK. The steel topples over as Arthur tries to crawl away, but Corey pounces atop him, one hand laced through THE ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ's hair as the other rains FISTS into his face, again and again and again.
Eryk Masters: Security is on the scene!
The collective groans of displeasure that come from the Pinnacle, some even echoing through the locker room, thickens the air.
"LET THEM FIGHT!!"
"LET THEM FIGHT!!"
Corey is pulled off of Arthur by half a dozen security personnel, kicking and screaming the whole time. He breaks away for a brief moment and grabs the microphone that Arthur dropped.
Corey Lazarus: Keep talking! Go ahead, you piece of shit, keep talking!
THE ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ, bleeding heavily from the nose and brow, is pulled to his feet by just as many guards, escorted - laughing - back to the ramp.
"LET THEM FIGHT!!"
"LET THEM FIGHT!!"
Arthur tastes his blood as the Hollywood Kid rolls into the ring, a dozen more security personnel flooding in from the back and charging forward, separating the two men from one another.
Jason Johnson: This has become a regular sight to behold.
Eryk Masters: Too regular, Eryk. Wherever the DeMONSTRance go, chaos is bound to follow.
Ricky checks on his father as Lazarus shakes the feeling back into his heavily taped right hand, stained with Arthur's blood. Corey paces back and forth as THE ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ wipes blood from his face, laughing.
Corey Lazarus: That's right, babe, laugh it up. Go on. Oh, look who we have here…!
From behind the curtain stalks the rest of the DeMONSTRance, marching forward down the ramp until halted by a single hand held high by Pleasant.
Corey Lazarus: Oh, what's the matter, sweetie pies? Did "daddy" say no?
Corey, of course, forms the quotation marks with his fingers. He continues pacing around the ring, his focus darting between his son, the DeMONSTRance, and the blood still wet on his taped fists.
Corey Lazarus: These last few weeks have been…well, "interesting" might not be the most appropriate word to use, because that carries a certain connotation to it, and "enlightening" is kind of in the same boat, so let's just settle on "insightful," shall we? I've been doing some thinking, some drinking, a bit of smoking, some joking, and a whole LOT of midnight toking, and it got me thinking about a whole lot of things.
Corey stops in his tracks, slowly looking up the ramp at Arthur.
Corey Lazarus: It got me thinking about the man I used to be, and I don't mean the guy that used to rail lines of white girls up and down the coasts, in more ways than one, and I don't even mean the man that had your daddy and his best pals scrambling for a doctor's note to excuse themselves from whatever was about to happen to them, oh no…
Corey steps toward the ropes, the usually playful nature of his tone dissolving into something cold. Something ruthless.
Corey Lazarus: I mean the L-A-Z that walked in and out of complete war zones without a second thought, that earned the right to run with a group of ultraviolent sons of bitches that proudly proclaimed WE KILL MOTHER FUCKERS!!
Without a second thought, Lazarus holds up his hand and, slowly, drags his tongue across the blood that soaks his knuckles.
Corey Lazarus: I'm talking about the guy that sent chills up and down the spines of every single person when he toured the world over…even a Rūzukyanon like yourself…
THE ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ's menacing grin fades, replaced with an extremely uncharacteristic blend of SHOCK and even FEAR. Pleasant forces through these emotions and bears his teeth for a moment, drawing oddly confused stares from his congregation.
Corey Lazarus: Ohhhhh, there it is. There's what I've been looking for, Artie! RIGHT THERE! That little spark in your eye, just now…it almost makes you seem human. Petty, even.
Corey leans against the ropes, offering his blood-covered right hand.
Corey Lazarus: Slick, I've tried to do this in something of a polite manner. I called on whatever professional pride you may have had and received only silence in return. I offered you TWO-HUNDRED-AND-FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLARS to just spend ten little minutes with me, but you laughed at it all and tried to sic your little pack of ankle-biters on me, and after the bullshit you pulled at Redemption? After you tried to take my fucking EYE? After FIONA?!
Chance and Hannah snicker behind Arthur, their amusement cut short with a snapping glare from THE ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ.
Corey Lazarus: While we spent the last month in hospital beds, while we saw enough doctors and specialists to fill out another generic hospital drama, you - all of you - were busy doing…what, exactly? Plotting the full expansion of your little cult? Buying up all of the grape FlavorAid you could find? YOU DID THIS…
Corey flips up the patch covering his left eye, revealing the packed gauze dressing stained with disinfectant and plasma, slowly removing it from the swollen and grotesque wound that is healing from the attack that Arthur carried out at Redemption.
Corey Lazarus: …AND MAKE SHITTY FUCKING JOKES ON SPITTER?!
Eryk and Jason audibly gasp, nearly about to lose the contents of their stomachs from witnessing the results of that attack. Corey flips his patch back down, adjusting it, and wags his finger.
Corey Lazarus: Artie, I'm going to be very honest, and very clear with you, dig? Later tonight, we're both gunning for the World Heavyweight championship because wee widdle Bweedwuv was a little too chickenshit to hand it over to Dustin himself, as foregone a conclusion as any, but two weeks from now? When Zenith comes back around? Whether there's fifteen pounds of gold on the line or not, Artie…
Trademark. Devilish. Grin.
Corey Lazarus: …I'm getting my fucking pound of flesh.
No catchphrase. No pomp, no circumstance. Corey drops the microphone and bails out of the ring, leaving Ricky behind him as security once again forms the barrier between the parties. Arthur breathes in deep as Lazarus, once again, licks his blood from his fist. Pleasant motions and turns, marching back up the ramp with his wicked congregation, the DeMONSTRance, flanking him on every side.
SCENE: A private dressing room, deep in the bowels of the arena. The overhead fluorescent tubes have been killed, leaving only the amber glow of the vanity bulbs to carve out shapes in the darkness. It feels less like a locker room and more like a confessional booth.
Chance Kelser sits on a wooden bench, his back straight, legs spread, hands resting on his knees. He is shirtless, his skin pale against the shadows. The bruising on his ribs—self-inflicted and yellowing now, the color of old parchment—is the only flaw on a marble statue.
Hannah Kelser stands behind him. She is holding a roll of athletic tape. The sound of it peeling away from the spool is the only noise in the room.
ZZZZZT.
She wraps his left wrist. Tight. Restrictive. She smooths the white fabric over the joint, her thumbs digging into the tendons, testing the tension. She isn't just preparing him for a fight; she is armoring him.
Hannah Kelser: It is… quiet in here.
She circles his wrist again, the adhesive biting into his skin.
Hannah Kelser: Usually Sapphire is complaining about the humidity. Velour is asking for sparkling water. Now? Just the hum of the electricity.
Chance does not turn his head. He stares at his own reflection in the mirror opposite them—or perhaps he is staring through it.
Chance Kelser: Distractions, Hannah. They were useful noise, but noise nonetheless. Tonight requires a frequency that only we can hear.
Hannah tears the tape.
SNAP.
She smooths the jagged edge down, her fingers lingering on his pulse point. She can feel his heart rate. It is slow. Terrifyingly slow. A reptile basking on a rock before the strike.
Hannah Kelser: Twenty bodies. That is a lot of variable factors, brother. A lot of desperate people looking for a lottery ticket. They will not be looking at each other. They will be looking at us.
She moves to his right hand. She lifts it, inspecting the knuckles. She kisses the bandage covering the scab from where he struck his father's jaw.
Chance Kelser: Let them look. Let them stare until the sun burns their retinas out. They are not opponents. They are geography. They are obstacles to be climbed over, or simply… demolished.
Hannah begins to wrap the right wrist. She leans in closer, her chest pressing against his bare back. She rests her chin on his shoulder, watching their dual reflection. Two halves of the same fractured soul.
Hannah Kelser: What if we are the last two? What if the geography is gone, and it is just you and I standing on the edge of the world?
Chance watches her eyes in the mirror.
Chance Kelser: Then we have already won. The Covenant is a closed loop, Hannah. The snake eating its own tail. Ouroboros. It does not matter which head wears the crown, as long as the body remains whole.
Hannah finishes the wrap. It is tight enough to cut off circulation, tight enough to turn his hand into a club. She does not pull away. Instead, she turns her head slightly, her lips brushing the curve of his trapezius muscle.
Hannah Kelser: I like the sound of that. A closed loop.
She opens her mouth and bites down on the muscle where his neck meets his shoulder. It isn't erotic in the way the world understands it. It is violent. It is a brand. She bites hard enough to leave a white indentation that slowly floods with red as she pulls back.
Chance does not flinch. He does not hiss in pain. He smiles, a cold, sharp expression that doesn't reach his eyes.
Chance Kelser: Mark the territory, sister.
Hannah pulls back, wiping a speck of moisture from her lip. She looks at the red mark on his skin, then at his taped fists.
Hannah Kelser: They are going to try to separate us out there.
Chance stands up. He turns to face her, towering in the small room. He reaches out, his taped hand cupping her jaw, his thumb brushing her cheekbone.
Chance Kelser: Let them try. You cannot separate the infection from the wound.
He drops his hand and walks toward the door, grabbing his leather jacket.
Chance Kelser: Come. Church is in session.
The door busts open at the last second, with The Covenant Combat Club's own, Sebastian LaCroix, on the other side. His unreadable demeanor would make one question his relevance to SHOOT Project - but he appears to be out of breath no less.
Sebastian LaCroix: Ms. Kelser, I regret to inform you that… *huffing*... you have been replaced at the last second in tonight's match…
He straightens out his tie.
Sebastian LaCroix: I did everything that I could. Just as you asked. I will make it up to you, however; and see that this injustice is made right.
Chance and Hannah exchange a glance. The whole strategy was now out the window.
Chance Kelser: Thank you, Sebastian. Your…efforts are appreciated. Do not over analyze the situation. We do not take this as a slight in regards to your worth to our cause. You were invaluable for pushing things as far as you did with my father in the first place. Take the night off. First thing tomorrow though - you will be in touch with Mr. Gregory Price, yes?
He nods. Those at home are just now threading how deep the deception runs.
Sebastian LaCroix: I will see to it that your Pinnacle To The Pit match with one, Mr. Lazarus, is my top priority, sir. Thank you for your… understanding.
Chance nods in turn as Hannah's face turns red with anger. Mr. LaCroix exits back out the door.
Hannah Kelser: They will pay for this.
Chance smirks a knowing smirk, and leads her out the door.
[FADE TO BLACK]
The arena is electric. Confetti rains down from the rafters as Corey Lazarus stands in the center of the ring, the World Heavyweight Championship clutched in his hands. His eye patch is askew, his body battered, but the smile on his face is unmistakable. The Hollywood Kid has reached the summit.
Eryk Masters: What an absolutely incredible night! Twenty competitors entered that ring, and after absolute chaos, after bodies flew everywhere, it came down to three—Corey Lazarus, Arthur Pleasant, and Chance Kelser—and when the dust settled, it was the Last Damn Icon standing tall!
Jason Johnson: And you have to appreciate the poetry of it all, Eryk. Corey outlasted THE ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ—the man who tried to take his eye, the man who broke his family apart. Corey got his pound of flesh and then some. He eliminated Chance Kelser with everything he had left, and then found a way to outlast Arthur Pleasant in what might have been the most grueling final minutes I've ever witnessed.
Lazarus raises the championship high above his head, the gold gleaming under the arena lights. The crowd roars their approval, a deafening ovation that echoes through the Pinnacle.
Eryk Masters: This has been months in the making. The attacks, the hospital visits, the psychological warfare—all of it led to this moment. Corey Lazarus promised he would get his revenge, and tonight, he didn't just get revenge—he became the World Heavyweight Champion!
Jason Johnson: But let's not forget what else we saw tonight. The Empire claimed the Pantheon Championships. Madison Seton successfully defended the Premier Championship. Johnny Napalm held onto the Empire State Championship. And Jamie Johnson—The Benchmark—made his chilling return and showed everyone that he's here to correct the chaos. This roster is stacked, Eryk, and now they all have a new target.
Corey climbs the turnbuckle, holding the championship belt against his chest, pointing out to the crowd. This is his moment. This is his redemption.
Eryk Masters: And remember what Corey said earlier tonight—in two weeks at Zenith 010, whether the title is on the line or not, he's getting ANOTHER pound of flesh from Arthur Pleasant. Well, now he has fifteen pounds of gold to go along with it. The Last Damn Icon is the World Heavyweight Champion, and SHOOT Project will never be the same!
Jason Johnson: What a night. What an absolutely unforgettable night. For Eryk Masters, I'm Jason Johnson. We'll see you at Zenith 010, where the new era of SHOOT Project truly begins. Good night, everyone!
The camera holds on Corey Lazarus, champion of the world, as the confetti continues to fall and the crowd chants his name. Fade to black.