Chapter 8

The Stage is Set

The fluorescent lights hummed softly in the “office for the evening” tucked away in the Nassau Coliseum, casting a stark glow over the chaotic mess of papers strewn across the battered desk. Production notes, roster sheets, and logistical spreadsheets piled haphazardly, reflecting the state of Logan Drake’s overworked mind. He sat hunched forward, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, eyes darting between documents as his leg bounced in a restless rhythm beneath the desk.

Everything had to be perfect. No, more than perfect. This wasn’t just another event—it was the event, the one that would define everything. Months of work, sleepless nights, countless battles fought behind the scenes, all leading to this moment. There was no room for error.

Flipping through the fighter entrance schedules for the hundredth time, Logan caught an inconsistency, scrawled a note in the margin, and tossed the paper aside. His fingers reached instinctively for his coffee cup, only to find it empty. He sighed. There was no time for a refill, no time for anything other than keeping the chaos from swallowing him whole.

A knock at the door barely registered before it creaked open. A young production assistant stepped inside, clutching a crisp stack of papers, their face unreadable.

“Mr. Drake,” they said, voice level and professional, “here are the final talking points from Peak Media for tonight’s broadcast.”

Logan barely glanced up. “Just leave them.”

The assistant hesitated. “Sir, I’d recommend you read them now. They’re… specific.”

Something in their tone pulled Logan’s attention. He reached for the papers, eyes skimming over the first lines. His frown deepened.

“A groundbreaking event brought to you by the unmatched brilliance of Peak Media.”

His fingers curled around the edge of the document, his stomach tightening as he read further. Fighter mentions were buried beneath a mountain of corporate self-promotion, the significance of the tournament reduced to an afterthought.

“Tonight’s history-making tournament wouldn’t exist without the genius leadership of Victor Blackwell.”

Logan let out a slow, measured breath before slapping the papers onto the desk. His temples throbbed.

“Unbelievable.”

The assistant stood unmoved. “I’ll inform commentary to prepare those notes unless you’d like me to hold off.”

Logan waved a hand. “Do whatever you need to do.”

Without another word, the assistant nodded and disappeared through the door.

Logan leaned back, staring at the ceiling. The weight of it all pressed down—months of work, endless hours of fighting for this moment, only for it to be reduced to a Peak Media spectacle. He clenched his jaw, forcing the frustration down. There was no changing it now. The money came from Peak. That meant the control did too.

He pushed himself to his feet, grabbed his jacket, and stepped into the hallway. The muffled roar of the arena preparations filled the air, the hum of energy from beyond the curtain growing stronger by the second. He moved toward the entrance, stopping just short of stepping onto the arena floor.

Peeking out, he took in the sight of the crowd. Rows upon rows of seats were filling fast, fans buzzing with excitement, anticipation tangible in the air.

For a fleeting moment, the weight on his chest lightened. The dream was still alive, despite the corporate interference. The fighters were ready. The wrestlers were ready. The fans were here.

He inhaled deeply, letting the sound of the crowd wash over him.

“Alright, Drake,” he muttered to himself. “Time to focus.”

Tugging his jacket over his shoulder, he turned away from the arena and headed back into the heart of the backstage chaos. Showtime was less than an hour away.

Welcome to the Show

Fans were wrapped around the block, braving the crisp autumn air as they shuffled toward the entrances. Conversations buzzed with speculation—who would come out on top, which match would steal the show, whether the wrestlers could hold their own against real fighters.

Inside, the arena was coming to life. Ticket scanners beeped, the scent of popcorn and arena food thick in the air. Merchandise booths swarmed with fans eager to grab whatever they could—Titan shirts, Happy Jack posters, limited-edition programs. Everywhere, the Peak Media Group logo loomed, stamped onto every piece of merchandise, a reminder of who truly owned the night.

Above the cage, the massive LED screen flickered to life, and the crowd roared as the evening’s matchups appeared in bold white letters.

Tonight’s Card:

Cade Mercer vs. Titan

Jax Braddock vs. Happy Jack

Colton Hayes vs. Glenn Sterling

Julian St. James vs. Matthew

The reaction was instant. The name on everyone’s lips was Titan.

Fans in Titan shirts filled the stands, their voices rising in unison as they chanted his name. Signs declaring “Titan for the Win!” waved above the sea of bodies. There was no doubt who the overwhelming favorite was. But there was also a growing murmur of interest surrounding Cade Mercer—the young, unproven fighter facing the industry’s biggest name.

Near the main concourse, a heated debate broke out between fans.

“Titan’s going to crush that kid,” one man in a Titan hoodie declared, his voice hoarse from cheering. “Mercer doesn’t stand a chance.”

Another fan, wearing a Happy Jack foam finger, grinned. “Titan’s overrated. Jack’s the one who’s going to steal the show. Just watch.”

A camera crew wove through the crowd, capturing reactions. One particularly rowdy fan, holding a Titan for the Win sign, screamed into the lens, “TITAN’S GONNA DESTROY EVERYONE!” His voice echoed through the concourse, drawing laughs and cheers from those around him.

The overhead screen flickered again, transitioning into pre-recorded promos. Titan’s face filled the screen, his towering frame dominating the shot. The moment he appeared, the crowd exploded.

“Cade Mercer? The rookie?” Titan scoffed, his smirk dripping arrogance. “This isn’t some backyard gym, kid. This is the big leagues. I am the big leagues. And tonight, I remind everyone that the bigger the moment, the bigger I shine.”

As the words left his lips, the audience erupted, chanting the phrase in perfect unison.

The screen cut to Cade Mercer’s promo, but unlike Titan, Cade didn’t speak. Instead, his manager, Clayton Reed, stood front and center.

“Titan can talk all he wants,” Clayton said, his voice calm, measured. “But words don’t win fights—talent does. Cade Mercer isn’t here to participate. He’s here to dominate. And tonight? Titan’s reign ends.”

Behind him, Cade stood motionless, drenched from a pre-match warmup, his silence more intimidating than any words could be.

The promo package continued—Glenn Sterling basking in the glow of his own reflection, Jax Braddock pacing like a wild animal, Happy Jack grinning under flickering lights, Julian St. James sipping wine in an opulent study, Colton Hayes standing alone in a barren gym, his voice steady as he declared, This is my last stand.

As the final promo ended, the crowd’s energy reached a fever pitch. Excitement. Anticipation. A hunger for violence.

The tournament was more than a fight. It was a moment.

And the world was watching.

Overlooked and Unimpressed

Matthew stood near the curtain, arms crossed, watching the promo packages play out on the massive screen above the cage. The screen above the cage flickered back to the live feed, the match graphics rotating once more. His expression shifted from intrigue to frustration as the final competitor’s promo wrapped up, and there was no sign of his own.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, his thick Irish accent cutting through the din of production chatter. “They didn’t play my promo.” He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “It was a thing of beauty.”

He scanned the area, searching for someone—anyone—who looked remotely in charge. His gaze landed on a production assistant rushing by, clipboard in hand, headset pressed tightly to their ear. Without hesitation, Matthew stepped into their path, forcing the assistant to stop short before colliding with him.

“Oi, you there!” Matthew barked, jabbing a finger at the frazzled crew member. “Why didn’t they play my promo? It was cinematic brilliance—best work I’ve done since I set foot in this bloody place.”

The assistant barely spared him a glance, adjusting their headset. “Uh… I’ll let Logan know.”

Matthew scoffed, arms folding across his chest. “Riiiight,” he drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He leaned in slightly, his piercing stare locking onto the assistant’s indifferent gaze. “You’d better make sure he knows, ya gobshite. I didn’t pour my heart into that just for it to end up on the bloody cutting room floor.”

The assistant nodded absently, already halfway turned, clearly not invested in the complaint. “Sure thing,” they mumbled before walking away, disappearing into the whirlwind of last-minute preparations.

Matthew watched them go, shaking his head in disbelief. “This bloody circus,” he muttered before turning back toward the fighters’ locker room, the sting of being overlooked still fresh in his mind.

The Lone Contender

Across the arena, deep in the fighters’ locker room, Colton Hayes sat alone in the farthest corner, insulated from the noise outside. The chaos of the world beyond these walls didn’t matter. The spectacle, the fanfare, the corporate posturing—it was all secondary. Right now, all that existed was the fight ahead.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together. His breathing was steady, controlled, as he visualized the bout with Glenn Sterling in the cage. He visualized each step with precision: the walkout, the crowd’s response, the opening exchange. In his mind, he saw Glenn’s confident smirk, his attempts to dictate the match, and how Colton would counter. The moment he stepped into that cage, there would be no distractions, no noise—just instinct, precision, and the knowledge that he had trained for this moment his entire life.

“Stay grounded. Breathe. Stick to the plan,” he murmured, the words more muscle memory than conscious thought.

Nearby, Cade Mercer’s trainers were hyping him up, but Colton remained detached. He had no need for noise or bravado. This wasn’t about showing off or making a spectacle. This was about proving something—to the world, yes, but more importantly, to himself.

Reaching for the tape beside him, he wrapped his hands with meticulous ease, the routine calming, grounding. As he tightened the last strip, his eyes opened. Focused. Steady. The storm inside him, bottled and ready to be unleashed.

He stood, rolling his shoulders, stretching out his arms. The fight was near. And for Colton Hayes, there was only one outcome.

Victory.

The Machine Prepares

The energy in Cade Mercer’s corner of the locker room was a quiet intensity, the kind that felt like a coiled spring ready to snap. His entourage of coaches moved with mechanical precision, wrapping his hands in stark white tape, their whispers low and deliberate. Every word was calculated, every instruction sharpened to a razor’s edge.

“Stay loose, Cade,” Brent spoke under his breath, pulling the tape tight around his knuckles. “Stick to your power. Make him feel it early, and don’t let him dictate the pace.”

Cade sat still, his body a statue carved from granite, his gaze locked straight ahead. Cade's eyes drifted across the room and caught Colton Hayes. The veteran sat calm and composed in his corner, his hands already taped, his focus unshaken. For a brief moment, their eyes met. Colton’s were steady, betraying years of experience and resolve. Cades were masked, his expression a mask of indifference, betraying nothing.

Clayton’s voice pulled Cade back. “That first step you take—make it count. Put him on the back foot.”

Cade nodded once, almost imperceptibly, as his Ethan crouched next to him, holding a bottle of water. He poured some over Cade’s head, letting it trickle down his neck and soak into his shirt. The cold seemed to ignite a small spark of energy in Cade, though his demeanor remained stoic.

“Visualize Titan in that cage, Cade. You’re dominating him. Every punch you land, every takedown—you break him.”

Cade leaned back slightly, his hands now fully wrapped, the tape pristine and ready for war. His gaze drifted toward Colton one last time, but this time there was no connection—just a calm, unwavering focus that seemed to mirror the veteran's own.

“Time to clock in,” Cade finally said, breaking his silence. His voice was low but carried a weight of certainty that made his coaches nod in approval.

The team gathered their gear, ready to follow their fighter into the crucible. Cade rolled his shoulders, his body language betraying none of the excitement or nerves that churned beneath the surface. This wasn’t just a fight for him; it was a moment to define what Cade Mercer could become.

As they stood to leave, Cade didn’t look back at Colton. There was no need. The time for staring contests was over. 

The Isolation of War

In a darker, more secluded section of the Nassau Coliseum, far from the bright lights and controlled chaos of the main arena, Jax Braddock carved out his own battlefield. The stacked production boxes around him formed an impromptu cage, a makeshift warzone where only he existed. The soft sounds of the distant crowd barely reached this corner, swallowed by the industrial groan of the old building’s infrastructure. Here, in the dark glow of flickering overhead lights, the shadows stretched jagged and uneven across his hulking frame—a beast waiting to be unleashed.

Jax never cared for the pre-fight rituals others clung to. No meditation. No deep breaths. No structured warm-ups or whispered affirmations. He didn’t need calm. He didn’t need focus. He needed this—the raw, electric energy of impending violence.

His fists snapped through the air, cutting vicious arcs as he shadowboxed, his knuckles nearly grazing the cold steel of the production crates. Each strike came without rhythm, wild and violent, a reflection of the storm inside him. His body moved in erratic bursts—shoulders rolling, feet shifting, head snapping side to side like a predator keeping its prey in sight. Sweat dripped from his brow, his breaths coming faster, heavier, each inhale stoking the fire inside him.

A low, guttural chuckle rumbled in his chest. This is what he lived for.

His muscles coiled as he threw a brutal combination—left hook, right cross, a crushing elbow slashing through the empty space. No rules, no strategy, just instinct. Just destruction. His jaw clenched, veins bulging beneath his skin, a walking mass of unfiltered aggression waiting for the moment the bell rang to unleash itself on whoever was foolish enough to stand in his way.

He stopped abruptly, rolling his shoulders, planting his feet. The ground beneath him felt solid. Good. Real. He tilted his head, letting out a slow exhale, the sound halfway between a breath and a growl.

“You want chaos?” The words were low, muttered under his breath but thick with promise. His lips curled, twisting into something closer to a snarl than a smirk. “I’ll show you chaos.”

With a final deep breath, Jax slammed his fists together, the sound echoing through the empty space like a gunshot. Then, without hesitation, he turned and stalked toward the main staging area. Each step was deliberate, measured. He wasn’t just walking—he was advancing, like a storm rolling in, inevitable, unstoppable.

Tonight, Nassau Coliseum wouldn’t just remember his name. It would remember the wreckage he left behind.

A Shift in the Air

The wrestlers' locker room was unrecognizable from earlier in the day.  Gone was the chaotic energy, the laughter, the careless banter of men who had once shared roads and locker rooms across the country. Now, the room was quiet, heavy with anticipation. The air felt tense, almost oppressive, as if the weight of what was about to happen hung over everyone.

Four men sat in different corners of the room, each one preparing in their own way—not just for their individual matches, but for what they believed to be a battle for their industry. The wrestlers weren’t just fighting for themselves. They were fighting for the wrestling industry as a whole. Well, all of them except Titan. Titan was here for one reason and one reason only—himself.

Happy Jack, typically unnerving with his manic energy, was strangely subdued. His barbed wire baseball bat rested untouched in the corner of the room. Jack sat on the bench, staring off into the distance, his painted lips twitching slightly as if he were whispering to himself. His fingers drummed on his knee, tapping out a rhythm that seemed to exist only in his mind. His usual unsettling smile was gone, replaced with an eerie calm that was somehow even more disconcerting.

Across the room, Glenn Sterling adjusted the shimmering, golden robe hanging on his locker. He ran his fingers over the embroidered patterns, smoothing out imaginary creases and admiring his reflection in the full-length mirror beside him. The faint scent of self-tanner still clung to him, mingling with the faint musk of the locker room. Glenn’s face was a picture of confidence, his perfectly coiffed hair framing his chiseled features. With one last satisfied nod, he muttered, "Still the best," before draping the robe over his shoulders like a king donning his armor.

Julian St. James sat with his back against the wall, his eyes closed. His lips moved faintly, whispering words only he could hear. But to anyone who knew him, it was clear he was replaying his father’s stern voice in his head—a haunting mantra of expectations and ambition. His posture was rigid, his hands resting on his knees, his breathing steady as he visualized the match ahead. Julian wasn’t just here to win; he was here to validate his own superiority.

And in the farthest corner, Titan sat hunched forward, lacing up his boots with quick, sharp tugs. His massive frame seemed to consume the space around him. Once finished, he stood, rolling his shoulders, stretching his arms, his reflection catching in the mirror Glenn had just used.

He smirked, taking in his own image. Muscles gleaming under the locker room’s lighting, body carved from decades of discipline and dominance.

“The bigger the moment, the bigger I shine,” he muttered to himself, voice dripping in arrogance.

Silence stretched between them all, broken only by the faint creak of leather, the occasional rustle of fabric. Each man was lost in his own thoughts, preparing for the night ahead in his own way. No words were exchanged, but none were needed.

They all knew what was at stake—legacy, pride, and the future of their craft. Three of them carried the weight of professional wrestling on their shoulders. 

Titan carried only his ego.

And in his mind, that was more than enough.

Directing the Chaos

The towering production truck sat parked just outside the Nassau Coliseum, an enormous, mobile nerve center adorned with Peak Media Group’s massive logo emblazoned on both sides. It was a fortress of technology and strategy, outfitted with everything needed to deliver a seamless pay-per-view broadcast. Inside every screen, every camera angle, every second of footage was monitored and meticulously crafted.

Sebastian Greer stood at the center of the chaos. Dressed sharply in his signature black suit and white shirt, his eyes scanned the rows of monitors displaying every angle of the arena. He didn’t bark orders, but his presence was enough to keep the room hyper-focused. Every crew member seemed to work twice as fast when he was near, afraid of the consequences of even a minor slip-up.

“Camera two, what’s the status on the crane angle over the cage?” Sebastian asked, his tone sharp and precise.

“Ready to go, sir,” came the reply from a tech at the far end of the truck.

“Audio levels for the commentators?” Sebastian turned toward another operator.

“Balanced and clear. We’ll run another test with live audio in five.”

Sebastian nodded, satisfied but still visibly calculating every contingency. “Good. Keep the transitions between camera cuts seamless—no lag, no dead air. I want this to look like the peak of professional production. Understood?”

The crew mumbled affirmations, and Sebastian’s gaze lingered on the screens, his mind already several steps ahead.

In the corner, Genevieve “Genny” Vaughn had arrived from the offices and sat at a sleek workstation, her auburn hair catching the light from her tablet. Dressed in a fitted black blazer over a crisp white tank top, she carried herself with a mix of professionalism and rebellious charm, that masked her internal conflict. She tapped rapidly on her tablet, monitoring social media buzz and fielding calls from media outlets. Her voice was polished and persuasive as she spoke into her Bluetooth headset.

“Yes, the event is absolutely groundbreaking,” she said with practiced enthusiasm. “Wrestlers and fighters from all walks of life coming together—this is a cultural moment, not just a tournament. You can quote me on that.”

She muted the call for a moment and sighed softly, glancing over at Sebastian, who was now reviewing graphics packages for the fighter entrances. She admired his efficiency but found his unwavering loyalty to Victor Blackwell unnerving. The “suggested” talking points that Peak Media had insisted on promoting didn’t sit right with her, especially knowing how much Logan Drake had poured into this event. Still, she knew better than to voice her concerns outright.

Sebastian’s phone buzzed, pulling his attention away from the monitors. He stepped to the side and answered, his voice dropping to an even sharper tone. “Victor.”

On the other end of the line, Victor Blackwell’s smooth, calculated voice filled the receiver. “How are things looking, Sebastian?”

“Under control,” Sebastian replied, glancing at the countdown clock above the monitors. “Graphics are ready. Audio is prepped. Cameras are in position. The event will run flawlessly.”

“Good, that’s good,” Victor said, his tone tinged with a hint of amusement. “Remember, Sebastian, this is a Peak Media production. If this is as successful as I expect it to be, don’t let Logan Drake take the credit. If he so much as steps near a microphone, you shut it down.”

Sebastian smirked faintly, his lips curling in a cold, humorless smile. “Understood, sir. I’ll make sure the spotlight stays exactly where it belongs.”

Victor didn’t need to say anything before hanging up.

Sebastian pocketed his phone and turned back to the production team. “We’re going live in less than an hour. I want every graphic, every camera angle, and every audio cue perfect. This isn’t just a tournament—it’s a showcase of Peak Media’s dominance.”

Genevieve glanced up from her tablet, her face betrayed nothing as she resumed her call. Deep down, she knew that the focus of tonight’s event would be less about the fighters and more about advancing Victor’s agenda. As the crew made final adjustments, the tension in the truck thickened.

Sebastian, unfazed, leaned over one of the monitors displaying the arena entrance. Fans were pouring in, the anticipation palpable even from the screens. Everything was falling into place, just as Victor had planned.

“Remember,” Sebastian said to the crew, his voice steady and commanding. “Peak Media doesn’t tolerate mistakes. Let’s make history.”

When the Lights Go Up

Behind the curtain, surged with frenetic energy, a collision of last-minute preparations and quiet focus.as Logan Drake stepped up onto a makeshift stage near the curtain. The shadowed space was packed with announcers, referees, fighters, and wrestlers, all gathered for one final briefing before the event began. Electric anticipation settled over the room, heavy and unshakable. Quiet chatter and the occasional clink of water bottles filling the air.

Logan took a deep breath as he looked out over the group. He felt a sense of pride of what he created but also felt the weight of the moment. This was it—the culmination of months of work, sacrifice, and endless nights of planning. The faces staring back at him reflected a mix of anticipation, focus, and, for some, doubt.

“Alright, everyone,” Logan began, his voice steady but carrying the gravity of the moment. “I know you’ve all heard me say this before, but I need you to hear it again. Tonight isn’t just another event. It isn’t just a fight card or a wrestling show. Tonight, we make history.”

His words hung in the air as he paused, scanning the room. The fighters stood to one side, stoic and focused, their arms crossed, or fists clenched. The wrestlers, in contrast, carried a more casual air—though even they seemed to recognize the gravity of the occasion. Glenn Sterling adjusted his robe, while Happy Jack muttered something inaudible to himself.

Logan continued, his tone firm. “The eyes of the world are on us tonight. Wrestling fans, fight fans, people who’ve never watched a single match or fight—they’re all tuning in. And it’s on us to show them something they’ll never forget.”

He pointed toward the curtain, behind which the muffled roar of the growing crowd could already be heard. “Out there, they’re expecting the best. They want to see passion, intensity, and a show they’ll talk about for years. That’s what we’re giving them.”

The group exchanged glances, the weight of Logan’s words sinking in. Colton Hayes stood with his arms crossed, nodding subtly as he absorbed the speech. Cade Mercer, flanked by his coaches, listened intently, the fire in his young eyes growing brighter. Titan, however, leaned against a production crate with his arms folded, a smug grin plastered across his face.

“History in the making, huh?” Titan said, his words oozed sarcasm. “For an event that’s not supposed to be scripted, this sure sounds like a scripted speech to me.”

A few muffled chuckles broke out among the wrestlers, but Logan didn’t take the bait. Instead, he locked eyes with Titan for a brief moment, his jaw tightening, before continuing without missing a beat.

“This isn’t about egos or rivalries,” Logan said, his voice cutting through the room. “This is about all of us. Fighters, wrestlers, refs, announcers—every single one of you has a job to do tonight. And I know you’re going to deliver.”

Julian St. James smirked subtly at the word “egos,” while Jax Braddock cracked his knuckles, looking like a caged animal ready to pounce. Even Titan shifted slightly, clearly annoyed that his comment hadn’t derailed Logan’s momentum.

Logan took one last look around the room, his voice softening slightly. “I know this is bigger than anything we’ve ever done before. I know it’s overwhelming. But I believe in every single one of you. Let’s go out there and give them a show they’ll never forget.”

The room was silent for a moment, the tension hanging heavy. Then, one by one, the group nodded, the reality of the moment sinking in. Logan stepped down from the stage, the crowd’s noise growing louder as the event crept closer to showtime.

Logan made his way toward the curtain, the muffled roar of the audience now a deafening presence. He paused just before stepping through, taking one last deep breath. The weight of the night pressed down on him, but so did the energy—the electric anticipation of something monumental about to unfold.

Behind him, the crew and competitors began to file out to their respective stations, the tension giving way to a focused determination. Logan straightened his tie, squared his shoulders, and stepped closer to the curtain.

The roar of the crowd grew, and the final countdown began. Showtime was here.