That Doesn't Work for Me Brother

The fluorescent lights overhead hummed like dying wasps, flickering erratically, casting uneven shadows in the cramped, smoke-stained office. Stacks of disorganized papers, faded posters from past events, and an old leather chair that had seen better days made it clear—this wasn’t the glamorous side of the wrestling business. This was where deals were made, careers were dictated, and, sometimes, egos were shattered.

Behind the desk sat Roy Stafford, the company’s grizzled promoter, his face lined with decades of battles waged outside the ring. Leaning against a filing cabinet was Mark Daniels, one of the company’s head bookers, arms crossed, foot tapping impatiently against the tile floor. Without a word, the strain between them was clear, thick as a storm cloud on the horizon. They knew what was coming.

The door swung open hard enough to rattle the window blinds—no knock, no hesitation.  

Titan walked in like gravity bent around him, his presence sucking the air from the room

before he even spoke.  

Dressed in his ring gear with a sleeveless hoodie draped over his shoulders, his platinum-blond hair was still damp from a pre-match shower, but his confidence was untouched. The World Heavyweight Championship rested on his shoulder, the gold plate catching the dim office light. He didn’t wait for an invitation to sit—he dropped into the chair across from Roy’s desk, leaned back, and smirked.

“So,” Titan said, voice dripping with expectation. “Who am I beating tonight?”

Roy exhaled through his nose, glancing at Mark before clearing his throat. “Actually, Titan, about tonight…” He hesitated, searching for the right way to say what needed to be said.

Titan raised an eyebrow. “Spit it out, Roy. I don’t have all day.”

Roy hesitated. Mark didn’t.

“You’re dropping the belt tonight,” Mark said flatly. “To Havok. Clean.”

Titan didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He let the words hang in the air, his smirk frozen in place as if processing them at his own pace. Then, slowly, deliberately, he lifted the championship off his shoulder and placed it on the desk. His fingers drummed against the gold, a quiet tap, tap, tap breaking the silence.

“Come again?”

Roy shifted in his chair, but Mark stepped in again, emboldened by the stillness in the room.

“Havok is the future, Titan. You’ve had a hell of a run, but it’s time. We’re putting the strap on him tonight.”

Titan’s eyes flicked toward Mark, locking on him with unsettling calm. The tap of his fingers against the belt stopped. His smirk widened—cold, dangerous.

“That doesn’t work for me, brother.”

Mark scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Of course it doesn’t. But it’s happening. You’re not bigger than the business.”

Titan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. His tone was softer now, almost conversational, which only made it more unnerving. “You think this company lives and dies by Havok?” He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “Roy, you tell him or should I?”

Roy ran a hand through his thinning hair, his frustration mounting. “Titan—”

Titan cut him off with a gesture, keeping his focus on Mark. “Let me help you out here, kid. This belt?” He tapped the gold again. “It isn’t just a prop. It’s money. It’s why the arenas are full, why the merch tables are empty, why people still give a damn about this company.” His voice dropped a note, his smirk turning razor-sharp. “You take it off me tonight, and you might as well-set fire to all of it.”

Mark straightened, crossing his arms. “You really believe that, don’t you? That with out you, this company crumbles?”

Titan laughed, leaning back in his chair. “No, Mark. I know it.”

Roy sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Titan, listen to me—”

Titan held up a hand. “No, Roy. You listen. You want to make Havok? Fine. But you do it at the pay-per-view, not in some throwaway match on TV. That’s how you build a star. That’s how you make money.”

Mark shook his head, clearly frustrated. “The pay-per-view is four months away, Titan. Four months. We can’t drag this out that long.”

“Four months is perfect.” Titan spread his hands, as if laying out the simplest answer in the world. “Four months to continue to build me as the unbeatable champion. Four months to build Havok as the underdog hero. Four months to make people desperate to see who comes out on top.” His eyes gleamed as he delivered the final blow. “And four months to make sure your pay-per-view numbers blow the roof off.”

Roy sat back in his chair, considering. He wasn’t stupid. He knew Titan was right—about the money, about the business. The problem was, he also knew Titan was playing him.

Mark, however, was done with the game. “This isn’t about business. It’s about you not wanting to lose tonight.”

Titan grinned. “You’re damn right I don’t want to lose tonight. But don’t pretend this isn’t also what’s best for the company.”

Silence stretched between them.

Roy sighed, rubbing his temples. Finally, after a long pause, he looked up, his expression lined with resignation. “Alright, Titan. You win. We’ll hold off until the pay-per-view. But this is on you. If this blows up in our faces, you’re the one taking the heat.”

Titan stood, picking up the belt and slinging it back over his shoulder. “Relax, Roy.” He smirked, adjusting the championship. “When have I ever let you down?”

Mark muttered something under his breath, but Titan ignored him, striding toward the door. He paused in the doorway, looking over his shoulder. “Four months. More time to build Titan up.” His grin widened. “Perfect.”

He left without another word.

Roy sat back in his chair, staring at the now-empty doorway.

“This is a mistake,” Mark muttered, shaking his head.

Roy sighed, rubbing his face. “Maybe.” He looked at the desk, at the space where Titan’s

championship had been just moments ago. “But he’s not wrong about the money.”