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(A/N: Also everyone I have a new novel a Dragon Age Inquisition novel named "From Couch To The Inquisitor", be sure to check it out and give some power stone)
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Suzuki nodded approvingly. "Good. Very good. But... I curious." Suzuki leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. "NJPW shachō..." (NJPW president...) "Hard man. Very strict. How you make him say yes? How you bring me to WWE RAW?" Sandro looked at Suzuki, a subtle, calculating smile returning to the corners of his mouth, not the wrestling persona, but the brilliant corporate strategist who knew how to move mountains behind the scenes.
"Business is universal, Minoru," Sandro explained smoothly, leaning back against the examination table. "Nexum Core holds significant broadcast and digital streaming distribution rights across East Asia. When I proposed a talent exchange framework that guaranteed expanded distribution for New Japan in Western markets, alongside a very generous appearance fee for yourself, it became an offer the management couldn't refuse. It was mutually beneficial deal after all."
Suzuki listened, absorbing the explanation, before letting out a loud, booming laugh that echoed off the tile walls.
"Ah! Takusan no okane!" (Lots of money!) Suzuki grinned, slapping his thigh. "You are smart man, God King. Big business. Good money for me, good fight for fans. I like working in America. Different system, but good talents. I learn new things."
"You certainly made an impression," AJ added dryly, though her tone was calm and collected, as she understood the professional nature of the visit.
Suzuki looked at the three women, bowing his head slightly in respect. "You three... tsuyoi woman." (Strong women.) You hit me with kendo stick and chairs. Good story to sell, look very brave. Stupid... but brave."
Nikki couldn't help but let out a short chuckle, despite her bruised jaw. "Well in the story, we had to protect our man after all."
"Mata ne," (See you later,) Suzuki said, offering a final nod to Sandro. *"We fight again shortly. Next time... I want us have longer match."
"I'll keep that in mind," Sandro replied with a respectful nod.
Suzuki turned and walked toward the door. Just as he reached the handle, the door opened from the outside, and two men stepped into the room.
Vince McMahon and Mick Foley entered together.
Vince, wearing a tailored navy suit, immediately extended his hand to Suzuki. "Outstanding work tonight, Minoru. The crowd was electric. Thank you for making the trip."
Suzuki shook Vince's hand firmly, offering a brief nod. "Arigatō, McMahon-san."
Foley also offered a respectful handshake to the Japanese legend. "Safe travels back to the hotel, Minoru. That was a hell of a main event."
Suzuki smiled, nodded to everyone in the room, and stepped out into the hallway, leaving the WWE executives alone with Sandro and the Three Terrors.
Vince turned his attention to Sandro, walking over to the examination table, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked at Sandro's heavily taped nose, his bruised ribs, and the exhaustion written across his face.
"Well," Vince began, his trademark gravelly voice filled with intense interest. "The internet is having a absolute meltdown right now. You wanted a mystery opponent to reset your momentum, Sandro, and you certainly got one."
"It achieved the objective, Vince," Sandro said, taking a sip of water handed to him by Alexa. "The audience stopped looking at mey character changing gto the cold calculating man who intentionally turned off his feeligs. They saw a fire in the God King again."
"They saw a war," Foley corrected, stepping forward, his hands resting on his hips. "And you lost, Sandro. Minoru Suzuki pinned you clean in the center of the ring. So, where does that leave us for Hell in a Cell this Sunday in New Orleans?"
Vince looked at his clipboard, then looked back at Sandro. "Mick and I were discussing the card on the way down here. The Hell in a Cell structure itself is already booked for the main event match between Bray Wyatt and his number one contender. We can't put you inside the cage this weekend."
"I don't need the cage," Sandro stated firmly, his dark eyes locking onto the Chairman.
"We need a marquee match for you on Sunday," Vince continued, pacing slowly across the room. "The fans expect you to be on the card, especially after tonight. We have a few options on the table. We could put you in a No Holds Barred match, an Extreme Rules match, or a Falls Count Anywhere match. But we need to know what kind of story you want to tell. What is the direction here, Sandro?"
Nikki, AJ, and Alexa looked at Sandro, waiting to hear his answer. They had spent two weeks watching him pull himself apart, trying to calculate his way out of defeat.
Sandro slowly pushed himself up from the examination table, standing on his own two feet. He looked at Vince, then looked at Foley. A confident, dangerous smirk spread across his face, his persona as the God King was back, fueled by raw emotion, pride, and an unquenchable desire for vengeance.
"Just follow my lead, boss," Sandro said quietly, his voice dripping with supreme confidence. "I have an idea that will make this match an instant viral sensation. Give me thirty seconds on camera tomorrow morning, and I will make sure New Orleans sells out every last arena ticket."
Vince stared at Sandro for a long moment, a slow, approving smile forming on his face. "Alright, Sandro. We'll release the footage tomorrow."
The following morning, at exactly 10:00 AM Eastern Time, the official WWE YouTube channel, Twitter account, and Instagram page simultaneously uploaded a three minute video titled, "DIGITAL EXCLUSIVE: Sandro Zhang confronts GM Mick Foley following RAW fallout."
The video immediately began racking up hundreds of thousands of views per minute.
The camera opened inside the General Manager's office at the KeyBank Center, recorded late Monday night after the show had officially gone off the air. Mick Foley was sitting behind his wooden desk, reviewing match contracts on his laptop.
The heavy door to the office was pushed open violently.
Sandro Zhang walked into the room. His nose was heavily taped with dark black surgical tape, dark purple bruises ringed his eyes, and his ribs were tightly wrapped under a black compression shirt. Flanking him on either side were AJ Lee, Nikki Bella, and Alexa Bliss, all three carrying themselves with a fierce, united intensity.
Foley looked up from his laptop, taking off his reading glasses, leaning back in his executive chair.
"Sandro," Foley said smoothly, his tone cautious but firm. "I assumed you'd be in the trainer's room getting iced down."
"I don't need ice, Mick," Sandro said, walking directly up to the desk, leaning his hands flat on the wood. "I need a contract."
Foley raised an eyebrow. "A contract for what?"
"Hell in a Cell," Sandro demanded, his dark eyes burning into the General Manager. "This Sunday. In New Orleans."
Foley let out a short, cynical laugh, shaking his head. "Sandro, let's be realistic here. You just went through a twenty five minute war with Minoru Suzuki. He put you through the mat with a Gotch Style Piledriver and pinned you clean in the middle of my ring. You are battered, your nose is broken, and your ribs are cracked. Why on earth would I put you on the card this Sunday?"
Sandro stared at Foley, his jaw clenching tightly.
For two weeks, the WWE Universe had watched Sandro Zhang act like a cold, emotionless robot, reciting statistics and treating his failures like all of it was some sort of miscalculation.
In that moment, the robot died.
Sandro's face twisted in pure, volcanic fury. He raised both hands and slammed his fists down onto Foley's desk with a thunderous BOOM!
The violent impact rattled the brass nameplate, knocked Foley's laptop monitor backward, and sent a stack of paperwork fluttering onto the floor.
AJ, Nikki, and Alexa didn't flinch. They stood right behind him, their expressions hardening, fully backing their leader's explosive outburst.
"Because I am Sandro Zhang!" Sandro roared, his voice echoing off the office walls, raw emotion bleeding from every syllable. "I don't care about your numbers! I don't care about your protocols! I don't care that Suzuki pinned me tonight! I am the most dominant force this company has ever seen, and I am not sitting on the sidelines in New Orleans while other men pretend to rule my kingdom!"
Foley didn't back down, but his eyes widened slightly at the sudden, explosive return of the God King's fiery passion.
"You want Suzuki again?" Foley asked, leaning forward, his voice dropping into a serious register. "You want to put your body through that nightmare a second time in six days?"
"I want Minoru Suzuki," Sandro growled, leaning closer, his face inches from Foley's. "And I don't want a standard wrestling match. I want a Falls Count Anywhere Match. No rules. No count outs. No corporate boundaries. I want to fight him all over that arena until one of us can't walk out."
The tension in the office was suffocating.
Foley stared into Sandro's eyes, seeing the undeniable, dangerous fire that had made Sandro a Triple Crown and Double World Champion in the first place. Foley slowly nodded his head, reaching for a red pen on his desk.
"A Falls Count Anywhere Match," Foley repeated, signing his name at the bottom of an official event document. "It's official, Sandro. You get Minoru Suzuki this Sunday at Hell in a Cell. And to make sure you have the full arena to tear each other apart... your match will be the opening match of the pay per view."
Sandro slowly stood up straight, his chest heaving, his dark eyes fixed on the General Manager. "Good."
Sandro turned on his heel, marching out of the General Manager's office, with AJ, Nikki, and Alexa following closely behind him.
The camera followed them out into the hallway.
Standing in the corridor, leaning against the concrete wall with his arms crossed over his chest, was John "Bradshaw" Layfield.
JBL was still wearing his wrinkled, sweat stained dress shirt from earlier in the night, his white cowboy hat resting securely on his head. The veteran broadcaster looked at Sandro, a proud, sharp grin spreading across his face.
Sandro stopped in front of JBL. The two men exchanged a long, meaningful look, a silent acknowledgment of the debt owed for JBL's dramatic intervention in the ring earlier that evening.
Sandro looked JBL dead in the eye, his voice low, steady, and commanding.
"You know what to do," Sandro said simply.
JBL adjusted his cowboy hat with a slow, deliberate nod of his head, his eyes flashing with the familiar, ruthless fire of The Wrestling God.
"Don't worry, sir," JBL replied, his Texas drawl thick and confident. "It will be done."
Sandro nodded once, turning and walking down the hallway with the Three Terrors by his side, while JBL pushed off the wall and walked in the opposite direction, setting the stage for a chaotic, explosive, and unforgettable night at Hell in a Cell.
The days following the explosive events of Monday Night RAW moved at a blistering pace, carrying a heavy, undeniable tension that bled straight into Friday night television.
The blue brand had a distinctly different energy. The arena was packed to the rafters, bathed in vibrant blue lighting, the fans buzzing with anticipation to hear from the man who had shocked the world in Paris.
The upbeat, triumphant guitar riff of Just Close Your Eyes blasted through the stadium speakers, and the audience absolutely erupted.
Christian stepped out from the curtain, wearing a sleek black leather jacket over his wrestling gear, but it was the accessory draped over his right shoulder that drew the loudest roar. The WWE Championship shimmered under the arena lights.
Captain Charisma paused at the top of the ramp, a wide, genuine smile spreading across his face as he looked out at the thousands of flashbulbs going off in the stands. He slapped high fives with the fans leaning over the barricades, soaking in the validation of a career built on grit, sacrifice, and survival.
He slid under the bottom rope, immediately climbing the nearest turnbuckle to raise the prestigious gold title high into the air, drawing another deafening cheer.
Christian hopped down, requesting a microphone from a ringside technician. The music slowly faded, leaving the veteran alone in the center of the ring, surrounded by a sea of homemade signs reading "CHRISTIAN'S PEEP SHOW" and "CAPTAIN CHAMPION."
"It has been several weeks," Christian began, his voice echoing through the arena, laced with a mix of exhaustion and pure joy. "Several weeks since I cashed in my Money in the Bank contract. Several weekssince I pinned Sandro Zhang in the middle of the ring. And I have to be honest with you... I still wake up every morning, look at this championship sitting on my nightstand, and have to pinch myself just to make sure I'm not dreaming."
The crowd cheered warmly, fully supporting his journey.
"But it is real," Christian declared, his tone shifting into a serious, passionate register. "This is real. The years of being told I wasn't big enough, the years of being told I wasn't quite main event material, the injuries, the betrayals... it was all worth it for this. And like I promised on Monday, I am not going to be a champion who hides behind a corporate faction or a team of lawyers. I am a fighting champion. Tomorrow night, at Hell in a Cell, I am putting this title on the line in my very first defense, and I am going to prove that my victory was not a fluke!"
The fans roared in approval, ready for a classic title defense.
However, the celebration was abruptly cut short.
The heavy, militant drumbeat of We Are One hit the PA system, immediately sucking the joy out of the arena. The cheers instantly morphed into a massive, unified wave of hostility.
Stepping out onto the entrance stage was the Nexus.
Led by the arrogant, sneering Intercontinental Champion, Wade Barrett, the faction looked incredibly imposing. Flanking Barrett on either side were the WWE Tag Team Champions, the massive muscle bound powerhouse Ryback, who was breathing heavily and pacing like a caged animal, and David Otunga, who stood with a smug, self satisfied grin, sipping from a silver thermos. Behind them stood the rest of the Nexus members, completing the numbers advantage.
Barrett didn't wait to get to the ring. He held a microphone in his hand, speaking as he slowly led his troops down the steel ramp.
"Can I please have some decorum?!" Barrett shouted over the boos, his thick British accent dripping with condescension. "Quiet down when the Intercontinental Champion is speaking!"
The crowd naturally booed louder.
Christian stood in the center of the ring, his smile vanishing, replaced by a look of veteran readiness. He draped the WWE Championship over his shoulder, watching the faction slowly surround the ring, taking positions on the floor like a military unit securing a perimeter.
Barrett climbed the steel steps, stepping through the ropes and stopping a few feet away from Christian.
"Listening to you out here, Christian, it really is quite pathetic," Barrett mocked, shaking his head slowly. "You talk about your long, hard journey. You talk about how you scratched and clawed for that championship. But let's look at the facts, shall we? You didn't beat Sandro Zhang in a fair fight. You waited until a swamp monster chewed him up and spit him out, and then you cowardly hit an unconscious man with a briefcase. You are a paper champion, mate. A transitional placeholder."
"Is that right?" Christian shot back, raising his microphone. "Because the record book doesn't say 'placeholder,' Wade. It says WWE Champion. Something you have never been able to call yourself."
Barrett's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. "That is exactly why I am out here. You claim to be a fighting champion. You claim you want to prove yourself tomorrow night at Hell in a Cell. Well, look no further."
Barrett tapped the Intercontinental Championship resting on his waist.
"I am on the run of a lifetime," Barrett boasted, his voice rising in volume. "I have single handedly restored the prestige of this Intercontinental Championship. I have a string of victories that puts everyone else in that locker room to shame. I am the most dominant force on this brand. My accomplishments are more than enough to make me the undisputed number one contender for that WWE Championship. So, I am laying down the challenge right here, right now. Tomorrow night. Me and you. For that title."
The crowd booed the challenge, knowing fully well how the Nexus operated in championship matches.
Christian let out a short, cynical laugh. He looked at Ryback staring daggers at him from the floor, then looked at Otunga flexing his pecs.
"You want a shot at this?" Christian asked, patting the gold on his shoulder. "Wade, you haven't earned a damn thing. You talk about your string of victories? Let's be honest. You haven't won a single match cleanly in couple of months. Every time you get in trouble, you have the human meat hook over there," Christian pointed at Ryback, "and the bowtie wearing barista," pointing at Otunga, " alomgside the rest of your goons to jump on the apron and do your dirty work for you. You don't have victories, Wade. You have accomplices."
Ryback slammed his massive hands against the ring apron, shouting furiously at Christian, demanding to be let in the ring. Barrett held his hand up, signaling for his heavy to stay put.
"It doesn't matter how the victories are secured, Christian," Barrett smirked confidently. "A win is a win. The history books don't care about the details. So, what is it going to be? Are you a fighting champion, or are you going to tuck your tail between your legs and run away like the coward we all know you are?"
Christian stared at the British brawler, his eyes hardening. He knew the numbers game was a massive risk, but he also knew he couldn't back down from a fight in his very first week as champion.
"You want to call me a coward?" Christian said, his voice dropping into a gritty, serious tone. "I've been hit with ladders, I've been thrown through tables, and I've survived things in this ring that would make you quit the business, Wade. I am not backing down from you. You want a match at Hell in a Cell? You got it."
The crowd popped, cheering Christian's fighting spirit.
"But let's make things interesting," Christian added, a sly smile returning to his face. "Since I am going to beat you tomorrow night and expose you in front of the world... maybe next week, I'll go to the General Manager and request a match for that Intercontinental Championship. Because walking around as a double champion sounds pretty good to me."
_______________________________
Name: Alessandro Zhang
Age: 21 (2011)
Birthplace: Orlando, Florida, USA
Brand: WWE - RAW
Wrestling Style: Mixed Of All Styles
Faction: The Undisputed System
Championships History: 1x FCW Tag Team Champions, 1x FCW Florida Heavyweight Champion, 1x TNA World Heavyweight Champion, 1x TNA X Division Champion, 1x WWE US Champion, 1x WWE Champion (364 Days -1st), & 1x World Heavyweight Champion (281 Days - 1st)
Other Achievements: 1x Inaugural Andre the Giant Memorial Battle Royale Winner, 1x Mr. Money In The Bank, Youngest WWE Champion, PWI Top 500 (No.1) - 2010, 1x KOTR (2010), Youngest World Heavyweight Champion, Youngest Triple Crown Champion, & Longest US Title reign In WWE History (376 Days - 1st reign)
Wrestlemania Record: 2 - 0 Main Event: 1 - 0