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"Cult of Personality" screamed through the speakers, the unmistakable opening riff jolting fans out of their seats. A mix of cheers and boos followed, louder than last week, more divided now. The backstage segment with Kofi had soured some of the crowd. Some were disillusioned. Others saw it as proof that Sandro was changing and not for the better.
Sandro acted like his character didn't care what the fans thought, he only wanted to win tonight and turn last week's loss into a win.
Clad in his in ring gear, he stepped through the curtain with both titles displayed proudly, FCW Florida Heavyweight on his right shoulder, TNA World Heavyweight on the left. The double champs show the hardware he has.
He walked down the ramp slowly, letting the crowd drink it in. Their reactions were a storm, some worshipped, some booed, and some just stood and watched, unsure which side of him would show up tonight.
Once in the ring, he stood at the center and raised both titles high. He didn't say a word. Didn't pander. Just stood there, eyes cold, shoulders squared.
The man the next entrance music hit.
Tyler Black emerged through the fog to a sea of boos. He grinned, arrogant and smug, as always. His lean frame moved with purpose, but every step was soaked in ego.
He barely looked at the fans as he strutted down the ramp, eyes locked on Sandro, the Florida Heavyweight Championship calling to him like a siren's song.
Then it happened.
The cheers erupted, fast and loud.
Tyler blinked, confused. He turned around, just in time to be blindsided.
Jon Moxley.
He came out of nowhere, launching himself at Black like a man possessed. No music. No theatrics. Just violence.
The referee seeing this immediately called for the bell. The match had officially begun and there was no disqualification in triple threat rules.
Moxley's fists rained down in wild, chaotic shots, forcing Black to the ground before he could even get his jacket off. The crowd exploded in excitement. Sandro stepped back, watching from a distance as Moxley unloaded weeks of pent up rage.
After what Black had done to him, the betrayal, the sneak attack, and costing him his match at Forbidden Door, Moxley wanted blood. Black tries to scramble away, managing to leave the ramp and head ringside but Moxley follows, relentlessly.
The brawl continues at ringside, and Sandro shows his character took a moment to breathe. Like he knew how these matches worked. Triple threats were about timing. Strategy. Let the chaos consume them, then strike when the moment's right.
He paced the ring like a predator, waiting for his moment.
Moxley tossed Black into the steel steps with a sickening clang. The fans roared. Black screamed, clutching his shoulder. Moxley turned toward the ring, eyes wild, jaw clenched, and he saw Sandro watching.
That was all it took.
He slid back into the ring, and just like that, it was on.
Sandro met him head on.
The collision between Sandro and Moxley was nothing short of war. The two collided in a furious flurry of strikes, the crowd going absolutely nuts.
They struck each other like they had nothing left to lose. Forearm after forearm, elbow after elbow, chop after chop, stiff and unrelenting. The fans were on their feet, their cheers merging into a deafening wall of noise as the noise of their exchange echoed through the arena, laid into one another like they were trying to shatter the other's will.
Moxley grabbed Sandro by the back of the neck, slamming a headbutt right between his eyes. Sandro stumbled, just a step, before launching back with a palm strike that smacked across Moxley's jaw.
He followed up with a knee to the gut, doubling Moxley over, and lifted him for a suplex but Moxley kicked his legs, twisted, and dropped behind Sandro, locking him in a waist hold. Sandro responded with a vicious back elbow that staggered Moxley into the ropes.
Black, still reeling from being tossed into the steel steps, had finally regained enough composure to climb back to the apron, eyes wild with frustration. His jacket was gone now, and so was the smug grin. What was left was pure anger.
He launched himself over the top rope with a springboard clothesline, hitting both men mid battle. All three bodies crashed to the mat, tangled, sweat slicked, and seething.
Tyler Black was the first up, dragging Sandro to his knees and unloading a series of rapid kicks to the chest with each one punctuated by the crowd's reaction.
The final kick, aimed at Sandro's head, was caught. Sandro rose with fury, shoving Black backward into Moxley, who lifted him up and dropped him with a spine-shattering German suplex.
Black arched, his body twitching on the canvas as Moxley snarled and turned back toward Sandro, but Sandro was already on him, ducking a wild punch and answering with a brutal European uppercut.
Moxley staggered into the corner, and Sandro hit a running clothesline, sandwiching him against the turnbuckle. Without pause, Sandro hoisted him up onto the top rope, climbed alongside him, and delivered a huge top rope superplex. The ring shook. The crowd gasped.
Sandro sat up slowly, breathing hard, eyes cold as ever. He had control just like he wanted. The match was unfolding just as he planned.
Tyler Black was crawling, trying to pull himself up using the ropes, but Sandro grabbed him by the hair and yanked him into a stiff lariat that flipped Black inside out. Moxley rolled out of the ring, falling to the floor as Sandro covered Black.
One. Two—
Kick out.
Sandro didn't argue with the referee. He just stood, looking down at Black who was taking several heavy deep breaths, and then turned his attention to Moxley, who was using the barricade to stand.
Sliding out, Sandro took a moment to stalk his prey. He approached with slow, deliberate steps. Moxley turned just in time for Sandro to grab him and toss him over the announce table, scattering monitors and drinks and bodies.
Sandro didn't follow immediately. He walked back toward the steel steps, dragged them apart, and grabbed the bottom half. The fans roared in anticipation. But as he turned, Tyler Black soared between the middle and the top rope with a suicide dive, slamming both men into the barricade.
"THIS IS AWESOME!" chants rang out.
Black pulled Moxley from the wreckage, throwing him into the ring before leaping onto the apron and hitting a springboard knee drop that landed flush on Moxley's neck. He tried to go for the pin, one, two, but again Moxley kicked out.
This time, Tyler didn't waste a second. He ran the ropes and landed a perfect standing moonsault, then transitioned straight into a crossface. Moxley screamed, the pain shooting through his neck and shoulders. His hand hovered.
Sandro slid in and broke the hold with a stomp to Black's face.
He dragged Tyler up by the waistband and hit a backbreaker across his knee, then whipped him into the corner so hard it knocked the wind out of him. Sandro followed with a corner clothesline, then a second, then a short arm lariat that dropped Black to the mat like dead weight.
Moxley tried to rush him from behind but Sandro caught him, spun him around, and dropped him with a wicked powerslam. He popped up to his knees, chest heaving, eyes locked on both men writhing before him.
It was his match now.
Sandro paced the ring like a general, surveying the battlefield. He hit Moxley with a short DDT and tossed Black outside the ropes, then followed him, laying a few punches in before whipping him hard into the barricade. Black collapsed in a heap.
Sandro turned back to the ring just in time for Moxley to hit a suicide dive of his own.
The crowd went wild.
Moxley didn't stop. He pulled Sandro up, threw him into the steel post, and then turned back toward Black. But Black was already up and the two collided again.
This wasn't just a rivalry shared between the two anymore. This was deep seated hatred.
Moxley tackled Black to the ground and mounted him, fists flying like a man possessed. Black managed to reverse, hammering his own shots down. The crowd was torn, some booing, some cheering, some just screaming.
They rolled toward the steel steps, and Black hit a knee strike right to Moxley's jaw. He then slammed Moxley's head into the steps twice before dragging him up and rolling him back into the ring.
Sandro was stirring now, pulling himself up slowly using the apron. He watched from a distance.
In the ring, Black climbed to the top rope and launched off with a high knee drop straight to Moxley's chest. He picked him up for a falcon arrow, connected. He stood again, waiting, breathing hard, signaling for the end.
But Moxley exploded to life, hitting his finisher the Moxicity out of nowhere. The crowd ERUPTED.
Both men were down.
Sandro on the outside saw his moment.
He slid in quietly, stalking the fallen bodies. He waited, timed it. He dragged Black up but Tyler hit a desperation enzuigiri that sent Sandro staggering into the corner.
And then without a word, without any spoken pact, Tyler and Moxley looked at each other.
There was a moment of mutual understanding from their tag team days before Black betrayal.
Take him out.
Both men charged Sandro in the corner, fists flying. They double teamed him with ferocity with chops, kicks, and then a double superplex off the top rope that left Sandro laid out.
Tyler and Moxley didn't stop. They stomped him into the mat, then rolled him out of the ring like dead weight.
And now it was just the two of them.
The match shifted into second gear.
Black ducked a lariat, rebounded, and hit a sling blade. Moxley kicked out at two. Black ran again, but Moxley caught him mid air and hit a release suplex. Two count. Moxley tried for another Moxicity, but Black spun out, landed a bicycle knee taking Moxley down, then picked him up, and delivered the Paroxysm.
He hooked the leg.
ONE.
TWO.
CRACK.
A sickening steel chair shot exploded across Black's back.
The arena gasped, and they saw Sandro standing above them, chair in hand, face void of emotion.
Another chair shot, this time across Black's ribs. Then one to Moxley's spine as he tried to crawl away.
Fans booed, some cheered, but everyone watched in stunned silence.
Sandro threw down the chair, his chest heaving, and walked to the corner. He didn't pander. Didn't speak. He just climbed.
Top turnbuckle.
He raised a single arm in the air, signaling for it.
The Downfall DDT.
Moxley and Black, dazed and broken, began to rise together, barely aware of the danger. They stood, back to back, heads low, unsteady.
And Sandro jumped.
The crowd lost it.
His arms hooked both of their heads mid air and spiked them face first into the canvas in a double Downfall DDT. It was brutal. Their heads bounced.
He didn't hesitate.
Sandro crawled over to Moxley and hooked the leg.
ONE.
TWO.
THREE.
The bell rang.
The arena was stunned.
"Here is your winner, and STILL THE FCW Florida Heavyweight Champion... SANDRO ZHANG!"
Sandro, broken and bruised, slowly sat up, a cold smile barely creeping onto his face as "Cult of Personality" blared through the speakers once more.
The referee handed him both titles, one for each shoulder. He rose, slow but proud, and stood over the wreckage.
Moxley lay on his back, eyes barely open.
Black didn't move at all.
Sandro raised the titles high, blood trickling from a cut above his eye, sweat dripping off his body, bruises forming fast. The fans chanted his name and booed him at the same time, a wave of chaos just like the man himself.
Sandro acted like his character didn't care because he won, and that he always found a way. As he stepped out of the ring, Sandro gave one last glance at the destruction he left behind, then raised the steel chair above his head, but a fierce glint could be seen in his eyes and expression.
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Name: Alessandro Zhang
Age: 19 (2009)
Birthplace: Orlando, Florida USA
Brand: FCW
Wrestling Style: Mixed Of All Style
Faction: Dragon Boom (Tag Team)
Championship History: 1x FCW Tag Team Champions, 1x FCW Florida Heavyweight Champion, & 1x TNA World Heavyweight Champion