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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.
And Sandro then turned around, the steel chair still in his hand, the two championship belts slung across his battered shoulders, and proceeded to walk toward the entrance stage, each step slow and deliberate.
The show lights glared down, casting a harsh white spotlight over the wreckage he left behind, Moxley groaning in pain, Black completely still, and the bloodied, battered champion towering above it all.
The camera caught one final shot of Sandro as he reached the top of the ramp, stopped, and raised the steel chair above his head like a trophy, his expression a brutal mixture of exhaustion, defiance, and something darker, something new.
Then, just like that, the broadcast faded out, the screen cutting to black with the roaring crowd still echoing in the background.
The triple threat match between Sandro, Moxley, and Black immediately became a phenomenon among the fans.
Social media exploded in real time, words like Triple Threat Carnage, Sandro Take His Wins Back, and Sandro Use Steel Chair flooded the trending page. Fans, critics, and wrestlers alike couldn't stop talking about it.
Everyone had expected a fight, sure, but nobody had expected this level of brutal, storytelling infused violence.
Yet what truly captured the imagination of the audience wasn't just the blood, the near falls, or even the highlight reel spots, it was Sandro. The fans had watched him closely for months, getting used to his calculated style, fierce but fair, tactical but ethical.
Sandro never initiated the use of weapons. That was almost like an unwritten code for his new persona. He would only resort to steel chairs, kendo sticks, or whatever else if someone tried to use it on him first.
But tonight… tonight he made the first move.
Without provocation, without hesitation, Sandro had swung that steel chair with bad intentions. He chose violence. It wasn't survival. It was something deeper, something personal.
And even though it was legal under triple threat rules, no disqualification, anything goes, the fans couldn't shake the feeling that they had seen the beginning of a real change, and remember what had happened last week at the main event.
Last week's loss, the heated backstage segment confrontation with Kofi Kingston... it all seemed to be pushing Sandro further and further down a path he couldn't return from.
The internet exploded with debates.
Had Sandro finally snapped and turned into the worst? Was he turning his back on everything he stood for? Or was this just survival, the price of being at the top of two companies at once?
Everyone had an opinion. Everyone had questions.
Nobody had answers. That question, the uncertainty of it, drove the match into legend almost instantly.
Meanwhile, backstage, the atmosphere was electric, charged like the aftermath of a lightning storm. Wrestlers, trainers, and staff members buzzed about, some still talking animatedly about what they had just witnessed.
In the middle of it, Sandro walked with purpose, his body feeling the exhaustion, his mind still racing. Dusty Rhodes and Steve Keirn approached him near the gorilla position, both men grinning like proud fathers after watching their son win his first big game.
"Now that's how you put on a goddamn show, kid," Dusty said with a grin, his voice deep and warm with approval. "You made magic out there and killed it tonight."
Steve clapped Sandro firmly on the back, careful not to hit too hard. "That's the stuff right there. You're proving why you're the double champ. Hell, why you're one of the best we got. You took that crowd on a ride they ain't gonna forget anytime soon.
Sandro offered a tired but genuine smile, the adrenaline still pumping through his veins. His hands were still trembling slightly, not from fear, but from the pure, electric charge of the fight.
Dusty nodded approvingly and continued, "And listen, we got more good news. You're gonna be on TNA iMPACT! this Thursday over in Nashville."
Sandro straightened a little at that, his interest piqued.
"Yup," Steve confirmed. "You're the TNA World Heavyweight Champion. You need to show your face on their show too, to keep the momentum going for you. Could be a promo. Could be a match. Depends on what creative lines up for ya. Don't worry though, you ain't going alone."
Dusty grinned. "Rebecca's coming along too, she's the TNA Knockouts Champion now, remember? And Beer Money Inc., those boys are your backup, TNA World Tag Team Champs. Solid crew. And Steve'll be there too, keep everything nice and smooth."
Sandro nodded thoughtfully. It made sense. As much as FCW was his home turf, TNA had a claim to him now, too. The responsibilities of a double champion weren't small. "Thank you for letting me know," he said, voice calm but resolute.
Dusty gave him a wink. "You'll kill it, kid. Ain't a doubt in my mind. Just keep doing what you're doing."
Sandro didn't linger. After a few more words of encouragement, and thanked them both sincerely, he made his way toward the locker room. He had a mission now, which was to clean up, gear down, and get ready for the next battle.
He pushed open the door to his private locker room and stepped inside, exhaling deeply as he finally allowed himself a moment to breathe.
He moved with automatic motions, stripping off his bloodstained gear and pulling on a fresh set of casual clothes. Changing into a pair of dark jeans, a black hoodie, and some sneakers, he sat down on the bench, running a hand through his damp, messy hair.
That's when his iPhone buzzed violently in his pocket. He frowned, pulling it out.
Sandro glanced at the screen.
The screen displayed a number he recognized instantly. The people he hired to dig into what had been happening to Alexa. His stomach tensed.
Without wasting a second, Sandro accepted the call and pressed the phone to his ear. "Talk," he said, voice low and commanding.
The man on the other side didn't waste time on pleasantries. He spoke clearly, directly. "We've completed the tracking and cross referencing, Mr. Zhang. The calls and text messages harassing Alexa came from multiple locations around Orlando. Seven different individuals, each from different areas, but they all have one thing in common."
Sandro's heart clenched, his body tensing. "What?"
"They all maintained consistent contact with a single phone number," the man continued. "Registered under the name Dakota Darsow."
Sandro's brows furrowed instantly. His free hand curled into a tight fist. "Barry Allen?" he said sharply, using the FCW ring name.
"Yes," the man confirmed. "We double checked. Triple checked. It's iron clad. We have text message logs showing Barry directing those seven individuals, encouraging them to continue the harassment campaign. He even offered them payment bonuses depending on how much mental pressure they could put on Alexa."
Sandro's blood boiled under his skin, a low fury building that threatened to slip past his control. He gritted his teeth. "What kind of evidence do you have?"
The man on the other end was prepared. "We have screenshots of the conversations. Bank transactions records. IP address matches. Surveillance footage from a few public places shows Barry meeting with two of the individuals. It's tight. Very tight. If you wanted to, you could take this to court and have him nailed."
Sandro closed his eyes for a second, breathing deeply. The locker room felt smaller, and hotter.
It wasn't just about harassment anymore. It wasn't just about threats. This was an orchestrated attack on Alexa's mental health, her career, and her life, all by someone she had to work with. Someone who hid behind fake smiles and handshakes backstage.
And now Sandro had the proof.
"Send everything to my private email, I have texted you the address," Sandro said, voice colder than ice.
"Already done," the man replied. "Check your inbox."
The call ended.
Sandro sat there for a long moment, staring at the floor, his mind racing.
He knew the wrestling world was a political battlefield, filled with backstabbing and mind games. But this? This crossed a line.
He thought about Alexa, how tough she had tried to be, how she smiled through the pain, how she brushed off the anxiety and the panic attacks like they were nothing. Sandro knew she was suffering, but he hadn't realized the full extent of the rot eating away at her from the inside.
Barry Allen — Dakota Darsow — had made himself an enemy. And Sandro had never been the type to forgive this kind of thing, especially since his suspicion of Barry was proven now.
Slowly, he rose to his feet. There was a fire in his eyes that hadn't been there before, a spark that burned hotter than it ever had in the ring.
There were choices to make.
Not tonight. Not when his body was still held together by sheer adrenaline and willpower. But soon.
He zipped up his hoodie, slipped his phone into his pocket, and grabbed his duffel bag. Before leaving, he paused, looking at himself in the mirror.
The blood was cleaned off, but the bruises were blooming ugly purple across his cheek and forehead, which he didn't feel at all. His eyes, though, they were clear. Steady.
He thought about Thursday. About Nashville. About TNA iMPACT!. Another battlefield. Another war to fight.
He couldn't help but feel his anger being replaced with excitement for a moment, because in TNA, there were so many wrestlers he could wrestle with, even legends, and this could help expand his portfolio in the wrestling industry, building a legacy not just in FCW but across multiple promotions.
His mind buzzed with possibilities, matches against AJ Styles, Christopher Daniels, Sting, Christian, and many more. These were the kind of names that made careers, that carved memories into wrestling history.
This was what he had always craved deep down: challenge, evolution, the chance to test himself against the very best, to see if he could stand tall among them or fall and learn from it.
The anger simmering inside his chest cooled, banked by this flicker of genuine excitement. His steps grew a little lighter, despite the exhaustion clawing at every muscle in his battered body.
He adjusted the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder, pulling up the hood of his black sweatshirt as he made his way through the labyrinthine halls of the arena, heading toward the parking lot where his car was waiting.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed quietly, the distant sound of staff packing up equipment and wrestlers laughing or groaning with exhaustion filling the air.
It was the usual aftermath of a brutal night, the kind of atmosphere Sandro had grown used to, a place where exhaustion and glory mixed together in equal measure, at least for him, who couldn't feel pain.
He rounded a corner at a brisk pace—
—and nearly collided straight into someone.
The impact was brief but enough to jolt both men back a step. Sandro immediately steadied himself, instinctively squaring his shoulders. His eyes locked onto the figure he had bumped into.
Barry Allen or Dakota Darsow.
For a second, the world seemed to slow down, like thick syrup dragging everything into slow motion.
Barry looked up, blinking in mild surprise, his expression quickly shifting to forced casualness. "Yo, watch it, man," he muttered, flashing a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.
Sandro didn't say a word.
He didn't need to.
His eyes did all the talking for him.
He glared at Barry, no, through Barry, with a look so intense, so raw, that it made Barry instinctively flinch, just the slightest twitch of his mouth betraying a deeper reaction of unease.
Sandro's entire body radiated a cold, seething energy, his gaze hard as stone, his jaw clenching tight. There was no mistaking it, he knew. Barry's smile faltered for a second, his confident facade cracking under the weight of that stare. A flicker of dread curled inside his gut like a snake awakening.
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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