The camera sweeps across the arena as the crowd stays hot from the opening ladder match. Ladders are being rolled up the ramp, officials clearing stray hardware, the ring crew doing a final check of the ropes and turnbuckles like they’re resetting the world for something heavier.
On the big screen, a highlight package rolls: six bodies crashing, rungs bending, the briefcase swinging like a pendulum over chaos—then one final image freezes: KAIRO BEX perched on the ladder’s top, hands ripping the briefcase down like he just stole the future.
John Phillips: "What a way to start Day Two. Kairo Bex just earned a one-year UTA contract… and now, because of that briefcase, he goes straight into a WrestleZone Championship match."
Mark Bravo: "That’s the kind of night that can change your whole life. You go from ‘unknown’ to ‘signed’ and then—boom—five minutes later you’re staring at a champion who doesn’t believe in mercy."
John Phillips: "And that champion is Gunnar Van Patton. He won the WrestleZone Championship at Seasons Beatings and has carried himself like the belt is a military-issued weapon ever since."
Mark Bravo: "Gunnar doesn’t ‘defend’ titles. He enforces them."
The ring announcer stands center-ring as the lights dim slightly, letting the hard-cam graphic take over the screen.
WRESTLEZONE CHAMPIONSHIP
GUNNAR VAN PATTON (c) vs. KAIRO BEX
John Phillips: "And you’ve got a fascinating clash of styles. Kairo is pure pace—angles, springboards, sudden cutters. Gunnar is Strong Style and punishment—suplexes, knees, that grim, methodical pressure."
Mark Bravo: "Speed versus brutality. Neon versus… whatever darkness Gunnar crawled out of."
The house lights dim slowly, not all at once, but in a rolling fade that sweeps across the arena like a tide pulling back from the shore. A low hum rises from the crowd — anticipation, curiosity, the electricity of a moment everyone knows is important. Then the first pulse hits: a soft neon blue strobe, followed by pink, followed by a crisp white flash that syncs perfectly with the opening beat of “Neon Pulse.”
The music isn’t loud at first. It’s clean, glossy, almost delicate — a hip‑hop rhythm wrapped in shimmering synths. The crowd recognizes it instantly and the hum becomes a roar. The neon wash spreads across the stage, painting the entrance ramp in shifting color. The beat sharpens. The lights tighten. And then—
Kairo Bex steps through the curtain.
He doesn’t explode out. He doesn’t sprint. He just appears — shoulders loose, chin lifted, a small, confident grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. The crowd erupts for him, and he lets that energy wash over him for a heartbeat before he starts moving. His ribs are heavily taped, the bruising visible even under the neon glow, but he carries himself with that unmistakable Kairo rhythm: light on his feet, smooth in his posture, gliding rather than walking.
Mark Bravo: “He’s hurt, but he’s not hiding it. That’s gutsy… or reckless. Hard to tell with kids like him.”
John Phillips: “He’s proud of what he earned tonight. And he should be. That ladder match took years off careers, and he still walked out with the contract.”
Kairo points to the hard‑cam — not a dramatic gesture, just a clean, sharp acknowledgment — then rolls his shoulders and starts down the ramp. Every step is measured, but not cautious. He’s not limping. He’s not dragging. He’s moving like a man who refuses to let pain dictate his pace.
Fans along the barricade reach out, and he taps a few hands as he passes, but he never breaks stride. His eyes stay locked on the ring, scanning it like a chessboard, calculating angles, imagining springboards, mapping out the geometry of the fight he knows is coming.
Mark Bravo: “He’s trying to stay loose. That’s smart. Tight muscles around taped ribs? Recipe for disaster.”
John Phillips: “He’s been in big fights before, Mark. He knows how to manage himself.”
Mark Bravo: “Sure. But he’s never been in one with Gunnar Van Patton waiting at the other end.”
Kairo reaches the ring, slides under the bottom rope with a fluid motion that looks effortless despite the damage, and pops up instantly. He hops to the second rope, throws a crisp salute to the crowd, and lands soft — but the moment his boots hit the mat, there’s a tiny hitch in his posture. A wince. Barely visible, but real.
The crowd sees it. They cheer louder, as if volume alone can hold him together.
Kairo bounces in place, testing his footing, rolling his neck, shaking out his arms. He’s hurting. But he’s ready.
The music fades. The neon dies. The arena plunges into a low, heavy darkness.
For a moment, there is nothing. No music. No lights. Just the murmur of thousands of people waiting for something they know is coming.
Then—
BOOM.
“Boots and Blood” doesn’t start — it detonates. The opening scream tears through the speakers like a blade, and the strobe lights erupt in violent bursts, each flash slicing the darkness into jagged frames. The crowd’s reaction shifts instantly: not fear, not excitement, but a deep, instinctive awareness that the tone of the night has changed.
Gunnar Van Patton steps through the curtain.
He doesn’t pause. He doesn’t acknowledge the crowd. He doesn’t even look at the WrestleZone Championship — the belt hangs from his right hand like a piece of gear he forgot to put away. His posture is relaxed but loaded, like a man who has spent his entire life preparing for violence and sees no reason to pretend otherwise.
John Phillips: “There’s the champion. And he looks… exactly like the man Kairo didn’t need to face at less than one hundred percent.”
Mark Bravo: “He’s not here to make a moment. He’s here to end one.”
Gunnar walks straight down the ramp, each step heavy but efficient. No wasted motion. No theatrics. The strobe lights catch the scars across his arms, the tattoos, the cold focus in his expression. He looks like a man who has already accepted the outcome of the match — not because he’s arrogant, but because he’s certain.
Fans reach out toward him, but he doesn’t look left or right. He doesn’t even seem aware of them. His eyes are locked on the ring, on Kairo, on the fight.
Mark Bravo: “That’s the thing about Gunnar. He doesn’t need to posture. He doesn’t need to raise the belt. His presence does the talking.”
John Phillips: “And Kairo’s standing tall. He’s not backing down.”
Mark Bravo: “He’s also taped together like a discount action figure. Standing tall only gets you so far.”
Gunnar reaches the ring, hits the apron low, and slides under the bottom rope with the smoothness of a man who has done it a thousand times. He rises in one fluid motion, front handspring, feet under him, eyes locked on Kairo the entire time.
He tosses the championship to the referee without looking at it. Not disrespect — indifference. The belt is a fact, not a trophy.
Then he backs into his corner, crouches low, and begins adjusting his gloves, tightening the straps, checking his pads. Every movement is deliberate, practiced, ritualistic. He breathes slow. Controlled. Focused.
Kairo watches him. Gunnar watches back. The crowd feels the tension coil tighter and tighter, like the air itself is bracing for impact.
John Phillips: “This is a collision of two completely different worlds. Kairo’s speed, creativity, and heart… against Gunnar’s power, discipline, and absolute refusal to play games.”
Mark Bravo: “And only one of them walked in here fresh. That matters. It matters a lot.”
The referee holds up the WrestleZone Championship. The crowd roars. Kairo straightens his posture despite the pain. Gunnar doesn’t move at all.
The referee steps back after checking Gunnar’s gloves, giving the two men space. The crowd hasn’t settled since the entrances; the noise rolls in waves, rising and falling as fans try to decide whether to cheer for heart or brace for violence. Kairo keeps bouncing in place, but the rhythm is tighter now, more controlled. Every breath pulls at the tape around his ribs, and every pull reminds him exactly what he’s walking into.
Gunnar pushes off the turnbuckles with a slow, deliberate motion. He doesn’t stalk. He doesn’t posture. He just walks toward the center of the ring like a man approaching a job he’s done a thousand times. Kairo steps forward to meet him, shoulders squared, chin up, refusing to give an inch of ground.
Mark Bravo: “Look at the difference in how they’re standing. Gunnar’s planted like a tree. Kairo’s trying to stay loose enough to keep from seizing up.”
John Phillips: “He has to. If he stiffens up, those ribs are going to betray him.”
Mark Bravo: “They already are.”
The referee instinctively moves between them, but Gunnar doesn’t even acknowledge him. His one good eye stays locked on Kairo, studying him, measuring him, dissecting him. Kairo doesn’t blink. He doesn’t look away. But there’s a tension in his jaw that wasn’t there a moment ago — the tension of a man who knows he’s being evaluated by someone who sees through him.
Gunnar lifts a hand. Not a strike. Not a threat. Just a simple, open‑palm gesture that freezes the moment in place. The crowd quiets almost instantly, confused by the sudden shift in energy. Kairo’s brows knit, unsure what he’s looking at.
Gunnar Van Patton: “Walk away, kid.”
The words hit the air like a cold wind. The crowd reacts in a confused ripple — some boo, some gasp, some fall silent. Kairo’s eyes widen, not in fear, but in disbelief.
Gunnar Van Patton: “Ya won yer contract. You earned yer shot. Ain’t nobody takin’ that from ya.”
He steps closer, voice low but clear, the kind of tone that carries without needing to be loud.
Gunnar Van Patton: “But you ain’t whole. And Ah ain’t interested in beatin’ a man who ain’t whole. There ain’t no glory in it.”
Kairo’s breathing sharpens. His fists clench. The crowd leans in.
John Phillips: “Gunnar Van Patton… offering mercy? That’s—”
Mark Bravo: “That’s a veteran lookin’ at a wounded opponent and givin’ him a chance to live to fight another day. It’s not mercy. It’s logic.”
Kairo shakes his head, but Gunnar continues, tone steady, unbothered.
Gunnar Van Patton: “Turn around, kid. Go get patched up. See Avril when yer a hundred percent. She’ll have a contract waitin’ for ya.”
Kairo steps forward, closing the distance until they’re nearly chest‑to‑chest. The crowd rises with him, sensing the defiance building in his posture. Gunnar doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t tense. He just watches.
Gunnar Van Patton: “This here’s yer only chance.”
Kairo’s answer is a slap.
Kairo Bex: “Don’t get blinded by the spotlight shining on me.”
It’s not a desperate swing. It’s not a wild shot. It’s clean, sharp, and loud enough to echo off the rafters. Gunnar’s head snaps to the side, but his body stays rooted, unmoved. The crowd explodes into a roar that shakes the barricades. Kairo stands firm, chest heaving, eyes burning with something that looks a lot like pride and a little like fury.
John Phillips: “Kairo Bex just rejected the champion’s offer in the loudest way possible!”
Mark Bravo: “And he just signed up for the consequences.”
Gunnar turns back slowly. Not with rage. Not with shock. With disappointment — the kind that feels heavier than anger. His jaw flexes once, a small, controlled movement. He exhales through his nose, a short, irritated snort.
Gunnar Van Patton: “It’s yer funeral, kid.”
Kairo raises his fists immediately, ready to go. Gunnar doesn’t raise his. He just straightens his posture, shoulders rolling back, the last trace of restraint evaporating from his stance. The referee, sensing the shift, signals for the bell.
The sound rings out like a starting gun.
DING DING DING
And Kairo moves first.
The bell’s final vibration hasn’t even faded before Kairo bursts into motion. He doesn’t rush blindly; he glides, cutting a tight crescent around Gunnar with footwork so light it barely whispers against the canvas. His taped ribs rise and fall in sharp, controlled breaths, each inhale a reminder of the ladder match that carved him up earlier in the night. But he keeps moving, never letting the champion get a clean angle.
Gunnar turns with him, pivoting on the balls of his feet, shoulders squared, posture relaxed but coiled. He doesn’t chase. He doesn’t reach. He just tracks Kairo’s orbit with the calm patience of a man who’s hunted before and knows exactly how long the chase will last.
Mark Bravo: “Gunnar’s lettin’ him run. That’s not mercy — that’s a man waitin’ for the right shot.”
John Phillips: “Kairo can’t afford to stand still. If he does, he’s done.”
Kairo darts in with a quick low kick to the thigh — a sharp, snapping strike. It lands clean, but Gunnar barely shifts. Kairo’s already sliding back out of range, circling again, forcing Gunnar to keep turning. The crowd pops for the speed, the precision, the defiance.
Gunnar steps forward once, a single heavy stride that cuts off part of Kairo’s angle. Kairo immediately pivots away, firing a pair of jabs to the ribs and shoulder. They land, but Gunnar absorbs them like he’s being tapped with a pencil.
Mark Bravo: “Those shots are connectin’, but they ain’t doin’ a thing. He’s hittin’ a man built outta concrete.”
John Phillips: “He’s not trying to hurt Gunnar with those — he’s trying to stay unpredictable.”
Kairo feints left, then springs right, twisting into a spinning back kick aimed at Gunnar’s midsection. The impact echoes — a clean, crisp thud — but Gunnar only exhales, the slightest tightening of his core absorbing the blow. Kairo lands light, but the torque sends a jolt through his taped ribs. He winces, just for a heartbeat, and Gunnar’s eye narrows.
The champion steps in again, faster this time. Kairo slips away by inches, ducking under a reaching arm and firing a basement dropkick to Gunnar’s knee. It lands flush, staggering the bigger man half a step.
The crowd erupts.
John Phillips: “Kairo found an opening! That dropkick staggered the champion!”
Mark Bravo: “Yeah, and now he’s gotta find about twenty more before Gunnar gets his hands on him.”
Kairo pops up, breath sharp, eyes bright. He darts in again, peppering Gunnar with a flurry — a kick to the calf, a palm strike to the chest, a quick tilt‑a‑whirl attempt. Gunnar blocks the tilt‑a‑whirl with raw strength, catching Kairo mid‑rotation and forcing him to bail out, rolling away before he’s trapped.
The crowd roars as Kairo springs up, resets, and circles again. He’s faster. He’s sharper. He’s landing shots. But none of them are slowing Gunnar down.
Gunnar straightens fully, rolling his neck once, the faintest hint of irritation crossing his face. Not anger — annoyance, like a man swatting at a persistent fly.
Mark Bravo: “He’s makin’ Gunnar work, I’ll give him that. But this is a dangerous game. You can only dance around a wolf for so long.”
Kairo darts in again, this time with a rapid‑fire kick combo — shin, thigh, hip, chest — each strike crisp, each landing with a satisfying smack. The crowd counts along with every hit. Gunnar absorbs them all, barely shifting, his expression flattening into something colder.
Kairo leaps into a springboard attempt — maybe a crossbody, maybe a feint — but Gunnar steps forward at the exact moment Kairo plants his foot on the ropes.
Kairo aborts mid‑motion, flipping backward to avoid being caught, landing on his feet but stumbling slightly as his ribs seize.
John Phillips: “Kairo almost got caught there! Gunnar read that springboard like a book!”
Mark Bravo: “That’s the problem with bein’ flashy when you’re hurt. Your body hesitates before your brain does.”
Kairo shakes out his arms, trying to reset the rhythm. He circles again, but Gunnar’s steps are different now — smaller, tighter, cutting off angles, shrinking the ring with every shift of his weight.
Kairo sees it. The crowd sees it. Gunnar is closing the distance.
Kairo fires a quick dropkick to the knee again — but Gunnar steps back, letting it miss by inches.
Kairo lands awkwardly, ribs flaring, and Gunnar steps in.
The air changes.
Mark Bravo: “Uh‑oh. He’s got him lined up now.”
Gunnar cuts off Kairo’s escape with a single, predatory step, the kind that doesn’t look fast but somehow erases all available space. Kairo’s back hits the turnbuckles, and he immediately tries to slip out to the side, pivoting his hips, reaching for daylight. But Gunnar’s arm shoots out like a steel bar, blocking the lane with effortless precision. The crowd reacts with a low rumble — they know exactly what it means when Gunnar Van Patton corners someone.
Kairo’s eyes dart left, then right, searching for an angle, but Gunnar is already closing in. The champion’s posture tightens, shoulders rolling forward, chin lowering, his entire frame shifting into that unmistakable stance: the stance of a man about to inflict damage.
The first strike comes fast — a stiff right hand that cracks against Kairo’s jaw with a sharp, echoing pop. Kairo’s head snaps sideways, his body jolting from the impact. He tries to bring his guard up, but Gunnar is already moving.
The second shot is a rib punch, short and compact, driven straight into the taped section with surgical accuracy. Kairo’s breath explodes out of him in a pained gasp, his body folding around the blow. He tries to twist away, but Gunnar’s forearm pins him in place.
Mark Bravo: “That’s Gunnar’s wheelhouse. Trap him, hit him, hurt him.”
John Phillips: “Kairo’s ribs can’t take many of those!”
Gunnar fires another rib shot — then another — each one placed with the cold precision of a man who knows exactly where his opponent is weakest. Kairo’s knees buckle slightly, his hands instinctively dropping to protect his midsection, leaving his jaw exposed.
Gunnar doesn’t waste the opening. He snaps Kairo’s head back with a short, brutal uppercut that lands flush under the chin. Kairo slumps into the corner, dazed, ribs heaving, eyes glassy.
The champion grabs Kairo by the wrist, fingers digging into the tape, and yanks him out of the corner with a violent jerk. Kairo stumbles forward, barely catching his footing before Gunnar spins and launches him across the ring with a blistering Irish whip.
Kairo sprints toward the far turnbuckles, but he doesn’t crash. He turns his body at the last second, catching himself with a hand on the top rope and a foot on the middle rope. The motion is smooth, instinctive — the reflex of a man who’s lived his entire career on improvisation and aerial creativity.
Using that planted foot as a springboard, Kairo pushes off and launches himself backward into the air, twisting into a clean, high‑arching crossbody aimed straight at the champion. The crowd rises with him, sensing the desperation, the hope, the spark of momentum.
Gunnar simply steps aside.
No rush. No flourish. No hesitation. Just a calm, almost bored sidestep that leaves Kairo flying through empty space.
Kairo crashes ribs‑first onto the canvas with a brutal smack. The sound is ugly — a flat, heavy thud that echoes through the arena. His body bounces once before he curls inward, hands clutching his torso as the pain spikes through him like a knife.
John Phillips: “Oh no—Kairo hit the mat full force! Those ribs took everything!”
Mark Bravo: “That’s what happens when the other guy doesn’t cooperate with your plan.”
Kairo tries to push himself up, but his arms tremble violently under him. He gets one knee under his body, then another, fighting through the pain, refusing to stay down. The crowd rallies behind him, clapping, stomping, chanting his name. He forces himself upright, teeth clenched, sweat dripping down his forehead, his entire body shaking from the impact.
He gets to his feet — barely.
Gunnar is already turning.
The champion pivots sharply, hips snapping, shoulders following, and unleashes a devastating roundhouse kick straight to Kairo’s chest.
CRACK.
The impact is monstrous. Kairo’s entire body whips backward, his legs flying out from under him as he’s blasted off his feet. He hits the mat flat on his back, arms splayed, legs limp, the air driven completely out of his lungs.
Mark Bravo: “That’s a Van Patton roundhouse. You stand up too fast, he puts you right back down.”
John Phillips: “Kairo’s chest… his ribs… he might not even know where he is right now!”
Kairo lies on the mat, gasping, clutching his ribs, his face twisted in agony. Gunnar stands over him, calm, composed, breathing steady — the picture of a man who has just begun his work.
The champion’s control is now total, and the crowd knows it.
Gunnar hauls Kairo upright, one hand twisted in the challenger’s hair, the other clamped around his wrist. Kairo’s legs barely respond, wobbling beneath him as he’s forced to stand. His ribs rise and fall in shallow, uneven spasms, every breath a losing battle. The crowd noise swells — a desperate, pleading roar — as Gunnar pulls him out of the corner and squares him up in the center of the ring.
Kairo tries to plant his feet. He tries to steady himself. He tries to look like a man still in this fight. But his body betrays him. His knees shake. His ribs seize. His breath catches in his throat.
Gunnar sees all of it.
He steps in and fires a short, brutal right hand into Kairo’s ribs. The impact lands with a deep, sickening thud that echoes through the arena. Kairo’s entire torso folds around the blow, a sharp gasp ripping from his throat.
John Phillips: “That’s a clean shot to the ribs — Gunnar’s staying disciplined.”
Mark Bravo: “Why wouldn’t he? That’s the target. That’s the weakness.”
Gunnar doesn’t give Kairo a second to react. He snaps a left hook into the same rib cluster, even harder. Kairo’s legs buckle, his body collapsing sideways, but Gunnar catches him by the back of the neck and yanks him upright again.
Then comes the knee.
Gunnar drives it straight into the taped ribs with ruthless precision. Kairo’s body jerks violently, his mouth opening in a silent cry as he’s lifted off the mat for a moment before dropping back down, barely catching himself on trembling legs.
John Phillips: “Kairo’s trying to stay up, but those ribs are taking a beating.”
Mark Bravo: “He’s upright enough for Gunnar to keep hittin’ him. That’s the problem.”
Gunnar pulls him in again — another knee, sharper, deeper, perfectly placed. Kairo’s legs give out completely this time, and he drops to one knee, clutching his torso, his face twisted in agony.
The crowd groans in unison, the sound rolling through the arena like a wave of shared pain.
John Phillips: “He needs distance. He needs space to breathe.”
Mark Bravo: “He’s not gettin’ either. Gunnar’s glued to him.”
Gunnar grabs Kairo by the chin, forcing him upright again, and snaps a short elbow across the jaw. Kairo’s head whips sideways, sweat spraying off in an arc. His legs wobble, but Gunnar keeps him pinned upright with a forearm across the chest.
Then Gunnar fires a stiff bodyshot — a compact, piston‑like punch that lands flush on the ribs. Kairo’s entire body convulses, his breath exploding out of him in a painful wheeze as he collapses forward, arms wrapped around his torso.
John Phillips: “That one landed clean. Kairo felt every bit of it.”
Mark Bravo: “And Gunnar’s not even close to done.”
Gunnar grabs a fistful of Kairo’s hair and drags him back into the corner. Kairo’s arms drape over the ropes like dead weight, his legs trembling uncontrollably. His ribs rise and fall in shallow, uneven spasms, every breath a battle he’s losing.
Gunnar steps in close, posture tight, eyes locked on the target he’s been carving up since the bell. He fires a short right hand into the ribs — then a left — then another right. Each one lands with a dull, sickening thud. Kairo’s body jerks with every impact, his face contorting in agony.
John Phillips: “Gunnar’s not rushing. He’s picking his shots.”
Mark Bravo: “That’s what makes it worse. He’s not swinging wild — he’s dissecting him.”
Gunnar pulls back half a step, lines up his shot, and fires a brutal kick straight into Kairo’s ribs. The sound is sharp and ugly — a crack, a thud, a gasp all at once. Kairo collapses to both knees, clutching his torso, his entire body shaking uncontrollably.
The crowd erupts in a mixture of panic and fury, chanting Kairo’s name, begging him to rise, begging for anything to shift the momentum.
Kairo tries to push himself up — one hand, then the other — but his arms shake violently. His ribs seize. His breath catches. But he pushes anyway. He pushes because he refuses not to.
John Phillips: “He’s still fighting through it. That’s heart.”
Mark Bravo: “Heart doesn’t fix broken ribs.”
Kairo gets one knee under him. His ribs spasm. His breath stutters. Sweat drips from his chin onto the canvas.
He gets the second knee under him.
Gunnar steps forward.
He forces Kairo upright again, one hand hooked behind the challenger’s neck, the other gripping his wrist. Kairo’s legs barely respond, wobbling beneath him as he’s hauled to his feet. His ribs rise and fall in shallow, uneven spasms, every breath a losing battle. The crowd noise swells — not hopeful, not confident, but desperate. They can feel the danger tightening around Kairo like a vice.
Kairo tries to swing — a weak, looping punch that barely travels six inches — and Gunnar brushes it aside with a flick of his forearm. Then he snaps a short elbow across Kairo’s jaw. Kairo drops to a knee, dazed, ribs screaming.
John Phillips: “Kairo’s trying to fire back, but his body’s just not giving him anything.”
Mark Bravo: “And Gunnar’s makin’ sure it stays that way.”
Gunnar places a palm on the back of Kairo’s head and shoves him flat to the mat. Kairo hits chest‑first, a sharp grunt escaping him as his ribs compress under his own weight. He tries to push up — one hand trembling, the other clutching his side — but Gunnar steps in and fires a stiff, downward kick to the ribs. Not a wind‑up. Not a PK. Just a punishing stomp meant to keep him down.
Kairo spasms, rolling onto his side.
Gunnar grabs him by the wrist, yanks him upright with a violent jerk, and immediately pops his hips — launching Kairo overhead with a belly‑to‑belly suplex that sends him crashing hard onto the damaged ribs.
Kairo bounces off the canvas and curls inward, gasping.
John Phillips: “That belly‑to‑belly wasn’t just power — he threw Kairo right onto the injury.”
Mark Bravo: “That’s Gunnar. You don’t just throw a man — you throw him where it hurts.”
Kairo tries to crawl away, dragging himself toward the ropes, but Gunnar stalks him. He waits until Kairo gets one hand on the bottom rope — a tiny victory — and then he steps in and drives a short knee into the ribs. Kairo collapses sideways, clutching his torso.
Gunnar grabs him by the hair, drags him upright again, and hooks an arm around the waist. With a violent twist of the hips, he launches Kairo with an exploder suplex that sends him skidding across the canvas like a rag doll.
Kairo lands on his side, rolling to his stomach, ribs screaming.
John Phillips: “Exploder! And Kairo bounced — that’s all rib cage!”
Mark Bravo: “He’s gettin’ tossed like luggage. Gunnar’s not even breathin’ hard.”
Kairo tries to rise — one hand trembling, ribs spasming — and Gunnar steps in with a short, sharp Muay Thai knee to the side. The impact folds Kairo over, his breath exploding out of him in a broken gasp.
Gunnar doesn’t let him fall. He grabs a fistful of hair, jerks him upright, and immediately cinches the waist from behind. The crowd knows what’s coming — they can feel the shift in Gunnar’s posture, the tightening of his frame.
Then Gunnar rips him backward with a German suplex that spikes Kairo high on the shoulders and ribs.
Kairo lands hard, rolling onto his stomach, barely conscious.
John Phillips: “German suplex! That one might’ve taken the last of the air out of him.”
Mark Bravo: “He’ll breathe when Gunnar lets him.”
Gunnar rolls to his knees, stands, and walks a slow circle around Kairo’s broken frame. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t pose. He just watches Kairo struggle — one hand trembling, ribs seizing, breath stuttering.
Then he steps in and drives a short, snapping kick into the ribs. Not a big wind‑up. Not a showy strike. Just a stiff, punishing reminder that Gunnar Van Patton is not finished.
Kairo curls inward, gasping.
Gunnar crouches beside him, one hand on his knee, studying him like a mechanic examining a broken engine.
Then he grabs Kairo by the jaw, forces him to look up, and speaks in a low, cold drawl.
Gunnar Van Patton: “That spotlight ya love… it’s gonna burn yer ass.”
Kairo is on his hands and knees, ribs trembling with every shallow breath. Sweat drips from his chin onto the canvas in uneven splatters. His torso spasms each time he tries to inhale. The damage is obvious — the kind of damage that ends nights, ends matches, ends careers. But he’s still moving. Barely. Painfully. Stubbornly.
Gunnar stands a few feet away, posture loose, shoulders relaxed, breathing steady. He watches Kairo struggle like a man watching a wounded animal try to stand. Not impressed. Not amused. Just faintly irritated that the fight isn’t over yet.
Kairo tries to rise. His right knee plants. His left foot slips. His ribs seize halfway up, forcing him to brace on one shaking arm. He grits his teeth, jaw clenched so tight the muscles in his neck stand out like cables.
Gunnar steps in, reaches down, and clamps a hand around the back of Kairo’s gear. With one violent jerk, he yanks Kairo upright — not smoothly, not gently, but like he’s hauling a stubborn piece of equipment off the ground. Kairo’s legs buckle, but he catches himself on instinct alone, one arm wrapped around his ribs.
John Phillips: “Kairo shouldn’t even be vertical right now. Those ribs are a mess.”
Mark Bravo: “Vertical just means Gunnar gets to throw him again.”
Gunnar shifts his grip, sliding his hand from Kairo’s waistband to the inside of his arm. He turns his hips, plants his feet, and with a sudden, violent twist, hurls Kairo with a rib‑crushing side belly‑to‑belly suplex. Kairo’s body flips through the air and crashes onto the canvas with a sickening thud, landing squarely on the damaged side.
Kairo bounces once, rolls onto his stomach, and curls inward, both arms wrapped around his torso. His breath comes out in a broken, wheezing gasp.
He lies there for a moment. Then his fingers twitch. Then his hand claws at the mat. Then he tries to push himself up.
John Phillips: “He’s… he’s trying to get up again.”
Mark Bravo: “He’s either got the biggest heart in the building or the smallest sense. Maybe both.”
Kairo gets one knee under him. His ribs seize. His breath stutters. Sweat drips from his forehead in a steady line. He tries to rise — and collapses halfway up, catching himself on his forearm.
Gunnar doesn’t move. He just watches. Calm. Patient.
Kairo tries again. One knee. Then the other. He forces himself upright, swaying, barely balanced, one arm glued to his ribs.
Gunnar steps forward, grabs Kairo by the back of the neck, and drives him chest‑first into the turnbuckles. The impact knocks the air out of him instantly. Kairo’s arms drape over the ropes like dead weight, his torso trembling from the shock.
Before Kairo can even turn around, Gunnar grips him by the back of his attire and pulls him into a side waist lock. Van Patton immediately plants him with a belly-to-back suplex. Kairo’s body bounces off the mat, landing in a heap.
John Phillips: “That’s an absolutely textbook suplex.”
Mark Bravo: “Flawless brutality on display, John.”
Kairo lies on his back, one knee bent, one arm wrapped around his torso, the other reaching blindly for anything that might help him rise. His breath is ragged, uneven, desperate. The crowd murmurs — some horrified, some in awe, all of them feeling the brutality.
He rolls to his side. Plants a hand. Pushes.
He gets to his knees. Barely.
Gunnar steps behind him, clamps both hands around the waist, and with a violent pop of the hips, launches him with a release German suplex. Kairo flips through the air and crashes onto his shoulders and ribs, skidding across the canvas before coming to rest on his stomach.
Kairo doesn’t move at first. His body twitches once. Twice. Then his hand reaches out, fingers clawing at the mat. He drags a knee under himself. His ribs spasm violently, but he keeps pushing.
John Phillips: “He’s still… he’s STILL trying to get up.”
Mark Bravo: “He’s gonna get himself broken in half. Gunnar ain’t done throwin’ him.”
Kairo reaches his knees again. His entire torso shakes. His breath is a wet, rattling sound. He tries to rise — and nearly collapses — but he catches himself on the ropes, using them like a lifeline.
Gunnar approaches slowly, methodically, like a man walking toward a task he’s done a thousand times. He grabs Kairo by the arm, pulls him away from the ropes, and shoves him upright. Kairo sways, barely balanced, but he’s standing.
Gunnar steps in close, grabs a handful of Kairo’s jaw, and forces him to look up.
Kairo’s answer isn’t just verbal. It’s physical. He plants his foot. He straightens his back. He refuses to fall.
Kairo Bex: “I don’t melt in the spotlight.”
Gunnar’s expression doesn’t change — but something in his posture tightens. A subtle shift. A coiling of violence.
Gunnar Van Patton: “Yer tougher than a two dollar steak, kid. Ah’ll give ya that.”
With that said, Gunnar delivers a patented roundhouse that makes the entire arena cry out in horror.
Kairo lies there. Trembling. Broken. Barely conscious.
Then he moves.
His hand reaches out. His fingers dig into the canvas. He tries to rise again. Van Patton can only look down at him and sigh, shaking his head.
John Phillips: “He’s… he’s still trying. He won’t stay down.”
Mark Bravo: “And Gunnar’s about to make him regret every second of it.”
Kairo gets one knee under him. His ribs seize. His breath stutters. But he keeps pushing. He keeps rising. He keeps refusing.
Kairo is barely upright. His ribs twitch with every breath, his torso spasms when he tries to straighten, and his legs shake beneath him like they’re deciding whether to quit. Gunnar stalks forward with the slow, inevitable confidence of a man who has already decided how the next few seconds will go. He reaches out, clamps a hand around Kairo’s forearm, and starts to muscle him into position for another rib‑shattering throw.
Kairo’s body screams at him to fold. To drop. To stay down.
But instinct — that Neon Ace instinct — fires first.
He twists his trapped arm downward, slipping free with a sharp, desperate drop of his shoulder. Gunnar adjusts instantly, reaching again — but Kairo pivots, slides behind him, and fires a quick spinning back kick to the back of Gunnar’s knee. It’s not a power shot. It’s a balance breaker.
Gunnar’s stance shifts. His base opens for a heartbeat.
John Phillips: “Kairo found a window! That’s the first clean angle he’s had all match!”
Mark Bravo: “He ain’t hurtin’ Gunnar — he’s disruptin’ him.”
Gunnar turns, irritated, reaching to clamp down again — but Kairo darts sideways, ribs screaming, and grabs the ropes for stability. Gunnar lunges, looking to shut this down immediately.
Kairo jumps.
He plants one foot on the middle rope, then the top rope, and springboards backward, twisting his body mid‑air. Gunnar reaches up to catch him—
—and Kairo hooks the head mid‑rotation and spikes him with a tornado DDT.
The arena explodes.
John Phillips: “Tornado DDT out of nowhere! He absolutely spiked him!”
Mark Bravo: “That’s the Neon Ace! That’s the stuff you can’t scout!”
Gunnar hits the mat hard, rolling to his side, stunned for the first time all match. Kairo lands rough, bouncing off his ribs, immediately clutching his torso in agony — but he’s alive. He’s moving. He’s breathing fire again.
The crowd surges behind him, chanting his name, pushing him to keep going.
Kairo forces himself upright, using the ropes like a crutch. Gunnar is on one knee, shaking off the shock, irritation turning into something sharper.
Kairo sees him rising.
Kairo sees the opening.
Kairo sprints.
He plants, pivots, and cracks Gunnar across the jaw with the Mirage Kick, the running bicycle knee landing flush and snapping Gunnar’s head back.
The arena detonates.
John Phillips: “MIRAGE KICK! KAIR—O—BEX JUST ROCKED THE CHAMPION!”
Mark Bravo: “Gunnar didn’t expect that! Nobody expected that!”
Kairo collapses beside him, both men down, the crowd shaking the building with noise. For the first time all match, Gunnar Van Patton is rattled. For the first time, Kairo has real momentum.
And for the first time, the match feels like it could swing either way.
Kairo is hunched over, one arm wrapped tight around his ribs, breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. The earlier flurry bought him space, but not comfort. His torso is a live wire of pain — but he’s upright. And for Kairo Bex, upright is enough.
Gunnar rises with slow, deliberate steadiness, shaking off the shock with a tightening jaw. He steps forward, reaching to clamp down and smother the comeback before it breathes.
Kairo moves first.
He slips sideways, light on his feet despite the pain, and flicks a quick low side kick into Gunnar’s thigh — not to hurt him, just to make the big man shift his stance. Gunnar adjusts, weight shifting, and Kairo uses that half‑beat to slide past him, forcing the pace upward.
John Phillips: “Kairo’s moving again! This is where he’s dangerous!”
Mark Bravo: “He ain’t tryin’ to knock Gunnar down — he’s tryin’ to make him chase.”
Gunnar turns, reaching again, but Kairo is already in motion. He hits the ropes, rebounds, and fires a running single‑leg dropkick, his boot snapping into Gunnar’s chest and knocking the champion backward onto one knee.
Kairo doesn’t stay in front of him. He darts past, hits the ropes again, and rebounds low, sliding under Gunnar’s reaching arms. He pops up behind him, ribs screaming, and fires a sharp kick to the back of Gunnar’s leg, buckling the big man just enough to force him down to both knees.
The crowd roars as Kairo circles, keeping his distance, forcing Gunnar to turn and chase.
Gunnar lunges — fast, violent, looking to grab anything he can — but Kairo ducks under the grab, plants a hand on the mat, and whips into a handspring back elbow, catching Gunnar across the jaw as he rises.
The impact snaps Gunnar’s head sideways. He stumbles, not down, but off‑balance.
John Phillips: “That’s the speed difference! Gunnar can’t get a grip on him!”
Mark Bravo: “He’s makin’ the champ play tag. Bad idea for a big man.”
Kairo lands rough, clutching his ribs, but he forces himself upright. He hits the ropes again — every step a jolt of pain — and rebounds into a basement dropkick, smashing both boots into Gunnar’s chest and knocking him flat.
The arena erupts.
Kairo rolls through the landing, grimacing, but he doesn’t stop. He grabs the ropes, pulls himself up, and watches Gunnar push to one knee again, shaking off the flurry.
Kairo sprints toward the corner, hops to the second rope, then the top, and twists into a springboard dropkick, both boots slamming into Gunnar’s jaw and sending him sprawling onto his back.
John Phillips: “SPRINGBOARD DROPKICK! KAIR—O—BEX IS FLYING NOW!”
Mark Bravo: “He ain’t lettin’ Gunnar breathe. That’s the whole game.”
Kairo crashes down on his ribs again, grimacing, but he rolls to his feet, feeding off the crowd’s roar. He stumbles, catches himself on the ropes, and sees Gunnar rising — slower this time, breathing heavier, the pace finally catching up to him.
Kairo moves.
He hits the ropes again, rebounds, and snaps a sharp jumping knee strike into Gunnar’s jaw — not the Mirage Kick, but a quick, rising knee meant to keep the big man rocked.
Gunnar drops to one knee, dazed.
The crowd surges to its feet.
Kairo steadies himself, ribs screaming, but eyes locked on the opening.
Gunnar pushes up again — slower, unsteady, still rocked.
Kairo sees the moment.
Kairo takes it.
He sprints toward the ropes, planting one hand on the top strand as he slingshots himself into a tight, angled run. Gunnar rises just enough to turn toward him—
Kairo launches.
He leaps off his plant foot, body tilting sideways, leg chambering high—
—and cracks Gunnar across the mouth with a Golden Ratio–style leaping sidekick, the impact snapping the champion’s head back like he got hit by a flashbulb of neon light.
John Phillips: “GOOD LORD! KAIR—O—BEX JUST TOOK HIS HEAD OFF!”
Mark Bravo: “That’s the shot he needed! That’s the one that flips a match on its axis!”
Gunnar collapses flat, stunned, arms splayed. The crowd detonates, the noise rolling through the arena like a wave.
Kairo lands rough, immediately curling around his ribs, gasping — but smiling through the pain. Because for the first time all night…
…the match belongs to him.
Gunnar is flat on the canvas after the leaping sidekick, staring up at the lights for the first time all match. The crowd is molten, chanting Kairo’s name in a rolling wave. Kairo lies beside him, curled around his ribs, sucking in air that barely comes. Every breath hurts. Every movement hurts. But the momentum is his.
He forces himself onto his knees, then to his feet, using the ropes like a crutch. The crowd rises with him. Gunnar rolls to his side, shaking off the impact, but he’s slow — slower than he’s been all night.
Kairo sees it. He feels it. He moves.
Gunnar pushes up to one knee, then two, trying to stand. Kairo darts in, feinting high, then drops low and snatches Gunnar into a lightning‑quick inside cradle, folding the big man up with sudden, acrobatic precision.
Referee: “ONE! … TWO—!”
Gunnar explodes out of it, powering free with raw strength. Kairo rolls backward from the force, ending up on his knees, clutching his ribs but grinning through the pain. The crowd roars — that was close.
John Phillips: “Kairo almost stole it! That was a heartbeat away!”
Mark Bravo: “That’s the flash tech stuff! Gunnar didn’t see that comin’ at all!”
Gunnar rises, irritated now, shaking his head as he tries to reset. Kairo pulls himself upright using the ropes, ribs screaming, but he doesn’t hesitate. He sprints toward the corner, hops to the second rope, then the top in one smooth rhythm, and hurls himself off in a tight corkscrew crossbody, his body spinning in a neon spiral before he crashes flush across Gunnar’s chest.
Both men hit the mat hard, and Kairo hooks the far leg tight.
Referee: “ONE! … TWO—!!”
Gunnar kicks out with authority, sending Kairo rolling halfway across the ring. The crowd gasps, then erupts again, the tension rising with every near fall.
Kairo ends up on his knees, one arm wrapped around his ribs, the other pressed to the mat to keep himself upright. He’s hurting — badly — but he’s alive. And the crowd is with him, chanting, stomping, urging him to keep going.
Kairo drags himself toward the corner, ribs clutched tight, every step a tremor of pain. The crowd rises with him, sensing the desperation, the danger, the heart it takes for him to even think about going high again. He reaches the corner and leans into it, forehead pressed to the top turnbuckle, breathing in short, broken bursts.
He grabs the ropes.
He pulls.
He climbs.
One foot on the bottom rope.
A shaky breath.
Another on the second.
His body trembles under its own weight.
The arena quiets — not silent, but tense, like everyone is holding the same breath. Kairo’s ribs spasm as he reaches for the top rope, fingers trembling, sweat dripping from his chin. He pauses, eyes squeezed shut, fighting through the pain.
John Phillips (hushed): “He shouldn’t even be up there… but he’s still going.”
Mark Bravo: “This is guts. Pure guts. He’s runnin’ on fumes.”
Kairo forces himself upright, boot sliding onto the top turnbuckle. He wobbles, steadies, and slowly straightens, one arm wrapped around his ribs, the other reaching out for balance. The crowd swells behind him — a rising wave of hope, fear, and disbelief.
He turns his head, looking down at Gunnar.
Gunnar is still on one knee.
Still hunched.
Still motionless.
Too motionless.
Kairo doesn’t see the twitch in Gunnar’s fingers.
He doesn’t see the tightening of his jaw.
He doesn’t see the shift in his stance.
But the crowd does.
A ripple of noise rolls through the arena — not cheers, not boos, but a warning.
John Phillips: “Wait—”
Gunnar MOVES.
Not a step. Not a lunge. A detonation.
He surges to his feet and sprints toward the corner, covering the distance with terrifying speed — a 241‑pound missile fired with military precision. The crowd erupts in shock as Gunnar closes the gap in a heartbeat.
Mark Bravo: “NO WAY—HE’S ALREADY THERE!”
Gunnar doesn’t climb — he runs the buckles. One boot hits the middle rope, the next hits the top, his body rising like a predator pouncing. Before Kairo can even turn fully, Gunnar is right in front of him, eye patch glinting, expression carved from cold violence.
Kairo’s eyes widen.
He’s trapped.
He’s hurt.
He’s too slow.
Gunnar’s arm snaps around Kairo’s head and traps his arm in a brutal head‑and‑arm clinch.
No words.
No warning.
No hesitation.
And then he launches.
The top‑rope head‑and‑arm suplex detonates like a bomb. Kairo is ripped off the turnbuckle, flipping through the air in a helpless arc before CRASHING down on the back of his neck and shoulders. The impact is catastrophic — the kind of landing that makes the entire arena recoil.
John Phillips: “Kairo landed HARD! That’s a nightmare fall!”
Mark Bravo: “That’s Gunnar Van Patton at full speed. You don’t walk away from that.”
Kairo bounces once, then lies twisted on the mat, motionless except for the faint twitch of his fingers. His ribs seize. His breath is gone. His body is wrecked.
Gunnar lands on one knee, chest heaving, eyes cold and predatory. He doesn’t go for a cover. He doesn’t need to. He just watches Kairo suffer, savoring the violence like a man who’s been starving for it.
The momentum doesn’t just shift.
It dies.
Kairo lies sprawled on the canvas after the top‑rope head‑and‑arm suplex, his torso seizing in tight, painful spasms. Every breath is a jagged scrape. His hand trembles against the side of his body, trying—and failing—to shield the damage. The crowd buzzes with a low, horrified murmur, the kind that says everyone knows the match has crossed a line.
Gunnar Van Patton rises slowly, rolling his neck, the calm settling over him like a man who’s finally decided to stop pretending this is a contest. He walks toward Kairo with that deliberate, predatory stride—no rush, no wasted motion.
He crouches beside the broken Neon Ace, studying him with a flat, disappointed stare.
Gunnar Van Patton (quiet, flat): “Ah gave ya a chance to walk away.”
He shakes his head once—slow, almost pitying.
Gunnar Van Patton: “But you kept comin’. Now look at ya.”
Kairo tries to inhale, but the breath catches halfway, his torso tightening violently.
Gunnar reaches down and grabs the medical tape wrapped around Kairo’s midsection—the tape keeping him functional, the tape he’s been relying on all match.
Gunnar tears it.
Not carefully.
Not slowly.
He rips it off in one savage pull, peeling it away from sweat‑soaked skin and battered flesh.
Kairo’s scream is immediate and raw, his body folding inward as the sudden exposure sends a shockwave through his ribs.
John Phillips: “Oh no… Gunnar just tore the tape off! Kairo’s ribs are wide open!”
Mark Bravo: “This is Van Patton gettin’ serious. Real serious.”
Gunnar doesn’t give Kairo a second to recover. He grabs a fistful of Kairo’s gear and yanks him upright, dragging him into a standing position even as Kairo’s legs buckle beneath him.
Then Gunnar snaps him into a Muay Thai clinch—hands locked behind Kairo’s head, elbows tight, posture perfect. Kairo’s body jerks forward, ribs exposed, breath trapped.
The first knee lands like a sledgehammer.
Kairo’s entire torso jolts.
The second knee lifts him off the mat.
The third folds him around Gunnar’s thigh like a broken hinge.
Kairo tries to fight back—a desperate, wild swing of his right hand, more survival instinct than strategy.
Gunnar catches it at the wrist.
Effortless.
He lifts the arm high, stretching Kairo’s torso open, exposing every bruise, every welt, every screaming inch of his ribs.
Mark Bravo: “Oh no… he’s got him wide open!”
Gunnar’s expression doesn’t change. No smile. No snarl. Just cold, efficient violence.
He drives a right hand into Kairo’s ribs.
Then another.
Then another—each one a piston, each one landing with surgical precision, each one knocking the air out of Kairo in sharp, broken bursts.
Kairo’s knees give out, but Gunnar holds him up by the wrist, keeping the ribs exposed, keeping the punishment going.
John Phillips: “Somebody stop this! He’s destroying the injury!”
Mark Bravo: “This is Gunnar Van Patton. He don’t stop till somethin’ breaks.”
Gunnar leans in just enough for the camera to catch the next line, voice dropping to a razor‑thin whisper.
Gunnar Van Patton: “How’s that spotlight feelin’ now?”
Finally, Gunnar releases the wrist and lets Kairo collapse to his knees, coughing, eyes unfocused, body trembling from the barrage.
Gunnar takes two steps back, eyes locked on the opening he’s created. Then he hits the ropes with purpose—no wasted motion, no theatrics—and comes charging back toward the kneeling Neon Ace.
He plants his boot and drives Kairo’s face into the canvas with a brutal curb stomp, the force snapping Kairo flat and sending a shock through the entire arena.
Kairo lies facedown, torso twitching, breath stuttering, his body instinctively curling as the pain radiates through his exposed ribs.
Gunnar stands over him, chest rising slow, controlled, predatory.
Any mercy is gone.
Kairo lies facedown after the curb stomp, ribs twitching, breath stuttering in shallow, broken bursts. The crowd claps and stomps, trying to will him back into the fight. Somehow — impossibly — he hears them.
He pushes an elbow under himself.
Then a knee.
Then another elbow.
He rises to all fours, shaking, sweat dripping from his chin, his torso spasming with every attempt to breathe. The crowd roars — a desperate, hopeful roar.
John Phillips: “Listen to this place! They’re trying to drag him back into this match!”
Mark Bravo: “He shouldn’t even be standin’. But that’s Kairo — too stubborn to stay down.”
Kairo staggers upright, swaying, one hand pressed against his battered side. He turns toward Gunnar and throws a punch — a weak, looping shot born more of defiance than strength.
Gunnar catches it.
Effortless.
Like catching a falling leaf.
Mark Bravo: “Oh, that ain’t gonna cut it. Not against Van Patton.”
Kairo throws another with his free hand — slower, sloppier. Gunnar blocks it with a forearm and steps in, chest to chest, overwhelming him with sheer presence.
Kairo tries a third punch, a desperate swing meant to show he’s still alive.
Gunnar doesn’t even blink.
He buries a knee into Kairo’s midsection, folding him in half.
John Phillips: “That knee just shut him off! Kairo’s body gave out!”
Kairo drops to a knee, coughing violently, ribs screaming.
Gunnar grabs him by the head, hauls him upright, and snaps his arms under Kairo’s in a tight double underhook.
Mark Bravo: “Oh no… oh NO. He’s got him locked.”
John Phillips: “This is bad. This is REALLY bad.”
Gunnar lifts.
Not with grace — with force.
Not with finesse — with finality.
He rips Kairo off the mat and DRIVES him down with a release double underhook powerbomb that shakes the ring, Kairo bouncing off the canvas before collapsing flat, eyes glassy, body limp.
John Phillips:“GOOD LORD! Kairo just got SPIKED!”
Mark Bravo: “That’s the kind of powerbomb that ends weekends. Maybe careers.”
Gunnar never leaves his feet. He stays planted, already positioned at Kairo’s legs the instant the powerbomb hits.
Without hesitation, he reaches down, hooks both legs, and yanks Kairo into place. He pivots, turns, and snaps him over into a Texas Cloverleaf, sitting deep and wrenching back with brutal, perfect form — bending Kairo’s spine and ribs in ways the human body was never meant to bend.
Kairo screams — a raw, broken sound — his hand clawing at the mat, searching for anything, any escape, any miracle.
John Phillips: “He’s gonna tear him apart! Somebody stop this!”
Mark Bravo: “Tap, kid! TAP! Don’t let this man break you in half!”
Kairo reaches out — fingertips brushing the canvas — and finally, with no breath left, no strength left, no ribs left to protect him…
He taps.
The referee calls for the bell immediately.
DING DING DING
John Phillips: “It’s over! It’s over! Kairo had no choice!”
Mark Bravo: “That wasn’t a match. That was a message.”
Gunnar Van Patton doesn’t release the hold right away. He waits just long enough to make a point — just long enough to remind everyone that mercy is a choice he rarely makes.
Then he lets go, Kairo collapsing to the mat in a heap.
Gunnar rises, chest steady, expression cold — the victor not by chance, but by domination.
The bell rings. The referee retrieves the WrestleZone Championship and approaches Gunnar Van Patton with both hands on the belt, presenting it like a man returning a weapon to its owner.
Gunnar takes it slow, draping the title over his shoulder without a hint of celebration.
John Phillips: “Kairo showed unbelievable heart tonight. He refused to quit, he kept getting up… but against Gunnar Van Patton, sometimes heart just isn’t enough.”
Mark Bravo: “Van Patton is a different breed. That was violent, that was decisive, and that was Gunnar doing exactly what Gunnar does.”
Kairo is still on the mat, ribs twitching, breath shallow. The medics hover but don’t touch him yet — not with Gunnar still standing over him.
Van Patton steps in close and crouches beside him, boots planted, belt hanging off his shoulder. His voice is low, clipped, and unmistakably Texan.
Gunnar Van Patton: “Ya stayed in it.”
A beat. He studies Kairo like he’s assessing battlefield damage.
Gunnar Van Patton: “Longer’n Ah figured.”
Kairo’s eyes flicker, barely tracking him.
Gunnar Van Patton: “Ya ain’t ready for that spotlight yer cravin’. Not yet.”
He taps two fingers against Kairo’s chest — firm, not cruel.
Gunnar Van Patton: “But ya got somethin’. Somethin’ worth seein’ again.”
John Phillips: “That’s respect. Real respect. Gunnar doesn’t hand that out.”
Mark Bravo: “And he sure as hell doesn’t say it unless he means it.”
Gunnar rises, adjusts the title on his shoulder, and finishes the thought with the weight of a door quietly opening.
Gunnar Van Patton: “Get yerself right. When yer back to a hundred… call Avril. Contract’ll be waitin’ for ya.”
John Phillips: “My God… he just opened the door for him.”
Mark Bravo: “He opened the door to another fight. And if Kairo takes it… he’d better come back stronger than he’s ever been.”
Gunnar steps through the ropes without looking back. No pose. No victory lap. Just a man walking away from a job done clean.
Kairo remains on the canvas, broken but not beaten, the weight of the offer hitting him harder than any strike tonight.
