The camera catches Madd Morales just as he steps through the curtain backstage.

Unlike the last time CWF cameras caught him following a defeat, there is no shouting. No overturned equipment. No threats directed at the nearest unfortunate employee. Instead, Morales walks with a towel draped around his neck, one hand pressed against his ribs, and a look of unmistakable disappointment on his face.

Rook follows on his right, carrying Morales’ bag over one shoulder. Graves walks on his left, his sunglasses tucked into his shirt collar as he checks something on his phone.

Morales stops when he notices the interviewer approaching.

“Before you ask, yes, I’m disappointed. Yes, I wanted to win. And yes, Fiona O’Connell deserves credit for what happened out there. She beat me. I’m not going to stand here and tell you otherwise.”

The interviewer looks almost surprised by the response.

“That’s actually what I wanted to ask you about, Madd. After everything surrounding the creation of A.O.C., the destruction of the Freaks, and your return to Hampton Roads, many people expected Warzone to mark the beginning of a dominant new chapter. Instead, you suffered another defeat. How does that affect your plans going forward?”

Morales takes a moment to consider the question.

“Let me ask you something. You ever try something new? Something you weren’t immediately good at?”

“Of course.”

“And what happened?”

“I suppose I made mistakes.”

Morales smiles.

“Exactly. You made mistakes. You figured out what went wrong, corrected it, and tried again. That’s how normal people learn things. But apparently, when you’re Madd Morales, everybody expects you to wake up one morning, completely reinvent yourself, and immediately become the greatest professional wrestler who ever lived.”

Rook chuckles behind him.

Morales continues.

“Don’t get me wrong, that’s the eventual goal. But even I understand there’s a process involved. I’ve spent the better part of my career fighting one particular way. I’ve spent years surrounding myself with certain people, relying on certain instincts, and making certain decisions. Now I’m changing those things. I’m rebuilding how I approach this business from the ground up, and that means sometimes I’m going to get something wrong.”

The interviewer nods.

“So you’re not concerned?”

“Concerned? Sure. Concern is healthy. Concern means you recognize something needs fixing. What I’m not going to do is panic. That’s the difference between the man standing here today and the man who would’ve been standing here a year ago.”

Morales removes the towel from his neck.

“That Madd Morales would’ve treated tonight like the end of the fucking world. He would’ve spent the next three weeks obsessing over every second of the match, blaming everyone within shouting distance, and convincing himself that one defeat somehow erased everything he’d accomplished.”

He shakes his head.

“I’ve done enough of that.”

Graves glances toward Morales, visibly pleased with the answer.

Morales continues.

“Fiona won tonight. Congratulations to her. I mean that. She did what she needed to do, and I didn’t. But the sun’s still coming up tomorrow. My career isn’t over. A.O.C. isn’t finished. And I didn’t suddenly forget how to wrestle because somebody got the better of me.”

The interviewer raises the microphone.

“Then what comes next?”

Morales smiles.

“Same thing that always comes next.”

He raises one finger.

“Adapt.”

A second.

“Overcome.”

A third.

“Conquer.”

He lowers his hand.

“Those aren’t just three words I put on merchandise because they sound cool. They’re instructions. You adapt when something doesn’t work. You overcome whatever knocked you down. And when you’ve learned enough to stop making the same mistakes, you conquer whatever’s standing in front of you.”

The interviewer smiles.

“That’s certainly a different attitude than we’re accustomed to seeing from you.”

Morales laughs.

“Yeah, well, don’t get too comfortable. I’m still an asshole.”

Rook bursts out laughing.

Even Graves cracks a smile.

Morales looks over his shoulder toward the two men.

“Go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

Rook raises an eyebrow.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Got something to take care of.”

Graves studies him for a moment before nodding.

“Don’t take too long.”

The two men disappear down the hallway.

Morales turns back toward the interviewer.

“Anything else?”

“Just one final question. Is there anything you’d like to say to Fiona?”

Morales considers it.

“Yeah. Good match.”

He pauses.

“And enjoy the victory. For now.”

The interviewer thanks him.

Morales gives a small nod before walking away and catching up with Rook and Graves.

Later that night

The scene opens with the sound of silverware against porcelain.

A soft jazz record plays somewhere in the background. Warm amber light illuminates an elegant private dining room, its walls decorated with old photographs, dark wooden panels, and expensive artwork.

A long table occupies the center of the room.

At its head sits Madd Morales.

Rook sits to his right, working his way through an enormous plate of steak and potatoes. Graves occupies the chair to Morales’ left, carefully cutting into his meal while occasionally glancing at a tablet resting beside his wineglass.

Morales cuts another piece of steak.

“So, gentlemen. Two weeks.”

Rook looks up.

“Two weeks.”

Graves taps his tablet.

“Contracts are finalized. Opponents haven’t been confirmed yet, but the booking is official.”

Morales nods.

“Good. About fucking time.”

Rook laughs.

“You’ve been keeping us on the sidelines since we got here.”

“Because I wanted to make sure we did this properly. Last time I let a bunch of idiots run around doing whatever they wanted, I lost a championship.”

Graves raises his glass.

“A costly lesson.”

Morales points his fork toward him.

“An expensive lesson. There’s a difference.”

Rook leans back.

“Well, whoever they put across from us, we’re ready.”

Morales studies him.

“Are you?”

Rook grins.

“You asking because you’re concerned or because you want to piss me off?”

“Little of both.”

Graves places his tablet down.

“We’ve been training together for weeks. Rook handles the heavy lifting, I handle the opportunities, and we’ve worked out enough combinations that we’re not relying on improvisation.”

Morales nods approvingly.

“That’s what I want to hear. Because when you two make your debut, I don’t want people thinking you’re just Madd Morales’ bodyguards who decided to buy wrestling boots. I want them to understand that A.O.C. isn’t a one-man operation.”

Rook wipes his mouth with a napkin.

“Good. Because I didn’t spend all those mornings throwing Graves around a gym for nothing.”

Graves looks offended.

“You make it sound like I was getting my ass kicked.”

“You were.”

“I was studying your offense.”

“With your face?”

Morales bursts into laughter.

Graves takes a slow sip of wine.

“Keep laughing. We’ll see how funny it is when you need me to save you from a submission hold.”

Rook smirks.

“Good luck wrapping those little arms around my neck.”

Morales raises his hand.

“Alright, alright. Save the domestic disputes for after dessert.”

The three laugh before Morales settles back into his chair.

“Seriously, though. I want this debut to mean something. Rook, you’ve got the size and the strength. Graves, you’ve got the patience and the brains to recognize an opening before the other guy knows he’s made one. Together, you should be a nightmare to wrestle.”

Graves nods.

“That’s the intention.”

“And I don’t want either of you making the mistake the Freaks made. You don’t need to prove loyalty by doing something stupid. You prove loyalty by doing your job better than anybody else could.”

Rook looks directly at Morales.

“Then give us a job.”

Morales smiles.

“Win.”

Rook returns the smile.

“That I can do.”

Graves raises his glass.

“To the debut.”

Morales and Rook lift theirs.

“To the debut.”

The glasses meet.

A moment later, Graves sets his drink down and looks toward Morales.

“And what about you?”

Morales raises an eyebrow.

“What about me?”

“You’ve been spending an awful lot of time at the gym lately. More than usual.”

Rook nods.

“Every time I walk in, you’re either rolling around on the mats with somebody or watching footage.”

Morales smiles.

“Preparing.”

“For Tarrasque?”

“Among other things.”

Graves leans forward.

“That’s a big man.”

Morales chuckles.

“I noticed.”

Rook points his knife toward Morales.

“Big isn’t the problem. The problem is what happens when somebody that size gets his hands on you. You can’t afford to spend fifteen minutes getting thrown around like a fucking basketball.”

Morales nods.

“Exactly.”

He places his fork down.

“And that’s why I’ve been changing things.”

The camera cuts to footage from a private training facility.

Morales stands barefoot on a wrestling mat, his red-tipped dreadlocks pulled tightly into a ponytail. His shirt is soaked with sweat as he circles a larger training partner.

The man reaches for him.

Morales slips underneath, catches an arm, and transitions behind him.

The footage cuts to Morales drilling a takedown.

Then another.

Then working from side control.

Then repeatedly transitioning between wrist control, a headlock, and a leg submission.

Morales’ voice continues over the footage.

“I built my reputation on doing things nobody else was crazy enough to attempt. Jumping off ropes, flying across rings, throwing my body through the air because I knew there was a chance I’d land on somebody before I landed on the floor.”

The footage shows Morales attempting a submission against a much larger sparring partner.

He adjusts his position.

The partner taps.

Morales immediately releases.

“But there’s a problem with spending your whole career trying to defy gravity.”

The footage cuts back to the dining room.

“Eventually gravity starts winning.”

Rook nods knowingly.

Morales continues.

“I can still fly. Don’t get that confused. The Airdevil isn’t dead. But I’m getting older, I’m getting smarter, and I’m realizing something I probably should’ve figured out a long time ago.”

He leans forward.

“Why risk my entire body trying to knock somebody down when I can make them fall?”

Graves smiles.

“Efficiency.”

“Exactly. Less wasted movement. Less unnecessary punishment. More control. If I can take somebody down, keep them down, and make them regret every attempt to stand up, why the hell wouldn’t I?”

Rook laughs.

“Because watching you jump off something stupid is entertaining.”

Morales points at him.

“And that’s why you aren’t in charge of my retirement fund.”

The camera cuts to more training footage.

Morales practicing footwork.

Morales sprawling against a takedown.

Morales trapping an arm and transitioning into the Devilslayer.

Morales sitting beside a trainer, studying footage of larger wrestlers.

Morales being thrown to the mat, immediately scrambling back to his feet, and demanding they repeat the drill.

Back at the table, Graves folds his hands.

“You’re trying to become a different kind of wrestler.”

Morales shakes his head.

“No. I’m trying to become a complete wrestler.”

He picks up his drink.

“There’s a difference. The old Madd Morales was dangerous because you never knew what he might do. He could hit you from anywhere, take a ridiculous risk, or turn the whole match into a disaster just because he thought it would be fun.”

He smiles.

“Now imagine that same guy understands exactly how to control you. Imagine you spend the entire match worrying about what happens if I climb the ropes, only to realize you’ve been giving me your wrist every time you reach for a collar tie-up.”

Graves nods.

“Then you’re already losing before you realize there’s a problem.”

Morales points toward him.

“That’s why I keep you around.”

Rook finishes the last of his steak.

“So what’s the plan for Tarrasque?”

Morales takes a sip from his glass.

“Simple. I’m going to make a very large man very uncomfortable.”

Graves smiles.

“And how do you intend to do that?”

Morales glances toward the camera.

“By reminding him that the bigger they are, the more there is to break.”

A faint sound interrupts the conversation.

A muffled grunt.

Rook looks toward the far end of the room.

Morales doesn’t react.

Graves checks his watch.

“Speaking of uncomfortable.”

Morales sighs.

“Oh, right.”

He turns toward the camera.

“Almost forgot we had company.”

Morales looks directly into the camera.

“First of all, I owe somebody an apology.”

Rook looks amused.

Graves leans back in his chair.

Morales folds his hands together.

“I know, I know. Madd Morales apologizing. Somebody call the newspapers. But seriously, I’ve been rude. I’ve been sitting here eating dinner, discussing business, talking about the future, and completely ignoring our guest.”

He gestures toward the camera operator.

“Go ahead. Show everybody.”

The camera slowly pans across the dining room.

Past the chandelier.

Past the expensive artwork.

Past the wine cabinet.

Until it settles on a fourth chair positioned several feet away from the table.

A man sits tied to it.

His wrists are bound to the armrests with rope. His ankles are secured to the legs. A strip of tape covers his mouth, and an old handheld camera hangs around his neck.

His face is bruised.

His shirt is torn.

On his chest is a faded Freaks insignia.

Morales speaks from offscreen.

“Look at that. Family reunion.”

Rook laughs.

Morales rises from his chair and approaches the man, casually carrying his glass of bourbon.

“Now, for those of you who don’t recognize our guest, this gentleman used to work for me. Good kid. Little stupid, but that’s never stopped anybody from finding employment in professional wrestling.”

Morales crouches beside him.

“Apparently, after our little disagreement, he decided to pursue a career in investigative journalism.”

Graves speaks from the table.

“Unauthorized surveillance.”

Morales nods.

“That’s the fancy way of saying he was spying on me.”

He gently lifts the camera hanging around the man’s neck.

“And the best part? He was planning to stream it. Imagine that. Some former Freak with a camera thinks he’s going to expose the big bad Madd Morales, get a few thousand views, maybe become somebody important.”

Morales shakes his head.

“Buddy, if you wanted attention, you could’ve just asked.”

The man struggles against the ropes.

Rook rises from his chair.

Morales raises one hand without looking back.

“Relax. He’s not going anywhere.”

Rook sits again.

Morales turns back toward the camera.

“But you know what? I’m a businessman. I believe in making the best out of an unfortunate situation.”

He places the handheld camera on a small tripod facing the dining table.

“So we’re going to borrow his little audience.”

Graves taps something on the tablet.

A red light illuminates the camera.

LIVE.

Morales smiles.

“There we go.”

He returns to the head of the table, settles into his chair, and looks directly into the lens.

“Tarrasque.”

He pauses.

“Now that’s a name.”

Rook chuckles.

Morales continues.

“Tarrasque. Sounds like somebody looked at a mountain, decided it wasn’t intimidating enough, and gave it a pair of wrestling boots.”

He takes a sip of bourbon.

“And from what I’ve seen, that’s not entirely inaccurate.”

Morales leans forward.

“You’re a big son of a bitch. I’ll give you that. You’re the kind of man who walks into a room and everybody suddenly remembers an appointment somewhere else. You don’t have to talk much because your shoulders do most of the talking for you. You don’t have to be particularly creative because when you’re built like a damn refrigerator with anger issues, throwing somebody across the ring tends to solve most of your problems.”

Rook nods approvingly.

“Effective strategy.”

Morales points toward him.

“Very effective. Credit where it’s due.”

He returns his attention to the camera.

“And that’s what makes you interesting, Tarrasque. Because unlike some of the people I’ve had to deal with lately, you don’t need a complicated explanation. You’re not hiding behind some grand philosophy. You’re not pretending to be a misunderstood genius. You’re a big bastard who likes hurting people, and you happen to be very good at it.”

Morales smiles.

“I respect that.”

He pauses.

“But I have a question.”

His expression becomes curious.

“What happens when it stops working?”

Graves glances toward him.

Morales continues.

“See, everybody’s got a plan for the big guy. They all say the same stupid shit. Chop him down like a tree. Use your speed. Don’t let him catch you. Keep moving. Stay away from his power.”

He waves his hand dismissively.

“Beautiful advice. Really. Somebody should print it on a motivational poster and sell it to every undersized wrestler who’s ever gotten their head knocked off.”

Rook laughs.

Morales leans closer.

“But here’s the problem with that advice, Tarrasque. It assumes the big guy is an idiot.”

His smile disappears.

“And I don’t think you’re an idiot.”

The room grows quieter.

“I think you know exactly what people are going to try. I think you’ve spent your entire career watching smaller men run around you like frightened little animals. I think you know they’re going to attack your legs, try to tire you out, and hope they can survive long enough for you to make a mistake.”

He gestures toward the camera.

“And I think you enjoy it.”

Morales nods thoughtfully.

“Because every time one of those little bastards thinks he’s figured you out, you get to grab him by the throat and remind him that being clever doesn’t mean a damn thing when somebody can throw you through the fucking floor.”

Rook grins.

Morales continues.

“That’s your world, isn’t it? Everybody’s either running away from you or trying to prove they aren’t scared of you. And either way, you’re still the biggest man in the room.”

He takes another drink.

“But here’s where things get interesting. I’m not going to run. And I’m not going to stand in front of you like some macho idiot trying to prove I can trade punches with a man who probably eats dumbbells for breakfast.”

He smiles.

“That’s not bravery. That’s a medical bill.”

Graves laughs quietly.

Morales continues.

“I’m going to wrestle you.”

He lets the statement settle.

“And I don’t mean the kind of wrestling where two men throw each other around until one of them stops moving. I mean I’m going to make you think. I’m going to make you work. I’m going to make you realize that every time you reach for me, you’re giving me something to use against you.”

His voice remains conversational.

“Because that’s the funny thing about being a giant. Everybody talks about the advantages. Nobody talks about the responsibilities.”

Morales begins counting on his fingers.

“More weight to move. More distance to cover. More momentum to stop. More pressure on your joints when somebody decides they want to take one of them home as a souvenir.”

He smiles.

“And you’ve got some big fucking joints, my friend.”

Rook laughs loudly.

Morales glances toward him.

“What? I’m complimenting the man.”

Graves raises his glass.

“Very generous.”

Morales turns back toward the camera.

“Tarrasque, I want you to understand something. I’m not going into this match pretending I’m stronger than you. I’m not going to insult your intelligence by telling you I can overpower you. If you get both hands on me, there’s a very real possibility I’m about to have a terrible evening.”

He shrugs.

“That’s fine.”

His expression sharpens.

“Because I’m not interested in proving I can survive your strength. I’m interested in finding out how much pain it takes before you stop using it. How much punishment can those knees take before that big impressive stance starts getting a little shaky? How many times can you force yourself back to your feet before you start wondering whether staying down might actually be the smarter decision? How long can a man your size keep fighting when somebody makes every movement cost him something?”

Morales taps the table.

“That’s what I want to know. And here’s the really unfortunate part for you.”

A slow smile spreads across his face.

“I’ve got time.”

Morales leans back.

“I’m not chasing a championship defense anymore. I’m not trying to get five wins before somebody changes the rules. I’m not racing toward some imaginary finish line while twenty idiots argue about how they should help me cross it.”

He gestures toward Rook and Graves.

“My boys have their business. I’ve got mine.”

He looks directly into the camera.

“And right now, my business is you. You see, Tarrasque, a lot of people think big men are frightening because they can hurt you.”

He shakes his head.

“That’s not what makes you frightening.”

His voice becomes quieter.

“What makes you frightening is that most people don’t know how to stop you.”

He points toward the lens.

“They panic. They rush. They make stupid decisions because they know every second you’re standing in front of them is another second you might decide to rearrange their spine.”

Morales smiles.

“But I’m not most people.”

He raises a hand before continuing.

“And before you roll your eyes, don’t worry. I’m not about to spend ten minutes telling you how special I am. You’ve heard enough wrestlers do that. I’m sure every little bastard you’ve ever thrown into the cheap seats told you he was different.”

He chuckles.

“I’m going to show you.”

Morales stands.

The camera tilts upward to follow him.

“I’m going to walk into that ring, look you in the eye, and smile. Not because I’m underestimating you. Not because I think you’re some big dumb animal. I’m going to smile because for the first time in a long time, I’m genuinely excited to solve the problem standing in front of me.”

He straightens his suit jacket.

“And Tarrasque, you’re one hell of a problem.”

Graves rises from his chair.

Rook follows.

Morales walks toward the camera.

“You’ve built your reputation on being the man nobody wants to stand across from. The mountain nobody wants to climb. The monster nobody wants to wake up.”

He stops directly in front of the lens.

“Well, congratulations.”

His smile widens.

“You finally found a motherfucker who likes climbing mountains.”

Behind him, the former Freak struggles again.

Morales glances over his shoulder.

“Oh, right. Almost forgot.”

He walks back toward the captive man.

The camera follows.

Morales crouches beside him and places one hand on his shoulder.

“Now, buddy, I appreciate you bringing us this lovely camera. Really, I do. But I think we’ve gotten everything we need out of your little journalism career.”

The man looks toward Rook and Graves.

Morales notices.

“Relax. Nobody’s killing anybody. This is a business meeting, not a fucking horror movie.”

He looks toward Graves.

“Make sure our guest gets home.”

Graves nods.

“Eventually.”

Morales turns back toward the captive.

“And next time you want to know what I’m doing, just watch the damn show like everybody else.”

He pats the man’s cheek twice before standing.

Rook moves toward the camera.

Morales stops him with a gesture.

“One more thing.”

He looks into the lens.

“Tarrasque, when that bell rings, I want the best version of you. I want the monster. I want the big bad bastard everybody keeps warning me about. Don’t hold back because you think I’m smaller. Don’t get careless because you think one good hit is going to finish me.”

His expression hardens.

“Bring everything you’ve got. Because when I finally put you on that mat, when all that size and strength and intimidation isn’t enough to keep you standing, I want everybody watching to understand exactly what happened.”

Morales slowly raises one finger.

“I adapted.”

A second.

“I overcame.”

A third.

“And I conquered.”

Rook and Graves step into frame behind him.

Morales grins.

“And Tarrasque?”

He leans closer.

“If you don’t like that plan, you’re more than welcome to try and stop it.”

He straightens, then raises his hand in the familiar horns.

Rook follows.

Graves does the same.

Morales grins.

“Now that’s what I call family business.”

Graves reaches toward the camera.

The screen goes black, then the familiar graffiti scrawl appears.

A.O.C.

ADAPT. OVERCOME. CONQUER.