sVo Showdown 257
📺 Live on the Sanctioned Violence Network
📍 Goodfellas Casino Arena, Las Vegas, Nevada
📆 15th February 2026
intro
The shimmering neon lights of the Las Vegas Strip bleed into the high-definition glow of the Goodfellas Casino Arena marquee, where the iconic sounds of smooth jazz are abruptly drowned out by a deafening explosion of pyrotechnics. Inside the arena, the air is thick with the scent of ozone and the electric roar of a capacity crowd as the camera sweeps across a sea of fans brandishing signs and chanting for their favorites. The sophisticated lighting system bathes the ring in a sharp, clinical white, reflecting off the high-definition LED screens that flank the entrance ramp.
“Welcome to the glitz, the glamour, and the absolute carnage of sVo Showdown 257!” Jeremiah Sloan’s voice cuts through the noise, urgent and gravelly. “We are live from the Goodfellas Casino Arena, and folks, the road to Vendetta is looking more like a demolition derby. We are just two weeks away from March 1st, and the tension in this locker room is at a literal breaking point.”
“Tension? Jeremiah, I call it evolution!” Julian Fiasco interjects, his tone dripping with smug satisfaction. “Last week, we saw the ‘Unbreakable’ Angelo Anderson finally wake up and smell the roses. He did exactly what he had to do—a low blow, a steel chair, and now he’s the number one contender for Carlos Vasquez’s World Heavyweight Championship. It was beautiful, poetic justice!”
“It was a disgrace, Julian! Anderson threw away a decade of integrity for a shortcut,” Sloan snaps back as the camera pans to the sVo World Heavyweight Championship belt sitting on a pedestal near the entrance. “And speaking of shortcuts, Jon Page has reached his limit. The SEC is treating this company like their personal playground, and tonight, Blood Money has to pay the bill or lose their jobs. It’s a literal ‘hit’ ordered by the owner himself!”
“Money talks and trash walks, partner,” Fiasco chuckles. “But look at this card! We’ve got the debut of The Heights taking on those grizzled vets Southern Discomfort. And in our main event, the ‘Ace of Vegas’ Jason Martel tries to defend his home turf against the legendary Masafumi Satake!”
“The energy is palpable, the stakes are life-altering, and the ‘fictional wise-guy’ croupiers aren’t the only ones dealing a dangerous hand tonight,” Sloan shouts over the rising music. “Buckle up, Las Vegas! Showdown 257 starts right now!”
Ringside
The iconic opening chords of “Welcome to Miami” by Will Smith blast through the Goodfellas Casino Arena speakers, and the capacity crowd erupts into a sea of cheers. Emerging through a wall of shimmering silver pyrotechnics, the sVo World Heavyweight Champion, Carlos “The Miami Maverick” Vasquez, struts onto the entrance ramp with the gold draped over his shoulder. He exudes the suave charisma of a South Beach playboy, flashing a million-dollar smile as he high-fives fans on his way down the aisle.
“Look at the confidence of this man, Julian!” Jeremiah Sloan shouts over the roar of the Las Vegas faithful. “The South Beach Sensation has been a fighting champion, but he’s walking into a hornets’ nest in just two weeks at Vendetta!”
“Confidence? I call it delusion, Sloan,” Julian Fiasco counters with a sneer. “He’s basking in the sun now, but a storm named Anderson is brewing, and it’s going to wash that tan right off his face.”
Vasquez slides into the ring and requests a microphone, waiting for the “Carlos! Carlos!” chants to subside. He looks into the camera, his expression shifting from playful to deadly serious.
“Las Vegas, we are fourteen days away from the biggest gamble of my career,” Vasquez says, his voice projecting throughout the arena. “Last week, I sat right back there and watched the Fatal Four Way. I saw ‘Unbreakable’ Angelo Anderson do things I didn’t think he was capable of. I saw him take the shortcut. I saw the low blow. And honestly, Angelo? I was impressed. You finally realized that being ‘unbreakable’ doesn’t mean anything if you don’t have this gold around your waist.”
The crowd boos at the mention of Anderson’s name, but Vasquez holds up a hand.
“But Angelo, you need to understand something. You might have destroyed your reputation to get this title shot, but you aren’t going to destroy my legacy. At Vendetta, you aren’t fighting a hero. You’re fighting the Miami Maverick. And I promise all of you—I am leaving March 1st exactly the same way I’m leaving this ring tonight: as your sVo World Heavyweight Champion!”.
Vasquez drops the mic and plays to the four corners of the ring, soaking in the adoration of the fans. He signals for his music to restart and prepares to exit the ring. However, as he turns to step through the middle rope, the arena lights flicker for a split second.
Suddenly, a massive, dark figure vaults over the barricade with terrifying speed. It’s “Unbreakable” Angelo Anderson. Before Vasquez can even register the threat, Anderson is in the ring, leveling the Champion with a spine-rattling lariat that turns Vasquez inside out.
“Oh no! It’s an ambush! Anderson is here!” Sloan screams as the crowd’s cheers turn to a chorus of visceral boos.
Anderson doesn’t stop. He grabs the dazed Vasquez by the hair, shouting directly into his face before hoisting the 200+ pound champion into the air with frightening ease. He plants Vasquez center-ring with the Unbroken—an elevated sit-out powerbomb that leaves the champion motionless on the mat.
The arena is filled with heat as Anderson stands over the fallen “Miami Maverick,” his face a mask of cold, focused dominance. He doesn’t say a word. He slowly reaches down and picks up the sVo World Heavyweight Championship belt. He holds the gold up to the light, staring at the main plate with an icy, calculating gaze for several long seconds, visualizing the moment it becomes his.
“He’s sending a message, Jeremiah! The ‘Dynasty Destroyer’ is here to collect!” Fiasco yells with glee.
“This is uncalled for! The match isn’t for two weeks!” Sloan protests.
Anderson tosses the belt onto Vasquez’s limp chest and exits the ring without a backward glance, leaving the champion broken in the middle of the squared circle as officials rush to the ring.
Backstage
The camera cuts to the loading dock of the Goodfellas Casino Arena as a sleek, blacked-out SUV screeches to a halt. The door swings open, and Joe “The Problem Solver” Barone steps out, adjusting the suspenders over his tight muscle shirt as he surveys the area with a cold, steely stare. He is followed closely by Nicky Columbo, “The Sicilian Enforcer,” who looms large in a black leather trench coat, his hair slicked back in classic mobster fashion. Finally, the “Young Gun,” Junior Gambino, hops out of the vehicle, checking his gold chains and flashing a cocky, arrogant smirk at a nearby camera technician.
“Look at the confidence of these three,” Julian Fiasco says over the broadcast. “The Blood Money family doesn’t look like they’re feeling the pressure at all.”
“They should be, Julian,” Jeremiah Sloan counters. “Their entire livelihoods are on the line tonight!”
The trio begins to head toward the locker rooms, but their path is immediately blocked by Jon Page, the sVo and Sanctioned Violence Network Owner. Page stands with his arms crossed, his expression grim and devoid of his usual corporate patience.
“You’re late,” Page snaps, his voice echoing in the concrete hallway.
Junior Gambino steps forward, jawing at the boss. “Relax, Page. The ‘family’ is here. The bill is gonna get paid.”
Page ignores the youngster, stepping into the personal space of the 275-pound Barone. “I don’t care about your family traditions tonight, Joe. I care about my company. The SEC has been running wild, and I’ve got Mark Hendry and his group acting like they own the place.”
Page jabs a finger toward the arena floor. “You three are in a six-man tag tonight against Hendry and the SEC. I expect a ‘total liquidation.’ I want them handled, I want them broken, and I want them out of my hair.”
Page’s eyes narrow as he looks from Barone to Columbo and back. “I’m not a man who likes to repeat himself. If the SEC is still standing tall at the end of that match, don’t bother coming back to this loading dock. You’ll be fired, your accounts will be frozen, and Blood Money will be bankrupt before the sun rises over the Strip. Do we understand each other?”
The hallway goes silent. Nicky Columbo cracks his neck, his piercing stare fixed on the owner. Joe Barone slowly reaches into his pocket, pulls out a toothpick, and places it in his mouth, never breaking eye contact with Page.
“The message is received, boss,” Barone says in a low, dangerous rumble. “The SEC is gonna find out what happens when you skip a payment.”
Page nods curtly and walks away without another word. The camera lingers on Blood Money; Gambino’s smirk has vanished, replaced by a vicious intensity as Barone and Columbo share a dark, knowing look.
“The hit is officially on!” Sloan exclaims. “Blood Money has been backed into a corner by the man who signs the checks!”
“And a cornered predator is the most dangerous kind, Jeremiah!” Fiasco adds. “The SEC better have their affairs in order!”
Single Match
Marty Murdoch vs. Jacob Izaz
The lights dim as a bright, neon-blue spotlight cuts through the arena. The upbeat, synth-heavy track “Miracle Worker” kicks in, and “Miracle” Marty Murdoch bursts through the curtain. He’s the quintessential underdog—shorter than most of the roster, wearing simple blue and white trunks, but possessing a heart that the Las Vegas crowd has clearly fallen in love with. He high-fives every outstretched hand, looking genuinely thrilled just to be there.
“You can’t help but root for this kid, Julian,” Jeremiah Sloan says warmly. “He’s had a rough string of luck lately, but he never stops coming back for more.”
“Heart doesn’t pay the mortgage, Sloan. Winners do,” Julian Fiasco retorts as the music shifts to a brooding, aggressive industrial beat.
Jacob Izaz walks out, flanked by a chorus of boos. He’s draped in a high-end designer robe, his face twisted in a permanent sneer of superiority. Since abandoning Jay Adder, the “Philly Flash” has been on a tear, wrestling with a clinical, selfish cruelty that has catapulted him up the rankings. He ignores the fans entirely, sliding into the ring and staring down Murdoch like he’s a bug under a microscope.
The bell rings, and Izaz immediately goes for a collar-and-elbow tie-up, using his size advantage to shove Murdoch into the corner. Izaz gives a mock clean break, but slaps Murdoch across the face on the way out.
“Disrespectful! Totally uncalled for!” Sloan shouts.
Murdoch’s eyes fire up. He charges back with a series of lightning-fast forearm smashes, catching Izaz off guard. Murdoch hits the ropes and nails a basement dropkick to the knees, followed by a standing shooting star press!
1… 2… No! Izaz kicks out at two.
The pace quickens as Izaz regains control with a stiff kitchen-sink knee to Murdoch’s midsection. He begins systematically picking Murdoch apart, focusing on the lower back with a series of backbreakers and a punishing camel clutch. Every time Murdoch tries to reach for the ropes, Izaz pulls him back to the center of the ring, looking toward the commentary table with a smug grin.
“Look at the technique, Sloan! Izaz is a surgeon in there,” Fiasco admires.
But the crowd begins to chant “Marty! Marty!” and the underdog finds his second wind. He slips out of a suplex attempt, lands on his feet, and hits a spectacular enzuigiri! Izaz wobbles. Murdoch scales the turnbuckle with incredible agility. He stands tall, looking for the Miracle Drop (450 Splash)—the move that could end his losing streak!
Murdoch takes flight, but Izaz rolls out of the way at the last micro-second! Murdoch crashes and burns on the canvas. As the referee checks on the winded Murdoch, Izaz crawls toward the corner.
“He’s going for the win! Wait—what is he doing?” Sloan asks.
While the referee is shielded by Murdoch’s body, Izaz reaches into his wrestling boot and pulls out a small, heavy object—a weighted brass knuckle he had hidden away. As Murdoch staggers to his feet, Izaz lunges forward, striking Murdoch squarely in the temple with the loaded fist. Murdoch goes limp, falling like a house of cards.
Izaz quickly stashes the object back in his boot and drapes a single arm over Murdoch’s chest, looking directly into the camera with a wink.
1… 2… 3!
“He cheated! He had something in his hand, I saw it!” Sloan screams in indignation.
“I didn’t see a thing, Jeremiah! That was just veteran savvy,” Fiasco laughs as the referee raises Izaz’s hand.
The “Philly Flash” stands over the unconscious Murdoch, kicking him out of the ring like trash before celebrating his tainted victory.
Backstage
The camera cuts to the bustling backstage area of the Goodfellas Casino Arena, where veteran interviewer Katie Smith stands holding a microphone. Beside her is the “franchise player” of the women’s division, Skylar “Sky” High. Skylar is a vision of Las Vegas energy, her platinum-blonde hair styled in loose waves and her vibrant pink, white, and gold gear shimmering under the hallway lights.
“I’m joined at this time by the woman who shocked the world last week, Skylar High,” Katie begins, her voice full of professional curiosity. “Skylar, last week you made your debut against one of the most dominant forces in the sVo, ‘Platinum’ Emily Shaw. She spent the entire match bullying you, yet you walked away with the win via a stunning sunset flip. How are you feeling after such a massive upset?”
Skylar flashes a bright, confident smile, her eyes sparkling. “Katie, they call this the city of high stakes for a reason. Emily Shaw thought she could come in here and treat me like a warm-up act just because I’m the new girl. She thought she could bully a local kid in her own backyard? That was her first mistake. In Vegas, you never count out the underdog, and you definitely don’t bet against someone who has spent their whole life working three jobs just to step into this ring.”
She adjusts her gold-laced boots, the adrenaline clearly pumping. “That win wasn’t a fluke; it was a message. I’m here to prove that I belong under these bright lights just as much as anyone else.”
“Tonight, however,” Katie interjects, “the roles are somewhat reversed. You are facing ‘The Underdog’ Ricky Johnson. Ricky is known for his resilience and his ‘never say die’ attitude. How do you prepare for someone who shares that same fighting spirit?”
Skylar’s expression turns respectful but determined. “I’ve watched Ricky Johnson. I’ve seen him take beatings that would stop a normal man and keep coming forward. He’s got the heart of a lion, and honestly? I see a lot of myself in him. But Katie, tonight isn’t about who has the biggest heart—it’s about who can execute. Ricky might be an underdog, but tonight, he’s standing in the way of my momentum. I didn’t come to the sVo just to have one ‘feel-good’ moment against Emily Shaw. I came here to climb the mountain.”
She leans into the microphone, her voice dropping an octave as the “Viva Las Victory” jackpot sound effect echoes faintly from the arena speakers.
“Ricky, I respect you. But tonight, the house always wins. And tonight, I’m the house.”
Skylar gives a sharp nod to Katie and begins her walk toward the curtain, the “jackpot” sounds growing louder as she prepares to step out into the Vegas night.
“Big words from the rookie!” Jeremiah Sloan says as the broadcast returns to the ring. “But can she back them up against a man who refuses to stay down?”
“She’s got the look and the talk, Sloan, but Ricky Johnson is a different animal than a humiliated Emily Shaw,” Fiasco adds. “We’re about to see if the ‘Sky’ is really the limit!”
Single Match
Ricky Johnson vs. Skylar High
The glitzy, high-energy pop remix of “Viva Las Victory” fills the arena as Skylar High makes her way to the ring, her sequined gear sparkling under the Las Vegas lights. Following closely behind is Ricky Johnson, whose gritty, blue-collar entrance music provides a stark contrast. The crowd is split but vocal, showing immense respect for both the local rising star and the resilient veteran.
“This is what it’s all about, Julian,” Jeremiah Sloan says, his voice tinged with excitement. “Two competitors who have scratched and clawed for everything they have, standing across from one another in the center of the ring. No bad blood, just pure competition.”
“Respect is fine for the history books, Sloan, but I want to see who’s willing to get their hands dirty for the ‘W’,” Fiasco adds, leaning forward in his chair.
The bell rings, and the two start with a respectful knuckle lock. Johnson, the stronger of the two, powers Skylar down to one knee, but she showcases her gymnastic background by flipping out of the hold and transitioning into a crisp armbar. The sequence is fluid and technical, drawing appreciative applause from the Goodfellas Casino Arena crowd.
The momentum shifts back and forth. Ricky catches Skylar mid-air during a cross-body attempt, turning it into a devastating powerslam for a two-count. Not to be outdone, Skylar uses her speed to nail a springboard disaster kick that sends Johnson reeling into the ropes.
“Look at the athleticism of Skylar High!” Sloan exclaims. “She isn’t just a hometown favorite; she’s a world-class athlete!”
As the match nears its ten-minute mark, the exhaustion begins to show. Ricky sets Skylar up for his signature finishing maneuver, but Skylar counters with a frantic series of elbows to the head. She hits the ropes, ducks a clothesline, and executes a perfect Tilt-a-Whirl DDT that plants Johnson head-first into the canvas.
Sensing the end, Skylar doesn’t go for the pin. Instead, she pulls Ricky toward the corner. With the crowd on their feet, she scales the turnbuckle and performs her devastating High Roller—the sunset flip powerbomb.
1… 2… 3!
The referee’s hand hits the mat for the third time, and the arena erupts. Skylar remains on the canvas for a moment, catching her breath before the referee raises her hand.
“She did it! Two for two in the sVo!” Sloan shouts. “Skylar High has just defeated one of the toughest outs in the business!”
As Skylar celebrates, Ricky Johnson slowly pushes himself up from the mat. He looks frustrated for a heartbeat, but the frustration melts into a nod of genuine respect. He approaches Skylar, who tenses up for a second, but instead of an attack, Ricky extends his hand. Skylar takes it, and the two share a brief, quiet word of mutual admiration.
Ricky then grabs Skylar’s wrist and thrusts her arm high into the air, signaling to the entire locker room that the “Sky” is indeed the limit. The fans respond with a standing ovation, chanting both names as the broadcast fades to a wide shot of the ring.
“A class act from the Underdog,” Sloan says softly. “And a star-making performance from Skylar High.”
“Enjoy the moment, kid,” Fiasco mutters. “In this business, the view from the top is great, but the fall is a long way down.”
Ringside
The heartwarming scene in the center of the ring is suddenly shattered by a blur of black and silver. As Ricky Johnson holds Skylar High’s arm aloft, the capacity crowd’s cheers turn into a collective scream of warning that comes a split second too late.
“Platinum” Emily Shaw has stormed the ring, sliding under the bottom rope like a shark in the water. Without a word, she clocks Ricky Johnson in the back of the head with a forearm shivered with enough force to send the underdog’ sprawling. Before Skylar can even turn around, Shaw grabs her by the platinum-blonde hair and hurls her across the ring with a visceral hair-pull toss.
“Wait a minute! This is disgusting!” Jeremiah Sloan bellows. “Shaw is back, and she’s looking for blood!”
“I told you, Sloan! Respect is a weakness, and Emily Shaw just exploited it!” Fiasco shouts, sounding almost giddy.
Shaw, her face a mask of pure, unadulterated rage, doesn’t stop. She stalks the dazed Skylar, who is clutching her neck. Shaw pulls the rookie up and delivers a series of stiff, brutal forearms that echo through the arena. Ricky Johnson tries to intervene, pulling himself up by the ropes, but Shaw meets him with a devastating Big Boot that sends him back through the ropes and crashing onto the floor.
“She’s a woman possessed!” Sloan cries. “She hasn’t forgotten about that sunset flip from last week!”
In the ring, Shaw turns her attention back to Skylar. She mocks Skylar’s “jackpot” hand gesture before hoisting her up into a military press. With a primal scream, Shaw drops Skylar across her knee with a backbreaker that looks like it snapped the rookie in half.
The Goodfellas Casino Arena is filled with a deafening chorus of boos, but Shaw thrives on it. She stands over Skylar, looking down at her with total contempt. She grabs the microphone from the mat that Skylar had used earlier and looks directly into the camera.
“You think a lucky roll-up makes you a star?” Shaw’s voice is a venomous hiss. “You think ‘respect’ keeps you safe in my ring? This isn’t a fairy tale, Skylar. This is the sVo. And in my world, the house always goes bust.”
Shaw drops the mic on Skylar’s chest and, for good measure, spits on the “Viva Las Victory” logo on the canvas. She exits the ring with a slow, methodical swagger, leaving both the rookie and the veteran broken in her wake.
“A total erasure of that beautiful moment,” Sloan says, his voice heavy with disappointment. “Emily Shaw has just put the entire women’s division on notice. Revenge is a dish best served cold, and it was freezing in here tonight.”
“She’s the ‘Platinum’ standard for a reason, Jeremiah,” Fiasco retorts. “And right now, that standard is looking untouchable.”
Backstage
The camera transitions to the interview area where Katie Smith stands with a man who looks like he hasn’t slept since last week. Kenneth D. Williams, the “Human Highlight Reel,” has his ribs heavily taped, a physical reminder of the brutal steel chair shot he took at the hands of Angelo Anderson. Despite the injuries, his eyes burn with a quiet, focused intensity.
“Kenneth, last week you were inches away from becoming the number one contender for the World Heavyweight Championship,” Katie says, her tone sympathetic. “But after the controversial actions of Angelo Anderson, you’ve found yourself on the outside looking in for the Vendetta main event. With the PPV only two weeks away, what is next for the man they call ‘The King of Main Events’?”
Williams takes a slow, shallow breath, wincing slightly as he adjusts his position. “Katie, last week… last week didn’t just hurt my ribs. It hurt my soul. I’ve known Angelo for a long time, and to see him throw away his dignity just to get a win over me? That’s something I’ll deal with in time. But right now, people are asking if Kenneth D. Williams is going to sit out one of the biggest shows of the year. They’re asking if I’m going to let one loss define my 2026.”
He leans closer to the microphone, his voice growing steady and cold.
“The name of the show is Vendetta. And it wouldn’t be a Vendetta PPV without me. I’m a former World Champion, and I have no intention of showing up to March 1st just to sign autographs. I want gold. And if the World Title path is blocked, I’m looking across the ocean to find a real challenge.”
Williams stares directly into the lens, pointing a finger. “I’m looking at the Sanctioned Violence Network. I’m looking at Tokyo. And I’m looking at you, Katsuhiro Kaneda. You’ve been walking around Rising Sun Pro Wrestling acting like no one on this network can touch you. You think that International Junior Heavyweight Championship makes you untouchable? Well, Kaneda, I’m calling you out. Pack your bags, get on a flight to Las Vegas, and put that title on the line against me at Vendetta!”
“A cross-promotional challenge!” Jeremiah Sloan exclaims as the camera pans back to the commentators. “Williams is going after the gold from Rising Sun!”
“Is he crazy?” Julian Fiasco laughs. “Kaneda is a killer, and Williams can barely breathe! He’s looking for a ‘Vendetta,’ but he might just find a trip to the hospital!”
“He’s a desperate man, Julian, and a desperate Kenneth D. Williams is the most dangerous man in this building,” Sloan retorts.
Tag Team Match
The Heights vs. Southern Discomfort
The arena lights pulse to a heavy hip-hop beat as The Heights (Dante King & Marcus Jordan) explode onto the stage. The newcomers are a blur of neon green and black, backflipping down the ramp with an infectious energy that immediately pulls the Vegas crowd to its feet. King, lean and explosive, and Jordan, boasting a slightly more muscular frame, look like they were built for the high-flying sVo style.
“The buzz surrounding these two young men is incredible, Julian!” Jeremiah Sloan says, shouting over the bass. “They’ve dominated the West Coast tag scene, and tonight they look to reach a new altitude in the sVo!”
“They look like they’re here for a music video, Sloan. This isn’t a dance-off,” Julian Fiasco scoffs as the music cuts to the gritty, distorted banjo of “Copperhead Road.” Southern Discomfort (Sherman & Forrest) stomp out, looking like they just stepped off a porch in the deep bayou. They aren’t interested in pyrotechnics or high-fives; they wear weathered denim vests and carry the scowls of men who enjoy the “violence” part of Sanctioned Violence.
The match begins with Dante King and Sherman in the ring. King immediately uses his speed, snapping off a series of deep arm drags that leave the veteran Sherman flustered. King tags in Jordan, and the two execute a double-team standing moonsault—a breathtaking display of synchronicity.
1… 2… No! Forrest breaks up the pin with a stiff boot to Jordan’s spine.
“The veterans aren’t going to let these kids fly away with it,” Fiasco notes. “Southern Discomfort is about grounded, smash-mouth wrestling.”
The momentum swings as Forrest tags in and begins to systematically dismantle Marcus Jordan. He uses a grinding front facelock to keep Jordan away from his corner, while Sherman provides a distraction for the referee to deliver a few “accidental” elbows. For several minutes, The Heights are grounded, with Jordan suffering through a series of heavy-handed chops and a gutbuster that leaves him gasping for air.
The crowd rallies, and Jordan finally finds an opening, hitting a desperation pele kick that allows him to make the hot tag to Dante King. King enters like a house on fire, nailing a springboard crossbody on Forrest and a dropkick that sends Sherman tumbling to the floor.
“King is taking over! Look at him go!” Sloan yells as King scales the top rope.
King attempts a 450 Splash, but Forrest rolls out of the way. King rolls through, landing on his feet, but he walks right into a devastating double-team maneuver from the veterans. Sherman catches him in a spinebuster position while Forrest comes off the middle rope with a driving neckbreaker—their signature Southern Justice.
1… 2… Kick out! King stays alive by the narrowest of margins.
The finale is a chaotic blur of bodies. Marcus Jordan clears Forrest from the ring with a cactus clothesline over the top rope. In the center of the ring, Dante King tries for a sunset flip on Sherman, but the veteran is too heavy. Sherman drops his weight, grabbing the bottom rope for leverage—a move the referee misses—and hooks King’s legs in a tight, technical cradle.
1… 2… 3!
“They got ’em! Experience wins the day!” Fiasco cheers.
“A heartbreak for The Heights, but what a debut!” Sloan adds.
The bell rings, and Southern Discomfort’s music hits. Sherman and Forrest celebrate with a quiet intensity. As The Heights slowly recover, disappointed but clearly having earned the fans’ respect, Sherman approaches Dante King. The grizzled veteran doesn’t offer a smile, but he extends a calloused hand. King takes it, and both teams share a brief, respectful nod—a silent acknowledgement that they will surely meet again.
“A hard-fought victory for the veterans,” Sloan observes. “But The Heights proved tonight that they belong in the sVo.”
Backstage
The camera cuts to the polished interview area of the Goodfellas Casino Arena, where Katie Smith stands with a microphone, her expression uncharacteristically wary. Beside her is Vespera Vane, “The Midnight Monarch”. Vane stands perfectly still, her sculpted, elite physique draped in a high-necked halter top that highlights her athletic build. Her jet-black hair falls straight past her shoulders, and her cold, aristocratic detachment makes the surrounding arena heat feel like a distant memory.
“I’m joined at this time by Vespera Vane,” Katie begins, her voice professional but cautious. “Vespera, last week you made your sVo debut in a match against Marty Murdoch. While you were victorious, the talk of the locker room hasn’t been about the win, but your actions after the bell. You refused to break your submission hold on Murdoch, necessitating several officials to pry you off. What was the purpose of that unnecessary display of cruelty?”
Vane does not look at Katie; instead, she stares directly into the camera lens with an icy, calculating gaze. She remains silent for several long seconds, letting the awkwardness of the silence fill the screen.
“Purpose?” Vane finally speaks, her voice a low, melodic hum that carries an edge of extreme arrogance. “You speak of a laboratory experiment as if it were a common brawl. Marty Murdoch was not an opponent; he was a sample. He was the first subject in a study of efficiency and human fragility.”
She adjusts a gold-bordered keyhole cutout on her gear, her movements precise and minimalist. “I did not refuse to break the hold out of cruelty, Ms. Smith. I was simply observing the exact moment the ‘heart’ everyone praises so much finally stops beating. I was elevating the sVo by removing a piece of the roster that is fundamentally unworthy of the light.”
Vane leans in slightly, her eyes widening just a fraction. “Last week was not a debut; it was the first brushstroke on a masterpiece. To the rest of the locker room—those of you who think your ‘fighting spirit’ will save you—watch closely. I am not here to participate in your game. I am here to perfect it. And I am only just beginning.”
Without waiting for a follow-up, Vane turns and walks away with a slow, methodical gait, refusing to acknowledge anyone else in the hallway.
“A chilling message from ‘The Dark Diamond,’” Jeremiah Sloan remarks as the broadcast returns to the commentary desk. “She looks at the sVo roster like they’re bugs under a microscope.”
“It’s about time we had some class and efficiency in this division, Sloan!” Julian Fiasco counters with a grin. “Vespera Vane knows she’s a masterpiece, and I for one can’t wait to see who she experiments on next.”
Backstage
The camera finds Jake Blackwood, “The Wild West Warrior,” leaning against a equipment crate in the backstage hallway. The sVo Las Vegas Championship belt is slung over his shoulder, the gold plates catching the overhead fluorescent glow. Blackwood is adjusting his wrist tape, looking every bit the rugged, no-nonsense champion that the Vegas fans have rallied behind.
“There he is, the man who brings the law to the Las Vegas Strip,” Jeremiah Sloan says with pride. “A fighting champion if I’ve ever seen one.”
The quiet moment is interrupted by the clicking of cowboy boots on the concrete. Colt Thompson, “The Lone Star,” saunters into the frame, a toothpick tucked into the corner of his mouth and a condescending smirk on his face. Thompson leans against the wall opposite Blackwood, eyeing the Las Vegas Championship with blatant jealousy.
“You know, Jake, I look at that belt, and then I look at you, and something just doesn’t sit right with me,” Thompson draws out his words with a thick, arrogant Texan burr. “That title represents the prestige of this city. It represents the elite. And you? You’re just a dusty brawler who got lucky. You aren’t worthy of carrying that gold. Why don’t you do us both a favor, save yourself a beating at Vendetta, and just hand it over to a real cowboy?”
Blackwood straightens up, his jaw tightening. He steps into Thompson’s personal space, the brim of his hat shadowing his eyes. “You want to talk about luck, Colt? I earned this through blood and sweat while you were busy hiding brass knuckles in your trunks. If you want this belt, you don’t ask for it—you try and take it. And right now seems like a real good time for you to try.”
Blackwood drops the title to the floor and squares his shoulders, but before the two can trade blows, a third voice cuts through the tension like a knife.
“Gentlemen, please. Your bickering is exhausting.”
The camera pans to reveal the “Ace of Vegas” himself, Jason Martel. Dressed in a sharp, tailored suit that probably costs more than the equipment he’s standing next to, the former Las Vegas Champion walks into the middle of the confrontation with an air of supreme entitlement.
“Colt, you haven’t done a damn thing to earn a look at that belt,” Martel says, dismissing Thompson with a wave of his hand. He then turns his gaze to Blackwood. “And Jake, enjoy your little hobby as champion while it lasts. But let’s look at the facts. I lost that championship at the last PPV to Bernard Wolfe without ever being pinned or submitted. I was the champion, I was the face of this division, and I was robbed of my property without being involved in the decision.”
Martel adjusts his silk tie, his eyes cold. “If anyone is first in line to take that gold back, it’s the man who never truly lost it. It’s me.”
The three men stand in a tense triangle—Blackwood ready for a fight, Thompson seething at the disrespect, and Martel looking down his nose at both of them.
“Talk about a powder keg!” Sloan exclaims. “Three of the best in the sVo, and only one Las Vegas Championship!”
“Martel has a point, Sloan! He’s the ‘Ace’ for a reason, and he wants his throne back!” Fiasco adds excitedly.
Six Man Tag Team Match
Mark Hendry & the SEC vs. Blood Money
The arena lights turn a clinical, harsh white as the “SEC” logo flickers across every screen in the Goodfellas Casino Arena. Mark Hendry, the former XPRO World Heavyweight Champion, leads the way with a cold, corporate arrogance, followed by the sVo Tag Team Champions, Gator Bates and the Alabama Kid. Trailing behind them is Brice Brantley, who wears a smirk that suggests he’s already bought and sold everyone in the building.
“This is the hostile takeover personified,” Jeremiah Sloan growls. “They put Amy Page in the hospital with a powerbomb, and they’ve been laughing about it ever since!”
“It’s just business, Sloan! The SEC is all about results, and look at the gold around those waists!” Julian Fiasco shouts as the mood shifts instantly.
The lights dim and a heavy, ominous bassline rattles the rafters. Blood Money—Joe Barone, Nicky Columbo, and Junior Gambino—march toward the ring with the intensity of men walking toward a firing squad. There is no showboating tonight. They know the ultimatum from Jon Page: end the SEC, or lose everything.
The match starts with a literal explosion of violence as all six men meet in the center of the ring, trading haymakers. The referee loses control immediately as Barone and Hendry spill to the outside, while Columbo and the Alabama Kid trade stiff chops in the corner.
When the dust settles, the SEC begins to use their polished, underhanded tag team psychology. Gator Bates and the Alabama Kid cut the ring in half, isolating the young Junior Gambino. They use quick tags and frequent “accidental” distractions of the referee to maintain a brutal advantage.
“They’re dissecting him like a corporate asset, Julian!” Sloan cries out as Hendry enters and delivers a devastating vertical suplex to Gambino.
After minutes of punishment, Gambino avoids a corner charge from Gator Bates and makes the hot tag to “The Problem Solver” Joe Barone. The crowd roars as Barone enters, leveling the Alabama Kid with a clothesline and catching Mark Hendry mid-air with a massive powerslam. Barone is a force of nature, driven by the fear of losing his livelihood.
Nicky Columbo enters and the momentum is firmly with Blood Money. They execute a triple-team maneuver, ending with Barone dropping a massive leg across the throat of the Alabama Kid.
1… 2… No! Mark Hendry breaks it up at the last second.
The match descends into chaos once more. Barone sends Hendry over the top rope with a clothesline, and Columbo follows them out with a suicide dive! In the ring, Junior Gambino scales the top rope, looking to finish the Alabama Kid with a high-flying splash.
“This is it! Blood Money is going to collect!” Sloan screams.
But as the referee’s back is turned, dealing with the brawl on the floor, Brice Brantley springs into action. He hops onto the apron and swings a steel chair, smashing it directly into Gambino’s skull. Gambino crumples, falling into the ring like a stone.
The Alabama Kid, sensing the opening, crawls over and drapes an arm across Gambino’s chest. The referee slides back in to count.
1… 2… 3!
“NO! Brantley cheated! Page’s hit just went bust!” Sloan yells in disbelief.
“The SEC is smarter than the house, Sloan! They just bankrupted Blood Money!” Fiasco laughs hysterically.
The bell rings, and the SEC quickly retreats up the ramp, Brantley clutching his briefcase and laughing. In the ring, Barone and Columbo look on in horror as the reality sinks in—they failed the hit.
“Jon Page is going to be livid,” Sloan says solemnly. “Blood Money’s time in the sVo might have just expired.”
Backstage
The camera cuts high above the arena floor to the glass-paneled luxury of the Owner’s Sky Box. The atmosphere here is a stark contrast to the neon chaos below; the room is dimly lit, smelling of expensive cigars and filtered air. Jon Page stands alone at the edge of the glass, his silhouette framed by the flickering lights of the Goodfellas Casino Arena.
His face is a mask of pure, unbridled fury. His knuckles are white as he grips the mahogany railing, watching the SEC celebrate their tainted victory on the big screens.
“Look at the boss,” Jeremiah Sloan says, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ve known Jon Page a long time, and I have never seen him look this dangerous.”
“He’s watching his investment crumble, Sloan! Blood Money just let the biggest ‘hit’ in sVo history slip through their fingers,” Julian Fiasco adds, sounding uncharacteristically hushed.
Page doesn’t move for a long moment, his eyes fixed on Brice Brantley’s smirking face on the monitor. Slowly, with a cold, calculated motion, he reaches into his tailored suit jacket and pulls out his iPhone. The screen illuminates his face, highlighting the deep lines of frustration around his mouth.
He taps the screen with aggressive precision and holds the phone to his ear. He doesn’t wait for a greeting.
“It’s Page,” he growls into the receiver, his voice low and vibrating with menace. “The plan failed. Barone and his idiots couldn’t get the job done… No, I don’t care about the ‘or else’ anymore. I want something more permanent. Bring ‘them’ in. I want the SEC erased by the time we hit the ramp at Vendetta. Do you understand me? Good.”
Page snaps the phone shut and finally notices the camera crew lingering in the corner of the suite, capturing the private moment of corporate rage. He turns on them like a cornered predator, his eyes flashing.
“What are you looking at?!” Page bellows, stepping toward the lens. “I didn’t give you permission to be in here! Get that damn camera out of my face! Get out! NOW!”
He lunges toward the cameraman, and the feed abruptly cuts to static before snapping back to the ringside announcers, who look visibly shaken.
“The boss has officially lost it,” Sloan breathes. “Who was he talking to? Who is ‘them’?”
“I don’t know, Jeremiah, but I think the SEC just traded a mob hit for something much, much worse,” Fiasco replies.
Backstage
The camera cuts to the backstage interview area where Katie Smith stands with the “LA Luminary,” Alex Sterling. Sterling, usually the most flamboyant and talkative man on the roster, looks different tonight. He’s traded his sequined Hollywood robes for a simple, black compression shirt, and his eyes are devoid of their usual playful arrogance. He looks like a man who has replaced his ego with pure, unadulterated focus.
“Alex, last week we saw a side of you that we’ve never seen before,” Katie says, her voice cautious. “You dismantled Noah Rogan with a cold efficiency, and afterward, you made it very clear that your sights are set on Adam Garcia and his new International Heavyweight Championship. What has sparked this sudden change in your demeanor?”
Sterling doesn’t look at Katie. He stares straight ahead, his jaw tight. “Change? No, Katie. This is a realization. I spent years being the ‘Luminary.’ I spent years making sure the lighting was right and the cameras caught my best angle. And all that got me was a front-row seat to Adam Garcia holding a title that belongs to me.”
He finally turns his head, his gaze piercing. “I watched Garcia last week. I watched him unveil that belt. I heard him call every former champion a ‘placeholder.’ He’s young, he’s talented, and he’s the most arrogant person I’ve ever met—which is saying something, considering I’m from Los Angeles.”
Sterling steps closer to the mic, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Adam, you think that a new belt makes you a king? It makes you a target. You’re playing champion, but I’m playing for keeps. I stopped showboating because I realized I don’t need the fans to tell me I’m great—I need that gold to prove it. At Vendetta, the lights aren’t going to be on me because I asked for them. They’re going to be on me because I’m standing over your broken body with the International Championship.”
“Strong words from a former champion who seems to have rediscovered his killer instinct,” Jeremiah Sloan remarks as the camera lingers on Sterling’s cold expression.
“He’s not just a star anymore, Sloan. He’s a hunter,” Julian Fiasco adds. “And Adam Garcia might have just insulted the most dangerous man in the sVo.”
Single Match
Victor Holland vs. Jay Adder
The arena lights transition to a steady, rhythmic pulse of amber and white as the opening chords of “Young Blood” signal the arrival of Victor Holland. “The Natural” walks to the ring with a humble but focused gait, adjusting his elbow pads and acknowledging the fans with a confident nod. At only 23 years old, the Cincinnati native looks every bit the part of the future of the industry.
“This young man is a student of the game, Julian,” Jeremiah Sloan says, his voice full of admiration. “Victor Holland has been traveling the country, perfecting that dynamic hybrid style, and tonight he’s in the ring with a technical master in Jay Adder.”
“He’s got the ‘Young Blood,’ Sloan, but he’s facing a man who has spilled more blood in this ring than Holland has ever seen,” Julian Fiasco scoffs as the music shifts to a sleek, modern technical beat. Jay Adder walks out, looking calm and clinical. The veteran has been in a strange place lately, ever since his partner Jacob Izaz stabbed him in the back, but his technical prowess remains undeniable.
The match starts with a masterful display of chain wrestling. For the first five minutes, neither man gains a clear advantage; it’s a chess match of wristlocks, hammerlocks, and escapes. The crowd watches in hushed appreciation as Holland showcases his “Natural” instincts, reversing a toe-hold into a bridging pin, only for Adder to kick out and immediately transition into a cross-face.
“Look at the positioning!” Sloan exclaims. “Holland is hanging right there with one of the best in the business!”
As the match progresses, the veteran Adder begins to push the pace, using his experience to lure Holland into traps. He catches Holland with a stiff European uppercut that rattles the young man’s jaw, followed by a dragon screw leg whip that targets Holland’s base. Adder begins to systematically work over the knee, looking to set up for a submission finish.
“Adder is taking him to school now,” Fiasco chirps. “The kid is out of his depth.”
But Holland shows that fire that has made him a rising star. He limps through the pain, catching Adder off guard with a sudden springboard dropkick from the apron that sends the veteran halfway across the ring. The momentum shifts as Holland nails a series of sharp knee strikes and an innovative fast-paced counter that ends in a textbook bridging northern lights suplex.
1… 2… No! Adder barely gets a shoulder up.
The finish comes as Adder tries to lock in a sharpshooter. Holland uses his explosiveness to push Adder off, sending him staggering into the ropes. As Adder rebounds, Holland ducks a clothesline, hooks both arms with lightning speed, and executes his signature high-angle Double Underhook Suplex—pinning Adder’s shoulders to the mat with a perfect, athletic bridge.
1… 2… 3!
“He did it! Victor Holland has just pinned a former champion!” Sloan shouts as the referee raises the youngster’s hand.
The two men stand in the center of the ring, breathing heavily. Jay Adder looks at the “Rising Star” for a long moment, clutching his ribs. He nods once—a silent, veteran acknowledgement of the young man’s skill—and exits the ring, leaving Holland to celebrate his biggest victory in the sVo to date.
“A massive win for the future of the company,” Sloan says. “The student has become the teacher tonight.”
Backstage
The camera cuts to the bustling gorilla position, where Dylan MacLeod is pacing back and forth, his face flushed with indignation. He’s cornering a weary-looking ring crew member, gesturing wildly with his hands.
“Did you see it? Did you actually see the referee’s eyes?” MacLeod rants, his voice cracking with frustration. “Colt Thompson had a fistful of brass knuckles! I was out-wrestling that Texas fraud for fifteen minutes, and he has to resort to prehistoric weaponry to keep me down. It’s a conspiracy, I’m telling you! The officiating in this company is a joke!”
The crew member tries to slip away, but MacLeod grabs his shoulder. “I shouldn’t be losing to guys who need hardware to win a fight! Someone needs to call Jon Page, someone needs to—”
“Someone needs to shut their mouth before I do it for them,” a cold, biting voice interrupts.
The camera pans to reveal the former Las Vegas Champion, Bernard Wolfe. Wolfe looks like he’s been chewing on broken glass, his eyes dark and sunken. He steps into MacLeod’s space, towering over him with a predatory stillness.
“You’re crying about one loss to a cowboy with a toy?” Wolfe sneers, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “I carried that Las Vegas Championship. I brought prestige to that gold for months. I lost my title because of a technicality, and I haven’t heard my name mentioned once for a rematch. Not once!”
Wolfe jabs a finger into MacLeod’s chest, backing him up against a stack of equipment trunks. “You’re out here whining to the help about a bruise on your ego? I’m being treated like a ghost. So if you want to keep complaining, Dylan, why don’t you do it to my face and see how many teeth you have left to talk with?”
MacLeod doesn’t back down. He bats Wolfe’s hand away and steps up, nose-to-nose with the former champion. “You think you’re the only one with a grudge, Wolfe? You’re yesterday’s news. I’m the one getting robbed in the here and now!”
The two men chest-bump, their faces inches apart, hands balling into fists. Just as MacLeod pulls his arm back, a swarm of black-shirted security guards and officials—led by a frantic-looking referee—rush in, wedging themselves between the two volatile stars.
“Back off! Not tonight!” the officials scream.
“You’re a dead man, MacLeod!” Wolfe bellows over the shoulders of three security guards, his face contorted in rage. “You want to talk about robbery? I’ll show you a mugging you’ll never forget!”
“Anytime, Wolfe! Bring your ‘Apex’ attitude and see what happens!” MacLeod shouts back as he’s hauled toward the locker room.
“The frustration is reaching a boiling point backstage!” Jeremiah Sloan exclaims as the camera returns to the arena. “The ‘desperation’ theme of the night continues, Julian. These men are losing their grip!”
“It’s a dog-eat-dog world, Sloan, and Bernard Wolfe looks like he’s ready to start biting,” Fiasco adds with a smirk.
Main Event Match
Masafumi Satake vs. Jason Martel
The lights in the Goodfellas Casino Arena dim to a deep, regal crimson as the haunting, traditional flute melody of “The Rising Sun” echoes through the rafters. Masafumi Satake, the “Last Samurai,” walks to the ring with a stoic, terrifying calm. He doesn’t look at the fans; his eyes are locked on the squared circle, his movements precise and deliberate.
“Jeremiah, we are looking at a living legend,” Sloan says, his voice hushed in reverence. “Satake has conquered every continent, and tonight he looks to cement his legacy here in the sVo.”
“Legacy doesn’t pay for the penthouse, Sloan!” Julian Fiasco shouts as the arena is flooded with golden spotlights and a heavy rock anthem. Jason Martel, the “Ace of Vegas,” saunters out in a custom-tailored silk robe, a cocky smirk plastered on his face. He plays to the hometown crowd, soaking in a mixture of cheers and envious boos. “Martel is the franchise here. Satake is just a tourist in the Ace’s city!”
The bell rings, and the contrast in styles is immediate. Satake takes the center of the ring in a low stance, while Martel circles him like a shark. They lock up, and Satake instantly showcases his legendary strength, shoving Martel back into the corner. Satake gives a clean break but stares a hole through Martel’s soul.
Martel lunges forward with a side headlock, but Satake counters with a stiff kick to the hamstring that echoes like a gunshot. Martel limps away, his smirk momentarily replaced by a look of shock.
“The ‘Last Samurai’ just took the legs out from under the Ace!” Sloan exclaims.
The match becomes a high-stakes game of cat and mouse. Martel uses his technical speed to catch Satake with a dropkick and a swinging neckbreaker, but every time Martel gains momentum, Satake shuts him down with a blistering palm strike or a thunderous suplex. At one point, Satake catches Martel mid-air and delivers a devastating brainbuster that nearly ends the match.
1… 2… No! Martel barely gets a toe on the bottom rope.
As the match reaches its crescendo, Satake signals for the end. He stalks Martel, waiting for him to rise so he can deliver the Ichiban Kick. Martel is dazed, pulling himself up by the ropes, completely vulnerable. Satake charges—
Suddenly, a massive, broad-shouldered figure vaults the barricade, wearing a black hoodie and a look of pure malice. It’s “The Bully” Danny Domino.
Before Satake can connect with his finisher, Domino slides into the ring and levels the Japanese legend with a brutal, blindside tackle. The referee immediately calls for the bell.
DING! DING! DING!
“Wait a minute! What is Domino doing here?” Sloan screams. “This was a classic, and he’s ruined it!”
Domino doesn’t care about the DQ. He mounts Satake and begins raining down heavy, unprotected closed-fist strikes. Jason Martel, seeing the opening, doesn’t help the man he was just competing against; instead, he stands in the corner, clutching his ribs and laughing as the “Bully” continues the assault.
Domino pulls Satake to his feet and delivers the B-52—a massive spinning side slam that bounces Satake off the canvas. Domino looks down at the legend and shouts, “This is my house now, old man!”
“Danny Domino is sending a message to the entire international roster!” Fiasco yells. “He doesn’t care about your legends or your samurais!”
The show ends with Satake motionless in the ring and Domino standing tall, while Jason Martel slips out of the ring, satisfied that the “Ace” is still the only one standing in Las Vegas.
“A chaotic end to a night of desperation!” Sloan bellows as the credits begin to roll. “We’ll see you in seven days for the final stop before Vendetta!”
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