The camera cuts to a private lounge deep within the bowels of the Crimson Club, where the air is thick with the scent of expensive champagne and the metallic tang of dried sweat. The door is guarded by two stone-faced security guards, but the lens pushes through to reveal the new era of Project Violence in its rawest form.

Henry Steele is slumped in a high-backed leather chair, the PV Heavyweight Championship draped across his lap. He hasn’t even wiped the blood from a cut above his eye; he simply stares at the gold with a look of terrifying possessiveness.

Cherry Bordeaux is standing behind him, her white fur coat discarded on a sofa, revealing her shimmering red gear. She’s popped a bottle of vintage champagne, the foam spilling over the sides of a crystal flute as she laughs—a sharp, triumphant sound that echoes off the concrete walls.

“Look at it, Henry,” Cherry whispers, leaning over his shoulder to trace the line of the center plate. “We told them. We told every single person in this pathetic city that the Fortress doesn’t break. And now? Now you own the ground they walk on.”

James Mendoza staggers into the frame, his ribs taped and a dark bruise forming on his jaw from his war with Dash Diaz earlier in the night. Despite the pain, a predatory grin is plastered across his face. He grabs the bottle of champagne from the table and takes a swig directly from it, ignoring the glasses.

“Diaz thought he was the ‘Standard,’ Cherry,” Mendoza growls, his voice rasping. “But the only standard in this company is standing right here. We took the hits, we did the work, and tonight, we took the power.”

Mendoza slams the bottle down and points a shaking finger at the hallway.

“Caleb Knox is out there somewhere wandering the Boardwalk like a ghost,” Mendoza sneers. “And Scatino? He’s probably still trying to figure out what color the sky is after you put him through the mat, Henry.”

Steele finally looks up. He doesn’t join in the laughter. He slowly rises to his feet, the belt gripped tightly in his massive hand. He towers over Mendoza and Cherry, his presence filling the small room.

“This isn’t just a win,” Steele says, his voice a low, vibrating rumble. “This is a hostile takeover. Knox was a king of an ‘Iron Kingdom’ that was built on sand. I am the foundation. I am the permanent fixture. Teddy Rush thinks that contract in his pocket means he’s next? He’s not next—he’s just another body for the pile.”

Cherry steps in front of him, adjusting the strap of the title on his shoulder, her eyes gleaming with malice.

“The Sanctioned Violence Network wanted an ‘exclusive’?” she says, looking directly into the camera lens with a condescending smirk. “Here’s your exclusive: The era of the underdog is dead. The era of ‘heart’ is over. You are looking at the law, the muscle, and the brilliance of Project Violence.”

She raises her glass in a mock toast toward the camera.

“Drink it in, Atlantic City. Because we aren’t going anywhere.”

Steele stares coldly into the lens for a beat longer before turning his back on the camera, leading the group deeper into the shadows of the VIP suite. The screen flickers with the Sanctioned Violence Network logo as the feed cuts to black.