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Still, the crowd bought it. They roared at the intensity, not knowing the story underneath. Barry clutched his chest, rolling onto his side, his breaths shallow. Sandro leaned over, voice low, words only Barry could hear. "Maybe next time, you think twice about going to such lengths harassing Alexa and scarring an 18 year old, that was fresh in the business."
Barry's face grimaced while his eyes were wide filled with shock, he didn't expect that Sandro to know that he was the one behind Alexa's spam calls and messages.
His hand shot up as if to push Sandro away and also to say he had enough, but the champion was already in motion, hauling him up by the neck and whipping him into the corner.
Barry's back hit the turnbuckles with a sick thud, and as he stumbled forward, Sandro crushed him with a running lariat that flipped Barry inside out.
"Oh my god, Barry Allen just got turned inside out!" the younger commentator gasped, half in awe, half in concern. "That might be the hardest I've ever seen Sandro hit someone!"
The older commentator tried to play it cool. "That's why Sandro's the double champ, partner. He's not here to make friends."
Barry sprawled on the mat, chest heaving, eyes glassy. Sandro gave him a moment, just a moment to take some breath and feel the pain, then grabbed a fistful of Barry's hair, pulling him up in one fluid motion.
Barry tried to throw a weak elbow, but Sandro brushed it aside like a gnat, wrapped his arms around Barry's waist, and deadlifted him into a German suplex, bridging into a pin.
One! Two! Barry kicked out.
Barely.
He lay on the mat, chest rising and falling, hands clutching at the canvas. Sandro knelt beside him, looking down without a trace of pity. He stood, pacing a slow circle around Barry, then dragged him to the corner.
And then Sandro pointed to the top rope.
The crowd came alive, recognizing the signal.
"No way, we're going up top!" the older commentator exclaimed, his voice rising.
Sandro climbed, balanced, and with a cool precision, launched himself backward off the top turnbuckle, and as he was midair he hooked Barry's head and brought it down.
Top System Cutter.
Barry's body snapped to the mat with a brutal thud. He bounced once, landing in a heap. The crowd erupted.
"Top System Cutter! That's it! That's gotta be it!" the younger commentator shouted, practically out of his seat.
But Sandro wasn't done.
He didn't go for the pin.
Instead, with a cold, calculating look, he rose, stalking toward the corner again. The audience's roar swelled to a fever pitch as he ascended the ropes once more, balancing at the top.
"He's going back up?!" the older commentator said, incredulous. "Why? He's already got this won!"
Sandro crouched.
Barry barely stirred, his arms twitching weakly at his sides.
And then, Sandro flew.
The Downfall DDT.
It landed flush, snapping Barry's head to the mat with a violent, decisive impact.
Sandro rolled over, pressing his weight across Barry's chest, hooking the leg deep.
One! Two! Three!
Ding, ding, ding!
The bell echoed through the arena as the crowd roared, a blend of awe and exhilaration.
The referee raised Sandro's hand, but Sandro didn't smile. He didn't gloat. He stood, eyes flicking once to Barry's prone body, then to the hard camera. He was all business.
"Here's your winner! And still! Your FCW Florida Heavyweight Champion, Sandro Zhang!" the ring announcer declared.
Sandro retrieved his belts, hoisting them high on either shoulder as the crowd responded in a chaotic mix of cheers and jeers. Cameras flashed, chants rang out, but Sandro's face remained unreadable.
Barry lay on the mat, barely stirring, his chest rising and falling in shallow, labored breaths. The referee crouched beside him, checking, signaling discreetly for a trainer.
Back at the commentary table, the younger commentator let out a long breath. "Wow… I mean, what a match, but you've gotta wonder, was that too much from Sandro to continue cementing his dominance?"
The older commentator, ever the veteran, kept it smooth. "Sandro's the champ. He sends a message every time he steps in that ring. Barry Allen? He got a front row lesson tonight."
Backstage, the locker room was quiet as they watched on the monitors. Some shifted uneasily, murmuring under their breath. A few shook their heads.
Alexa, standing off to the side, arms crossed, watched the screen with a hard expression, lips pressed into a thin line. She said nothing.
Sandro made his way up the ramp, both belts gleaming under the lights, his steps steady, and controlled. He never once looked back at Barry.
As the camera followed Sandro to the stage, the younger commentator gave one final thought, his tone softer now.
"Love him or hate him… Sandro Zhang just proved why he's at the top of this company. But man, Barry's gonna feel this one for a long, long time."
The camera lingered as Sandro stood on the stage, both arms raised, the two titles lifted high, his silhouette framed against the roaring crowd. Then, slowly, the screen faded to black.
But the echoes of that match, the sharp crack of each blow, the thud of Barry's body hitting the mat, the tension that simmered beneath the surface would linger long after the broadcast ended.
And for Barry Allen, as the trainers helped him to his feet backstage, one thing was painfully clear, there were consequences for any action that he had done to Alexa.
In the gorilla position, as Sandro walked through the curtain, sweat still clinging to his skin and the weight of two championship belts draped over his shoulders, the atmosphere was tense. The crowd's roar faded behind the walls, replaced by the sharp, almost uncomfortable silence backstage.
There, just a few feet away, Barry sat slumped on a bench, his body visibly aching, one hand clutching his ribs while the other nursed the side of his jaw.
His eyes flicked up for a second, just a flicker, just enough to register Sandro's arrival, and then they darted away, head bowing, shoulders curling inward as though he could make himself smaller, invisible. But there was no hiding now.
Beside Barry stood Dusty Rhodes, arms folded across his broad chest, his expression unreadable but his eyes hard. Steve Keirn was just behind him, his jaw set, lips thinned in a line of quiet disappointment. When Sandro's boots hit the floor, both Dusty and Steve looked his way. Dusty gave a curt nod.
"Sandro," Dusty said in his low, gravelly voice, "come with us."
No more words were needed.
Sandro adjusted the straps of his belts, sparing Barry only the briefest of glances, then followed as Dusty and Steve turned, heading down the hallway.
Barry shuffled to his feet with a wince, his sense of dread sharpening with every step they took toward Steve's office. His breaths came short, each inhalation rattling through his sore chest, and though he tried to straighten his back, the weight of his mistakes pressed heavily on his shoulders.
The walk was quiet, but it was a quiet that screamed. Barry's mind spun, his thoughts racing in chaotic circles. He thought about ways to talk his way out of this, how to deny, deflect, maybe even spin it back on Sandro. Maybe they didn't have proof. Maybe Sandro had just guessed. Maybe—
They reached the office.
Steve pushed the door open, holding it for the rest. The four of them filed inside. The room was spare, with a desk, two chairs on one side, a couch on the other, and a few old posters from the Florida Championship Wrestling glory days on the walls. Dusty and Steve took their seats behind the desk, gesturing for Barry and Sandro to sit opposite.
Barry sank into the chair stiffly, arms crossed tight across his stomach as though trying to hold himself together. Sandro sat with the quiet stillness of a storm contained, his hands resting lightly on his knees, his belts laid over the armrest.
Dusty leaned forward, elbows on the desk. His voice was even, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. "Barry," he said, "you know why you were put in that shoot match tonight? Why you're sitting here right now?"
Barry's lips parted, a breath hitching in his throat. For a moment, just a moment, you could see the panic behind his eyes. But then he blinked, and it was gone, masked over with a forced calm, the last desperate gambit of a man boxed into a corner.
"No," Barry said, shaking his head, his voice a shaky blend of confusion and indignant offense. "No, I don't know why I was in a shoot match. And honestly, I was going to bring that up, that was unsafe and completely unprofessional. If I don't get an explanation, you better believe I'm going to sue. I'll sue FCW. I'll sue Sandro. Unsafe work environment, assault—"
His voice climbed, the words tumbling over each other, but the three men watching him didn't flinch. They just watched, let him get it out, let the rope slip through his own hands.
When Barry finally stopped, when his shoulders dropped just a little from the effort of his rant, Steve spoke. His voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.
"Are you done with the act, Barry?"
Barry froze.
Steve's eyes locked onto his, unblinking. "We know what you did to Alexa. We have evidence. Sandro brought it to us."
There was no room left to run.
Barry's face drained of color, lips parting in a silent inhale, eyes wide and flickering from Steve to Dusty to Sandro, then back again. His hands fidgeted in his lap, fingers pulling at the hem of his shirt. For a heartbeat, maybe two, it looked like he might crumble right there, might break down, apologize, beg for forgiveness.
But then, something snapped.
The laugh started small. A soft huff, barely audible, a twisted exhale through his nose. Then it grew. His shoulders shook, the sound rolling up from his chest, until Barry was laughing, a thin, brittle sound that cracked as it spilled into the room.
His eyes gleamed with something sharp and bitter as his voice tumbled out, ragged and too loud in the confined space.
"She deserved it!" Barry barked, his words sharp and venomous. "You all act like she's some saint but she's not! Do you think I didn't see it? How she cozied up to Sandro, looking for his connections, his money? I could've helped her, I would've helped her, but no! She rejected me! She's just a slut who—"
The chair scraped hard against the floor.
Sandro was up in an instant, crossing the space between them in two long strides, his hand fisting in Barry's shirt, yanking him upright.
The chair Barry sat in clattered back against the wall as he was hauled halfway off his feet. Barry's hands shot up, instinctively gripping Sandro's wrist, but the champion was a wall of stone, his face a mask of cold fury.
"What did you just say about Alexa?" Sandro's voice was low, and dangerous, a rumble beneath the surface that promised violence. "Looks like you didn't learn in the ring, huh?"
Barry's face twisted, part defiance, part fear, part something unhinged. But he didn't get another word out.
"Enough!" Dusty's voice cracked like a whip, sharp enough to snap the tension in the room. He was already on his feet, Steve just behind him, both of them moving fast to wedge themselves between the two wrestlers and separate them.
"Sandro, stand down!" Steve ordered, one hand on Sandro's shoulder, firm, insistent. "You got your message across tonight, don't throw it all away now."
Dusty was already pulling Barry back, pushing him into the corner of the room as the younger man gasped for air, but Sandro's grip was still onhis shirt crumpled in, not letting go.
"Listen to us, kid," Dusty added, his voice gentler now, but still edged with authority. "Barry's suspension, it's already official. His termination papers are waiting. You don't need to put your hands on him again. Don't give him anything to run to a lawyer with."
For a moment, the only sound in the room was the harsh, ragged breathing of the four men. Then, slowly, Sandro's fingers uncurled, letting Barry slump back against the wall. The champion stepped back, running a hand through his sweat damp hair, jaw clenched tight. Barry slid down the wall, chest heaving, face pale and blotchy.
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Name: Alessandro Zhang
Age: 19 (2009)
Birthplace: Orlando, Florida USA
Brand: FCW
Wrestling Style: Mixed Of All Style
Faction: Dragon Boom (Tag Team)
Championship History: 1x FCW Tag Team Champions, 1x FCW Florida Heavyweight Champion, & 1x TNA World Heavyweight Champion