WWE: Infinite

[WrestleWizard]

WWE Elimination Chamber 2018 PREVIEW​

The Road to WrestleMania has been a relentless gauntlet of shattered alliances, shocking returns, and unbridled fury, all converging on this Sunday's monumental WWE Elimination Chamber! Inside the unforgiving steel structure, championship dreams will be forged and WrestleMania aspirations will be brutally crushed. This event isn't just a stop on the Road to WrestleMania; it's a pivotal turning point where careers will be defined and legacies cemented. Here's an in-depth look at the detailed happenings leading into each highly anticipated match:

Women's Elimination Chamber Match: Raw Women's Championship on the Line!​

Confirmed Participants: Alexa Bliss (c), Mandy Rose, Nia Jax, Bayley, Sasha Banks, Paige, Ember Moon
The first-ever 7-Woman Elimination Chamber Match for the Raw Women's Championship promises to be a chaotic, historic, and utterly unpredictable affair. With more competitors than ever before crammed into "Satan's Structure," the dynamics are set to explode.

• Alexa Bliss (c): The "Five Feet of Fury" has proven herself a cunning and manipulative champion, constantly finding ways to retain her title. Her journey to this match has been fraught with desperation; she initially agreed to face five women, only for Raw General Manager Kurt Angle to dramatically add a seventh, Paige, and then Ember Moon. Bliss has been visibly agitated, even attempting to persuade Royal Rumble winner Asuka to challenge SmackDown Women's Champion Charlotte Flair at WrestleMania instead of pursuing her Raw title. Her calculating nature and her ability to exploit any advantage will be put to the ultimate test against six determined challengers. Can her reign of terror continue amidst such overwhelming odds?
• Mandy Rose: As a key member of Absolution, Mandy Rose has shown a new, aggressive side since her arrival on Raw. She secured her spot by shocking the WWE Universe, defeating veteran Mickie James in a hard-fought qualifying match, thanks to a crucial distraction from her stablemate Sonya Deville. Rose's confidence has grown exponentially, and she'll be looking to prove that her beauty is matched only by her brutality.
• Nia Jax: The "Irresistible Force" has been a dominant presence, making quick work of Dana Brooke in her qualifier, dominating from bell to bell and finishing with a devastating leg drop. Jax has been a constant, looming threat to Alexa Bliss, and despite their uneasy alliance as "friends," the cracks in their relationship have become increasingly apparent. Jax's raw power makes her a favorite to dismantle anyone in her path, and she has her sights firmly set on the championship.
• Bayley: "The Huggable One" secured her opportunity by defeating Sonya Deville in a highly physical contest, overcoming interference from Mandy Rose to connect with a decisive Bayley-to-Belly suplex. Bayley's resilience and unwavering spirit will be crucial inside the Chamber, especially as she navigates the emotional minefield of her fractured friendship with Sasha Banks.
• Sasha Banks: "The Boss" kicked off the qualifying matches by defeating Alicia Fox, locking in her signature Bank Statement to secure her spot. However, the most compelling storyline surrounding Banks has been her escalating, bitter tension with former best friend Bayley. A recent 10-woman tag match saw Banks shockingly attack Bayley with a vicious Bank Statement after the bell, leaving their once-unbreakable bond in tatters. This betrayal has added a deeply personal layer to the match, raising questions about whether their rivalry will consume them both or if one can rise above the emotional turmoil to claim the gold.
• Paige: The enigmatic leader of Absolution made a shocking and highly anticipated return to Raw, announcing she was medically cleared to compete after a lengthy absence. She immediately demanded the final spot in the Chamber, showcasing her trademark confidence and ruthlessness. Her veteran savvy and unpredictable nature make her a dangerous contender who could easily capitalize on the chaos.
• Ember Moon: The "War Goddess" and NXT sensation earned her way into the match after defeating Paige via disqualification when Absolution interfered. In a groundbreaking move, Kurt Angle then announced that both Paige and Ember Moon would be added, making it a historic 7-woman match. Moon's awe-inspiring "Eclipse" corkscrew stunner has been a game-changer, and she's proven her incredible resilience and ability to adapt under pressure, making her a dark horse in this unpredictable contest.

The dynamics between these seven women are incredibly volatile, with former friends now bitter rivals and dangerous alliances threatening to implode at any moment. Can Alexa Bliss survive the unprecedented odds, or will a new Raw Women's Champion be crowned on the Road to WrestleMania, forever changing the landscape of the women's division?

Men's Elimination Chamber Match: Winner Challenges Universal Champion Brock Lesnar at WrestleMania 34!​

Confirmed Participants: Braun Strowman, Roman Reigns, John Cena, Seth Rollins, Samoa Joe, Bray Wyatt
Six of Raw's most dominant Superstars will step into "Satan's Structure" with the ultimate prize on the line: a Universal Championship match against "The Beast Incarnate" Brock Lesnar at WrestleMania 34. The build-up to this colossal encounter has been nothing short of explosive, marked by brutal brawls, shocking betrayals, and intense verbal confrontations.

• Braun Strowman: "The Monster Among Men" qualified by defeating Kane in a brutal Last Man Standing Match, a contest that saw both behemoths demolish the arena and each other. Strowman has been on an absolute rampage, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. He's powerslammed Seth Rollins through an announce table, chokeslammed Bray Wyatt through another, and declared his intention to take "bodies" and Lesnar's title. His recent F-5 to Lesnar on Raw sent a clear message, but Lesnar's retaliatory F-5 on the final Raw before the Chamber proved that even the Monster Among Men is not immune. Strowman's sheer, unadulterated power makes him arguably the most feared competitor in the match.
• Roman Reigns: "The Big Dog" overcame the odds in a thrilling triple threat match against The Miz and Finn Bálor to secure his coveted spot. Reigns has consistently made it clear that his path to the Universal Championship runs directly through anyone who stands in his way, a point he underscored with a post-match assault on both Strowman and Cena after their recent main event. He also delivered a thunderous Spear to Samoa Joe in a chaotic brawl, showcasing his readiness for war. Reigns' relentless pursuit of the Universal Title, a prize he feels is rightfully his, fuels his every move.
• John Cena: The 16-time World Champion qualified by defeating Bray Wyatt, continuing his quest for a record-breaking 17th World Title. Cena has been vocal about needing "one more miracle" to headline WrestleMania and prove he's still at the top of his game. He's been deeply entrenched in the brawls leading up to the Chamber, delivering a brutal Attitude Adjustment to Samoa Joe onto the steel steps, demonstrating that his "never give up" attitude extends to extreme measures.
• Seth Rollins: "The Architect" punched his ticket to the Chamber in a deeply personal and emotionally charged match against his former tag team partner, Jason Jordan. Raw General Manager Kurt Angle made the difficult decision to throw in the towel on behalf of his injured son, awarding Rollins the victory. Rollins has been a vocal critic of Brock Lesnar's part-time schedule and has shown he thrives in chaos, recently delivering a perfectly executed Curb Stomp to John Cena in a post-match melee. His technical prowess and high-flying offense make him a formidable threat.
• Samoa Joe: "The Destroyer" made his long-awaited and impactful return from injury, dominating Apollo Crews to qualify for the Chamber. Joe has been relentless in his pursuit of gold, locking in the Coquina Clutch on multiple opponents and declaring himself the one man Brock Lesnar has never truly broken. His submission specialist style and brutal strikes make him a dangerous opponent for anyone inside the steel structure.
• Bray Wyatt: "The Eater of Worlds" earned his spot by defeating his enigmatic rival, "Woken" Matt Hardy, in a chilling encounter. Wyatt has consistently proven to be a wildcard in any match, often turning on his own allies and thriving in psychological warfare. He recently caught Roman Reigns with a Sister Abigail on the exposed concrete floor, showcasing his willingness to inflict maximum damage. Wyatt's unpredictable nature and dark intentions could see him emerge from the Chamber as the ultimate victor.

The final Raw before Elimination Chamber saw all six men confront Universal Champion Brock Lesnar, leading to an all-out brawl that left all six contenders battered and broken, with Lesnar standing tall after delivering a devastating F-5 to Braun Strowman. This match is not just a qualifier; it's a guaranteed war where only the strongest will survive to face "The Beast" at WrestleMania.

Ronda Rousey's WWE In-Ring Debut: Opponent TBA​

The "Baddest Woman on the Planet" is set to make her highly anticipated in-ring debut at Elimination Chamber, but in a twist that has sent shockwaves through the WWE Universe, her opponent remains a complete mystery.

• The Journey So Far: Ronda Rousey made a shocking and unforgettable appearance at the Royal Rumble, pointing decisively to the WrestleMania sign, signaling her intentions. She then officially signed her Raw contract at the subsequent Monday Night Raw. The contract signing segment itself was rife with tension, as WWE Chief Brand Officer Stephanie McMahon subtly questioned Rousey's ability to handle the grueling WWE schedule, while WWE COO Triple H announced her in-ring debut for Elimination Chamber. However, McMahon then delivered a calculated reveal: Rousey would only learn who her opponent is on the very night of the event, adding an immense layer of intrigue and psychological pressure.
• Intense Training: WWE cameras have provided exclusive, compelling footage of Rousey's rigorous training at the WWE Performance Center. These segments have showcased her seamlessly blending her world-class judo and MMA background with the unique demands of WWE-style grappling. Viewers have seen her dominating sparring partners with devastating throws and flawless armbars, perfecting new submission holds, and intently studying match film with WWE producers like Fit Finlay. Her dedication is undeniable, and her skills are rapidly adapting to the squared circle.
• Rousey's Ominous Warning: In a chilling and direct message to the WWE Universe, Rousey declared, "People think I've got something to prove. That this is my big test. That I should be nervous because it's the Elimination Chamber. They think I should be afraid of failure." She then scoffed, adding, "I've fought on the world's biggest stages. I've headlined arenas in front of millions. I've bled to be the best. So no I'm not nervous. They should be." She emphasized her intent with a stark warning: "This isn't a debut... it's a warning. After the Elimination Chamber... they'll never forget who ended their WrestleMania dreams." This statement sets a formidable tone for her WWE career, signaling that she's not just here to compete, but to dominate.

The anticipation surrounding Ronda Rousey's debut is at an all-time high. Who will be the brave (or perhaps foolish) Superstar to step up and face "Rowdy" Ronda Rousey in her first WWE match, and what kind of seismic impact will she have on the Raw Women's Division and the entire WWE landscape?

Raw Tag Team Championship Match: The Bar (Sheamus & Cesaro) (c) vs. The Club (Luke Gallows & Karl Anderson) vs. The Revival (Scott Dawson & Dash Wilder)​

The Raw Tag Team Championship will be fiercely defended in a Triple Threat Match, featuring three distinct, highly competitive, and equally dangerous teams, each vying for supremacy.

• The Bar (Sheamus & Cesaro) (c): The reigning champions recaptured the titles at the Royal Rumble, solidifying their position as one of WWE's most dominant duos. Sheamus and Cesaro have been boasting about their unparalleled chemistry and their ability to "set the bar" in the tag team division. They've been quick to mock and dismiss other teams, including both The Club and The Revival, believing themselves to be untouchable. Their hard-hitting, brawling style makes them a formidable force.
• The Revival (Scott Dawson & Dash Wilder): "The Top Guys" have been on a resurgence, showcasing their old-school, no-nonsense approach to tag team wrestling. They defeated Heath Slater & Rhyno in a decisive victory and have been vocal about their intention to restore prestige and traditional tag team wrestling to the Raw Tag Team Division. Dawson and Wilder have made it unequivocally clear that they are coming for The Bar's titles, believing their technical prowess and cohesive teamwork will lead them to gold.
• The Club (Luke Gallows & Karl Anderson): After a conspicuous absence, "The Good Brothers" made a thunderous and impactful return to Raw, immediately laying out both The Revival and The Bar. Gallows and Anderson have looked leaner, meaner, and more focused than ever, quickly re-establishing their dominance. A recent triple threat preview match saw Anderson and Gallows deliver a devastating "Magic Killer" to Sheamus, standing tall over their Chamber opponents and throwing up their signature "Too Sweet" gesture. Their renewed intensity and tag team synergy suggest they might be the dark horses poised to steal the gold.

The final Raw saw a chaotic triple threat preview match that ended in a no-contest, as all six men devolved into an all-out brawl, requiring multiple officials to restore order. The different styles – The Bar's brute force, The Revival's technical precision, and The Club's hard-hitting brawling – promise an unpredictable and explosive encounter for the Raw Tag Team Championships.

Intercontinental Championship Match: The Miz (c) vs. Finn Bálor​

The "A-Lister" will defend his coveted Intercontinental Championship against the inaugural Universal Champion, Finn Bálor, in a rivalry that has become deeply personal and intensely heated.

• The Miz (c): The Miz has been on a relentless mission to prove his worth as a main event player, especially after his recent loss in an Elimination Chamber qualifying match to Roman Reigns, which cost him a potential WrestleMania main event. He has repeatedly dismissed Finn Bálor, calling him a "failed experiment" and mercilessly mocking his injury history and his short-lived Universal Championship reign. The Miz, flanked by his Miztourage, has used his platform on MizTV to launch scathing verbal attacks, including a mock "Where Are They Now?" segment designed to humiliate Bálor, highlighting his 22-hour Universal Championship reign. The Miz believes he makes the Intercontinental Championship relevant and will do anything to keep it.
• Finn Bálor: Bálor has been on a determined quest for championship gold since his return, with his recent decisive victory over Bo Dallas showcasing his renewed focus and determination. The Miz's constant verbal assaults and personal attacks, particularly the cruel mockery of his injury, have clearly poked the "Demon" within Bálor. Bálor responded to The Miz's taunts by ambushing him during MizTV, swiftly dispatching the Miztourage and proclaiming, "You talk too much," signaling his intent to let his actions speak louder than words.

The Miz has truly poked the demon, and Finn Bálor will be looking for not just retribution, but also the Intercontinental Championship this Sunday. This match is a clash of personalities and fighting styles, with the potential for a truly memorable encounter.
Don't miss WWE Elimination Chamber, live this Sunday, to witness the dramatic fallout from these intense rivalries and see who emerges victorious on the unforgiving Road to WrestleMania!

WWE Elimination Chamber 2018: The Ultimate Prediction Contest!​

The Road to WrestleMania is heating up, and this Sunday, WWE Elimination Chamber promises to deliver an unforgettable night of action, drama, and shocking moments! From historic Chamber matches to highly anticipated debuts, there's no telling what will happen inside "Satan's Structure."

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WOMEN’S ELIMINATION CHAMBER MATCH​

For the Raw Women’s Championship
Participants: Alexa Bliss (c), Nia Jax, Sasha Banks, Bayley, Mandy Rose, Paige, Ember Moon

1. Who will enter the Chamber last?
2. Who will be the first woman eliminated?
3. Who will eliminate the most competitors?
4. Will Sasha Banks and Bayley directly cause each other’s eliminations (Yes/No)?
5. Who will leave Elimination Chamber as Raw Women’s Champion?

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MEN’S ELIMINATION CHAMBER MATCH​

Winner challenges Brock Lesnar at WrestleMania 34
Participants: Braun Strowman, Roman Reigns, John Cena, Seth Rollins, Samoa Joe, Bray Wyatt

1. Who will start the match in the ring? (Name two)
2. Will any tag-team-style alliances form during the match? (If yes, name them)
3. Who will take the most finishers before being eliminated?
4. Will Bray Wyatt use mind games (lights out, surprise attack, etc.) inside the Chamber? (Yes/No)
5. Who will win the match and face Brock Lesnar at WrestleMania 34?

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RAW TAG TEAM CHAMPIONSHIP TRIPLE THREAT MATCH​

The Bar (c) vs. The Club vs. The Revival

1. Which team will hit their finisher first (Magic Killer, Shatter Machine, White Noise combo)?
2. Who will take the pinfall?
3. Will all three teams be in the ring at once at any point? (Yes/No)
4. Will the match end via clean pinfall, interference, or illegal tactics?
5. Who walks out as Raw Tag Team Champions?

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INTERCONTINENTAL CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH​

The Miz (c) vs. Finn Bálor

1. Will The Miztourage interfere? (Yes/No)
2. Will “The Demon” persona appear? (Yes/No)
3. Who will hit their finisher first (Skull Crushing Finale or Coup de Grâce)?
4. Will the match go over 10 minutes? (Yes/No)
5. Who leaves with the Intercontinental Championship?

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RONDA ROUSEY’S IN-RING DEBUT​

Opponent: Mystery – revealed at the event

1. Who will be Ronda Rousey's opponent?
2. Will Stephanie McMahon interfere physically? (Yes/No)
3. Will Ronda Rousey win via pinfall, submission, or disqualification?
4. Will this match be longer or shorter than 5 minutes?
5. Will there be a post-match altercation involving Rousey, Stephanie, or Triple H? (Yes/No)

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BONUS QUESTIONS – TIEBREAKERS​

1. Which match will open the show?
2. Which match will close the show (main event)?
3. Will anyone bleed during the Elimination Chamber matches? (Yes/No)
4. Will any superstar climb to the top of a pod and jump off it? (Yes/No)
5. Pick one wild card moment that will happen at the show (e.g., shocking return, betrayal, debut)

 

[Roy Mustang]

WOMEN’S ELIMINATION CHAMBER MATCH​

For the Raw Women’s Championship
Participants: Alexa Bliss (c), Nia Jax, Sasha Banks, Bayley, Mandy Rose, Paige, Ember Moon

1. Who will enter the Chamber last? Nia Jax
2. Who will be the first woman eliminated? Mandy Rose
3. Who will eliminate the most competitors? Nia Jax
4. Will Sasha Banks and Bayley directly cause each other’s eliminations (Yes/No)? Yes
5. Who will leave Elimination Chamber as Raw Women’s Champion? Alexa Bliss

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MEN’S ELIMINATION CHAMBER MATCH​

Winner challenges Brock Lesnar at WrestleMania 34
Participants: Braun Strowman, Roman Reigns, John Cena, Seth Rollins, Samoa Joe, Bray Wyatt

1. Who will start the match in the ring? (Name two) Roman/Rollins
2. Will any tag-team-style alliances form during the match? (If yes, name them) Roman/Reigns on Strowman
3. Who will take the most finishers before being eliminated? Roman Reigns
4. Will Bray Wyatt use mind games (lights out, surprise attack, etc.) inside the Chamber? (Yes/No) No
5. Who will win the match and face Brock Lesnar at WrestleMania 34? Samoa Joe

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RAW TAG TEAM CHAMPIONSHIP TRIPLE THREAT MATCH​

The Bar (c) vs. The Club vs. The Revival

1. Which team will hit their finisher first (Magic Killer, Shatter Machine, White Noise combo)? The Revival
2. Who will take the pinfall? The Club
3. Will all three teams be in the ring at once at any point? (Yes/No) Yes
4. Will the match end via clean pinfall, interference, or illegal tactics? Clean
5. Who walks out as Raw Tag Team Champions? The Bar

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INTERCONTINENTAL CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH​

The Miz (c) vs. Finn Bálor

1. Will The Miztourage interfere? (Yes/No) yes
2. Will “The Demon” persona appear? (Yes/No) no
3. Who will hit their finisher first (Skull Crushing Finale or Coup de Grâce)? Finn
4. Will the match go over 10 minutes? (Yes/No) Yes
5. Who leaves with the Intercontinental Championship? Miz

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RONDA ROUSEY’S IN-RING DEBUT​

Opponent: Mystery – revealed at the event

1. Who will be Ronda Rousey's opponent? Nikki Bella
2. Will Stephanie McMahon interfere physically? (Yes/No) Yes
3. Will Ronda Rousey win via pinfall, submission, or disqualification? Submission
4. Will this match be longer or shorter than 5 minutes? Yes
5. Will there be a post-match altercation involving Rousey, Stephanie, or Triple H? (Yes/No) Yes

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BONUS QUESTIONS – TIEBREAKERS​

1. Which match will open the show? Women's chamber
2. Which match will close the show (main event)? Men's chamber
3. Will anyone bleed during the Elimination Chamber matches? (Yes/No) No
4. Will any superstar climb to the top of a pod and jump off it? (Yes/No) Yes
5. Pick one wild card moment that will happen at the show (e.g., shocking return, betrayal, debut) Jason Jordan will appear and cut a promo

 

[WrestleWizard]

Hey everyone—just a heads up! Due to the size and storytelling scope of this Elimination Chamber event, I’ll be presenting the show in multiple parts. This way, each match, promo, and twist gets the spotlight it deserves without overwhelming the read and becoming a chore to read. I am not sure how I will split it up but will be about 2-3 parts total which should make it a lot more enjoyable to read for everyone and for me to post and edit. Will leave you all with the COLD OPEN - a little teaser for the Elimination Chamber 2018 Show.

WWE ELIMINATION CHAMBER 2018

~ COLD OPEN ~
​

In absolute darkness, the first sound isn’t music, but life. A heartbeat. Then another. Slow, steady, inevitable. From deep within the void, a hollow clank cuts through the stillness—the unmistakable drag of heavy chains across steel. The air vibrates with tension as a thin whisper of light pierces the black, catching just a sliver of cold metal. The camera rises like smoke, panning up to reveal the monstrous Elimination Chamber, suspended from the rafters like a steel omen. Its form glows faintly red, bathed in the pulsing rhythm of distant thunder. Chains twitch as if stirred by breath, alive, sentient. Below it, the arena is a ghost town, no sound but the low groan of distant strings and the ominous thud of war drums lurking beneath the score. The chamber descends, slow and solemn, like a verdict about to be read. The voice of the narrator rumbles from the dark like prophecy made flesh. “For some,” he growls, “the road to WrestleMania is destiny… for others… it ends in steel.” And suddenly, BOOM, the screen erupts into a violent staccato of history and heartbreak. In split-second beats we see legends rise and fall, Triple H crawling through his own blood; Kofi Kingston soaring from pod to pod, chasing a dream; Edge striking down trust with a devil’s grin; Daniel Bryan, broken yet unbowed, screaming through tears as redemption sears through his veins. Beneath it all, the score swells into a tidal wave of orchestral might, stitched with pounding industrial drums, part opera, part war march.

The narrator’s voice breaks through, grave and deliberate. “Tonight... destiny is not earned. It’s taken—through iron and agony.”

In a flash, we are thrown into chaos, vivid, merciless fragments of the men who will wage war within these chains. Braun Strowman roars as he crashes someone through a barricade. Roman Reigns stands with blood on his brow, eyes fixed on the WrestleMania sign, a warrior staring down fate. John Cena moves in silence, wiping sweat from his face, the pressure of seventeen world titles heavy in his stare. Seth Rollins screams into the void, “Burn it down!”, a prophecy more than a chant. Samoa Joe coils around his victim like a serpent, locking in the Coquina Clutch with the surgeon's calm. Bray Wyatt lingers in the red mist, whispering, “Pain is salvation…”

Bodies collide with steel in painful ballet. Chains rattle with every impact. Pods detonate like landmines. It’s all shown in haunting slow motion, every strike beautiful, every fall brutal.

The narrator returns: “One path leads to WrestleMania… the others? To ruin.”

The tone shifts. The music drops to a ghostly hum, delicate piano keys and ethereal vocals drift like ash. Red light fades to violet. Out of the shadows step the women, seven figures etched in resolve and hunger. Alexa Bliss clutches the RAW Women’s Title like a secret, her eyes flickering between fire and fear. Sasha Banks stares down the storm, ambition and betrayal warring in her soul. Bayley, bloodied but blazing with fire, stands unshaken. Paige emerges cloaked in shadow, regal and ruthless. Nia Jax roars as she hits a Samoan drop to one of her opponents. Ember Moon soars mid-Eclipse, captured midair like an eclipse itself. Mandy Rose smirks, hands steady, knowing exactly who she is.

The narrator whispers, “For the first time ever… seven women. One legacy. No forgiveness.”

The camera spirals outward, a celestial dance of carnage. The seven pods shimmer in the dark like stars caged in steel. Chains crawl across them like vines. Drops of blood spatter the mesh flooring like fallen petals. “History isn’t made,” the narrator sharpens, voice rising, “it’s survived.”

Suddenly, silence. Music dies. A single breath fills the void.

Then......BOOM. A gong-like echo rocks the dark.

From the shadows, a silhouette flares to life.....Ronda Rousey, bathed in gold, fists clenched, jaw set. The crowd roars in memory. Flash, her UFC dominance. Flash, her WWE contract signed on Raw. Flash, her stare down with Stephanie McMahon. Flash, Ronda's sessions in the WWE performance center.

“The Baddest Woman on the Planet arrives,” the narrator growls, voice crackling like fire, “not to participate… but to change everything.”

Blackness rushes back in. Chains drop. Pods slam shut. The Chamber stands still, holding its breath.

And then........CRACK.

The words “ELIMINATION CHAMBER” erupt across the screen, forged in molten steel.

From the shadows, the voice of the narrator cuts in, grave and deliberate:

“Now... WWE Network presents… The Elimination Chamber.”

~ COMING SOON ~
​

MEN'S ELIMINATION CHAMBER MATCH- Winner challenges Universal Champion Brock Lesnar at WrestleMania 34​

Confirmed Participants:

• Braun Strowman
• Roman Reigns
• John Cena
• Seth Rollins
• Samoa Joe
• Bray Wyatt

WOMEN'S ELIMINATION CHAMBER MATCH - RAW WOMEN'S CHAMPIONSHIP​

Confirmed Participants:

• Alexa Bliss (c)
• Mandy Rose
• Nia Jax
• Bayley
• Sasha Banks
• Paige
• Ember Moon

INTERCONTINENTAL CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH​

• The Miz (c) vs. Finn Balor

RONDA ROUSEY'S WWE IN-RING DEBUT​

• Ronda Rousey vs. Opponent TBA

RAW TAG TEAM CHAMPIONSHIP TRIPLE THREAT MATCH​

• The Bar (Sheamus & Cesaro) (c) vs. The Club vs. The Revival

 

[WrestleWizard]

WWE ELIMINATION CHAMBER 2018 PART I
~ PYRO | WELCOME | WOMEN'S ELIMINATION CHAMBER MATCH ~​

Suddenly, white-hot pyro explodes across the stage, launching in synchronized bursts like cannon fire. The arena erupts into light, revealing a battlefield of steel and flame. Twin towers forged from iron and chain flank the entrance ramp, their surfaces lined with jagged pods and embedded LED screens twitching with glitchy graphics of shattered glass and ticking countdowns. The TitanTron glows red, pulsing with ominous energy. Above it all, suspended like a crown of dread: the Chamber itself, slowly rotating, its massive frame casting an oppressive shadow over the ring. Jets of flame erupt in columns down the ramp as the Elimination Chamber logo blazes across the screen in molten metal. Fireworks shower from the rafters, blanketing the stage in sparks as the camera sweeps over the crowd—faces lit with anticipation and frenzy, signs waving, chants rising like thunder. The lighting steadies into a deep red wash as the music crashes to its crescendo. Michael Cole’s voice cuts through the roar, filled with energy: “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to WWE Elimination Chamber, live on the WWE Network! We are coming to you from a sold-out crowd tonight, and the electricity in this building is absolutely unreal!” Corey Graves follows with a grin in his voice: “There’s no other structure in sports entertainment like it, Cole. This isn’t a match—it’s survival. Steel, glass, and unforgiving brutality. Six men and seven women are about to walk into hell, and only two will walk out on the road to WrestleMania!” Byron Saxton adds earnestly, “We’re witnessing history tonight—legacies will be made, hearts will be broken, and in this unforgiving fortress… careers can change forever!”

As the camera settles on the chamber now looming silently in place, the voices fade just enough to let the moment breathe.

Before JoJo even speaks a word, the arena is plunged into an eerie half-light. The roar of the crowd softens to a low rumble as cameras focus on the colossal Elimination Chamber suspended high above the ring. Its silhouette looms like a steel specter, motionless yet menacing. Slowly, ominously, the machinery engages with a deep hydraulic groan. Cables twitch, gears churn, and the massive structure begins its descent. The chamber lowers from the rafters like an executioner's blade, casting jagged shadows across the squared circle below. Fans gasp and point as the chains pull taut, the frame gliding down with theatrical precision. Sparks flit from the lowering rigging, and the LED-lit pods shimmer like cursed gemstones embedded in the steel skeleton. The moment is drenched in dread. As the chamber locks into place with a final clank, the lights flicker and settle into a blood-red hue. Inside the ring, JoJo steps forward with poise, framed dramatically against the newly anchored structure. Her velvet blazer catches the glow, her presence commanding. She lifts the microphone, and the air itself seems to tense.

Her voice slices through the silence: “The following contest… is THE Women’s Elimination Chamber match! And it's for the RAW Women's Championship”

The crowd explodes. She continues, her tone deliberate and powerful, explaining that three Superstars will start inside the ring, with the remaining four confined within the unforgiving isolation of the pods. At timed intervals, a pod will randomly open, adding another competitor to the chaos. Eliminations will occur via pinfall or submission, and the last woman standing will claim victory and will be the Raw Women's Champion. With the rules spoken, JoJo lowers her mic slowly, casting a steely glance toward the chamber itself.

The arena goes completely dark. For a moment, silence hangs heavy—then a sudden, crashing burst of white light cuts through the black as the gritty intro of “Stars in the Night” blasts through the speakers. Violet and icy blue lights slither across the creeping fog, illuminating Paige’s emblem on the video screen. Her silhouette appears in the mist, arms stretched wide in her iconic raven-wing pose—instantly recognizable and commanding. The crowd erupts, not just with excitement but with reverence, as JoJo’s voice echoes: “From Norwich, England… she is the Anti-Diva… PAAAAIGE!” From the haze, Paige strides forward, dressed in black leather with silver studs, each step captured in the cold spotlight. Her dark lipstick and smudged eyeliner sharpen the steel in her expression. Her eyes burn—not with nerves, but fierce purpose. As she walks the ramp, her calm, commanding posture speaks louder than any taunt. Fans lean in, snapping photos, chanting her name, but Paige remains focused. It’s her first time stepping into the Chamber, yet her presence says otherwise—she moves like she owns it. At the base of the massive steel structure, she stops and locks eyes with its looming frame. The camera zooms in as a small smirk flickers across her face—cool, maybe even amused. Without a word, she climbs the steel stairs, steps through the ropes, and enters the ring now cloaked in haunting blue light. She circles the center slowly and deliberately, then turns to her pod. The crowd watches in breathless silence. Paige glances back one final time—then unleashes a piercing scream, raw and primal, that cuts through the air like a blade. She steps inside, the door slams shut behind her, and as the lights begin to fade once again, the tension lingers like electricity.

The lights shift from cold blue to warm yellow as upbeat, high-energy pop hits the speakers—Bayley’s theme, “Turn It Up,” kicks in with its unmistakable bounce. The arena instantly lights up, not just from the stage, but from the crowd’s faces. Cheers erupt, signs with hearts and headbands wave in the air, and the chant begins with childlike joy: “Hey! We want some Bayley!”

JoJo’s voice rises above the music, brimming with enthusiasm: “From San Jose, California… it’s BAAAY-LEEEY!”

Bright pink and lime green confetti shoots into the air as the curtain bursts open—and Bayley bursts out with it, overflowing with energy. Arms wide, smile radiant, she jogs onto the stage and throws both hands up as her famous inflatable tube men launch to life beside her. They wave back and forth as if cheering her on. She wears her classic Hugger attire: a vibrant purple and yellow crop top and tights adorned with ribbon-like stripes and stars. Her ponytail bounces with every step as she dances along the stage, slapping hands with fans up and down the ramp. She even stops halfway down to give a quick, earnest hug to a young fan holding a “I came for Bayley’s hug!” sign. The camera catches it—pure warmth in motion. As she approaches the Elimination Chamber, her face shifts—just slightly. Still smiling, but with a glimmer of awe in her eyes, Bayley steps closer to the steel. She exhales deeply and touches the chain links, eyes scanning the massive structure. Then she nods, like accepting a challenge from an old friend. With a skip in her step, she runs up the steel steps and enters the ring, twirling once in the center as the crowd sings along with her music. She points to all corners of the arena, then opens her arms wide once more—offering one last symbolic hug to the audience. Finally, she turns to her pod, bounces slightly on the balls of her feet as if warming up, and then steps inside.. And then—just before Bayley’s pod door clanks shut, Paige leans forward, pressing one gloved hand against the glass of her own pod. The camera catches her mouthing two simple words, no mic needed: “Prove it.”

The lights plunge the arena into a molten crimson haze, casting a forbidding glow over the crowd as a low, guttural rumble begins to rise—deep, primal, thunderous. Then—BOOM!—a cannon-like blast detonates from the stage, shaking the rafters as “Force of Greatness” roars to life, its heavy, pulsing rhythm syncing with the sudden bursts of red strobes that throb across the arena like a heartbeat gone wild. The tension snaps tight.

JoJo’s voice cuts through the chaos with grandeur: “Making her way to the ring… from San Diego, California… NIA JAX!”

A jolt of energy courses through the crowd. Some fans cheer in awe. Others fall silent under the weight of her presence. Through the haze emerges Nia Jax, a figure of fearsome elegance and raw dominance. Draped in black and blood-red gear, her attire is reinforced with jagged metallic plating that glints like freshly-sharpened steel beneath the lights. Her dark eyes are locked forward with a chilling focus, jaw clenched, lips unmoving. There is no pageantry here—no showmanship, no pandering to the crowd—only purpose. She’s not stepping into the spotlight. She’s marching into conquest. Every footstep on the ramp feels seismic. Nia walks with the certainty of inevitability—like a force that cannot be stopped, only endured. Her shadow stretches ahead of her as she draws near the Chamber, the air around her thick with foreboding. At ringside, she halts, lifting her eyes to the towering steel monolith before her. Its twisted walls of chain and glass stare back like a beast summoned for war. The camera cuts to the interior—Paige watches from her pod, eyes narrowed. Bayley shifts slightly, visibly aware of the storm now at their doorstep. With no hesitation, Nia ascends the steel steps. The Chamber door opens with a slow, mechanical groan—like metal resisting its own fate. She ducks inside, boots clanking against the steel platform with resonant finality. She stalks across the ring, casting side glances at the other pods, reading them like prey. There is calculation in her eyes—method behind the menace. The referee opens her pod. Nia steps in without breaking stride, planting herself firmly in the center, arms folding across her chest like a stone sentinel. She doesn't sit. She doesn't shift her stance. Her gaze cuts through the thick plexiglass, scanning the arena without blinking. Still. Silent. Indomitable. Then—CLANG. The pod door seals with a steel-slammed exclamation mark. Three pods locked, one to go.

The arena shifts into a sterile, blinding white as the spotlight isolates the stage, casting everything else into shadows. The crystalline chime of “Spiteful” breaks the silence, each note as sharp as glass. The titantron erupts in a cascade of glittering pink and radiant gold, shimmering like royalty waking from slumber. Then—BOOM—a sudden pyro burst detonates at the top of the ramp, sending a shockwave through the crowd as Alexa Bliss emerges, framed by a veil of smoke and falling sparks.

JoJo’s voice soars over the ambience with reverence: “And now… making her way to the ring… from Columbus, Ohio… she is the RAW Women’s Champion… Alexa Bliss!”

Alexa steps forward, the RAW Women’s Championship resting across her shoulder like it was cast there by divine right. She is adorned in new gear tailored for destiny, black and pink interwoven with silver studs that catch every gleam of light, the phrase “Little Miss Chamber Queen” stitched in elegant defiance across her back. She doesn’t play to the crowd, not tonight. Her smirk, usually cocky and playful, is softened into something colder—calculated. Her eyes fixate on the steel battleground ahead, that cruel cathedral of chain and plexiglass. There’s no fear in her stare—only strategy. Her descent down the ramp is slow, regal, as if each step is a declaration. The crowd responds in waves—boos from those exhausted by her arrogance, cheers from those who’ve come to admire her ruthless brilliance—but she hears none of it. She doesn’t even glance their way. Her gaze never leaves the Chamber, like a monarch approaching the gallows she built for others. The cameras cut inside the structure. Bayley watches from her pod, shaking her head with resolve. Paige smirks knowingly. Nia Jax remains still, an avalanche waiting for movement. Alexa pauses at the base of the steel steps, inhaling once, adjusting her title, then ascends. Her boots click loudly across the steel platform, echoing with purpose. Once inside the Chamber, she circles the ring deliberately, raising the RAW Women’s Championship with one arm like a scepter, staring down the three empty corners that will soon be filled with chaos. Her lips move just enough to read: “Mine. Forever.” She turns toward her pod. But before entering, she offers one last glance to the crowd and lifts the championship overhead again—one final show of dominance. A sharp mix of boos and cheers rains down. She hands the title to the official through the small hatch, her grip lingering a second longer than necessary. Then, she folds her arms and leans back into the pod with practiced ease, exuding a composure that teeters between serenity and superiority. The door slams shut with a decisive CLANG that reverberates like judgment. All four pods are now sealed—Paige. Bayley. Nia Jax. Alexa Bliss.

The lights subtly dim, focus shifting to the center of the ring where JoJo reappears beneath the looming shadow of the structure. Showtime has arrived.

JoJo: “And now… the three Superstars who will begin this match—inside the ring…”

Golden lights wash over the stage as the sultry rhythm of “Golden Goddess” hums to life, coaxing the crowd’s eyes toward the curtain. The titantron bursts into a glamour reel of soft-focus poses—Mandy’s smirking profile, slow-motion hair flips, golden silhouettes like echoes of a siren’s legend. Then, through the velvet curtain steps Mandy Rose, lit like a star in mid-ascension. Her platinum-blonde hair cascades in immaculate curls, and her gold-and-white gear sparkles with every calculated sway of her hips. JoJo’s voice cuts crisply across the cheers and jeers: “Introducing the first competitor to start this match… representing Absolution… Mandy Rose!” Mandy halts halfway down the ramp, striking a classic pose—one hand perched confidently on her hip, the other raised to the heavens like she’s already been anointed. The crowd’s response is a cocktail of admiration and disdain, but she bathes in it, feeding off its electricity. With a flick of her hair and a smile meant to sting, she ascends the steel steps, the cold clang of her boots clashing against the glamor she wears like armor. Inside the Chamber, her eyes sweep across the pods—Paige receives a long, sizing look; Alexa, an upward glance dipped in tension. Mandy stretches her limbs methodically, her confidence unshaken, her nerves hidden behind a veil of glimmer and defiance.

Then, the lights fall into a burning orange hue. The tribal wail of “Free the Flame” pierces the arena air, and a fireball detonates from the stage in a burst of fury. Ember Moon emerges through smoke and sparks like a spirit summoned from myth—her blood-red and obsidian gear seeming to smolder around her as her crimson-tipped braids flicker with movement. JoJo announces, “Now making her way to the ring… from Dallas, Texas… Ember Moon!” Ember drops to one knee at the top of the ramp, arms lifted high in her signature pose, her wide eyes reflecting a wild, untamed fire that makes the crowd roar with anticipation. She rises like a force released, sprinting forward with agile, bouncing energy—each step deliberate, warrior-like, her breath syncing to the drums of her theme. Without hesitation, Ember enters the Chamber, moving through its threshold like a flame slipping through cracks in iron. She circles the ring with alert, stalking grace, eyes darting to the top of each pod, imagining trajectories, impact points, fates. Her focus flicks briefly to Mandy, then rests on the steel beneath her feet. She settles into a corner, her back to the chain wall, chest rising slowly—an ember waiting for the spark.

Suddenly, the arena transforms into a kaleidoscope of purple and silver. A wave of cheers swells as “Sky’s the Limit” hits, the unmistakable pulse that signals the arrival of a boss. JoJo declares with unmistakable flair: “And finally… from Boston, Massachusetts… Sasha Banks!” Out strides Sasha Banks, draped in brand-new black-and-silver gear glittering like a constellation. Her trademark sunglasses reflect the lights above, and her “BOSS” rings gleam like crowns on her knuckles. She pauses at the top of the ramp, arms extended wide, rotating slowly in place as the crowd erupts in a thunderous chant: “Let’s go Sasha!” Her expression tonight is all edge—no sass, no dancing steps, just that signature “big-fight Sasha” stare. She points toward the Chamber with purpose, mouthing the words, “I was born for this.” Her walk down the ramp is steady, confident, unshakable. She slides into the Chamber, flipping her hair back like a final brushstroke on her masterpiece. Inside, her eyes go straight to Alexa’s pod. The two lock eyes—the air between them is suddenly electric. Sasha offers a smirk, calm yet fierce, and raises her arms high to a crowd that answers with thunder. Then—her eyes drift left. And for the first time, Sasha locks eyes with Bayley, sealed inside her pod. The roar of the crowd dulls to a low hum as the camera zooms in on the stare-down. Bayley stands with her hands pressed against the glass, her face unreadable—somewhere between support… and uncertainty. Sasha pauses. The two best friends turned bitter rivals turned allies again say nothing—but their silence is louder than any promo. History pulses between them. Months of ups and downs, fists and hugs. For a split second, Sasha’s confidence flickers into something deeper… before she nods once and walks past the pod without breaking stride. The camera frames them—Sasha, Ember, and Mandy, each planted in separate corners of the ring like gladiators under glass. Every breath drawn feels heavier than the last. Then—the final latch of the Chamber door falls into place with an echoing clunk. The crowd rises like a tide. Four pods sealed. Three warriors inside. Tension drips like sweat.

Michael Cole’s voice cuts in, riding the moment: “Here we go… the first-ever seven-woman Elimination Chamber Match for the RAW Women’s Championship is officially underway.”

Corey Graves adds with grit: “Three women in the ring, four behind glass, one title hanging in the balance. There’s nowhere to run… and nowhere to hide.”

And then, silence. Just for a beat. The air thickens. The lights hold. The match waits to devour its first breath.

WWE ELIMINATION CHAMBER 2018 | RAW WOMEN’S CHAMPIONSHIP ELIMINATION CHAMBER MATCH
Alexa Bliss © vs. Bayley vs. Sasha Banks vs. Nia Jax vs. Paige vs. Mandy Rose vs. Ember Moon​

The sound of the opening bell cracks through the T-Mobile Arena like a lightning strike trapped beneath steel. Inside the Elimination Chamber, three warriors stand cornered by fate and reinforced chain—Sasha Banks, Ember Moon, and Mandy Rose. The tension is palpable, a mix of anxiety and adrenaline humming beneath the surface. Each woman studies the others like chess pieces on a board designed for chaos, every muscle in their bodies coiled with purpose. No one moves at first—it’s the eerie calm before the storm. Then, with a swagger born of arrogance, Mandy Rose saunters into the center of the ring, arms outstretched like a queen demanding tribute. “Come on! Let’s see what you’ve got!” she taunts with a smirk, gesturing at both Sasha and Ember with theatrical disdain. That proves to be a costly misstep. Sasha and Ember share a quick glance, a silent agreement passing between them. And then, they strike. Like wolves pouncing, they rush Mandy from opposite ends. Sasha connects with a stinging forearm across the jaw while Ember follows with a rapid spinning back kick to the ribs. Mandy stumbles backward, reeling into the ropes, gasping for air—but there’s no reprieve. Sasha grabs her by the wrist and whips her hard into the corner. The impact is savage—Mandy’s spine thuds against the turnbuckles with a smack that echoes through the chamber. Ember’s already in motion, launching into a flawless handspring and smashing Mandy with a back elbow that dazes her. Sasha doesn’t let up, crashing into Mandy’s chest with her signature Meteora double knees. The crowd erupts in appreciation of the fluid teamwork on display, even as they know it won’t last long.

Michael Cole’s voice rides the surge of noise: “Teamwork early between Banks and Moon! But how long can that last inside the Chamber?”

Mandy crumbles to the canvas, clutching her ribs and rolling desperately under the bottom rope, trying to escape to the outer ring floor. But Sasha grabs her by the boot and hauls her back inside. She hooks the leg—first pinfall attempt of the night.

One… and a defiant kickout.

Unfazed, Sasha rises and turns, only to find Ember staring her down—game faces on, alliance officially dissolved. The two circle each other, the crowd buzzing in anticipation as the moment builds like a drumroll. They clash in a tight collar-and-elbow tie-up. Sasha quickly transitions into a side headlock, pulling Ember low, but Ember fights up to her feet and shoves Sasha off. Sasha rebounds off the ropes—Ember drops down—Sasha leaps over—Ember leapfrogs—Sasha rebounds again and swings for a tilt-a-whirl headscissors, but Ember lands on her feet with feline balance. Sasha’s moment of surprise is all Ember needs—she lands a blistering basement dropkick right to the jaw, sending Sasha sprawling. With control now in her hands, Ember hurls Sasha toward the ropes again, then lifts her high into the air—flapjack onto the chamber wall! The CLANG of body meeting steel is gut-wrenching. Sasha collapses on the chamber floor, arching in pain and cradling her back.

Corey Graves speaks through gritted teeth: “That’s not padding out there. That’s steel. That’s where careers go to die.”

Inside the ring, Mandy Rose claws her way up, seizing opportunity in the chaos. She grabs Ember by the hair and yanks her into a sit-out facebuster with fierce velocity. Ember’s skull hits the mat hard—Mandy dives into the cover:

One… Two… No!

Ember kicks out with force, but she’s dazed. Mandy mounts and unloads with a flurry of forearms, wild and desperate. “I belong here! I belong here!” she roars, slamming fists down, willing herself to dominate this moment. But time isn’t on her side. The countdown to the next pod opening draws near. Mandy drags Ember upright and tosses her over the top rope to the steel outside. She follows, grabbing a handful of Ember’s hair and slamming her face into the pod wall where Bayley watches, fists clenched and eyes wide. Ember’s face connects with a sickening thud, and Bayley instinctively presses against the glass, the force shaking the pod ever so slightly. Meanwhile, Sasha’s stirring. Crawling to the nearest turnbuckle, she scales the outside with grit and pain etched across her face. From the top, she takes flight—launching herself into a perfectly timed crossbody that crashes onto both Mandy and Ember on the steel floor! The arena gasps and then erupts as all three women collapse in a heap of bodies and broken momentum.

Booker T bursts on commentary: “That’s high-risk, high-reward right there, dawg. Sasha ain’t playin’!”

Sasha is the first to move, dragging herself toward the ropes with gritty resolve. She heaves Mandy back into the ring and stalks in after her. With calculated fury, she targets the knee, stomping down before locking in the Bank Statement—twisting back with violent torque. Mandy screams, clawing the air—but Ember dives in, grabbing Sasha by the ankle and ripping her off the hold.

Ember yanks Sasha to her feet, only for Sasha to counter with a sudden roll-up—

One… Two—kickout!

Both women spring up, and Ember fires first—superkick square to the jaw! Sasha drops like a stone. Ember dives into the cover—

One… Two… Mandy just barely breaks it up!

The fans are electric, every false finish another heartbeat missed. Then suddenly, the arena lighting begins to shift. The siren blares overhead and the crowd jumps to its feet in unison.

The countdown begins. 10… 9… 8…

Cameras cut rapidly across the remaining pods. Bayley is bouncing with pent-up energy. Paige licks her lips, practically salivating for action. Nia Jax stands stone-still, unreadable, a powerhouse waiting to detonate. And Alexa Bliss… shaking her head, anxiously muttering to herself as if trying to will the pod to stay shut.

3… 2… 1… BUZZZZZZ!

One pod opens…

The sound of the buzzer slices through the red-lit air like a warning siren from the underworld. As spotlights circle the Chamber in staccato bursts of intensity, the camera zooms in—the far-left pod illuminates with a flicker of crimson light. Gasps ripple across the crowd, and then a thunderous roar erupts as the pod hisses open. Inside stands Paige, her figure silhouetted against the glowing steel. Her arms stretch wide as if absorbing every ounce of electricity in the arena, and from her core erupts a savage, primal scream—raw and cathartic—a war cry forged in pain and triumph.

Michael Cole’s voice echoes over the speaker system, underscoring the moment’s magnitude: “The Anti-Diva is loose—and the complexion of this match is about to change dramatically!”

Paige steps through the doorway like a monarch reclaiming her throne. Her movement is slow, stalking—each bootfall across the steel floor measured and thunderous. She isn’t sprinting to make an impression; the impression *is* her presence. Her black lipstick curls into a grim smile as chants of “PAIGE! PAIGE! PAIGE!” begin to swell, synchronized with the clanging of her boots on steel. This is her domain, and it welcomes her back like an old, twisted friend. Inside the ring, Sasha Banks and Ember Moon brace themselves. Paige charges suddenly—no wasted motion, no hesitation—and nearly decapitates Sasha with a lariat-style big boot that flips The Boss over backward, her body landing in a heap. Ember pivots into a spinning heel kick, but Paige ducks and answers with a snap headbutt that reverberates through the air. Ember’s legs buckle—Paige grabs two handfuls of crimson-tipped hair and launches her face-first into the nearby chain wall. The sickening CLANG of metal meeting flesh rings out, drawing gasps from the crowd. Ember crumples, a heap of grit and agony.

Corey Graves mutters it like a confession: “There’s no one more comfortable in carnage than Paige. This structure is an extension of her soul.”

Suddenly, Mandy Rose rises from the corner like a vulture sensing an opportunity. Her body is battered, but her smile is honey-sweet. She edges toward Paige, arms spread like she’s welcoming her long-lost sister home. “It’s me, Paige! It’s your girl—it’s Mandy!” she pleads, eyes flickering between hope and fear. For a split-second, time freezes. Paige’s expression narrows into something unreadable, then detonates into fury. She lunges forward and levels Mandy with a devastating clothesline that nearly snaps her in half. The T-Mobile Arena *explodes*. Paige mounts her former Absolution cohort and rains down hammering forearms, fists slamming like pistons into Mandy’s face and chest. Each shot is stiff, unforgiving—a statement that alliances mean nothing when glory is on the line.

Michael Cole bellows, “There are no friends in the Elimination Chamber!”

Paige rises and unleashes another scream—this one victorious and unrestrained. She drags Mandy by the wrist into the center of the ring and hooks both legs for the cover.

One… Two… Mandy kicks out! Barely.

Frustration flashes across Paige’s pale features, but she wastes no time. She turns her attention to Ember Moon, who is just beginning to stir near the corner. Paige stalks her like a lioness closing in for the kill. She hooks Ember’s arms—locks her in—and spikes her with a thunderous Ram-Paige. Ember's skull smacks the canvas, and her body goes limp from the impact.

Paige scrambles into the pinfall.

One… Two…

But Sasha Banks comes flying into frame, breaking up the pin with a diving senton. The crowd rises with renewed adrenaline. Before Paige can react, Sasha traps her in the Bank Statement, wrenching Paige’s arms back and digging her shoulder blade into the small of her back. Paige claws the mat in desperation, her boots kicking, teeth clenched through the scream that follows. It’s a visual tableau: Sasha snarling, Paige flailing, the crowd pulsing. Paige begins clawing toward the ropes—but in the Chamber, that means nothing. No rope breaks. No mercy. Sasha adjusts, arching further, eyes locked in—until Mandy returns with vengeance. She grabs Sasha by the braid and *slams* her face-first into the bottom turnbuckle. Sasha’s head whiplashes violently, her body slumping like a puppet with snapped strings.

Booker T groans from commentary, “Ain’t no friends in that Chamber. Every second, every turn, it’s survival mode, man.”

Mandy then goes to help Paige, dragging her upright. Paige looks glassy-eyed, clearly rocked, but manages a nod. It seems—for a moment—Absolution lives again. The two former allies turn to Sasha, lifting her for a double suplex… but from the top turnbuckle, a shadow descends. Ember Moon launches with the grace of a goddess and the wrath of a meteor, landing a crossbody on all three women! The ring shudders as the crowd erupts into chaos. Bodies scatter across the mat like wreckage. With adrenaline pumping through her veins, Ember surges to her feet. She barrels into Mandy in the corner, slamming into her with a picture-perfect handspring back elbow. Sasha staggers toward her—Ember ducks under and hits a brutal pop-up spinebuster! The ring shakes again. Ember howls toward the rafters as red light spills over her like molten flame, casting her as a warrior drenched in glory.

She scales the ropes—climbs high. The crowd feels it. *Eclipse incoming.*

Paige slowly rises.

Ember leaps.

But Paige pivots and *catches* Ember out of the air in a feat of brutal improvisation, converting it into a devastating *second* Ram-Paige! BOOM! Ember’s body crumples again.

Paige hooks the leg.

One… Two… and *again* Sasha breaks it up at the last possible second.

The arena is a madhouse now—people screaming, pounding the barricades, completely immersed.

Now Paige and Sasha meet eye-to-eye at center ring, and the gloves are fully off. They exchange forearms—stiff, raw, and unfiltered. Left. Right. Left again. Sasha gains momentum, reels Paige into the ropes—but Paige reverses with a spinning back kick to the midsection, then lifts her into a Fisherman’s suplex with a bridge.

One… Two… kickout! Michael Cole nearly loses his voice: “What a sequence! This match has been pure, chaotic destruction since the bell!”

Sasha rolls out toward the steel floor for some breathing room. But she finds herself directly in front of Alexa Bliss’s pod. The champion leans against the glass, tapping a single manicured finger as she smirks. Then, she waves mockingly. Sasha’s expression shifts to rage, and without thinking, she *slams* her forearm into the plexiglass. Alexa jumps, eyes widening, as the crowd erupts.

Corey Graves gasps, “Ohhh! Sasha Banks wants a piece of the champ, and she’s willing to punch through glass to get it!”

Suddenly, the Chamber lighting dips. The wailing siren returns.

The crowd surges to its feet.

Three pods remain.

Bayley… Nia Jax… Alexa Bliss.

Three stories waiting to unfold.

Ten… Nine… Eight… The chaos is far from over. And only steel knows what comes next.

The arena trembles as the countdown hits its final beat—3… 2… 1… BUZZZZZ!—and red lights whip across the pods, scanning the structure like a targeting system. The entire crowd rises in anticipation, a collective intake of breath as the spotlight finds its mark. The beam halts, casting a fierce glow on the pod near the southwest corner. It’s Nia Jax.

For a heartbeat, she doesn’t move. Her body remains stone still, her expression unreadable. Then, like a storm exhaling, Nia releases a deep breath—one that seems to fog the glass in front of her. Her ring gear gleams like obsidian armor beneath the crimson glow: black with blood-red accents, thick leather panels over her shoulders, every inch of her constructed for war. There’s no hesitation in her stare. No emotion. Only calculation.

Michael Cole’s voice cuts sharply across the roar of the arena: “The most dangerous woman in this match is about to be unleashed!”

Corey Graves follows with grim excitement. “Nia Jax is not here to compete—she’s here to devastate.”

The pod creaks open, the hiss of the pressure seals releasing. But Nia doesn’t wait for the door to swing wide—she shoves the thick plexiglass aside with one fierce motion and steps out like a predator finally unchained. Her boots slam onto the steel grating with thunderous intent.

On the outer ring floor, Ember Moon and Paige are staggering, trying to regroup from earlier carnage. Nia sees them and barrels toward Ember first—WHAM!—a devastating shoulder check that hurls Ember into the steel chain wall with such force it shakes the entire frame of the Chamber. The sound of impact is hideous—a mix of metal groaning and Ember’s body folding into pain.

Paige tries to react but she’s caught instantly. Nia’s hand closes around her throat like a bear trap. The crowd holds its breath as Nia lifts Paige clean off the ground and marches toward the remnants of the pod Mandy Rose once occupied. With savage ease, Nia hurls Paige through the pod—glass explodes outward in a shower of carnage as Paige crashes into the shattered remains. Fans leap to their feet, stunned beyond belief.

Booker T shouts, “OH MY GOD! SHE JUST BROKE THROUGH THE POD!”

Michael Cole adds, aghast, “That’s reinforced bulletproof plexiglass and she threw Paige through it like it was cardboard!”

Outside the ring, officials scream into their headsets as medics rush forward. Paige lies motionless, shards of glass all around her, blood trickling from her elbow. Inside the Chamber, though, Nia never looks back. She steps into the ring—and that’s when Mandy Rose makes a desperate attempt to capitalize. Mandy climbs to the top rope and leaps with everything she’s got—a diving crossbody meant to take the monster down. But Nia catches her out of the air like a doll. One snarl. One pivot. Samoan Drop. BOOM. The sound of Mandy’s body slapping the mat echoes through the arena like thunder.

Nia covers.

One… Two… Three.

JoJo’s voice rings out: “Mandy Rose has been eliminated!”

Michael Cole calls it flat: “Mandy Rose is gone—but more importantly, no one is safe! Nia Jax just flattened the field!”

Sasha Banks now dares to step in. Sliding under the ropes, she stalks cautiously, moving light on her feet. She ducks one of Nia’s wild swings, then strikes back with a basement dropkick to the knee that brings the powerhouse down to one. Sasha seizes the moment—springboards from the middle rope with a flying Meteora, landing with full impact. She rolls through, traps Nia’s arms, and locks in the Bank Statement! The crowd rises to its feet again, roaring in disbelief.

Corey Graves exclaims, “She’s got it! Can she make Nia tap out?!”

But Nia—groaning, furious—powers through. She begins to stand with Sasha clinging to her back. Inch by inch, Nia rises, then throws Sasha up and over in a bone-rattling toss that sends The Boss crashing spine-first into the turnbuckles.

Ember Moon, bruised and limping, scales the turnbuckle. From the top, she launches with a missile dropkick that rocks Nia’s chest, pushing her back a step. Ember charges again—but Nia scoops her up and launches her headfirst into the chain wall like a human javelin. Ember crumples to the floor, unmoving.

Michael Cole reacts viscerally: “Ember’s body just ricocheted off the steel like a ragdoll!”

Back in the ring, Sasha stirs, but she and Ember are both down. Paige still lies broken outside, surrounded by concerned officials. That leaves only one figure towering at the center ring. Nia Jax. Dominant. Intact. Breathing hard, but unyielding.

She slowly turns her head—and locks eyes with Alexa Bliss, still locked inside her pod.

Alexa, once smug, now wears an expression of pure dread. Her confident smile is gone. She slams both palms against the glass, shaking her head furiously. “No! Not yet! Not now!” she cries.

Corey Graves hisses, “Alexa Bliss just realized her championship clock is ticking—and the monster’s coming.”

Nia steps closer. Step by step. No rush, just inevitability. She arrives at Alexa’s pod and gently—almost mockingly—taps on the glass with one knuckle. Alexa freezes. There is nowhere to run.

Through the glass, Nia mouths the words, “I’m going to break you.”

Suddenly—attack from behind! Sasha Banks leaps onto Nia’s back, slapping in a rear naked choke! Ember Moon, showing heart beyond pain, charges in with a flying forearm to Nia’s chest. Sasha tightens the hold—Ember kicks at Nia’s leg—Sasha cranks the pressure—Nia drops to one knee!

The crowd smells the upset.

But Nia roars. She grabs Ember by the throat. With Sasha still on her back, Nia rises and turns—then slams both women backward into the turnbuckles in one thunderous motion. The arena shakes from the impact.

All three collapse to the mat.

Nia is winded now, leaning on the ropes for support. Her chest rises and falls. Even monsters feel pain. But she stands again.

Around her lie bodies—Sasha, Ember, and Paige laid out. Steel scratched. Glass shattered. The ring is wreckage and she is its centerpiece.

The lights drop again. Sirens wail.

Only two pods remain.

The champion. And the heart.

Alexa Bliss and Bayley.

The countdown begins: 10… 9… 8…

The crowd chants along, on the edge of eruption.

The countdown hits zero as the Chamber once again pulsates with urgency. “3… 2… 1… BUZZZZZZZ!” The red and gold strobe lights dance across the structure in a wild frenzy, casting twisted shadows along the steel walls. Tension builds to a breaking point until the spotlight locks in, stopping dead on the final unopened pod at ringside. The camera zooms in—and there she is.

Alexa Bliss.

The RAW Women’s Champion stands frozen in place like a portrait—eyes wide, jaw set, her breath barely visible against the fogged plexiglass. The championship is no longer in her grasp, but the weight of it presses heavily on her shoulders. Her lips move, just barely: “Not yet… not yet…” Her face betrays a unique blend of dread and calculation. She’s no fool—she’s known this moment would come. But knowing doesn’t make it easier.

Michael Cole’s voice cuts through like a blade. “The moment Alexa Bliss has dreaded all night long… she’s now forced to defend her title inside the most brutal structure in WWE history.”

With a slow hiss, the pod door slides open—but Alexa doesn’t move. There’s a flicker of hesitation, a split-second of suspended breath. Then, like a thief under a spotlight, she bolts. She doesn’t dive into the chaos below—instead, she heads up. Bliss grabs the chains of the Chamber wall and starts climbing with frantic speed, like a cornered animal searching for escape. The crowd gasps as she scales with surprising agility.

Corey Graves blurts out, “Look at the genius of Alexa Bliss! She’s not entering—she’s escaping!”

From below, Nia Jax storms forward like a rampaging beast, but Alexa is just out of reach. She ascends to the upper curve of the Chamber ceiling, clinging tightly to the chain-link structure. The lights glint off her gear as she perches precariously above the carnage, staying still, her eyes darting between the bodies below. Fans erupt in awe and confusion.

Booker T marvels, “That girl climbed like she got nine lives, man!”

Nia paces beneath her, frustration mounting. Sasha Banks, Ember Moon, and Paige remain downed or groggy, remnants of the mauling Nia delivered minutes earlier. High above them all, Alexa clutches the steel like a fox up a tree—desperately stalling.

But Nia doesn’t wait. She begins to climb—slow, powerful, methodical. Her arms heave her body upward, the chains rattling under the strain. The crowd roars with intensity as she closes in.

Alexa’s eyes widen. Panic flashes across her face. Just before Nia can reach, Bliss leaps sideways, performing a daring traverse to another corner of the Chamber, landing atop a pod roof with athletic precision.

Michael Cole, breathless: “Bliss is trying to survive with pure desperation and instinct!”

Below them, the tide begins to shift.

Sasha Banks, bleeding from the lip, hauls herself to the ropes. Across from her, Ember Moon regains her footing, blinking sweat from her eyes. They spot each other—and charge.

In the center of the ring, the two exhausted warriors exchange fists with fury and fatigue. Every forearm is stiff, raw, and echoing with desperation. Sasha whips Ember to the ropes, but Ember rebounds with explosive speed, ducking low and nailing a slingshot forearm. She grips Sasha from behind—snap German suplex! Sasha crumbles on the mat.

Just then, Paige rises again from the wreckage. Her elbow is bloodied, a nasty welt swelling under her eye, but her eyes blaze with fury. She grabs Sasha and hurls her like a missile into the pod wall. The steel clangs and rattles as Sasha crashes against it. Without skipping a beat, Paige spins and knees Ember across the jaw with a brutal running strike. Ember drops, and Paige screams into the rafters—her signature war cry turning into a rallying roar.

Corey Graves growls with admiration: “Say what you want about Paige—she may be bruised, but she’s relentless!”

Paige turns to regroup, but from above, Alexa Bliss strikes.

From the top of the pod, she leaps off in a breathtaking somersault senton—CRASH! She slams into Paige’s shoulders, folding her over with whiplash speed and impact. Bodies roll across the ring in chaos.

Michael Cole: “FROM THE SKY! Bliss just sacrificed her body to take out Paige!”

Alexa, grimacing and clutching her ribs, scrambles for the cover.

One… Two…—NO!

Paige kicks out at the last moment. The crowd roars in disbelief.

Nia Jax, now recovered and seething, storms back into the ring. Alexa’s eyes widen once again, instincts taking over. She flees, rolling under the ropes, shrieking in horror as she scrambles across the steel floor looking for any escape. But Nia isn’t far behind.

And then—SPEAR! Out of nowhere, Sasha Banks explodes into Alexa with a brutal spear near the Chamber wall. The arena erupts.

Booker T: “Wooo! That one came from outta nowhere!”

Back inside the ring, Ember Moon and Paige lock eyes once more—bruised, limping, but defiant. In unspoken agreement, they charge at Nia Jax together.

Kick to the thigh! Elbow to the midsection! Springboard forearm from Ember!

Bicycle knee from Paige!

Nia stumbles—she sways—but stays upright.

Until Sasha returns—and with perfect timing, the three women launch a TRIPLE dropkick. Nia’s body leaves its vertical stance—and collapses in a heap.

Michael Cole bellows, “That’s what it takes to bring Nia Jax down—three of the best in the world working together!”

While the crowd roars in unison, Alexa Bliss slithers back into the far corner. She remains crouched low, watching like a shadow with a plan. Her eyes gleam with survival. With intent.

Paige hoists Ember up for a second Ram-Paige, but Ember counters mid-motion—spins—roundhouse kick! Paige staggers right into Sasha Banks, who nails a Backstabber and seamlessly flows into the Bank Statement!

Paige screams, arms flailing, trapped once more—center of the ring.

But Alexa strikes again. Like a viper, she kicks Sasha in the side of the head, breaking the hold with cruel timing.

Corey Graves: “Bliss is the shadow in the storm. She strikes only when the moment’s perfect!”

The camera pans out now, sweeping the carnage:

• Sasha slumped near the ropes, gasping for air
• Paige crawling, clutching her ribs
• Ember rising, a welt blossoming across her back
• Nia slowly stirring
• Alexa watching from the shadows, calculating her next move

The crowd is white-hot, chanting for the final piece of the match.

“5… 4… 3…”

Only one pod remains.

Bayley.

The people begin to chant her name even before the buzzer.

“2… 1…”

BUZZZZZZZ!

The Hugger is about to enter the fire. And every soul in that arena knows—this match is far from finished.

The buzzer blares like a warhorn, and the final pod unlocks with a hiss of pressure and possibility. Bayley bursts out like a shot of adrenaline, every muscle in motion, her boots pounding across the steel grating like thunder. The T-Mobile Arena erupts in raw electricity. She isn’t walking into the match—she’s diving into the fire, charging ahead with a rare clarity written across her face. Determination. Heart. Fury.

Michael Cole bellows with passion, “Here comes the heart of the Women’s Division! Bayley is ready to fight for her life—and the RAW Women’s Championship!”

Bayley wastes zero seconds. She slides into the ring like a missile and instantly launches herself at Alexa Bliss, catching her mid-sprint with a Lou Thesz Press that sends the champion crashing to the canvas. Fists rain down like a monsoon—Bayley’s not here for cute entrances. She’s here to make a statement. Alexa flails and squeals, rolling out of harm’s way and scrambling onto the steel floor, trying to put space between herself and the furious challenger. Bayley turns to pursue but is caught from the side—a forearm from Paige, crisp and sudden. Paige grabs her, looking to finish things early with the Ram-Paige, but Bayley counters mid-spin, twisting behind her and hooking an arm—swinging neckbreaker! It’s a clean, fluid counter that sends the crowd into a frenzy. As Bayley rises, wiping sweat from her eyes, she comes face to face with Sasha Banks. The moment freezes. The air thickens. Two best friends. Two former champions. WrestleMania running through both their veins. The crowd buzzes with anticipation as they step closer, tension mounting—but before the spark can ignite, another presence stirs.

Nia Jax is rising.

Sasha and Bayley glance at each other. There’s no verbal plan—just instinct. Together, they launch at the monster. One grabs an arm. The other targets the shoulder. But Nia roars, shoving both women off with a thunderous push that sends them crashing into opposite corners. She grabs Bayley by the throat, hoisting her like nothing—a towering threat with chokeslam in her eyes. But Sasha recovers and darts low, chop-blocking Nia’s knee with precision. The beast staggers. Bayley drops safely to the mat. Then, out of nowhere—Ember Moon enters the fray with a picture-perfect springboard double foot stomp to Nia’s spine! The monster drops to one knee.

Paige rushes in, shrieking as she crashes a vicious headbutt into Nia’s jaw, knocking her halfway out of her senses. The crowd is surging, on their feet. The sound rises.

“This is smart,” Corey Graves declares. “This is necessary. It’s going to take every woman in this match to take Nia down.”

The storm continues. Sasha climbs to the top rope. Bayley kneels, stabilizing it. Sasha takes flight—Diving Meteora right to the shoulders! Nia Jax crashes backwards in a heap. Paige crawls in and plants her with a Ram-Paige. Bayley rebounds off the ropes—Bayley-to-Belly! Ember now ascends—the crowd is electric—she leaps—ECLIPSE!! The flipping stunner hits clean. Nia’s head snaps down off the canvas, her body going limp beneath the ring lights.

“If she ain’t out now,” Booker T exclaims, “I don’t know what else you can do, man!”

Sasha dives on top.

Bayley piles over Sasha.

Paige tumbles on.

Ember adds her weight.

A four-woman pile-on pin.

The referee slides in with urgency—

ONE! TWO! THREE!

JoJo’s voice reverberates with finality: “Nia Jax has been eliminated!”

The T-Mobile Arena shakes. Fans leap to their feet in shock and exhilaration. The invincible monster has fallen—but not without a heavy toll.

Michael Cole shouts, “Nia Jax has been eliminated! It took four women and four finishers to get it done!”

Nia lies still, chest heaving, eyes glassy. After a few seconds, she rolls to her stomach, reaching for the ropes with an almost trance-like focus. The ring is littered with bodies—survivors gasping for air, barely able to sit up.

Nia hauls herself beneath the bottom rope, stumbling to her feet on the Chamber floor. She looks back into the ring with a glint of vengeance in her eyes.

“You may have eliminated Nia Jax,” Corey Graves warns, “but you’ve made an enemy for life.”

Then—Alexa Bliss laughs. The champion is perched just inside the ropes, smiling. Grinning. Relieved and smug. But Nia turns. Slowly. Deliberately.

Alexa’s grin vanishes.

She takes a cautious step back—then another—until her back presses against the cold steel of her old pod. She throws her hands up in surrender.

Nia locks eyes with her and points. One finger to Alexa’s chest. Then two fingers to her own eyes. “You’re next.”

Referees hurry to usher Nia out of the Chamber—but the damage is done. The threat has been made. Nia exits like a storm on simmer—calm on the surface, but a maelstrom behind her eyes.

The Chamber resets.

Inside, chaos becomes quiet. Sasha and Bayley lie side by side in the center of the ring—barely breathing, bodies heaving in tandem. They glance toward one another.

Ember Moon pulls herself to the corner, her ribs sore, blinking through exhaustion. Paige is on all fours near the ropes, blood smeared down her arm. Alexa clutches the ring post, trying to regain composure, her reign still technically intact—but looking more fragile with every minute.

Michael Cole lays it out: “We’re down to four.

The crowd begins to chant, almost involuntarily: “This is awesome! (CLAP.....CLAP.....CLAP.....CLAP CLAP CLAP) This is awesome!”

Corey Graves echoes the sentiment: “Every single one of these women just proved they belong here. But now the game changes—because the finish line is in sight.”

The camera circles the battleground—Sasha and Bayley now on one knee, staring through each other again.

The wreckage left by Nia Jax still lingers in the ring, but Ember Moon rises from the chaos like a phoenix determined to burn the sky one last time. Her ribs are visibly taped, sweat streaks down her face, but her eyes blaze. With barely a second to waste, she lunges forward and snatches Paige by the wrist. Without hesitation, Ember whips her hard into the nearest corner—Paige’s spine collides with the turnbuckles with a sickening smack, the kind that echoes. She stumbles out dazed, and Ember strikes like lightning—leaping and cracking her knee into Paige’s jaw with a codebreaker-style blow that drops her straight down. But Ember isn’t done. Before Paige can even hit the mat fully, Ember springs upward, using the momentum to spin into a beautiful tornado DDT. Paige’s head spikes the canvas and her body recoils, bouncing slightly before lying motionless.

Alexa Bliss seizes the moment, lunging at Ember from behind in desperation—but Ember senses it. She ducks beneath Alexa’s clumsy lunge, spins, and in a flash of torque and grit, launches Bliss backward with a snap dragon suplex. Alexa’s body hits the narrow steel grating between ring and chain with a metallic thud, her body arching in pain as she clutches at her neck. The audience roars with appreciation.

Michael Cole, barely keeping his voice steady, exclaims, “Ember Moon is exploding like she’s got nothing left to lose!”

Sasha Banks and Bayley, recovering near opposite corners, both push to their feet just in time to spot Ember climbing to the top rope once again, high above the battlefield. They lock eyes—an unspoken strategy igniting—and they sprint toward her in unison. But Ember’s ready. She launches with a daring double crossbody, aiming to take them both down—but they catch her in mid-air! The impact forces all three off balance. Ember thrashes, trying to slip free, her boots kicking the air wildly.

Bayley maneuvers her grip into a Bayley-to-Belly suplex position, but Ember elbows her way loose. As she lands on unsteady feet, Sasha charges—Backstabber! Ember reels forward from the impact right into Bayley’s waiting arms—Bayley-to-Belly! Ember’s body slams hard into the canvas, her momentum gone, her fire dimmed.

Bayley dives into a pin— One… Two… Three.

The bell rings, and JoJo’s voice rings out as the crowd responds with a bittersweet eruption: “Ember Moon has been eliminated.”

Ember lies on the mat for a moment, collecting herself as the audience rises to their feet, giving her the ovation she’s earned. She rolls toward the open cage door slowly, one arm across her ribs, her face a mixture of anguish and pride. Her performance—a star-making storm of fury and finesse—has ended, but the respect from the crowd echoes louder than any pinfall.

Corey Graves sums it up perfectly: “What a performance by Ember Moon—star-making effort tonight.”

Now, four remain: Alexa Bliss, Paige, Bayley, and Sasha Banks. And the emotional storm begins to churn.

Bayley turns, panting, hair stuck to her forehead with sweat, and looks at Sasha. A nod—subtle, sincere—a signal of solidarity. But Sasha doesn’t nod back. Her gaze is hard, her jaw tight. Then—shove. Flat in the chest. Bayley stumbles backward, stunned.

“What the hell?” she seems to mouth. Her palms are raised as if to say calm down. But Sasha steps in—and slaps her across the face. The crowd lets out a collective gasp.

Michael Cole’s voice pierces through it all. “Whoa! Sasha just—what was that?!”

Bayley’s eyes flare wide. Her body stiffens, then launches forward. And suddenly, best friends become bitter enemies. The two women collide in the center of the ring in an explosion of fists, elbows, knees—pure rage and betrayal unraveling in the ring like wildfire.

Sasha grabs Bayley by the braid and yanks her downward, slamming her knee repeatedly into Bayley’s midsection. Bayley doubles over, gasping. Sasha pulls her into a suplex position, but Bayley floats over her back and rolls her into a tight pin!

One! Two! Three!

It’s over.

JoJo’s voice almost struggles to keep up: “Sasha Banks has been eliminated!”

Bayley rolls off immediately, exhausted and trembling, while Sasha lies on the mat stunned, blinking up at the ceiling. Just like that, the Boss is gone. Sasha Banks sat on her knees in the center of the Chamber, her chest heaving, mouth agape. The referee’s hand had just hit the mat for the third time—Bayley’s roll-up pin catching her completely off-guard. A moment ago, Sasha had control. A moment ago, she thought it was still her destiny. Now, she was eliminated. Her body didn’t move, but her eyes darted rapidly, as if trying to process what had just happened. She looked up at Bayley, who was already on her feet, hand covering her mouth, stunned by what she’d done.

Bayley stepped forward, her voice trembling as she extended a hand. “Sasha, I….—” she began.

But Sasha didn’t want to hear it.

CRACK.
Sasha Banks lunged forward, exploding off her knees, and slapped Bayley hard across the face—hard enough to spin her halfway around. The slap echoed through the Chamber like a gunshot. The crowd gasped. The referees outside called out to Sasha to leave. She didn’t even blink.

Sasha grabbed Bayley by the hair and whipped her violently into the corner of the ring—Bayley’s shoulder smashing against the turnbuckle. Before she could slump down, Sasha was already raining down stiff forearms to the back of her head. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

“You stole it from me!” Sasha screamed, her voice cracking with rage and venom.

The referee on the floor shouted through the chain links, but Sasha had lost control. She dragged Bayley through the ropes onto the steel grating that surrounded the ring, her boots scraping against the cold metal. Bayley tried to crawl, disoriented, arms trembling beneath her, but Sasha stomped on her spine with such force her body flattened instantly.

Sasha then reached under the bottom rope and pulled out a handful of Bayley's hair, forcing her to her knees. She leaned in close, pressing her forehead to Bayley's temple like a cruel whisper. "You never deserved any of this," she spat.

Then came the steel.

Sasha gripped Bayley by the neck and hurled her face-first into the chain wall—CLANG!. Bayley dropped like a stone, only to be dragged up again. Another throw. CLANG! And another. CLANG! Each shot opened up a cut on Bayley’s forehead, a thin red trickle beginning to run down between her eyes.

The crowd, once excited, now murmured uncomfortably.

Corey Graves:
“This is hard to watch. This isn’t just about a match anymore—this is personal.”

Sasha mounted Bayley from behind and drove repeated elbows into the back of her neck, her face twisted with fury, like she wasn’t just punishing her opponent—but exorcising years of frustration, betrayal, envy. Sasha’s voice cracked again as she screamed, “YOU TOOK MY WRESTLEMANIA! YOU TOOK EVERYTHING!”

Bayley was limp now, her hands only weakly trying to shield her face.

Sasha stood up and looked around. The crowd was booing now. Loudly. But not out of hate—for fear. This didn’t feel like WWE anymore. It felt real.

Then Sasha climbed onto the middle rope. She paused… then climbed higher.

And higher.

She stood atop the top turnbuckle, balanced above the steel floor, as Bayley lay face-up on the grating.

She looked down one last time.

And jumped.

DOUBLE KNEES TO THE CHEST.

Bayley convulsed beneath her, her arms immediately hugging her ribs, blood now smeared across her cheek. Referees charged through the Chamber door. A trainer rushed to check on Bayley. Sasha sat beside her, chest heaving, emotionless, staring at what she had done like someone who had just emerged from a trance.

Michael Cole:
“That was… that was sick. That wasn't a competition. That was a personal dissection.”

The referees finally escorted Sasha out of the Chamber—she didn’t fight it. She just walked, hair tangled, arms limp at her sides, not looking at anyone. The crowd rained boos on her as she walked up the ramp. She didn’t acknowledge them.

A heavy, uncomfortable silence settles over the arena. Referees and trainers wheel Bayley away on a stretcher, her body limp, a towel pressed to her bloodied face. JoJo makes the announcement official:

JoJo (ring announcer):
“Due to injury, Bayley has been officially eliminated.”

The camera cuts to Paige, standing in the center of the ring, seething, chest rising and falling with every breath. Her pale skin is streaked with sweat and mascara; her gear stained from battle. She hasn’t taken her eyes off Alexa Bliss.

Alexa, in contrast, perches in the corner like a serpent. She’s breathing heavily, yes—but her face is unreadable. Behind those wide eyes and glittering eye shadow, she’s calculating. She knows what’s at stake. The gold still rests in her corner.

The referees shut the Chamber door one final time.

A thunderous scream from behind—Alexa Bliss charges, seizing the moment, smashing a double axe handle into Paige’s spine. The chamber echoes with steel meeting skin. Paige drops to her knees. Bliss yanks her by the hair and whips her face-first into the chamber chains with a loud metallic CLANG.

“This is MY division!” Alexa shrieks, venom dripping from her voice.

She rams Paige repeatedly into the chain-link wall—three, four, five times—before dragging her over the steel grating. Paige’s back leaves a red trail as her skin grinds against the unforgiving floor. The champion throws her into the pod corner. Paige crashes shoulder-first into the Lexan glass, spiderweb cracks forming on impact. The crowd oohs loudly.

But Paige won’t stay down.

She roars back with a headbutt out of nowhere! Alexa stumbles back, stunned. Paige mounts a second wind—slinging Bliss into the same pod glass that now shatters into shards! Bliss slumps in the wreckage, glass stuck in her tights and tangled in her hair.

The audience erupts.

Paige drags Alexa’s limp body from the broken pod and hooks the leg…

1…
2…
NO!

Bliss gets the shoulder up at the last second. Paige screams in frustration, slamming the mat. She yanks Alexa up and hits a series of vicious short-arm clotheslines, then a big boot that knocks Alexa flat. She calls for the RamPaige again. The crowd senses it.

Alexa counters at the last second—schoolgirl roll-up, grabbing the tights!

1…
2…
Paige kicks out!

Paige explodes back up and drills Bliss with a superkick to the jaw! Bliss drops face-first like a corpse. Paige stumbles to the turnbuckle in the far corner and climbs to the top rope inside the pod section. The crowd rises as Paige stands tall above the chamber floor.

She leaps—

Diving crossbody—Bliss rolls through—pins her!

1…
2…
Kick out!

The energy is frantic now. Both women crawl to their knees, trading forearms—back and forth, gritted teeth, no wasted motion. The arena is thunderous.

Alexa rakes the eyes, subtle and dirty. Paige stumbles back clutching her face. Alexa wastes no time—she rushes toward the nearest corner and tugs frantically at the top turnbuckle pad, loosening it, pulling it free.

The top turnbuckle is now fully exposed, gleaming steel glinting in the chamber lights.

The crowd boos loudly, catching on to Bliss’s scheme.

Paige charges in blindly—Bliss sidesteps—AND SENDS PAIGE HEAD-FIRST INTO THE EXPOSED STEEL!

CLANG!

The sound echoes like a gunshot.

Paige’s skull snaps back violently. She stumbles backward on spaghetti legs, arms outstretched, eyes glassy.

Alexa sprints, springboards off the second rope, and nails a vicious Code Bliss (tilt-a-whirl DDT) onto the steel grating outside the ring!

The crowd gasps—but Bliss doesn’t go for the pin.

Instead, she drags Paige’s limp body inside the ring and looks up.

She knows it’s time.

Alexa Bliss climbs the pod.

Every movement is slow, agonizing. She reaches the top—stands—pauses only to sneer at the booing crowd—and launches herself into the sky.

A breathtaking twisting moonsault from the top of the pod!

SHE LANDS FLUSH ON PAIGE’S MIDSECTION.

The ring shakes. Paige doesn’t move.

1…
2…
3.

DING DING DING.

Spoiler: WINNER....

~ WINNER AND STILL RAW WOMEN’S CHAMPION ALEXA BLISS 34:27 ~

Alexa lies motionless on top of Paige, both of them completely spent. The referee helps Alexa roll off her opponent and raises her arm slowly. Her makeup is smeared, her eyes wide and wild, chest rising rapidly. She looks almost in disbelief at what she just did.

Boos rain down, loud and sustained.

Alexa crawls backward into a corner, clutching the title to her chest, sneering through the pain.

Then… the lights shift.

The haunting thrum of Asuka’s entrance theme blasts through the Vegas night, and the entire arena erupts into a frenzy of cheers. The air shifts—electric, reverent—as the Empress of Tomorrow emerges from the curtain, bathed in regal spotlight. She is in full battle attire: a radiant, intricately detailed robe shimmering in shades of crimson, jade, and violet, and her face cloaked behind her signature mask, an expressionless visage carved in myth. Draped across her shoulder like a coronation banner is the Royal Rumble winner’s sash—her ticket to destiny. Inside the Elimination Chamber, Alexa Bliss sits slumped against the turnbuckles, clutching the RAW Women’s Championship to her chest as if it’s the only thing tethering her to reality. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, her skin sheened with sweat, her eyes darting. She’s just survived a war with Paige, every breath a reminder of the price she paid. There’s triumph on her face—but beneath it, something else. Dread. Asuka’s presence looms like a stormcloud above her. As the Empress strides down the ramp with measured elegance, the roar of the crowd begins to ebb into anticipation. Every step she takes, deliberate and slow, feels like a ceremony. She reaches the steel steps, ascends them… then pauses just outside the Chamber door. Her eyes, sharp and unyielding, lock with Alexa’s like a predator surveying her quarry. Asuka reaches up and removes her mask slowly, ceremoniously, revealing the steel-eyed determination beneath. The arena falls to a hush, captivated. She lifts a microphone to her lips, and in a voice brimming with confidence, accent, and edge, speaks just two words that split the silence like lightning: “Alexa Bliss…”

She lets it hang in the air. The anticipation stretches to the breaking point.

“…I choose you…..Wrestlemania”

The eruption of the crowd is instantaneous, volcanic. Camera flashes flicker like fireflies as the camera pans to the WrestleMania sign hanging high above the ring, a glowing altar. Then back to Alexa Bliss—her face has gone pale, her lips slightly parted. Her worst-case scenario has come true. Asuka now enters the Chamber itself, walking across the steel grate with poise that defies the danger beneath her. Each clang of her boot against the chain platform sounds like a countdown. She steps through the ropes and into the ring, stopping just feet from the RAW Women’s Champion. The glint of the title belt catches the light as it separates them, like a sword between warriors. They lock eyes in silence. She slowly rises to her feet, lifts the championship belt high above her head, and stares directly into Asuka’s soul, defiance etched into every muscle. Asuka’s lips curl into a smirk—not one of arrogance, but certainty. She has chosen her path. The Empress will not bow. She does not blink.

The final shot freezes in cinematic symmetry: Alexa Bliss standing her ground, championship raised. Asuka, unflinching, standing in her shadow, the WrestleMania sign glowing behind them both.

No words left to say. No fear left to hide.

Just fate.

Asuka. Bliss. WrestleMania.

WRESTLEMANIA 34 AD BREAK

​

For over three decades, one night changed everything. The lights. The legends. The moments that defined generations. From Hulk Hogan slamming Andre the Giant, to Stone Cold Steve Austin drenched in blood, to Daniel Bryan leading a sea of “YES!” chants — WrestleMania has always been the pinnacle of sports entertainment.

But this year… one night isn’t enough.

For the first time ever, WrestleMania becomes too big for just one night. This April, live from the Mercedes-Benz Superdome in New Orleans, WWE presents WrestleMania 34: A Two-Night Spectacle. Night One, Saturday, April 7th. Night Two, Sunday, April 8th. Two nights. One stage. A thousand dreams.

Featuring the biggest WWE Superstars — Roman Reigns, Charlotte Flair, AJ Styles, Alexa Bliss, Brock Lesnar, Braun Strowman, Asuka, Seth Rollins — and the most unforgettable moments yet to be written.​

~ TO BE CONTINUED ~
(There will be 3 parts total) ​

 

[WrestleWizard]

~ WWE ELIMINATION CHAMBER 2018 PART II ~​

Suddenly, without warning, the opening snarl of guitar feedback roars from the speakers like a beast awakening in chains. “Southern Proud” begins—not with polish, not with glamor—but with jagged chords and pounding, boots-on-concrete drum hits. The lights do not dim. The entrance screen remains untouched. No lasers. No smoke. No color.

This entrance doesn’t ask for your attention. It demands it through force of will.

From the curtain emerge Scott Dawson and Dash Wilder, and the arena doesn’t even realize it for the first two seconds. There’s no camera cut, no spotlight—just a cold, steady wide shot as these two rugged men stalk forward with their chins low and fists clenched. They look less like performers and more like two veterans walking back into the bar where their last fight wasn’t finished.

Their faces are drawn tight. Dawson’s eyes flicker left and right, scanning the crowd with disgusted contempt, while Wilder mutters under his breath, adjusting the tape on his wrist for the third time like a habit forged from hundreds of street fights. Every step they take is deliberate. No flash. No wasted movement. Their boots thud against the ramp with unsettling rhythm.

The camera finally swings around with a tight shoulder-level tracking shot, rolling beside them as they approach the halfway point. Wilder, his jaw twitching, leans toward Dawson and mouths something like: “Don’t let them breathe.” Dawson nods once. The crowd jeers—loud and furious—but the Revival walk through the noise like it doesn’t exist. They don’t pander. They don’t react. They don’t entertain.

As they near ringside, the two split without a single glance exchanged. Dawson veers left, making a sharp, wide loop around the apron, his eyes burning holes into Sheamus across the ring. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t pose. He just stares—a glare so sharp it feels like it might slice skin.

Wilder approaches the announce table, looming for just a second too long. His hand rests briefly on the edge, knuckles white, before he smirks coldly and turns away. He knows what table he’s going to break tonight.

Together, they slide into the ring at opposite corners, low, fluid, coiled like apex predators. They regroup in their corner, heads close, murmuring in hushed tones. There’s no signal. No raised fists. No pyro.

This isn’t a performance. It’s a calculated invasion.

The lights suddenly snap to black.

A deep, hollow digital pulse hits the arena like a dying heartbeat. Then silence—real, cavernous silence—drops over the crowd like a curtain. The tension is suffocating.

Then—BLIP. A single thin beam of white light cuts across the stage, flickering in and out, mimicking static interference. The warped opening of “Omen in the Sky” creeps through the speakers like corrupted audio, crawling through the sound system with distorted menace.

Smoke begins to hiss—not from the center, but from the far edges of the stage, curling in slow, ghostly tendrils across the ramp like a creeping frost. The crowd begins to buzz—restless, murmuring. Something feels wrong.

Then—KRAK-BOOM! A violent strobe blast detonates through the fog and reveals two massive silhouettes standing motionless beneath the chaos.

Karl Anderson and Luke Gallows stand at the top of the ramp, bathed in pulses of flickering white light. Anderson’s head is slightly cocked, his jaw clenched, his gloves being pulled tighter with methodical calm. Gallows, taller and more imposing, wears his long black trench coat draped like a shroud of vengeance, his eyes invisible beneath the shadow of his hood.

They take one synchronized step forward.

Then another.

And another.

Each stomp hits the steel ramp like a war drum, timed perfectly with the pounding bassline that now fully explodes through the speakers. The Club walks with machine-like precision, their shoulders squared, their heads forward, their souls seemingly detached from the crowd entirely.

The strobe lights flicker faster, bouncing off the smoke in jagged patterns, casting their snarling faces in ghost-like relief. The crowd begins to swell—not just with cheers or boos—but with raw electricity. Scattered chants of “TOO SWEET! TOO SWEET!” break out, rising like an old anthem being remembered.

Anderson reaches the ring first, hopping onto the apron with smooth grace, wiping the soles of his boots against the edge, eyes never leaving the center. Gallows ascends the steel steps, dragging his coat behind him like a reaper’s cloak, before stepping over the top rope with one long, powerful stride.

They walk to the center of the ring. No gestures. No smirks.

And then—CRACK!

They throw their fists together in a brutal Too Sweet, the sound echoing like gunfire across the canvas.

The Club is here.

Not to wrestle.

But to eradicate.

BOOM!!!

Without warning, a barrage of bagpipes fused with industrial metal explodes from the speakers, sending a shockwave through the building. A savage riff tears across the sound system as “Hellfire” erupts in full force, and instantly, red and gold lights bathe the stage like lava pouring from a volcano.

Jets of flame scream from both corners of the entrance ramp, exploding upward with a hellish hiss. A wall of steam and smoke rises from the floor like the gates of a gladiatorial arena opening.

Then—through the inferno—they come.

Sheamus, shirtless and pale as ash, bursts through the curtain howling like a Celtic berserker, veins bulging in his neck, fists pounding against his chest. Cesaro emerges right behind him—cool, collected, and coiled like a titan in tailored armor. His long trench coat glints gold under the lights, and his sunglasses reflect the crowd like twin shields of polished steel.

One arm is raised, and in that arm: the RAW Tag Team Championship, shining like an heirloom looted from battle.

The ramp begins to shake as the pyro continues to thunder. The tribal war drums beneath the music grow louder, heavier, primal. Cesaro steps forward and walks directly into the hard cam, seething with venom.

“YOU. DON’T. DESERVE. US!” he bellows, and rips off his shades, hurling them into the audience with venomous disdain. Behind him, Sheamus screams, “FELLAAAAAAAAA!!!” so loud it shakes the rafters, the veins in his forehead bulging like cables.

They begin their descent.

Cesaro’s gait is controlled arrogance—smooth, confident, eyes locked straight ahead like a man already certain he’s won. Sheamus follows, dragging the second championship across his back like a blade fresh from the forge. Their pace is even. Regal. Menacing.

At ringside, Cesaro peels off his coat and flings it to the floor like he’s shedding any trace of humanity. He circles the ring, climbing the far turnbuckle in one fluid vault and hoisting his title high, glaring into the sea of hatred from the crowd.

Sheamus stomps up the steps, planting one boot at a time with primal weight, then throws both arms wide at the top of the apron, yelling in Gaelic, championship belt raised to the heavens. The crowd lets out a wave of venom, but he basks in it like it’s sunlight.

They enter from opposite sides—timed with perfection.

And when they meet the center ring?

BOOM. Forearms slam together in a resounding clang of forged steel, their patented pose echoing through the camera lens like a medieval seal.

The Bar doesn’t just look like champions. They look like the final bosses.

JoJo stands center-ring, now under a single stark spotlight. The arena’s air is thick—drenched in adrenaline, sweat, and fury. The crowd is on their feet.

“Ladies and gentlemen… the following contest is a TRIPLE THREAT TAG TEAM MATCH scheduled for ONE FALL… and it is for the RAW! TAG! TEAM! CHAMPIONSHIPS!!”

The tension explodes as JoJo paces slightly, each announcement ratcheting the temperature up another ten degrees.

“Introducing first… representing The Club… Karl Anderson and Luke Gallows!”
A sea of hands throws up the Too Sweet. Anderson doesn't flinch. Gallows growls toward the camera.

“Their opponents… representing The Revival… Dash Wilder and Scott Dawson!”
Boos rain down, but The Revival don’t react—they just glare across the ring like they're calculating kill shots.

“And finally… they are the reigning and defending RAW TAG TEAM CHAMPIONS… SHEAMUS AND CESARO… THE BAAARRRRRR!!!”
The arena erupts in fury. Sheamus raises his title in defiance. Cesaro smirks like it’s already over.

All six men are now inside the ring. No one blinks. No one breathes.

This isn’t just a match.

It’s a collision course between brutality, legacy, and dominance.

RAW TAG TEAM CHAMPIONSHIPS - TRIPLE THREAT MATCH
THE BAR © vs. THE REVIVAL vs. THE CLUB​

The bell rings to a deafening roar. The arena hums with tension, every soul on edge as the three teams stand in their corners, eyes sharp, breathing steady. Only two men can start, and it’s Cesaro for The Bar and Scott Dawson for The Revival who step forward first, glaring at each other with stoic disdain. Gallows and Anderson hang back, arms draped over the ropes, watching with the calm of killers waiting for the right scent of blood.

Cesaro and Dawson circle each other with deliberate, prowling footwork. The crowd simmers, anticipating an explosion. They lock up with a thunderous collar-and-elbow tie-up in the center, muscles bulging as they jockey for control. Dawson digs his heels in, but Cesaro powers him into the ropes, forcing a break. He lets go clean but immediately fires off a stiff European uppercut that snaps Dawson’s head back with brutal precision. Dawson staggers, then comes right back with a harsh forearm to the temple, rocking Cesaro. They exchange again—uppercut, forearm, uppercut, forearm—until Cesaro whips Dawson into the ropes and levels him with a fast, tight tilt-a-whirl backbreaker, planting him on the mat.

Dawson rolls to his corner, eyes squinted in pain, and tags in Dash Wilder, who bursts through the ropes with a scowl carved in stone. He ducks a wild swing from Cesaro and shoots in low, taking the Swiss Superman down with a sharp leg trip. He floats over into a side headlock, grinding his forearm into Cesaro’s temple. Cesaro muscles up to his feet and shoves Dash off into the ropes. Dash rebounds, ducks a leapfrog, but gets nailed with a vicious dropkick from Cesaro that sends him tumbling backward into the neutral corner. Cesaro backs off and tags in Sheamus, who enters like a rhino, stomping toward Dash with a roar that rattles the hard camera.

Sheamus pulls Dash up by the beard and drives clubbing forearms into his ribs, pounding with stiff, thudding shots that sound like split logs echoing in a canyon. Dash stumbles back, and Sheamus scoops him up and slams him down with a rolling senton that shakes the canvas. The Celtic Warrior goes for a quick cover—one, two—but Dash kicks out at two. Sheamus snarls, grabs Dash again, and muscles him into The Bar’s corner. With the referee distracted, Cesaro lands a blindside boot to Dash’s ribs before tagging back in. The Bar isolate Dash with seamless teamwork, hitting a double shoulder tackle, then Cesaro drives a hard knee into Dash’s spine and pulls him into a modified rear chinlock.

Dash fights to his feet and breaks free with a sudden jawbreaker. Cesaro reels back, giving Dash just enough space to scramble and dive into his corner—tag to Karl Anderson. The crowd pops as Anderson jumps into the ring with fresh legs, ducking a lariat from Cesaro and rebounding off the ropes to nail him with a crisp jumping neckbreaker. Cesaro scrambles up—Anderson floors him again with a running lariat. He’s on fire. He springboards off the middle rope with a leaping back elbow, taking Cesaro down for a two-count. Sheamus yells from the corner, pounding the turnbuckle with fury.

Anderson stalks Cesaro, but the Swiss Superman counters a running strike into a surprise tilt-a-whirl slam. Both men are down. Cesaro crawls toward Sheamus—tag made—and the fiery Irishman barrels into the ring and cuts Anderson in half with a shoulder tackle. Gallows tries to enter to even the odds, but Sheamus meets him with a leaping knee strike that sends the big man toppling to the outside. With the crowd surging behind him, Sheamus hauls Anderson onto his shoulders and marches to the center of the ring, delivering a picture-perfect White Noise. He covers—one, two—Dash Wilder breaks it up with a flying elbow to the back of Sheamus’ head.

Dash rolls out as Sheamus shakes the cobwebs. The Club regains control with a tag—Gallows now legal. The big man enters and immediately unleashes heavy fists into Sheamus’ ribs and back. He lifts Sheamus into a chokehold, hoists him high into the air, and slams him with a brutal sit-out choke bomb. Sheamus writhes. Gallows tags Anderson, and the Club deliver a stiff double-team shoulder block that flattens the Celtic Warrior. Anderson covers—1… 2… Cesaro breaks it up. Anderson shoves Cesaro, shouting “Stay down!” Cesaro fires back with a shove of his own. The ref steps in between them as Sheamus pulls himself to the ropes.

As the fight resets, Gallows tags in and begins pounding Sheamus with clubbing blows in the corner, each strike sounding heavier than the last. He hits two consecutive corner splashes before tagging Anderson back in. The Club work like an engine now, crisp tags and bruising tandem offense. Anderson locks Sheamus into a grinding chinlock. Sheamus claws at the mat, trying to will himself up as the crowd claps him to life. Slowly, thunderously, Sheamus rises, fires elbows into Anderson’s gut, then charges—only to get caught with a jumping calf kick! Anderson goes for the cover—1… 2… kickout!

Anderson tags in Dash Wilder, who quickly stomps Sheamus into the mat, then pulls him into a front facelock, keeping the pressure on the veteran. The Revival begins surgically dissecting Sheamus. Dash tags Dawson, and the two hit a beautiful double-team Russian leg sweep, fluid and unforgiving. Dawson covers—1… 2… Sheamus kicks out again! But he’s wearing down. Dawson cinches in a tight armbar, leaning all his weight across Sheamus’ shoulder. Sheamus snarls, roaring in defiance, and begins to rise—slowly, painfully. He gets to one knee, then to his feet, then suddenly spins Dawson off with a back suplex! The ring shakes. Both men down.

Sheamus begins to crawl. The crowd claps rhythmically. Dawson stirs. Sheamus lunges—tags Cesaro!

Cesaro rockets in with a springboard European uppercut to Dash Wilder, who was trying to interfere. He turns—pop-up uppercut to Dawson! He grabs Dawson—deadlift gutwrench suplex! The crowd explodes. Cesaro begins his signature uppercut train, nailing Dash, then Dawson, then Dash again—spinning between them like a cyclone of violence. Dawson staggers toward the ropes—Cesaro launches him with the Swiss-1-9!

Gallows tries to enter, but Cesaro springboards off the second rope with a twisting corkscrew uppercut that blasts Gallows off the apron. Cesaro turns—blind tag by Dash Wilder as Dawson stumbles. Cesaro hits Dawson with the Neutralizer and goes for the pin—but Dash is the legal man. Dash sneaks in behind—Cesaro turns—spike DDT out of nowhere! Cover—1… 2… Anderson breaks it up!

The ring is chaos now. Sheamus Brogue Kicks Anderson out of his boots, but Gallows drops Sheamus with a boot of his own. Gallows grabs Cesaro—Magic Killer setup—but Cesaro wriggles free, shoving Gallows into Anderson. Double collision! Sheamus charges in again—double clothesline to the Club! Gallows and Anderson crash to the floor.

As the ref begins to restore order, Dash blind-tags in Dawson, then lies in wait. Cesaro goes for a springboard again—but Dawson grabs him midair and spikes him with a DDT! Cesaro is dazed. Dawson lifts him into position—Shatter Machine loading…

Dash charges in—they connect!! SHATTER MACHINE!!

Dawson dives into the cover, hooking both legs as Dash wipes out Sheamus with a forearm to the floor.

ONE…
TWO…
THREE!!

DING DING DING!!!

T-Mobile Arena exploded as “Southern Proud” blasted through the speakers. The Revival had done it—stealing victory in the wreckage of war, perfectly timed, and brilliantly executed. No flips. Just fists. And now… just gold.

The crowd roared with a mixture of shock and admiration, their voices rising into a thunderous swell that shook the arena. Some were stunned silent, others on their feet, applauding the grit and sheer brutality they had just witnessed. In the center of the ring, Dash Wilder and Scott Dawson dropped to their knees, clutching the Raw Tag Team Championship belts to their chests like lifelines. Their wide eyes said everything—astonishment, pride, and overwhelming relief. Months of grueling matches, overlooked moments, and working through pain had all led to this singular point. Their dream, long deferred, had finally come true.

Michael Cole’s voice cracked over commentary, filled with emotion: “After months of grinding, fighting through injury, being overlooked — The Revival have done it. They called themselves the best tag team on the planet... and tonight, they proved it!” Corey Graves followed with intensity, barely containing his excitement: “Textbook teamwork. Tag team excellence. This wasn’t a fluke — this was a masterpiece!”

Outside the ring, Luke Gallows stooped down and helped a dazed and battered Karl Anderson to his feet, his arm around his partner’s back as they slowly made their way up the ramp. Their faces were a mix of exhaustion and disappointment, but beneath it all, a thin layer of respect lingered—for the match, for the moment, and for the team that had just claimed the gold. Not far away, Cesaro and Sheamus seethed as they stood at the base of the ramp. Cesaro wiped blood from his chin while Sheamus pointed angrily toward the ring, barking threats and swearing vengeance, eyes locked on the new champions.

Back inside the ring, the spotlight dimmed everything but the image of triumph. Dash and Dawson climbed adjacent turnbuckles, lifting their newly-won titles high into the air. The lights bathed them in golden-white brilliance as they soaked in the reaction. No pyro. No dance. Just fists raised skyward. The revival of tag team wrestling had arrived—and their names were etched in history as champions.

The cameras remained locked on Dash Wilder and Scott Dawson, both drenched in sweat, arms stretched high as they hoisted the Raw Tag Team Championship belts to the heavens. Their music slowly faded into silence, but the crowd buzzed with energy—no longer mixed, but curious, captivated. There was a quiet electricity in the air, like everyone in the arena knew they had just witnessed something special. The spotlight lingered on the new champions, highlighting the exhaustion and triumph etched across their faces.

Renee Young stepped carefully into the ring, mic in hand, approaching the victorious duo as they caught their breath. She congratulated them with genuine admiration, her voice carrying across the murmuring audience. “Dash, Dawson — congratulations. After everything you’ve fought through, everything you’ve said about tag team wrestling… how does it feel to finally be Raw Tag Team Champions?”

Dash leaned against the ropes, head bowed, his chest rising and falling with every breath. Dawson adjusted the belt on his shoulder and stepped forward slowly, his expression tight, eyes wet with emotion. He took the microphone from Renee, pausing as he looked out over the sea of fans and soaked in the moment. Then, voice low but firm, he said, “You hear that? That silence… that’s respect. Not a damn fluke. Not a feel-good story. What you saw tonight was a master class in tag team wrestling. What we’ve been sayin’ for two years — now it’s undeniable.”

He turned toward Dash and nodded with a sense of finality. “We ain’t flashy. We ain’t funny. We don’t care about catchphrases or T-shirt sales. We care about Wrestling. With a capital W. And tonight… The Revival revived what it means to be tag team champions.”

Dash stepped in now, his eyes sharp, voice raw with intensity. “No flips. No wasted motion. Just fists. Just precision. Just excellence. We are not sports entertainers. We’re wrestlers. We are the absolute best tag team on this planet… and now we’ve got the gold to prove it.”

Dawson joined him again, lifting his title one last time as he delivered the final word. “You don’t gotta like us. But starting tonight… you’re gonna have to respect us. Forever. Top Guys… out.”

Dash let the mic fall with a casual toss over his shoulder as their music kicked back in. They climbed the turnbuckles, championship belts raised once more into the spotlight’s glow. No over-the-top theatrics. No crowd pandering. Just a pair of men standing atop the division through grit, discipline, and undeniable dominance.

From the commentary desk, Michael Cole’s voice rang with conviction: “The Top Guys said they would rise… and they just took the top spot in all of tag team wrestling.” Corey Graves followed immediately, almost breathless. “That’s not just a win, that’s a warning. The Revival are here — and they’re not letting go of those titles anytime soon.”

- AD BREAK -

The arena falls into an eerie hush as the lights dim all at once. The commentary team falls silent, as if the air has suddenly been vacuumed out of the room.

A low static flicker across the TitanTron. Then — a corrupted, slowed-down version of Jason Jordan’s theme begins to play. The familiar melody is laced with distortion and industrial echoes, turning the once-hopeful track into a warped siren of resentment. Blood-red lights pour over the stage as the crowd begins to react — not with cheers, but with instinctive hostility.

BOOS. “YOU SUCK!” chants. “Daddy’s boy!” echoes from pockets of the arena.

Jason Jordan steps through the curtain wearing all black — a sleeveless hoodie draped over his head, the hood shadowing his eyes. His hair is damp, sticking to his forehead, and his jaw clenched with volcanic tension. He carries a folded steel chair in one hand, dragging it behind him like a dead weight. His walk is slow. Deliberate. Purposeful.

Michael Cole (on commentary): “What in the hell is Jason Jordan doing out here? He’s not scheduled—he’s not even medically cleared!”

Corey Graves: “You say that like he cares anymore, Cole. That’s not the kid who showed up smiling in Team Angle. That’s a man carrying a grudge the size of WrestleMania.”

Jordan slides under the bottom rope and positions the chair at the dead center of the ring. He unfolds it with a metallic click, sits down, and rests his elbows on his knees. One leg bounces impatiently. His other hand clutches a microphone. He lifts it slowly to his mouth.

Jason Jordan (low, deliberate): “Don’t adjust your TVs. This isn’t a glitch. This is a hijack. And it starts with one truth—this entire company has lied to me.”

He leans back now, looking up at the rafters. The spotlight follows him like a guilt-ridden conscience.

“Last week, I made headlines. I wrapped my arm around the ankle of a living legend and tried to snap the illusion that he ever gave a damn about me. I choked out the ‘Olympic Hero.’ The ‘WWE Hall of Famer.’ The man who calls himself my father… and for the first time in years—I finally felt something.”

The boos deepen, but Jordan speaks over them, voice rising.

“Because after a lifetime of doing everything right—of being the model son, the tag team workhorse, the smiling project—I realized that I was never the priority. I was the punchline. Kurt Angle didn’t raise me to be great. He raised me to be useful to his story.”

He stands now, knocking the chair to the mat with a kick. The camera zooms in tight on his face.

“And here's the part nobody saw coming… I’m cleared. I’ve been cleared for weeks. I passed every test. Got every doctor’s signature. But funny thing—my return never happened. You know why? Because Kurt Angle purposefully ignored it. He left my clearance on his desk, right under his gold medal, and buried it. He knew I was back. He just didn’t want to deal with me.”

The crowd gasps. A pocket of them even start chanting: “ANGLE’S SON! ANGLE’S SON!”

Jordan seethes.

“I’m not waiting backstage anymore while part-timers, nostalgia acts, and company darlings take my WrestleMania. I’m not being quiet while Kurt Angle plays GM and fantasy books his dream career. Tonight? I make the demands.”

He turns and stares directly into the hard cam.

“So listen close, Dad… You step out here right now, and you give me what I deserve. One match. One name. One father. At WrestleMania. Or I swear to God… this show doesn’t go another minute.”

He slams the mic to the mat as the arena lights flicker in response. The crowd buzzes. The tension is a live wire. And then—

“Medal” hits.

The arena erupts as Kurt Angle walks out onto the stage—dressed in navy track pants, wrestling boots, and a Hall of Fame tee half-zipped beneath his USA jacket. The gold medal bounces against his chest as he strides forward—not as a general manager, but as a father forced into war. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t wave.

Michael Cole: “That’s not the GM, that’s the Olympic gold medalist… and the man Jason Jordan just declared open season on.”

Corey Graves: “This is going to get ugly, fast.”

Angle climbs into the ring as the crowd chants “YOU SUCK!” in rhythmic defiance—not at him, but on behalf of him. For the first time in years, they’re rallying for Kurt Angle.

He takes a mic from ringside. The two men now stand toe to toe—father and son, their bodies coiled, their eyes locked like mirrors that reflect only resentment.

Kurt Angle (quiet, heartbroken): “You want a moment, Jason? You just had it. You assaulted your own father. You tried to break my ankle. And now you demand a WrestleMania match?”

He shakes his head, pain and fury mingling in his voice.

“You’re not getting it. Not because of disrespect—because you haven’t earned it.”

Jordan steps forward, jaw trembling.

Jason Jordan (shouting): “You don’t talk to me about ‘earned!’ I outworked every rookie, every veteran, every brand! I broke my damn neck carrying your redemption arc, and you left me off everything. You were terrified. Terrified, the world would find out your son is better than you ever were!”

Angle’s eyes narrow. He clenches the mic tighter.

Angle (firm): “I gave you everything. Spotlight. Partners. My name. And what did you do? You turned every locker room against you. You disrespected your teammates. You disrespected me.”

He pauses. The crowd hangs on every breath.

“And most of all… you forgot how to be my son.”

The words landed like a dagger. The crowd fell into a stunned hush, murmurs of discomfort rippling through the sea of fans. Jason Jordan’s expression twisted—not with shock, but with cold satisfaction. He stepped in until only inches separated them.

“I didn’t forget,” he said, voice steady but seething. “I just stopped pretending. I stopped breaking my back trying to be the son you wanted—the one you could parade around in a singlet and call your legacy. The one who stood quietly while you smiled in Seth Rollins’ direction. I stopped begging for your pride and started fighting for my name.”

He jabbed a finger toward the WrestleMania sign burning above the ring like a divine judgment.

“You still don’t get it, do you? I don’t want your apology. I want your legacy. And I’ll take it by force—on the biggest stage of them all. You either give me that match… or I will drag your career—and your reputation—through hell to get it.”

Angle’s face, rigid with rage, softened just slightly. He took one long look at his son—at the betrayal, the pride, the pain—and whispered, “You lay another hand on me… and I’ll remind you why I was called the Wrestling Machine.”

Jordan’s smile flickered. Then, suddenly—

CRACK.

A blistering slap across Kurt Angle’s face reverberated through the arena like a gunshot. The crowd gasped in unison, several rising from their seats. Angle stumbled a half-step to the side, eyes wide, lips parted in silent fury.

Jordan stepped back, smug. “Go on,” he mouthed. “Do it.”

Angle’s face shifted. The Olympic fire lit in his eyes.

He charged. Jordan swung—Angle ducked—ANGLE SLAM!

The ring shook. Jordan’s body bounced off the mat, one hand shooting to his back in agony. The arena exploded as Angle ripped off his jacket, yanked down the straps, and stood over his fallen son like a titan awakened.

The chants were deafening: “ONE MORE TIME! ONE MORE TIME!”

Angle didn’t oblige. Instead, he snatched the mic from the canvas, lowered to one knee beside his son, and delivered the verdict.

“You want your match? You’ve got it.”

The crowd erupted in pure, unfiltered catharsis.

“WrestleMania. Me versus you. Father versus son. You wanna take my legacy? Fine. But just know… you’re gonna have to earn it. The hard way.”

He dropped the mic with a metallic clang on Jordan’s chest, then stood tall, eyes locked dead into the hard cam.

Michael Cole’s voice surged. “It’s official! Father versus son at WrestleMania! There’s no turning back now!”

Jordan writhed on the mat, clutching his ribs, pain etched into every breath—but even through the anguish, his face twisted into a smirk. He got what he came for.

Corey Graves closed with grit in his tone. “This isn’t just going to be a match, Cole… this is going to be a reckoning.”

Fade to black. Segment over. Legacy on the line. WrestleMania awaits.

Backstage, the camera framed a focused and determined Miz in tight profile as he meticulously wrapped tape around his wrists. The Intercontinental Championship shimmered beneath the fluorescent locker room lights, resting atop a polished steel table like a crown awaiting validation. Flanking Miz were Bo Dallas and Curtis Axel, flanking him with energy, confidence, and bravado. They poured on the encouragement—Bo calling Bálor a “flash in the pan,” Curtis offering to run interference ringside. But Miz stopped mid-wrap. His hands dropped. He turned to face the mirror, and for a brief second, the room fell to a hush.

“No,” he said softly, then with grit, “Not tonight.”

The Miz stood tall. He picked up the championship with reverence and stared into his own reflection—not admiring, but affirming. “Tonight… I go out there alone. No Miztourage. No distractions. No excuses.” He held the belt up to the mirror as if testing its weight in legacy and added, “Bálor’s chasing a dream. I’m chasing immortality.” Then without a word more, he slung the title over his shoulder and walked out, leaving Bo and Curtis frozen in silence, unsure if they were witnessing confidence… or transformation.

The arena darkened as the crowd stirred and murmured in anticipation. A beat passed—then BOOM. Pyro flared across the stage as spotlights blasted the audience in white and gold. “I CAME TO PLAY!” shook the sound system, and out walked The Miz, alone. Dressed in his long silver coat and signature shades, with the Intercontinental Title fastened tight around his waist, he exuded grandeur—but this time, without backup, every step had weight. He paused atop the ramp, lifting both arms high as golden sparks rained down in a pyro curtain behind him. The crowd reaction came in dueling waves—boos laced with admiration. They might not like him, but they respected the statement.

“There are no tricks tonight,” Michael Cole said. “No allies. Just one man and one title.”

Corey Graves added, “If The Miz wins here, he ties Mr. Perfect’s all-time record for IC title defenses on pay-per-view. Like him or not, he’s earned this spotlight.”

Miz made his way to the ring at a measured pace, soaking in the moment. He climbed the steps deliberately, wiped his boots with care on the apron, then removed his sunglasses with precision before hoisting the Intercontinental Championship high for the camera. His eyes didn’t blink. His lips didn’t move, except to mouth one vow to the world watching: “This is mine forever.”

Suddenly, the lights went black—this time, not for drama, but ritual. The hum came first, vibrating through the floorboards. Then—DONG. A single spotlight shot straight upward from the stage as Finn Bálor’s music kicked in, moody and mythic. The crowd exploded instantly, arms lifted in unison as the beat swelled.

From beneath the fog, Bálor emerged slowly—crouched low, wearing his black leather jacket zipped to the collar, his eyes locked ahead with razor-sharp focus. Every movement was calm yet deliberate, like a man fully aware this could be the moment that defined his entire main roster run. Fans around the arena chanted in waves: “FINN! FINN! FINN!” The lights strobed in perfect harmony with the synth-heavy rhythm, casting shadows across his face as he slowly stood upright.

Revealing the “Bálor Club for Everyone” shirt beneath the jacket, he began a slow walk down the ramp, not sprinting, not smiling—just absorbing the atmosphere. As he passed over the digital ramp graphic glowing beneath his feet, he paused to glance down at the Intercontinental Title emblem before refocusing on Miz, who stood waiting inside the ring, clutching the belt like it was oxygen.

Bálor reached the ring, leapt onto the apron in one smooth motion, and struck his signature pose—arms extended wide, back arched, head tilted back, eyes closed—his silhouette frozen in the crescendo of light and sound. The bass hit. The crowd exploded. Pyro detonated from every turnbuckle as Bálor stepped between the ropes and dropped into a panther-like stance across from Miz.

No smirk. No banter. Just intensity.

JoJo stepped into the center of the ring, mic in hand, poised beneath the spotlight.

“The following contest is scheduled for one fall… and it is for the Intercontinental Championship!”

The crowd roared in anticipation.

“Introducing first, the challenger—from Bray, County Wicklow, Ireland—Finn Bálor!”

Bálor lifted one arm, stoic but focused, eyes never leaving Miz.

“And his opponent—from Hollywood, California—he is the reigning, defending Intercontinental Champion—The MIZ!”

Miz unstrapped the title and raised it high above his head with both hands, locking eyes with Finn the entire time. Neither man blinked. Neither budged. The tension in the arena was now a living thing, pulsing under the lights. Bálor rolled his neck in quiet readiness. Miz took one deep breath.

Two men.

One title.

The air was about to crack.

The bell rings.

Intercontinental Championship
The Miz vs. Finn Balor

The opening bell echoes through the packed arena, met by a wall of anticipation from a feverish crowd. The Miz stands tall in his corner, Intercontinental Title freshly kissed and handed off, eyes narrowed in sharp focus, jaw locked in arrogance. Finn Bálor rolls his shoulders loose, eyes never leaving his opponent, every muscle coiled with contained electricity. They circle cautiously at first, feet light, testing the air between them. Miz steps in for a collar-and-elbow tie-up, and Finn meets him with equal force, neither man gaining early ground. Miz slips into a side headlock and cinches it deep, a sly smirk on his face as he grinds it in. Finn tries to push off, but Miz holds tight, dragging him down to a knee and barking at the referee to “ask him.”

Finn plants his hands on Miz’s hips, turns into the pressure, and manages to push Miz off into the ropes. Miz rebounds and flattens Finn with a clean shoulder block, then immediately struts backward with mock bravado, brushing his imaginary jacket. Finn kips up smoothly, lips pressed in a focused smile, and motions for Miz to bring it again. The two lock up a second time, and this time Bálor takes control with a quick go-behind into a hammerlock, twisting Miz’s arm up behind his back and pressing his wrist toward the shoulder blade. Miz winces, drops to a knee, and grabs the nearest rope strand to force a break. Finn releases cleanly, backing off with his arms raised, but Miz sneaks in a cheap back elbow to the face, drawing boos from the crowd and a scolding from the referee. Miz grins and mouths, “Veteran instincts, kid,” as he capitalizes with a sharp snapmare and delivers a low running boot across Finn’s face. Miz stays on the offensive, stomping at Finn’s shoulder and midsection with pinpoint precision, then drags him up and whips him hard into the corner. Finn crashes against the turnbuckles with a grunt. Miz rushes in for his patented corner clothesline, but Finn darts out, and Miz eats the top turnbuckle chest-first. Finn hits a dropkick to Miz’s back, then immediately follows with a basement dropkick to the face. The crowd comes alive as Bálor catches fire — he lifts Miz up into a vertical suplex position and transitions into a reverse lifting DDT, spiking Miz hard onto the mat. Cover — just a two-count, but Miz rolls to the apron, visibly rattled. Finn eyes him with calculated patience, building speed across the ring and launching into a wrecking ball dropkick, sending Miz crashing to the floor.

With Miz sprawled on the outside, Finn ascends the apron and looks out to the crowd, who roar in anticipation. He runs and launches a tope con hilo — soaring over the top rope and crashing into Miz with breathtaking height and velocity. Both men collapse, sweat-slicked and breathless, but Finn is first to rise. He throws Miz back in the ring and immediately delivers a sling blade, wiping the champion out. He lines Miz up for a running corner dropkick — but Miz cuts him off with a sudden kitchen sink knee to the gut, folding Bálor in half. Miz takes control again with a kneeling DDT, then floats into a cover — another near-fall. With a sudden scowl, Miz shifts tactics, grabbing Finn’s left leg and stomping directly on the knee joint. A second stomp. Then a third. He wrenches it violently and slams the leg down against the mat, locking eyes with the hard camera and snarling, “I’ll rip it apart!” He hooks the leg and drops his weight onto it with a spinning toe hold, then transitions smoothly into a figure-four leglock in the center of the ring. Finn howls in pain, face twisted, hands tearing at his own hair, thrashing wildly. The crowd builds to a crescendo, clapping for him as he drags his body — inch by desperate inch — to the bottom rope and grabs it. Miz releases the hold just before the five count, but not before giving one last wrench of the legs.

Finn tries to stand, but collapses, holding his knee. Miz stalks him like a predator now, kicking at the injured leg and shouting for him to stay down. But Finn fights up through the pain, throwing a wild forearm. Miz answers with one of his own. The two trade heavy blows in the center of the ring, until Finn suddenly fires off a Pele Kick, stunning Miz and sending him sprawling into the ropes. Finn drags himself up by the opposite set of ropes, limping but alive, and hurls himself into a running front dropkick, knocking Miz over the top rope again. The crowd roars, sensing momentum. Finn doesn’t hesitate — he builds steam and springboards over the top with a vaulting crossbody, crashing into Miz a second time. Back in the ring, Finn ascends the turnbuckle slowly, leg clearly bothering him. He steadies himself, aiming for the Coup de Grâce, but Miz yanks the top rope and crotches him. Finn howls and slumps against the ropes. Miz climbs up, hooks the arm for a superplex, but Finn blocks. He throws body shots, forcing Miz down, then tries to reset — but Miz springs back up, hits a top-rope arm drag, and sends Bálor flying across the ring. The champion senses the kill and hits the Skull-Crushing Finale in one fluid motion — center of the ring — hooks the leg deep. The ref slides in. One! Two! …NO!! Finn kicks out, and the arena explodes. Miz clutches his hair in disbelief, his face red with frustration. He crawls over to Finn, shouting, “STAY DOWN!” before raining down elbows to the back of the head.

Desperation sets in as Miz drags Finn up again, going for a second Skull-Crushing Finale, but Finn elbows out, spins free, hooks the waist — 1916 DDT! A brutal counter! Both men are down, gasping, spent. The crowd chants, “This is awesome!” in unison as the camera pans over their fallen forms. Slowly, Finn crawls to the ropes and uses them to pull himself upright. Miz stumbles into the opposite corner. Finn locks eyes with him, limping forward like a wounded animal with fire in his chest. He breaks into a run — corner shotgun dropkick — and Miz’s body whiplashes into the turnbuckles before collapsing flat on his back. With the crowd at a fever pitch, Finn climbs the ropes again, grimacing as he balances on one good leg. He looks to the sky, then down at the broken Miz. He launches with everything he has left — Coup de Grâce! The double stomp lands flush across Miz’s chest. Finn collapses atop him. The ref slides in — one! two! three!

Winner: Finn Bálor — NEW Intercontinental Champion

As Finn Bálor clutches the Intercontinental Championship to his chest, every breath still a labor from the brutal war he’s just endured, the crowd continues to thunder with applause. He rises slowly, one arm raised high with the title gleaming under the lights. Sweat beads on his forehead, his chest heaves, and his lips curve into a faint, exhausted smile. The commentary team is electric — Michael Cole declares it a defining moment in Bálor’s WWE career, while Corey Graves grudgingly gives respect to the new champion’s resilience and ring generalship.

But behind him, movement stirs.

The Miz is in the corner, face contorted in frustration, his body draped across the bottom rope. He slaps the mat and grabs the official by the collar, yelling, The referee shakes his head and backs away, affirming the call, but Miz is relentless. He rolls under the bottom rope, stumbling along the outside barricade, shouting toward the stage. "I’ve had enough of this!" he screams, and throws his hands in the air, snapping his fingers and gesturing toward the entrance.

And just like that — “Oh, come on…” groans Saxton — Bo Dallas and Curtis Axel emerge from the back, stomping down the ramp in full suits, removing their jackets as they come. The Miztourage. The audience’s cheers instantly turn to venomous boos. Finn turns his head and notices them — both men creeping onto the apron, cutting off his exits. Miz is back in the ring now, lurking behind him with a bitter snarl. The new champion’s eyes flicker between them, legs bent, title gripped in both hands like a weapon. His chest rises and falls faster now, as if preparing for a second battle.

And then—

“SHOCK… THE SYSTEM.”

The entire arena detonates. The lights pulse red as the distorted opening guitar of The Undisputed ERA's theme hits. Finn’s eyes widen. Miz’s mouth drops open in disbelief. From the crowd, on the ramp — it doesn’t matter — the chaos is palpable as Adam Cole, Kyle O’Reilly, and Bobby Fish storm onto the stage, clad in black and gold, matching jackets unzipped, moving like a mercenary unit. The crowd erupts into dueling chants of “UNDISPUTED!” and “HOLY S**!”* as the trio marches down with cold swagger. Cole leads the way, eyes locked on the ring, not a single word spoken.

Dallas and Axel freeze on the apron, their mouths moving faster than their feet as they try to calculate their odds. The Undisputed ERA stops at ringside. Cole locks eyes with Bálor, then flicks his eyes to Miz, to the Miztourage, and then slowly — with the calm of a soldier ready for war — slides into the ring. Fish and O’Reilly hop onto the apron and follow him, forming a wall beside their leader.

The Miztourage backs down.

Curtis Axel drops from the apron first, hands up in retreat. Bo Dallas hesitates a second longer, but he too hops down and grabs Miz by the arm, urging him to leave. Miz looks around, fuming, but his bravado falters. He grabs his robe and title plate from ringside and slinks up the ramp, yelling over his shoulder, “This isn’t over, Bálor! You’re not a real champion!” But no one is listening. All eyes are now on what’s happening in the ring.

Bálor turns slowly, facing the men standing across from him.

Adam Cole steps forward.

The crowd hushes to a buzzing silence.

Cole doesn’t speak. He just looks at Bálor’s Intercontinental Title… then into Finn’s eyes. The moment stretches. No one moves. Then, Cole smirks — not mockingly, but with a spark of respect. He nods once.

And then… he throws up the Undisputed hand gesture.

Fish and O’Reilly do the same.

Bálor, wary at first, lets out a breath. And after a heartbeat — he lifts the Intercontinental Championship high in one hand… and with the other, he slowly raises the “too sweet” hand signal.

The crowd erupts again.

Adam Cole walks over, grabs Bálor’s wrist, and lifts it high in victory. Fish and O’Reilly stand by their side, posing as camera flashes explode around them. The new champion stands tall — not just with gold, but now with reinforcements. The Undisputed ERA and Finn Bálor… together. A new chapter may be beginning.

Corey Graves’ voice cuts through: “That... that changes everything.”

Fade to black.

~ AD BREAK ~

ROUSEY DEBUT VIDEO PACKAGE

"Bad Reputation" by Joan Jett erupted from the speakers like a slap across the face.

The crowd absolutely exploded.

Flashing red and white lights danced across the stage as Ronda Rousey stepped through the curtain for the very first time as an in-ring WWE competitor. No hoodie this time. No grin. Just laser-focused intensity, braided hair, and that unmistakable strut honed from years in the Octagon. She wore a black leather jacket over her red-and-white gear, and her fists were clenched with anticipation. This wasn’t Rousey the celebrity guest—this was Rousey the warrior.

Michael Cole’s voice cracked over the noise: “This is the most anticipated debut in recent memory… The Rowdy One is here, and she’s ready to fight.”

Rousey made her way down the ramp, slapping a few outstretched hands but never breaking eye contact with the ring. She circled it once, then hopped up onto the apron, stepping through the ropes with fluid, practiced motion. Inside the ring, she peeled off the jacket and began shadowboxing as the crowd roared, cameras flashing in every direction.

But before the bell could ring or the referee could move, “King of Kings” hit the speakers.

All eyes turned back to the stage as a spotlight followed Triple H, dressed in a tailored black suit, and Stephanie McMahon, shimmering in a dominant red dress, as they emerged from backstage with clipboards in hand and smug satisfaction on their faces.

Triple H raised a mic with a smirk.

“Ronda, welcome to WrestleMania season. Now… I know everyone in this arena is expecting us to be your opponents tonight…”

Stephanie chimed in, grinning: “But why give them the obvious… when we could give them a legend?”

Triple H turned, motioned to the ramp.

“You want your first opponent? Then let’s make it historic.”

“TIME TO ROCK & ROLL!”

The roof nearly blew off the building.

Trish Stratus stepped through the curtain to a deafening roar—decked out in sleek black-and-gold gear, her iconic blonde hair flowing behind her, eyes locked on the ring.

Michael Cole was nearly shouting now. “Are you kidding me?! Trish Stratus?! A Hall of Famer! A pioneer of the women’s evolution—and she’s about to face Ronda Rousey?!”

Trish walked confidently, basking in the chants of “YOU STILL GOT IT!” as she pointed to Rousey and nodded.

Inside the ring, Ronda’s smirk had curled into something else—respect tinged with adrenaline.

The referee signaled for the bell.

Ronda Rousey vs. Trish Stratus

The bell rang and the noise inside the arena surged into a tidal wave of anticipation. Ronda Rousey stood center-ring with her fists clenched, bouncing lightly on her toes, eyes laser-focused. Across from her, Trish Stratus adjusted her wrist tape, nodding with a smirk—part respect, part defiance. The atmosphere was electric: the past meeting the present, legend versus phenom.

They circled once. Twice. Then locked up. Surprisingly, it was Trish who initiated the clinch, catching Ronda by surprise and spinning into a rear waistlock—fast, crisp, veteran savvy. Rousey instinctively countered with a hip toss, launching Trish halfway across the ring. The crowd gasped, and Trish sat up, visibly shaken—but grinning.

Rousey offered a quick nod. Game on.

They locked up again—Trish transitioned behind, went for a headlock, and Ronda caught her arm mid-turn and dropped into a judo-style takeover. She floated over into side control and began working the wrist. Trish, sensing danger, scissored the legs and twisted her hips, rolling Rousey into a quick inside cradle—

ONE! TWO! Rousey kicked out.

They sprang up at the same time. Rousey lunged with a left jab—Trish ducked, rebounded off the ropes, and nailed Ronda with a running tilt-a-whirl headscissor that sent her reeling into the corner. Trish followed up with mounted punches, feeding five stiff shots to the head before doing her signature backflip out of the corner.

But as she landed—BANG!—Rousey exploded forward with a clothesline that turned Trish inside out. The crowd oohed. Rousey stalked, measured, and delivered a gutwrench suplex, rolling through into another—and then a third. Her ground game now fully in motion, she locked in a grounded armbar position, wrenching back. Trish screamed but clawed toward the ropes, finally reaching them to force the break.

Rousey let go on the count of four, dragging Trish back into the center, but the Hall of Famer surprised her with an upkick to the jaw. Rousey stumbled. Trish kipped up, bounced to the second rope, and connected with her vintage Stratusfaction handstand headscissor—a perfect flash of nostalgia and athleticism.

Cover— ONE! TWO! Shoulder up by Rousey.

With momentum on her side, Trish measured her moment—ran the ropes—and hit a flying forearm smash! Rousey dropped to one knee. Trish went for the Chick Kick, but Rousey ducked it and wrapped her up into a belly-to-back slam that spiked Trish spine-first. The tone shifted. Rousey’s smile was gone. She stood, adjusted her gloves, and called for the end.

She shot in like a bullet—fireman’s carry—Piper’s Pit! Trish hit hard, writhing on the mat. The crowd was on its feet, sensing the close.

Rousey grabbed the arm—twisted—Armbar locked in. Center of the ring.

Trish fought. Her hand hovered. She rolled slightly. Almost made space—but Rousey re-cinched it, torqued the elbow just enough—

Trish tapped.

Winner: Ronda Rousey via submission (Armbar) at 7:02

The moment Rousey released the hold, she dropped back, breathing heavy but never losing control. She stood, fists raised, eyes closed briefly in satisfaction. This wasn’t the celebration of someone proving herself—it was someone confirming who she already knew she was.

Trish sat upright, cradling her elbow, visibly disappointed but nodding—acknowledging Rousey’s arrival with grace. The two locked eyes, and Ronda extended a hand. A beat passed—then Trish took it.

The crowd cheered wildly. Mutual respect. A passing of the torch.

The ring was still electric with aftershocks from Ronda Rousey’s emphatic victory. The crowd buzzed with adrenaline as “Bad Reputation” played triumphantly overhead, and Rousey stood tall, arms raised in the center of the ring after submitting a Hall of Famer in her WWE in-ring debut.

But then, just beyond the ropes, cameras caught Triple H and Stephanie McMahon at the edge of the stage. The two stood with their arms folded, watching intently—no longer smug, no longer scheming. Just… evaluating.

The music faded. The murmurs grew.

Then their entrance theme hit.

The Game and the Billion Dollar Princess walked down the ramp, flanked by an air of corporate tension. Hunter in his designer suit, Stephanie in heels and a crimson power dress, clipboard long gone—replaced by something far more deliberate. Both climbed the stairs and entered the ring slowly, eyes fixed on the woman who had just made her mark on WWE.

Triple H gave a slight nod of recognition, but it was Stephanie who stepped forward first.

Mic in hand, she applauded once—sharp, theatrical.

“Ronda,” she began, smirking, “I’ll give credit where it’s due. That was… impressive.”

The crowd booed, sensing the condescension already brewing.

“You took on a legend tonight. You showed fight. Fire. Maybe you do belong here after all…”

Rousey tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing.

“But don’t let one win fool you,” Stephanie continued, her voice hardening. “This is still our ring. This is still our company. And around here, respect is earned—not demanded.”

The crowd shifted, some booing, some chanting “Rousey! Rousey!”

Ronda stepped forward, her mic rising slowly.

“Funny…” she said coolly, “I don’t remember asking permission.”

Stephanie’s face froze—then tensed.

“You might be able to intimidate a Hall of Famer… but I’m a McMahon. We don’t flinch.”

Ronda stared her down, then took one slow step closer.

“We’ll see.”

The crowd roared. Stephanie’s posture faltered for just a beat—and that was the only opening Rousey needed.

She dropped her mic. Reached out. Grabbed Stephanie’s wrist. Twisted.

Armbar incoming.

The crowd exploded.

Stephanie screamed and flailed, trying to pull free—but before Rousey could lock it in fully, Triple H lunged forward and grabbed Ronda from behind, wrapping both arms around her waist and trying to restrain her.

The crowd booed instantly—but those boos turned to a collective gasp.

Because Ronda spun inside his grip, threw her elbow up—

BAM!

She clocked Triple H clean across the jaw.

The Game dropped like a sack of bricks.

The arena exploded. Fans leapt to their feet in shock and delight as Triple H sprawled across the mat, arms splayed, Stephanie retreating to the ropes in horror.

Rousey stood tall, fists clenched, daring either of them to try again.

Her music hit again.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t smile.

She just stood in the ring, breathing hard, glancing down at the unconscious body of the COO of WWE.

~ TO BE CONTINUED ~
(Final Part - THE MAIN EVENT) ​

 

[WrestleWizard]

~ WWE ELIMINATION CHAMBER 2018 PART III ~
~ THE MAIN EVENT ~​

The arena plunges into darkness as the massive Elimination Chamber lowers ominously from the rafters. A cold blue wash of light ripples across the steel pods, chains rattling like distant thunder. The crowd’s roar fades to a tense hum—this is the crucible where one man will earn a shot at Brock Lesnar’s Universal Title at WrestleMania.

First, the lights shatter in amber bursts and “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands” drifts across the speakers. Through the swirling fog emerges Bray Wyatt, lantern swinging, hood drawn low. He glides to Pod 1, pauses to lock eyes with the crowd as moths of light dance on his face, then steps inside and pulls the heavy door closed behind him. Inside, his lantern glows eerily as he sinks to his knees, murmuring unseen words to the steel that surrounds him.

Next, the arena goes pitch-black before erupting in staccato strobes timed to a tribal drumbeat. “Destroyer” booms as Samoa Joe appears at the top of the ramp—towel draped over his neck, eyes cold as obsidian. Without a word, he strides straight to Pod 2 and leans against its bars, chest heaving, steam from his breath swirling into the chamber’s gloom. The door clangs shut, and Joe stands sentinel, ready to unleash chaos when the time comes.

Suddenly, the lights flash in rapid crimson as Braun Strowman’s music hits—a guttural roar echoing through the steel cavern. The “Monster Among Men” storms out, arms spread wide, beard bristling with fury. He tears through the crowd to Pod 3, where he shoves the door open and roars into the empty pod before sealing it behind him. The pod trembles under his presence, chains rattling like a beast awakened.

Finally, “My Time Is Now” blasts through the speakers in triumphant fanfare. John Cena bursts onto the stage, towel held high, pyrotechnics flaring behind him. He circles the Chamber once, salutes the cheering crowd, and slides into Pod 4, climbing the small platform with veteran ease. Cena stands upright, peering through the pod’s grille, confident and ready for the war ahead.

With the four future combatants locked away, the lights calm to a muted red. Then, as if unleashing the final piece, “The Truth Reigns” explodes across the arena. Roman Reigns strides out first—steps measured, expression stone-faced, vest gleaming. He climbs the ramp with authority, pauses at the ring apron for one nod, and climbs through the open ropes.

No sooner does the echo of Roman’s entrance fade than “Burn It Down!” ignites the speakers. Seth Rollins storms out in black-and-gold gear, eyes blazing with hunger. He barrels down the ramp, vaults over the top rope, and stands across from Roman in the center of the ring. The referee signals for the bell.

DING! DING! DING!

ELIMINATION CHAMBER MATCH
Winner faces Brock Lesnar at Wrestlemania 34 for the Universal Championship
John Cena vs. Braun Strowman vs. Samoa Joe vs. Seth Rollins vs. Roman Reigns vs. Bray Wyatt​

Roman and Seth circle, neither breaking eye contact. They lock up—shoulder to shoulder—each man straining for control as the pods rattle behind them. This is only the beginning of a mammoth battle, but for now, Roman Reigns and Seth Rollins are the first warriors to clash in steel.

The steel door shut with a chilling clang as the referee gave the final nod to the timekeeper. A hush fell over the crowd as the haunting red glow from the Elimination Chamber cast long shadows across the ring. Encased in thick chains and reinforced pods stood four of WWE’s most dangerous predators—John Cena, arms folded with steely calm; Bray Wyatt, a grinning lunatic licking the plexiglass as if tasting the violence to come; Samoa Joe, pacing like a panther with his eyes locked ahead; and Braun Strowman, a mountain of fury breathing heavy steam as he slammed his fists against the walls of his pod. But in the ring, already staring each other down with the intensity of scorched earth, stood the two former brothers: Roman Reigns and Seth Rollins. Ten years of alliance, betrayal, blood, and ambition coiled between them like a venomous snake. Reigns stood motionless, broad chest rising slowly beneath the tactical vest, his dark eyes locked on Rollins with unsettling calm. Rollins paced like a wild dog, his black tights and soaked hair making him look more like a cornered animal than a man. The bell rang—and war began.

Rollins struck first, darting across the ring and unloading with a rapid-fire barrage of fists to Reigns' face and midsection, each shot echoing against the chains of the chamber. The crowd roared as Rollins kept swinging, forcing Reigns back into the turnbuckles with pure aggression. Reigns shoved him away with explosive strength, but Rollins came right back, ducking a clothesline and blasting Reigns with a jumping enzuigiri that sent the Big Dog stumbling through the ropes and crashing spine-first onto the unforgiving steel floor outside the ring. The chamber shook as Reigns hit the chain-linked grates with a metallic clang. Rollins didn't hesitate—he climbed to the top turnbuckle, pointed to the sky, and launched off with a flying knee that cracked into Roman’s jaw and sent both men sprawling across the floor.

Rollins was the first to rise, a smirk curling on his face. He grabbed a handful of Reigns’ hair and, with a guttural yell, slammed his former Shield ally face-first into the steel mesh wall of the chamber. Reigns bounced off the steel and slumped to his knees. With a burst of speed, Rollins whipped him full force into Samoa Joe’s pod. Reigns crashed shoulder-first into the plexiglass, which flexed under the impact but didn't shatter. Joe laughed from behind the glass and mouthed something that looked like, “I’m gonna finish you myself.” But Roman wasn’t out long. Rollins went for a second whip, this time aiming for Bray Wyatt’s pod—but Reigns reversed it and hurled Seth instead. Rollins’ back slammed against Wyatt’s chamber with brutal force, and the Eater of Worlds cackled like a madman, pressing his face against the glass, drinking in the chaos. Reigns charged forward and grabbed Rollins by the waist, hoisting him high before powerbombing him down spine-first onto the steel grating. The impact was sickening.

Dragging Rollins back into the ring, Reigns methodically slowed the pace. He whipped Seth into the corner with a thunderous crash, then stalked over and delivered a brutal Samoan Drop in the center of the ring. He hooked the leg, but Rollins kicked out at two. Frustrated but composed, Reigns cast a quick glance toward the pods. Cena stood unmoved, observing. Strowman was snarling. Bray waved at him with glee. Roman grabbed Rollins in a tight chinlock, grinding him to the mat, wrenching the neck with precision, letting the pain sink in. The crowd began to clap for Seth, and slowly, Rollins fought his way back to his feet. With grit and defiance, he drove elbows into Roman’s gut—once, twice, a third time—and broke the hold.

Rollins hit the ropes and struck with a flying forearm, but Reigns stayed upright. Another bounce, this time a sling blade connected and dropped the Big Dog to the canvas. Rollins exploded to his feet and pointed to the turnbuckle. He ascended quickly, eyes scanning the chamber above him. Without hesitation, he soared off with a picture-perfect frog splash that crushed Reigns’ ribcage. Rollins hooked the leg—one, two, but Roman powered out. Seth pounded the mat in frustration. He rose to his feet and began stomping, fist clenched, calling for the Curb Stomp with primal energy. Reigns staggered to all fours as the crowd screamed—but at the last second, Roman exploded upward with a Superman Punch that detonated against Seth’s jaw and dropped him like a sack of bricks.

Breathing heavily, Reigns retreated into the corner and pounded the mat, calling for the Spear. He burst forward like a rocket—but Rollins leapt clean over him. Roman collided shoulder-first into the turnbuckle. Rollins spun around, grabbed him by the waist, and delivered a stunning Falcon Arrow in the center of the ring. Both men were down, gasping for breath. Suddenly, the arena plunged into flashing red light. The countdown began.

“10… 9… 8…”

The pods flickered with life. Braun pressed his forehead to the glass. Joe’s knuckles cracked. Cena clenched his jaw. Wyatt raised his arms like a prophet welcoming the flames.

“7… 6… 5…”

Rollins pulled himself up by the ropes. Reigns rolled onto his stomach. The countdown grew louder.

“4… 3… 2… 1…”

The horn blared.

BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!

And the chamber chose its next monster. The pod door began to open…

The crowd held their breath as the lights darted between pods, illuminating faces twisted in anticipation—until finally, they froze on the far-left pod. A sinister grin curled across the face of Bray Wyatt as the chamber door hissed open. Fog seemed to follow him. He stepped out like a specter unleashed, arms spread wide, soaking in the chaos before him. Roman Reigns was still on all fours. Seth Rollins clutched his ribs, eyes wide as he saw the horror approaching. Wyatt dropped to his knees and kissed the steel floor beneath him before slithering into the ring.

Rollins tried to strike first, lunging in with wild desperation, but Wyatt caught him with a crushing body block that flattened him mid-run. Bray immediately pounced, raining down fists to Rollins’ face, then whipped him hard into the corner—so hard the whole ring shook. Bray didn’t pause. He charged after and squashed Seth with a running crossbody in the corner, then grabbed him by the hair and flung him through the ropes to the steel outside with a sickening thud. Reigns staggered to his feet—but Bray turned and stared him down, unblinking. A standoff between two forces of nature.

The two collided in the center of the ring with thunderous fists—Reigns landing bombs, Wyatt absorbing them with unsettling joy. Reigns hit a headbutt, then another, but Bray just laughed and snapped into a thunderous Uranage Slam that sent Reigns bouncing off the canvas. Bray crawled backward on all fours, eyes rolled back, whispering, “Follow… the buzzards…” before attempting a cover.

One… two… Reigns kicked out.

Wyatt didn’t relent. He dragged Roman by the legs and catapulted him into the chains between two turnbuckles. Reigns crashed face-first into steel, then collapsed to the outside. As Bray stepped through the ropes to follow, he turned directly into a springboard knee strike from Rollins, who’d recovered on the outer platform! Wyatt staggered—and Rollins used the ropes to vault onto the top turnbuckle, launching into a flying clothesline that took Bray down!

The crowd roared as Rollins bounced to his feet and turned his focus back to the now-rising Roman. Reigns stepped into the ring and ate a stiff superkick to the jaw, then another. Rollins hit the ropes, looking for a third—but Bray snatched him out of mid-run with an explosive lariat, nearly turning Seth inside out. Bray then turned into a spear attempt from Reigns—but he sidestepped at the last moment, and Roman smashed into the corner post shoulder-first, ricocheting to the mat.

Bray, now fully in control, stood over both fallen Shield brethren, arms raised high like a preacher before a sacrifice. He dragged Rollins toward the center and hooked the arms—preparing Sister Abigail. But Rollins twisted out and hit a rolling elbow, stunning Bray. Reigns, from nowhere, exploded up with a Superman Punch that rocked Wyatt back! The former Shield brothers looked at each other—no words exchanged—then nodded. For a brief, electric second, the crowd sensed a flash of their old alliance returning.

Together, Rollins and Reigns lifted Bray Wyatt into the air and delivered a massive double powerbomb onto the steel grate outside the ring! The impact was grotesque—Wyatt’s body folded unnaturally as he let out a guttural groan. The crowd erupted in a deafening chant of “HOLY SHT! HOLY SHT!”

Reigns rolled back into the ring, exhausted, eyes flicking to Rollins who was perched on the ropes. They exchanged a wary glance. Trust? Maybe. Maybe not.

Then the lights began flashing again.

“10… 9… 8…”

Every man in the arena looked up, warier than before.

“7… 6… 5…”

Joe slammed both fists against his pod, frothing to get in. Cena cracked his neck. Strowman was still, eerily calm, as if waiting to feast.

“4… 3… 2… 1…”

BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!

The lights froze—on the pod of Samoa Joe.

The crowd popped as the door creaked open. Joe stepped out with a purpose. No theatrics. No pauses. Just violent intent. He marched toward the ring like a hitman about to collect his bounty.

Samoa Joe’s heavy footsteps echoed on the steel as he emerged from his pod like a predator uncaged. There was no rush—just that cold, surgical precision behind every motion. His towel draped over his neck, he tossed it aside as he stepped onto the outer grate, eyes fixed on Rollins and Reigns standing in the ring. Both Shield alumni braced for a fight, clearly knowing what Joe was capable of. Bray Wyatt, meanwhile, was still sprawled out from the brutal double powerbomb on the outside, twitching but motionless against the steel mesh.

Joe slid into the ring with ease, nodding once—almost inviting Reigns and Rollins to come at him. They did. Reigns struck first with a stiff right hand to Joe’s jaw, followed by a left from Rollins. They took turns unloading fists on him, trying to overwhelm him with speed and force. But Joe absorbed it all, and with a growl, he headbutted Rollins, staggering him, then chopped Reigns in the throat with a nasty knife-edge strike that echoed off the chamber walls. Joe spun and caught Rollins with a snap judo throw, planting him on the canvas, then turned and leveled Reigns with a running back elbow to the mouth that sent him crumpling into the corner.

Joe was rolling now. He yanked Seth off the mat by the wrist and hurled him into the ropes, then caught him on the rebound with a snap powerslam, hooking the leg with crushing force.

One… two… kick out.

No hesitation. Joe rolled right over and wrapped Seth in a coquina clutch attempt, the crowd surging in noise as he locked the arm under the chin. Seth flailed, legs kicking, clawing for the ropes out of instinct, forgetting there were no rope breaks in this unforgiving cage. Joe screamed, veins bulging in his arms. But Reigns—still dazed—charged and drove a brutal boot into Joe’s face, breaking the hold.

Joe staggered back, and Reigns seized the moment, exploding off the ropes and flattening Joe with a leaping clothesline. Reigns went for the cover—only a two-count. Roman stood and backed into the corner, cocking the fist, calling again for the Superman Punch. He leapt—but Joe ducked! Joe grabbed the arm mid-air and swung Reigns into a modified STO, spiking Roman’s head into the mat!

Joe was relentless. He turned toward the corner where Rollins was now climbing to his feet—and charged with a running corner back elbow that pancaked Seth, then followed with a snap enzuigiri that cracked off his skull. Rollins collapsed to his knees, barely conscious.

The mood had shifted.

Bray Wyatt slowly began to stir outside the ring, dragging himself up by the chains, glassy-eyed and swaying. Joe saw it. He exited the ring and charged at Bray—but Wyatt sucker-punched him with a palm strike to the throat, then whipped Joe into the steel chain wall, sandwiching him between chain and pod! Joe roared in pain. Bray turned, staggered to the turnbuckle supports, and ripped a steel panel off the chamber wall near Cena’s pod, exposing raw steel beams.

Inside the pod, Cena watched carefully, never flinching.

Back in the ring, Rollins tried to capitalize—he climbed the top rope as Joe stumbled back inside. Rollins launched into a crossbody, but Joe caught him mid-air—only for Roman Reigns to return and hit a Superman Punch while Joe still held Seth! The impact caused all three men to collapse in a heap.

All four combatants were now down—Rollins clutching his ribs, Joe crawling toward the ropes, Reigns flat on his back, and Wyatt slithering into the ring with twisted glee. He waited, patiently, as Roman began to crawl upright. The crowd buzzed in anticipation. Bray swooped in, hooking the arms—Sister Abigail! But as he spun, Rollins leapt off the ropes with a flying knee to Bray’s temple, stopping it in its tracks! Wyatt stumbled, dazed—and Reigns hit a Spear out of nowhere! Wyatt was broken in half!

Cover by Reigns: ONE… TWO… THREE.

Bray Wyatt has been eliminated.

The crowd erupted as the lights dimmed slightly, the chamber flashing red again to indicate the first fallen warrior.

But there was no time to celebrate. Samoa Joe rose behind Reigns like a shadow—and locked in the Coquina Clutch! Reigns thrashed violently, arms swinging, but Joe took him down to the mat like an assassin, wrapping his legs around the waist and cinching the hold tighter.

Rollins could only watch from his knees, exhausted, as Reigns’ arms began to weaken. The air seemed to get sucked out of the arena as Roman’s movements slowed. He began fading—until suddenly, the lights flashed once again.

“10… 9… 8…”

The countdown to the next entrant was on. Cena stood unmoved. Strowman flexed his fists and leaned forward, snorting like a bull preparing to charge.

“5… 4… 3… 2… 1…”

BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!

The final two pods were all that remained—and the lights stopped on Braun Strowman’s.

The Monster Among Men stepped out slowly… grinning.

Inside the ring, Joe still had the clutch cinched in on Reigns…
But Braun was coming.

The arena trembled as Braun Strowman’s pod swung open. The Monster Among Men stepped onto the steel floor with a slow, deliberate stride, eyes wide and unblinking, a grin spreading across his face as the crowd erupted into a roar of anticipation. Inside the ring, Samoa Joe still had the Coquina Clutch locked tight on Roman Reigns, who was fading fast. Seth Rollins crawled to the corner, battered but aware of the storm about to hit.

Braun approached like a predator circling prey. Joe noticed him too late. Strowman reached through the ropes, grabbed both men at once, and hauled them upright like rag dolls—breaking the clutch with sheer brute force. He smashed their skulls together with a monstrous double headbutt that sent Joe sprawling one way and Reigns crumpling the other. The crowd gasped at the raw power. Braun roared, the sound echoing inside the chamber, and slammed a fist against his chest.

Rollins, desperate to strike first, charged from the corner with a flying forearm. Braun barely budged. Seth tried again—this time hitting a superkick flush to Strowman’s jaw. The Monster staggered a step, but then snatched Rollins by the throat and launched him over the top rope onto the steel floor with a terrifying choke toss. Rollins landed with a sickening thud, writhing in pain as the camera caught Strowman’s face—calm, almost amused.

Joe struck next, clubbing Strowman from behind with vicious forearms, then hammering his knee into the back of Braun’s leg to chop the giant down. Strowman stumbled slightly, and Joe darted forward for a running elbow strike. But Braun caught him in mid-swing, wrapped his massive arm around Joe’s waist, and hurled him spine-first into the chains of the chamber. The steel rattled violently as Joe slumped to the floor.

Reigns, still recovering, saw his chance. He exploded off the ropes with a Superman Punch that rocked Strowman’s jaw. The crowd came alive—Roman cocked his fist again and went for another—but Braun caught him by the throat. With monstrous strength, Strowman lifted Reigns and planted him with a thunderous running powerslam in the center of the ring. Roman lay flat, coughing, his chest heaving.

Braun didn’t cover. He didn’t care about pins yet. He wanted destruction. He turned his gaze toward the pods, eyes locking with John Cena. Cena, stoic as ever, didn’t flinch, simply nodding as if to say, I’ll be ready when it’s my turn. Braun grinned darkly, then turned back to his prey.

Rollins had crawled up the turnbuckles, clutching his ribs. With reckless defiance, he leapt for a diving crossbody—only for Braun to catch him effortlessly. Rollins hammered fists into Braun’s head, finally forcing him to stagger. With desperate agility, Seth slid down the back, pushing Braun into the corner chest-first. Rollins backed up, sprinted, and hit a corner forearm smash, then immediately climbed the ropes. He launched into a frog splash across Braun’s back, driving the giant into the mat. The crowd erupted as Rollins tried a cover—

One… two… Braun threw him off with pure power! Rollins flew through the ropes and crashed on the steel outside, rolling in agony.

Joe reentered the fray, chopping Strowman’s chest with a thunderous smack, then delivering a stiff kick to the thigh, then another. He went for the ropes—only for Braun to lunge forward and clothesline him nearly out of his boots. Joe flipped inside out and crashed down hard, the camera cutting to Cena, who mouthed “Wow” as he watched the carnage.

Reigns, crawling in the corner, pulled himself up. Braun turned toward him. For the second time in minutes, the two titans squared off. The crowd buzzed with anticipation as they collided in the center of the ring, trading haymakers like heavyweight boxers. Reigns landed a right, Braun answered with a clubbing blow. Reigns hit another Superman Punch—but Braun stayed upright, only stumbling. A third Superman Punch finally dropped the Monster to one knee, and the arena exploded.

Reigns backed into the corner, screaming for the Spear. He charged—but Braun suddenly surged to life, catching Roman mid-run and throwing him into the side of the chamber like a missile. Reigns’ body smashed against the chains and crumpled to the steel grate. Braun bellowed, veins bulging in his neck, as Rollins and Joe both lay battered on the mat.

The referee signaled for the clock. The lights dimmed, the crowd rose, and the numbers began to count down.

“10… 9… 8…”

Cena now bounced on his feet in his pod, eyes locked forward. This was his moment.

“7… 6… 5…”

Braun turned his head, glaring directly at Cena, daring him to come in. Rollins dragged himself up the ropes, eyes bloodshot but burning with resolve. Joe wiped blood from his mouth, smirking in defiance. Reigns, down on the grate, clutched his ribs but refused to stay down.

“4… 3… 2… 1…”

BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!

The last pod swung open.
It was time for John Cena.

The horn blared as the chamber door to the final pod creaked open. The crowd exploded into a thunderous “CENA! CENA! CENA!” chant as John Cena stepped out with purpose, eyes locked on the destruction around him. He moved with that veteran’s confidence—no wasted motion, no fear—just pure determination. Inside, Roman Reigns lay writhing on the steel grates, Seth Rollins pulled himself up by the ropes, Samoa Joe leaned against a turnbuckle with a predatory smirk, and Braun Strowman stood tall in the center of the ring, chest heaving, daring Cena to step forward.

Cena peeled off his cap, tossed it into the crowd through the chains, then stripped off his shirt and hurled it at the plexiglass wall with intensity. He stormed inside the ring, and immediately, Braun met him chest-to-chest. The two giants glared at each other, neither man moving. The arena erupted. Braun snarled, “YOU CAN’T SEE ME!” mockingly, before throwing the first punch. Cena answered with a stiff right hand of his own. They exchanged bombs—Braun’s clubbing blows sounding like gunshots, Cena’s short hooks hammering into the ribs. The crowd roared with every strike.

Samoa Joe saw an opening. He charged and blindsided Cena with a brutal forearm to the back of the head, knocking him into Braun’s grasp. Strowman wrapped his massive arm around Cena’s neck and hoisted him up for a running powerslam—but Cena wriggled free mid-lift, landed behind Braun, and dropped him with a vicious shoulder tackle to the back of the knee. The Monster stumbled, and Cena exploded forward with a running clothesline that staggered him against the ropes. Braun’s head snapped back but he stayed upright, shaking off the impact with terrifying resilience.

Rollins climbed back into the ring and immediately sprang into action, leaping off the top rope with a flying knee that cracked Braun across the temple. Braun wobbled. Reigns, pulling himself up outside, reentered with a roar and blasted Braun with a Superman Punch! Braun finally dropped to one knee, groggy but not down. The crowd was deafening. Cena seized the moment, hooking Braun by the legs with the roar of the crowd behind him.

“YOU CAN’T SEE ME!”

Cena delivered the Five Knuckle Shuffle to the Monster Among Men, bouncing off the ropes and smashing his fist down into Braun’s face. Braun collapsed fully to the mat. For the first time in the match, the colossus looked human.

But the celebration didn’t last. Joe pounced on Cena from behind, dragging him into the Coquina Clutch! Cena’s eyes went wide as Joe squeezed, roaring like an animal. The crowd surged in noise, sensing Cena’s peril. Rollins scrambled, blasting Joe with a superkick to the jaw, forcing him to release the hold. Joe staggered to the ropes, clutching his mouth, as Cena dropped to one knee, gasping for air.

Rollins wasn’t finished. He sprinted full speed and launched himself at Joe with a suicide dive through the ropes, smashing both men into the steel chains outside the ring. The chamber rattled from the collision. The crowd chanted, “THIS IS AWESOME!”

Inside, Reigns began to stir, dragging himself up by the corner post, his eyes locking with Braun, who was already trying to rise. Roman wiped sweat from his face, clenched his fist, and screamed, “OOOAHHHH!” He charged full speed and Speared Braun through the ropes, sending both men CRASHING onto the steel floor outside! The impact echoed through the arena, the chain mesh rattling violently as the two titans lay wrecked on the grate.

Rollins, catching his breath against the chain wall, climbed up the turnbuckle support beam, scaling the steel links with agility despite his battered ribs. The crowd gasped as he perched high above the pods. With the cameras catching his crazed grin, Rollins launched himself in a daredevil leap, soaring off the chamber wall with a breathtaking crossbody onto ALL THREE MEN below—Reigns, Braun, and Joe! The impact sent bodies scattering like car wreckage, Rollins himself screaming in agony as he clutched his ribs on landing.

The arena shook with “HOLY SHT! HOLY SHT!” chants. Cena, still inside the ring, used the ropes to stand tall again, sweat dripping, staring down at the carnage outside. The camera zoomed on his face—determined, resolute. He exited the ring carefully, picking his way through the fallen bodies.

Cena grabbed Reigns and rolled him back inside, covering quickly. One… two… Reigns kicked out! Cena sighed, knowing it wasn’t enough. He pulled Seth back into the ring next, hooking the legs—One… two… Rollins kicked out! Exhaustion was setting in for all of them, but none would quit.

Joe, clutching his jaw, crawled in under the ropes and blindsided Cena again, this time with a vicious spinning back elbow that dropped him flat. Joe hooked Cena’s arms and planted him with a snap dragon suplex, folding him up. The crowd gasped at the sickening impact. Joe covered—One… two… Cena kicked out!

Fury crossed Joe’s face. He pulled Cena up and hooked him for the Muscle Buster, hauling him toward the corner turnbuckles. The crowd screamed in anticipation. But Rollins—somehow still alive—scrambled to the top rope, leaping over Joe’s shoulders and drilling him with a Blockbuster that broke the setup! Both men crashed to the mat, leaving all five superstars sprawled and broken.

The camera panned across the carnage: Braun twitching on the steel outside, Rollins clutching his ribs in agony, Joe rolling in pain, Reigns lying flat in the corner, and Cena gasping for breath, blinking up at the bright lights of the chamber ceiling. The crowd’s deafening chants echoed through the arena: “FIGHT FOREVER! FIGHT FOREVER!”

The referee signaled to check all competitors, but the fight wasn’t stopping. Slowly, they began to stir, dragging themselves toward the ropes and each other, the aura of exhaustion and war thick in the air.

The air inside the Elimination Chamber was suffocating now. Sweat dripped from every chain link, the floor littered with broken bodies. The crowd buzzed with nervous anticipation—something was coming.

Roman Reigns dragged himself upright, one hand gripping the ropes for balance. Across the ring, Seth Rollins staggered to his feet, clutching his ribs but defiant, eyes burning with fire. Cena leaned against the corner, sucking in deep breaths, while Samoa Joe and Braun Strowman stirred on the steel floor outside, still wrecked from the carnage.

Roman locked eyes with Rollins, and for a heartbeat, time seemed to freeze. The two Shield brothers stared at each other—years of battles, betrayal, and uneasy alliances flashing between them in silence. Rollins, chest heaving, stepped forward and mouthed, “Let’s finish this.”

They collided mid-ring with fists flying. Roman hammered Rollins with heavy right hands, each one snapping Seth’s head back, but Rollins refused to stay down. He fired back with stinging chops, the sound cracking through the arena, and a sudden enzuigiri that rocked Roman against the ropes. Roman came off looking for a Superman Punch, but Rollins ducked under and hit a ripcord knee to the jaw! Roman staggered. The crowd roared.

Rollins darted to the corner, stomping his foot, screaming for the Curb Stomp. The arena rose with him. Roman pushed off the ropes, dazed, dropping to all fours. Seth charged and DRILLED Roman with the Curb Stomp, smashing his head into the mat. Rollins hooked the leg with every ounce of strength left in his body.

One… two… three!

The roof blew off the arena. Roman Reigns was eliminated.

The referee slid in, signaling the fall. The crowd erupted in disbelief and shock—Rollins had pinned Roman Reigns inside the Chamber. Cena’s face flashed on camera, wide-eyed, even nodding in respect. Rollins collapsed onto his back, exhausted but triumphant, sucking in air as his music briefly hit the speakers.

But the celebration died instantly.

Roman sat up. Slowly. His face was stone. No emotion. Just cold, blank fury. The referee tried to usher him out of the chamber, but Roman’s eyes never left Rollins. He stood, towering, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. The crowd began to murmur nervously.

Rollins, still on his knees, raised a hand as if to say, “It’s over. We don’t have to—”

BAM! Roman leveled Rollins with a vicious Superman Punch that echoed through the Chamber. The crowd gasped in shock as Rollins crumpled. The referee yelled for Roman to leave, but he shoved the official aside with a snarl. Roman dragged Seth up by the hair and speared him in half, nearly bending him backwards in two. The fans erupted into deafening boos as Reigns stood over his fallen brother, chest heaving.

But he wasn’t done.

With a cold, merciless glare, Reigns rolled Rollins under the ropes onto the steel floor. The referee shouted, “You’re out! Get out!” but Roman ignored him. He hoisted Seth up by the head and smashed his face into the steel chains. Again. And again. And again. Rollins’ body went limp, his blood smearing across the cold metal. The sound of his skull colliding with steel sent shivers down spines. The camera cut to Cena, watching with horror, shaking his head, while Samoa Joe smirked at the carnage, and Braun growled in approval.

Roman roared, lifting Rollins onto his shoulders, and with a sprint of pure rage, drove him face-first into the unforgiving pod wall. The plexiglass cracked violently but didn’t break. The crowd shrieked in disbelief as Rollins slumped, lifeless. Roman wasn’t finished.

He stepped back, measuring him, eyes burning with hatred. The camera zoomed on Rollins, barely conscious, blood dripping down his temple. Roman let out a guttural yell—

And then SPEARED Seth through the pod door.

The glass shattered into shards, exploding outward as both men crashed through, Rollins’ body folding grotesquely into the wreckage. The arena exploded into chaos. Fans screamed, the commentators lost their voices, and the camera cut to children in the crowd with wide, horrified eyes.

“OH MY GOD! ROMAN REIGNS JUST SPEARED ROLLINS THROUGH THE POD! SETH ROLLINS IS BROKEN IN HALF!” screamed the announcer.

Roman sat up amidst the wreckage, chest heaving, sweat pouring, his eyes cold as ice. He didn’t even look at Rollins again. He just stood, brushing glass shards from his arm, and walked slowly toward the Chamber door as officials flooded in to check on Seth.

The boos were deafening now—Roman Reigns had snapped. The hero was gone. In his place stood a monster.

Inside the ring, Cena, Joe, and Braun watched with different reactions—Cena in visible disgust, Joe in sadistic approval, and Braun with a twisted grin, almost proud of the carnage.

Rollins lay motionless in the wreckage of the pod, EMTs rushing in to check him, while the Chamber door creaked open to let Roman leave. He glanced back once, his face unreadable, before stepping through the door.

The camera lingered on the wreckage of the shattered pod. EMTs swarmed around Seth Rollins, who lay limp, his chest barely rising, shards of plexiglass scattered across his hair and gear. His elimination hadn’t even been announced yet, but everyone in Las Vegas knew it was inevitable. The referee inside leaned over Rollins, shouting, “He can’t continue!” as the official at ringside signaled for the bell. The timekeeper reluctantly rang it.

“Seth Rollins has been eliminated.”

The announcement was nearly drowned out by a chorus of boos raining down on Roman Reigns, who stood on the entrance ramp, glancing back with a cold, merciless smirk. He didn’t stay long. He turned his back on the wreckage and walked into the shadows, leaving the Chamber and his former brother broken in pieces.

Inside, the chaos didn’t pause. Samoa Joe, ever the opportunist, stormed across the ring and leveled John Cena with a running forearm that blasted him into the turnbuckles. Joe grabbed Cena’s wrist, whipping him into the opposite corner with monstrous force, then charged and crushed him with a leaping back elbow, following instantly with a enzuigiri to the side of the head. Cena collapsed, clutching his skull.

Braun Strowman, who had been catching his breath after the carnage, stepped back into the ring, looming over Joe. The two locked eyes, sweat dripping, their chests rising in sync like predators about to tear into each other. Joe threw the first chop—stiff and loud. Braun’s chest barely flinched. Braun retaliated with a clubbing forearm across Joe’s back that dropped him to a knee. Joe got up and fired back with a stiff headbutt. Braun absorbed it, growled, and lifted Joe clean off the mat into a military press, holding him high above his head. With terrifying strength, Strowman turned, walked toward the ropes, and threw Joe face-first into the steel chain wall. Joe bounced off and crumpled on the steel floor, groaning in agony.

Cena seized his chance, crawling from the corner. He sprang forward, hooking Braun’s leg, and somehow managed to haul the Monster off balance into a spinebuster that shook the mat! The crowd erupted, rallying behind Cena. He stood tall, wiped the sweat from his brow, and called for the finish. “YOU CAN’T SEE ME!”

The crowd joined in as Cena bounced off the ropes for the Five Knuckle Shuffle—but Braun suddenly sat up, catching Cena by the throat mid-run! The arena gasped as Braun powered to his feet, lifting Cena with terrifying ease. Cena flailed, hammering fists into Braun’s head, and at the last second slipped down behind him. Cena clamped his arms around Braun’s waist and, in an almost impossible feat, hit a belly-to-back suplex on the Monster!

The arena exploded: “HOLY SHT! HOLY SHT!” Cena crawled over, hooking the leg. One… two… Braun powered out, bench-pressing Cena off his chest.

Samoa Joe reentered, blood trickling from his mouth, seething with rage. He blindsided Cena with a chop block to the back of the knee, sending him sprawling. Joe stomped down ruthlessly, then yanked Cena up and whipped him into the ropes. On the rebound, Joe crushed him with a snap powerslam, then transitioned instantly into the Coquina Clutch! Cena’s eyes went wide as Joe locked it in tight, dragging him down to the mat. The crowd screamed, half in panic, half in awe.

Cena clawed for the ropes, face red, veins bulging. Braun, however, stomped over and stomped Joe’s head with his boot, breaking the hold. Joe rolled away, clutching his skull, as Cena collapsed to the mat, coughing violently.

Braun dragged Joe to his feet, gripping his jaw, snarling in his face. He screamed, “YOU THINK YOU CAN CHOKE ME OUT?!” before hurling Joe through the ropes onto the steel floor with such force the chamber chains rattled violently.

With both Cena and Joe down, Braun stood tall in the center of the ring, roaring with primal fury. He turned toward the wrecked pod where Rollins still lay being helped onto a stretcher, then toward Cena crawling back to his knees, and finally toward Joe dragging himself up by the chains. The Monster Among Men looked like an apex predator surveying his wounded prey.

Cena tried to stand—and Braun charged like a freight train, clotheslining Cena over the top rope onto the steel grates with a sickening crash. Cena writhed, clutching his ribs, the sound of his body colliding with metal echoing throughout the chamber.

Joe, ever the strategist, pulled himself back into the ring behind Braun. He lunged forward, trying to lock in the Coquina Clutch again, climbing onto Braun’s back like a parasite. Braun staggered, flailing wildly as Joe squeezed tighter, teeth bared, screaming, “TAP! TAP!” Braun, red-faced and gasping, slammed Joe backward into the turnbuckle, breaking the hold with brute force. Joe dropped to a knee, still defiant. Braun grabbed him by the head with both hands and launched him head-first into the side of a pod, denting the plexiglass.

Cena crawled back inside, holding his ribs, but Braun spotted him instantly. The Monster grabbed Cena, scooped him up with terrifying ease, and charged the ropes—running powerslam attempt! But Cena slipped free at the last second, shoved Braun chest-first into the turnbuckle, and rolled him up from behind! One… two… Braun powered out with such force Cena was launched across the ring.

All three men lay sprawled, the crowd on their feet, chanting thunderously. The camera cut to Rollins being stretchered up the ramp, glass still embedded in his gear, his face a crimson mask of pain. Roman’s earlier betrayal lingered heavy over the arena.

Back inside, Braun began to stir first, dragging himself upright on the ropes. Cena was close behind, clutching his ribs, while Joe smirked through the blood in his mouth, eyes gleaming with sadistic resolve.

The Chamber was down to three men—and the Monster Among Men had no intention of letting either escape his wrath.

The Elimination Chamber felt like a war zone now. Blood smeared the steel grates, shards of plexiglass glistened under the lights, and the crowd was standing, roaring, sensing history being made. Braun Strowman stood tall in the center of the ring, chest heaving like a beast fresh from slaughter. Cena leaned against the ropes, ribs heavily bruised, gasping for air, his body shaking from the toll of the match. Samoa Joe crouched low in the corner, his eyes cold, calculating, a predator waiting to strike.

Braun roared, slamming his fists against his chest, daring either man to challenge him. Cena stepped forward first, limping, wiping blood from his brow. The crowd erupted: “LET’S GO CENA! CENA SUCKS!” He charged, ducking under Braun’s swing and hammering a flurry of right hands to the giant’s jaw, each one sending sweat flying. Braun tried to grab him, but Cena slipped behind and hit a side suplex, the ring shaking on impact. The crowd roared, sensing momentum. Cena bounced off the ropes, signaling. “YOU CAN’T SEE ME!”

The entire arena joined in as he delivered the Five Knuckle Shuffle square to Braun’s skull. Strowman staggered upright, dazed, and Cena hooked him, straining every muscle in his body, lifting the 385-pounder onto his shoulders. The crowd came unglued. Cena screamed, veins bulging, and hit the Attitude Adjustment! The arena exploded. Cena crawled into the cover, clutching his ribs.

One… two… Braun kicked out!

The crowd gasped in disbelief. Cena sat back, eyes wide, sweat pouring, disbelief etched across his face. He knew he’d need more.

Joe seized the moment, sprinting forward and clobbering Cena with a running knee to the temple, nearly knocking him unconscious. Joe hooked the leg. One… two… Cena barely kicked out! Joe snarled, dragging Cena to his feet, peppering him with stiff jabs and a European uppercut that nearly took his head off. He whipped Cena into the corner and crushed him with a corner elbow and enzuigiri combo, Cena collapsing into a heap.

Braun was rising again, fury in his eyes. Joe turned—and Braun exploded forward, bulldozing Joe with a freight-train clothesline. Joe flipped mid-air, landing hard on the mat. Braun roared, yanking Joe up, scooping him onto his shoulder, and delivering a monstrous running powerslam. The arena shook from the impact. Braun covered. One… two… Joe got the shoulder up!

Enraged, Braun turned back to Cena, who was staggering on the ropes. Braun charged, but Cena sidestepped—Braun smashed into the turnbuckle chest-first! Cena hooked him from behind, with one final herculean effort, lifting him up for another Attitude Adjustment—this time driving Braun onto the steel grates outside the ring! The crowd erupted in a deafening “HOLY SH*T!” chant as Braun writhed in agony on the steel.

Cena collapsed, barely moving, before crawling onto Braun for the cover. One… two… three!

Braun Strowman has been eliminated.

The roof nearly blew off Madison Square Garden. The Monster Among Men was gone. Cena lay sprawled across the steel, broken but triumphant, his chest heaving. The chamber door swung open as officials tried to help Braun out, but Strowman shoved them away, storming off in fury, leaving destruction behind.

Inside, only two remained: John Cena and Samoa Joe.

The crowd rose as the camera zoomed on both men—Cena crawling back into the ring, barely conscious, Joe perched in the corner like a vulture waiting for its prey.

Joe struck first, charging with terrifying speed for a man his size. He blasted Cena with a running forearm to the jaw, sending him tumbling. Joe mounted Cena, raining down hammerfists, the referee trying to pull him off. Cena covered up, gasping for air, but Joe dragged him up by the neck, snarling, “It’s over, John.”

Joe whipped Cena into the ropes. Cena ducked a clothesline, came off the other side, and nailed a flying shoulder block! Joe got up—another one! Cena was feeding off the energy of the crowd. He ducked Joe again, scooped him up—Attitude Adjustment! The crowd exploded. Cena hooked the leg.

One… two… Joe kicked out!

Cena’s face dropped in disbelief. He pulled Joe up, sweat dripping from his body, and tried again—but Joe wriggled free, spun behind him, and locked in the Coquina Clutch!

The crowd erupted in panic as Joe wrenched back with all his might, wrapping his legs around Cena’s waist like a vice. Cena thrashed violently, clawing at Joe’s arms, his face turning red. He tried to stand, dragging Joe a few steps forward, but Joe yanked him down, screaming through clenched teeth, “TAP! TAP!”

Cena’s eyes bulged. His arms flailed. The crowd screamed for him to fight. With one last burst, Cena staggered to his feet with Joe still clamped on his back, and ran backward, slamming Joe into the turnbuckles! Joe didn’t break the hold. Cena tried again—slamming him into another corner. Joe still held on, the choke tightening. Cena’s knees buckled. His arms weakened. The crowd watched in horror as the fight drained out of him.

Cena’s hand hovered… then dropped limp. The referee checked his arm once. It dropped. Twice. It dropped again. A third time—it dropped once more. The referee called for the bell.

John Cena has been eliminated.

The arena erupted into shock and chaos. Samoa Joe released the hold and collapsed onto the mat, chest heaving, sweat dripping, a dark smile crossing his bloodied face. The referee raised his arm as the announcement boomed through Madison Square Garden.

“Here is your winner… SAMOA JOE!”

The crowd delivered a mixed eruption—shock, awe, some cheers, some boos—but all recognizing the magnitude of what had just happened. Samoa Joe sat in the center of the ring, head lowered, sweat dripping off his nose, as the Chamber door opened and officials checked on Cena’s motionless body. Joe stood, defiant, arms raised high, the chains rattling around him as he declared himself the last man standing.

A graphic airs live for the TV audience and for the Vegas faithful.

WRESTLEMANIA 34
UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP
SAMOA JOE vs. BROCK LESNAR

Pyro explodes in the entrance stage as the Elimination Chamber goes off the air.

*Confirmed Matches*

Universal Championship
Brock Lesnar (c) vs. Samoa Joe

Raw Women's Championship
Asuka vs. Alexa Bliss (c)

Jason Jordan vs. Kurt Angle​