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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones everyone!)
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They laughed, the tension of the day finally dissolving into the comfort of the night. Sandro finished his wine, surrounded by the women he trusted. He closed his eyes again, letting the fatigue wash over him. Tomorrow, the work would continue. But tonight... tonight he was just Sandro. And that was enough.
The transition from the high stakes boardroom negotiations with Vince McMahon to the daily grind of the WWE machine was seamless, yet profound.
Days turned into weeks, and the calendar pages flipped steadily toward late November. For Sandro, life settled into a rhythm of disciplined intensity and surprising domestic calm.
He spent his mornings in the gym, pushing iron until his muscles screamed, ensuring that his physique remained etched in granite.
His afternoons were often spent with AJ, Nikki, and Alexa, exploring local cities on the tour, sharing meals in the back of the tour bus, or simply enjoying the quiet moments that the chaotic wrestling lifestyle rarely afforded.
It was in these moments that Sandro recharged, finding balance between the tyrant he played on TV and the man who simply wanted to protect his corner of the universe.
However, outside of their bubble, the road to Survivor Series was paved with tension that radiated through every arena in the United States and across the world. The fans were on edge, sensing that the upcoming pay per view wasn't just another show, it was a pivot point for the entire industry.
Backstage at WWE television tapings, the atmosphere had shifted perceptibly. It wasn't a utopia, far from it, but the suffocating dread that had once choked the hallways of RAW and SmackDown had lifted.
The usual chaos of last minute rewrites, where scripts were torn up an hour before airtime, decreased at a considerable rate. Writers walked with a little less hunch in their shoulders, producers spoke without looking over their shoulders constantly.
Vince McMahon was still Vince McMahon. He barked orders, he micromanaged the lighting, he still obsessed over the pronunciation of certain words by the commentary teams, and he demanded perfection.
But the edge of sheer terror was dulled. The threats of arbitrary firings seemed to evaporate. The "stove" plan was working. Sandro observed this from a distance with quiet satisfaction.
He knew Vince was the architect of the company's success, but he was also the architect of its creative stagnation through fear and how he was out of touch sometimes.
While an iron fist was necessary to steer the ship, the crew needed to be able to breathe to sail it, a strangling grip would only sink it.
Ideas were beginning to flourish again, not just twisted mutations of what Vince thought the audience wanted. Most importantly, the culture of talent relations treating wrestlers like disposable cattle had vanished, replaced by a begrudging professional respect.
But on the screen, there was no peace. The narrative was a tightening noose centered entirely on Chris Jericho.
Sandro and the rest of the Undisputed System adhered to a strict code of isolation regarding their fallen comrade. They didn't beat him up, but they didn't help him. It was a cold shoulder colder than a Minnesota winter. Sandro kept his distance.
He didn't accompany Jericho to the ring. He didn't offer advice in the back. Heyman remained silent, clutching his phone, offering no advocacy for the man who lost the big gold belt. The Undisputed System became a silent, judging presence, watching Jericho drown or swim from the safety of their private locker room, like Roman emperors deciding the fate of a gladiator.
The first major test came on the first passing week om SmackDown.. The show opened with a backstage segment that felt uncomfortably real.
Sandro, flanked by the massive forms of Big E and Ryback, cornered the SmackDown General Manager, Teddy Long, in his office. There were no smiles. Sandro simply leaned over the desk and pressured Teddy with threats that went unsaid but were heavily implied. He demanded a "sparring match" for Jericho. Not a squash match. A real test.
"Give him Alberto Del Rio," Sandro had ordered. "And tell him if he loses... he walks home tonight."
The main event saw Chris Jericho face the aristocratic Mexican superstar, Alberto Del Rio. It was ten minutes of technical wizardry and desperate survival.
Del Rio, sensing blood in the water, targeted Jericho's arm relentlessly, looking for the Cross Armbreaker. He wrestled with an aggression that forced Jericho to dig deep into his veteran bag of tricks.
Every time Jericho went for a high risk move, he hesitated, looking at the ramp, expecting Sandro to walk out. But no one came. He was alone.
The match became an instant classic. Near fall after near fall had the crowd on the edge of their seats. In the final moments, bloodied and exhausted, Jericho managed to reverse Del Rio's finisher, bouncing him off the ropes and catching him with a mid air Codebreaker that looked sloppy from exhaustion but effective.
He didn't go for the pin. He rolled Del Rio over, screaming in exertion, and locked in the Walls of Jericho. He sat back deep, wrenching the spine until Del Rio tapped out frantically.
Jericho had won. But he barely survived. He lay on the canvas, chest heaving, looking at the empty ramp.
Cut to the back. Inside the Undisputed System's private locker room, the camera focused on Sandro. He sat on a leather sofa, surrounded by his champions. He watched the monitor with a stone face. No clapping. No nod of approval.
He simply picked up the remote and turned off the TV without a word, the screen fading to black on Jericho's desperate face. The message was clear, survival is the bare minimum.
The on the following week on SmackDown, the psychological warfare escalated.
CM Punk, the World Heavyweight Champion, marched to the ring flanked by his disciples, the Straight Edge Society, Joey Mercury and Luke Gallows.
Punk looked like a man possessed, high on his own rebellion. He grabbed a microphone and sat cross legged in the center of the ring, launching into a scathing promo on the "cult of the Undisputed System."
"Those boys and girls look at Sandro Zhang and they see a God," Punk sneered, his voice cutting through the arena. "I look at him and I see a delusional, sick man with a daddy complex who thinks he can buy a legacy because he can't earn one!"
The crowd popped, fully cheering the bravery of this man for saying such insult.
Punk turned his attention to his opponent. "And Chris Jericho? Y2J? The Ayatollah of Rock and Rolla? Please. What I see is a gelded dog. A neutered pet begging for scraps from a master who doesn't even respect him enough to walk him to the ring. Jericho, you used to be a lion! Now you're just a rug for Sandro to wipe his feet on!"
He didn't stop there. Punk turned his venom toward the women of the faction, calling AJ, Nikki, and Alexa "Sandro's sluts," insinuating that Alexa were only champions and the two girls reached this position because of who they slept with. The vitriol was palpable, generating massive heat from the crowd and genuine anger from the fans online.
"Come out here, Jericho!" Punk screamed. "Come defend your master's honor, because we all know you have none of your own left!"
Jericho didn't come out to talk.
He came out through the crowd.
As Punk stood up to gloat, Jericho hopped the barricade behind the Straight Edge Society. He slid into the ring with a steel chair in hand. CRACK. He laid out Gallows. CRACK. Mercury went down.
Punk spun around, eyes wide, but he walked right into the edge of the steel chair driven into his gut. Jericho was a man possessed. He didn't play to the crowd. He didn't pose. He unleashed a vicious assault, hammering the champion with the steel until the chair was warped.
He dragged Punk to the outside, cleared the announce table with a sweep of his arm, and hauled Punk up. With a primal scream, he powerbombed the World Heavyweight Champion through the table.
Jericho stood over the wreckage, breathing heavy, his eyes wild. He looked into the camera, blood from a cut on his forehead trickling down. This wasn't the technical wrestler, this was the brawler Sandro had wanted to see. The fire was lit.
The final SmackDown before the pay per view set the stage. The ring was carpeted in black. A table sat in the center. It was time for the contract signing.
Teddy Long presided over the affair as the neutral party, looking nervous between the two warring factions. CM Punk sat on one side, nursing his ribs from the previous week's attack.
On the other side, for the first time in weeks, Sandro Zhang appeared. He walked down the ramp with Jericho, but he didn't walk with him. He walked behind him, like a warden escorting a prisoner.
Sandro wore a sharp suit, looking every bit the corporate power player, with his United States and WWE title on his left and right shoulder. Jericho looked ragged, intense, focused solely on Punk.
Sandro stood behind Jericho's chair, his hand resting on the backrest. He didn't sit.
"Sign it," Sandro ordered quietly.
Jericho picked up the pen. He didn't read the contract. He signed his name aggressively, the pen tearing through the paper. He shoved the document toward Punk.
Punk picked up the pen, twirling it. He looked up at Sandro, ignoring Jericho completely.
"You know he's going to fail you, right?" Punk said, his voice calm, amplified by the microphone on the table. "You can dress him up, you can threaten him, you can send him out to attack me from behind. But when the bell rings... he's terrified of you, Sandro. And fear makes you weak."
Sandro didn't react.
Punk signed the paper and slammed the folder shut. He stood up, leaning over the table.
"When I beat him at Survivor Series... when I expose him for the fraud he has become... he has no one left to blame but himself. And you, 'God', will have no Y2J left to hide behind, you have no one left to blame but yourself."
Jericho snapped. He flipped the table, lunging for Punk. "Shut your mouth!"
But before Jericho could strike, a hand grabbed his shoulder. It wasn't Teddy Long. It was Sandro.
Sandro pulled Jericho back with surprising strength, holding him firmly. Jericho struggled for a second, then went limp, obeying the command.
Sandro smiled. It was a terrifying, serene smile. He looked past Jericho, directly at Punk.
"You're wrong, Punk," Sandro said softly into his own microphone. "If Chris Jericho fails me on Sunday... I won't blame anyone. I won't blame you. I won't blame the referee. And I certainly won't blame myself."
He released Jericho, smoothing out his suit jacket.
"If he fails... I'm just going to replace him. With someone much better. Someone younger. Someone... deserving of the spot."
The air left the room. Jericho froze, the color draining from his face. The threat wasn't physical, it was existential. He was being told, to his face, that he was a placeholder.
Sandro dropped the mic and walked away, leaving Jericho standing there with Punk laughing in his face.
Two days later, the humidity of Miami, Florida, wrapped around the American Airlines Arena like a warm blanket. It was Sunday. Survivor Series. One of the "Big Four" pay per views.
Fans flocked to the arena in droves, the atmosphere buzzing with a different kind of energy than usual. The palm trees outside swayed in the breeze, but inside, the air conditioning fought a losing battle against the body heat of nearly twenty thousand screaming fans.
The card was stacked. The traditional 5 on 5 Survivor Series elimination match was set as the main event, Team RAW captained by John Cena versus Team SmackDown captained by Rey Mysterio. It was a match for brand supremacy, filled with superstars.
But as the fans filed in, clutching their popcorn and overpriced sodas, the chatter wasn't about Cena or Orton. It wasn't about the elimination match.
"Do you think he takes him back?" a fan in a Undisputed System shirt asked his friend.
"No way. If Jericho loses, Sandro destroys him tonight."
"I heard rumors they're calling up someone from NXT to take his spot."
The excitement, the anxiety, the sheer morbid curiosity was focused squarely on the World Heavyweight Championship match.
The question hanging over Miami wasn't just who would leave with the belt. It was a question of fate. Would Chris Jericho reclaim his glory and his place at the table? Or would he fail the "God" of WWE one last time, triggering an execution live on pay per view?
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Name: Alessandro Zhang
Age: 20 (2010)
Birthplace: Orlando, Florida, USA
Brand: WWE - RAW
Wrestling Style: Mixed Of All Styles
Faction: The Undisputed System
Championships History: 1x FCW Tag Team Champions, 1x FCW Florida Heavyweight Champion, 1x TNA World Heavyweight Champion, 1x TNA X Division Champion, 1x WWE United States Champion, & 1x WWE Champion
Other Achievements: 1x Andre the Giant Memorial Battle Royale Winner, 1x Mr. Money In The Bank, Youngest WWE Champion, & PWI Top 500 (No.1)
Wrestlemania Record: 1 - 0