right there. (Adam’s face suddenly hardens — eyes locked dead on Alan.) Adam Carl (voice sharp, slow): But that’s not real aura. ..That’s scripted. That’s handed to you....Real aura isn’t manufactured. It isn’t read off a cue card. Real aura is when your music hits and the

people lose their damn minds Real aura is when you walk through that curtain and the building trembles. Real aura… (leans closer) is what you hear right now. [Crowd explodes: “ADAM CARL! ADAM CARL!” — deafening.] Alan McIntyre leans back, smirk fading into that predator’s

stare. Jonathan’s jaw tightens. The tension spikes. Alan McIntyre (low voice at first, like a growl): You done? (Smirks) Oh… so now Adam Carl’s gonna give me a lesson about aura? Alan (louder): Aura isn’t about chants, boy. Aura is about silence... Aura… runs in my

blood. Aura… is my name. Aura is in this entrance. Aura is in this title. (He taps the gold plate of the championship.) This… is what defines aura. Not cheers. Not chants. Not your fairytale comeback. This gold. This throne. This kingdom. (Alan’s smirk turns darker.) But

let’s stop wasting time talking byabout me. Let’s talk about you..I got something for you. Jonathan walks to the ropes. The timekeeper hands him a flower bouquet. The crowd murmurs in confusion. Jonathan sets the bouquet on the table between Alan and Adam. Alan leans closer with

a smile that doesn’t belong to a sane man. ALAN MCINTYRE (smile like a razor, voice silky): Congratulations, Adam. You did what you do best — you survived. You earned…a bouquet.” (taps the flowers, the crowd hisses) But don’t get sentimental. That’s all you get from me.

A flower (hands hover over the title) Not this. (Adam’s jaw tightens.) Alan picks up the pen slowly — the camera zooms in on the nib as it catches light. The arena noise fades into a low hum. Alan opens the contract, skims the page. He stops. He doesn’t sign. He stares. The

silence is thick. Adam (smiles, leans in): Come on, champ. Sign the paper. Don’t sweat now. Adam theatrically produces a handkerchief and lays it on the table — a mocking gesture. The crowd roars. Adam (low, taunting): You look nervous. [The camera cuts to the contract — a

tight graphic flash on the screen: Clause: Match Type — BURIED ALIVE MATCH.] COMMENTARY (urgent, stunned): Hold on — it says here… buried alive? Last year, Alan lost his title to Triple Cross in a buried‑alive. That memory… that moment changed everything. Alan’s hand

trembles just a hair. He meets Adam’s grin. Adam reaches to take the pen — slow..Adam snatches the contract from Alan’s hand — deliberately, theatrically — and signs his name first. The arena erupts in “ADAM! ADAM!” chants. He slides the pen and the signed contract back toward

Alan with a cocky little flourish. ADAM CARL (leaning back, smug): Sign it, champ. Put your name on it. Make it official. Make it real. Alan’s face changes, He locks eyes on Adam, his smile goes colder, thinner. ALAN MCINTYRE (voice a coiled shout): Am I scared? No. Hell no.

You remember everything — you remember how it looked when I was down. But there’s something else you forgot.. ALAN MCINTYRE (eyes burning, voice rising to a roar): I was never finished that night. I was an inch away from burying Triple Cross. I was this— (he snaps his fingers

close to Adam’s face) —from ending that worthless parasite. I learned every beat. I learned every angle. I felt the weight of the grave. That ‘loss’ taught me how to win a thousand deaths. You don’t know the rules, Adam. You don’t know how to dig the hole. You don’t know how to

shove the lid. You only know how to survive. I know how to finish. He snatches the pen back from the table. For the first time all night, the crowd is utterly quiet — as if the building itself is leaning forward. Alan (whisper, deadly): I’m not signing this contract. I’m

signing your death warrant. He drags the pen across the paper in one swift, decisive stroke. The sound of ink on paper snaps like a gunshot. [Crowd erupts as Alan McIntyre signs the contract. Adam Carl rises slowly, eyes locked on the World Heavyweight Title. The arena is

electric, chants of “ADAM! ADAM!” mixing with boos.] Alan reaches for the title. Adam moves first — quick, confident. Grins. The crowd explodes. Adam lifts the belt high, staring Alan dead in the eyes. Alan’s face tightens, veins bulging, jaw locked. Silence falls for a

heartbeat — the tension is palpable. No table separates them now. Every eye is on this confrontation. Suddenly — Alan smirks, then strikes. The crowd gasps. The “Lucknow Kiss” lands square — Adam recoils, belt slips from his hands. ALAN MCINTYRE (screaming, voice like a whip):

DON’T TOUCH THAT AGAIN! THAT IS MY PROPERTY! Alan grabs Adam by the neck, yanking him forward. Adam struggles, Alan lifts Adam high — muscles tensing — then CHOKESLAM through the table. The wood cracks, splinters fly, the title slides across the canvas. Adam crashes down. Alan

leans down, snatches a flower from the bouquet. Without hesitation, he forces it into Adam’s mouth, pressing it in with ruthless precision. Adam chokes, sputters, trying to spit it out. Jonathan steps forward slightly, but Alan’s glare stops him cold.. Alan’s eyes shift to the

handkerchief Adam left on the table. His grin twists into something dark, Alan McIntyre shoves the handkerchief down his underwear and flung it straight at Adam’s face. Alan stands slowly, title in hand. He raises the World Heavyweight Championship high.. SHOW GOES OFF AIR...