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His actions felt personal to the fans. Like watching a friend get kicked while down. People weren't just booing a heel. They were grieving. But Sandro didn't do anything to address that. He didn't post anything online. Didn't apologize. Didn't even acknowledge the firestorm he created. In fact, he let the speculations go rampant to achieve the maximum heat and attention he wanted.
Back in the backstage area, the air was thick with adrenaline, the electricity of the moment still crackling between the steel beams and concrete walls of the arena.
The crowd was still roaring beyond the black curtain, but inside the hallway behind the gorilla position, a different kind of noise settled in, quiet laughter, soft banter, and the sound of wrestlers stepping out of their characters and back into themselves.
Sandro wiped the sweat off his brow, his face now free from the maniacal expression he had shown out in the ring. The tension melted off his shoulders as he turned to face his new kayfabe crew, Big E, Drew McIntyre, Stu Sanders, and Ryback, his new faction, freshly baptized in heat and controversy.
"Good work, guys," Sandro said, his voice low, almost tired but satisfied. "We did it. The biggest reaction of the night. Maybe even the year. And we still on the first don't of the year."
The others nodded, grinning, the reality of what they'd just done slowly setting in. They had turned the crowd inside out. Booed, hated, talked about. The kind of segment that would be dissected on message boards, podcasts, and the internet for weeks.
Drew chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned against a road case. "Mate, let's not kid ourselves. That heat wasn't because of us. It was all you, Sandro. We're just the seasoning. You served the whole damn meal for the fans to eat."
The group laughed, the tension cracking like dry wood. Even Big E let out a big chuckle, the weight of the moment softening the adrenaline he was feeling inside. Ryback, who had been a surprise addition to the segment, used the break in laughter to speak up.
"By the way, I really mean it, man. Thank you," Ryback said, offering Sandro a handshake, which the latter took without hesitation. "You didn't have to pick me for this. I know I'm not everyone's favorite guy, but… you gave me a real shot here."
Sandro nodded. "You fit what I need. I wanted this faction to feel heavy, and dangerous. Not just in personality but in presence. I've always been a light heavyweight. I needed big men around me. You fit that. And trust me, this is only the beginning."
Ryback's eyes gleamed with something rare in this business, genuine gratitude. He'd been adrift for a while, used here and there, but never like this. Never as part of a vision crafted by someone as precise and cutting as Sandro.
Then Sandro's face lit up like he remembered something. He turned toward Ryback and Drew specifically. "Actually, talking about big men and heavyweights… I've got a request for you two."
The room quieted slightly, curious.
"I want you both to bulk up even more. Drew, you too. Especially you, Ryback," Sandro said, his tone half serious, half conspiratorial. "I've got a persona in mind for this group. For each of you. And size, size is gonna matter. I want presence. Intimidation. You walk down that ramp, people should feel like they're watching a wall of muscle come to life."
Drew raised an eyebrow, amused but intrigued. "Aye? And what else, boss man?"
Sandro pointed at him. "Grow a full beard. Yours, when it's trimmed or shaved, makes you look too… friendly. Too young. I want menace. Seriousness. Intimidation. A wolf. Think of this as shedding your old skin."
That caught them both off guard, but in a good way. Drew ran his hand over his jaw, already imagining the look. Ryback, never shy about size, nodded enthusiastically. It was a challenge he welcomed.
Sandro then turned to Stu, who had been quiet, observing. "And you, Stu.?"
Stu raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess. You want me to grow horns and paint my face red?"
Sandro chuckled. "Nah. You don't need a new body or beard. What I want from you is more subtle. I need you to lean into your intelligence. Your cunning. You're the strategist of this unit. My right hand. You'll be the guy pulling strings behind the scenes, playing chess while E, Drew, and Ryback play war with you occasionally help as well. That's the role I see for you."
Stu nodded, processing it. "So, no beard?"
Sandro laughed again. "No beard. But we are going to change your ring name. Something sharper. More dangerous. We'll work on it."
The rest of the group smirked, appreciating Sandro's foresight. He wasn't just putting together a faction, he was constructing a machine, piece by piece, with every gear serving a purpose.
And even though the body changes, character tweaks, and name changes wouldn't take shape overnight, they trusted him. Because Sandro had never been wrong before.
He looked at them, serious now. "I know it'll take time. Growing a beard, bulking up, adjusting personas. But trust me, once we're in full gear, it won't just be the fans reacting. The whole locker room will have to catch up to us. Hell, even this industry."
There was a beat of silence, and then Big E, quiet for most of the conversation, finally spoke.
"We doing this for real?" he asked, voice low but firm.
Sandro looked him in the eye. "We already are."
The group nodded in unison. A silent agreement forged in trust, ambition, and heat.
Later that night, Sandro walked through a side corridor toward the gorilla position, where Dusty Rhodes and Steve Keirn were waiting.
The fans had been led to believe both men were still receiving medical assistance after being "taken out" last week in the ongoing chaos. But in reality, the two veterans had been in the control room the entire night, overseeing everything.
As Sandro entered the room, both Dusty and Steve turned to him, grinning from ear to ear. Dusty, ever the showman, gave him a thumbs up and a mock slap on the back.
"Hot damn, son. You sure know how to stir the pot. Your ideas are truly hot since you become a hell, I think you are much more perfect becoming a heel than a babyface."
Steve chuckled. "I agree, your heel character had brought more attention than your entire face as a run in more than one year and with double titles combined with your not more than two to there months heel run."
Sandro smirked. " I don't know but being a heel makes ideas come much easier, so be prepared for the fans to hate me for a while."
"That's the point," Dusty said, serious now. "You did what we needed. You flipped the script. And now the whole company's talkin'. TNA, FCW, all of it. You're the most talked about guy in the business right now. Even eclipsing WWE."
Sandro exhaled through his nose, feeling the weight of those words. He wasn't new to attention, but this? This was different. This was nuclear.
Dusty leaned in, his tone shifting. "Listen… this next part stays between us. Management's been talking. There's a good chance you'll be dropping the TNA World Heavyweight Title soon."
Sandro didn't flinch, but there was a flicker in his eyes.
"We want you to focus fully on this heel turn," Steve added. "It's the kind of story that only works when you're all in. And after you drop that belt, you're gonna take this to another level. Get unstable. Dangerous. Let that loss drive you mad."
Sandro absorbed it, nodding. He had a deep respect for storytelling, and this idea, this descent into obsession and darkness, fit perfectly.
"And after that," Dusty said with a glimmer in his eye, "Triple H and Steph said they can't hold the pressure anymore. You're going up. Main roster. They already have people asking for you. Vince had mentioned your name more than once during production meetings after you became the double champ."
Sandro let that hang in the air for a moment.
"I won't let you down," he finally said.
Dusty smiled, proud and almost fatherly. "You haven't yet."
As Sandro left the gorilla room, he felt a strange calm settle in. The backstage halls were quieter now. The last matches were wrapping up, and most of the crew had filtered out. But in the quiet, he could still hear the echoes of the crowd chanting, some booing, some in disbelief, others just stunned.
He pulled out his phone, and scrolled through the social media buzz. Hundreds of posts. Thousands of retweets. Everyone had something to say. He just chuckles and goes back to his locker room to change and go back home.
After that, the week passed by in a blur, a whirlwind of motion and noise and preparation that left Sandro barely enough time to breathe.
His mind was spinning with ideas, angles, stories, but his body moved with disciplined precision, shifting from gym to ring to creative meetings, living and breathing wrestling. But amid all that chaos, something deeper was happening, a storm was building beneath the surface.
Thursday came, and with it, another appearance at the TNA Impact Zone in Nashville. He didn't bring his crew. No Big E, no Drew, no Ryback, no Stu.
This time, it was just Sandro, walking down the ramp alone, soaking in the chorus of boos and confusion, the crowd unsure whether to hate him or admire the storm he'd become. He relished it. The power of being the man everyone talks about, that's what he wanted.
Inside the ring, he grabbed a mic, his voice calm but laced with arrogance. "You're looking at your forever champion," he began, pacing slowly as he spoke, his eyes scanning the crowd like a king surveying his kingdom. "They can send anyone, past legends, hungry upstarts, so called monsters, but I will still be standing here with this title. Because no one… and I mean no one... outsmarts me. No one works harder. No one is me."
The crowd was hot, booing and jeering, some even throwing up signs calling him a traitor or a sellout. But Sandro just smirked. That was the reaction he wanted.
Then the music hit.
It was unexpected, Dixie Carter's theme. The audience popped with curiosity. Dixie hadn't been seen much on TV recently. The commissioner of TNA, elegant as ever, made her way down the ramp with a mic in hand, her expression unreadable but clearly serious.
"Sandro," she began, stepping into the ring, keeping a calm demeanor, "your recent actions, both here in TNA and over at FCW, have caused concern not just from the board, but from fans, sponsors, even other talents in the locker room. You've made headlines, sure. You've put eyes on the product, no doubt. But you've also stirred chaos, blurred lines, and brought too much unpredictability into this company."
Sandro scoffed. "Unpredictability is what makes money."
"And yet," Dixie continued, her tone firm, "we still need structure. That's why, after discussion with the board, we've decided to hold a TNA Battle Royale next week to determine the number one contender to your title. Someone will face you. Someone will bring you back down to earth."
The crowd roared at the announcement. Sandro's face twisted in annoyance. He stepped forward, pointing aggressively at Dixie. "You're making a mistake. I am TNA. You strip me of that spotlight, and this whole brand crashes."
"You're not bigger than the company, Sandro," Dixie replied, not backing down.
They stared each other down, and Sandro, staying in character, kicked the bottom rope and shouted in frustration, hurling the mic aside before storming out of the ring. The fans booed harder, delighted by the confrontation, while Sandro seethed, keeping the act alive even as he stalked up the ramp.
"That's the point," he thought later. Fuel the heat. Let it burn.
Back in FCW, his days took on a rhythm. Every morning started early, sometimes even before the sun came up, and always at the training facility.
The atmosphere there had changed, it wasn't just a developmental ground anymore. It was a war room. He trained with Big E, Drew, Ryback, and Stu, hammering out the physical foundation of the group.
Drew and Ryback began their start on a bulking regimen the next day, eating constantly, lifting heavier, pushing their limits. They also worked on chemistry, little cues, shared glances, how to move together in the ring, how to carry themselves like a unified machine. Sandro was at the center, the architect and leader, guiding without ego, listening when needed, pushing when it mattered.
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Name: Alessandro Zhang
Age: 20 (2010)
Birthplace: Orlando, Florida, USA
Brand: FCW
Wrestling Style: Mixed Of All Styles
Faction: None
Championship History: 1x FCW Tag Team Champions, 1x FCW Florida Heavyweight Champion, & 1x TNA World Heavyweight Champion