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Sandro felt a flicker of pride, but he kept his face cool, his smirk firmly in place. Compliments from Shawn Michaels and The Undertaker on the same night? That wasn't just validation. That was a coronation for him in the wrestling business.
After the talk, Shawn and Taker walked off, leaving Sandro leaning against the wall, lost in thought. The roar of the crowd still echoed faintly from the arena, but in the hallway, there was only silence. For the first time all night, he allowed himself a small, satisfied smile.
Because this… this was exactly where he wanted to be.
As he thought so, Sandro pushed himself off the wall and began walking down the long hallway toward the locker room. His boots thudded against the concrete floor with every step, the adrenaline from the match still humming faintly in his veins.
His mind was replaying every major moment of that steel cage war with Shawn Michaels, every bump, every near fall, every time the crowd erupted. Even now, he could still hear their voices echoing in his head like a chorus of validation.
When he reached the locker room door, he gripped the handle, exhaled slowly, and stepped inside. The air inside was thick with the smell of sweat, liniment, and the faint lingering trace of pyro smoke from the arena earlier. The hum of casual chatter filled the room, and the moment Sandro entered, heads turned.
The first to spot him was John Cena, sitting on a bench with his "Never Give Up" towel draped around his neck. Cena's face lit up instantly. "There he is!" Cena said, his booming voice carrying across the room. "The man of the hour!"
Mark Henry, who was sitting near Cena and unlacing his boots, looked up with a wide grin. "Boy, you tore it down out there," Henry said, his deep voice full of respect. "That was a fight, for real."
One by one, others joined in, the Miz leaning back against a locker with his smug grin and the United States title in hand (though tonight, even he couldn't hide the genuine respect), Big Show towering in the corner with a friendly nod, John Morrison flipping his damp hair back as he clapped his hands, R-Truth laughing and throwing out a "That match was straight fire, dawg," and even Christian, sitting with the Intercontinental Championship laid across his lap.
Chris Jericho was there too, lounging on a bench in his gear pants with his World Heavyweight Championship gleaming nearby, while Batista sat a few feet away, WWE Championship across his shoulder like a badge of dominance. All eyes were on Sandro now.
"Hell of a match, kid," Big Show rumbled, his voice like rolling thunder.
"That was classic," Christian said, smiling warmly. "Seriously, that wasn't just a fight, it told a story. You had everyone back here glued to the monitor."
"Yeah," Jericho chimed in, adjusting his wrist tape. "Not a lot of guys can hang with Shawn in that environment. You did more than hang, out there you thrived."
Sandro smiled, humble but confident. "Thanks, guys. Means a lot coming from you all," he said, taking his duffel bag from a chair and resting one hand on the locker.
Cena stood and walked over, clapping a hand on Sandro's shoulder. "Come on, let me introduce you properly," Cena said, motioning toward Christian, Jericho, and Batista. "You've earned this."
Christian rose first, extending his hand. "Christian," he said with an easy smile, though of course Sandro knew exactly who he was.
"Pleasure," Sandro replied, shaking his hand firmly, purring his duffel bag down again.
Next was Jericho, who grabbed Sandro's hand and pulled him in for a quick pat on the back. "Chris Jericho," he said, smirking. "And after what I just saw? You've got future world champion written all over you."
Batista stood then, towering and imposing even in a relaxed state, his title glinting under the locker room lights. He offered his massive hand, and Sandro shook it without hesitation. "Dave," Batista said simply, his voice low but full of weight. "You impressed me tonight. Big time."
Sandro felt a flicker of pride deep in his chest, but he kept his demeanor cool, offering a humble smile. "Thank you. Honestly, I'd love to hold a world title someday… but before that? I'd rather have matches with guys like you. One on one. Prove my mettle. For me, for the fans, for the business."
Jericho chuckled and gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "You'll get your chance, but maybe not right away," Jericho said. "I've got something big lined up for WrestleMania. And trust me, you wouldn't want to get fed to me just so I can keep this," he added with a tap on his championship belt. "That's the kind of thing that kills momentum for guys like you. And honestly? You've got too much heat right now to waste."
Batista nodded in agreement, crossing his arms. "Chris is right. Look, you lost to Shawn tonight, yeah, but that's nothing. It was your first big storyline, and Shawn's… well, Shawn. Kayfabe wise, you're not on his level yet, but you worked that story perfectly. The fans saw it. We all saw it. You manipulated kayfabe like a pro, and you backed it up in the ring. That momentum? It's real, man. Fans are gonna want more of you. I guarantee it."
Sandro smiled faintly, nodding. "Hope you're both right," he said, his tone calm but his heart racing. These were words every wrestler dreamed of hearing, especially from guys like Jericho and Batista.
The conversation shifted into more relaxed banter then. Jericho started talking about his band, Fozzy, how they were working on new music and planning a bigger tour down the line. Batista, on the other hand, mentioned his aspirations outside wrestling. "Thinking about Hollywood," Batista said with a shrug, as if it were a casual thing. "The Rock's doing it. Why not me, right?"
Sandro, who already knew exactly how successful both men would be, smiled knowingly. "You'll kill it," he said sincerely. "And Jericho? Fozzy's gonna blow up, trust me. And listen, if you ever need help, financial backing for the band, or even some connections in Hollywood," he said, glancing at Batista, "I've got the resources. No offense intended, but just say the word."
Jericho laughed, shaking his head. "Well, damn. Good to know," he said with a grin.
Batista chuckled too. "I'll keep that in mind," he said, though Sandro could see the flicker of curiosity in his eyes.
After a while, Sandro decided to take his leave. "Alright, fellas," he said, grabbing his duffel bag. "Been an honor talking with you all. I'll see you down the road."
"Count on it," Jericho said, raising two fingers in a casual salute.
Cena clapped him on the back one more time. "Hell of a night, man. Enjoy it."
Sandro nodded and stepped out, the heavy door swinging shut behind him as the chatter of the locker room faded. The hallway felt quieter now, almost serene compared to the chaos earlier. He made his way outside, flagged down a taxi, and slid into the back seat, the leather cool against his skin.
The ride to the hotel was smooth, city lights streaking past the window like comets. Sandro leaned back, the weight of the night settling on him. Not exhaustion, more like a sense of fulfillment, of purpose. He'd taken a big step tonight, and everyone knew it.
When the cab pulled up to the five star hotel, Sandro paid the fare and stepped out, his boots clicking against the marble floor as he entered the grand lobby. The staff greeted him politely, and he gave a small nod before heading to the elevator.
When he unlocked the door to his suite and stepped inside, the lights were dim, casting a warm glow over the spacious room. And there, lounging on the plush couch, was Nikki. She looked up with a smile that could melt steel.
"Hey, champ," she teased, though there was genuine pride in her eyes. "I saw how you tore it down tonight."
Sandro smirked, dropping his bag by the door. "Something like that," he said, pulling off his jacket.
"Shower first?" Nikki asked, her tone light but her eyes glinting with something else entirely.
"You read my mind," Sandro replied with a grin, heading toward the bathroom. He peeled off his shirt as he walked, and Nikki's gaze followed him like a magnet.
The sound of running water filled the suite a moment later as Sandro stepped into the shower, hot steam curling into the air. He let the water cascade over him, washing away the sweat and grime of the match. His muscles relaxed under the heat, and he closed his eyes, savoring the moment.
Then he felt a presence behind him. Soft, delicate hands slid around his waist, and he didn't even have to look to know who it was.
Nikki pressed her body against his back, the warmth of her skin a stark contrast to the hot water raining down on them. "Couldn't let you have all the fun in here," she whispered, her breath tickling his ear.
Sandro chuckled low, turning his head slightly. "You're trouble," he murmured, but his voice was thick with desire.
Her lips grazed his shoulder. "You love it," she whispered back.
And then, the steam, the heat, and the closeness consumed them both. What started as teasing touches turned into something deeper, something that spoke of passion and connection after a night of triumph and adrenaline.
It wasn't rushed, it was slow, deliberate, like they had all the time in the world. Every movement, every sigh echoed softly in the tiled room, blending with the rhythm of the water.
When they finally stepped out, the mirror was fogged, and their bodies glistened in the dim light. They wrapped themselves in towels, laughter spilling between them like an intimate secret. Nikki kissed him softly, tenderly, before they moved to the bed, curling up together under the thick duvet.
For the first time that night, Sandro felt completely at peace. The chaos of the arena, the roar of the crowd, the tension of the cage, all of it melted away as he held Nikki close. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new battles, new stories to tell. But tonight? Tonight was his.
He closed his eyes, a small smile playing on his lips as Nikki whispered against his chest, "Proud of you."
Two days later, the world was still buzzing from the chaos of the Elimination Chamber. Social media hadn't cooled off, podcasts were dissecting every frame of Shawn's Sweet Chin Music, and wrestling journalists were labeling the pay per view as one of the most shocking in recent memory.
Sandro's name, for better or worse, was everywhere. Some called him a genius manipulator. Others branded him the most devious heel WWE had birthed in years.
For Sandro, though? Life went on.
The private jet hummed steadily as it cut through the morning clouds. Sandro sat back in the leather seat, his head leaned slightly against the window, while Nikki flipped through a fashion magazine across from him.
Her legs were crossed gracefully, her hair cascading like silk over her shoulders, catching the sunlight that spilled through the oval window. Every now and then, she'd glance up at him, a sly smile tugging her lips.
"You're quiet," she said finally, her voice soft but carrying a teasing lilt.
Sandro smirked without turning his head. "Just thinking," he replied, his voice low, calm, though his mind was anything but.
Tonight was RAW. Indianapolis, Minnesota. Vince had called him personally, a rare move that spoke volumes. Sandro had picked up the phone two days ago, his body still aching from the war inside the steel cage, and heard Vince's gravelly tone cut through the line.
"I want you on RAW Monday," Vince had said, no sugarcoating, no wasted words. "Promo segment. We'll talk about a possible match when you get here."
Sandro had grinned like a wolf that smelled blood. He'd responded with a sharp, "Understood, sir." Now, here he was, descending toward a city that was about to see yet another ripple in the storm he was creating. He didn't know who Vince would throw at him, but one thing was certain, he wasn't just here to deliver. He was here to make people talk again.
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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
Championship History: 1x FCW Tag Team Champions, 1x FCW Florida Heavyweight Champion, 1x TNA World Heavyweight Champion, & 1x TNA X Division Champion