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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.
The jet touched down smoothly, and soon, Sandro and Nikki were making their way through a quiet private terminal.
No screaming fans here, no autograph hunters, just the soft echo of designer heels on polished floors. Sandro, dressed sharp in a black leather jacket over a gray Henley, slid on a pair of sunglasses as they stepped out into the crisp Minnesota air.
Waiting for them was the rented SUV, sleek and black, parked perfectly near the curb. Sandro popped the back hatch and began lifting their luggage inside, his muscles flexing under the soft stretch of his shirt. Nikki stood to the side, scrolling on her phone, her lips quirking every now and then as if reading something amusing.
Neither of them noticed the figure crouched behind a column across the way.
A paparazzo, one of those bloodhounds who made a living off the scandalous whiff of controversy, had hit the jackpot tonight. He'd been loitering near the airport, lens ready, hoping to catch a WWE star or two since RAW was in town.
What he didn't expect was this, Sandro, the hottest name in wrestling right now, casually loading bags alongside Nikki Bella, the stunning Diva who had been seen on and off television but never linked publicly to Sandro.
The man's camera clicked rapidly, snapping photo after photo in quick succession. He framed them perfectly, shots that suggested intimacy without confirming it. The way Nikki looked at Sandro. The way Sandro leaned slightly toward her as he hoisted the last bag in.
"Oh, this is gold," the paparazzo muttered under his breath, grinning as he reviewed the shots. Gold, indeed. Because if memory served him right, wasn't Sandro rumored to be involved with Alexa Bliss down in FCW before his call-up? And now here he was with Nikki Bella? Oh, the headlines wrote themselves.
Satisfied, the photographer slunk away, his camera full of ammunition that would set Twitter ablaze in just a few hours.
Sandro, blissfully unaware of the incoming storm, shut the SUV hatch and slid into the driver's seat. Nikki buckled in beside him, tossing her hair back. "Ready?" she asked.
He smirked, starting the engine. "Always."
The drive to the hotel was smooth, a blur of city lights and winter air. They checked into a lavish suite, with marble counters, a king sized bed draped in crisp linens, and a view of the skyline glittering like diamonds. Sandro barely set their duffel bags down before checking the time. They had a few hours before call time, but RAW nights were never casual.
"Get settled," he told Nikki, kissing her softly before grabbing a fresh black shirt and heading back out. "Gotta make magic tonight."
"Always do," Nikki replied, her voice warm and teasing.
By the time Sandro arrived at the arena, the backstage area was already humming like a beehive. Crew members darted around, rolling equipment cases, checking lighting rigs, and running through cues. Superstars milled about, some in full gear, others in sweats, laughing, joking, rehearsing.
Sandro entered the locker room, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and was immediately greeted with nods and handshakes. The air was different now, thicker, charged. People had seen what he did at Elimination Chamber.
They'd seen the way he worked with Shawn, the way he showed how good he acted when his character manipulated narrative like a puppeteer and delivered inside the cage like a veteran. Respect was no longer a courtesy; it was currency, and Sandro had just made himself rich.
After dropping his bag and exchanging a few quick words with some of the guys, he made his way toward Vince McMahon's makeshift office. The door loomed ahead like a portal to either paradise or purgatory. Sandro knocked once, firm and steady.
"Come in," Vince's voice boomed from inside.
Sandro stepped through, closing the door behind him. Vince was seated behind a large table cluttered with papers, a headset resting near his elbow. The old man looked up, and that trademark predator's smile curled across his face.
"There he is," Vince said, his voice gravelly yet dripping with satisfaction. He gestured to the chair across from him. "Sit."
Sandro obeyed, lowering himself into the chair, posture sharp, eyes locked on the boss.
Vince set down the paper he'd been scribbling on and leaned forward, forearms braced against the desk. His expression hardened, not unfriendly, but serious. This was the Vince that built empires, the Vince who smelled blood and money in equal measure.
"You delivered," Vince said simply, his voice like a gavel striking wood. "Royal Rumble. Elimination Chamber. That cage match with Shawn? Ratings through the roof. Social media is on fire. Hell, you even added fuel to the Shawn Vs. Taker rematch at WrestleMania. Made it personal. Made it must see."
Sandro allowed himself a small smile. "Just holding up my end of the deal, sir," he replied smoothly. "Told you I'd bring something different to the table."
Vince's eyes narrowed slightly, a glint of curiosity, and maybe respect, flickering there. "You did," he said. Then, after a beat, "so… that big request you mentioned."
Sandro's smile sharpened. This was it. The moment he'd been waiting for. "Yes, sir," he said, his voice even, controlled. "I think now's the time."
Vince leaned back, tapping a thick finger against the desk, each tap echoing like a drumbeat. For a long moment, the room was silent save for the faint hum of fluorescent lights. Then Vince spoke a single word.
"Yes."
Sandro's smirk widened into a grin, slow and deliberate, like a man savoring victory. "Thank you, sir," he said. "You won't regret it. I promise this will bring even more eyes, more ratings, more everything."
Vince waved a dismissive hand. "We'll see. I believe in numbers, not promises. But first things first, tonight, you cut your promo. Then, you have a match."
Sandro tilted his head slightly. "Against who?"
Vince's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "That," he said, voice low and loaded with challenge, "will be a surprise. Think of it as your final test tonight. I want to see if you can lead an impromptu ten minute match and make it look like it was rehearsed for a week."
Sandro nodded once, sharp and confident. "I'll deliver," he said simply, no hesitation, no doubt.
"I know you will," Vince replied, leaning back again. "Now go get ready. Make me proud, damn it."
Sandro rose to his feet, offering a firm handshake. "Always, sir."
And with that, he turned and left the room, the door clicking shut behind him like a gun cocking. His blood was humming now, the anticipation electric in his veins. A promo. A mystery opponent. A live mic on Monday Night RAW.
He didn't know who Vince had lined up for him, but he didn't care. Whoever it was, whatever curveball they threw, he'd catch it, twist it, and launch it back ten times harder.
And so, time moved in that strange way it does on show days, fast and slow all at once. Sandro kept himself busy, switching between mental preparation for the promo and light stretches for the impromptu match Vince had promised. There was no script, no clear opponent, just an open challenge waiting to explode live on television.
By the time night fell and the lights inside the Target Center burned bright, Monday Night RAW roared to life. The camera panned across thousands of screaming fans, signs waving high, some mocking Sandro, some cheering the chaos he had caused, but all acknowledging one undeniable fact, everyone was talking about him.
The show kicked off with an unexpected Divas Championship match. Kelly Kelly squared off against the reigning champion, Michelle McCool, in a one on one contest.
The bell rang, and what many expected to be a quick filler turned into a surprisingly competitive showcase. Michelle worked her veteran precision, grounding Kelly with sharp strikes and a suffocating headlock, but the challenger refused to stay down.
Kelly fought back with heart and resilience, hitting a spinning headscissors that sent Michelle tumbling into the turnbuckle. The crowd came alive as Kelly hit a handspring elbow, her momentum building like a tidal wave. The finish came when Michelle attempted the Faith Breaker, but Kelly countered mid motion into a sudden roll up. One… two… three!
The arena erupted as the referee called for the bell. Kelly Kelly had just shocked the world and become the new WWE Divas Champion. She sat on her knees clutching the title, tears welling in her eyes as the fans roared approval.
At the commentary table, Jerry "The King" Lawler practically jumped out of his chair. "What a moment! Kelly Kelly just pulled off the biggest celebration of a lifetime!" he shouted, his voice filled with genuine excitement.
Michael Cole, on the other hand, looked disgusted. "This is a travesty," he barked. "An absolute embarrassment to the women's division! Kelly Kelly? A glorified model? This is the face of the division now? Give me a break."
The camera lingered on Kelly's emotional celebration before cutting backstage for quick hype packages. But everyone in the arena knew what was coming next. It was time.
The lights dimmed slightly, and a low rumble of anticipation swept through the crowd. Then, the first riffs of "Cult of Personality" hit the speakers like a gunshot. The arena erupted, not in cheers, but in venomous boos that shook the rafters.
Sandro stepped out onto the stage, dressed to kill in his full entrance gear. His face was still bandaged from the brutal steel cage match at Elimination Chamber, the scars of war visible for all to see. A microphone rested in his hand, and as he paused at the top of the ramp, he slowly lifted his head and scanned the sea of hatred before him.
He spread his arms wide, head tilted back toward the sky, and the stage exploded in a blast of pyro that lit up the arena like fireworks on the Fourth of July. Sparks rained down as Sandro lowered his arms and began his slow, deliberate walk down the ramp.
Each step oozed confidence, arrogance, and something darker, a man who believed the entire company was his stage, and everyone else? Just supporting actors in his play.
The boos grew louder with every stride, fans leaning over the barricades just to scream obscenities in his face. Sandro didn't flinch. He didn't even acknowledge them. His eyes were locked on the ring, and his smirk told the world exactly what he thought of their hatred, it was fuel.
At the commentary table, Cole was practically giddy. "Here he is! The man who was robbed last Saturday at his match at the Elimination Chamber PPV! Sandro should've walked out the winner, but no, thanks to Shawn Michaels and his obsession, everything got ruined!"
Lawler shook his head, scowling. "Ruined? Are you kidding me, Cole? Sandro got exactly what he deserved. Shawn beat him fair and square inside that steel cage!"
Cole scoffed. "Fair and square? Please. The Undertaker stuck his nose in Sandro's business last Monday, and Shawn took advantage. If anything, Sandro should be demanding justice tonight!"
Meanwhile, Sandro climbed the steel steps and stepped through the ropes, moving to the center of the ring. The camera zoomed in on his face as he raised the mic slowly, letting the boos wash over him like a baptism of hate.
For a moment, he said nothing, just stared around the arena with a predator's calm. Then, with a voice sharp as a blade, he began.
"Last Saturday night…" Sandro's tone dripped with venom, his words slicing through the noise. "…I might have lost the battle." He paused, letting the crowd cheer that admission. "…But I won the war."
The boos rained down again as Sandro paced slowly, the microphone tight in his hand. "Because while all of you were busy praying for your hero, I was busy playing your hero. Shawn Michaels… the so called Heartbreak Kid… the Icon… the Showstopper…" Sandro's lips curled into a mocking grin. "…turned out to be nothing more than a puppet. My puppet."
The crowd erupted with a chorus of hatred, but Sandro pressed on, his voice growing louder, sharper.
"Do you want to know how easy it was? All it took was one whisper. One little suggestion about an open gap in the chamber steels… about his precious WrestleMania dream. And just like that, I pulled the strings… and Shawn danced for me. I made him do exactly what I wanted. And then, when the time was right, I screwed the Undertaker, the coward who cost me my match last Monday, right under his nose. All because of me."
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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