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The crowd loved it. Batista added, "You're dead tonight." Orton said nothing, he just stared, expression unreadable, as though he was already imagining the violence he would unleash.
Sandro hearing what Cena and Batista have just said the smug crack from Cena, the cold warning from Batista, didn't flinch, didn't back down, didn't swallow the threat.
Instead, he let out a slow, evil smirk that stretched across his face like a blade being pulled from a sheath. His eyes narrowed, filled with venomous confidence, and the mic rose back to his lips.
"Oh, I can make it to the ring," he said, voice dripping with arrogance. "I can and I will survive tonight. I'll walk into that ring on my own two feet, and I sure as hell won't be the one laying dead when it's all over."
He jabbed his finger at Cena, then Batista, then Orton.
"No… YOU will."
The boos crashed down instantly.
"You three," Sandro continued, pacing slowly inside the ring like a predator in a cage, "are going to be the ones laying there, broken, battered, and DONE, just like you were last week."
The crowd BOOED louder than ever.
Sandro lifted his chin, proudly, knowingly.
"And remember," he said, smirking even deeper, "this is a fatal four way match."
The meaning hit the arena immediately.
You could SEE the shift in the audience. The realization spread like a shockwave.
Cole's voice cracked on commentary. "Oh NO… oh NO NO NO… he's not saying what I think he's saying—"
Lawler burst out, "He IS! HE'S SAYING HE'S GOT THE UNDISPUTED SYSTEM COMING WITH HIM! HE'S SAYING THEY'RE GONNA DO THE SAME THING THEY DID LAST WEEK!"
Madison Square Garden rained down the loudest boos of the night, trash thrown, middle fingers raised, people leaning over the barricade screaming, "COWARD!" and "YOU SUCK!" straight at Sandro.
Sandro ignored the boos, ignored the seething hatred. He spread his arms, welcoming it all like a king basking in corrupted worship.
"You know what a fatal four way REALLY means?" he continued. "It means no rules. No disqualifications. And that means…" His smirk widened. "…my boys get to soften you up BEFORE I finish the job."
Huge, deafening boos.
Sandro loved it. He absorbed the hate like oxygen. He lived off it.
But then, something happened NO ONE expected.
Big Show… laughed.
A deep, booming laugh echoed through Madison Square Garden, loud enough to catch Sandro off guard mid sentence. Cena let out a grin. Batista chuckled darkly. Even Orton, emotionless and snake like, allowed himself a dry smirk at the corner of his lips.
The entire arena was confused for half a second, but not for long.
Sandro snapped his attention to Big Show.
"Oh, you think this is funny?" Sandro snarled. "Go ahead. Laugh. Enjoy it. Because when the match starts, hell is going to rain down on all three of you—"
"Uh, no," Big Show interrupted.
Sandro blinked.
"…What?"
"That isn't happening," Big Show said calmly.
The giant pointed one massive finger toward the titantron.
The screens flickered.
Static.
Then—
A LIVE backstage feed popped up.
And the entire arena GASPED.
Because on the screen…
Wade Barrett lay face down on the floor, clutching his ribs.
Drew McIntyre slumped against the wall, barely conscious, coughing violently.
Big E was writhing, holding his midsection with both arms.
Ryback was crawling toward a knocked over table, groaning in pain.
Kofi lay on his side, gripping his shoulder, face twisted in agony.
Furniture was overturned. Equipment was scattered.
And in the corner—
Alexa Bliss was tied to a chair, hands bound behind her, desperately struggling to free herself, eyes wide with panic.
For a split second, Madison Square Garden went silent.
Then the place ERUPTED.
The fans didn't just cheer, they roared like a volcano finally erupting. This was revenge. This was justice. This was everything the Undisputed System had been begging for.
Cole burst out laughing. "Oh my GOD! KARMA! KARMA HAS FINALLY COME BACK AROUND FOR THE UNDISPUTED SYSTEM!"
Lawler howled, "LOOK AT THEM! THEY'RE ALL DOWN! THEY GOT WHAT THEY DESERVED!"
In the ring, Heyman's eyes went wide. His jaw dropped so far it looked like it might hit the mat. His hand that doesn't hold the briefcase raised in disbelief. "W..
what, WHAT?! WHO DID THIS!?"
Sandro…
Sandro didn't move at first.
His face slowly transitioned, from shock… to horror… to something far more primal.
Rage.
Pure, unfiltered, white hot rage.
The Maestro snapped.
For the first time in his entire run, The calm, calculating genius, the mastermind who always planned twenty steps ahead, the stone faced puppet master who controlled everything, LOST CONTROL.
He exploded.
"YOU... YOU BASTARDS!" he screamed, pointing wildly at Big Show, Cena, Orton, and Batista. His voice cracked with fury. "You dare touch my boys?! YOU DARE TOUCH ALEXA?!"
He slammed the mic against the ropes so hard they shook violently.
"If I find ONE HAIR missing from her head, ONE! ALL FOUR OF YOU ARE DEAD! DO YOU HEAR ME?! DEAD!"
The crowd booed and cheered at the same time, some out of hatred, some because they'd never seen Sandro unravel like this.
Heyman grabbed him by the arm again, terrified. "M... My Maestro, Sandro, please listen to me—"
Sandro turned on Heyman, furious.
"WHY AREN'T YOU CALLING SECURITY?! OR THE COPS?! THEY ATTACKED MY FAMILY! THAT'S A CRIME! THEY NEED TO BE ARRESTED! I'M GOING TO SUE ALL FOUR OF THEM FOR THIS! CALL SOMEBODY, PAUL! NOW!"
Heyman, caught completely off guard, stuttered in panic.
"M... Maestro, uh, Sandro this is WWE! I... I mean these kinds of incidents, are, well, common? normal? If we call the police... then... then WE might be in trouble too, considering all the things the Undisputed System has, uh, done, and—"
Sandro's face snapped toward him, eyes blazing like wildfire.
For a terrifying moment, it looked like Sandro was going to PUNCH Heyman in the face.
The fans even gasped.
Heyman froze.
Sandro clenched his fist—
—then forced himself to stop.
Barely.
He shook violently, breathing hard, forcing himself back from the edge. It took everything he had to pull himself together.
Finally, through clenched teeth, he turned his attention back to the stage.
Cena smirked. Batista looked hungry for violence. Orton tilted his head with silent menace. Big Show stood tall, satisfied.
Sandro glared at them with pure murder.
"Fine," he growled. "FINE. If you want to do this the hard way… then you leave me no choice."
He stepped forward.
"I will show you and the entire world that Sandro Zhang is NOT just a Maestro."
He hurled the mic toward ringside, the thud echoing loud.
Then he turned to Heyman.
"OUT," he ordered, pointing at the ropes. "Get out."
Heyman scrambled out of the ring immediately, terrified.
Up on the stage, Cena, Orton, and Batista exchanged a single nod.
Then they began their march down the ramp.
The referee, wide eyed and practically sprinting, ran right past them, sliding into the ring just in time as Big Show stepped through the curtain and left the arena.
Sandro shrugged off his coat and hurled it at the timekeeper's area.
Now he stood alone.
No Undisputed System.
No backup.
Nothing between him and three former World Champions.
Cena reached the apron.
Orton slid into the ring like a stalking viper.
Batista stepped between the ropes, eyes locked on Sandro.
The referee moved between them, shouting instructions, forcing them all to separate into corners.
Sandro didn't move. His eyes remained locked, laser focused, daring any of them to make the first mistake.
Finally, after confirming the title was handed to the timekeeper and all four men were set, the referee raised his arm—
AND THEN SIGNALLED FOR THE BELL.
DING DING DING!!
Cole shouted over the eruption of the crowd, "THIS IS IT! THE MAIN EVENT OF THE NIGHT! A FATAL FOUR WAY FOR THE UNITED STATES CHAMPIONSHIP!"
Lawler yelled, "AND SANDRO IS ALONE! HIS SYSTEM IS DOWN! HE HAS NO BACKUP! THIS IS A THREE ON ONE SLAUGHTER!"
In the ring, Sandro immediately backed into a corner, raising his fists, his entire body coiled tight like a predator forced into defense.
Cena cracked his knuckles.
Batista rolled his shoulders.
Orton lowered into his coiled stance, eyes dark, cold, unreadable.
All three of them slowly closed in around Sandro.
The entire Garden roared, sensing the carnage coming.
Immediately right after that, Batista lunged toward Sandro, no hesitation, no warning, just pure, explosive brutality. The Animal shot out of his corner like a man launched from a cannon, muscles tightening, face twisted with the hunger for payback.
His first punch landed flush across Sandro's jaw, a vicious hook that snapped his head sideways with a loud, sickening crack that echoed through the Garden.
Sandro staggered but didn't fall. He braced himself against the turnbuckle, boots digging into the canvas as Batista unleashed another heavy right, then another, then a bone-rattling left to the ribs. The crowd roared with every strike, loving every second of the Maestro getting pummeled.
Cole practically jumped out of his seat. "OH MY GOODNESS! BATISTA'S JUST UNLOADING! HE'S BEEN WAITING FOR THIS FOR WEEKS!"
Lawler laughed like a man watching justice served hot. "HIT HIM AGAIN! HIT HIM AGAIN, BATISTA! HE DESERVES EVERY PUNCH!"
Sandro tried to fire back, he really did. Even as Batista was beating the life out of him, Sandro swung a forearm that clipped Batista across the cheek. The crowd booed the moment Sandro showed resistance. Batista absorbed the forearm, grunted, and hammered him with another clubbing blow to the back.
But before Sandro could even gather a breath—
Cena joined the assault.
John Cena, fueled by weeks of humiliation, stormed over and grabbed Sandro by the back of the head. He drove repeated fists into Sandro's skull with ruthless rhythm. Each punch landed like a piston. The fans screamed in approval.
And then Orton stepped in.
The Viper didn't run. He didn't sprint. He slithered forward, calm and cold, and struck with precise, surgical violence. A sharp European uppercut whipped Sandro's head backward, immediately followed by another, then another, each one sending sweat flying into the lights.
Three former world champions.
One trapped Maestro.
And Madison Square Garden was losing its mind.
Cole shouted, "THIS IS A MUGGING! A THREE
ON ONE MUGGING!"
Lawler barked, "A BEAUTIFUL mugging!"
Sandro refused to fall at first. That alone shocked the crowd. Somehow, through the onslaught, he stayed standing, wobbling, bleeding, breathing hard, but refusing to collapse.
He roared something through gritted teeth, wordless, angry, defiant, and shoved at Batista's chest. It barely moved Batista an inch, but the defiance ignited louder boos from the fans.
Batista didn't appreciate it.
He spun and SPEARED Sandro into the corner.
The ring shook.
Sandro collapsed to his knees, coughing violently, trying to breathe.
And that's when all three men circled him like wolves spotting a wounded stag.
Cena stepped in first, grabbing Sandro by the jaw, forcing their faces inches apart.
"You brought this on yourself," Cena hissed.
Then Cena drove a stiff knee into Sandro's face, knocking him flat onto his back.
Batista stomped him.
Orton stomped him.
Cena stomped him.
The stomps weren't random, they were rhythmic, coordinated, every boot slamming into Sandro's ribs, back, hands, legs, skull. Sandro tried to curl up, covering himself, but the three men were relentless.
Cole yelled, "THEY'RE TAKING HIM APART! PIECE BY PIECE!"
Lawler screamed, "THIS IS BEAUTIFUL! LOOK AT SANDRO! HE'S GETTING EXACTLY WHAT HE DESERVES!"
At last Sandro stopped fighting. His body slumped. His arm fell limply at his side.
He wasn't unconscious yet, but he was getting there.
And that's when Cena raised his hand, signaling to the others like calling a football play.
Batista nodded.
Orton cracked his neck.
They each grabbed a limb.
Cena hoisted Sandro onto his shoulders.
The crowd erupted into a thunderstorm of cheers.
Cole yelled, "OH NO, THEY'RE GOING FOR IT—"
Cena adjusted his grip, staring straight into the hard cam—
AND THEN HIT THE ATTITUDE ADJUSTMENT.
Sandro bounced on the mat like a ragdoll, landing on his side and rolling onto his back, eyes shut, chest barely rising.
Batista didn't give him a second.
He hauled Sandro's dead weight up, kicking him in the gut and then placing his head between his crotch where he then spread his hand to give a double thumbs up, then turned into thumbs down.
He roared to the ceiling, bringing Sandro up—
AND DELIVERED A DEVASTATING BATISTA BOMB.
The ring nearly imploded on impact.
Cole exploded, "BATISTA BOMB! BATISTA BOMB! OH MY GOD, SANDRO MIGHT BE BROKEN IN HALF!"
But Orton wasn't done.
He stalked up behind Sandro's limp body, grabbed his head, dragged him up by the chin, whispering something that only Sandro could hear, before then make Sandor stand up.
Then in one fluid, deadly motion—
RKO.
The entire building detonated. Fans jumped from their seats. People screamed. Drinks spilled everywhere. Lawler laughed hysterically, "RKO! RKO FROM ORTON! SANDRO IS OUT! SANDRO IS TOTALLY OUT!"
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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
Other Achievements: 1x Andre the Giant Memorial Battle Royale Winner & 1x Mr. Money In The Bank
Wrestlemania Record: 1 - 0