Scene opens with a wide shot of Santa Clara, California.
The camera pans over the sparkling skyline, past the glowing red of Levi’s Stadium, until it settles on Justin Smith standing at the edge of a quiet park, the faint hum of evening traffic behind him. He’s dressed in a black hoodie with his logo stitched across the back, his face half-covered by the shadow of his hood.
Justin takes a deep breath, pulling out his phone and dialing.
After a few rings, a familiar voice answers — Casey Williams, his old mentor and friend.
Justin: Hey Casey, you catching the show this week? Looks like your boy’s got himself in another war — Anthrax, Liam Davis, and me. Triple threat, baby.
Casey: I saw the card, Justin. You sure know how to pick your battles. Those two aren’t exactly walkovers.
Justin: Yeah, no kidding. Anthrax is unpredictable, and Liam… he’s like a chess player with a god complex. But that’s what makes it fun, right? No safety nets, no easy outs.
Casey: Fun isn’t the word I’d use. Anthrax is the kind of guy who doesn’t care about wins — he just wants to break people. Liam’s got that quiet arrogance; he’ll outsmart you if you blink. It’s not a match, Justin — it’s survival.
Justin (smirking): You know me, Case. I’ve made a career out of surviving. You think I’ve lasted this long in SCW by playing it safe? I’m not here to survive anymore — I’m here to remind everyone that I’m still the most dangerous man in that ring when the lights hit.
Casey: You’ve got the experience, sure. But you’ve also taken more hits than anyone I know. The body doesn’t lie, Justin. How much more can you really give?
Justin: As much as it takes. Until I’m dust. Until the fire burns out for good. But right now, it’s still burning — hotter than ever.
Casey (sighing): Alright. I’ll make a few calls. Dying Breed’s in California right now, and Hitamashii’s finishing up a seminar in San Jose. They’ll meet you tomorrow at Elite Performance Gym. Time to tighten everything up.
Justin: Good. Tell them I’m ready. Because when Santa Clara lights up this weekend, I’m not coming to wrestle — I’m coming to make a damn statement.
Casey: Then make it count, Justin. Because a win here doesn’t just get you back in the title picture — it reminds everyone why they still talk about Justin Smith like a legend, not a has-been.
Justin smirks, ending the call.
He looks toward the distant stadium lights, his expression steely and focused.
Scene fades to black.
The Next Morning – Elite Performance Gym, Santa Clara
The sound of gloves hitting heavy bags echoes through the training hall. Justin walks in wearing a sleeveless hoodie, his wrists taped, ready for battle. Andrew Garcia, Ivan Darrell, and Hitamashii are already there, warming up in the ring.
Andrew: Well, look who decided to show up! The man of the hour, running on California time, huh?
Justin: Yeah, yeah — traffic on the 101. You ever drive through Santa Clara at rush hour? It’s like fighting a tag team of Teslas and tourists.
Ivan: Excuses already? You sure you’re not turning into one of those veterans who blame traffic for their losses?
Justin (grinning): Keep talking, Darrell. I’ll show you traffic — with my boot to your chest.
Andrew: Alright, boys, let’s get to it. You’ve got a triple threat coming up, Justin. That means your awareness has to be on another level. No breaks, no downtime. You’re fighting two men at once — no tagging out, no corners to hide in.
Hitamashii: Remember, Anthrax thrives in chaos. He doesn’t plan — he reacts. Liam’s the opposite — he’ll bait you, wait for a mistake, and then pounce. You’ve got to stay unpredictable, balanced between them.
Justin: Then let’s get started. Show me something I haven’t seen yet.
The group begins an intense training session.
Andrew shouts commands from outside the ring as Justin and Ivan lock up, exchanging holds. Hitamashii jumps in, simulating the interference of a third opponent — forcing Justin to adapt mid-fight.
Justin gets taken down, rolls through, and counters with a lariat that nearly takes Hitamashii’s head off.
He stands, breathing hard but smirking.
Andrew: There it is! That’s the edge we need. You can’t control chaos, but you can outlast it. Anthrax’ll burn himself out trying to break you — make him chase your rhythm.
Hitamashii: And Liam? He’s got that ring IQ, but if you hit him fast, hard, and keep pressure, he won’t get a chance to think. Make him panic. Force him to react.
Justin nods, wiping sweat from his forehead.
Justin: So Anthrax brings the fire, Liam brings the brains — guess that means I bring both. Let’s go again.
They run another sequence — faster, tighter, more brutal. The sounds of strikes and grunts fill the air.
When it’s over, Justin leans on the ropes, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his arms.
Andrew: That’s the Justin Smith I remember. Not just fighting to win — fighting to prove something.
Justin (looking up): Yeah. To prove that the madness never dies.
Scene fades to black.
Later That Night – Birk’s Steakhouse, Santa Clara
Soft jazz plays in the background as Justin sits at a corner booth, a Porterhouse steak steaming in front of him, a cold Coke beside it.
He’s calm — too calm — until he looks directly into the camera, that signature dangerous smirk curling across his face.
Justin: Anthrax. Liam Davis. You two really think I’m the one who’s in danger in this match? You think just because it’s a triple threat, that I’m walking into your world? Nah… you’re walking into mine.
He takes a bite of steak, chews slowly, then sets his fork down.
Justin: Let’s start with you, Anthrax. You call yourself chaos. You thrive on pain, on destruction, on making everyone around you bleed. Cute. But chaos without purpose? That’s just noise. And I’ve spent my entire career learning how to turn noise into silence. You swing wild, you laugh when you get hit, but deep down — you’re scared. Scared of control. Scared of someone who can stare right through your madness and break it piece by piece. You want chaos? I’ll give you calculated carnage.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table.
Justin: And Liam Davis — the technician, the golden boy. You’re too smart for your own good. Always thinking three steps ahead. Problem is, I don’t play your game. I don’t follow your rules. You can’t outthink someone who’s already willing to go further than you ever will. You’re precise, but precision doesn’t save you when the hits keep coming. You’re not fighting a man who wants to win — you’re fighting one who refuses to lose.
He pauses, glancing down at his hands, the knuckles bruised from training.
Justin: You both see me as the veteran, the guy who’s been through the wars, maybe the one who’s slowing down. But let me tell you something — the difference between me and both of you is simple: I’ve already been through hell, and I didn’t just survive it… I built a home there.
(He cracks a small grin.)
Justin: Santa Clara’s going to see the best version of Justin Smith they’ve ever seen. Not the nice guy. Not the workhorse. The fighter who’s done being overlooked. The man who’s ready to rip through two opponents just to remind this entire company why I’m still the heartbeat of SCW.
He raises his Coke glass like a toast.
Justin: To Anthrax — may chaos consume you. To Liam — may your cleverness fail you. And to me… may the madness never end.
He drinks, then starts humming “Madness” by Liliac, the haunting melody echoing as the camera slowly pans out to the glowing Santa Clara night.
Scene fades to black.
