The scene opens in an abandoned outlet mall somewhere between “Who Gives a Shit” and “No-fucking-cares.” The stores are empty. A sign hangs overhead one storefront, reading:

CHAMPIONSHIP RECOVERY CENTER Healing XWF Belts from Bitch-made Reigns Since 2019.

From outside you hear "Paging Doctor Knuckles, operating room one."

The camera cuts to Thunder Knuckles beside a gurney in a white lab coat. The Revolution Championship lies motionless, hooked up to tons of hospital equipment with IV bags labeled “Budweiser Select" and another that reads "Ass Whoopin’.” The championship looks like it’s clinging to life. TK's tone is grim.

“We caught it just in time. Severe title fatigue. Acute case of inflated ego exposure. Chronic inactivity.”

He gestures to a large whiteboard. Scribbled across it in red Sharpie SYMPTOMS OF A BITCH-MADE TITLE RUN. Underneath are bullet points.

• No Defenses • No Heart • All Hype

"You see this? This is what happens when a championship stops meaning something. When it goes from being proof that you’re the baddest son of a bitch in the division… to the rasslin' equivalent of a participation trophy, useless, and gathering dust"

He pats the belt.

“The Revolution Title used to mean blood, guts, and a middle finger to authority. It stood for people who earned something in that ring. But now? Now it’s a prop in a bad rassler's highlight reel.”

TK lights a cigar and inhales.

“York didn’t carry this belt, he wore it. Like someone wears a mood ring and it got sicker and sicker. No fights. Hardly any defenses. Just photo ops beating up Thad. What’s your highlight reel? Three straight L's and ducking every real threat.”

TK leans in.

“I’m not here for Twitter posts or feel-good brand deals. I’m here because that title needs something it's never had.”

TK puts his hand on the gurney.

“Me.”

“I am the antidote. I’m what kills the virus.”

He pulls a flask from the inner pocket of his coat, takes a swig, and pours the rest onto the title belt.

“Revolution isn’t supposed to be safe. It’s supposed to be forcibly held.”

TK flicks ash toward ‘HYPE’ on the whiteboard.

“York, doesn't have what it takes.”

He leans back.

“Let’s talk about your three months, York. You know, the time you spent locked up.”

TK cracks a beer.

“You weren’t in prison. You were in protective custody. Nickname: ‘Sugar Puddin'.’ The closest you got to running the yard was holding some dude’s pocket while he walked to commissary.”

He rolls his eyes.

“People thought you were finally getting harder, finally showing edge. Then you busted out softer than you went in. You went in a fraud, and came out a tired one.”

TK gives a cock-sure smirk York wishes he had in his repertoire.

“Then you came out and tried to be like me. The ‘I don’t care’ act you saw in my promos that you tried to Xerox. Chef's fucking kiss.”

He shakes his head, trying so hard not to laugh out loud, and be serious.

“Now you’re standing across from the guy who sees straight through that weak-ass act… and I ain't here to fuck around”

“You're the only guy who managed to make being champ look like a part-time job and a full-time embarrassment.”

TK pulls an IV tube out and pokes it into the title belt's leather. Then hooks the other end directly into his arm. The blood begins to pulse into the belt.

“Your title run’s been a copy of a copy of a counterfeit. Now the original’s here to collect.”

He glares dead into the lens as he tears out the IV, because the belt can only handle so much prestige.

“You had three months to get prison tough. You couldn’t even finish that. Now you’re face-to-face with the guy you tried to become… and you’re about to learn how bad you fucked up”

TK bandages his wound from the IV.

“You wear that belt like a clearance rack reject, hoping no one notices."

He points at the belt.

“This thing ain’t dead yet. It’s just been waiting for someone to stop treating it like a souvenir... and start treating it like a weapon.”

“I’m not just here to take it from you. I’m here to reclaim it. I’m here to pump it full of adrenaline, bar fights, and matches that mean something.”

“This isn’t yours anymore, York. This run will be forgotten before the belt gets re-strapped to fit a real champion. You’re just the place-holder. The error in the goddamned timeline.”

TK pulls a syringe from his back pocket, filled with an orange fluid labeled “BRUTALITY.” He jabs it into the title.

“You want to talk about meaning? Let’s talk about mine. I’ve spent years carving my name into this place. I’m not polished, not protected, and I sure as shit live in no man's shadow.”

“I’m what happens when destruction finally gets back into singles competition.”

His voice lowers.

“York… you’re just the guy in my fucking way, and the whole damn world knows it!”

The gurney sits empty now. Standing in the center is TK. Across the room from him, resting like a trophy under a spotlight, is the healed Revolution Championship. The plating is scratched and scorched.

“Look at it.”

He walks around the table, eyes locked on the belt.

“It was flatlined. It suffered. It was paraded around by a fraud, dressed up in vanity, used like a goddamn prop. However, we brought it back.”

“We purged the weakness. We burned the goddamn ego out. We drained the Canadian content and replaced it with something raw and something undeniable.”

“It's got teeth again. It’s got venom. It doesn't sparkle… it’s scarred. That’s the Revolution Title, York.”

TK raises his beer.

“Under my reign? This belt won't be a patient anymore. It'll be a weapon of mass fucking redemption. Revolution ain’t just back… it’s Bastardized and ready for a challenge.”

He downs the beer, tosses the can, and walks off.