Fade in

The air is thick with the sounds of clanging metal and heavy breathing. A determined Sean Parker, drenched in sweat, stands in the center. The lights cause his sweat to glisten off his body, accentuating the lean muscles in his arms, his chest, stomach and legs.

(Sean): You can’t #### with Destiny, it’s like a tsunami, you can’t surf it, you can’t stop it, all you can do is pray that its over quickly. But at Ring Master, it won’t be. Not for any of you.

CUT TO: Sean pounding a heavy bag with a relentless barrage of punches and kicks. His muscles ripple with each strike, sweat flying off his brow.

(Sean’s Voice): Everything comes full circle. This whole thing? It might have started at Ring Master 2009 but it doesn’t end at Ring Master 2024, no. Like the perfect circle, it begins again.

CUT TO: Sean lifting weights, his face etched with focus and determination. The barbell bends under the massive weight as he pushes through the strain, veins bulging in his forearms.The camera cuts to quick shots of Sean working out.

It shows Sean doing pull-ups on a high bar, his powerful back muscles contracting and relaxing with each upward pull. His jaw is set, eyes fixed on a point beyond the ceiling.

He’s then seen using a jumping rope, his feet a blur as the rope whips through the air, creating a rhythmic whooshing sound. He can then be seen running on a treadmill at full speed, his face a mask of unyielding resolve. His feet pound the belt in a steady, relentless rhythm, his heart rate climbing as he pushes his limits.

He’s then shown to be practising his grappling moves on a mat, his body moving fluidly as he executes a series of takedowns and holds. His face is a picture of concentration, every move precise and calculated.

Sean is shown to be shadowboxing in front of a mirror, his reflection mimicking his every move. He ducks, weaves, and strikes with lightning speed, his focus unwavering The camera cuts to a shot of Sean sitting on a bench, wiping the sweat from his face with a towel. He takes a deep breath, his eyes burning with the promise of victory.

The next shot is Sean pushing through a gruelling session of battle ropes, the thick ropes slamming against the ground in powerful, rhythmic waves. His entire body engages with every movement, showcasing his endurance and tenacity. He can be seen executing perfect form squats with heavy weights, his legs and core muscles straining yet controlled, demonstrating his balance and strength.

The next shot is Sean doing plyometric box jumps, his powerful legs launching him effortlessly onto high platforms. Each jump is explosive, highlighting his agility and explosive power. It then moves to Sean flipping a massive tractor tire, the strain on his face replaced by a look of triumph with each successful flip. The tire lands with a resounding before the final shot shows Sean in a training ring, practising his wrestling moves with a sparring partner. They grapple, twist, and turn, each move fluid yet fierce, reflecting his technical prowess and relentless drive to win.

The footage shifts back to show Sean having finished his work out, sweat dripping, chest heaving.

(Sean): And just like a circle, it’s you and I again, William, starting things off. Like you said at Havoc though, this time we’re different. You may not be the same Son of Anarchy you were back then but that suffers in comparison to the metamorphosis I’ve gone through in the last ten years.

Sean stops for a brief moment before continuing.

(Sean): See, I wasn’t a man back then, I was a kid. A naive 15-year old kid who got in over his head and wanted to be a World Champion. I watched my Hall-of-Fame uncle bulldoze his way through every single opponent put in front of him. He had the ferocity and strength of the mighty warrior, Ajax and the grace and finesse of Achilles. I watched as he landed lung-busting Rampant Lion after lung-busting Rampant Lion, explosive Tartan Army Charge after explosive Tartan Army Charge, building a legacy of tournament wins, World Championships and notoriety as one of the most dominant professional wrestlers of his generation.

A sardonic smirk creeps across Sean’s face.

(Sean): I watched. I watched every movement, every connection with the ropes, the way his feet moved, the way he anticipated his opponents’ every move, the way he absorbed the punishment he took and shook it off like it was nothing. And I said to myself, I want that. I said to myself, I want to be known more than just the nephew of Butch Parker. I wanted to be known as Sean Parker, the HWA World Heavyweight Champion.

Sean begins to pace back and forth.

(Sean): Like I said, I was a naive, stupid kid who fancied himself Achilles. But I wasn’t Achilles, no. I was Patroclus. Poor Patroclus. I adorned myself in greaves, a helmet, armour I wasn’t ready to wear yet. I wielded a sword and shield that were too heavy for my tenderfoot soul to bear the burden of carrying. Too eager to prove I belonged in a world I wasn’t ready to be part of yet, jumping at the chance to show what I’d learned, even when others told me it was too soon.

But the Moirai had woven a different thread for my destiny, much different to the one that I had fashioned for myself in my own mind’s eye. I was to endure my own labours, much like Heracles, a test to see if I could weather the storms ahead for me and prove my worth. And you know what? Turns out breaking my spinal cord and being trapped within the confines of a wheelchair for two years was probably the greatest thing that could have ever happened to me. You know why? One word. Perspective. It’s a gift.

See, guys like you Wolfy, Shark, Hoff, Causehell, even Kratos and Jesse. You can all show guts, fortitude, desire and determination, which I know you already have in spades, to get you through the first, maybe even the second match here and there. But at some point, all those admirable traits just aren’t enough. At some point, you have to bring something other than gritty, steely determination to a fight. Experience, guile, ruthlessness, the ability to flip the switch in your head that will help make the brutal decisions when going gets tough. To be able to find that extra gear you didn’t know you had. A killer instinct. Eyes on the back of your head. You don’t have any of these. You will, in time. But you don’t have them now. Right now, you’re greener than the grass in my front lawn and I’m in no mood for entertaining the dreams of rookies who, the further they get in this tournament, venture into deeper, darker and murkier waters that they are not even remotely equipped to traverse.

And you, William? Like General Lee himself, round one will be our Chancellorsville but when Round Two comes around? It’s gonna be Gettysburg for you.

Another brief moment of silence takes effect, almost as if Sean is allowing the weight of his words to hit home.

(Sean): All of you… whether you’re new to HWA or a seasoned veteran. You all you think have some semblance of an understanding of what it means to win Ring Master. You all have these machinations of becoming HWA Champion but you have no idea what it even means to be a champion. It isn’t twenty pounds of leather and gold, it’s more than that…it’s a symbol. A symbol of the hard work and dedication it took to get this place back to what it is now.

You all think you need this, you all think you want this. But none of you have the faintest idea of what this even is. But I do. And not one person on this roster has wanted it more for the past ten years than me. Not Maniac, not Hans, Draconis, even Jeremy. This…

Sean emphatically points downward.

(Sean): … this is where you’ll all be found wanting. This is where all your journeys end. This is where you get found out as the ones who got in way over their heads. This is when your movements get tracked and your sword swings become telegraphed and your overconfidence becomes your downfall. This is where I unsheathe Masamune from its scabbard and slice its blade across your necks, separating your heads from your shoulders before you have even the slightest comprehension of what’s happened. And the bodies fall like dominoes. One by one. Until I’m the only one left standing.

Another long moment of silence. The lights go out. When they turn back on, Sean’s back is to the camera. He’s no longer in sweat-soaked training gear. Hes adorned in a hooded garb. The underside of the hood casts the top of Sean’s face leaving only his mouth ominously visible.

(Sean): My name is Sean Parker. The King of the Skies. The Sky Assassin. Second Generation professional wrestler. Eleven years in this business.

And see that ring? That 14 by 20 squared circle you all want to preside residency over?

I hate to break it to you all but that’s not yours. You don’t own that. My Aunt and Uncle’s names might be on the call sheets and paychecks, but Wisdom and Butch Parker don’t own it. Hans and Sensei? They sure as shit don’t own it. You all just occupy it because I allow it. Because, in reality, it’s my house. The House of the Assassin.

And in the House of the Assassin, nobody leaves unscathed. Physically or mentally.

In the House of the Assassin, you may win the odd battle here and there but you’ll never win the war.

In the House of the Assassin, you lose a piece of yourself no victory thereafter will ever replace.

Only by standing within the four walls of the House of the Assassin will any of you realise your true worth. See, there’s a reason I’m called the Sky Assassin. They call me the Sky Assassin because when I leave my feet, when I fly through the air, bad things happen to those in the firing line.

They call me the Sky Assassin because nobody can do what I can do, because nobody else’s lungs can cope with the lack of oxygen at the heights I can go to.

They call me the Sky Assassin because by the time you see me coming, it's too late. Death from above.

It doesn’t matter who you are because it’s inconsequential. Come Ring Master, you’re all just playing for second. I will be Ring Master. I will be the new HWA Champion. Long live the assassin.

Sean spins around, throwing his elbow across the screen in a slicing motion and it immediately cuts to black.