1995 – The Death of the Old Era
The World Wrestling Federation was changing. The bright neon colors, smiling superheroes, and Saturday morning cartoon energy of the '80s were fading. The fans were getting restless, tired of gimmicks that felt fake, of matches that looked choreographed instead of fought. They wanted something different—something real.
Enter Jaxon "Grimm" Cross.
Jaxon wasn't built for the old-school WWF. He wasn't a larger-than-life superhero like Hulk Hogan or a smooth-talking showman like Shawn Michaels. He was something else entirely—something dangerous. At 6'5" and 265 pounds of hard muscle and scar tissue, he carried the look of a man who had been through hell and didn't mind going back.
His reputation had spread through the underground. Japan. Mexico. ECW. Wherever he went, he left destruction behind. He wasn't a high flyer. He wasn't a technician. He was a fighter. And now, he had set his sights on the biggest stage in the world.
But unlike the bright-eyed rookies desperate for a contract, Jaxon didn't ask to be in the WWF.
He walked in like he already owned the place.
---
Titan Towers – Stamford, Connecticut
The headquarters of the WWF was a polished kingdom built on the backs of wrestlers who had followed Vince McMahon's vision. The hallways smelled of fresh coffee, cologne, and corporate control. It was the kind of place where people walked fast and spoke in hushed voices, afraid of getting on the boss's bad side.
Jaxon Cross didn't give a damn about any of that.
Dressed in a black leather jacket, torn jeans, and a plain gray tank top, he stepped into the building like it was a dive bar. His boots thudded against the carpeted floor, every step slow, deliberate. Employees stopped and stared as he passed, whispering among themselves.
"Is that the guy from ECW?"
"Yeah… heard he put a guy through a table with his bare hands."
"He's not even signed yet—why's he walking around like he owns the place?"
Jaxon didn't bother acknowledging them. They weren't his concern. Only one man mattered.
And that man was waiting for him behind an oak desk in a lavish office lined with championship belts.
Vince McMahon's Office
The moment Jaxon stepped in, the tension shifted.
Vince McMahon sat at his desk, hands folded, expression unreadable. Behind him, Bruce Prichard and Jim Ross flanked the room, their gazes flicking between Vince and the newcomer. The air smelled of expensive cigars and control.
Vince had seen hundreds of wrestlers walk into his office before. Big guys, fast guys, smooth talkers, silent killers. He had built an empire by knowing who would make money and who wouldn't.
Jaxon was different.
There was nothing desperate about him. No nervous energy. No rehearsed speech about why he belonged here.
He just stood there, arms crossed, waiting for Vince to speak first.
After a moment of silence, Vince leaned back in his chair. His fingers tapped against the wood.
"You've made quite the reputation for yourself, Mr. Cross."
Jaxon tilted his head slightly. "Have I?"
Vince smirked. He liked confidence—hell, he thrived on it. But there was a fine line between confidence and disrespect, and Jaxon was standing right on the edge of it.
"I know what you're capable of. You've worked Japan, Mexico, ECW… You've left bodies in your wake. That's all well and good. But this—" Vince spread his arms wide, gesturing to his empire. "This is the WWF. We don't just put people in that ring because they're tough. You have to play by the rules."
Jaxon smirked. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it right there in Vince McMahon's office.
Bruce Prichard coughed. Jim Ross tensed.
Vince? He just watched.
Jaxon took a slow drag, then snuffed the cigarette out on Vince's desk. Never breaking eye contact.
"I don't play by rules, Vince. I break 'em."
The room fell silent.
Then, unexpectedly, Vince laughed. It was a deep, booming sound—genuine, but laced with something dangerous.
"I like you, kid," he admitted, leaning forward. "But let me make something clear. This is my company. I decide who makes it… and who fades into nothing."
Jaxon leaned in as well, resting his fists on the desk. His voice was low, steady.
"Then you better be ready to rewrite your script, old man."
Another pause.
Then Vince grinned. "Welcome to the WWF."
---
Monday Night Raw – Jaxon Cross's Debut
The arena was electric. The fans had no idea what was coming, but the moment the lights dimmed and the first thunderous guitar riff hit, they felt it.
A new presence.
A new threat.
Jaxon Cross stepped onto the stage, dressed in black trunks, wrist tape wrapped tightly around his fists. He didn't pose. He didn't soak in the cheers or boos. He just walked.
Straight to the ring.
His opponent? Savio Vega. A respected veteran, solid in the ring—but tonight, he was a sacrifice.
The bell rang.
Jaxon didn't waste time with tie-ups or technical exchanges. He rushed Savio, driving him into the corner with a stiff elbow to the jaw. The sound of bone against bone echoed through the arena.
Savio tried to fight back, landing a few chops—Jaxon tanked them like they were nothing. He grabbed Savio by the throat and slammed him against the turnbuckle, delivering brutal knees to the midsection.
The crowd gasped. This wasn't a match.
It was an execution.
Jaxon pulled Savio up, hooked both arms—Final Bell.
A high-impact powerbomb, lifted higher than necessary, held just long enough for the cameras to catch the pure fear on Savio's face before Jaxon drove him down.
The ring shook.
1… 2… 3.
Silence. Then—a roar from the crowd.
Jaxon stood over Savio's limp body. He rolled out of the ring, grabbed a cameraman, and dragged the lens close to his face.
His voice was low, almost a whisper.
"Your heroes aren't safe anymore."
Cut to black.