The Alliance Forged
Monday Night RAW opened not with music, not with the pyro that usually split the night open with energy, but with silence. A quiet tension gripped the arena. The screen stayed black. The commentary team didn't say a word.
Then, a slow pulse began to echo from the speakers — like a heartbeat.
The tron lit up with static.
And then, a symbol appeared.
The Broken Crown.
The crowd roared, anticipation exploding into electricity as three silhouettes emerged from different parts of the audience, each moving like a ghost through smoke. The camera couldn't catch them all at once — one slid over the barricade from the east entrance, another climbed down from the rafters, and the third came through the crowd dead center, directly under the hard cam.
Each wore the same black tactical hoodie, their faces shadowed, their movements calculated.
They entered the ring and stood still, shoulder to shoulder, unmoving. And then —
Jaxon Cross's music hit.
But it was different now. Slower. Darker. The outlaw twang gone, replaced by something thunderous and violent — a distorted guitar riff layered with industrial pulses.
The crowd exploded.
Jaxon stepped onto the stage, not in ring gear, not in merch, but in a black duster coat, taped fists, and eyes full of hellfire. He didn't soak it in. He didn't pose. He just marched to the ring, climbed the steps, and stepped through the ropes like a man coming home from war.
He took the mic. Let the noise fade just a little. Then spoke, low and deadly.
"You ever get stabbed in the back so hard… you forget what your name means?"
Silence.
"You ever fight a war thinking you've got brothers behind you, only to find out they were sharpening the knives?"
He looked directly into the hard cam.
"I did."
He turned slightly toward his crew. "So I found people who knew the same pain. Outcasts. Exiles. Warriors."
One by one, the figures dropped their hoods.
Kai Maddox — with a buzz cut, a scar down his cheek, and eyes like cold steel. A British submission technician with a chip on his shoulder and no respect for the old guard.
Talon Creed — massive, silent, his face emotionless. A mountain of a man with NCAA wrestling credentials and a dark past in underground fight circuits.
Saint — wiry, tattooed, his left eyebrow split from years of street fights and indie shows in basements and parking lots. The sky was his battlefield.
Jaxon stepped forward again.
"This isn't just a fight. This is a reckoning."
He pointed to the hard cam again. "You thought you could rewrite my story, Seth? Nah. I'm the author now. And I'm writing in blood."
The tron flashed again. One word in burning letters:
RECKONING.
---
The Architect Responds
Later in the night, Seth Rollins appeared — but it wasn't the Seth the crowd was used to.
Gone was the theatrical strut, the flamboyant fashion, the self-aggrandizing smirk. He wore all white: a tailored suit, pristine, holy, untouched. His face, however, was tight with irritation. The usual sparkle of arrogance was dimmed. His eyes were narrowed, sharp. A man feeling pressure.
He stood at the top of the ramp with a mic, flanked by his new backup — Finn Bálor and Damian Priest, both standing with arms crossed, silent, stoic.
"I should be angry right now," Seth said, his voice calm and composed. "I should be furious that he thinks he can just… walk out here, play messiah, and steal my spotlight."
He shook his head slowly. "But I'm not mad. I'm… proud. Proud that I inspired someone so deeply, so completely, that he had to become me to feel powerful."
He looked into the camera, that trademark smirk crawling back onto his face like a virus.
"You're not the first, Jaxon. Won't be the last. You're just another follower pretending he was born to lead."
The crowd booed.
Seth ignored it.
"You wanna build a kingdom on the ashes of mine? Be my guest. But understand this — kings don't fall to shadows. They cast them."
He snapped his fingers.
On cue, Finn and Priest flanked him tighter.
The camera panned in tight as Seth's voice dropped to a whisper.
"And we've already burned empires bigger than yours."
---
A Message in Violence
In the night's main event, Reckoning was scheduled in a surprise six-man tag against local competitors — clearly a warm-up.
But no one expected what happened.
As the bell rang, Talon Creed bulldozed the first opponent with a lariat that nearly decapitated him. Kai Maddox methodically picked apart the second with targeted joint locks, finishing with a kneebar that had to be broken by the ref. Saint — fluid, brutal, beautiful — springboarded across the ring with ease, flipping into a corkscrew DDT that left his opponent twitching.
And Jaxon?
Jaxon never tagged in.
He stood on the apron, eyes scanning the crowd, arms folded.
Watching.
Studying.
Planning.
After the match, the trio stood in the ring, victorious, the crowd chanting "RECKONING! RECKONING!"
Then the lights flickered.
Static.
The tron came alive again.
Jaxon's voice this time.
"This isn't revenge. It's revolution. You want to rule, Seth? You better prepare to bleed."
The lights cut out completely.
When they returned, something sat in the center of the ring:
A golden crown.
Cracked in half.
Drenched in blood.
---
A Shadow from the Past
The show wasn't over.
In the final seconds, as cameras cut to black, they caught one last glimpse — subtle, eerie, unexpected.
High in the rafters, where no spotlight reached, a figure stood. Arms folded. Unmoving.
Randy Orton.
Watching.
Waiting.
Calculating.
The Viper had seen betrayal before. Had caused it. Survived it.
But even he seemed unsure which side he was watching.
---
Backstage Fallout
Backstage, chaos was unfolding. Producers scrambled to figure out who approved the final segment. Security was tight. Rumors swirled — had Reckoning gone rogue? Was this sanctioned? Was Seth losing control?
Jaxon sat in the locker room, his trench coat hanging from a chair, his hands wrapped in fresh tape. The rest of Reckoning spoke in low tones. But Jaxon just stared at the ground, the weight of everything starting to settle.
Saint handed him a phone.
A new social media post.
From Seth Rollins.
One line.
"A King never fears a peasant revolt."
Jaxon stared for a moment, then smiled.
"He will."
---