Havok, forehead covered in dried blood and a large bandage, leans against the crunched-up hood of the same Impala from The Iron Way. The ICW Television Title hangs crooked over his shoulder, tow chain over the other. His voice is hoarse but defiant.

Jack Havok:
 “You all saw it. Cars crumpled. Glass shattered. Blood poured. And through it all, I laughed. Because pain doesn’t scare me — pain is my language.

Clovis? He was supposed to be the immovable object. The monster. The freight train from Kansas City. But in Birmingham, on the asphalt, under the yellow lamps? I broke that engine down and left it smoking.

Now this right here—” he yanks the TV title off his shoulder, holding it up, blood still smudged on the plate
 “—This belt ain’t shiny. It’s baptized in glass, asphalt, and my blood. It don’t belong to the pretty boys, it don’t belong to the trust fund brats, and it damn sure don’t belong to anyone who thinks wrestling is about wristlocks and respect. This belt belongs to the ones who bleed for it. And that means it belongs to me.

So listen close. The Outlaw don’t clock out. You put a contract in front of me, I’ll sign it in blood. You park another monster in my lot, I’ll put him through a windshield. You think you can stop me? Cry Havoc… and let slip the dawgs of war!”

Havok drapes the belt back over his shoulder, chain rattling as he stalks out of frame. The camera lingers on the wrecked Impala before fading to black.