The shot opens in a dingy motel room, the kind where the neon sign outside flickers through half-closed blinds. Sammy Starr is standing in front of a cracked mirror, still in his sequined robe, hair wet with sweat. He adjusts the collar, smirks at his reflection, and finally turns toward the camera that’s been recording the whole time.

Sammy Starr:
“Let’s get one thing straight, right now. The name ‘Superstar’ doesn’t belong to Jesse Collins. It doesn’t belong to Rich Mahogany. It sure as hell doesn’t belong to any of you in the cheap seats chanting for your little Iron Kid.”

He jabs a finger into the lens, almost knocking it out of focus.

Sammy Starr:
“It belongs to me. Superstar Sammy Starr. Because when the lights hit, when the bell rings, and when the ref’s hand slaps that mat, who’s standing tall? Who’s arm gets raised? Not Jesse. Not your plucky little underdog. ME.”

Sammy pulls a crumpled handful of dollar bills out of his boot, tosses them onto the stained bedspread, and grins like it’s championship gold.

Sammy Starr:
“Wins, baby. That’s what makes a Superstar. Doesn’t matter how. Doesn’t matter if I pull tights, grab ropes, or break your leg on the way down. The record books don’t print excuses — they print winners. And that’s all I do.”

He leans close, lowering his voice into a mocking whisper.

Sammy Starr:
“Sorry, Jesse. You might’ve had your fifteen minutes last week. But tonight? I cashed out your clock. And as far as Iron City goes? You’re just another face in the crowd… while I’m the name on the marquee.”

Sammy throws the robe over his shoulder and struts out of frame, humming a cheesy self-made tune: “Super-star, super-star…” until the door slams shut.