Up.

Hospital.

You know the deal.

The shot's shaky, like somebody snuck their phone in. Eric Dane, Jr. sits on the bed in a hoodie, bandages peeking out underneath. An IV stand hovers next to him, the sound machines humming is maddening. Junior's leg bounces, restless.

ERIC DANE JR.
So that’s what we’re on now? Grief-posting like some washed-up MySpace boomer fishing for sympathy reacts?

He shifts forward, wincing, then smirks.

ERIC DANE JR.
Your girl bit the dirt, and suddenly the whole wrestling world’s supposed to stop and cry with you for three years? My dude, that’s not menace—that’s trauma-dumping. And newsflash: nobody asked. Nobody cares. That’s your L to hold.

Seriously bro, nobody cares. Especially not me.

He forces himself up, shoulders back, despite the limp.

ERIC DANE JR.
You think losing somebody makes you dangerous? Nah, Ross—it just made you sloppy. Emotional. And emotional wrestlers? They botch.

Junior grabs his dad’s sequined robe off the chair, the move is clearly painful. He throws it on with deliberate defiance, then glares back into the lens.

ERIC DANE JR.
Yeah, you put me here. Big congrats, old head. You want a participation ribbon for “almost career-ending injury of the year”? What are you, new? Every legend in this game’s put someone in the hospital. Difference is, they did it with actual skill. You did it ‘cause you’re desperate, misdirected, and low-key mid. AF.

He rips the monitors off his chest. The flatline beep fills the room. He yanks out the IV and laughs under his breath.

ERIC DANE JR.
You hit me with everything—every grief-powered haymaker, every “my life sucks” knee, every ounce of that boomer meltdown energy—and I’m still here.
Still breathing. Still standing. Still Eric Dane, Jr.

Eric storms out into the hall, stride getting stronger. The camera jogs to keep up.

ERIC DANE JR.
See, you wanted to drag me down into your pit. Make me feel what you feel. But all you showed me is you’re washed, you’re bitter, and you’re hiding behind your sad little lore dump.

He reaches the exit doors, sunlight flooding in. He drops his hospital bracelet on the floor like it’s beneath him.

ERIC DANE JR.
You brag about having nothing left to lose? That’s not scary, Ross—that’s just sad. Me? I got everything to prove.

He turns, staring heat-seeking missiles through the camera.

ERIC DANE JR.
So next time you see me? It’s on sight, my guy. No promo, no hotdog and a handshake, no waiting. You breathe the same air as me, you’re catching hands.

Deadass.

The Crown Prince shoves the doors open, walking into the bright light. The camera holds on the bracelet, the flatline beep echoing before cutting to black.