A new year had dawned, bringing with it a new order to the XWF—a chosen future spun from the tangled threads of potentiality. One man, his hand reaching through the shadow of the void, had seized the very strings of the XWF and twisted them to fit his own designs.


One man…




One…




Nickleman.



Charlie leaned against the ringside barrier, blood streaking down his face, a grin curling across his lips as he heralded the ceremonial changing of the guard. The Prince stood alone in the ring, his shadow stretching further than ever before…but a greater power stood just outside the ring, cloaked in dark shadows, towering over the shoulder of her bastard father.

It was her.

She had been with him every step of the way. Her spectral, headless visage was a constant companion: a guiding presence that had pressed it’s bloodied hand upon his shoulder. Charlie thought he had severed all the strings that once bound him, yet here he stood, pulled onward by threads unseen. His eyes glowed with defiant pride as he turned back to face the phantom of a daughter long lost.

“I did it, sweetie…I did it all for you. Just like you asked…”

His voice was a mix of raw emotion and twisted satisfaction as he swung his legs over the ringside barrier. The ghostly image, slithering in the shadows of The Prince, had driven Charlie to shatter Sebastian’s empire and to quash Johnny’s self-serving revolution. Each brutal strike, every calculated move, had been fueled by her unwavering spirit.

As he stood in the wreckage of a failed empire, Charlie Nickles glimpsed not only redemption, but vengeance. He was no longer a mere mortal bound by his own humanity, but rather, a willing tool for a specter bound by loss and rage. The new order Charlie sought for the XWF was never about rebuilding: it was about reclamation. It was about reclaiming what had been stolen, about defying the dead weight of legacy and carving out a reign from the bones of the forgotten.

With drying blood caked into the wrinkles on his face, Charlie began the long walk back up the ramp. Some fans hurled insults, screaming venom as he strolled past, while others begged for autographs like starved animals. But Charlie didn’t flinch, he didn’t even glance their way. Their approval, their disgust, it was all meaningless to him now. These days, he cared only for the approval of the wraith- and tonight he had earned it tenfold. He had forced Tatiana Jolee to reckon with her past, forced her to swallow her words, and forced her to confront the ghost. Going further, he had set James Shark on a path of salvation, freeing him from the confines of championship wrestling and allowing him to focus on his family.

The Empire, The Revolution, The Family, The Past: all had been accounted for on this night. All had been made to bow. The ghost slithered behind Charlie as he ascended the ramp, her presence a dark, satisfied hum in his ear. She whispered praises, her cold fingers brushing against his shoulders like a twisted embrace. But beneath it all, in the back of his mind, Charlie could feel a gnawing hunger- her insatiable craving for more.

The empire had fallen, and the revolution had failed, but in their place something far darker was stirring. An era not of champions, but of ghosts, of the dead who would not rest. Charlie could feel the cold grip of the past pulling him to Prince Adeyemi’s side, guiding him toward a future where the forgotten would rise again—not as mere memories, but as forces of reckoning.

The dead did not forget.

And neither would The Nickleman.

The girl with the dead father, and the father with the dead girl.

Fuck it, our story just writes itself, doesn’t it, Gorgeous Gorg’? Or so one would think…but darling, I have better things to do with my time than share the ring with you. The next chapter of my story begins with the Ides of March, and frankly, I can’t even call you a stepping stone. You haven’t done anything to deserve my attention, least alone my rage. Thaddeus Duke may have convinced himself that being gay and inheriting billions qualifies you for the ring, but honey he’s the exception: you’re the rule.

The little preshow scuffle you won may -qualify- you for this match, but it can’t -prepare- you for this match. Sweetheart, you’re struggling to face your own demons: how could you ever defeat mine? I’ve been on this earth for a long time. In that time, I’ve done things that would make your  ‘ Other Me’s ’ skin crawl. Back in the day, I used to beat young broads like you so fucking silly that they were leaving the XWF in droves: all on gurneys! Just ask Betsy, ask Lycana, ask Cowgirl Caedus…if you can find them!

The things I’ve done to ‘Other’ women like you…but that’s all in the past now, honey, I swear it. Just be good girls for me inside that ring, and I’ll let both versions of you go home with your heads attached. It’s only 15 minutes, just ride it out and don’t try too hard to fight back. Just let me have this match. I need it. Don’t you girls realize? This match is about something far greater than either of you can ever achieve: our match is the prelude to the rise of an era.

An era where ghosts will rule, where the forgotten will return to claim what should’ve been theirs. In this new era, I will carve my legacy not in gold, but in blood, and the spirits you thought lost will haunt my every victory.

This is the rise of an era of shadows.

There will be no ‘Other’ era.

You girls have your little list, and I’m not on it. You and me, darlings? We’re just two ships passing in the sea. Don’t try to make this match anything else. I’m warning you, girls. Don’t let your dreams get in the way of my reality- or I’m gonna have another dead daughter on my hands.

The backstage hallways stretched long and dark, twisting like the veins of some long forgotten creature. Faint footsteps bounced off the cold concrete walls, the dim flicker of overhead lights casting shadows that seemed to dance with the sound. Somewhere deep within these hollow guts lay Sarah Wolf, unaware of the eyes that trailed her every breath.

Charlie Nickles watched from the shadows, his breath shallow, his pulse a relentless thrum. His TV Title gleamed faintly under his coat, but it felt heavier now, burdened not by his victories but by her—always by her.

Behind him, she slithered through the shadows. Her presence weighed down the air, headless and gnarled, her ghostly form hovering just beyond the edge of his sight, never fully there but never fully gone. Charlie felt the icy press of her fingers against his back, pushing him forward, guiding him.

"Hazlo, padre. ¡Hazlo por mí!"

Her voiceless whisper, soft yet jagged, cut into his mind like shards of broken glass. The shadows shifted around him, clinging to him like a second skin, warping with every step he took through the dimly lit hallway. Sarah was there, waiting. She was so close.

The X-treme Champion lay atop a pile of wrestling mats, her body relaxed, her breathing slow and rhythmic. She was unaware, unafraid. She thought she was always ready for a fight, always prepared for bloodshed...but here she was, sound asleep. Just another victim of the hunt. Mere prey for the shadows.

"¡Poder ilimitado, a través de ti! Todo lo que me negaron, todo lo que me robaste. ¡Devuélvemelo, papá! ¡Dámelo!"

He felt her hunger gnawing at his insides, her desire coursing through his veins like poison. It wasn't his will anymore. It hadn’t been for a long time. He was merely the vessel, the tool she used to take what she could never have in life. Power. Acclaim. Glory. All through him.

Charlie moved swiftly, silently, like a predator born of the darkness itself. He crept up to the champion, his shadow stretching out over her like a living nosferatu. His pulse quickened, the rhythm of his daughter’s voice pounding in his head like a drumbeat. He loomed over Sarah now, standing still for just a moment, watching the rise and fall of her chest, the way her lips parted slightly with each breath.

"Hazlo, papá. Tómalo ahora. Por mí."

Sarah stirred, her eyes fluttering open in confused alarm, but it was too late. His weight was on her, pinning her in place. Sarah gasped as his daughter’s laughter—twisted and hollow—filled the space between them. He could feel the darkness pulsing through his fingertips, feel the cold tendrils of her spirit coiling around his limbs, controlling his every move.

For a heartbeat, it seemed as if he would go further. As if the darkness within him—within her—would demand more than just a pin, would demand blood, sacrifice, something far more permanent. His grip tightened, his breath hot and ragged against Sarah's skin as his eyes glazed over, lost to the call of the void.

"Acaba con esto, papá. Tómalo todo. Nadie puede detenernos. Nadie puede detenerte."

But then, just as quickly as it had begun, it ended. Charlie’s body jolted, the tension in his muscles released as if the strings controlling him had been cut. His grip slackened, and instead of delivering a killing blow, he simply held her shoulders to the ground.

One!


Two!


Three!

Charlie said nothing as he slithered away with both the X-treme and TV championship belts, the shadows swallowing him whole once more. He was one with the darkness. It tormented him, but it was all he had left. All he needed.

As Sarah sat up, shaken and bewildered, the backstage hallway was once again silent. But somewhere, deep within the shadows, Charlie and the ghost of his daughter lingered, waiting for the next moment to strike.

The dead had no rest.

And neither would The Nickleman.

Charlie did it again.

How’s that old saying go? ‘If a wolf had a hammock, it wouldn't bother chasing the moon’. And you know what that means, right Sarah? Your dog days of summer are over: you just got put out to pasture. I guess you should’ve TRIAD a little harder as the X-treme champion, huh bitch?

Truth be told, Sarah: I never liked you. I think you’re lazy and entitled. You're not creative, you're not an innovator: you're a regurgitator, a human trash compactor that simply recycles the same tired tropes over and over again. Your entire act has been played out for years at this point. If you and Yelena switched bodies, I don’t think anyone would notice. The whole ‘crazy hot girl who’s not actually that crazy and not actually hot’ shtick gets old quick. Give me five minutes and I can find a dozen women in this industry who do exactly what you do, but better. Hell, some of them are even in your own stable! If you wake up from your nap in time for Warfare, I'll have you fading back to Black in no time flat.

And Scoops, buddy- I thought we already went through this? I spared you last time. I gave you a chance nobody ever gave me: I gave you the chance to walk away from it all. I wish someone had given me the chance to ride my horse out of town after putting on an all-time classic match...but you think you’re too good for that, don’t you? I held back, I could’ve taken your head off with that chair shot after the bell, but I considered you my equal…I gave you the mercy I wished someone had given me…but here you are, back for more.

Do you think you’re better than me, Scoops?

I'll show everyone what happens when you turn your nose up at The Nickleman's mercy. I gave you the chance to walk away, remember that Scoops, when I'm taking decades off your life inside that ring. I hope you'll remember that it didn't have to be like this, when you're laying there in that hospital bed, pissing shit and shitting blood.

I told you that you were just dog number one, Scoops…and this time, I’m not going to content myself with putting you in the pound.

I’m going to put you down. 

You see, ever since my return to the ring this has all just been one sick and twisted game to me. I like to spit in the face of Geppetto, and make his puppets dance the way I want- the way I like them to! Fucking up cards, ruining long-term storylines, involving myself whenever and wherever I choose: this is all just part of the fun. This is how I show you puppets that I pull the strings. And in this sick new game you’re all playing, only one of you puppets has excelled: oh my precious little Game Girl.

She knows her part and she plays it well.

Always coming with the entertainment value, and never leaving the show with anything of value! A true crowd pleaser, and a complete non-threat to my ascension.

She completely failed as a war games leader, blowing it with team selection AND in-ring performance, making it even easier for me and Adeyemi to sweep in for the victory. She’s a joke, she’s good fun for the kids, and in another time and at another place she could hold either one of these belts: but not here, not now. Not in my new world where grit and bones matter more than joysticks and triggers. In my new era of the XWF, these belts are far too important to be wasted on a running, gaming gag.

And Lucy Wylde you sweet, sweet summer child…you shouldn’t even be here. I don’t even know what foul mannered miscreant placed your name into the hat for this match, but you’re too sweet for this. You shouldn’t have to see what I’m going to do to these people on Warfare. Maybe if you stay out of my way, I won’t have to hurt you…but if you stand between me and what I want, you’re not going to walk out of the ring on Warfare.

You’ll be taking the gurney, bitch.

You're not in the tag-team division anymore, sweetheart. You don't have a partner to watch your back, you don't have anymore coattails to ride. You are being thrown pussy-first into the firing squad, and frankly, I'm starting to grow concerned that you may cost me my titles. If any of these beasts of burden manage to pin you, everything I worked so hard to build will come crumbling down...

Oh, my sweet dearest Lucy, I'm starting to fear that our paths may be destined to cross come Warfare. You present a risk to me, to my reign, to my impending legacy...not a threat, mind you- but a risk. I'm starting to think that if I don't hurt you on Monday night, someone else will, and they'll walk away with everything I have...

Oh, my sweet dearest Lucy, I think I've made up my mind...

I think I'm going to target you first.

The cemetery was bathed in cold moonlight, shrouded in a thick, oppressive fog that clung to the ground like it was trying to swallow the earth. Rows of crumbling gravestones stood crooked and askew, half-forgotten relics of lives long lived. The wind rustled dead leaves across the frozen dirt, creating a sound that reminded Charlie of whispers, faint and maddening. He stood in front of a gravestone, his knees trembling, though he couldn't feel the chill biting at his bones anymore. It wasn’t the cold that had him frozen in place.

It was her.

She stood behind him, as she always did. His daughter. Her voice, once faint and distant, now rang out clear and sharp in his ear, as if the cemetery itself amplified her presence.

"It's not enough. Not yet."

Charlie clenched both belts on his shoulders. They felt heavier than they had any right to be—the X-treme Title on one, the TV Title on the other. He hadn’t defended either yet. The weight of expectation and the weight of the gold felt like it was dragging him into the dirt beneath his feet, the same dirt that covered his daughter's headless corpse.

“You’ve failed, but you can still fix it.”

His breath came in shallow bursts, his chest tight. The cemetery felt alive, the fog creeping closer with each second, like it had a will of its own. Shadows, dark and amorphous, danced at the periphery of Charlie’s vision, twisting and stretching. They moved with the wind, but there was no pattern to their sway—no rhythm except for the pulsing drumbeat inside his head. Charlie winced at the sound, but it wouldn't stop. It never did. It followed him everywhere now. He couldn’t remember if the drumbeat had always been there, but it felt like a second heart, one that belonged to someone else. Or something else. The shadows twitched and recoiled in time with the beat, as though they were puppets on invisible strings.

Just like him.

"The Ides of March are coming. You need to win it. All of it. For me."

Her voice was sweet, almost soothing, but it carried the weight of all his failures.

"You need to do what's never been done before, remind them of what I was destined to be."

Charlie’s heart hammered against his ribcage. He could hear the echo of the crowd—no, it was in his head again. There were no crowds here, no arenas. Only gravestones and fog. He shut his eyes, but it didn’t matter. She was still there, in the fog, in the shadows, inside him.

“They’re going to try to take everything from you, like you took everything from me.”

She whispered, stepping closer. The fog seemed to rise with her, swallowing everything else. He could feel her breath on his neck, cold and bitter.

“You can’t let them. You have to win. You stole my dreams, but you can still give me something in return.”

Charlie’s hands tightened around the belts, his knuckles white, tendons straining under the skin. The drumbeat pounded louder now. He couldn’t escape it. He couldn't stop it. He couldn’t think past it.

“You can give me a legacy.”

Her voice was full of promise, but it was a twisted kind of hope—one soaked in blood and broken bones.

“You can give me everything. Every victory, every title. Do it for me. Because I can't do it for myself.”

The fog thickened again, and the gravestones started to fade from view, swallowed by the night. His daughter’s ghost was barely visible now, just a silhouette against the swirling mist. But her voice was as clear as ever, sharp and cutting through the haze like broken glass. Then the shadows shifted again, their shapes distorting into jagged figures, looming larger and darker. They moved with that same unnatural rhythm, jerking with every beat of the drum inside Charlie’s skull.

He could hear them whispering now. The voices of the shadows blended with the wind, murmuring things he couldn't understand, things he didn't want to. This isn’t real. That thought flitted through his mind, quick and fleeting, but then it was gone—drowned out by the ghost, by the beat, by the weight of the belts on his shoulders.

Charlie blinked hard, his vision clearing as the shadows dissolved into the fog. His daughter was gone, leaving only the biting chill in the air. He looked down at the gravestone, realizing with a sudden fright that he wasn’t even at her grave—it was a random cemetery near the arena, just another cold, forgotten plot. For a fleeting moment, the stone was blank, frost covering its surface. There was no name. No memories.

But then the fog curled around it again, and her name was there, unmistakable, etched deep into the stone like time immemorial.

‘Robyn Gonzalez’

“Do it for me.”

Her voice echoed in his head, softer now, fading.

“Make them remember.”

Charlie’s hands trembled as he gripped the belts tighter, his body feeling like it was being pulled in a thousand different directions. The shadows shifted once more, and for a second, he could see the strings—thin, invisible, tied to his wrists and ankles, pulling him along the path that wasn't his to walk. Charlie felt the strings suddenly tighten, pulling him towards her will, forcing him to submit to the wraith. He had to be stronger, bloodier, relentless. He had to hold onto both belts, defend them in the same night, and carve his legacy into the bones of the XWF. This wasn’t just about victory—it was about making history in her name, it was about making them remember what she could’ve been.

Charlie would do it for her. He had to. The Ides of March were coming, and he would stand tall at its end, with the X-treme and TV Titles still draped across his shoulders. He would make them see, make them suffer, and burn his name, her name, their names into the XWF forever.

The Nickleman resolved to use Warfare as a brutal reminder, as a warning etched in pain and blood. With every opponent he crushed, he would force the XWF to fear what was coming.

He would make them beware the Ides of March.

May the Lord have mercy on your souls, because when those stage lights come on, I’ll have none to spare. You only have yourselves to blame for the misery, for the pain. They won’t even remember your suffering inside that ring. Those fiends in the crowd will cheer as your bones are ripped from your sockets, and in one month’s time, they won’t even remember your name.

The Ides of March are coming, and with them, all of your legacies will be washed away. A new era is upon you, born in blood, purified in her image.

Come Warfare, I’m not taking prisoners, and I’m not even taking names. Come Warfare, if you stand between me and victory, you will die nameless.

I welcome your resistance. I hope it’s vigorous, fierce, unrelenting. I hope you torment me inside that ring, I need it. Every punch you deliver only brings me closer to her. With every blow from a chair, I can see her image more clearly.

For the weak among us, two matches in one night could be devastating. But for me? I think it’s a distinct advantage. If Yelena can bleed me like a stuffed pig, maybe her spirit will fill my soul to replace what was lost. If Yelena can gift me with a crimson mask, then I’ll be able to see her guiding hand even more clearly. And if she can’t, well…then I may just have to pick a few more fights in between my sanctioned bouts!

There is nothing any of you can do to stop the spinning wheels of time. They were once believed to always roll forward, but come Monday night, you will witness a miracle born in blood. On Warfare, the wheels of time will begin to roll backwards as I sacrifice each and every one of you upon the altar of the long lost. Your screams of torment will fill the air as you are forced to confront a ghost in the flesh. A new era is upon us, and your bodies will pave the pathway forward.

Your sacrifices will not be remembered, but hers will be.

And you will never again forget…

The Ides of March.