Two up and coming superstars battle for a title shot!

2x Maximum Promos, 2k Word Limit

The screen fades from black. A low bass hum underscores a chaotic mix of black-and-white training footage, flashes of steel chairs, ropes snapping under tension, and the unmistakable voice of KD Feigel. Suddenly, color slams into the frame as “Kid Kaos” bursts into view—backstage, drenched in sweat, fists wrapped, eyes wild with focus. The camera pulls in tight as he starts to speak, pacing like a wolf in a cage.

KD FEIGEL (voiceover, then live):
"You ever get tired of carrying the weight for everybody else? Of being the guy who shows up every single time while other people... other people just coast?"

He stops. Looks dead into the lens.

"Yeah. I’m talkin’ to you, Medico Muerte."

KD smirks and shakes his head slowly.

"You see, for weeks now I’ve been out here grindin'. Match after match, name after name, whether it’s the lowest rung of the ladder or somebody with a Twitter blue check and a five-year contract. Doesn’t matter. I go hard. I bring that Kaos every time the bell rings. Because this—this ain’t a game to me. This is my life. This is my everything."

"But what about you, Medico?"

He holds his arms out mockingly.

"What exactly have you done since showing up in AWS? Huh? Where have you been? More importantly, what have you proved? ‘Cause if this company’s about rising through the ranks—earning your spot—then how the hell did you even get your name on the list for a Next-LVL Title opportunity?"

"You wanna be the future of this place, but you haven’t even proven you belong in the present."

Cut to footage of Medico Muerte in past matches—sloppy footwork, slow tags, moments of hesitation. The feed flickers, then cuts back to KD, who’s now sitting on a metal equipment trunk, hands folded, elbows on his knees.

"Now, I’ve heard people backstage try to gas you up. They say, 'Oh, Medico’s a legend in Mexico,' or, 'He’s got ring IQ,' or some crap about 'mystique.' But lemme tell you something, mystique don’t mean a damn thing when you’re gettin’ planted face-first into the mat. Reputation means jack when you’re starin’ up at the lights, wondering what just hit you."

He smirks again, a bit more malicious now.

"And what’s gonna hit you, Medico... is me."

"See, Tuesday night? It ain’t just another night on the schedule for me. This is the kind of night I live for. Stakes are up. Spotlight’s on. And the opportunity—my opportunity—for the AWS Next-LVL Championship is hangin’ right there, ripe for the takin'. But you? You’re just a stepping stone, bro. You’re just another test, another speed bump that thinks he’s a roadblock. And when I put you down—and I will put you down—maybe then people’ll stop pretending like you’re on my level."

He stands up, the camera tracking him as he walks down the hallway toward the ring entrance, breathing heavy, fire in his voice.

"I hope you actually show up this time, Muerte. I really do. Because if you’re comin’ in half-asleep, thinkin’ this is gonna be some slow, mat-based clinic, you’re dead wrong. This ain’t the lucha libre circuit. This is AWS. This is where we fight until the air leaves your lungs and the crowd’s on their damn feet beggin’ for more. And you? You better bring everything you got, man."

"You better bring your footwork. You better bring your strikes. Bring that Mexican pride, bring that family legacy, bring that mask and all the spirit behind it. Bring your A-game—hell, bring your whole alphabet—’cause Kid Kaos ain’t takin’ this night lightly."

He stops at the curtain. The hum of the crowd beyond it is deafening now. KD turns toward the camera one more time.

"Look, I don’t care who’s watchin'. I don’t care if it’s the suits in the back or the kids in the front row. I don’t care if the champ himself is out there, takin' notes. Because all I know is this: Every single night, I fight like I’ve got everything to prove. Because I do. I’m not some golden boy. I’m not management’s pet. I’m a self-made storm. And tonight? Tonight I turn Medico Muerte into a human message."

"A message to the rest of the AWS locker room."

"A message to the champ."

A beat. KD’s voice lowers—firm, cold.

"A message that Kid Kaos doesn’t get overlooked. He gets his shot. And when he gets it... he takes it."

The screen fades to black again. But the promo isn’t over. We cut to the ring. It’s empty, dimly lit. KD Feigel now stands center stage, mic in hand, fans cheering. He paces slowly as he begins speaking again—this time with more controlled intensity, more venom.

KD FEIGEL (in-ring):
“You know what makes me laugh, AWS? The way people act like opportunity is something they’re owed. Like it’s something that just comes to you if you hang around long enough. You know, just survive a few matches, shake a few hands, keep your mouth shut—and boom, here’s your title shot!"

He chuckles, shaking his head.

"Nah, man. That ain’t how this works. That ain’t how any of this works. See, I didn’t come up the easy way. I wasn’t trained in some fancy dojo. I didn’t have a legend for a father, and I damn sure didn’t have people throwing me chances."

"I earned my name. I earned this crowd. And I earned the respect of every single person who’s ever stepped into that ring with me."

He points to the stage.

"And Medico Muerte? He walks in like he’s already made. Like his name alone deserves the spotlight. But here’s the thing, man—you ain’t made. Not here. Not yet. And when we lock up, I’m gonna show you just how far you’ve got to go."

"You wanna wear that mask and play the part of the silent assassin? Cool. But when I beat you clean in the middle of that ring, there ain’t gonna be any mystery left. No more hype. No more illusions. Just facts. And the fact is this—"

He stabs his finger into the mat.

"—Kid Kaos is the one who’s earned this shot. And I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let some half-committed import slide into my lane and take what I’ve bled for."

He walks to the ropes, leans forward over them, locking eyes with the camera.

"I’m not just gonna beat you, Medico. I’m gonna expose you. I’m gonna rip the mystique off your legacy, and I’m gonna show the world exactly why I am the next AWS Next-LVL Champion."

"And you?"

He grins again, wicked and wild.

"You’re just chapter one in a brand-new story of chaos."

The crowd pops as KD Feigel drops the mic, climbing the ropes to stare out at the imaginary opponent and crowd. His music hits—fast, aggressive, loud. But his face never loses focus. He knows what's at stake. And he’s ready.

---

KD FEIGEL. MEDICO MUERTE. AWS TUESDAY NIGHT ASSAULT.
WINNER GETS A SHOT AT THE AWS NEXT-LVL CHAMPIONSHIP.

Only one walks out with destiny on their side.

Inside an operating room somewhere, a lonely scalpel, illuminated by an overhead spotlight, lays atop Mayo tray draped all in blue.

Medico Muerte steps next to the tray. He picks up the scalpel and examines it.

“A fresh 10 blade.”

He draws the blade against his gloved finger.

“It’s sharp, shiny, and does its job quickly and efficiently: it gets under the skin.”

“Every surgery starts with the blade. Without it you’d get nowhere in your operation. Imagine trying to bypass a blocked carotid, or birthing a child whose head was stuck in the mother’s pelvis.”

“You just can’t do it without a blade.”

Medico gently drops the scalpel back onto the tray and steps away into the darkness before the spotlight turns off.

A second spotlight appears, shining down over Medico, whose deep cyan eyes that hide behind his black leather mask stares down at the floor.

“Every opponent I face is akin to a new operation. Each time the bell rings is like the start of my procedure. And what do I do?”

Medico slightly cocks his head.

“I draw that 10 blade on my opponent until I get to where I need to be successful.”

“Just like what I’m going to do to you.”

Medico shifts his focus directly into the camera.

“KD Feigel. The son of the Asylum president and second generation wrestler. Your reputation precedes you. For years now you’ve been admitted in the asylum, plying your trade for gold and glory above all else… but what do you have to show for it?”

The camera slowly begins zooming in.

“On Tuesday Night Assault I am going to show Asylum and all the lunatics exactly what I am all about when perform my first ‘operation—’”

Medico’s eyes flicker as he points at the camera.

“On you.”

“Take a good look at me, Feigel. This is what a true professional looks like. The mask— the gloves— the tights. I want you to remember me as the last thing you see before going under, because what you and the lunatics out there will quickly realize is that I don’t play. I’m quick, I’m sharp, and I’m to the point. And speaking of points, I hope your ‘blade’ hasn’t dulled from all your work over the past three years here… because a dull blade won’t cut. That’s why I sharpen mine after each and every performance. And when I perform on you, KD—”

Something shine’s off Medico’s eyes.

“I’ll make sure you properly go under the knife.

Medico holds the scalpel up in front of his face for a close up into the camera.

“This 10 blade signifies the start of Medico Muerte’s run here in Asylum. And when I come face to face with your stagnant ass in the ring I’m going to do what I need to do to succeed…”

“And if that means bypassing you like the clogged carotid you are for a shot at the NXT-LVL title, or just straight up cutting you out of mommy and daddy’s incubator like the entitled brat you are…”

“So be it.”

Medico reaches up and pulls the spotlight right above his head.

“Tengo tu remedio, Feigel. And at Tuesday Night Assault you have an appointment with me to receive it.”

Click.

Lights out.