Drake Nygma versus Daron Smythe versus Ethan Murphy

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Triple Jeopardy Elimination Match

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Three of the last AWS World Champions face off for bragging rights and title shots.
1st Elimination - Becomes the AWS Television Champion.
2nd Elimination - Becomes the AWS American Champion.
Winner - Challenges for the AWS Pinnacle Heavyweight Championship at a future date.

View full promo

Ethan is ready to make things right!

Uncoiling: Chapter One

The honeymoon period is the part at the beginning of something new - usually a relationship, sometimes a new job, a new city, a new friendship - where everything feels brighter, easier, and more “meant to be” than it usually will later.

It isn’t fake. It’s just filtered.

You’re running on novelty and adrenaline. Your brain is basically throwing a little parade every time you see them: you notice their laugh more than their flaws, their texts feel like a reward, their attention feels like confirmation that you’re wanted. Even ordinary moments - getting coffee, sitting in a car, walking through Target - feel like scenes from a movie because the meaning is new. You’re not just buying groceries; you’re building “us.”

During that stretch, you tend to fill in blanks with the best possible version of the story. If they’re quiet for a few hours, you assume they’re busy - not distant. If they’re a little messy, it’s “cute” or “human,” not “a pattern.” You’re generous with interpretations because you don’t yet have enough history to make the skeptical interpretation feel necessary. You’re also showing your best self, sometimes without realizing it - more patient, more flexible, more willing to try their music, their shows, their food, their friends. You want to be impressed by them, and you want to impress them back.

Communication often feels effortless, but part of that is because you’re both motivated. You’re both leaning in. You’re both “editing” yourselves just a bit. Not in a dishonest way - more like you’re presenting the highlight reel because you’re still deciding if this is a safe place to show the unpolished parts. There’s a lot of reassurance without even needing to ask for it: they respond quickly, they make time, they seem curious about you, they’re careful with your feelings. Conflict is rare, and if it does happen, it gets smoothed over fast because neither person wants the newness to crack.

The chemistry can feel intense, almost like you’re slightly obsessed - in a happy way. You think about them while doing other things. Your mood lifts when they reach out. Plans feel exciting, and the future starts showing up early: trips you could take, holidays you could spend together, little inside jokes that feel like a secret language forming in real time. Even their imperfections can feel like proof they’re “real,” and you can feel proud of how easy it is to accept them.

But underneath all the glow, what’s really happening is simple: you haven’t hit friction yet. Real life hasn’t fully moved in. You haven’t had enough “ordinary” days, enough disappointments, enough moments where stress, fatigue, money, family, insecurity, or miscommunication tests the connection. The honeymoon period is what it looks like when two people are mostly meeting each other in good conditions - plenty of energy, plenty of attention, plenty of hope.

Eventually, it shifts. Not necessarily into something worse - just something truer. The novelty fades. The texting rhythm becomes normal. The “movie moments” become regular life. That’s when you start seeing patterns instead of highlights, and you learn whether the connection has depth: Can you feel safe when it’s not exciting? Can you repair when things go wrong? Can you be yourself when you’re not performing your best self?

The healthiest way to think of the honeymoon period is: it’s the spark and the bloom. It shows you what’s possible between you. But it’s not the whole relationship - it’s the beginning chapter, written in fresh ink, before the pages get smudged by everyday hands.

How does that apply to our current situation? Nearly two years ago, AWS Owner Charlie Feigel pursued #1 Daron Smythe. Aggressively. Daron should have been more intune with this situation. What promoter doesn't make empty promises? What promoter doesn't tell you everything you want to hear?

To be fair, for several months, this worked. In fact, it worked really well. An agreement was made on a set number of dates. In short order, it was clear that Daron was needed on many more events than originally asked. Instead of being an attraction, someone that would appear some of the time, Daron became the day-to-day workhorse, the person that showed up no matter the city, venue, or opponent. The person who showed up for every show no matter the circumstances. Whether or not the opponent gave their full effort. And, in fact, even if they gave what they perceived as their "best effort", they were so unaware of the situation, they were upset.

And now? A special stipulation match. A match that was supposed to be between the last four world champions here in AWS. A match that's already been altered. Why? Who knows? But, Daron is going to be the true soldier, marching on no matter the circumstances. Delivering while everyone else provides excuses. Giving their best effort when everyone else finds a reason not to. Being the true representative of the company. When you stop and think about it - isn't it crazy how much people complain? How often people wait for things to be perfectly perfect in order to give their best efforts? Even more insane, how many times are those same people rewarded? It's been said that the squeaky wheel gets the greasing - but while? Why feed into the same apparatus that is never going to be happy? The same one that is going to always find a way to complain about the way things are?

The scene fades into Daron Smythe's waterfront apartment. The same one that overlooks the Ohio River, normally a peaceful overlook, but today a simple distraction from the chaos that Daron is about to walk into. It's quiet. Painfully quiet. A large white board stands with the simple phrase written on it - ELIMINATION ORDER = CONTROL. Daron looks at the board and sighs before addressing the camera...

DARON: When I first came to this company, I signed that contract thinking that I had agreed to so many things - so many opporunities. I didn't want anything handed to me, but I wanted to assured that if I was to put in the proper effort, I would be rewarded appropriately for what I did. At first, that's exactly what happened. No matter what I was booked for, I showed up. I put in the full effort, interviews, media appearances, backstage interviews, segments. No matter what, I went above and beyond. I did way more than what I was asked and delivered more than enough every single time.

And for 2024? That worked really well for me. I was able to climb to the top of the mountain in this company, all titles leading to the top title, the world championship. I was happy to meet every obligation, to go above and beyond.

But in 2025? None of that seemed to matter. I was going above and beyond but none of the opportunities came my way. I was passed by. Overlooked. I intend to change that in 2026.

We cut to a small training room - old canvas, free weights, a single heavy bag swaying side to side aftre a recent workout. No sound, just the sound of completed movement and heavy breathing in and out.

A small training room. Old canvas. Free weights. A heavy bag swaying slightly from a recent strike. No music. Just the sound of fabric stretching and breath moving in and out.

Daron sits on a bench, slowly wrapping his knee. Not dramatically. Not like he’s nursing a career-ending injury. Just the quiet ritual of a man who knows where the weaknesses are and addresses them before anyone else can.

DARON: I realize, that by showing everyone my morning routine, that it invites attention. It paints targets all over my body. To anyone that thinks it gives them an advantage? Bring it. I've been doing this since 1999 and at this point, I'm like that classic car. There are a lot of miles on me, but it still rides clean. In many ways, I'm the car AND the mechanic.

I know my body well - I know exactly how long I can sprint before my lungs burn. I know exactly how much torque this knee can take before it starts talking back. I know how my back feels in minute five… and in minute twenty-five. It's not a disvantage, it's information.

Daron gets up and starts working on a nearby heavy bag. Combinations. Nothing too fast, just... efficient.

DARON: I see that Eric Herrera has bowed out of this match and I have to say, I'm highly disappointed, but it's obvious, just like it was at the beginning of 2025, that whatever Eric wants, Eric gets, right? If there's a situation where he might lose, Eric just tugs on stepdad's shirt and gets things changed in his favor. Isn't that how it always is? Must be nice.

I think what frustrates me the most about it is this: when I was given the ball in late 2024 and early 2025, I made every single match, every single appearance. Any match, any place, any time. The model employee. No complaints, no nothing. And where did it get me? Opportunities going to others.

So, while I'm disappointed, I can't say I'm really surprised by this. I'll see you down the road, Eric. Eventually, I'll get that win - unless of course, you call Daddy up and asked to have things changed, again.

The setting shifts. A gym floor. Ethan Murphy running drills with a class. His voice animated. His movements sharp. The students are sweating, struggling, learning. Daron stands just outside the door, watching through the narrow window. There’s no jealousy there. Just assessment.

DARON: If there's anyone in this match that can possibly relate to how I feel, it's Ethan Murphy. A guy that has been faithful, loyal, dependable to the company just to be kept in limbo. In fact, he's even giving of his time to teach at the Dojo - to bring along the new generation of wrestlers. There's a lot to admire about what you are doing Ethan...

But... I can't say it will change what will happen in this three way dance. You want to win, for your students, for the light, to complete your redemption arc, or in this day and age in the wrestling business, to "finish your story". In a match like this, you have to have your head on a swivel. You will bring the hero's eagerness into this match, but that may just be your downfall, Ethan. Every time you strike, there's that third man, waiting in the wings. You're going to burn all that energy while I wait in the shadows, looking for the right moment to strike. And just in that moment when you fly too close to the sun, I'll be there to clip your wings and send you freefalling back to Earth.

Daron takes one last long look into the dojo before walking away...

DARON: And then there's you, Drake. The one true rival. The one I've gone round and round with since I stepped foot in this company. A person that I respect because you're willing to go to war, you're willing to put yourself out there, you're willing to take on all challengers. You do this all without complaint, without excessive demands.

We are both two sides of the same coin, dealing with our trauma in different ways. Inside your head, you're fighting almost as many battles as you fight on the outside. A multitude of personalities directing your every decision, guiding you as if you were some sort of mech being driven by the multiple personality Power Rangers.

Daron chuckles to himself...

All jokes aside, you are one of the few people I consider on my level in this place, I wouldn't say I'd be happy to lose to you, Drake, but I would understand it. Because you are constantly evovling, constantly improving, constantly putting the work in. Even if you don't receive the rewards from the work, you do it. You don't need extrinsic satisfaction. I have a helluva lot of respect for that.

Back to the whiteboard. The Ohio River glows faintly behind the glass, but Daron isn’t looking at the water anymore. He’s looking at the math. ELIMINATION ORDER = CONTROL. Four names written in bold block letters. Four prizes listed beneath them like items on a wall in an armory.

Television Champion.
C4 Division Title Shot.
American Champion.
Pinnacle Heavyweight Championship Shot.

He starts by crossing off Eric Herrera's name and the C4 title shot while muttering "been there, done that" under his breath.

Daron stands with his arms crossed, studying it the way a veteran studies film. Not emotionally. Not dramatically. Just analytically.

DARON: Here’s the trap.

He uncrosses his arms and steps closer, tapping the board once under “Television Champion.”

DARON: Worst outcome? You get eliminated first.

He lets that sit for a second.

DARON: You walk away with a belt. You get your hand raised. You get a graphic. You get the congratulations. Social media lights up. “Still a champion.” “Still elite.” “Still relevant.”

He smirks faintly.

DARON: And everyone pats you on the back.

He leans against the table beneath the board.

DARON: Some guys would celebrate that. They’d call it a win. They’d convince themselves they gamed the system. “Hey, I lost the match, but I still got gold.”

He shakes his head once.

DARON: I won’t.

He grabs the marker and draws a heavy circle around “Pinnacle Heavyweight Championship Shot.” The marker squeaks loudly against the board.

DARON: Best outcome? Win. Not survive. Not maneuver. Not sneak something out of the stipulation. Win.

He underlines Pinnacle once. Hard.

DARON: Second-best? Maybe American Champion. Depends on timing. Depends on who’s left standing. Depends on what the board looks like in that final sequence.

He steps back and looks at the full board again.

DARON: But understand something. If I leave that ring with anything short of the Pinnacle shot… It’s because somebody stole it. Not because I settled.

He looks directly into the camera now.

DARON: There’s a difference. Settling is a choice. Getting outplayed is a fight. I don’t settle.

He caps the marker slowly and sets it down.

DARON: Eliminations are currency.

He gestures to the names written in bold.

DARON: Every pinfall. Every submission. Every decision to let two men beat each other down before you step in. That’s money. You don’t throw it around trying to impress the crowd. You don’t spend it proving you’re the toughest guy in the room. You invest it.

He walks back toward the board and taps one of the names.

DARON: Maybe you eliminate the biggest threat early. A mercy elimination. Not because you hate him. Not because you’re emotional. Because you remove the biggest variable before it grows teeth. Even if that means you complicate the ladder later. Even if that means the final stretch is harder.

He nods slowly, almost to himself.

DARON: That’s what veterans understand. This isn’t about moments. It’s about sequencing.

He steps back again, arms folding across his chest.

DARON: This is a heist. Everybody thinks they’re the thief. Everybody thinks they’re going to sneak in, grab their prize, and walk out clever. Murphy thinks he’s going to earn redemption in bright lights. Nygma thinks he’s going to dissect the chaos and prove his theory.

He exhales once.

DARON: Only one of us is mapping the vault.

He looks at the board one last time, then back at the camera.

DARON: This isn’t about grabbing the first thing that shines. It’s about knowing which door to open last.

He taps the word Pinnacle again with his knuckle.

DARON: And when that final door opens? I’m not walking out with a consolation prize. I’m walking out with the throne. Because in a match built on elimination… Control is everything. And I’ve already done the math.

Fade to black...

Uncoiling: Chapter Two

Just south of Wheeling, where the hills begin to close in and the highway bends alongside the Ohio River, sits Benwood - quiet now, almost folded in on itself.

And just beyond the last stretch of modest houses and narrow streets, the steel mill rises like a fossilized giant.

Even abandoned, it dominates the skyline.

The first thing you notice isn’t the size.

It’s the silence.

Steel mills were never meant to be quiet. They were designed for thunder - for the roar of furnaces, the scream of metal under pressure, the rhythmic crash of rolling lines. Now there’s only wind threading through hollow pipework and the distant hum of traffic drifting up from the river road.

The structures stand in layers.

Outer buildings sag inward, their corrugated metal skins peeled back by decades of weather. Rust has eaten everything into shades of burnt orange and deep brown. Window panes are long gone, leaving rows of dark sockets that stare out over the river valley like empty eye sockets.

The main furnace structure still towers above everything else - a cathedral of industry. Massive cylindrical stacks stretch upward, webbed with skeletal catwalks that once carried men in hard hats and heavy boots. Now those walkways hang crooked, some collapsed, others suspended in improbable angles, as if frozen mid-fall.

On damp mornings, fog drifts in from the river and settles low across the concrete yard. It clings to broken rail lines embedded in the ground - rails that once carried molten steel in glowing ladles. Grass pushes through the cracks now. Weeds coil around bolts the size of fists.

There’s a smell that never quite leaves.

Not fresh smoke - that’s been gone for years.

But a deep metallic tang. Oxidation. Old oil baked into concrete. Wet rust after rain. It’s the scent of something that once burned hot enough to reshape the earth, now cooling permanently.

The ground is uneven. Slabs of concrete are split by frost and time. In some places, the surface has buckled upward, creating jagged ridges. Rainwater pools in shallow depressions, reflecting the twisted framework above like broken mirrors.

Inside the larger buildings, darkness swallows light almost immediately. The roof panels are torn open in places, allowing narrow beams of sunlight to spear through, illuminating drifting dust and the occasional pigeon startled from the rafters.

The scale becomes overwhelming indoors.

Massive rollers sit frozen mid-process, their surfaces flaked and pitted. Conveyor belts hang like torn tendons. Control panels line the walls - switches flipped down, gauges stuck permanently at zero, glass cracked and clouded.

There are faded warning signs still bolted to columns.

DANGER: HIGH HEAT.
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
PROTECTIVE GEAR REQUIRED.

They read like ghosts of urgency.

Outside, along the river-facing edge, the mill’s foundation meets the slope that drops toward the water. From that vantage point, you can see the curve of the Ohio River moving steadily past - indifferent, constant. Barges still drift by, pushed by tugboats, carrying materials that once would have been forged right here.

The hills surrounding Benwood feel closer from this angle. Appalachian ridgelines cradle the site in green during summer and muted gray in winter. When the leaves turn in fall, the rusted steel almost blends into the hills - manmade decay mirroring natural change.

At dusk, the place transforms.

The setting sun hits the rusted beams and turns them briefly gold, as if reigniting something that used to burn there. Shadows stretch long across the yard. The skeletal furnace silhouette cuts sharply against the sky, industrial geometry framed by rolling hills.

And then night falls.

Without city lights directly nearby, the darkness thickens quickly. The structures become outlines - jagged, looming shapes against the faint glow of Wheeling upriver. Wind whistles through open corridors. Loose sheet metal rattles softly. Somewhere deep inside, something shifts - not alive, just settling.

It feels less like a building and more like a monument.

Not to failure.

To work.

To a time when the valley glowed red at night from furnace light and the ground trembled with production. When shift whistles dictated sleep schedules and the river carried finished steel outward to build bridges, skyscrapers, and highways across the country.

Now it stands as a relic - massive, corroded, unbowed.

An iron skeleton just outside Wheeling, in Benwood, reminding anyone who drives past that this valley was once fire.

And even in abandonment... You can still feel the heat that used to live there.

DARON: My grandfather... my mother's father... a man I never even met, used to work in this very steel mill. The company was called Wheeling Pittsburgh Steel. Hard to imagine the name Wheeling being above what most considered to be the bigger city, but it was true. This area was built on the backs of men like him, people that put in ten, eleven, twelve hour days. Men who would give their entire bodies and then fall exhaustedly into their beds for a few hours before answering that alarm again the next morning.

If you want to talk about the stone remembering, these stones that built this place... they remember. They have absorbed the spirit, energy, the venerable lifeblood of the men who once occupied these walls. These men, handing molten metal at temperatures that could literally melt them, required you to be sharp over those long nights and weekends. It was tough work. It was dangerous work. Moving from high speed machinery where one careless flick of the wrist could potentially kill your friends and co-workers. My grandfather was far from perfect, but I can admire his work ethic. His ability to go to work every day, much like other men from my area.

Drake, you compare yourself directly to the snake, the coiling, compressing serpent, looking to choke the life out of your enemies. I see your compression as pressure. Pressure creates diamonds. Steel is forged under pressure. Steel endures. Just like the pressure compresses and creates the harden diamond, the diamond in the rough, the number one man in professional wrestling.

Structures, just like this one, do decay, and rot, and sometimes even waste away. But their memories serve as a reminder of what was once, what could be, those who fought and scraped to establish a present, to save for a future. I, too, understand inevitability, these steel mills went by the wayside. The coal mines, too. The skeletons of these buildings remain.

We flash to a bench, just outside of Wesbanco Arena, overlooking the Ohio River. The Ohio River at dawn isn’t dramatic. It doesn’t roar. It doesn’t sparkle like something out of a postcard. It just moves. Steady.

The sky begins as a dull gray-blue, the kind of color that feels more like a slow awakening than a show. Along the horizon, a thin strip of pale orange forms, almost hesitant, stretching low behind the hills. The water reflects it, but softly — no sharp mirror, just a muted band of light that drifts with the current.

The river itself looks heavy at that hour. Not violent. Not restless. Just purposeful.

The surface carries small ripples that never fully disappear. They roll outward from nothing obvious - maybe a current shift, maybe a distant barge upriver - but they spread and fade without urgency. The flow is constant, wide and patient, as if it has nowhere it needs to be quickly.

There’s often a thin layer of mist resting just above the waterline. Not thick fog. Just a faint haze that hugs the surface and lifts slowly as the temperature changes. It blurs the far bank slightly, softening trees and structures into outlines instead of details.

Birds start before the sun fully clears the hills.

A single call at first. Then another. A gull glides low over the surface, wings barely moving, skimming the air just above the current. Somewhere downriver, you might hear the low mechanical hum of a towboat - distant and steady, blending into the morning instead of interrupting it.

As the sun finally rises higher, the light strengthens but never feels harsh. It stretches across the water in a long, uneven path, broken by the natural movement of the current. The reflection isn’t a perfect beam; it flickers, fractures, reforms with each passing ripple.

The river keeps moving.

Always left to right or right to left depending on where you stand, but never stopping, never reversing, never rushing. The banks remain still - trees unmoving in the calm air, buildings along places like Wheeling quiet and dark in their early hours.

At dawn, the Ohio River doesn’t try to impress anyone. It doesn’t need to. It’s wide. It’s steady.

It carries whatever enters it without announcement.

And by the time the sun is fully above the ridgeline, the river looks almost exactly as it did before - just brighter.

Still moving. Always moving. Nothing fancy.

The river doesn’t rush.

It doesn’t perform.

It doesn’t crash into itself trying to prove something.

It just moves.

Steady. Constant. Unimpressed.

Daron Smythe stands at the edge of the Ohio River, hands in the pockets of a worn black hoodie. The morning air is cold enough to make his breath visible, but not cold enough to matter. The sky is grey - not dramatic, not cinematic. Just another morning in Wheeling. Almost forty-three years old. The water keeps moving. So does he. He watches it for a long moment before he speaks.

DARON: Inevitable.

He says it like he’s testing the weight of the word.

DARON: That’s what men call it when they don’t want to fight chaos.

No anger. No edge. Just clarity.

DARON: Inevitable is comfortable. It means you don’t have to swing. You don’t have to bleed. You don’t have to adapt.

The river brushes against the concrete embankment in a slow rhythm.

DARON: I’ve heard that word before.

A slight shift of his jaw.

DARON: When I walked out of PWX… that was inevitable, right?

No bitterness. Just fact.

DARON: They said I was done. Said I hit my ceiling. Said the business passed me by.

He shrugs lightly.

DARON: I quit.

He doesn’t dramatize it. He owns it.

DARON: And that was supposed to be the end of the story.

A quiet breath leaves him, fog drifting into the morning air.

DARON: Then I rebuilt in UWL.

No music. No montage. Just work.

DARON: Started over. Earned everything back. Every inch. Every ounce of respect.

He glances down at the river again.

DARON: Funny thing about inevitability…

A small pause.

DARON: It never survives contact with someone who refuses to cooperate. At forty-two, he was supposed to slow down. At forty-two, he was supposed to fade. At forty-two, I was supposed to be managing. Commentating. Taking the safe route. Instead... I reinvented. Not flashy. Not desperate. Refined. Smarter. Sharper. Still here.

He rests his forearms on the railing, looking out across the water toward the opposite shore.

DARON: You talk about inevitability like it’s some ancient force.

His voice doesn’t rise.

DARON: It’s not. It’s a narrative. And narratives are written by men who want the ending handed to them.

The river keeps moving. He nods slowly to himself.

DARON: I’ve been written off more times than I can count. Too old. Too stubborn. Too damaged. Too much mileage. And every time someone said it was inevitable…

A faint, humorless smirk touches the corner of his mouth.

DARON: They were wrong.

He straightens slightly.

DARON: You want to be inevitability? I’ve buried inevitability before.

His eyes don’t leave the water.

DARON: It screams louder than you do.

No flex. No threat. Just memory.

DARON: Chaos doesn’t scare me. I’ve lived in it. I’ve built in it. I’ve won in it.

He turns slightly now, profile to the river, face steady and composed.

DARON: You don’t survive twenty-plus years in this business by believing in destiny. You survive by fighting the parts that are supposed to end you.

Another slow inhale.

DARON: I’m not here because it was inevitable. I’m here because I refused to let anything be.

The wind shifts slightly across the water. He nods once.

DARON: Men call things inevitable when they don’t want to get uncomfortable. When they don’t want to adapt. When they don’t want to admit someone else might outlast them.

His gaze sharpens, not with anger - with resolve.

DARON: You don’t intimidate me with philosophy. You don’t outmaneuver me with metaphors. I’ve already lived through the part where I was supposed to disappear.

A final glance at the river. It keeps moving. So does he.

DARON: You can call yourself inevitability.

A calm exhale.

DARON: I call it another obstacle.

He pushes off the railing.

DARON: And I’ve outlived those before.

The camera cuts tight. No skyline. No river. No atmosphere. Just Daron. Up close. Lines around his eyes. A faint scar near his brow. The kind of face that’s been cut open and stitched back together more than once. No music. No wind. No myth. Just a man who has been here a long time. He looks straight into the lens. Steady. Unblinking.

DARON: You live in abstraction. No venom. No mockery. Just truth. Symbols. Serpents. Inevitability. Correction.

A small breath through his nose.

DARON: You talk like history is something you observe from behind glass.

His jaw tightens slightly.

DARON: I didn’t study this business. I bled in it.

A deep breath...

DARON: I didn’t analyze collapse. I survived it.

His eyes don’t move.

DARON: I’ve felt concrete under my back. I’ve felt knees give out. I’ve felt crowds turn.

No rise in volume. Just weight.

DARON: That’s not abstraction. That’s mileage.

A faint shift in posture. Not bigger. Just grounded.

DARON: Serpents are patient.

A nod.

DARON: Veterans are stubborn.

Another beat of silence. Not dramatic. Just lived-in.

DARON: You want to be timeless. Detached. Above it all.

His stare sharpens - not angry. Present.

DARON: I’m still in it.

A slow inhale. A slow exhale.

DARON: You want to be ancient.

A final pause. Direct. Calm. Certain.

DARON: I’m still breathing.