CHAPTER ONE
The backstage air of the wrestling arena was thick with sweat, tiger balm, and bruised egos. Malik Smith Jr. — "M.K. Jnr" to the three fans who still remembered him — stood before a cracked mirror, studying the battle-worn face staring back. Thirty-eight years old, his body looked like it had been forged in the fires of fifteen seasons of American Ninja… and barely survived. But his eyes? His eyes still screamed, I still got it.
He tightened the laces on his boots, the old leather letting out a whimpering squeak — like a haunted hamster. With a deep breath, he stepped out into the fluorescent-lit hallway, brushing past a pack of younger wrestlers live-streaming shirtless flexes and arguing over TokTik trends.
"Yo," one whispered, not-so-quietly. "Who even is that guy?"
"I think he wrestled The Undergiver once?" the other replied, with all the authority of someone who'd only read the Wikipedia summary.
Malik kept walking, clutching onto his dignity like it was a championship belt no one else could see.
The arena lights blasted down like interrogation bulbs. The crowd, if you could call it that, barely stirred. Someone was loudly chewing nachos. Somewhere, a baby cried.
The announcer's voice echoed through the speakers with all the enthusiasm of a barista on their third double shift.
"And now entering the ring… weighing 242 pounds… The Forgotten Finisher… M! K! Jnr!"
A golf clap. A cough. A hotdog was thrown. Not even a full one — just the bitten-off end.
Malik raised his arms in his signature pose — The Regretful Eagle. Years ago, that move could bring entire crowds to their feet. Tonight, it earned him mustard on his boots.
Match Montage – Slow-Mo, Epic in All the Wrong
Ways:
Malik goes for a suplex. His spine pops like bubble wrap.
He climbs the ropes for a flying elbow… then remembers his fear of heights.
He's pinned. Fast. Like a speed-run on easy mode.
The next day, Malik sat across from Mr. Corporate — a suit with teeth and Bluetooth. The kind of man who could cut a dream with a smile and sell the remains on Pay-Per-View.
"Malik…" he began, as if he hadn't already decided. "We're letting you go. You're just not… viral."
Malik blinked. "I wrestled a guy dressed as a toaster in '09."
"Exactly," Mr. Corporate replied, deadpan. "That match has seven views. One of them is you."
That night, Malik drove down a lonely highway in a beat-up old car that smelled like Bengay and broken dreams. The windows were down. He was blasting theme songs from his glory days, singing off-key but with the full passion of a rock god.
🎵 "I'm gonna suuuuplex the suuuuun!" 🎵
Then:
CRASH.
Tires screamed. Metal twisted. Nacho crumbs floated like snowflakes in slow motion.
Blackout.
Soft harp music. White light. Fog.
Malik blinked awake, surrounded by mist, confusion, and what might've been a budget version of the afterlife.
"...Did I make it to WrestleVerse?" he muttered.
A voice boomed from the void, warm and wise and just a little bit sarcastic.
"No, Malik. You didn't even make it to SmackUp Dark Matches. But you're getting
another shot. And just so you make it, I'll give you a gift. When you wake up, shout: STATUS."
"Wait, what?"
"Welcome to your respawn."
A sudden flash.
Sneakers squeaked. Teenagers shouted. Sweat and Axe Body Spray clung to the air like a curse.
Malik opened his eyes again. He was in a high school gym, surrounded by hormonal
chaos. He glanced at his hands. Young. His knees? Not crunchy. Acne? Unavoidable.
He staggered to his feet and caught sight of himself in a mirror — baby-faced, 18 years old, and still rocking the mustache that once got him laughed out of prom.
"No… freaking… way," he whispered.
In the corner of the gym, folded and forgotten, were his old wrestling tights. Two sizes too big now. He slipped them on anyway. Symbolism demanded it.
Malik Smith Jr. grinned.
"I've got a second shot… and this time?"
He flexed.
"We're going viral, baby."