A wintry chill lingers in the air, the temperature dropping to sub zero as had become routine of late. Mocking amused laughter broke into the air, the sound echoing off of the outdoor structure as if it were a living breathing entity. Just out of sight stood the new youngblood champion ‘Mr Penguin’ Oswald Knight.
The cold had always been a friend of Oswald's; the deep unrelenting pressure didn't bother him the way he had seen it before those around him. His gaze spanned across the rooftop. Oswald’s laughter had halted, silence taking its place.
Oswald listened intently to the voice on the other end of the phone. A voice that indicated no gender, no hint of this caller was. The voice, whoever it was, sounded cryptic, classy like they were evaluating him.
THE EMISSARY:
You're late.
OSWALD (with a quiet smirk in his voice):
I’m dramatic. There’s a difference.
THE EMISSARY:
You asked for this call. I assumed you had something… compelling.
OSWALD:
You assume correctly. I’ve acquired the Youngblood title. Eyes are on me. Fans. Managers. Even enemies I haven’t met yet.
THE EMISSARY (flatly):
Children win belts. Accidents win belts. That title is a toy unless you do something real with it.
OSWALD (stepping closer to the edge, looking down):
And what’s real to you? Blood? Fire? Scandals? I’m not a chaos merchant. I’m a builder. Every match, every word I say, every camera I let see me—it’s a brick in something colder and smarter than any of them realize.
THE EMISSARY (slight pause):
We’ve heard that before. From men who didn’t last a month.
OSWALD (cool, unshaken):
And how many of them called you from a rooftop? Alone. No entourage. No excuses. Just results—and leverage.
THE EMISSARY:
Montreal’s not yours. Not yet. And you’re not the only young lion circling the throne. What makes you different?
OSWALD (his voice sharpens like a blade):
I don’t roar. I don’t swing bats. I don’t posture. I infiltrate. I charm. I calculate. And then… I take. You want blood and chaos? Go hire another butcher. You want a man who can own a city without ever lifting a blade— Then you’re already talking to him.
Silence. Wind. A distant siren below. Then—
THE EMISSARY (measured):
You’ll receive a name. A test. Pass it, and we’ll speak again. Fail—and the rooftop you’re standing on becomes very literal.
OSWALD (smirking):
Understood. And Emissary?
THE EMISSARY:
Yes?
OSWALD (softly):
Tell your boss to dress warm. Winter’s coming to the world—and it answers to me.
Click. The line goes dead. Oswald slides the phone into his pocket, eyes still fixed on the city beneath him—alive, blind, and begging to be conquered.
An underground bar in the Plateau district of Montreal. It’s called The Velvet Claw—a low-lit haunt for smugglers, bookies, fight promoters, and ghosts with debts. Jazz plays from a cracked speaker. The backroom smells of old smoke, blood money, and secrets.
Oswald Knight steps through the back entrance, brushing snow off his coat. The bouncer doesn’t stop him. They’ve been told who he is.
VOICE FROM THE SHADOWED BOOTH:
You don’t look like much. Lighter than the last kid they sent. He left in pieces.
Seated in the booth: Luca Tremblay, a grizzled, glass-eyed smuggler with scars up one arm and a black leather coat lined with crimson silk. He gestures for Oswald to sit across from him.
OSWALD (sits smoothly, calm):
And yet here I am—upright, unbothered, and about to make you richer than your last broken toy ever did.
LUCA:
You talk slick for someone with baby cheeks. You know why you’re here?
OSWALD (folding his hands):
Yes. The Emissary wants a demonstration. A statement. Something cold... clean.
LUCA (grins, revealing a gold tooth):
Clean ain’t the word I’d use. We got a little warehouse off Rue de l’Église. A runner’s been skimming off the top. Not ours. Yours now.
Deal with it. Make it memorable. Just don’t make it messy.
OSWALD (tilts his head):
That’s your mistake, Luca. You think blood is mess.
I have determined that emotion is mess.
Luca laughs—a sharp, barking sound. He slides a photo and an address across the table.
LUCA:
You handle this smart, and I tell the Emissary you’ve got bite behind your baby bird act. You screw it up, and well… penguins can’t fly, right?
Oswald doesn’t touch the photo. He just stares across the table, eyes suddenly sharp and cold.
OSWALD:
Wrong again.
Penguins dive. And once I’m below the surface, no one sees me coming until it’s far too late.
He stands, smooth and quiet. No threats. Just certainty.
OSWALD (without looking back):
Enjoy your drink, Luca.
By sunrise, you’ll know what I’m capable of.
Fade out. Jazz fades. Our eyes go black as the sound of footsteps echo down the alleyway.
A dingy warehouse on the edge of Verdun, tucked behind old rail lines. Snow falls light but steady. Oswald steps inside through a broken side door, dressed not in his ring gear—but in a long black coat and gloves, clean and tailored. His silhouette cuts through the flickering shadows like a scalpel.
Inside: The target — Vin Garreau, a small-time runner with twitchy hands and a mouth too big for his paygrade — is counting bills behind a crate. Two of his guys sit nearby, unaware of the storm about to hit.
VIN (muttering):
Twelve for me, four for them, two for…
Why does this math always feel better when nobody’s watching?
A clang. A metal pipe rolls out from the dark.
VIN (startled):
What the—?
Oswald steps into the weak light, hands behind his back.
OSWALD (cool, calm):
Vin Garreau.
You’ve been quite generous with yourself lately.
Generosity is admirable. Theft… less so.
VIN (nervous):
H-Hey, man—
I don't know who you think you are, but you need to turn around before—
Oswald lifts one gloved hand. A click from the shadows behind Vin. Suddenly, the lights flicker on… and his own men—paid off quietly hours ago—step back. One drops a duffel. The other walks out without a word.
OSWALD (stepping closer):
Before what, Vin?
Before someone finds out who you really are?
Before the ice under your feet cracks?
He pulls out a photo—Vin’s kid, a school photo, clipped to a list of transfer logs.
Numbers. Accounts. Names. Every dirty move Vin made, neatly printed and organized. It’s not violence. It’s power.
OSWALD (lowering the photo onto the crate):
I’m not going to hurt you.
Because hurting you would be merciful.
Oswald reaches into his coat—pulls out a box. Opens it slowly. Inside: a pair of black dress shoes... frozen solid in a block of ice, laced with razor wire.
OSWALD:
You’ll leave Montreal tonight.
You’ll go where I say.
You’ll work off your debt with silence, obedience, and clean ledgers.
Or I thaw these shoes, and we see how well you walk afterward.
Beat. Vin is pale, eyes wide. He nods.
VIN:
Y-Yeah. Yes. Yes, sir.
OSWALD (satisfied, calm again):
Good.
You may keep the shoes.
A souvenir. A warning. A reminder.
Oswald turns, walking into the falling snow.
Luca's Reaction – Back at The Velvet Claw
[Later that night. Luca sits in the same booth, sipping whiskey. A text buzzes his phone. One photo: Vin kneeling beside the frozen shoes. Next to it: a spreadsheet file attached with everything Vin skimmed. And a note: “Ice broken.”]
LUCA (low whistle):
Goddamn bird actually did it.
He leans back, looking toward the ceiling.
LUCA (grinning):
You might just be the coldest bastard this city’s seen in years.
He picks up his phone, dials one number—encrypted.
LUCA:
Tell the Emissary.
Mr. Penguin passed with flying colors…
Or rather—gliding.
Same rooftop as before. Midnight now. The snow has thickened, blanketing the city below. The skyline of Montreal flickers in cold neon. Oswald leans on the rusted ledge, gloves resting on the frozen rail.
He’s alone again. No phone. No noise. Just silence, wind, and the city that doesn’t yet know who owns it.
OSWALD (quietly to himself):
One runner silenced. One message sent.
And not a drop spilled.
[He breathes in deep. The city lights reflect in his eyes—not with awe, but with
calculation.]
OSWALD (murmuring):
This city doesn't need fire.
It needs ice.
Pressure.
And Patience.
Oswald takes a small black notebook from his coat pocket, flips to the first blank page. He writes a single name—Vin Garreau, now crossed out. Underneath it: "Chapter One: Complete."
He closes the notebook, slides it back into his coat. Then—finally—he smiles. Small. Cold. Satisfied.
OSWALD (to the wind):
They’ll call me cold-blooded.
But I’m just… early winter.
Chapter One Epilogue: “The Anatomy of a Predator”
A shadowy montage begins. Oswald lies asleep on a velvet couch inside a small Montreal apartment—modest, clean, efficient. No luxuries. Just a kettle, a wall of clipped newspaper articles, and a notebook on the nightstand. Snow taps at the window. The city sleeps. So does he.
Voiceovers begin. Intercut with slow-motion footage of Oswald’s fights, his rooftop moments, and the frozen shoes left behind.
DR. MAIA RENNE, FIGHT PHYSIOLOGIST:
“Oswald Knight is an anatomical contradiction. At sixty-five kilograms, he’s lighter than most of the men he wrestles. By rights, he should be cannon fodder.But he’s not.He’s surgical. Composed. He moves like a scalpel through soft tissue—and the damage is never loud. It’s permanent.”
DR. ELIAS QURESHI, BEHAVIORAL PSYCHOLOGIST:
“True Neutral characters… they’re rare in our world. Most fighters lean toward righteousness or chaos. Oswald doesn’t.He doesn’t care about justice. He doesn’t care about destruction.He cares about outcome. Control. Balance weighted in his favor.”
ALICE VENDRELL, CRIMINOLOGIST & ORGANIZED CRIME ANALYST:
“They call him Mr. Penguin because he’s small. Awkward. But look at penguins in the wild. They outlast. They outthink.And when it’s time to strike? They move faster than predators expect. That’s Oswald. He weaponizes perception.He turns underestimation into leverage.”
DR. COLM BAKER, WRESTLING HISTORIAN:
“Traditionally, the wrestling world respects dominance. Noise. Alpha rage. Oswald subverts that completely.He walks in soft. Talks clean. Smiles…And leaves with the win.He’s not a brawler. He’s a tactician. A narrative. A storm with no thunder.”
Oswald turns in his sleep. Calm. Untroubled. In one hand, still loosely gripped, is his notebook. The name Vin Garreau remains crossed out.
DR. QURESHI (final voiceover):
“Oswald doesn’t need to be the biggest. Or the strongest. Or the loudest. He just needs you to forget him. Because that’s when the cold creeps in. And by the time you realize he’s here… You’ve already lost.”
Fade to black. End of Chapter One.
OSWALD (soft, musing):
Three wildcards.
pauses on Shingo’s tape: powerbomb into the turnbuckle. Brutal. Sharp.
Shingo Hara.
The dragon with midnight breath.
Power. Velocity. Anger turned into structure.
A moral compass slightly cracked but still spinning north.
Chaotic good—dangerous, because he believes he's saving something.
A hammer that thinks it's a surgeon.
Predictable in the way thunderstorms are:
Loud, heavy, but easy to see coming.
Flips to Kami Nakada: footage of her performing the Black Dragon submission. Grace meets cruelty.
Then there’s Kami.
Daughter of spies. Masked royalty. A ghost in the mainframe.
True Neutral like me, but not cold—
She’s mechanical. Precise. Tactical empathy.
A viper that doesn’t strike unless it calculates your temperature first.
She’s not here to destroy.
She’s here to know.
That makes her the most dangerous of the three.
But also the most persuadable.
Footage now rolls on Kenny Volcano. Fire and fury. Wild brawling clips. Chair shots.
Running chaos.
And him.
Kenny Volcano.
A walking protest sign with no handle.
Born in smoke, raised in ash, driven by noise.
His mind? Fire. His body? Kerosene.
All flammable. No structure.
But speed like that? That’s a coin you flip every fight.
All chaos, no discipline.
Perfect.
He won’t see the knife until it’s in his back.
Oswald chuckles quietly, then stands. Walks over to a corkboard of blank file folders. Each marked only by initials. He pins one under “KV,” another under “SH,” the last under “KN.”
OSWALD (calmly):
I’m the smallest.
Lightest.
Quietest.
Oswald Turns off the projector. The room goes dark except for snowlight flickering through the blinds.
But unlike them…
I don’t need to be loud.
I only need to be certain.
Oswald sits facing the skyline. The city is quiet. Below, in the arena, fans scream for blood and showmanship. He’s far above it all, watching the skyline flicker like a dying cigarette.
OSWALD (V.O., calm, collected):
They always look past me.
Too light.
Too pretty.
Too clever.
Far too smart for these neanderthals.
They see a toy.
A novelty.
Theatrical.
Fragile.
What they never see—
What they never want to see—
Is that I have razors behind the composed facade.
He takes out a matchbook. Striking one. Allows it to burn.
OSWALD:
Then there’s Kenny.
The walking furnace.
No elegance. No control. Just combustion.
He isn’t clever.
He isn’t quiet.
But people see him.
People respect the flame.
Even if it burns itself out in the process.
He tosses the match off the roof. Just to watch it vanish into the wind.
OSWALD:
Would I tag with him?
Oswald pauses, shrugs one shoulder
If it suits my purpose.
If I can use the fire to blind my enemies while I slip in the knife.
If I can let him swing wildly and draw all the heat—
While I press the pressure points that actually matter.
Close-up on his gloved hand slowly tightening around the cane’s head—a carved
obsidian penguin skull.
OSWALD (coldly):
I don’t need a partner.
I never have.
I move cleaner in the dark.
Quieter without the noise.
But sometimes…
Sometimes a storm makes a good smokescreen.
And sometimes a fool in flames
Is exactly the distraction I need.
He finally stands. Brushes snow from his shoulders.
OSWALD (soft, dangerous):
Let them keep underestimating me.
Let them forget how cold it gets
Before a body goes still.
Final line, breathed out with a small, venomous smirk as he looks toward the city lights below.
OSWALD:
I can work with fire.
So long as it knows who’s holding the extinguisher.
The lights dim. A single spotlight catches Oswald, high in the rafters. He’s leaning on his cane, voice syrupy with contempt.
OSWALD (into a sleek silver microphone):
"My name is thunder, and lightning…"
(a scoff)
Dramatic. Juvenile.
Sounds like a toddler learned poetry from a weather app.
(mocking, over-articulated)
"My name is something very frightening."
How brave. How bold.
A lyric fit for a haunted carousel ride at a shopping mall.
(leans into the mic, tone sharpening)
And then—oh, then comes the truly deranged optimism:
"I'll rise so high, I'll be the Empire State."
(beat, then with venomous amusement)
Fascinating.
Two souls with the fashion sense of spilled energy drinks
And the ring psychology of headless chickens…
believing they’re architects of destiny.
(more biting now)
No, Kami.
No, Shingo.
You're not the Empire State.
You're not thunder.
You're not lightning.
You're just noise.
Predictable, percussive noise.
He taps the cane once.
OSWALD:
"I'll be showing up uninvited..."
(wicked smirk spreading)
Now that… I believe.
Because no one in this federation would willingly invite
the rotting heartbeat of your tired little tag act.
He leans forward into the mic, all warmth gone now. Just frost and fangs.
OSWALD:
Keep singing your fairytales.
Keep branding yourselves “monsters” as if it earns you fear.
But monsters are made in shadow.
Not with light shows and boy-band anthems.
And when I come for you—
It won't be with thunder.
It won't be with lightning.
It’ll be silent as the grave.
And you’ll only know I was there
because one of you won’t get up.
He steps backward into darkness, whispering
You think this is a tag team match? No. This is a business deal with fists.