Alan McIntyre

A Savage Reign Runs Wild… An Empire Rises To Control It! The Animal @WSWAlanMcIntyre defends his World Heavyweight Championship against The Provider @RastogiEmpire, at WSW Wrestle Warfare 7! Sat, Apr 25 & Sun, Apr 26 | Wembley Stadium, London!

On the ramp, Alan pauses. Just for a second. He turns back—eyes cold, unreadable, conflicted. Then turns forward again. And walks away. The camera pulls back and blacks out.

He resists. The medics try to steady him, but Arthur fights it, dragging himself up, collapsing to one knee, refusing to be carried out like something finished. The crowd rises—not loud at first, but building—respect, disbelief, emotion.

He doesn’t resist. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even look at them. He simply stands, and walks with them—like a man who has already done what he came to do. Arthur is lifted—slowly, carefully—but something changes. His hand pushes. Weak. Shaking.

Behind them, the ring fills with motion again. Officials rush in. Flames are put out. Medics slide in carefully, surrounding Arthur, checking for response. An oxygen mask is brought in, placed over his face as they prepare the stretcher. At ringside, security approaches Caleb.

Caleb doesn’t react. Doesn’t nod. Doesn’t move. He just stares. Alan breaks it first. Grips the title tighter. Turns. Begins walking up the ramp with Jonathan beside him, leaving the wreckage behind—not celebrating, not acknowledging the crowd—just leaving.

Jonathan Joestar beside him, steadying him. Alan looks down at the title—then up. And he sees Caleb. Their eyes meet. Alan frowns, jaw tightening, lifting the championship—not in triumph, but in statement. As much as his body allows.

Caleb studies him. Not with anger. Not with pride. With something colder. A smirk forms—small, knowing. Then slowly, he lifts his gaze… through the fading fire… toward the ramp. Alan McIntyre stands there now. Barely upright. The championship placed into his hands.

Through the thinning smoke—Caleb Myers. He walks in without hesitation, stepping over debris, over scorch marks, over what remains of war. He kneels beside Arthur Atlas, who lies twisted in the center, body trembling uncontrollably, breath shallow, eyes barely open.

A different haze begins to creep in—not thick, not choking—controlled. A sharp hiss cuts through the dying flames as a stream bursts across the ring. A fire extinguisher. The chaos starts to settle just enough… just enough for someone to step back into the graveyard.

watching the wreckage. The flames die. Smoke lingers. In the center— Arthur. Barely visible. Curled. Broken. His body trembling uncontrollably—aftershock, not fear. Alan doesn’t celebrate. Doesn’t move. Because this didn’t end with victory. It ended with survival.

The blast consumes the center—consumes Arthur—until he vanishes in smoke and flame. The sound doesn’t stop. It devours the moment. Alan stumbles up the ramp, collapsing to his knees, staring back. Horrified. Alive. Jonathan reaches him. Holds him up. Both men frozen, watching

2… The ropes catch him. Barbed wire snags skin. Holds him. One second too long. 1…!! Alan roars—rips free, flesh tearing— and falls out of the ring. --- BOOOOOOOM!!!! --- The ring erupts. Explosions tear through canvas, ropes, apron—fire swallowing everything.

7… A hand shoots out. Arthur grabs McIntyre's ankle. Weak. Desperate. Unconscious. But unrelenting. Alan: “FUCK IT—LEAVE ME!” 5… Jonathan slides in, careful of the wire, reaching— 4… He grabs Alan’s hand. Pulls. 3… Arthur’s grip fades. Slips. Alan drags forward—

Arthur lies between them. 20… A twitch. Arthur’s hand lifts weakly—instinct, nothing more. Jonathan sees it— MOVE ALAN! 15… Alan hears it. Barely. But enough. He crawls—faster now—dragging himself forward, stealing inches. 10… The crowd counts. Louder. Closer.

45… Alan looks around, lost, trying to understand. The ropes feel miles away. 35… From the stage— #JonathanJoestar sprints out, urgency taking over. Not celebration—desperation. He runs as fast as he can. 25… Jonathan reaches one side. Alan is on the other.

Before the reaction— a sound cuts through. A timer. One minute. This isn’t about winning anymore. It’s survival. 59… 58… Alan doesn’t rise—he drags. Elbows digging in, knees slipping in blood. Arthur lies in the center, unmoving. The ring feels smaller. The air tighter

Arthur is barely upright, swaying on instinct alone… Alan runs in, charges like a predator— and then Arthur collapses. Not from impact. From nothing left. Alan flies past and crashes spine-first onto the barbed wire pane. A scream tears out as the match punishes him again!

Heavy. Final. Arthur’s body hits… and doesn’t move. Caleb rises slowly, looks down just long enough. He walks out and sits down on a chair at the barricades comfortably. Alan sees it—the opening—and charges, dragging his broken body into one last Claymore.

A twitch. Arthur’s fingers move. Caleb stops. Slowly turns back—this time, something colder in his eyes. Not rage. Offense. He grabs him again. No urgency. No emotion. Just inevitability. Hooks hai head. Picks him up— PILEDRIVER ON THE BARBED WIRE BOARD!!! BOOM. Loud.