Rayzah

[Scene: A graffiti-covered room. The walls are cracked concrete, layered in spray paint, old posters, and anger. A single light swings above a weathered table. Photos of OCW talent, match cards, and scribbled notes are taped to the wall. Rayzah stands alone — calm, focused, surgical.] Rayzah: They wanted to call us Insurrection. Nah… we off that. He smirks, just a little. Not cocky — certain. Rayzah: That name don’t fit no more. ‘Cause this? This ain’t a rebellion. This is what comes after. He looks to the wall, one hand resting near the word “AMBITION” scrawled beside a row of taped-up faces. Rayzah: We’re not the spark — We’re the fire that don’t go out. We don’t riot. We restructure. We take what they protect and tear out the floorboards. He moves a photo — Dresden — and places it lower, underneath Shelly’s. Rayzah: Call it what you want. Call it survival. Call it vengeance. Call it war. He turns to the camera now, no mask, no grin. Just truth. Rayzah: But make no mistake… This is the Age of Anarchy. And it don’t end when the match is over. It ends when we say it ends. [Fade to black. The light flickers once. Then nothing.] https://imgur.com/a/F7SGh0W

Dope 😎

Appreciate it. We just trying to get people to take us seriously

In the humid streets behind the arena in Puerto Rico, tensions finally erupt. What starts as a war of words between Jacob Hawk and Belakor turns bloody when Rayzah strikes from the shadows. This brutal parking lot ambush doesn’t just serve as revenge — it sends a message. This is the spark that ignites the revolution… https://drive.google.com/file/d/17eio_7W9JeVFbrXPygfaZ37SQ4jBFsBc/view?usp=drive_link

Thanks. I completely overlooked the gamertag. To be honest I don’t even know why 2k insist on having it on there in the first place. Thanks for your kind words, some of your older video kinda inspired me.

The arena is silent. Empty chairs line the darkness beyond the barricade. The hum of production lights flickers overhead. In the center of it all, inside the ring, leans Rayzah. Hood up, head low, draped over the top rope. The camera creeps in slowly. His face remains mostly hidden — but his presence fills the frame. Rayzah: Finally... Rayzah has arrived to OCWFED. My long-awaited debut on the main roster is tonight. After everything I’ve been through — the struggle, the trials, the tribulations — next tonight isn’t just a match. It’s the start of the next chapter of my life. Yeah, I’ll admit it. My nerves are up. But I carry more than just pressure into this ring. I carry legacy. I carry the spirit of the brothers who didn’t make it this far. The ones who bled beside me and never got their shot. People expect me to smile. To be grateful. To just be happy I made it here. They don’t get it. I didn’t survive all this to just get through a match. Rayzah lifts his head slightly. Shadows retreat, revealing just enough of the fire in his eyes. This moment? It’s the culmination of everything. Every fight. Every loss. Every goddamn drop of sweat on the Combat Center floor. I didn’t just train for this. I was forged for it. And right now? I’m in the best shape of my life. Some would say I’m in my final form. He pulls back from the ropes, pacing slowly to the center of the ring. My opponent... Jubei. We’ve met before. At the Combat Center. He’s no rookie. He’s dangerous. And he’s worthy. But I didn’t come to OCW for easy fights. I came for war. And when that bell rings, this isn’t just a debut. It’s a warning shot. He raises one arm, slowly turning it to show the close-up lettering across his bandaged armband — the phrase "Chaos is the Cradle of Revolution" in worn, bold font. Rayzah: Chaos is the cradle of revolution. And tonight... I start mine. The screen lingers as Rayzah lowers his arm and the feed cuts to static.

Some men break under pressure. Others learn to breathe in it. The lights buzz overhead, dim and flickering. A lone camera follows Rayzah as he paces slowly across the worn mats of the Combat Center. Walls are scuffed. Heavy bags swing slightly from the earlier beating they took. There’s no crowd, no entrance music, just the echo of boots on concrete and the sound of tape stretching across knuckles. Rayzah stops, looking up at the cracked mirror across from him. He speaks, voice low, deliberate. Rayzah: I thought I was walking into a training room. He smirks faintly. Rayzah: I walked into a battlefield. He turns toward the camera now. No posturing. Just presence. Rayzah: The Combat Center wasn’t built for comfort. No big screens. No safe landings. Just pain, repetition, and truth. I came in with confidence. Thought I had grit. Thought I knew what pressure felt like. He flexes his fingers once, the tape across his fists splitting slightly. Rayzah: Then the vets showed up. He lets the moment hang. Rayzah: They didn’t ask my name. Didn’t care about my story. Didn’t even blink when they dropped me. Over and over. Every time I stood up, they put me down harder. No handshakes. No welcome. He taps his shoulder where the Anarchy patch used to sit. Rayzah: That was my test. And I held my ground. He paces again, speaking with more weight now. Rayzah: You don’t earn respect in a place like this with words. You earn it with bruises. With silence. With showing up the next day more stubborn than you were the last. He stops at the heavy bag, hitting it once — clean, sharp, heavy. The bag shudders. Rayzah: They tried to break me. He stares at the bag a moment longer. Rayzah: They failed. He walks back toward the camera. Sweat on his brow. Fire in his eyes. Rayzah: You see, I didn’t come here to be accepted. I came here to be undeniable. And now that I’ve seen what this place demands? Now that I’ve taken everything the Combat Center threw at me and stayed standing? He leans slightly in. Rayzah: OCW… if you think you’re going to stop me from rising up? He shakes his head slowly. Rayzah: Then you weren’t watching closely enough. Because I’ve already proven it where it matters most. He glances back at the cracked mirror. Rayzah: In here! Fade to black.

Thanks, I reformatted it, I hope it reads better

Night has settled like ash over the city. The camera opens in silence — save for the low hum of distant traffic and the hum of arena lights echoing against concrete. We see a long shot of the OCW Arena’s loading dock. Trucks have come and gone. Superstars are already inside. But off to the side, nearly swallowed by shadow, a man stands beneath a flickering streetlamp — hood up, back to the camera, watching the building like a soldier eyeing a fortress. He’s not supposed to be here. He’s not on the card. He’s not in the locker room. He’s just watching. Waiting. Rayzah turns slowly, hands buried in the pockets of a cracked leather jacket. The hood drops. Just a face marked by survival — eyes heavy, jawline tight, every inch of him cut from the streets. A small, faded Anarchy patch is pinned to his jacket — the only color in a silhouette of shadows. He looks up toward the lights. Then finally, he speaks — low and calm, like gravel under boots. Rayzah: Funny thing about doors. Some get held open for you. Some get locked. And some... some you kick down just to remind them you’re still breathing. He takes a few steps forward, bootsteps echoing off cracked pavement. A gust of wind tosses grit across the asphalt. He doesn’t flinch. Rayzah: I wasn’t invited here. I didn’t get the call. But I’ve been watching. Watching names go up in lights while men like me are left in the dark. That’s fine. He gestures behind him to the arena. Rayzah: Because places like that — they love crowns. They love polished teeth and pre-packaged gods. But I don’t wear a crown. I wear scars. And this... He taps the Anarchy patch once — not for flash, just to make the point. Rayzah: This is the only name that’s ever meant anything to me. Rayzah: This patch? It’s not a brand. It’s a tombstone. For the ones who didn’t make it out. The ones who bled beside me in Riot Pro Wrestling and got buried before they ever had a shot. I wear it so I don’t forget them. And so none of you can ignore me. He looks down at his hands, flexing them once — scarred knuckles, veins rising like coiled wires beneath the skin. Rayzah: I come from a city where they called us statistics. Where dreams get buried long before the bodies. Where they taught us that if you want something... you don’t ask. You take. He turns fully to the camera now. Calm. Clear. No heat. Just certainty. Rayzah: So I’ll wait. And when that door opens — even a crack — I’ll walk through like I belong. And when they try to shut it again? That’s when they meet Capital Punishment. That’s when they feel the Fall of the Flame. And when the time’s right... I’ll burn their name into the canvas with the Chaos Theory. He lifts his hood again — shadow reclaiming his face. One last look at the arena lights. He turns. Walks off into the night. Voice trailing behind him like smoke. Rayzah: Chaos is the cradle of revolution. And I’m done waiting for permission. Fade to black.

WRESTLER NAME: Rayzah HOMETOWN: Washington, D.C. HEIGHT: 6’2” WEIGHT: 230 lbs THEME SONG: "Animal" - Magnolia Park SIGNATURE MOVE(S): "Capital Punishment" (Rapid Knee Strikes + Roundhouse Kick Combo) "Fall of the Flame" (Rolling Cutter) FINISHER: "Chaos Theory" (Dragon Twist Cutter) BIOGRAPHY: Raised in the unforgiving streets of Washington, D.C. — once known as the Murder Capital of America — Rayzah learned early that survival wasn’t a privilege; it was a necessity. Where others saw monuments and politics, he saw broken promises, bloodstained sidewalks, and a system built to forget men like him. Searching for something more than just survival, he found refuge in a battered brick building on the city's edge — a forgotten place called Riot Pro Wrestling, not a promotion, but a grimy, underground training dojo. There, beneath flickering lights and the echo of fists hitting canvas, he was forged into something more. RPW wasn't about chasing fame. It was about war. Discipline. Pain. Perseverance. It became his second home, and it was there he met the only family he'd ever claim — a brotherhood known as Anarchy. They weren't rebels for the cameras — they lived the fight they preached. Together, they vowed to carve out their own legacy. But life in the Murder Capital doesn’t forgive so easily. One by one, the walls closed in: One brother lost to the streets — caught in a war he never chose. Another betrayed them, selling out to the very system they swore to defy. The last simply vanished, swallowed whole by the darkness they fought against. Rayzah remained — the last ember of a dream the world tried to snuff out. Now, every fight is personal. Every scar is a testament. The Anarchy symbol he wears isn’t a brand — it’s a memorial. His fighting style is a fusion of ruthless street Brawling and calculated aerial destruction — unleashing rapid-fire knee strikes (Capital Punishment), a devastating rolling cutter (Fall of the Flame), and finishing opponents with the twisting, brutal Chaos Theory. He doesn’t fight for fame. He doesn’t fight for fortune. Because Rayzah knows the truth — chaos is the cradle of revolution. And he's here to remind OCW that revolutions aren’t staged... they’re survived.