Before the Mic Cut: Mountain

The smell came first. Chemical. Sharp. Too clean. They’d scrubbed the carpet hard enough to pretend nothing had happened, but the air still carried the lie of it. Mountain noticed it immediately. He always noticed things like that. Smell was memory without language.

The room had been reset. The people hadn’t. Glenn’s microphone glowed green again, a small light pretending everything was functional. Glenn himself hadn’t shifted. Same posture. Same patience. Hands resting on his knees like time had politely stepped aside for him.

Iceman sat slouched on the couch, an ice pack pressed to his forehead, eyes open but unfocused. Thunder hovered inches away, still in hero mode, adjusting the ice pack, whispering encouragements like the situation required narration.

Mountain stayed where he’d chosen. Near the wall. Arms crossed.Still.

The hosts found their rhythm again faster than Mountain expected. That surprised him. They laughed quieter now, joked carefully, like volume had been the problem before, not content. Like they could walk it back if they didn’t look at the mess too closely.

Jax leaned forward, smile rebuilt, confidence stitched back together just enough.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s keep this rolling.”

Mountain watched his neck as he spoke. The way it flexed. The way he leaned too far over the desk, trusting the space behind him without ever checking it.

Jax turned toward Glenn.

“Okay,” he said, dragging the word out. “But for real…if someone didn’t know anything about wrestling, how would you prove to them it’s not scripted?”

The question hung there.

Mountain didn’t look at Glenn.

He didn’t wait.

He stepped forward.

No rush. No noise. Just motion.

His hand closed around the back of Jax’s head and drove it forward.

Hard.

The desk didn’t move.

Bone did.

The sound was wrong, too dull, too solid. Jax’s face smashed into the surface and snapped back, blood bursting instantly as he collapsed, screaming, hands clawing at his nose as red spilled through his fingers.

The room detonated.

Cole shot up, chair crashing backward. “SECURITY!” he screamed, waving both arms wildly at the glass. “GET SECURITY IN HERE—NOW!”

Miles staggered away from the desk, nearly tripping, pounding both hands against the window. “OPEN THE DOOR! OPEN THE DOOR!”

Behind the glass, producers exploded into motion, headsets ripped off, phones dropped, someone slamming a fist against a door that refused to open fast enough.

Thunder spun toward the noise—

And that’s when Iceman saw the blood.

His eyes locked on the spreading red beneath the desk.

The ice pack slipped from his hand.

“Uh—” he managed.

Then he went down.

Iceman collapsed sideways off the couch, hitting the floor hard, completely out again.

Thunder didn’t hesitate.

“I GOT HIM!” he shouted, dropping to his knees. “STAY WITH ME, BUDDY.”

He pressed two fingers dramatically to Iceman’s neck, nodded to himself, then started patting his chest with exaggerated urgency, cape tangling under his knees.

Cody Cage stumbled to his feet, breath ragged, staring at the blood, the bodies, the shouting.

“Man, what the fuck,” he yelled, voice cracking as reality finally caught him.

Mountain didn’t move.

He stood where he was, chest rising and falling evenly, blood pooling near his boots. He didn’t look at Jax. Didn’t look at the hosts.

Didn’t look at Thunder performing heroics or Iceman unconscious on the floor.

Wyatt Butcher laughed once.

Short. Certain.

“Knew it,” he said, already walking toward the door, not slowing, not looking back.

Security finally burst in, too late to stop anything, voices overlapping, hands raised, unsure whether to rush Mountain or help Jax or deal with the man pretending to resuscitate his friend.

Mountain stayed still.

He hadn’t lost control.

He hadn’t snapped.

He had answered the question.

And no amount of laughter, shouting, or cleanup would change that.

Because now…Everyone knew what real looked like.