It’s a slow, sweaty descent into hell—Florida heat and fluorescent lights buzzing overhead—where Lane Hartley is God, Judge, and Executioner. 

Epix struts in like he’s got something to prove—tanned, cocky, that smirk stretching too wide across his face—but the moment he opens his mouth, it all crumbles. His voice—a nasal whine, like static over an old radio—cuts through the room, grating against Lane’s nerves like a match on dry bone. And just like that, the tone is set. Destruction is coming, and Lane delivers it with the slow-burn fury of a man who’s been waiting all damn day to let loose.

Lane dominates Epix with surgical precision, every blow laced with contempt. The mat becomes a slaughterhouse as Lane low blows, stomps, and stretches the rookie until the only thing left is sweat and regret. Lane’s glistening body soaking through the canvas, his hair soaked and wild, his leather boots scraping skin as he grinds Epix’s face to the mat. He isn’t just winning—he’s making a point. And every second of it drips with sweat, rage, and perverse beauty.

Lane’s not here to impress you. He’s here to destroy a man.

He drops legs like guillotines, dives off ropes with elbows honed to shatter ribs, and stares through the camera like he knows you’re watching—and dares you to blink. This is what happens when arrogance meets reality. When a big-mouth walks into a lion’s den and thinks he can bark. W

hat unfolds is less match, more manifesto: 29 minutes of pure, merciless dominance.

TOTAL RUN-TIME: 29 minutes, 31 seconds