Secret Society – Episode 013: The Crimson Accord

 

Secret Society – Episode 013: The Crimson Accord

As Count Vlad ascends to the top of KWO Headquarters, secrets swirl like wine in a crystal glass.

Victoria Deschamps confronts the shadow behind NPCW’s recent corruption — but his charm is as sharp as his schemes.

Truth is poured, but deception is savored... and the real game is only beginning.

The ding of the elevator echoes like a solemn bell toll through the polished marble halls of KWO Headquarters, a sleek monolith rising above the heart of downtown Toronto. From the street, it could be mistaken for the office of a global hedge fund. Inside, however, it's a sanctum of curated control — a power fortress wrapped in glass and gold.

Count Vlad steps out from the elevator, his long obsidian coat gliding across the floor like a shadow with purpose. His gait is patient, composed, as if he were walking into a room that already belonged to him.

Through the towering windows behind her, the lights of Toronto glitter like scattered jewels across Lake Ontario. There stands Victoria Deschamps, Vice Chair of the KWO Board of Directors, poised in a crimson blazer. Her hair, a regal auburn, frames sharp, perceptive eyes and a smile that balances welcome with warning.

VICTORIA (with practiced warmth) Count Vlad. I appreciate you coming all the way to Toronto. I trust your arrival was… smooth?

VLAD (removing his gloves delicately) Smooth enough, though your border agents insist on rummaging through one’s belongings as if expecting to find Dracula himself.
(beat) Charming, in a provincial sort of way.

She lets out a dry chuckle and gestures toward her office — a lavish, high-ceilinged chamber where Art Deco elegance meets executive menace. At a small table by the window, she pours wine from a crystal decanter into two glasses.

VICTORIA Let’s toast. (hands him a glass) To clarity.

VLAD (accepts, then regards the wine) Clarity is a treacherous thing. Like moonlight on black ice. (raises his glass) To ambiguity — where the interesting things hide.

They clink glasses.

VICTORIA I wanted this meeting to be direct. Personal. I assume you're curious why I summoned you here?

VLAD (sinks into the chair, crosses one leg with precision) You’ve had a moment of revelation, perhaps. A change of heart. You wish to offer the Dark Dominion a place in your federation family — GCW, perhaps? I hear it’s directionless enough to accommodate even the damned.

VICTORIA (smirks) Not quite. In fact, the opposite.

She places a thin folder on the table between them with surgical precision. Vlad doesn’t touch it. He simply looks at it as though it might yawn open and tell him something he doesn’t already know.

VICTORIA (CONT’D) We have evidence you’ve been spreading malign influence into NPCW. An influence that may have been enabled by our former president.

VLAD (arches an eyebrow, unimpressed) Evidence. Such a small, desperate word. One reaches for it like a child reaches for a light switch in the dark, hoping it banishes the shadows. It never does.

VICTORIA (opens the folder, slides it toward him) Several payments — traced from your Cayman holdings. Laundered through a network of fronts, then deposited discreetly into Jacques Renaud’s personal accounts. We believe he was on your payroll, helping you bypass regulatory oversight and extend your reach into the NPCW.

Vlad lifts the folder with one hand — almost idly — and pages through it with the mild interest of a man reviewing a wine list.

VICTORIA (CONT’D) Our conclusion: Renaud was your inside man. And you intended to compromise the governance of our most symbolic federation.

VLAD (without looking up) Fascinating. Cayman accounts… I had nearly forgotten I had those. My accountant did mention they were seized. Just last week, I believe. (glances up with a slight smile) Holmes’ handiwork, no doubt?.

VICTORIA (evenly) You forgot about twenty-five million dollars?

VLAD (dismissively, like swatting a fly) That wouldn’t even purchase a heliport in Monaco. Ms. Deschamps, if you're hoping to scandalize me with accounting ledgers, I’m afraid you’ll have to try harder. Money is merely the echo of true power — not its source.

VICTORIA Be that as it may — Renaud is gone. And this... is your final courtesy call. Stay out of NPCW. Keep your hands out of the KWO.

VLAD (snaps the folder shut) You disappoint me. I expected a more imaginative accusation. (rises gracefully) But let me reassure you — I have no interest in your snowy carnival of nostalgia. My focus is, and has always been, HCW.

He sets down his empty glass with the precision of a man placing a chess piece. The game, in his mind, is already won.

VLAD (CONT’D) Now, if we’re quite finished — I have matters to attend to. Matters involving steel, blood, and consequence. Not quarterly projections.

VICTORIA (as he turns) Well played, by the way. With IWF and Damian Black. Exploiting their financial instability... and attempting to recruit Black into your Dominion? It sent tremors through the KWO boardroom.

VLAD (pauses, then turns slightly) The IWF is a fossil. No challenge. No future.
(smirks coldly) As for Mr. Black — I recognize ambition when I see it. If the Dominion is a throne room, he merely wandered near its door. Whether he chooses to knock... is entirely up to him.

He steps toward the door.

VLAD (CONT’D) And please, Ms. Deschamps… don’t mistake admiration for seduction. That sort of desperation is for men who lack empires.

He exits with a fluid turn. The door closes behind him — quiet, final.

Victoria remains seated, her wine untouched. She watches the folder for a long beat, her face unreadable. Something gnaws at her.

He didn’t blink. He didn’t lie.
And that, more than anything… terrifies her.

Epilogue 1 - Allies

The door clicks shut behind Count Vlad, leaving behind the faintest trace of expensive cologne and cold calculation.

Victoria Deschamps stands by the window, her posture poised but her mind racing. The crimson wine in her glass sits untouched. She exhales slowly — the chill of the encounter still lingering in the air — when a side door creaks open behind her.

Emerging from the private entrance, clad in a sleek dark suit and immaculately groomed green fur, is none other than Paul “The Grinch” Heyman. His trademark devilish smile is subdued, but unmistakable.

HEYMAN Well... that was an interesting time.

DESCHAMPS (without turning) He exudes power like smoke from a fire. Cold, patient... and far too confident. He’s playing the long game — and he knows it.

HEYMAN A dark game. And I fear your warning fell on deaf, noble ears.

DESCHAMPS (finally turns, meeting his gaze) Agreed. Which is why we need to stay the course. The Resistance must keep growing.

HEYMAN (grinning wider) Just remember, my role remains… unofficial. If the others find out I’m helping orchestrate this from the shadows — well, it would ruin my whole sinister mystique.

DESCHAMPS (smiling slightly) Of course. You’re our secret weapon in this war — and secrets are strongest in silence.

(beat) How goes the grooming?

HEYMAN (genuinely pleased) Rudolph is becoming a true guiding light. His fire isn't just for show — it's purpose-driven. And the Blonde Bombshells? With every match, their confidence grows. They aren’t just fighters anymore... they’re becoming symbols.

DESCHAMPS (nods) They’ll carry the next generation forward... into whatever this becomes.

HEYMAN (lowers his voice) As for the Demons… cracks are forming. Krampus senses it — Vlad is a threat to his legacy, not a partner. That seed of doubt is growing. Once I can twist Lilith to see the same… the Alphas will fracture.

DESCHAMPS And what of Santa’s turn?

HEYMAN (pauses, eyes narrowing) Still unresolved. The truth of his transformation is buried deep — and Vlad holds the shovel. But I’ll find the root. And when I do... the North Pole will know who truly betrayed their Saint.

DESCHAMPS Then we keep moving. Quietly. Carefully. Because next time Vlad comes knocking... he won’t be alone.

(A beat of silence. Then—)

DESCHAMPS I’m still not sure why you’re helping here.

HEYMAN (grins, eyes gleaming) Because NPCW is mine. Mine alone to toy with. No outsider — not Vlad, not anyone — takes that from me.
In the end… the House always wins.

DESCHAMPS (measured, steady) Yes. As long as you understand… the House means all of NPCW. Not just you.

HEYMAN (with faux innocence) Of course.

Epilogue 2 - The Offer

As Count Vlad exits Victoria Deschamps’ office, his eyes scan the grand expanse of KWO's headquarters: steel, glass, and prestige. Employees move efficiently. Lights glisten on polished marble floors. Then, a door catches his attention.

GOLD LETTERING: “THE CHAIRMAN”

A smile curls across his lips.

He strolls toward it, his polished boots clicking with purpose. Sitting outside the office, a poised secretary in a crisp gray suit looks up from her tablet.

SECRETARY (with a knowing smile) Good day, Count Vlad. The Chairman has been expecting you.

VLAD (pleasantly surprised) Has he now?

She rises and opens the door. Soft classical music and the scent of aged oak and fine leather drift from within.

ALEXANDER, the Chairman of KWO, rises from behind his grand mahogany desk. Early 60s, silver hair slicked back, his dark navy three-piece suit sharp as a blade. A crimson silk tie and pocket square hint at his refined taste.

Behind him, in a glass case: a vintage wrestling championship belt, its golden face gleaming under moody lights. Art lines the walls — Kandinsky, Basquiat, and a massive photograph of the first-ever IWF Congress.

ALEXANDER (calm and dignified) Count Vlad Dragomir. Welcome. Please, sit.

VLAD (bowing slightly, then taking a seat) Chairman Alexander. A pleasure, as always.

ALEXANDER How was your visit with Victoria Deschamps?

VLAD (measured) Stimulating. She remains… formidable. Unshaken, even when surrounded by tremors. She is elegant, but sharp. More dangerous than she lets on. I respect that.

ALEXANDER (smiling with subtle admiration) Victoria is a pillar of modern wrestling diplomacy. Astute, principled, and vastly underestimated by those who assume elegance is weakness.

(pouring two glasses of vintage scotch) Now… I suspect you did not stop by simply to offer compliments.

VLAD (accepts the glass, then leans in slightly) You’re correct, Chairman.

Word travels. I hear whispers — of financial strain from the IWF… and a Vice Chair who is devoting more and more time and resources to NPCW. Unbalanced investments. Friction among shareholders.

I would like to present an offer… to buy controlling interest in NPCW from the KWO Board.

(he sips his scotch) I would maintain continuity. Elevate the brand. Ensure its legacy — and profits — for decades to come.

ALEXANDER (pauses, swirling his drink in contemplation) An intriguing offer… calculated, bold… and timely.

(he stands, walks slowly toward the trophy case) Unfortunately for you, we just finalized a sale. Not controlling interest… but a significant minority stake.

(a faint smile) To a most… compelling party.

(turns back toward Vlad) In fact… here he comes now.

The office doors open.

ARDEN VANTRELL enters — Cloaked in flowing crimson and gray robes, his steps silent, almost gliding. His silver-white hair drapes neatly past his shoulders, framing an ageless face. His skin is pale, but not weak — it is porcelain etched by centuries. His pale eyes cut through the room like moonlight through fog.

Time itself seems to recoil at his presence.

VANTRELL (with mock surprise) Ah… young Dragomir.

(a wicked smirk) How is the Grandest manipulator these days?

VLAD (visibly shaken) M-Master Vantrell…

VANTRELL (savoring the discomfort) Professional wrestling, Vlad. You must be congratulated… for turning me on to this extraordinary theater of violence and vanity.

(beat, eyes narrowing) A game of kings… and monsters.

(his smile fades, sneer lingering) And you, dear Vlad… forgot who taught you how to play.

Vlad is speechless.

Alexander sips his scotch in silence, the room heavy with power and betrayal.