Wrestling

The noise inside the Grand Auditorium vibrated through the ring floor, rattled the metal rigging suspended from the ceiling, and hummed against the monitors but at the commentators table...and backstage.

General Manager Ryoman stood in his private office, his heavy hands planted flat on the edge of his desk. His eyes were locked on the live feed playing across the wall-mounted television.

On the screen, Renji Okada and Ray Jr. stood tall in the center of the squared circle. The Japan Wrestling World Heavyweight Champion and the masked inheritor of a legacy, side by side. Completely "unscripted for fuck’s sake." At their feet, the Tag Team Champions, Jasun and Moonie, lay broken and unconscious.

Ryoman’s jaw clamped shut. The muscles in his neck tightened against the collar of his suit.

He was a man who demanded order. He had spent years learning the hard way that structure was the only thing separating professional wrestling from a street riot. As General Manager, his entire job was to maintain that structure. He dictated the run of play. He approved the finishes. He controlled the flow of the broadcast.

For the second time in less than a month, Ray Jr. had ignored the script.

Ryoman turned away from the television, pacing toward the door. His polished leather shoes struck the floor with heavy and angry thuds. He reached for the brass handle, fully intending to march down to the entrance, order the cameras to cut to black, and hand both men heavy fines the second they stepped through the curtain.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Before his fingers brushed the metal, the black phone on his desk began to ring.

It was a sharp tone, reserved exclusively for the internal corporate line. There was only one man who used that line during a live television broadcast.

Ryoman stopped. He let out a slow, controlled breath through his nose, walked back to the desk, and picked up the receiver.

"Mr. Shin," Ryoman said, keeping his voice level.

"Ryoman," the CEO’s voice came through the earpiece, smooth and completely devoid of the panic currently infecting the backstage production crew and even GM Ryoman alike. "I am watching the feed from my office. And, my oh my."

"I am heading to the stage right now to cut the broadcast," Ryoman stated firmly. "They went off script. Again. Sun and Moon were supposed to stand tall to close the show and build heat. Okada had no business being out there, and Ray Jr. is continually disregarding every directive my office hands him."

"Do not cut the broadcast," Shin replied instantly. The command was soft but carried the weight of a guillotine.

Ryoman gripped the phone tighter. "Sir, if we do not establish boundaries, the locker room will--"

"The locker room will do exactly what they are paid to do," Shin interrupted. "Look at that, Ryoman. Do not look at the run sheet. Look at the crowd."

Ryoman shifted his gaze back to the television. The camera panned across the audience. Thousands upon thousands of fans were on their feet. The energy was feral. They were witnessing a collision of different worlds, the undisputed king of the mountain aligning with the rising star to punish the arrogant rulebreakers.

"Metrics are already spiking," Shin continued, the faint sound of typing echoing in the background of the call. "Ray Jr. acting as a vigilante alongside our Heavyweight Champion is generating more traffic in five minutes than Sun and Moon have generated in their entire six-month title reign."

"But Sir, it is chaos," Ryoman argued, though he knew it was a losing battle.

"It is money and viewership," Shin corrected him. "You want to punish them for breaking your structure. I want to monetize their insubordination. We are a week away from the Unforgiving pay-per-view. The main event card is currently thin with us not knowing how to select a title defense. We are going to fix that right now."

Shin delivered his instructions quickly and precisely. He didn’t ask for Ryoman’s opinion. He didn’t care about it. He only cared about the bottom line.

"Do you understand?" Shin asked when he finished.

"Understood," Ryoman replied, his tone clipped.

"Execute it immediately, before they leave the ring."

The line went dead.

Ryoman slammed the receiver back onto the cradle. He adjusted his suit jacket, his face hardening to show only pure authority, as he moved and yanked his office door open.

He moved through the backstage corridors with terrifying purpose. Production assistants pressed themselves against the walls to get out of his way.

He reached the staging area just behind the entrance curtain. The space was in total disarray. The head technical director was shouting into his headset, desperately trying to figure out how to transition into the commercial break while the two rogue wrestlers refused to leave the ring.

"Director," Ryoman barked, his voice slicing through the panic.

The technical director spun around, his eyes wide. "GM Ryoman! I’m trying to wrap the show, but they won’t hit their cues--"

"They don’t have cues."

Ryoman stepped into the man’s personal space, towering over him. He leaned in, lowering his voice so only the tech crew at the control unit could hear him.

"Kill the arena lights," Ryoman whispered. "All of them. Right now."

The director blinked, confused. "Sir? The broadcast--"

"Shut the lights off," Ryoman commanded, his eyes narrowing. "Then, pull up the Unforgiving promotional graphic. I am sending a text to the graphics department right now. They have twenty seconds to generate a custom match card. When I give you the signal, you put it on the jumbotron."

The director swallowed hard, nodding frantically. He turned back to his console, his fingers flying across the switches. "Standby to cut house lights. Three, two, one. Cut!"

Inside the Grand Auditorium, the blinding white lights instantly went black.

The sudden darkness triggered a massive surge of noise from the crowd. The cheering morphed into a wave of shocked confusion.

Thousands of cell phone flashlights snapped on. The flashlights created a sea of scattered stars across the pitch-black stadium.

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