In the modern boardroom of Atlantic Championship Wrestling the atmosphere was tense. An emergency meeting was convened the moment the overnight ratings were received. All In, the pay-per-view event that had been shrugged off by everyone in ACW as a gamble from a small promotion, pulled more viewers than ACW's own show. And it wasn't even close.
James Wilson sat at the far end of the long rectangular table, fingers interlocked, bowing his head down slightly to hide his small smile from view.
He looked somber and professional on the outside, but inside felt vindicated. For months he had cautioned that Lance Dawson selling control meant that something new was going to happen. Tonight validated his cautions.
At the end of the table was Zach Sachman, head of ACW, who was beet red with all-consuming rage. Balding and middle-aged, with a gut that hung slightly over his belt, the man measured everything in financial terms. He created ACW into the second biggest promotion in the city purely with financial power, and losing viewership didn't sit well with him.
"You have got to be joking!" Zach yelled, smashing his palm down on the mahogany table with gusto, the ratings report sliding toward the momentarily stunned WWN Producers presenting to him.
"We spend millions of dollars on a production, we spend even more on ton of star contracts, and extravagant entrances, and we are LOSE to a slap-dick company with a bunch of no-names about to scale ladders like ungroomed temple monkeys?!"
The room went silent.
Zach turned his eyes toward Flora Yates, one of ACW's bookers.
A sharply-padded woman in her late thirties, Flora had clawed her way into the male-dominated booking department and earned most of her fellow bookers and wrestler's respect through years of strategist finishes and careful planning. But tonight, she was under the proverbial gun.
"This was your card, Flora! You were the one who signed off the order, the one who signed off the main event! How were they so much better than ours?!?!" Zach spat while poking the air with his finger towards Flora.
Flora's jaw tightened. She could feel James across the table, her out of the ring rival, one booker had spent half of the ACW show as well. But why not blame James?
She kept a cool composure looking competent and cohesive without looking at Zach and knew that he saw pure anger building up inside her. While, at that moment, she was boiling deep down and felt like she would explode.
Zach's attention shifted to James. "And you, Wilson. You are always full of ideas. Tell me, what the hell did they do differently?"
James wanted to say the truth. He wanted to say that Vince Maston, the new owner of IRW had shown up with characters - babyfaces and heels, wrestlers with personalities, and stories for the fans to care about. He wanted to say that the ladder match and the battle royale weren't just fights, they were shows, that fans were foaming at the mouth because it felt different.
But that would only anger Zach more. So James looked down, concealed his grin, and said, "It was a fluke, a lucky night. Their new... whatever new style they call it won't last. Gimmicks fade. What we need to do is focus on our next PPV in May, our biggest show of the year, and we have two months to make sure the next two months matter."
The group nodded along, mostly out of fear.
Zach grunted, his breath heavy. "You're damn right I don't want another embarrassment. Not when we're this close to catching the big boys. We should be a thorn in WF's side, not losing to a damn indie. Flora, James—you're the two and you'd better make sure we don't go through that again."
James nodded obediently. Flora gritted her teeth. She was angry. She was angry because she knew that James was just as responsible as her. He had stood there just as an audience to Zach's finger pointing towards her. But Flora said nothing. She would prove herself in May.
_______
Meanwhile, across town the arena lights of IRW's All In were at last dark, staff had been dismissed, wrestlers sent home, and gear loaded back onto trucks. Vince Maston was the last man there.
He walked into the chilling night air, exhaling. The echoed cheers from the crowd replayed in his mind, Axel Flashpoint unhooking the belts, Eddie Prince sneering as he hoisted the world title at the end—he allowed himself a brief, rare indulgence: pride.
But then his gaze swept across the vacant parking lot and his shoulders dropped. No car. Not even an ugly second-hand beater. He had invested everything into IRW, into investments, to make tonight happen, and yet, he had forgotten the most essential form of transportation.
"Good," he muttered, pulling his jacket tighter. "I guess I'm walking again."
He began the long trek along the cracked black top, sneakers dragging against the pavement in the stillness. He slipped into his former world, when he had wished for a night, like this one, but in black limos with a black-clad driver and scantily clad escorts.
A loud honk cracked through the silence.
Vince stopped short and turned. A sleek black car rolled up right next to him with headlights blinding him briefly. The passenger-side window slowly lowered.
Maya Hart sat inside.
Her eyes found his through the dim glow of the streetlamps. She was dressed casually, a hoodie zipped halfway, her long dark hair loose.
"Need a ride?" she asked, her voice carrying a mix of awkwardness and familiarity.
Vince blinked, surprised. "Maya? At this hour?"
She gave a faint, wry smile. "What can I say? I couldn't sleep. Was too excited after the show. Figured I'd drive around. Then I saw you out here, looking like a lost puppy."
"Well, a gentleman should never reject a lady's request." Vince said as he got in.