The IRW training center buzzed with energy when Vince walked in.
It was a far cry from the sleek, expansive performance facilities he remembered from his past—no giant LED screens, no vast gym floors, and definitely no high-tech recovery rooms. This place was small, practical, and almost bare-bones. A single wrestling ring took center stage, its canvas worn yet tidy. In one corner, rusted dumbbells clanked together, while a few heavy bags swayed gently. The air was thick with the scents of sweat, chalk, and hard work.
But it got the job done. For now.
Wrestlers were scattered throughout the area—some were running drills, others were lightly sparring, and a few were practicing holds under the watchful gaze of their coaches. The chatter and noise faded as soon as Vince stepped inside.
"Mr. Maston."
Peter Davis, the head of training, stood up straight and made his way over. He was a solidly built man in his late forties, with thinning hair at the temples and eyes that sparkled with years of experience in the ring.
"Didn't expect to see you here today," Peter said, extending a firm handshake. "What a nice surprise."
Vince casually returned the shake. "If I'm running the whole show, I need to know what's going on out there. I can't just sit behind a desk all day."
Peter smiled, but then his gaze drifted past Vince.
And froze.
His mouth fell slightly open.
Standing behind Vince was a wall of muscle and bone.
A man so enormous that, for a brief moment, Peter genuinely wondered if his depth perception had gone haywire.
He had seen big wrestlers before—Paul from ACW, Hogan Hornet, Eddie Prince, Mason Brooks. All of them were big. But this…
This was on another level.
The man's shoulders looked as wide as the ring ropes. His arms hung heavily at his sides, veins bulging like ropes. His head nearly brushed against the low ceiling lights. He wasn't just bulky like bodybuilders; he was massive in a way that seemed… natural. Terrifying.
Peter swallowed hard.
"…I didn't know humans could get that big."
Vince chuckled lightly, clearly enjoying Peter's reaction. "Peter, this is André. André René Roussimoff."
Peter turned fully to face the giant, craning his neck to look up. "You're… you're into wrestling?"
André nodded, a bit shy, "Yes."
Vince clapped his hands together once. "André's here to try out for the men's roster."
Peter blinked in surprise.
The ring?
The ropes?
The very structure of the building?
All those thoughts raced through his mind in an instant.
Before he could voice any of them, a wave of movement swept through the training center. Wrestlers who had been practicing froze mid-action. Grappling pairs broke apart. Conversations fell silent.
Every eye was on Vince—and the towering figure behind him.
André was no stranger to being the center of attention. He stood there calmly, hands neatly folded in front of him.
Vince scanned the room until his gaze landed on Maya Hart among the trainees. She caught his eye right away. He shot her a playful wink.
Maya blinked, taken aback, then rolled her eyes with a hint of a smile.
Vince pointed toward the ring. "Let's go."
He strode confidently toward it, signaling for Peter and André to follow.
That's when it hit him.
There were no ring steps.
Peter glanced down, then up, then back at the ropes.
Vince picked up on it right away. "We'll need something for André to climb in."
André shifted uncomfortably. "I can give it a shot…"
He reached for the ropes, testing them gently. They sagged dangerously.
He hesitated.
"…maybe not."
Peter shook off his shock as he dashed away. In no time, he was back, dragging a hefty steel equipment box and carefully sliding it next to the ring.
Everyone held their breath as André stepped onto it.
The box creaked ominously—but it held firm.
André ducked a bit and gracefully stepped over the top rope, entering the ring without a hitch.
A collective sigh of relief washed over the room.
Vince followed him in and turned to face the trainees.
"This," he declared, "is André. He'll be training with us from now on."
A murmur spread through the crowd, quickly turning into applause—tentative at first, but then building in strength.
Vince raised a hand to quiet them. "I need someone to step into the ring with him."
Silence fell.
Whispers floated around. Side glances exchanged. Everyone was weighing their chances of survival.
André raised his hands slightly. "I promise to try not to hurt anyone."
He meant it in the best way possible.
But it came off a bit intimidating.
A few nervous chuckles rippled through the crowd.
Then, someone stepped up.
Grant Austin.
Vince's eyebrows shot up in surprise. He hadn't seen that coming.
Grant climbed into the ring, the trainees erupting in cheers—some clapping in support, others shouting advice as if it were a street brawl.
Vince nodded with approval. "Good."
He turned to Peter. "You're the referee."
Peter hesitated. "What are the rules?"
"Simple," Vince replied. "No pins. No submissions. The first guy to get the other's back on the mat wins."
He stepped over to ringside and leaned in close to André, lowering his voice.
"Give him a chance. Don't finish it right away. He's got the guts to step up."
André nodded seriously.
Peter raised his hand. "Ready?"
Grant bounced lightly on his feet, his eyes fixed on André's chest—looking higher felt impossible.
The match kicked off.
Grant was the first to move, circling quickly, darting in and out. He went low, trying to hook André's leg.
Nothing.
He attempted a waist lock, grunting as he pulled.
Still nothing.
André barely budged.
The crowd murmured—some impressed, others anxious.
Grant ducked a slow-reaching arm and shot behind André, trying to use speed and momentum. André stumbled just half a step—just half a step—before regaining his balance.
The room gasped.
Grant flashed a brief smile, feeling a surge of confidence.
Then André turned.
Grant threw a quick jab. André absorbed it like a gentle breeze. Another jab. Another.
And then André swung once.
His fist connected solidly with Grant's chest.
Grant was sent flying backward, landing flat on the mat.
The sound rang out.
The room went quiet—then collectively gasped. A few claps started, more respectful than celebratory.
Peter quickly knelt down. "Grant?"
Grant took a deep breath, nodding. "I'm… okay."
Peter stood up and placed a hand on André's shoulder, a gesture of symbolic victory. "That's it."
Applause filled the air.
Vince clapped enthusiastically. "From this day forward, André is officially part of IRW."
Cheers erupted, louder now, fueled by excitement and admiration.
Grant sat in the corner of the ring, feeling a bit embarrassed as he rubbed his chest.
André stepped out carefully, giving Grant some space.
Vince climbed back into the ring and called out, "Grant. Come here."
Grant looked a bit puzzled but got up and walked over.
Vince smiled warmly. "You showed real courage. That's important."
Grant nodded, still unsure.
"I want to show you something."
The trainees leaned in closer.
Vince positioned Grant and explained calmly and clearly—how to grab the head, how to drop, how to fall safely. He demonstrated the move with ease.
Then, there was a sudden snap.
Grant dropped instinctively.
The crowd gasped in surprise.
"That," Vince said, "is called a Stunner. It stuns your opponent."
Grant blinked, stunned in more ways than one.
Vince helped him back up. "What do you think?"
Grant glanced around at the cheering trainees, then nodded enthusiastically. "Yes!"
"Great," Vince said. "That's your finisher."
The room erupted.
Vince wasn't done.
He demonstrated a DDT next, then a suplex—clean, controlled, efficient.
More gasps. More applause.
"This," Vince said, gesturing to the suplex, "can be used by anyone. Men. Women. Size doesn't matter."
Murmurs of approval—especially from the women.
"The DDT," Vince continued, "is a strong finishing move. Decide wisely who uses it. Not everyone needs the same weapon."
He stepped back, surveying the room.
"You're not just fighters anymore," Vince said. "You're performers. Remember that."
The training centre buzzed with excitement.