The Virus: Existential Crisis, Part 2

 

The Awesome Towers, March 2, 2023

05:42 local time,
City of Gotham Hill, Gotham Grand Sovereignty, UCSS

Vince McGeady was already in his office.

Early. Just how he liked it.

The lights of Gotham Hill were still dim in the predawn haze, the skyline outside the glass wall of the Awesome Towers just beginning to turn from black to steel gray. The city was quiet in a way it rarely was during daylight hours. No calls. No producers arguing in hallways. No performers trying to negotiate their next angle.

Just silence.

Normally Vince enjoyed this hour. It was the only time of day the empire felt completely under control.

Right now it felt anything but.

The World Fighting Empire’s Combat Arts division had not resumed programming. Neither had the WFE’s chief rival, the International Wrestling Council. What should have been a routine week of television had turned into a dead broadcast grid and a media feeding frenzy.

The WFE was buried in scandal.

Genevieve Horton was dead.

Her parents and her boyfriend were almost certainly preparing a wrongful-death lawsuit. The footage of the botched jackhammer had already circulated far beyond the wrestling world. News outlets that had never cared about Combat Arts were suddenly dissecting ring safety protocols like forensic investigators.

A judge had also grown tired of Vince’s procedural maneuvering in the ongoing lawsuit against the IWC. The order was blunt: stop stalling and resolve it.

Then there were the rumors.

One of his top stars- and one of his most difficult- Magnolia Wine might be walking away entirely. Marcy Carter had always been trouble. Marketable trouble, yes…but trouble.

…and worst of all, the moment that still played in Vince’s head every time he closed his eyes.

The Thursday Night War broadcast.

The last time the WFE had been on the air.

Roman Cesar standing backstage after Horton and Luis were carried off the stage in stretchers.

Roman saying “the roster will not perform after that”.

Roman simply walking out.

Then the rest of the roster followed him.

A walkout. Live. On air.

Production scrambling. The broadcast feed collapsing into chaos. Advertisers calling within minutes.

The moment Vince realized the problem was no longer just a botch.

It was control.

Vince stood behind his desk now, staring at the skyline but not really seeing it.

On the desk sat a tablet paused on a still frame from that broadcast. The exact moment Goldstein lifted Sunny Ways (Genevieve Horton) for the jackhammer.

Vince had watched it too many times to count.

He didn’t watch it now.

A buzzer sounded on the intercom.

Vince didn’t look at the console. He already knew who it would be.

His top lieutenants.

The people who were supposed to fix problems before they became disasters.

Vince pressed the button.

“Come on in.”

He leaned back in his chair and waited as the office doors unlocked.

The war council was about to begin.

The doors to Vince McGeady’s office slid open.

Aiden McGeady entered first, still adjusting the collar of a shirt that clearly hadn’t been meant for a 5:30 a.m. meeting. Behind him came Triple X, broad-shouldered and stone-faced as always, and Joey Ace, the senior producer who looked like he’d already had two cups of coffee and still didn’t feel awake.

None of them liked being here this early.

…but this was Vince.

If Vince called a meeting before sunrise, you showed up before sunrise.

The doors shut behind them.

Vince didn’t bother with greetings.

Instead, he slammed a tablet down onto the desk so the paused footage faced them.

The frame showed the exact moment William Goldstein lifted Cesar Luis.

“You see that?” Vince barked. “You see that right there?”

No one answered.

Vince jabbed a finger at the screen.

“That idiot killed Sunny Ways and paralyzed Cesar Luis.”

The room stayed silent.

“He couldn’t deliver a jackhammer properly if his life depended on it,” Vince continued. “The guy’s been doing spears his whole career. Fine…but if you’re asked to change the move, you rehearse it. You practice it. You don’t just drop somebody on their spine like an amateur.”

Joey Ace shifted slightly but said nothing.

Vince wasn’t done.

“…and where the hell was the production crew?” Vince snapped. “Where were the rehearsals? Where was the timing? That segment was supposed to be staged perfectly.”

His rant continued.

“The arena floor wasn’t even set right,” Vince said, pacing behind the desk. “I told them Borealis Bay needed proper flooring under the ring. Combat Arts rings are supposed to have support. Did anyone check it?”

No one answered.

“…and the camera crew,” Vince added bitterly. “They missed half the setup. The whole thing looked sloppy.”

The accusations kept coming.

Goldstein.

Production.

The ring crew.

The arena.

The timing.

The segment.

Everything except the one decision Vince had made himself: changing Goldstein’s finish to jackhammers without rehearsal time.

The three men across the desk let the storm pass.

No one in this room was stupid enough to tell Vince he was responsible.

That would be career suicide.

Finally, after nearly five minutes of uninterrupted fury, Triple X exhaled slowly.

“Okay,” he said.

The word cut through the rant like a knife.

Vince stopped pacing.

Triple X folded his arms.

“At some point,” he said evenly, “you’ve got to accept reality, deal with it, and move on.”

Vince stared at him.

Triple X didn’t blink.

“So,” Triple X continued, “what do you want to do about it?”

Vince’s answer came instantly.

“I fire them.”

Joey blinked.

“All of them.”

Vince pointed toward the paused footage again.

“Every wrestler who walked out that night,” he said. “Anyone who was scheduled to wrestle. Anyone who already wrestled. Anyone who joined Roman Cesar’s little rebellion.”

He turned toward the door.

“The production crew too. Referees. Talent. Anyone who walked.”

The room went quiet.

Then Joey said the word Vince hated most.

“That would make you look petty and vindictive.”

Vince’s head snapped toward him.

“I’m not petty.”

Joey didn’t back down.

“…and I’m telling you that firing half your roster and staff would look exactly like that.”

Triple X nodded slightly.

“You’d be firing several dozen people,” he said. “Maybe more.”

“…and then what?” Joey added. “You replace them with who?”

Vince shrugged.

“We’re off TV right now,” he said. “We’ve got time.”

“No,” Joey replied calmly. “You don’t.”

Replacing wrestlers alone would take months. Production crews even longer.

Triple X added quietly:

“You’d create a staffing crisis.”

Aiden had been silent the entire time.

Now he finally spoke.

“If you fire everyone,” he said, “you’re just inviting more scandals, more scrutiny, and every network executive in the world will think you’ve lost the plot.”

Vince leaned against the desk.

“So what do you suggest?”

Aiden didn’t hesitate.

“If you want to send a message,” he said, “you fire one person.”

Vince narrowed his eyes.

“Who?”

“Roman Cesar.”

The name hung in the air.

“The leader of the walkout,” Aiden continued. “You fire him and you say the same thing publicly: nobody is above the company.”

Joey slowly nodded.

“…and the locker room?” Vince asked.

Aiden shrugged.

“Without Roman holding them together, they fracture.”

Vince considered that.

Then another thought crossed his mind.

“What about Magnolia Wine?”

The others looked up.

“The IWC is sniffing around her,” Vince said. “I can’t prove it, but I know it.”

Aiden tilted his head slightly.

“Do you want to keep her?”

Vince didn’t hesitate.

“No.”

Aiden nodded.

“Then let her walk.”

Silence returned to the office.

Vince leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled together as the first faint light of morning crept across the Gotham skyline behind him.

He didn’t answer immediately.

…but he was thinking.

Roman Cesar’s Ranch, March 3, 2023

12:16 local time,
Outskirts of Pahá Tʉhka Sʉhka, Capitol Region, Comancheria

Roman Cesar did not really have a permanent home.

Technically, he had a residence in Monterrey, listed for tax purposes and shared with his cousin Pablo…but in practical terms Roman and his family lived wherever the road took them- most often in his custom touring bus or aboard his private jet.

It wasn’t about showing off.

It was simply practical.

Roman had spent most of the last decade traveling from arena to arena. A fixed mansion somewhere would have sat empty most of the year. The bus let him avoid endless hotel rooms and rental cars. It also meant his family could stay with him instead of waiting months for him to come home.

When the spirit struck him, Roman still bunked with his old Unit friends from the roster like everyone else.

The difference was that when the night ended, Roman’s family was still nearby.

Lucia.

Cesario.

Noelia and Mercedes.

Seven-year-old Cesario was already convinced goats were the greatest animals in the world. The three-year-old twins were still deciding.

Lucia stood about twenty yards away now, camera raised to her face.

Click.

Roman leaned against the wooden fence and scratched one of the goats behind the ears.

Click.

“Hold that,” Lucia said.

Roman looked up at her with a tired grin.

“Like this?”

Click.

Lucia lowered the camera slightly and studied the shot.

Lucia had once worked on the same side of the camera Roman did. The two of them had met years ago while working in erotic modeling and film. Roman never hid that part of his life, even now that he was a major wrestling star.

He was proud of it.

Vince McGeady, on the other hand, hated it.

Before the walkout and the current crisis, Vince’s biggest argument with Roman had been Roman continuing to shoot adult content. Roman had never agreed that the company had any right to dictate what he did outside the ring.

Lucia had since transitioned into more conventional photography work. These days she preferred the quiet rhythm of a lens and natural light.

Click.

The goats wandered lazily through the pasture while Roman tossed feed into the trough.

Ranching wasn’t really his passion.

…but it was quiet.

After the chaos of Empire Fest and the fallout that followed, quiet was exactly what Roman needed.

Lucia lowered the camera.

“You look calmer today.”

Roman shrugged.

“Goats don’t argue about finishes.”

Lucia laughed softly.

Then Roman’s phone buzzed.

He glanced down.

Pablo.

Roman answered.

“Hey.”

Pablo didn’t waste time.

“Mail came in.”

Roman leaned against the fence.

“Anything interesting?”

“Mostly routine,” Pablo said. “Bank stuff. Insurance. But there’s one thing you should see.”

Roman waited.

“Courier envelope,” Pablo continued. “Expedited.”

Roman’s stomach tightened slightly.

“From who?”

“The WFE.”

Roman straightened.

“What does it say?”

Pablo hesitated.

“It says-” he paused, reading the page again, “-effective immediately, Roman Cesar is released from his contract.”

Roman frowned.

“That can’t be right.”

“That’s what it says,” Pablo replied.

“They’re citing… insubordination.”

Roman stared across the pasture.

One of the goats bumped the fence gently beside him.

“No,” Roman said slowly. “That’s a mistake.”

Pablo’s phone made a soft notification sound.

“I just sent you a screenshot.”

Roman looked down at his screen.

The letterhead was unmistakable.

World Fighting Empire.

He read the line again.

Effective immediately…

Roman ended the call without saying anything else.

For a long moment he just stood there.

Lucia noticed the change immediately.

“What happened?”

Roman walked over to her and handed her the phone.

She read the message.

Her eyebrows rose slightly.

“They fired you?”

Roman nodded slowly.

“That’s what it says.”

Lucia looked up at him.

“What are you going to do?”

Roman exhaled.

Surprisingly, he didn’t look angry.

Just thoughtful.

“We’ll be okay,” he said. “Financially.”

That part was true. Roman had always assumed wrestling wouldn’t last forever. The ranches, the investments, the licensing deals- he had planned for the day the ring stopped being his main income.

Still.

This wasn’t how he expected it to happen.

Lucia studied him.

“You don’t look convinced.”

Roman shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I’m convinced about one thing.”

“What?”

Roman pulled the phone back from her and looked again at the screenshot.

“Vince just violated about six clauses in my contract.”

He slipped the phone back into his pocket.

“I’m calling my lawyer.”

Roman stood near the fence line a moment longer after Lucia walked back toward the house.

The goats had lost interest in him and wandered toward the shade. The pasture was quiet again.

Roman pulled out his phone and scrolled to a familiar contact.

Filomena Estrada.

He hit call.

The line rang twice.

“Roman,” came the voice on the other end.

Warm. Direct. The unmistakable tone of someone who had spent decades telling powerful people they were wrong and stubborn clients they were being idiots.

Filomena Estrada was one of Monterrey’s best contract attorneys. In another life she could have easily been a grandmother scolding children with a wooden spoon in hand.

Instead she dismantled corporations in courtrooms.

“You sound calm,” she said. “Which means either nothing happened or something very stupid happened.”

Roman leaned against the fence.

“Something stupid.”

“I suspected.”

“You have a minute?”

“For you, yes. What did Vince do now?”

Roman let out a short breath.

“He fired me.”

Silence on the other end.

“Define fired.”

“Effective immediately,” Roman said. “Released from my contract. Citing insubordination.”

“Ah.”

Not surprise.

Recognition.

Filomena was already shifting into work mode.

“Send me the document.”

Roman forwarded the screenshot Pablo had sent him.

He heard the faint tapping of keys as she opened it.

Another pause.

Then Filomena sighed.

“Oh, Roman.”

“That bad?”

“No,” she said calmly. “It’s worse for him than it is for you.”

Roman smiled faintly.

“I thought so.”

Filomena continued reading.

“He terminated you without arbitration,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Without formal disciplinary notice.”

“Yes.”

“…and- unless I’m missing something- without invoking the behavioral clause that would allow immediate suspension.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Filomena made a quiet humming noise.

“That contract took nine months to negotiate,” she said. “Do you think I forgot what I put in it?”

Roman chuckled.

“No.”

“Good,” she said. “Because Vince clearly did.”

Roman kicked lightly at the dirt near the fence.

“So what are my options?”

Filomena’s voice sharpened slightly.

“Well, the simple answer is that he just handed us a lawsuit.”

Roman didn’t look excited.

“Civil?”

“Yes,” Filomena said. “Breach of contract. Wrongful termination. Possibly reputational damages depending on how publicly he pushes the ‘insubordination’ narrative.”

Roman nodded slowly.

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“…and if the firing was retaliatory for workplace safety concerns,” she added, “then the case gets even more interesting.”

Roman raised an eyebrow.

“You think we can argue that?”

“I think,” Filomena replied, “that the timing is extremely convenient.”

Roman looked out across the ranch.

The wind moved softly through the grass.

“He thinks firing me will scare the locker room,” Roman said.

Filomena laughed quietly.

“That man has never understood people.”

Roman smiled faintly.

“No. He hasn’t.”

Filomena continued reading the letter.

“Also,” she added, “this clause right here is delightful.”

Roman waited.

“Your contract requires mediation before termination in any dispute involving performance conduct.”

Roman blinked.

“So he can’t just fire me.”

“He can try,” she said, “but legally? No. Not the way he did it.”

Roman crossed his arms.

“What would you recommend?”

Filomena didn’t hesitate.

“First,” she said, “you do nothing publicly.”

Roman nodded.

“Second, we notify WFE legal that the termination is disputed.”

“Okay.”

“Third,” she said, “we remind them that litigation discovery would include safety procedures, rehearsal records, and internal communications regarding the Thursday Night War segment.”

Roman whistled softly.

“That sounds expensive.”

“For them?” Filomena said. “Very.”

Roman thought for a moment.

“…and if they dig in?”

Filomena’s tone turned almost cheerful.

“Then we sue them.”

Roman laughed.

“You sound excited.”

“I am,” she replied. “Vince McGeady just made a very emotional decision.”

Roman looked out at the goats again.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

“He tends to do that.”

Filomena’s voice softened slightly.

“Roman.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re okay financially, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” she said. “Then we have the strongest negotiating position there is.”

Roman tilted his head.

“What’s that?”

Filomena smiled audibly through the phone.

“Patience.”

Roman nodded slowly.

“Alright.”

“Send me the full letter when it arrives,” she said. “Not the screenshot.”

“I will.”

“…and Roman?”

“Yeah?”

“If Vince thought firing you would make this problem disappear…”

Roman already knew the answer.

“He’s wrong.”

“Very,” Filomena said.

The call ended.

Roman slipped the phone back into his pocket and stood quietly in the pasture.

Behind him, Lucia stepped onto the porch with the twins.

Cesario was still chasing goats.

Roman watched them for a moment.

Then he walked back toward the house.

The WFE statement came out mid-afternoon.

It was polished. Professional. Carefully worded.

…and brutal.

The company claimed Roman Cesar’s termination was fully justified, citing “repeated disciplinary concerns” and “behavior incompatible with company standards.” It listed vague examples of “insubordination,” “failure to follow production directives,” and “conduct damaging to the company’s public image.”

Roman read the statement once.

Then he laughed.

Not because it was funny.

Because it was predictable.

Within minutes his phone started buzzing.

Texts.

Calls.

Voice messages.

Media requests.

Friends.

Fellow wrestlers.

Fans.

Even people he hadn’t spoken to in years.

Support poured in so fast the phone practically vibrated off the kitchen table.

Roman stared at the screen for a moment before sighing.

“Okay… that’s enough.”

He silenced the phone and set it on the charger.

Lucia leaned against the counter nearby, arms crossed.

“You’re trending,” she said.

Roman shook his head.

“Of course I am.”

“You going to say anything?”

Roman thought about it for a moment.

Then he nodded.

“Yeah.”

A few minutes later he stepped outside.

Lucia followed with her camera, but Roman shook his head.

“Phone’s fine.”

They walked out into the pasture.

One of the goats wandered over immediately, nudging Roman’s hand for attention.

Roman scratched behind its ears.

“Perfect,” he said.

Lucia held the phone up.

“Ready?”

Roman nodded.

She hit record.

Roman looked into the camera, still petting the goat.

“Hey everyone.”

He paused briefly.

“I’ve seen the statement the WFE released earlier today, and like a lot of you, I was pretty shocked by it.”

The goat bleated softly beside him.

Roman smiled faintly and kept scratching its head.

“I want to say first that what happened a few weeks ago still weighs heavily on me. Genevieve Horton’s death and Cesar Luis’ injury were tragedies. I’m still thinking about them and their families.”

He took a breath.

“There’s a lot I can’t talk about right now.”

Roman glanced down briefly, choosing his words carefully.

“There are things happening behind the scenes, and out of respect for those processes I’m not going to get into details today.”

He looked back at the camera.

“What I will say is that I’m weighing my options.”

Lucia noticed the phrasing and gave the slightest nod behind the phone.

Roman continued.

“I’ve received an incredible amount of support today- from fans, friends, and people in the business. I want you to know I appreciate every message.”

The goat nudged his arm again.

Roman chuckled softly.

“…and just so everyone knows… I’m okay.”

He gestured lightly toward the ranch behind him.

“I’ve got my family. I’ve got my work. I’ve got a lot going on outside wrestling.”

He shrugged.

“Sure, I’ll probably need to make a few short-term adjustments without my WFE salary.”

The smile returned.

“…but I’ll manage.”

Roman looked back at the camera, calm and steady.

“This is just another chapter in my life.”

He paused for a moment.

“…and I fully intend to get back in the ring soon.”

Roman nodded once.

“Thank you all.”

Lucia stopped recording.

Roman looked down at the goat.

“Well,” he said, scratching its head again, “that’s probably going to make Vince even happier.”

Lucia laughed.

“Oh, absolutely.”

IWC Offices, Grand Buffalo Sports Complex, March 3, 2023

15:24 local time,
Buffalo, Niagara, Sovereignty of Buffalo, UCSS

The emergency meeting had been called barely an hour earlier.

That alone told everyone in the room something serious was happening.

The International Wrestling Council boardroom overlooked the indoor practice field of the Grand Buffalo Sports Complex, where a handful of trainees were running drills far below the glass wall.

Inside the room, the atmosphere was far less calm.

Paul Carney stood at the head of the conference table.

On the screen behind him was a headline from The Monitor.

WFE RELEASES ROMAN CESAR AMID WALKOUT FALLOUT

Below it, a second article from The Mat speculated about another departure.

MAGNOLIA WINE EXPECTED TO SEEK RELEASE

Carney turned toward the executives seated around the table.

“Well,” he said, “Vince just gave us the biggest opportunity we’ve had in years.”

No one argued that point.

Roman Cesar was one of the biggest draws in Combat Arts.

Magnolia Wine wasn’t far behind.

…but opportunity and affordability were not the same thing.

One of the finance executives leaned forward.

“Opportunity doesn’t pay salaries,” he said.

Another added:

“WFE money is a different universe from ours.”

Carney nodded.

“I know that.”

The room stayed quiet.

Carney tapped the screen.

“Roman alone moves ratings,” he said. “He moves gates. He moves international interest.”

“…and Marcy moves merchandise,” another executive added.

“That too,” Carney said.

The finance director still looked unconvinced.

“…and you’re planning to pay both of them how?”

Carney didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he changed the slide.

A new name appeared on the screen.

CESAR LUIS

The room blinked.

Then one executive frowned.

“…What?”

Carney remained calm.

“I want to sign him too.”

The reaction was immediate.

“What exactly would Cesar Luis do?” someone asked.

“He’s paralyzed,” another executive said bluntly.

A third executive leaned back in their chair.

“You’re suggesting we hire someone who can’t wrestle?”

Carney clasped his hands together.

“This isn’t about what Cesar can do in the ring.”

Silence settled over the room.

Carney continued.

“It’s about having a heart.”

A few executives exchanged glances.

Carney kept going.

“The guy got paralyzed working for Vince McGeady. The least someone in this industry can do is make sure he’s not abandoned afterward.”

No one spoke for a moment.

Then the finance director cleared his throat.

“That’s… admirable.”

“…but?” Carney asked.

“…but we run a business.”

Carney nodded.

“I know.”

He tapped the screen again.

“There’s also a practical angle.”

Now the room leaned in slightly.

“If we bring Cesar into the organization,” Carney said, “we can help shoulder some of the cost of his care through our athlete support programs.”

He looked around the table.

“That means Marcy Carter doesn’t have to carry it alone.”

A few people in the room began to understand where this was going.

Carney finished the thought.

“…and if Marcy doesn’t have to carry it alone…”

The finance director exhaled slowly.

“…she doesn’t have to demand the kind of salary she would otherwise.”

Carney nodded once.

Exactly.

Another executive finally spoke.

“You’re proposing that compassion becomes a recruiting strategy.”

Carney didn’t flinch.

“I’m proposing that doing the right thing might also happen to be good business.”

Silence again.

Finally someone asked the obvious question.

“…and Roman?”

Carney smiled slightly.

“If Roman Cesar comes here,” he said, “every wrestler in North America will notice.”

He gestured toward the headlines still glowing on the screen.

“…and if Magnolia Wine follows him…”

Carney let the sentence hang in the air.

“…then Vince McGeady doesn’t just have a scandal.”

He looked around the table.

“He has a competitor.”

No one in the room spoke for several seconds.

Then the finance director leaned back slowly.

“…Alright.”

Another executive nodded.

“We’ll run the numbers.”

Carney smiled faintly.

“Good.”

Outside the glass wall, the trainees continued their drills.

Inside the boardroom, the future of the wrestling business had just shifted a few degrees.

Libanona Beach Estates, March 4, 2023

09:24 local time,
Taolagnaro, Mahafaly, Southern Gate of the Dinosanct Confederation

The ocean was calm that morning.

Waves rolled gently against the pale sand of Libanona Beach, the water so clear it almost looked unreal. Palm trees swayed lazily in the breeze and the air smelled faintly of salt and warm stone.

Marcy Carter stood on the terrace of a partially finished beach house, arms crossed as she looked out over the shoreline.

Beside her stood the real estate agent.

The agent was a Lizardfolk, tall and lean with dark green scales that shimmered slightly in the morning sun. He held a tablet delicately between two long claws as he scrolled through building plans.

“This property,” he said calmly, “can be modified easily.”

He rotated the screen toward her.

“The main level can be widened for mobility access. Doorways can be expanded. The slope to the beach can be reinforced if you wish to construct a ramp.”

Marcy leaned closer.

“…and the interior?”

“Open floor plan,” the agent said. “Few load-bearing walls. Adaptable.”

Marcy nodded slowly.

She wasn’t looking for a beach house just for herself.

She was looking for something Cesar Luis could live in.

Something that could handle medical equipment.

Something with space.

Something peaceful.

Her phone buzzed.

Marcy glanced down.

Lister Linebaum.

Her lawyer.

She answered.

“Hey, Lister.”

“Morning, Marcy.”

His tone immediately told her something was off.

Marcy frowned.

“What’s going on?”

“I just got off a call with WFE legal.”

Marcy sighed.

“Let me guess. They want to talk about my contract.”

“Yes.”

Marcy waited.

“They’re requesting a mutual release.”

Marcy stared out at the ocean.

For a second she didn’t say anything.

Then she let out a short laugh.

“Of course they are.”

The Lizardfolk agent politely stepped away, sensing the conversation had turned serious.

Marcy walked toward the edge of the terrace.

“I should’ve expected this,” she said.

“They’re trying to clean house,” Lister replied.

“Yeah,” Marcy said. “Roman first.”

“…and now you.”

Marcy shook her head.

“They think I’m just going to say yes?”

Lister hesitated.

“Well… that depends on what you want.”

Marcy’s expression hardened.

“Oh, I’ll say yes.”

Lister paused.

“…You will?”

“Absolutely,” Marcy said.

“…but only if they give me everything.”

Lister sighed softly.

“Let’s hear it.”

Marcy started ticking items off almost instantly.

“First: I want everything I’m still owed on my contract.”

“Base salary through September?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Second,” Marcy continued, “a generous severance package.”

Lister scribbled something down.

“Define generous.”

“We’ll negotiate that part.”

“Fair.”

“Third,” she said, “settlement on my merchandise rights.”

Lister paused again.

“They’re going to hate that.”

“I don’t care.”

Marcy continued.

“Fourth: immediate release.”

“No waiting period.”

“No ninety-day non-compete.”

Lister inhaled slowly.

“That’s going to be difficult.”

Marcy wasn’t finished.

“…and fifth,” she said.

“The rights to my ring name.”

Lister stopped writing.

“Magnolia Wine.”

Even though the WFE had created it.

Marcy leaned against the railing.

“If they want me gone so badly,” she said calmly, “they don’t get to keep the name I built.”

Lister rubbed his forehead.

“You realize Vince is going to fight that one.”

Marcy shrugged.

“Then I guess I’m not leaving.”

Silence on the line.

Marcy continued.

“My contract runs until the end of September.”

Lister knew that already.

“I can sit,” she said.

“I can do appearances.”

“I can do press.”

“I can wait.”

She paused.

“Or we can go to court.”

Lister exhaled slowly.

“You’re confident about that?”

Marcy didn’t hesitate.

“Very.”

There was a moment of quiet on the phone.

Then Lister laughed softly.

“You know,” he said, “this is why I like representing you.”

“Oh?”

“You negotiate like someone who expects to win.”

Marcy smiled faintly.

“I usually do.”

Lister straightened up on his end.

“Alright.”

“I’ll call WFE legal right now.”

Marcy nodded.

“Good.”

“…and Marcy?”

“Yeah?”

Lister sounded impressed.

“That was a very strong opening position.”

Marcy looked back toward the beach.

“I’m just getting started.”

The call ended.

The Lizardfolk agent approached again politely.

“Everything alright?” he asked.

Marcy slipped her phone back into her pocket.

“Yeah,” she said.

Then she gestured toward the building plans again.

“Now,” she said, “show me where the medical room could go.”

The Mat and the Monitor, March 4, 2023 Edition

Online

Industry Shockwaves: Roman Cesar Fired, Magnolia Wine Negotiating Exit

By Darian Fell & Marilyn Morrow

If you were wondering whether the fallout from the Thursday Night War tragedy would reshape the wrestling industry, the answer appears to be yes.

…and it happened faster than anyone expected.

Within twenty-four hours, two of the biggest names in the World Fighting Empire’s Combat Arts division appear to be on their way out: Roman Cesar, already terminated by the company, and Magnolia Wine, whose mutual release is reportedly under negotiation.

To say the situation is volatile would be an understatement.

“This is seismic,” said The Mat & The Monitor senior analyst Darian Fell during our editorial roundtable earlier today.

“Let’s be clear,” Fell continued. “This probably doesn’t knock the WFE off its throne. They’re still the biggest promotion in the world…but you don’t cancel your highest-rated show and remove two of your biggest stars without consequences.”

Fell was referring to The Cartel, the WFE’s flagship Combat Arts program that has now been suspended indefinitely in the wake of the Empire Fest incident.

At the same time, Roman Cesar- who led the highly publicized locker room walkout during the last broadcast- has been fired, with the company citing “insubordination.”

Meanwhile Magnolia Wine, leader of the women’s faction The Total Babes, appears to be negotiating her departure.

“Look, I don’t want to sound dramatic,” Fell said, “but this is a massive self-inflicted wound.”

“The Cartel was their top-rated program. Roman Cesar was a central star. Magnolia Wine was the leader of their most visible women’s faction—even if that faction wasn’t universally beloved by fans.”

Fell paused before adding bluntly:

“…and Vince McGeady is blowing it all up.”

When asked whether the situation surprised him, Fell didn’t hesitate.

“Not even a little.”

“This is exactly the kind of move Vince makes when he feels his authority has been challenged.”

---

Contract Questions Loom

While the public narrative has focused on the walkout and backstage tensions, The Mat & The Monitor has begun examining the legal side of the situation as well.

Lead reporter Marilyn Morrow says the contracts involved may become the real story.

“I’m still digging,” Morrow said, “but from what I’ve been able to confirm so far, Roman Cesar’s contract situation could be extremely problematic for WFE.”

Morrow noted that Cesar’s termination appears to have been immediate.

“If Vince McGeady fired him without following the dispute resolution process written into the contract- and I’m hearing that may be the case- then Roman Cesar could win that lawsuit very easily.”

…and that may only be the beginning.

“Magnolia Wine’s situation could be even more complicated,” Morrow continued.

According to Morrow’s sources, the WFE has requested a mutual release for Wine rather than terminating her outright.

“That tells me the company knows they’re on very thin ice legally,” Morrow said.

Mutual releases require agreement from both parties, meaning Wine holds significant leverage in the negotiations.

“…and Magnolia Wine,” Morrow added dryly, “is not known for backing down in negotiations.”

Industry sources have indicated the talks may take time, particularly if Wine seeks financial settlement, brand rights, or immediate freedom to work elsewhere.

---

A Changing Landscape

While it remains unclear where Cesar or Wine may land next, one promotion in particular is almost certainly watching closely: the International Wrestling Council.

Fell believes the implications for the competitive landscape could be significant.

“If even one of them signs with the IWC, that’s a win,” Fell said.

“If both of them sign there? That’s a statement.”

Still, Fell cautions against premature declarations of a power shift.

“The WFE has survived controversies before,” he said.

“…but this one is different.”

“Because this time, the damage might be coming from inside the house.”

For now, the industry waits.

…but one thing already seems certain.

The wrestling business will not look exactly the same when the dust settles.

The Fan Blogs, March 4, 2023 Edition

Online.

The Diving Headbutt

(self-congratulatory progressive fan blog)

Headline:
“The Roman Cesar Firing Proves Wrestling Still Protects Abusers and Punishes Accountability”

The latest move from the World Fighting Empire is exactly what many of us feared would happen.

Roman Cesar, the wrestler who stood up for worker safety after the Thursday Night War tragedy that killed Genevieve Horton and left Cesar Luis paralyzed, has been fired.

Let that sink in.

The man who took a moral stand is gone.

Meanwhile the company that created the unsafe working conditions remains intact.

If the WFE thinks they can spin this as “insubordination,” they are underestimating the intelligence of the audience.

This is corporate retaliation.

…and yes, we’re also watching the situation involving Magnolia Wine, who the company is reportedly trying to quietly push out via a “mutual release.”

Funny how the woman leading the WFE’s most visible female faction suddenly becomes expendable once she stops playing along.

This is the moment the industry needs to have a serious conversation about worker protection, safety standards, and the culture that allowed this tragedy to happen.

Unfortunately, if history tells us anything, wrestling promotions rarely choose accountability on their own.

---

Slapping Meat

(WFE-friendly bro blog)

Headline:
“Roman Cesar Played a Stupid Game and Won a Stupid Prize”

Look, we’re not going to sugarcoat this.

Roman Cesar walked out on the company during a live broadcast.

You can spin it however you want, but in any workplace on Earth that gets you fired.

Yes, what happened during Thursday Night War was horrible. Everyone agrees on that. Nobody wanted to see Genevieve Horton die or Cesar Luis get hurt.

…but blaming the entire company forever isn’t a solution.

The show has to go on.

Instead Roman decided to lead a locker room rebellion and embarrass the company on live TV.

So Vince fired him.

Honestly? That’s not shocking.

As for Magnolia Wine, rumors say she might be leaving too.

If that happens, good luck to her. She’s talented.

…but if you’re running a promotion, you can’t let talent think they’re bigger than the company.

That’s how organizations fall apart.

---

The Area

(balanced, analytical fan blog)

Headline:
“Roman Cesar’s Firing Is a Major Strategic Mistake”

The wrestling industry woke up this week to one of the most dramatic talent decisions in recent memory.

The WFE has fired Roman Cesar following the locker room walkout during the Thursday Night War broadcast- the show where the tragic Goldstein jackhammer botch killed Genevieve Horton and seriously injured Cesar Luis.

Regardless of where you fall on the walkout itself, firing Roman is a high-risk move.

Roman Cesar isn’t just another wrestler.

He’s a locker room leader.

That means the message being sent here is clear: challenge management publicly and you’re gone.

The second story developing is Magnolia Wine.

Reports indicate the WFE has asked for a mutual release rather than firing her outright, which suggests the company may want to avoid another legal fight.

If Magnolia leaves as well, the WFE could lose two of its most recognizable stars in the span of a week.

Will that cripple the promotion?

Probably not.

…but it will hurt.

…and if the International Wrestling Council is smart, they’re already making phone calls.

The Smoky Den, March 4, 2023 Edition

Online.

SMOKY BEAR BRYANT: “VINCE MCGEADY JUST SET HIS OWN HOUSE ON FIRE”

Alright.

Everybody sit down because Uncle Smoky is about to explain something that apparently nobody inside the World Fighting Empire understands anymore.

Vince McGeady has lost his damn mind.

There’s no other way to say it.

You had a tragedy on Thursday Night War. A real tragedy. A young woman died. Another wrestler got paralyzed. The entire industry is shaken up and the fans are wondering what the hell happened.

Now what should a competent promoter do in that situation?

Well, I’ll tell you what you don’t do.

You don’t fire your biggest locker room leader and then chase out one of your top stars in the women’s division while the entire world is watching.

…but that’s exactly what Vince just did.

Roman Cesar?

Gone.

Magnolia Wine?

Probably gone.

…and for what?

Because Roman had the nerve to say “we’re not going to keep wrestling after two people just got carried out on stretchers.”

You know what we used to call that back in the day?

Common sense.

…but apparently Vince McGeady thinks the right move is to turn it into a loyalty test.

“Well Roman walked out so I’ll show everybody who’s boss!”

Yeah, congratulations.

Now you’ve just told your entire locker room that if something goes wrong and they speak up, they’re next.

Brilliant leadership strategy there, pal.

…and Magnolia Wine?

Don’t even get me started.

The woman has been one of the most recognizable performers in that company for years, leading the Total Babes and selling merchandise like crazy. And now suddenly they’re trying to shove her out the door with a “mutual release.”

You know what that means in promoter language?

That means Vince wants her gone but he’s smart enough to know if he fires her outright she might take him to court and take half the company with her.

So now he’s playing nice.

Here’s the funniest part of all of this.

The International Wrestling Council is sitting up in Buffalo right now watching Vince light his own house on fire.

…and if they’ve got half a brain between them, they’re already dialing Roman Cesar’s phone number.

If they sign Roman?

That’s a statement.

If they sign Roman and Magnolia?

That’s a problem.

Not because the WFE suddenly collapses overnight- it won’t- but because now there’s a real alternative that looks like it treats its talent like human beings.

…and Vince McGeady created that opportunity all by himself.

So congratulations, Vince.

You had the biggest promotion in the world.

…and now the entire industry is watching you run it like a man who just lost an argument with his own reflection.

Uncle Smoky will be right here with popcorn when the next chapter drops.

Because at this rate?

It’s going to be a hell of a show.

Wrestlers’ Social Media Posts, March 4-5, 2023

Online.

Within hours of Roman Cesar’s firing, Combat Arts wrestlers began reacting across social media. Some spoke openly. Others chose cryptic posts. A few said nothing at all.

The locker room divide was immediately visible.

---

Open Support for Roman

Jon Huxley

(Reel)

“Loyalty isn’t a slogan. It’s a choice.

Some of us made ours that night.”

Huxley later posted a photo of himself and Roman after a match years earlier with the caption:

“Brothers.”

Industry observers immediately noticed the post.

---

Daniel Rayburn

“Standing up for people isn’t insubordination.”

Rayburn’s message was brief, but many interpreted it as direct support for Roman’s actions during the walkout.

---

Chris Valor

“Workers deserve respect. Always.”

Valor did not mention Roman directly, but fans quickly connected the dots.

---

Ruby Banger

“People forget wrestlers are human beings.

I won’t.”

Ruby’s post included a broken heart emoji and a photo of Genevieve Horton.

---

Total Babes Support Magnolia

While Magnolia Wine herself remained silent, several members of the women’s division posted messages widely interpreted as support.

---

Sugar Cane

“The queen of the vineyard always lands on her feet.”

---

Cotton Candy

“Some legacies don’t belong to companies.

They belong to the fans.”

---

Becky Santana

Becky simply posted:

🍷

Fans immediately recognized the symbol.

---

Corporate Loyalty / Safe Responses

Some stars stayed carefully neutral.

---

Cory Reed

“Tough week for everyone in Combat Arts.

My thoughts remain with Genevieve Horton and Cesar Luis.”

Reed avoided mentioning Roman or the firing entirely.

---

TJ Stacks

“The business keeps moving.

Respect to everyone involved.”

---

Ziggy Starman

“Hoping the industry learns something from all of this.”

---

Pro-WFE Sentiment

Very few wrestlers openly defended the company — but one did.

---

Gibson Gimour

Gibson posted a short statement:

“The show must go on.”

The message was quickly flooded with angry replies.

Gibson disabled comments within twenty minutes.

---

Cryptic Posts

These were the ones fans obsessed over.

---

Russell Orton

“Control the narrative.”

No further explanation.

---

Kraven Nightfall

“Chaos reveals truth.”

---

Ray Grimson

“Sometimes the clown is the only one who sees the circus.”

Fans debated the meaning for hours.

---

Silence

Some of the biggest names posted nothing at all.

Notably silent:

• Brock Beasley
• The Reaper
• Triple X
• El Macho Bravo
• Sangre Verde
• La Bala Roja
• Courtney Gilmour
• Rhea Ripton

Industry insiders believe several of these wrestlers are waiting to see how the situation develops before speaking publicly.

---

One More Interesting Post

Ben Hartley (Producer)

Hartley, normally quiet online, wrote:

“Respect the craft. Protect the people who perform it.”

Many interpreted this as criticism of the company’s leadership.

---

What Fans Noticed

Within hours, wrestling fans began pointing out something important:

Almost nobody supported Vince’s decision publicly.

Even neutral posts avoided defending the company.

Which suggests something many insiders already suspected.

The locker room may be far more sympathetic to Roman Cesar than WFE leadership expected.

The Awesome Towers, March 6, 2023

07:32 local time,
City of Gotham Hill, Gotham Grand Sovereignty, UCSS

The office door slammed so hard the glass rattled.

Vince McGeady paced like a caged animal behind his desk.

“They’re mocking me,” he snapped.

On the large monitor behind him, a social media feed scrolled endlessly.

Wrestlers.

Fans.

Bloggers.

Everyone had something to say.

Roman Cesar.

Magnolia Wine.

The walkout.

The firings.

The lawsuits.

Vince jabbed a finger at the screen.

“They think they can embarrass me? In my company?”

Across the desk, Aiden McGeady sat quietly.

He’d learned long ago that interrupting Vince mid-rant rarely ended well.

Vince stopped pacing.

“That locker room has forgotten who built this place.”

Aiden finally spoke.

“Vince-”

“I ought to fire them all.”

The room went still.

“All of them,” Vince continued. “Clean house. Every single one that walked out.”

Aiden rubbed his temples.

“That would be catastrophic.”

“They embarrassed me!”

“They stopped a show after someone died,” Aiden replied evenly.

Vince glared at him.

“Well maybe next time they’ll remember who signs their checks.”

Aiden leaned forward.

“Vince… listen to me.”

The tone made Vince pause.

“You are not negotiating from strength right now.”

Vince’s jaw tightened.

“You’re negotiating from damage control.”

Vince didn’t like hearing that.

Not at all.

Aiden continued anyway.

“You need this to calm down. Not escalate.”

Vince said nothing.

“Which means,” Aiden said reluctantly, “you should give Magnolia Wine what she’s asking for.”

Vince’s head snapped up.

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re going to lose if she sues.”

Vince started to respond but Aiden cut him off.

“You know that. I know that. The lawyers know that.”

Silence hung in the office.

Aiden finished quietly.

“You need problems to go away right now.”

Vince stared at the window for a long moment.

Then something dark flickered behind his eyes.

“Fine.”

Aiden exhaled in relief.

Then Vince continued.

“…but we still need a clean slate.”

Aiden’s relief vanished.

“What do you mean?”

Vince turned back toward him.

“Roman’s people.”

Aiden immediately understood.

“Vince…”

“The Unit.”

“The Cartel.”

“They’re poison now.”

Aiden closed his eyes briefly.

“Don’t do this.”

“They walked out.”

“You already fired Roman.”

“They followed him.”

“They followed a friend after a tragedy.”

“They followed insubordination.”

Vince sat down.

“I’m done with them.”

Aiden sighed.

Pushing further would only make Vince dig in harder.

“What are you calling it?” Aiden asked.

Vince smirked slightly.

“A clean slate.”

Roman Cesar’s Bus, March 6, 2023

15:27 local time,
Albuquerque Highway, New Mexico, Republican Union of Western States

The desert rolled past the bus windows in long, empty stretches of sand and scrub.

Roman Cesar sat at the small table near the front lounge.

His phone buzzed again.

…and again.

…and again.

Another notification.

Another headline.

Another message from a wrestler.

Roman leaned back in his chair.

Then he laughed.

Not loudly.

Just once.

Vince had done exactly what Roman expected.

He picked up the phone and dialed.

Filomena Estrada answered on the second ring.

“Roman.”

“You see the news?”

“I did.”

“They fired my people.”

“Yes.”

Roman shook his head slowly.

“I knew he would do something stupid.”

Filomena said nothing.

She was listening.

Roman leaned forward.

“Add something to the lawsuit.”

“What are you thinking?”

Roman spoke calmly.

“I want my immediate release.”

“You already have that.”

“I want it confirmed legally.”

“No non-compete clause.”

“That’s standard if you win the termination claim.”

Roman nodded.

“Good.”

“…but there’s more.”

Filomena waited.

“I want the rights to The Unit.”

“…and The Cartel.”

That made her pause.

Those weren’t just nicknames.

They were brands.

Merchandise.

Storylines.

Revenue.

“You believe the company owns them?” she asked.

“They might,” Roman said.

“…but I created them.”

Filomena considered that.

“…and if we secure those rights?”

Roman smiled slightly.

“Then Vince doesn’t get to erase what we built.”

Filomena leaned back in her chair.

“You’re thinking ahead.”

Roman looked out the bus window.

The highway stretched endlessly west.

“If Magnolia gets her name…”

Roman’s smile widened.

“…I get my brothers.”

Filomena understood immediately.

“You want to take them somewhere else.”

Roman nodded.

“IWC.”

Filomena tapped her pen thoughtfully.

“That would certainly make the lawsuit more expensive for Vince.”

Roman shrugged.

“Good.”

Silence for a moment.

Then Filomena spoke again.

“You realize something, Roman?”

“What?”

“You’re no longer just defending yourself.”

Roman leaned back in his seat.

“I know.”

“You’re negotiating the next chapter of the industry.”

Roman smiled.

“Exactly.”

Outside, the bus continued down the long desert highway.

…and somewhere far away in Buffalo, a wrestling promotion was about to become very interested in the outcome of that lawsuit.

Rio Carrion Hotel, March 7, 2023

14:56 local time,
Velilla del Rio Carrion, Palencia, Castile

The mountains of northern Castile were still dusted with late winter snow.

The Rio Carrión Hotel sat quietly near the river, a small stone building that catered mostly to hikers, travelers, and the occasional business guest passing through the region.

Marcy Carter stood outside the entrance with her phone pressed to her ear.

Lister Linebaum sounded tired.

“I’ve got an update,” he said.

“Good news?” Marcy asked.

“Depends on your definition.”

Marcy leaned against the stone wall.

“Try me.”

Lister cleared his throat.

“Vince will give you everything.”

Marcy blinked.

“Everything?”

“Salary settlement. Severance. Merchandise rights.”

Marcy waited.

“The name,” Lister continued. “Magnolia Wine.”

“…and the release?”

“Immediate.”

Marcy nodded slowly.

“…and the catch?”

Lister sighed.

“He wants you to sign a non-disclosure agreement.”

Marcy closed her eyes.

Of course he did.

“What kind of NDA?” she asked.

“A strong one.”

“Meaning?”

“You don’t talk about internal company practices. You don’t talk about Empire Fest or Thursday Night War production issues. You don’t talk about the locker room.”

Marcy laughed quietly.

“Yeah,” she said. “That’s not happening.”

Lister wasn’t surprised.

“I figured you’d say that.”

“Tell Vince something for me.”

“I’m listening.”

“If he wants an NDA,” Marcy said calmly, “we can go to court.”

Lister chuckled.

“…and then everything he doesn’t want disclosed becomes public record.”

“Exactly.”

There was a brief silence.

Lister spoke again.

“You know you could just take the deal.”

“I know.”

“…and avoid the fight.”

Marcy looked out at the mountains.

“…but then he learns nothing.”

Lister sighed.

“I’ll pass the message along.”

“Thank you.”

“Marcy?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”

Marcy smiled faintly.

“Only for Vince.”

The call ended.

She slipped the phone into her jacket and walked inside.

---

The lobby was small.

Stone walls.

Wood beams.

A narrow reception desk.

Behind it stood a young man who looked barely old enough to drink.

He straightened immediately.

“Good afternoon.”

Marcy set her bag down.

“Reservation under Carter.”

The young man typed quickly.

“Yes… Ms. Carter. Three nights.”

He handed her a registration tablet.

“Room 204.”

Then he hesitated.

His expression shifted.

“Um… I just want to say…”

He looked embarrassed.

“I’m really sorry about your job.”

Marcy blinked.

“You know who I am?”

Raul nodded nervously.

“I watch wrestling sometimes.”

He looked genuinely upset.

“What happened to you… that’s awful.”

Marcy gave a small smile.

“I’ll survive.”

“It’s still a tragedy,” Raul said.

Marcy signed the registration.

“It’s just a bump in the road.”

She slid the tablet back.

“What’s your name?”

“Raul.”

“Nice to meet you, Raul.”

She studied him for a moment.

“You look exhausted.”

Raul laughed awkwardly.

“Yeah.”

“Long shift?”

“Life.”

Marcy raised an eyebrow.

Raul hesitated.

Then shrugged.

“I’m twenty. I’ve got a four-year-old.”

Marcy blinked.

“That’s… a lot.”

“Yeah.”

“Where’s the mother?”

Raul grimaced.

“High school fling.”

“Her parents forced her to keep the baby.”

“…and then forced me to raise him.”

Marcy’s expression softened.

“Your parents?”

Raul shrugged again.

“Catholic Castile.”

“Out of wedlock.”

“They disowned me.”

Marcy leaned on the counter.

“…and social services?”

Raul laughed bitterly.

“Cesar Luis told the truth about that.”

Marcy nodded slowly.

“So you’re doing this alone.”

“Yeah.”

He rubbed his eyes.

“I’m just hoping my paycheck clears before my rent is due.”

Marcy tilted her head.

“How far behind are you?”

Raul hesitated.

“You don’t have to-”

“How far?”

“…two months.”

“…and overdraft?”

Raul swallowed.

“Pretty deep.”

Marcy opened her purse.

Pulled out a small checkbook.

Raul blinked.

“What’s that?”

Marcy looked up.

“A check.”

Raul stared at it like it was an artifact from a museum.

“I’ve never seen one.”

Marcy laughed softly.

“Your generation.”

She wrote quickly.

Signed the bottom.

Tore the check free.

Raul looked alarmed.

“No, I can’t-”

Marcy slid it across the counter.

“You can.”

Raul stared at the number.

His eyes widened.

“Ma’am…”

“Deposit it.”

“I can’t take this.”

“Yes you can.”

Raul shook his head.

“I don’t even know how to use a check.”

Marcy pulled out his phone.

“You’ve got a banking app?”

“Yes.”

“Open it.”

He did.

Marcy pointed.

“Mobile deposit.”

She showed him where to photograph the front.

Then the back.

Raul tapped the screen.

The confirmation appeared.

The deposit went through.

Raul looked like he might cry.

“I don’t know what to say.”

Marcy smiled gently.

“Say thank you.”

“Thank you.”

Raul stepped around the counter.

“Can I… hug you?”

Marcy nodded.

“Sure.”

He hugged her tightly.

When he stepped back his eyes were red.

“How do I repay you?”

Marcy picked up her room key.

“You don’t.”

Raul looked confused.

She smiled.

“Just pay it forward.”

Then she headed toward the stairs.

Leaving Raul standing in the quiet lobby, staring at his phone in disbelief.

The Awesome Towers, March 7, 2023

12:42 local time,
City of Gotham Hill, Gotham Grand Sovereignty, UCSS

Vince McGeady slammed the receiver back into its cradle hard enough that the plastic rattled.

Lister Linebaum had just finished explaining Magnolia Wine’s position.

Everything she wanted.
Every dollar owed.
Severance.
Merchandise rights.
Immediate release.
The name.

…and absolutely no NDA.

Vince leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

“Ungrateful,” he muttered. “I made her.”

A knock came at the door.

“Come in,” Vince barked.

Claudia Donahue stepped inside with a thin folder tucked under her arm. She took one look at Vince’s face and sighed quietly.

“I’m guessing Lister didn’t call to tell you Magnolia had a change of heart.”

Vince gave her a flat stare.

“That woman thinks she’s holding the cards.”

Claudia didn’t respond to that. Instead she placed the folder on Vince’s desk.

“I have something else you should know.”

Vince rubbed his temples.

“Of course you do.”

Claudia opened the folder.

“Glen and Marie Horton, along with Yves Laroche, have filed wrongful death suits.”

Vince looked up.

“Where.”

“The Ts’ǫ̀ Nàowò of Borealis Bay.”

Vince blinked.

“The what?”

“Ts’ǫ̀ Nàowò,” Claudia repeated calmly.

Vince leaned forward.

“What is that, some backwards German court?”

Claudia closed her eyes briefly.

“No. It’s the district-level court system in the Republic of Sǫ̀mbak’è.”

“Oh.”

Vince leaned back again, unimpressed.

“Fine. District court. So what.”

Claudia continued.

“They’ve also requested the case be referred to a Dene Mediation Council.”

Vince snorted.

“Oh fantastic. Singing Kumbaya and holding hands.”

“That’s not what it is.”

Claudia’s tone sharpened slightly.

“The mediation council is a structured settlement process. It allows both sides to negotiate compensation and responsibility without the publicity and expense of a full trial.”

Vince waved his hand dismissively.

“I don’t hold hands.”

Claudia ignored the remark.

“If this goes to trial, Vince, the discovery phase alone could be catastrophic for the company.”

Vince’s jaw tightened.

“They don’t have anything.”

Claudia said nothing.

The silence stretched just long enough for the point to land.

Vince leaned forward again.

“…and Magnolia?”

Claudia hesitated.

“She’s holding firm.”

Vince’s eyes hardened.

“Then take her to court.”

Claudia looked at him carefully.

“No.”

Vince’s head snapped up.

“No?”

“If you take Magnolia Wine to court,” Claudia said evenly, “you won’t destroy her.”

She tapped the folder.

“You’ll destroy yourself.”

Vince glared at her.

“You work for me.”

“…and my job is to keep you out of prison.”

That hung in the air.

Vince leaned back slowly in his chair.

His fingers drummed on the desk.

Finally, with visible disgust, he waved his hand.

“Fine.”

Claudia waited.

“Give her everything,” Vince said bitterly.

“Every penny she wants.”

Claudia nodded once.

“…and the name?”

Vince grimaced like he’d bitten into something rotten.

“Yes. The damn name.”

Claudia gathered the folder.

“I’ll draft the agreement.”

She turned to leave.

Behind her, Vince muttered under his breath.

“Everyone thinks they can walk out on me.”

Claudia paused at the door, but she didn’t turn around.

Then she left the office.

Vince sat alone at his desk.

For the first time in decades, the empire felt like it was slipping out of his hands.

Peace Field Coordination Office- Cleveland, March 8, 2023

14:39 local time,
City of Cuyahoga Castles, Sovereignty of Ohio, UCSS

The blinds in Elian Reyes’ office were half-drawn, letting in a thin wash of gray Cleveland daylight.

Evie Sicario sat across from his desk with a tablet in her hands. Several files were open, timelines and match logs stacked together in careful rows.

She looked tired, but also proud.

“I’ve finished the first phase of the compilation,” she said.

Elian leaned back in his chair.

“Let’s hear it.”

Evie tapped the screen.

“I cross-referenced broadcast footage, archived match cards, and available production notes. I identified eighty-five matches where William Goldstein executed the jackhammer.”

Elian’s brow furrowed.

“Eighty-five.”

Evie nodded.

“They all correspond to matches he won. Which makes sense, because the jackhammer is his finishing move.”

Elian didn’t respond right away.

Instead he leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk.

“That’s it?”

Evie blinked.

“…Yes.”

Elian shook his head slowly.

“That number’s too low.”

Evie straightened.

“I don’t think so. The jackhammer ends the match. If he hits the move, he wins. So those would be the relevant incidents.”

Elian rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Evie.”

“Yes?”

“That’s not how wrestling works.”

Evie stared at him.

He continued.

“Finishing moves don’t always finish matches.”

Evie frowned slightly.

“…but… that’s the point of the move.”

“Sure,” Elian said. “In theory.”

He gestured toward her tablet.

“Sometimes Goldstein hits the jackhammer earlier in the match.”

Evie tilted her head.

“…Why?”

“Because the other wrestler kicks out.”

She blinked again.

“They can… survive it?”

Elian almost smiled.

“Happens all the time.”

He leaned back again.

“Other times the move gets countered.”

“Countered?”

“Mid-execution,” Elian said. “Reversed. Escaped. Turned into something else.”

Evie slowly processed that.

“So the move might appear in matches he lost.”

“Yes.”

“…and matches where the move didn’t land cleanly.”

“Yes.”

Evie looked back down at the tablet.

Her shoulders slumped.

“I filtered for clean executions only.”

Elian nodded.

“That’s why the number’s low.”

Evie exhaled.

“So I did it wrong.”

Elian shook his head.

“No.”

She looked up again.

“You didn’t do it wrong.”

He pointed at the tablet.

“You just approached it like an investigator.”

A small pause.

“You haven’t learned the language of wrestling yet.”

Evie looked uncertain.

Elian continued.

“Wrestling footage isn’t just sports footage. It’s choreography. Narrative. Timing. Illusion.”

He gestured with two fingers.

“You’re not just tracking a move.”

“You’re tracking attempts, counters, setups, failed lifts, and partial executions.”

Evie slowly nodded.

“So the real number could be… what?”

Elian shrugged.

“A hundred.”

“Maybe more.”

Evie looked down again and began scrolling through the file.

“That means I have to go back through every match.”

“Probably.”

She sighed quietly.

Elian gave a small shrug.

“Welcome to wrestling investigations.”

Evie shook her head.

“I thought accounting fraud cases were complicated.”

Elian chuckled.

“Trust me.”

He leaned back in his chair again.

“This is worse.”

Evie went to the Tactical Operations yard.

The Tactical Operations yard was alive with activity. Officers ran breaching drills on the far end of the floor while two others practiced restraint techniques on padded mats.

Evie stood near the edge of the training area, tablet in hand.

Commander Hale spotted her almost immediately.

“Well, if it isn’t Reyes’ intern,” he said as he walked over.

Evie smiled politely.

“Good afternoon, Commander.”

Hale nodded toward the tablet.

“Goldstein investigation?”

“Yes.”

Hale glanced across the training floor.

“You looking for Burrow again?”

Evie nodded.

“If he’s available.”

Hale turned and raised his voice slightly.

“Burrow! Take five.”

A tall officer removed his helmet and jogged across the floor. When he saw Evie waiting beside Hale, he broke into a grin.

“Hey, Evie.”

“Hi, Mike.”

Hale crossed his arms.

“Reyes still has you two digging through wrestling tapes?”

Evie nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

Hale shook his head with mild amusement.

“I don’t envy you.”

He clapped Burrow lightly on the shoulder.

“Help her out.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hale walked back toward the drill line.

Burrow turned back to Evie.

“So,” he said. “What happened?”

Evie turned the tablet toward him.

“So I went back through the footage.”

She tapped the screen.

“Once I included attempted jackhammers and counters, the move appears in one hundred thirty-two of Goldstein’s one hundred thirty-five matches.”

Burrow let out a low whistle.

“Yeah… that sounds about right.”

Evie frowned.

“That seems ridiculous.”

Burrow shrugged.

“Goldstein’s an attraction.”

Evie gave him a look.

“You keep saying that like it explains things.”

“It kind of does.”

Burrow leaned against the railing beside the mat.

“Think about it. The guy wins the WFL Championship Game, Vince signs him, and suddenly he’s the biggest monster on the show.”

Evie nodded slowly.

“So?”

“So fans expected the jackhammer every time they saw him.”

He mimed lifting someone up.

“That’s the whole spectacle.”

Evie stared at the tablet.

“So Vince basically made sure he did the move every match.”

“Pretty much.”

Evie shook her head.

“This industry is insane.”

Burrow grinned.

“You’re not wrong.”

Evie scrolled through the file again.

“So this should be the full list.”

Burrow glanced at the screen.

“…Did you check segments?”

Evie looked up.

“Segments?”

Burrow stared at her.

“Evie.”

“Yes?”

“You’re investigating wrestling.”

“Yes.”

“…and you didn’t check segments?”

Evie folded her arms.

“I’m a high school intern, not a wrestling historian, Mike.”

Burrow laughed.

“Okay, fair.”

He pointed at the tablet.

“Wrestlers don’t just hit moves in matches. They do them in promos, backstage fights, interviews- stuff like that.”

Evie thought about it.

“The jackhammer that killed Genevieve…”

“Wouldn’t show up in match stats,” Burrow said. “Because Goldstein wasn’t technically in that match.”

Evie exhaled.

“So there could be more.”

“Probably.”

Evie rubbed her forehead.

“Wrestling makes no sense.”

Burrow smiled.

“Yeah.”

He shrugged.

“That’s why people love it.”

Evie looked up.

“You’re still on for Friday, right?”

Burrow nodded.

“Of course.”

“You promised to watch every jackhammer I can find.”

“I remember.”

Burrow tapped the tablet.

“You bring the footage.”

Evie raised an eyebrow.

“…and you bring the wrestling knowledge.”

Burrow grinned.

“Deal.”

Evie sighed.

“One hundred thirty-two wasn’t enough.”

Burrow laughed.

“Welcome to wrestling.”

Rhea’s Reality Check, March 9, 2023

Broadcast Time: 18:12 local time
Filmed at Marquee Studios in Vancouver, Simon Fraser Province, Republican Union of Western States

Rhea Reality leaned forward at the desk, a stack of notes in front of her but clearly unnecessary.

The woman on the screen opposite her looked relaxed- more relaxed than anyone expected from someone who had just been released from the biggest wrestling company on the planet.

“Marcy Carter joining us tonight from Castile,” Rhea said. “Marcy, I’m going to start with the obvious. You just got out of your WFE contract. A lot of people are worried about you.”

Marcy laughed softly.

“That’s actually been the strangest part of all this,” she said. “People are sending messages like I’m about to be homeless. I promise you I’m okay.”

Her tone shifted slightly.

“The people I worry about are guys like Cesar Luis. Good people who got hurt and suddenly nobody wants to deal with the fallout.”

Rhea nodded.

“You weren’t surprised you were released.”

“No,” Marcy said bluntly. “Shocked maybe, but not surprised.”

She shrugged.

“Vince doesn’t like it when people stand up to him. I never had a problem doing that because I wasn’t going to let someone ruin my love for wrestling.”

Rhea tried to steer toward the biggest story.

“Roman Cesar?”

Marcy shook her head immediately.

“I’m not going to comment on Roman’s situation,” she said carefully, “but I will say this: Roman was a locker room pillar. I hope he comes back someday.”

Rhea shifted topics. Rhea’s tone shifted slightly.

“Before we go any further, we should acknowledge something serious,” she said. “Genevieve Horton died in that ring. A lot of people are still grieving.”

Marcy nodded immediately.

“They should be,” she said quietly.

She took a breath.

“Genevieve was a colleague. A professional. She deserved better than what happened that night.”

Rhea leaned forward.

“You’ve said you don’t blame William Goldstein.”

“I don’t,” Marcy said. “Not for Genevieve. Not for Cesar Luis either.”

She continued carefully.

“William is a good man. Thoughtful. Humble. I’ve never known him to be reckless in the ring.”

“So who do you blame?” Rhea asked.

Marcy didn’t hesitate.

“The environment that allowed it,” she said, “and the people who created that environment.”

A brief pause.

“Which means Vince.”

A brief silence followed.

“I wasn’t even in Madagascar when the jackhammer change happened,” Marcy continued. “I was on vacation in Madagascar at the time, actually…but everyone I talked to said the move was changed at the last second with no rehearsal.”

She paused.

“That’s reckless.”

Marcy softened slightly.

“Goldstein might also be one of those people who doesn’t fully realize how strong he is. I’ve worked with wrestlers like that before. Naya Jazz is a good example. Sometimes people genuinely don’t know their own strength.”

Rhea nodded.

“So this is a culture problem.”

“Absolutely,” Marcy said.

“The WFE loves to talk about wrestler safety…but the culture always prioritizes spectacle. Presentation. Profit.”

She spread her hands.

“…and sometimes that comes at the expense of the people in the ring.”

Rhea perks her eyes.

“So you're saying this wasn't just a mistake,” said Rhea.

“No,” Marcy responds calmly. “Mistakes happen in wrestling. Everyone knows that.”

She pauses.

“…but what happened to Genevieve… and what happened to Cesar… those weren’t isolated mistakes.”

Rhea leans in.

“What do you mean by that?”

Marcy shrugs slightly.

“Anyone who's been in that locker room long enough knows there are times production changes things last-minute. Moves get swapped. Finishes get adjusted. Sometimes without rehearsal.”

A beat.

“Most of the time we get lucky.”

Silence hangs for a moment.

“…and sometimes we don’t.”

Rhea pivoted.

“Speaking of Cesar Luis- what’s the latest?”

Marcy smiled.

“That plan hasn’t changed,” she said. “He’s moving in with me in Madagascar.”

She explained she had already purchased a home there and hoped Cesar could move in by the end of the month, though medical logistics were still uncertain.

“There are a lot of unknowns,” she admitted.

“…but he won’t be alone.”

Rhea glanced down at her notes again.

“One last question. What’s next for Marcy Carter?”

Marcy grinned.

“I’d love to wrestle again,” she said, “but I’m not married to it.”

She leaned back.

“I might try some other things. Maybe start making spicy content.”

Rhea blinked.

“With who?”

Marcy’s grin widened.

“Maybe Roman.”

Rhea burst out laughing.

“Well that’s one way to break the internet.”

Rio Carrion Hotel, March 9, 2023

19:36 local time,
Velilla del Rio Carrion, Palencia, Castile

The hotel room was quiet except for the faint hum of the heating system.

Marcy Carter lay stretched across the white hotel sheets, the curtains half-drawn against the fading evening light. She had discovered in Madagascar that she liked sleeping naked- the warmth, the freedom, the simple comfort of it- and the habit had stuck.

Her phone rested against her ear.

“So how are you doing?” she asked softly, “and I mean really. Not just you. The Unit. Cartel.”

On the other end, Roman’s voice carried the faint echo of a larger room.

“I’m alright,” he said. “Honestly…but the guys… they’re not taking it well.”

Marcy could picture it: the locker room, the anger simmering under forced calm.

Roman continued.

“They’re furious. Not just about the release. About everything that’s happened. The injuries. The way people got treated.”

Marcy rolled onto her side, resting her head on her arm.

“…and you?”

“I told you before,” Roman said. “I wanted time off. Real time. Just step away from wrestling for a bit.”

A pause.

“…but watching my friends struggle like this… it’s hard to sit still. I might start talking to the IWC sooner than I planned.”

Marcy raised an eyebrow even though he couldn’t see it.

“So they can start working again.”

“Exactly.”

Neither of them sounded worried about their own futures. That was never really the issue.

Roman’s tone shifted slightly.

“I watched your interview.”

Marcy smirked faintly.

“Oh yeah?”

“With Rhea. The spicy content comment.”

Marcy laughed quietly.

“I was half joking.”

Another pause.

“…but if you were actually interested… I’d do it.”

Roman chuckled.

“Lucia already gave the green light.”

That caught Marcy’s attention.

“She did?”

“Yeah,” Roman said easily. “She said if we’re going to do it, do it right.”

Marcy leaned back against the pillows.

“Well if we do film something,” she said, “it cannot be one of those stupid fake scenarios.”

Roman laughed.

“You mean like the pizza guy?”

“Exactly. No cheesy nonsense.”

Her voice softened, becoming more thoughtful.

“If we do it, I want it to be real. Beautiful. Artistic. Something that actually means something.”

Roman was quiet for a moment.

Then she added:

“…and I want to do it for charity.”

“For Cesar?” Roman asked.

“For everyone,” Marcy said. “Vince’s carnage left a lot of wrestlers hurting. People who don’t have contracts anymore. People who can’t work.”

Her voice hardened slightly.

“Especially Cesar.”

Roman didn’t hesitate.

“I’m completely on board with that.”

The room fell quiet again.

Outside the hotel window, the lights of the small Castilian town flickered on as evening settled in.

The Awesome Towers, March 10, 2023

05:21 local time,
City of Gotham Hill, Gotham Grand Sovereignty, UCSS

Triple X hated mornings like this.

He had been awake for less than an hour when the message came through: Vince wanted him in the office. Immediately.

When he stepped inside, Vince McGeady was already seated behind his desk, perfectly alert, as if the sun had risen specifically for him.

Triple X knew the routine.

Vince liked meetings early. Tired people resisted less.

“Sit down,” Vince said.

Triple X sat.

Vince wasted no time.

“I’m tired of this,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “The WFE sitting around doing nothing. Shows cancelled. Money not coming in. We’re starting up again.”

Triple X leaned back slightly.

“No one wants to come back,” he said.

It wasn’t defiance. Just a fact.

Vince’s eyes narrowed.

“Then call up the Academy.”

Triple X stared at him.

“Vince-”

“Call them up,” Vince repeated. “Fill the card with Academy talent. We get shows running again.”

Triple X shook his head slowly.

“They’re kids. They’re not ready for national television…and the locker room-”

“The locker room walked out,” Vince snapped. “They made their choice.”

The room went quiet.

Then Vince leaned forward.

“You’re going to restart the shows,” he said coldly. “Or I’ll fire you and call up the Academy myself.”

Triple X held his gaze for several seconds.

He knew Vince well enough to understand the threat wasn’t empty.

Finally, Triple X sighed.

“Alright,” he said quietly.

Vince leaned back, satisfied.

“Good.”

Triple X stood and left the office without another word.

As he walked down the hallway, exhaustion settled over him.

In his mind he framed the decision the only way he could live with it.

If the shows resumed, people would start getting paid again.

Wrestlers.

Production crews.

Referees.

Ring crew.

Maybe that made it worth swallowing his pride.

Maybe.

Grand Buffalo Towers, March 10, 2023

10:04 local time,
Grand Buffalo Square, Buffalo, Niagara, UCSS

The conference room buzzed with impatience.

Sponsors. Finance officers. Broadcast executives.

Everyone wanted the same thing.

The IWC needed to get back on television.

Paul Carney sat at the head of the table, listening.

A network representative leaned forward.

“Paul, we’ve been patient…but we need programming. Advertisers are asking questions.”

One of the finance officers added:

“You’re still paying the roster. You’re paying production staff. You’re burning cash.”

Carney folded his hands calmly.

“I’m aware.”

Another executive spoke up.

“Then why aren’t you running shows?”

Carney looked around the table.

“Because no one wants to.”

The room fell silent.

“Genevieve Horton just died,” he continued evenly. “People are still grieving. Some of our wrestlers were her friends.”

He paused.

“You can’t force people to pretend that didn’t happen.”

One sponsor shifted in their chair.

“…but the WFE-”

“The WFE can do whatever it wants,” Carney said.

His voice was calm, but firm.

“We’re not going back until the locker room is ready.”

Someone muttered under their breath about lost revenue.

Carney heard it.

He didn’t respond.

He simply leaned back in his chair and waited.

Because unlike Vince McGeady, Paul Carney had decided something very simple.

The IWC would return when the wrestlers themselves were ready to come back.

Not before.

Peace Field Coordination Office- Cleveland, March 10, 2023

16:02 local time,
City of Cuyahoga Castles, Sovereignty of Ohio, UCSS

The office Evie found was small, quiet, and mostly unused- the kind of spare workspace investigators grabbed when they needed privacy. A desk, two chairs, and a wall-mounted monitor.

Perfect.

Evie set her laptop down and began pulling up the archive list.

Burrow leaned against the desk, arms folded.

“So,” he said, glancing at the spreadsheet. “How many are we watching?”

Evie didn't look up.

“All of them.”

Burrow blinked.

“All… of them?”

Evie rotated the screen toward him.

“I started with the matches Goldstein won,” she said. “That gave me eighty-five jackhammers.”

Burrow nodded.

“Then Commander Reyes explained wrestling to me.”

Burrow chuckled.

“Yeah, that’ll do it.”

“So now we have to watch every appearance Goldstein ever made,” Evie continued.

She pointed to the number at the bottom of the sheet.

“Two hundred seventy-two.”

Burrow whistled.

“Long night.”

Evie pulled up the first recording.

“Oh, and I heard something today,” she added.

Burrow settled into the second chair.

“What?”

“The WFE is coming back.”

Burrow perked up immediately.

“Seriously?”

Evie nodded.

“…and the IWC has put feelers out. Seeing if anyone’s willing to work.”

Burrow scratched the back of his head.

“Well… I mean… good.”

Evie raised an eyebrow.

“You’re happy about that?”

Burrow shrugged.

“I grew up watching WFE. Of course I’m happy they’re coming back.”

He paused.

“…but the IWC is doing this the right way.”

Evie tilted her head.

“Oh?”

“They shut everything down. Let people grieve. Let the locker room breathe.”

Burrow shook his head slightly.

“WFE never does that. They just keep pushing forward.”

Evie clicked the first video.

“Alright,” she said. “Let’s see what pushing forward looks like.”

The match began.

Goldstein entered the ring. The crowd roared.

Evie instinctively leaned closer as the match progressed.

Then it happened.

Goldstein lifted his opponent.

The jackhammer.

Evie flinched.

Without realizing it, she shifted sideways in her chair and curled slightly into Burrow’s shoulder.

Burrow noticed immediately.

He smiled- but said nothing.

He simply stayed still and let her settle there.

On screen, the move finished cleanly.

Evie exhaled slowly.

“Okay,” she said.

She reached for the keyboard.

“What’s this one?”

Burrow leaned forward.

“Clean execution,” he said.

Evie typed.

“Oopsie level?”

Burrow blinked.

“Oopsie?”

Evie nodded proudly.

“I’m categorizing them.”

Burrow stared at the screen.

Her spreadsheet read:

OOPSIE CLASSIFICATION SYSTEM

Burrow laughed.

“You’re investigating a death and you called it the Oopsie System?”

Evie shrugged.

“Boring titles make boring work.”

She pointed to the categories.

Tiny Oopsie
Medium Oopsie
Big Oopsie
Holy Crap Oopsie

Burrow laughed harder.

“This is going in an official report?”

Evie shook her head.

“This is my working system.”

Burrow leaned closer.

“That one’s a Tiny Oopsie.”

Evie typed it down.

Then she added another column.

“Burrow Opinion.”

Burrow nodded approvingly.

“Now we’re talking.”

They started the next video.

Another match.

Another jackhammer.

Evie tensed again- though not as sharply this time.

“Medium Oopsie,” she said.

Burrow shook his head.

“No way. Tiny.”

“That landing looked weird.”

“It didn’t look weird.”

“It absolutely looked weird.”

Burrow leaned closer to the screen.

“You’re overthinking it.”

Evie crossed her arms.

“You’re underthinking it.”

They watched the replay.

Burrow sighed.

“…fine.”

Evie grinned.

“Medium Oopsie.”

They kept going.

Video after video.

Jackhammer after jackhammer.

Sometimes they debated the classification.

Sometimes they rewound footage three or four times.

Sometimes they just sat quietly and watched.

…and as the hours passed, Evie noticed something.

The move didn’t startle her quite as much anymore.

Not entirely.

…but enough that she could watch it.

…and as she leaned quietly against Burrow’s shoulder, the two of them kept working through the list.

Two hundred seventy-two appearances.

One jackhammer at a time.

20:43 Local Time

The office lights had dimmed automatically hours ago, leaving the room lit mostly by the glow of the monitor and Evie’s laptop screen.

Stacks of notes sat scattered across the desk.

On the spreadsheet:

Goldstein Appearances Reviewed: 212

…but the work still wasn’t finished.

Evie leaned back in her chair, rubbing her eyes.

“I think my brain is made of jackhammers now.”

Burrow stretched his arms above his head.

“You’re the one who insisted on watching everything.”

Evie pointed at the screen.

“Because if we miss one, Commander Reyes will know.”

Burrow laughed.

“That man would absolutely know.”

Evie’s stomach let out an audible growl.

They both paused.

Burrow smirked.

“Pizza?”

Evie nodded immediately.

“Yes.”

Twenty minutes later, a pizza box sat open on the desk between them.

They ate while the next video loaded.

Burrow glanced at Evie’s spreadsheet again and snorted.

“‘Holy Crap Oopsie.’”

Evie pointed a slice of pizza at him.

“It’s a perfectly valid classification.”

Burrow shook his head, still laughing.

Evie’s smile faded slightly.

“I’m not trying to make light of Genevieve,” she said quietly.

Burrow’s tone softened immediately.

“I know you’re not.”

He gestured at the screen.

“This is how people deal with hard stuff. You give it a name so you can handle it.”

Evie relaxed again.

Burrow leaned back in his chair.

“Honestly,” he added, “you should put it in the official report.”

Evie blinked.

“The Oopsie system?”

Burrow nodded with a grin.

“If this investigation goes to trial, I will pay good money to hear a lawyer say ‘Holy Crap Oopsie’ in court.”

Evie laughed.

Then, almost without thinking about it, she curled sideways into Burrow again.

This time she didn’t stop there.

Her hand slipped into his.

She noticed what she had done a second later.

…but she didn’t pull away.

It felt… comfortable.

Natural.

For a moment they just sat like that.

Then Evie spoke.

“Okay,” she said softly. “I’m going to ask you the million-dollar question.”

Burrow glanced down at her.

“Oh boy.”

Evie looked up at him.

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

Burrow sighed slightly.

“No.”

Evie waited.

Burrow stared at the screen for a moment before answering.

“This job… it’s dangerous.”

He shrugged.

“I figure it’s better not to date. That way there’s one less person who’ll miss me if something goes wrong.”

Evie frowned slightly.

Burrow continued.

“If I don’t have someone waiting for me, I can focus on the job. I don’t have to worry about surviving for someone else.”

He didn’t say the thought that quietly crossed his mind.

That Evie had already become someone he worried about anyway.

Evie nodded slowly.

“I get that.”

She stared at their hands for a moment.

“I’m not exactly rushing into relationships either.”

Burrow looked down at her.

Evie’s voice was steady.

“Pratley Casmire left some scars.”

The room went quiet for a second.

Then she looked back up at him.

“…but I like you.”

Burrow smiled faintly.

Evie shrugged slightly.

“I don’t know what the future looks like,” she said, “and I’m not asking for anything complicated.”

She squeezed his hand gently.

“…but I’d like us to have some kind of future.”

She smiled a little.

“Even if we’re just friends.”

Burrow nodded.

“I can agree to that.”

They sat quietly for another moment.

Then the next video finished loading.

Evie looked back at the screen.

Goldstein lifted another opponent into position.

Evie sighed.

“Alright.”

She reached for the keyboard.

“Let’s see what kind of oopsie this one is.”

22:17 Local Time

Most of the office had gone dark hours ago.

Only a few overhead lights remained on, casting long shadows across empty desks and silent hallways. The hum of the building’s ventilation system was the loudest sound left.

Evie stepped into Elian Reyes’ office holding her laptop.

Elian looked up from a stack of reports.

“You’re still here?” he asked.

Evie gave a tired half-smile.

“Finished the footage.”

Elian raised an eyebrow.

“All of it?”

“All two hundred seventy-two appearances.”

He gestured to the chair across from his desk.

“Let’s see.”

Evie set the laptop down and rotated the screen toward him. The spreadsheet filled the display — rows of appearances, timestamps, notes, and the now-famous classification column.

Elian leaned forward.

He read the header.

OOPSIE CLASSIFICATION

He chuckled.

Evie immediately cringed.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I know it’s not very professional. I just didn’t want the categories to be boring and-”

Elian waved a hand.

“No, no,” he said.

He leaned back in his chair, still smiling faintly.

“It fits you.”

Evie blinked.

“When I was your age,” Elian continued, “if I’d tried to label something an ‘oopsie,’ someone would have chewed me out for it.”

He tapped the laptop lightly.

“I appreciate how much things have changed.”

Evie relaxed.

Elian studied the spreadsheet for another moment.

“You did good work here,” he said.

Evie nodded quietly.

For a moment she considered mentioning Burrow.

The pizza. The debates. The way the hours had passed.

…but she didn’t.

Instead she asked a different question.

“Commander Reyes… were you ever married?”

Elian looked up.

“Twice.”

Evie tilted her head.

“Twice?”

Elian smiled faintly.

“…and I have two daughters.”

Evie nodded slowly.

Then she asked the question that had been sitting in the back of her mind since earlier that evening.

“Were you ever afraid you might die and leave them behind?”

Elian didn’t answer immediately.

He folded his hands on the desk and thought about it.

“Of course,” he said finally.

“…but that wasn’t my biggest worry.”

Evie frowned slightly.

“What was?”

“That the job would take too much of me.”

Evie waited.

“That I’d spend so much time doing it,” Elian continued, “that I wouldn’t have enough left for my family.”

He leaned back slightly.

“That’s one of the reasons I transferred to Cleveland.”

Evie looked surprised.

“It is?”

Elian nodded.

“My daughter Kiley lives here.”

His expression softened slightly.

“I lost more time with her than I would have liked already.”

He paused.

“I didn’t want to lose any more.”

Evie absorbed that quietly.

“…and Harmony?” she asked.

“La Plata,” Elian said. “That’s where she is now.”

He gave a small shrug.

“I’m hoping someday I can find a way to be closer to her too.”

Evie looked down at the desk.

The weight of what he was saying settled in slowly.

Elian noticed.

He leaned forward again.

“Evie.”

She looked up.

“I’m not telling you this to discourage you from a career with Peace.”

His voice was calm but firm.

“This job can be incredibly rewarding.”

He gestured toward the laptop.

“You’re already doing work that matters.”

Then he added quietly:

“…but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I wasn’t honest about what it costs.”

The office fell quiet again.

Outside the windows, Cleveland’s night skyline glowed faintly in the distance.

Evie sat there for a moment, thinking about jackhammers… and pizza… and holding Burrow’s hand.

…and what the future might actually look like.

Bow Wow Castle Complex, Evie’s Apartment, March 10, 2023

23:25 local time,
City of Cuyahoga Castles, Sovereignty of Ohio, UCSS

The hallway outside the apartment was quiet.

Elian Reyes walked Evie to the door, hands in the pockets of his coat. The day had clearly caught up to both of them.

Evie unlocked the door and stepped inside.

Her mother, Stacy, was still awake, sitting at the small kitchen table with a mug of tea and a book she hadn’t been reading for the last few minutes.

She looked up.

“Elian,” she said with a friendly smile.

“Evening, Stacy,” Elian replied politely.

They exchanged a few brief pleasantries. Nothing heavy- just the kind of quick hello people made at the end of a long day.

Stacy noticed, privately, that Elian still looked very good for a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

She didn’t say anything about it.

After a moment, Elian nodded toward Evie.

“Good work today,” he said.

Evie gave a tired smile.

“Thanks for the ride.”

Elian gave a small wave and headed back down the hall.

The door closed.

Evie shuffled over to the couch and dropped onto it like gravity had suddenly doubled.

Stacy watched her for about five seconds.

Then she closed her book.

“Alright,” Stacy said calmly. “What’s wrong?”

Evie stared at the ceiling.

Stacy waited.

Finally Evie spoke.

“I think I might be having doubts about working for Peace.”

That got Stacy’s attention.

Evie sat up slowly.

“I don’t want to die and break your heart,” she said quietly.

Stacy’s expression softened.

Evie continued.

“…and I don’t want to work so much that I never see my kids someday. Or my husband.”

She rubbed her eyes.

“Elian told me tonight that he spent so much time on the job he barely had time for his family.”

Evie shook her head slightly.

“He said he was more married to the job than he was to them.”

The room went quiet.

Stacy leaned back in her chair and considered the question carefully.

“Do you like the work?” she asked.

Evie answered immediately.

“I love it.”

Stacy nodded.

“Well,” she said, “that’s the most important thing.”

Evie looked over at her.

“In life,” Stacy continued, “there are always tradeoffs. There’s never going to be a perfect situation.”

She shrugged lightly.

“Some people get lucky. They find someone who sticks with them forever no matter what life throws at them.”

She paused.

“…and sometimes things just don’t work out the way you hoped.”

Evie studied her mother for a moment.

“How does that apply to Dad?”

Stacy sighed softly.

“I’m one of the unlucky ones,” she admitted.

…but she didn’t sound bitter- just honest.

Then she leaned forward slightly.

“…but you can’t live your life worrying about what your luck might be.”

Evie listened.

“You do the work you believe in,” Stacy said. “You follow what feels right.”

She gave a small smile.

“…and everything else?”

Stacy shrugged.

“It finds its way eventually.”

Evie sat curled on the couch, knees pulled in slightly, staring at the dark television screen. The apartment was quiet except for the soft clink of Stacy’s teacup against its saucer.

After a moment, Evie spoke again.

“You know… two people in the bullpen are married.”

Stacy looked up.

“Really?”

Evie nodded.

“Yeah. They seem happy too.”

She gave a small smile.

“One of them hasn’t slept much lately though. He just had a baby.”

Stacy chuckled softly.

“That’ll do it.”

Evie leaned back into the couch.

“…but they’re still together,” she said. “Still happy, at least from what I can tell.”

She glanced toward her mother.

“So maybe it’s not impossible.”

Stacy raised an eyebrow.

“What’s not impossible?”

Evie shrugged slightly.

“Finding someone who sticks around.”

She hesitated.

“I mean… right now I’m basically doing desk work. Evidence sorting. Watching footage. Research.”

She waved a hand vaguely.

“…but once I start doing real work… field work… maybe it’ll still be possible.”

Stacy didn’t answer immediately.

She set her cup down carefully and studied Evie for a moment.

“I’m glad you have that hope,” she said.

Evie looked relieved.

…but Stacy continued gently.

“There is a difference between desk work and field work.”

Evie nodded slowly.

“I figured.”

“When people work in the field,” Stacy said, “the hours are stranger. The risks are higher. The stress is different.”

Stacy leaned back slightly in her chair, choosing her words carefully.

“Desk work is more predictable,” she said. “You punch in and punch out, usually at the same time.”

Evie nodded slowly.

Stacy continued.

“Field work is less predictable. Your hours often depend on the job, and a lot of times you can’t leave until it’s done.”

Evie thought about that for a moment.

“Like tonight,” she said quietly.

Stacy smiled faintly.

“Exactly like tonight.”

She wasn’t discouraging Evie. She just wanted her to understand what the life looked like.

“It can be harder to build a stable life around that.”

Evie absorbed that quietly.

“…but people still make it work,” Stacy added. “They just have to be honest with themselves- and with the people they care about- about what the job demands.”

Evie leaned back into the couch again, thinking about everything she’d heard that night.

The work.
The risks.
The possibilities.

…and the tradeoffs that came with all of it.

She wasn’t discouraging- just honest.

“…but harder doesn’t mean impossible,” Stacy added.

She gave Evie a reassuring smile.

“People do it all the time.”

Evie looked down at her hands for a moment, thinking about Burrow… about Elian… about the lives people built around the work.

Then she nodded.

“I guess I’ll figure it out.”

Stacy leaned back in her chair.

“That’s usually how life works.”

WFE Combat Arts Imperial Academy, March 11, 2023

13:14 local time,
Panama, Sovereignty of Panama, UCSS

Triple X stood with his arms folded along the second-floor balcony overlooking the primary training ring.

From up here the Academy always looked a little like a laboratory. Three rings sat side by side beneath the high ceiling, surrounded by weight racks, crash mats, camera rigs, and production equipment. Trainers barked instructions. Recruits ran ropes until their lungs burned. Somewhere, someone always took a bump.

Normally, this was his favorite place in the world.

Today it felt different.

Today it felt like triage.

In the main ring below, Bratley “Bratz” Darkheart had just vaulted off the top rope, twisting through the air before crashing onto a waiting trainee with a theatrical scream that echoed through the facility. The surrounding recruits cheered.

Bratz popped up instantly, grinning, hair wild, energy explosive.

Triple X nodded to himself.

She's ready.

Maybe not polished in the way Vince liked, but the crowd would eat her alive…and more importantly, she understood the camera. Some people learned that. Some people simply had it.

Across the gym, in the secondary ring, Danwolfen was in the middle of a bizarre, slow-motion grappling exchange with two trainees at once.

He hissed.

He cursed something under his breath in mock Latin.

One of the trainees attempted a body slam.

Danwolfen theatrically collapsed to the mat before the move even landed.

The room burst out laughing.

Triple X sighed, though there was a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He's ready too, he admitted.

Maybe not in the traditional sense…but wrestling had always needed characters as much as athletes, and Danwolfen understood something many performers never did: how to make people care about a moment.

Still.

Ready for Vince McGeady?

That was another question entirely.

Triple X leaned on the railing and scanned the rest of the room.

There were dozens of young wrestlers training below. Some talented. Some determined. Some who would be gone in six months.

A few could become stars someday.

…but Vince didn’t want someday.

Vince wanted bodies.

Bodies who could fill television time.

Bodies who could take bumps.

Bodies who could make the audience forget, even for a moment, that the company had just imploded.

Triple X exhaled slowly.

Roman gone.
Cartel gone.
Half the locker room gone.

…and now Vince expected the Academy to replace them overnight.

Below him, Bratz climbed the turnbuckle again and shouted something to the trainees that made the entire ring area laugh.

Triple X shook his head.

“God help you,” he muttered quietly.

He wasn’t sure whether he was talking about Bratz.

Or Vince.

The heavy doors to the training hall swung open.

Triple X didn’t even have to turn around to know who it was.

The smell of tanning oil hit the room before the footsteps did.

Vince McGeady strode in like a man arriving at his own kingdom. His skin was bronzed almost unnaturally from the Panama sun, his white dress shirt open at the collar, sunglasses still perched on his face despite the indoor lighting.

He stopped beside Triple X at the balcony railing and watched the rings below with silent intensity.

For a moment, neither man spoke.

Below them, Bratley “Bratz” Darkheart had climbed the top rope again. She raised her arms and shouted something to the trainees before diving into another reckless aerial attack that sent the surrounding recruits cheering.

Triple X gestured down.

“Her.”

Vince didn’t respond.

Triple X kept talking.

“Bratley Darkheart. Calls herself Bratz. Crowd energy is through the roof. Fearless. Loves the stunt stuff. Great look, great attitude, always messing with the other trainees- pranks, ribbing, the whole thing.”

Bratz hopped onto the apron and yelled something about someone’s boots smelling like death.

The room erupted with laughter.

Triple X added casually,

“She also drives a miniature tank.”

That finally got Vince’s attention.

Vince lowered his sunglasses slightly.

“…A tank.”

“Miniature one,” Triple X said. “Entrance gimmick. Crowd eats it up.”

Vince grunted.

It wasn’t approval.

…but it wasn’t rejection either.

Triple X moved on.

“…and over there.”

He pointed to the secondary ring.

Danwolfen was currently circling two trainees while muttering something theatrical under his breath. When one tried to grab him, Danwolfen shrieked, cursed them dramatically, and flopped onto the mat as if mortally wounded.

The surrounding trainees burst out laughing again.

Triple X said,

“Danwolfen.”

Vince watched silently.

“He’s weird,” Triple X admitted, “but the timing is perfect. Ring timing, promo timing, comedy timing. He can howl like a wolf, does the whole vampire aesthetic thing. Audience gets him immediately.”

Danwolfen suddenly popped upright, pointed at one of the trainees, and declared loudly,

“YOU ARE CURSED.”

The trainee blinked.

“…What?”

Triple X added,

“He connects with crowds faster than almost anyone we’ve got.”

Vince tilted his head slightly.

Triple X delivered the final selling point.

“He’s also our top merch mover.”

That got Vince’s full attention.

Vince’s sunglasses came off.

“How much?”

“Top in the Academy by a mile.”

Vince nodded slowly.

Now he was listening.

…but only for a moment.

Because something else had caught his eye.

In the far ring, a mountain of a man was running the ropes.

Each footstep shook the mat.

Each collision with the ropes looked like a truck hitting a barrier.

The trainees around him scattered like pigeons.

The man climbed into the ring and effortlessly hoisted another trainee onto his shoulder before slamming him down with a thunderous crash.

Vince leaned forward.

“…Who the hell is that?”

Triple X followed Vince’s gaze and immediately felt his stomach sink.

“Ah,” he said quietly. “That’s Boulderdash Jones.”

Below them, the giant flexed, towering over everyone in the ring.

Vince’s eyes lit up.

“Oh my God.”

Triple X spoke quickly.

“He’s not ready.”

Vince didn’t hear him.

“Look at the size of him.”

“He’s still learning fundamentals.”

“Look at the shoulders on that guy.”

“He’s barely been here six months.”

Vince grinned.

“That’s a star.”

Triple X rubbed his forehead.

“Vince…”

“Boulderdash.”

Triple X froze.

Vince nodded to himself.

“Drop the Jones.”

Triple X stared at him.

“Vince, he can’t work a ten-minute match yet.”

“Doesn’t need to.”

“He’s still missing timing cues.”

“He just needs to crush people.”

Triple X exhaled slowly.

Below them, Boulderdash hoisted another trainee overhead like a barbell.

Vince’s grin widened.

“That’s money.”

Vince scanned the gym again, already calculating.

“That one.”

He pointed to Marcus Halloway.

“That one too.”

Ironjaw Jake Dalton.

“…and him.”

The Redwood.

Triple X closed his eyes briefly.

Every name Vince said was another developmental wrestler who wasn’t ready.

…but arguing would accomplish nothing.

Vince finally turned back to the gym floor, clearly energized for the first time in weeks.

“We’ll make it work.”

Triple X leaned back against the railing.

His voice was barely audible.

“This is going to be a disaster.”

Vince didn’t hear him.

Or if he did-

he didn’t care.

The Awesome Towers, March 12, 2023

11:27 local time,
City of Gotham Hill, Gotham Grand Sovereignty, UCSS

The server room hummed like a hive.

Rows of black racks blinked with tiny green and blue lights, each machine quietly processing the endless digital weight of the World Fighting Empire- contracts, match footage, production notes, scripts, medical clearances, promotional archives, accounting records.

Everything the company had ever done lived somewhere in this room.

Kitala Mazila wiped sweat from his forehead and crouched beside an open server panel. One of the units had been running hot all morning, its internal fan whining like an angry insect.

He slid the panel back into place and tightened the final screw.

“Easy,” he murmured to the machine. “You are not dying today.”

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He checked the screen.

VINCE McGEADY

Kitala sighed quietly before answering.

“Mr. McGeady.”

The voice on the other end sounded energized- far more energized than the man had sounded all week.

“Kitala. You in the server room?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

Vince didn’t waste time.

“I need you to pull every file related to Goldstein.”

Kitala blinked.

“Sir?”

“Everything,” Vince continued. “Documents, match footage, rehearsal footage, medical reports, internal notes, promotional material- anything that references him. I want a full index.”

Kitala slowly leaned back against the rack beside him.

“…That’s a lot of data.”

“I know,” Vince said impatiently. “Just find it.”

Kitala hesitated.

“Is this for legal review?”

“No.”

There was a pause.

“Then what is it for?”

Vince didn’t answer the question.

“Just locate the files.”

Kitala glanced toward the glowing racks around him.

“Once I locate them… what would you like done with them?”

Another pause.

This one was shorter.

“Delete them.”

Kitala’s stomach tightened.

“…Delete them.”

“Yes.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

“Permanent deletion?”

“Yes.”

The server room suddenly felt warmer.

Kitala stared at the floor.

“Mr. McGeady… some of those files may be under litigation hold.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Deleting them could-”

“Kitala.”

The interruption was sharp.

“I’m giving you an instruction.”

Kitala closed his eyes for a moment.

“Yes, sir.”

Vince’s tone softened slightly, though not with warmth.

“Just get it done.”

The line clicked dead.

Kitala lowered the phone slowly.

For a long moment he stood perfectly still.

The server fans continued their endless humming.

He turned to the nearest workstation and logged into the archive system.

The search bar blinked patiently.

He typed one word.

Goldstein

The system churned.

Folders began populating the screen.

Match archives.
Production memos.
Internal emails.
Training footage.
Medical logs.

Hundreds.

Then thousands.

Kitala stared at the list.

“…By Jove.”

He leaned back in his chair.

For twenty years he had worked with computers.

For twenty years he had learned something important about corporations:

When executives asked for files to be deleted, it was almost never about storage space.

It was about liability.

He exhaled slowly.

Then he reached beneath the desk and opened a drawer.

Inside sat a small black external hard drive.

He plugged it into the workstation.

The drive icon appeared on the screen.

Kitala looked once more at the endless list of Goldstein files.

“…All right,” he muttered quietly.

“If you want them gone…”

His fingers moved across the keyboard.

COPY- ALL FILES

The progress bar appeared.

Thousands of files began transferring.

Video footage.

Documents.

Internal reports.

Evidence.

Kitala leaned back in his chair and watched the bar crawl forward.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

It violated company policy.

It might cost him his job.

…but deleting those files without preserving them first would mean something far worse.

He glanced once at the blinking racks surrounding him.

Then back to the screen.

“…Not today,” he said quietly.

“Not on my watch.”

Kitala had worked in corporate IT long enough to know one thing.

Companies deleted files when they were embarrassed.

They deleted files when they were afraid.

They deleted files when someone was about to ask questions.

Peace Field Coordination Office- Gotham, March 12, 2023

16:52 local time,
Gotham Hill, Gotham Grand Sovereignty, UCSS

The Gotham Peace office didn’t look like the headquarters of a powerful investigative service.

It looked like a tired municipal building that had been converted in a hurry.

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. A few desks sat in clusters. Whiteboards filled with timelines and jurisdiction maps covered the walls.

The reception officer looked up when the heavyset man stepped inside carrying a small backpack.

“Can I help you?”

The man hesitated.

“I… need to speak with an investigator.”

“About what?”

He swallowed.

“The World Fighting Empire.”

That got attention.

The officer typed something quickly, then gestured down the hall.

“Office three. Investigator Sherwood.”

---

Kathy Sherwood’s office door was half open.

Inside, she was leaning back in her chair scrolling through a tablet.

Photos from the Borealis Bay incident filled the screen- ring-side stills, medical diagrams, crowd footage.

Sherwood didn’t look like what people expected from a Peace investigator.

Her hair was carefully styled. Her nails were immaculate. A gold bracelet glinted on her wrist.

Outside of work she loved cocktail dresses, rooftop bars, and anything that sparkled.

Inside work she was relentless.

…and she also happened to be a lifelong wrestling fan.

She knew the industry.

Which meant she also knew how often it lied.

She looked up as the knock came.

“Come in.”

The man stepped inside.

“Kathy Sherwood?”

“That’s me.”

“My name is Kitala Mazila.”

Her eyes flickered with recognition.

“WFE systems tech.”

He blinked.

“You know who I am?”

Sherwood smirked slightly.

“I know who everybody in that company is.”

She gestured to the chair across from her desk.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Mazila?”

Kitala sat down slowly.

“I think… you might want to see something.”

He unzipped his backpack and pulled out a small black hard drive.

Sherwood’s posture changed instantly.

“What is it?”

Kitala slid it across the desk.

“WFE internal archives.”

Sherwood didn’t touch it yet.

“Define ‘archives.’”

“Documents. Match footage. internal reports. rehearsal video. medical files.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“About what?”

Kitala met her gaze.

“Goldstein.”

Sherwood went completely still.

The name hung in the air like a thunderclap.

“You’re telling me,” she said slowly, “that you walked into a Peace office with internal WFE files about William Goldstein?”

Kitala nodded once.

“They were about to be deleted.”

Now Sherwood leaned forward.

“Deleted by who?”

“Vince McGeady.”

That was the moment her investigator instincts fully took over.

She picked up the drive and turned it in her hand.

“How much is on here?”

“Everything the system could find that referenced Goldstein.”

“How much is that?”

Kitala exhaled.

“Thousands of files.”

Sherwood stood up.

For a moment she paced slowly across the room, processing.

She already knew about Norah Anam’s investigative threads.

She knew Peace offices across multiple sovereignties were quietly gathering information.

…but this…

This wasn’t rumor.

This was internal company data.

She stopped pacing.

Then she turned back toward him.

“You copied this before it was deleted.”

“Yes.”

“…and you brought it here voluntarily.”

“Yes.”

Sherwood studied him carefully.

“You realize you could lose your job for this.”

Kitala gave a tired shrug.

“I realize a lot of things.”

She nodded once.

Then she plugged the drive into her workstation.

The system chimed.

Folders exploded across the screen.

Video archives.

Internal emails.

Production notes.

Match breakdowns.

Sherwood opened one file.

Then another.

Then another.

Her eyes widened slightly.

“Oh my gosh.”

She leaned back in her chair, staring at the screen.

Then she looked up at Kitala again.

Her voice was quiet.

…but filled with shock.

“This…”

She gestured toward the monitor.

“…changes everything.”

Peace Field Coordination Office- Cleveland, March 13, 2023

08:22 local time,
City of Cuyahoga Castles, Sovereignty of Ohio, UCSS

The conference room lights were dimmed, the only real illumination coming from the large screen at the end of the table.

On it, a frozen frame showed William Goldstein mid-lift- an opponent inverted above his shoulders, seconds before the jackhammer.

Norah Anam stood near the screen with a tablet in her hand. Around the table sat three other investigators.

Elian Reyes leaned back with his arms folded, his expression thoughtful but calm.

Across from him sat Zeke Coleman, who had the posture of someone who had spent most of his life in the field rather than behind a desk.

Next to him, Pascal Yves had a laptop open, fingers occasionally tapping as he scrolled through pages of notes and archived reports.

An empty chair sat at the far end of the table.

“That would be Kathy’s,” Norah said with a faint shrug. “Still in Gotham reviewing Mazila’s data dump.”

Zeke whistled softly.

“Must be one hell of a data dump if it’s keeping her busy.”

Norah allowed herself a small smile.

“That’s the working assumption.”

She tapped her tablet.

The screen changed to a spreadsheet.

At the top of the document was a title.

Evie Sicario- Goldstein Jackhammer Review

Beneath it, dozens of entries were categorized.

…and beside them, a column of labels.

Tiny Oopsie
Medium Oopsie
Big Oopsie
HOLY CRAP Oopsie

Zeke leaned forward.

“…Did she really label them that?”

Norah nodded.

“She did.”

Elian chuckled quietly.

Pascal glanced up from his laptop.

“I appreciate the clarity of the taxonomy.”

Norah folded her arms.

“I have several reasons I hope this case eventually reaches trial.”

She gestured toward the screen.

“Hearing a judge say the word ‘oopsie’ in a courtroom is now one of them.”

That earned a few quiet laughs.

Then the humor faded as Norah tapped the tablet again.

“Let’s start with the top tier.”

The screen switched to video.

HOLY CRAP Oopsie #1

The footage played.

Goldstein lifted his opponent.

The rotation was slightly off.

The landing was heavy.

Zeke leaned forward immediately.

“Yeah. That’s ugly.”

Elian nodded.

“Neck comes close to the mat first.”

Norah watched the screen carefully.

“Next.”

Another clip.

This one looked rushed- the lift slightly unbalanced, the drop abrupt.

Pascal glanced up briefly.

“Minimal stabilization during the hold phase.”

Zeke glanced at him.

“You just described that like a physics problem.”

Pascal didn’t look up.

“In many ways it is.”

They continued.

Clip after clip.

Some looked dangerous.

Others looked sloppy.

A few looked fine.

…but a pattern began to emerge.

Zeke eventually leaned back in his chair.

“You seeing this too?”

Norah nodded slowly.

“Timing.”

Elian spoke quietly.

“They’re rushing the move.”

Zeke tapped the table.

“Which means either the guy delivering it is rushing…”

“…or someone backstage is pushing them to hurry,” Norah finished.

Pascal was still scrolling through documents.

While the others watched footage, he was studying something else.

Show reports.

Fan recaps.

Production summaries.

Archived match notes.

His brow furrowed.

“Interesting.”

Norah paused the video.

“What?”

Pascal turned his laptop slightly toward them.

“July 13, 2017.”

Zeke shrugged.

“That one marked as an oopsie?”

“No.”

Pascal shook his head.

“It’s not.”

He pointed to the screen.

“…but the show recap mentions something.”

Norah stepped closer.

Pascal read aloud.

“‘Goldstein nearly rushed the jackhammer after a chaotic ringside sequence. Crowd seemed nervous during the lift.’”

Elian raised an eyebrow.

“…and Evie didn’t flag that?”

Pascal shook his head.

“No.”

Norah tapped her tablet.

“Let’s see it.”

The video loaded.

The camera angle wasn’t great.

The ring ropes partially blocked the view.

Goldstein lifted his opponent.

The move happened fast.

Too fast.

The landing wasn’t clearly visible.

…but something about it felt… wrong.

Zeke squinted.

“Hard to see.”

Elian leaned forward.

“Yeah. Angle’s bad.”

Norah watched the clip again.

“Play it one more time.”

The footage replayed.

Pascal spoke quietly.

“The lift phase is unusually short.”

Zeke nodded slowly.

“Yeah… he’s rushing it.”

Elian rubbed his chin.

“Could just be the angle.”

Pascal closed the recap page.

“Or it could be another problematic execution that wasn’t documented properly.”

Norah exhaled slowly.

“We’ll need another camera angle.”

Zeke looked at the screen again.

“Production archives might have it.”

Norah nodded.

“Which means we ask Kathy to look for it in the files Mazila brought in.”

She tapped the tablet again.

The video paused on the moment Goldstein held the opponent upside down.

For a moment the room was quiet.

Then Norah spoke.

“If this pattern holds…”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

She didn’t need to.

Everyone in the room understood what it might mean.

Norah stepped into Elian’s office with her phone already in her hand.

“Let’s try Kathy again.”

Elian leaned against the desk while Pascal and Zeke continued reviewing clips in the conference room.

Norah tapped the screen and put the call on speaker.

The line rang twice.

“Kathy Sherwood.”

Norah smiled slightly.

“You sound tired.”

“I am tired,” Kathy said flatly. “Do you have any idea what Mazila dropped on us?”

“Thousands of files,” Norah said calmly.

“Try tens of thousands.”

Elian raised an eyebrow.

Kathy continued.

“My office is drowning. Emails, rehearsal footage, production reports, contract notes… some of these files are from eight years ago. The tagging system is a nightmare.”

“That surprises me,” Norah said. “You’re practically neighbors with the WFE headquarters.”

“You’d think that would help,” Kathy replied, “but their internal naming conventions are chaos. Half the folders are labeled things like ‘final_final_REAL_final_cut2.’”

Elian chuckled quietly.

“So what do you need?” Norah asked.

“Time,” Kathy said. “Which I don’t have.”

Norah glanced toward Elian.

“Send them to Cleveland.”

Kathy paused.

“…What?”

“Send the entire archive to us.”

“You’re serious?”

Norah nodded.

“Elian has someone who can handle the cataloguing.”

Kathy sounded skeptical.

“Who?”

Norah smiled slightly.

“Evie.”

There was a brief silence.

Then Kathy laughed.

“Oh, the ‘oopsie’ girl.”

“She’s thorough,” Norah said.

“I like the labels,” Kathy replied. “Send me a report someday with ‘HOLY CRAP Oopsie’ in it and I’ll frame it.”

“Forward the files,” Norah said.

“I’ll have my office transfer the archive.”

The line clicked off.

Elian folded his arms.

“Well.”

Norah shrugged.

“Let’s see if your intern lives up to the reputation.”

---

Evie arrived about an hour later.

She walked into the office with her backpack slung over one shoulder, looking tired but determined.

Elian waved her into his office.

“Close the door.”

Evie did.

Norah stood near the window.

Evie immediately sensed something was up.

“What did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything,” Elian said.

Norah gestured toward the computer on the desk.

“You did your job too well.”

Evie blinked.

“…That sounds like bad news.”

Elian turned the monitor toward her.

A file transfer progress bar stretched across the screen.

WFE Archive Transfer — 14,892 Files

Evie stared.

“…That’s not real.”

“It is,” Elian said.

“Where did it come from?”

Norah answered.

“A WFE technician brought it to Peace yesterday.”

Evie looked between them.

“…and you want me to…”

“Catalogue it,” Elian said.

Evie didn’t respond.

Instead she turned around and walked quickly out of the office.

Norah and Elian exchanged a look.

Thirty seconds later the bathroom door closed.

Then they heard it.

Quiet crying.

Elian sighed.

Norah rubbed her temple.

“I’ll handle it.”

---

The bathroom was quiet except for the hum of the lights.

Evie stood at the sink, wiping tears from her eyes.

Norah stepped inside and leaned against the doorframe.

“You done?”

Evie sniffed.

“…Maybe.”

Norah handed her a paper towel.

Evie took it.

“This is too much.”

Norah waited.

Evie exhaled shakily.

“I feel like I’m doing way more than everyone else.”

She gestured vaguely toward the office.

“Like… how are all these investigators struggling with this stuff but I’m the one organizing it?”

Norah nodded slowly.

“That happens.”

Evie frowned.

“That’s not comforting.”

“It’s reality,” Norah said calmly.

“Sometimes you’ll carry people who aren’t as capable as you are.”

Evie looked down at the sink.

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

“It isn’t.”

Evie sighed.

“…and I’m already behind on school stuff.”

She wiped her eyes again.

“I’ve loved working on the wrestling investigation. It actually feels like real work.”

She hesitated.

“…but I’ve got assignments. Projects. My teachers are going to think I disappeared.”

Norah crossed her arms thoughtfully.

“Elian will work that out.”

Evie looked skeptical.

“With my school?”

“Yes.”

Norah’s tone softened.

“The Goldstein investigation is a priority case.”

She gave Evie a small smile.

“…and I’m not letting one of my brightest minds disappear because of homework logistics.”

Evie blinked.

“Brightest minds?”

Norah shrugged casually.

“That would be you.”

Evie looked embarrassed.

Norah continued.

“…but listen carefully.”

Evie met her eyes.

“I am not going to overwork you.”

“That’s not how I operate,” Norah said.

“…and it’s not something I tolerate in my teams.”

Evie took a slow breath.

“So I won’t be buried in those files forever?”

Norah shook her head.

“No.”

She opened the door.

“We’ll divide the work.”

Evie followed her out.

“…but right now,” Norah said lightly, “we have a very large pile of wrestling chaos waiting for us.”

Evie sniffed and managed a small smile.

“…Does it at least have oopsies?”

Norah smirked.

“I’m counting on it.”

Norah stepped out into the bullpen and clapped her hands once.

The sound cut through the low hum of conversations and keyboards.

“Everyone stop.”

Chairs rolled back. Heads turned.

Zeke leaned against a desk, curious. Pascal looked up from his laptop.

Norah stood in the center of the room.

“I need everyone’s attention.”

The office went quiet.

Norah gestured toward Elian’s office.

“We just received a data transfer from the Gotham Peace office.”

She paused.

“Fourteen thousand eight hundred ninety-two files.”

Someone near the back muttered, “Holy hell.”

Norah nodded once.

“Exactly.”

She crossed her arms.

“These files come from the internal archive of the World Fighting Empire. Production notes, emails, rehearsal footage, medical logs, internal memos.”

Zeke whistled softly.

Norah continued.

“Everything we’ve been trying to piece together from public sources… might now be sitting in that archive.”

She pointed toward the main workstation cluster.

“So here’s the situation.”

Her voice became firm.

“Whatever you’re working on right now? Stop.”

A few investigators exchanged glances.

“This is now the priority.”

She spread her hands.

“I need those fifteen thousand files catalogued.”

A beat.

“…and I need it done as quickly as humanly possible.”

Pascal slowly closed his laptop.

“Understood.”

Zeke cracked his knuckles.

“Well… this is going to be fun.”

At the edge of the room, Evie stood quietly, still looking a little overwhelmed.

Norah caught her eye and gave a small nod.

Then a familiar voice spoke up.

“Hey.”

Mike Burrow stepped forward from the far side of the bullpen.

He had clearly overheard the announcement.

“You need extra hands?”

Norah studied him.

“You know what this involves?”

“Data review,” Burrow said. “Video logs. Probably production notes too.”

Norah nodded slowly.

“That’s about the size of it.”

Burrow shrugged.

“I’ll help.”

Norah considered for a moment.

Then she pointed toward the workstation cluster.

“Grab a seat.”

Burrow grinned slightly.

“Yes ma’am.”

Evie noticed the grin.

…and despite the stress of the day, it helped.

Just a little.

---

Meanwhile, inside Elian’s office, the phone rang.

“Bow Wow Way Collegiate,” a voice answered.

“This is Elian Reyes with Peace.”

A brief pause.

“Connecting you to Dean Head.”

A few seconds later another voice came on the line.

Richard Head had the calm, authoritative tone of a man who had spent decades dealing with teenagers.

“Dean Head speaking.”

“Mr. Head,” Elian said. “Thank you for taking my call.”

“I understand this is about Miss Sicario.”

“It is.”

Head sighed.

“I’ve been hearing quite a bit about her involvement with your office.”

Elian leaned back in his chair.

“Evie is assisting with a major investigation.”

Head sounded unimpressed.

“She’s a high school senior.”

“Yes,” Elian said evenly.

“…and she’s currently being treated like a senior field operative.”

Elian smiled faintly.

“That’s because she’s capable of operating at that level.”

Head didn’t respond immediately.

“Elian,” he said finally, “with respect, she is still one of my students.”

“…and an exceptional one,” Elian replied.

He leaned forward slightly.

“I’m asking the school to reduce her workload temporarily and formally recognize the work she’s doing with Peace.”

Head chuckled softly.

“You’re asking me to excuse a student from assignments because she’s helping federal investigators.”

“International investigators,” Elian corrected.

Head paused.

“…That is quite a request.”

Elian’s voice remained calm.

“Evie Sicario is not an ordinary student.”

Another pause.

“I believe you know that.”

Head sighed.

“Yes.”

“Then you also know she wouldn’t be doing this if she weren’t capable.”

The silence stretched for several seconds.

Finally Head spoke again.

“What exactly are you proposing?”

Elian outlined it simply:

Reduced coursework.
Flexible deadlines.
Formal credit for investigative service.

Head listened quietly.

When Elian finished, the dean sighed again.

“You’re putting me in an unusual position.”

“I’m aware.”

Another pause.

Then Head spoke.

“…Very well.”

Elian smiled slightly.

“We’ll make the accommodations.”

He continued.

“…but if she fails calculus, I’m blaming you.”

Elian chuckled.

“That seems fair.”

The call ended.

Elian set the phone down.

Outside the office window, the bullpen buzzed with activity as investigators began sorting through the massive WFE archive.

For the first time since the files arrived, Evie looked a little less overwhelmed.

She wasn’t alone anymore.

The entire office was now working beside her.

The bullpen had transformed.

Where earlier it had been a normal office day, it now looked like a command center.

Screens glowed across nearly every desk. File directories spread across monitors like sprawling maps. Some investigators reviewed documents. Others skimmed email chains. Several were already scrubbing through video files.

The quiet murmur of analysis filled the room.

Evie sat between two investigators, carefully tagging folders and building a master catalog structure. Every few minutes she would pause, think, and then create another subfolder.

Across from her, Burrow leaned forward in his chair watching a rehearsal clip.

“Whoa,” he muttered.

Evie glanced over.

“Oopsie?”

“Medium,” Burrow said with certainty.

Evie typed.

Medium Oopsie- rehearsal footage

Norah watched the room for a moment.

Four months.

That was how long she had been in the job.

Four months leading multi-jurisdictional investigations across the entire world.

Long enough to learn something important.

Some Peace offices were excellent.

Others…

Not so much.

Cleveland was proving itself quickly.

Disciplined. Focused. Adaptive.

Gotham, on the other hand…

Norah stepped into Elian’s office and closed the door.

She picked up the phone.

Kathy answered on the second ring.

“Sherwood.”

Norah didn’t bother with pleasantries.

“Kathy, what exactly is happening in your office?”

Kathy sounded defensive.

“We’re cataloguing the files Mazila brought in.”

“Slowly.”

Kathy paused.

“…Yes.”

Norah leaned against the desk.

“Cleveland is already halfway through the first review layer.”

Silence.

Then Kathy muttered.

“You’re kidding.”

“No.”

Kathy exhaled sharply.

“By Jove.”

Norah’s tone remained calm.

“Listen carefully.”

Kathy waited.

“I need you in Cleveland.”

“…Now?”

“As soon as possible.”

Kathy frowned audibly.

“What about my office?”

Norah didn’t hesitate.

“You can bring whoever you trust.”

“…and the rest?”

Norah’s voice hardened slightly.

“You have full latitude to restructure your office.”

Kathy blinked.

“Restructure.”

Norah didn’t soften the wording.

“If that means reassignments, do it.”

“…and if that means firing people?”

Norah paused for a moment.

Then she said it plainly.

“If your office cannot handle a major investigation sitting next door to the WFE headquarters…”

She let the sentence hang.

“…then yes.”

Kathy was quiet.

Norah continued.

“This case just changed dramatically.”

“Cleveland is moving fast.”

“I need investigators here who can keep up.”

Another long pause.

Then Kathy spoke.

“…Understood.”

Her tone had shifted.

Professional. Focused.

“I’ll be on the first flight.”

“Good.”

The call ended.

Norah set the phone down.

Through the glass wall of Elian’s office she could see the Cleveland team working.

Files opening.
Videos playing.
Notes being entered.

Momentum.

She folded her arms and watched them.

This investigation had just accelerated.

…and Cleveland was now the engine driving it.

The bullpen had become a hive.

Screens glowed. Videos played. Investigators leaned over desks comparing notes while folders multiplied across the internal catalog.

Evie sat at her station, headphones around her neck, typing quickly as she organized another batch of Mazila’s files.

Across from her, Burrow paused a clip.

“Okay, that one’s definitely a Big Oopsie.”

Evie didn’t even look up.

“Agreed.”

She typed it into the catalog.

A shadow crossed her desk.

“Evie.”

She looked up.

Norah stood there, coat over one arm.

Evie blinked.

“…Did I do something wrong?”

Norah smiled faintly.

“No.”

She nodded toward the door.

“Come with me.”

Evie glanced at her screen.

“…but the files-”

Norah waved a hand toward the room.

“They’ve got it.”

Evie hesitated.

Norah leaned closer.

“You need a break.”

Evie opened her mouth to protest.

Norah raised a finger.

“That wasn’t a suggestion.”

Evie sighed, saving her work.

“…Okay.”

Burrow glanced up as Evie stood.

“Field trip?”

Norah answered.

“Interview.”

Burrow nodded approvingly.

“Have fun.”

Evie grabbed her jacket.

---

Cuyahoga Castles — On the Road
March 13, 2023

Norah’s car merged into traffic smoothly.

For a few minutes neither of them spoke.

Evie watched the city roll past outside the window- late afternoon sunlight reflecting off glass towers and brick storefronts.

Finally she looked over.

“Who are we interviewing?”

Norah kept her eyes on the road.

“Zasaramel.”

Evie’s eyebrows jumped.

“The wrestler?”

“The same.”

Evie leaned back in her seat.

“I didn’t realize he was involved in the investigation.”

“He isn’t,” Norah said.

“Not directly.”

“…but he fought Goldstein.”

Evie nodded slowly.

“Right.”

Norah glanced at her briefly.

“Zasaramel has a reputation.”

Evie smiled faintly.

“Yeah. I’ve seen his matches.”

“Then you know why I want to hear what he thinks.”

Evie nodded again.

They drove in silence for another minute.

Then Norah spoke again.

“You remind me of someone.”

Evie looked over.

“Who?”

“My daughter.”

Evie blinked.

“You have a daughter?”

“Reverie.”

Norah smiled slightly.

“She goes by Revy.”

Evie smiled at the nickname.

“How old is she?”

“Sixteen.”

Evie tilted her head.

“So… a couple years younger than me.”

Norah nodded.

“About that.”

Evie watched her curiously.

“What’s she like?”

Norah thought for a moment.

“Driven.”

Evie smirked.

“That sounds familiar.”

Norah chuckled softly.

“She’s an athlete. Track mostly.”

Evie leaned back in her seat.

“Good?”

Norah smiled proudly.

“Very.”

Then she glanced at Evie again.

“She works hard.”

“She pushes herself.”

“She hates the idea of falling behind.”

Evie looked out the window again.

“…Yeah.”

Norah nodded.

“That’s why you remind me of her.”

Evie was quiet for a moment.

Then she asked softly:

“Does she ever get overwhelmed?”

Norah laughed under her breath.

“All the time.”

Evie smiled faintly.

“That makes me feel a little better.”

Norah pulled the car into another street.

“She’ll push herself too hard sometimes.”

Evie nodded knowingly.

“…Same.”

Norah glanced at her again.

“…but she also learns when to breathe.”

Evie looked over.

“Is that what this is?”

Norah smiled.

“Exactly.”

The car slowed as they approached their destination.

Norah parked.

She shut off the engine and looked at Evie.

“Ready?”

Evie took a breath.

“Yeah.”

Then she added:

“…but if he asks about the oopsies, I’m blaming Burrow.”

Norah laughed as they got out of the car.

Zasaramel’s House, Rocky River Beach, March 13, 2023

14:32 local time,
City of Cuyahoga Castles, Sovereignty of Ohio, UCSS

Rocky River Beach was quiet that afternoon, the lake wind rolling steadily across the sand and into the quiet residential street where Zasaramel lived.

Norah parked the car along the curb.

Evie stared at the house.

“…He lives here?”

Norah glanced at her.

“You expected a fortress?”

Evie hesitated.

“…Kind of.”

Norah smiled faintly.

“Most warriors prefer peace when they’re off the battlefield.”

They walked up the short path to the door.

Norah knocked.

A moment later the door opened.

Joanna stood there, relaxed but observant, the way wrestlers often were even when they were off the clock.

“Can I help you?”

Norah showed her Peace identification.

“Norah Anam, Peace investigative services. We spoke earlier.”

Joanna nodded immediately.

“Right. Come in.”

She stepped aside.

Evie entered cautiously.

The first thing she noticed was the ceiling.

The second thing she noticed was the man standing in the living room.

Zasaramel was exactly as imposing as the photos suggested.

Seven feet tall.

Broad shoulders.

Long dark hair pulled loosely behind his head.

He turned calmly toward them.

Evie instinctively froze.

Ruby noticed immediately and laughed softly.

“Don’t worry.”

Joanna added with a grin:

“He’s really a teddy bear.”

Zasaramel shook his head with quiet amusement.

“I have never understood why people say that.”

Evie managed a nervous smile.

Before she could say anything else, a large dog trotted into the room.

Watcher.

The dog stopped in front of Evie and sniffed curiously.

Evie crouched slightly.

“Hi there.”

Watcher wagged his tail.

Then he sat down.

Then-

pfffft

Evie blinked.

Ruby burst out laughing.

“Oh by Jove, Watcher.”

Joanna groaned.

“Seriously?”

Zasaramel sighed quietly.

“That dog has no sense of timing.”

Evie covered her mouth, trying not to laugh.

Watcher wagged his tail proudly, apparently very pleased with himself.

The tension in the room broke instantly.

Norah took advantage of it.

“Thank you for meeting with us.”

Zasaramel nodded calmly.

“You’re welcome.”

They moved toward the living room seating area.

Evie stayed slightly behind Norah.

Norah gestured toward her.

“Before we begin, I should clarify something.”

She looked at Zasaramel.

“Evie Sicario is here as an observer.”

Evie nodded quickly.

“I’m not conducting the interview.”

Zasaramel studied her for a moment.

Then he nodded once.

“Observation is an important skill.”

Joanna and Ruby settled into chairs nearby.

Norah noticed.

“You’re both welcome to participate.”

Joanna shrugged casually.

“We’ve wrestled long enough to know the business.”

Ruby added:

“…and Zas talks better when we’re around.”

Zasaramel raised an eyebrow.

“That is not necessarily true.”

Ruby smiled.

“It absolutely is.”

Norah took out her tablet.

“Good.”

She sat down across from Zasaramel.

“For the first part of this interview, I’d like to talk about your background.”

Zasaramel nodded.

“My background?”

“You didn’t enter wrestling through the usual route,” Norah said.

“You came from the Carnelian Blade.”

Zasaramel folded his hands calmly.

“Yes.”

Norah leaned slightly forward.

“For investigators who may review this interview later…”

She gestured lightly.

“Could you explain that training?”

Zasaramel sat back slightly in his chair, his posture relaxed but composed- the posture of someone who had spent a lifetime being aware of the space around him.

Norah tapped her tablet once, recording the interview.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

Zasaramel nodded once.

“My training began in the highlands of Oddiyana.”

Evie leaned forward slightly.

Zas continued.

“There is a temple there. Ember Hollow.”

His voice was calm, almost reflective.

“It sits in a valley surrounded by black stone cliffs and winter winds. The place is… difficult to reach intentionally.”

Norah made a brief note.

“…and that is where you trained with the Carnelian Blade.”

“Yes.”

Zas’ gaze drifted briefly toward the lake outside the window.

“My teacher was a man known only as The Watcher.”

Evie blinked slightly.

Her eyes drifted toward the dog, who was now sprawled happily on the floor.

Zas noticed.

“Yes,” he said with a faint smile.

“That is why the dog carries the name.”

Ruby chuckled.

“You should’ve seen the day he picked it.”

Joanna shook her head.

“Zas spent an hour debating whether it was appropriate.”

Zas ignored the commentary with dignified patience.

“The Watcher taught me the warrior code.”

Norah tilted her head slightly.

“What does that code emphasize?”

“Control.”

Zas’s answer was immediate.

“Control of the body. Control of the weapon. Control of the mind.”

He continued.

“Violence without control is chaos.”

“Violence with control becomes responsibility.”

Evie quietly absorbed every word.

Norah nodded slightly.

“…and the scythe?”

Zasaramel rested one large hand on his knee.

“In the Carnelian Blade, warriors select a weapon that suits both their body and their philosophy.”

He spoke almost academically now.

“The scythe rewards patience.”

Evie frowned slightly.

“It seems like an aggressive weapon.”

Zas shook his head.

“It is a patient weapon.”

He held his hands slightly apart, illustrating the motion.

“A sword strikes directly.”

“A spear thrusts.”

“A scythe controls distance.”

He paused.

“You must understand your opponent’s movement before you strike.”

Norah made another note.

“…and your fighting skill came entirely from that training?”

Zasaramel shook his head slowly.

“No.”

He looked at Norah.

“Technique teaches the foundation.”

“…but experience teaches the truth.”

Evie tilted her head.

“What do you mean?”

Zasaramel spoke simply.

“No warrior survives long if he cannot adapt.”

“The Carnelian Blade trains you to understand principles.”

“…but the battlefield teaches you how to apply them.”

Ruby crossed her arms and smiled.

“That’s the polite way of saying he got the crap kicked out of him a few times.”

Joanna nodded.

“Many times.”

Zas sighed.

“Yes.”

Norah allowed a small smile.

“…and eventually that experience led you to professional wrestling.”

Zasaramel nodded.

“The ring is a different battlefield.”

He looked at Norah.

“…but the principles are the same.”

“Control.”

“Responsibility.”

“…and trust.”

Norah glanced briefly at Evie.

Evie was completely absorbed.

Zasaramel finished calmly:

“In the Carnelian Blade, when you hold someone’s life in your hands…”

He paused slightly.

“…you learn very quickly that strength is not the most important skill.”

Norah leaned forward.

“What is?”

Zasaramel answered without hesitation.

“Discipline.”

Norah finished jotting down a note on her tablet.

“Let me ask you something more technical.”

Zasaramel inclined his head slightly.

“Of course.”

“You’ve described the philosophy behind your training…but from a practical standpoint- does your fighting style actually have a name?”

Zasaramel shook his head.

“No.”

Evie blinked.

“…None at all?”

Zasaramel folded his hands together calmly.

“The Carnelian Blade does not organize combat the way modern martial schools do.”

He considered the wording for a moment.

“The Watcher taught principles.”

“Not systems.”

Norah nodded slowly.

“So if someone asked what your style is called…”

Zasaramel gave a small shrug.

“I would say it has no name.”

Ruby grinned slightly.

“He’s tried to explain that to wrestling promoters before.”

Joanna laughed.

“They hate that answer.”

Norah smiled faintly but kept the interview moving.

“How many students trained under your teacher?”

Zasaramel’s answer came immediately.

“One.”

Norah raised an eyebrow.

“Just you.”

“Yes.”

Evie leaned forward slightly.

“The Watcher trained you exclusively?”

“For the most part.”

Zas continued calmly.

“Occasionally I was sent away.”

“Training camps. Other Carnelian Blade enclaves.”

He paused.

“When I grew older, I sought them out myself.”

Norah made another note.

“Did you choose that life?”

Zasaramel shook his head again.

“No.”

Evie tilted her head.

“You didn’t?”

“The Blade chooses.”

He said it simply, like a fact of nature.

“You are identified. You are trained.”

He paused briefly.

“…but I came to appreciate it.”

Norah looked up.

“Why?”

Zasaramel answered without hesitation.

“It stilled me.”

Evie frowned slightly.

“What does that mean?”

Zasaramel looked at her.

“My mind was… restless.”

“Training gave it discipline.”

He rested his hands on his knees.

“Discipline gave it quiet.”

Norah nodded thoughtfully.

“…and during that time… was fighting your profession?”

Zasaramel gave a faint smile.

“No.”

“The Carnelian Blade does not have ‘jobs’ the way you do here.”

He gestured lightly around the room.

“In Oddiyana we traded.”

“Goods for goods. Services for services.”

“We hunted.”

“We foraged.”

“We survived.”

Evie absorbed that quietly.

Norah tapped her tablet again.

“One more question about your training.”

“Go ahead.”

“You chose the scythe as your primary weapon.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Zasaramel leaned slightly forward.

“The scythe teaches patience.”

He lifted one large hand, illustrating a slow arc in the air.

“Most people imagine the scythe as a weapon of violent cuts.”

He shook his head.

“That is not its true strength.”

He demonstrated again- a slow, curved motion.

“The blade hooks.”

“It guides.”

“It controls distance.”

Norah watched closely.

“So the strike isn’t the most important part.”

“No.”

Zasaramel nodded.

“The weapon does most of the work.”

“The body only guides it.”

Evie’s eyes widened slightly.

Zas continued.

“A careless fighter swings.”

“A disciplined fighter lets the curve of the blade carry the motion.”

Ruby smirked.

“He tried to explain that to a wrestling trainer once.”

Joanna laughed.

“They just kept telling him to swing harder.”

Zasaramel sighed quietly.

Norah smiled faintly.

Then she asked the final question for this section.

“You eventually left the Carnelian Blade.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

For the first time, Zasaramel paused for a long moment before answering.

“The Blade is powerful.”

He chose the words carefully.

“…but it is also… chaotic.”

Evie tilted her head.

“How so?”

Zasaramel looked toward the lake outside the window.

“Warriors value discipline.”

“Structure.”

“Control.”

He looked back at Norah.

“The Carnelian Blade teaches those things.”

“…but it does not always live by them.”

Norah raised an eyebrow slightly.

“…and you wanted something different.”

Zasaramel nodded.

“I wanted a place where those values existed beyond the battlefield.”

He gestured slightly around the room.

“Professional wrestling, strangely enough, offered that.”

Ruby chuckled.

“Which is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Joanna nodded.

“…but he’s not wrong.”

Zasaramel remained perfectly serious.

“In the ring,” he said calmly,

“violence is controlled.”

Norah tapped her tablet again, organizing the next section of her notes.

“Let’s move forward a bit.”

Zasaramel nodded calmly.

“You eventually left the Carnelian Blade.”

“Yes.”

Norah leaned slightly forward.

“How did that happen?”

Zas took a moment before answering.

“The process was… surprisingly simple.”

Evie looked curious.

“How so?”

Zasaramel rested his hands loosely together.

“The United Commonwealth Sovereignties maintains a territory in the Indus Valley.”

Norah nodded.

“The Indus Sovereignty.”

“Yes.”

Zas continued.

“I applied for foreign worker status.”

Evie blinked.

“You just… applied?”

Zas nodded.

“The application process was extensive.”

“…but I was accepted.”

Joanna smirked.

“Turns out the UCSS likes disciplined workers.”

Ruby added:

“…and seven-foot-tall ones.”

Norah made a quick note.

“What kind of work were you doing?”

“Logistics and facility operations.”

Zas answered plainly.

“The company I worked for had international locations.”

He paused.

“One of them was in Cleveland.”

Evie leaned forward.

“So you requested a transfer.”

“Yes.”

Norah asked the obvious question.

“Why Cleveland?”

Zasaramel’s answer was immediate.

“It was far enough away.”

“From the Blade?”

“Yes.”

He said it without drama.

“That was all that mattered.”

Evie absorbed that quietly.

Norah nodded slowly.

“So you arrive in Cuyahoga Castles.”

“Yes.”

“…and that’s when wrestling enters the picture.”

Zas allowed a small smile.

“I discovered a wrestling school affiliated with the International Wrestling Council.”

Evie’s eyes lit up slightly.

“You tried out?”

“Yes.”

Norah tilted her head.

“…and they accepted you immediately?”

Zasaramel nodded once.

“The instructors were… enthusiastic.”

Ruby laughed.

“They practically begged him to stay.”

Joanna added with a grin.

“They thought he was a walking main event.”

Norah smiled faintly.

“…and you started wrestling on television fairly quickly.”

“Yes.”

Zas spoke calmly.

“I had already spent most of my life learning how to control violence.”

He shrugged slightly.

“The transition was… natural.”

Evie nodded thoughtfully.

“…but you didn’t stay focused on competing.”

Zas shook his head.

“No.”

“Why not?”

Zasaramel leaned back slightly in his chair.

“One, I am not one for glory. Secondly, I discovered something.”

Norah waited.

“I preferred teaching.”

Evie smiled.

“You liked training people.”

“Yes.”

Zasaramel nodded.

“Watching a student develop discipline… is more rewarding than defeating an opponent.”

Ruby folded her arms proudly.

“That’s why he started Warrior Wrestling.”

Norah glanced at her.

“That’s your training school.”

Zas nodded.

“Yes.”

“I founded it after establishing myself in the industry.”

Evie looked impressed.

“So most of your work now is training.”

“Correct.”

Norah asked one final question for this section.

“…but you still wrestle occasionally.”

Zasaramel smiled faintly.

“Yes.”

Evie tilted her head.

“Why?”

Zasaramel looked at her calmly.

“A teacher should never forget what the battlefield feels like.”

Watcher shifted on the floor beside the couch.

Then he stretched.

…and farted again.

Ruby burst out laughing.

“Oh my God, Watcher!”

Joanna groaned.

“This dog is unbelievable.”

Zasaramel closed his eyes briefly in quiet resignation.

Norah tried- unsuccessfully- not to laugh.

Evie covered her mouth.

The tension of the interview eased again for a moment.

Norah wiped her eyes and glanced back at her tablet.

“Alright.”

Norah glanced at her tablet, then back up at Zasaramel.

“Let’s talk about William Goldstein.”

The room grew slightly quieter.

Even Watcher, for once, remained still.

Zasaramel nodded slowly.

“That subject was inevitable.”

Norah began.

“When did you first become aware of him?”

Zasaramel rested his hands on the armrests of the chair.

“Almost immediately after my first televised matches.”

Evie looked up from her notebook.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Zasaramel spoke calmly.

“Wrestling media began discussing a ‘dream match.’”

Norah made a note.

“You and Goldstein.”

“Yes.”

Ruby smirked.

“Fans loved the idea.”

Joanna nodded.

“Seven-foot warrior versus football legend.”

Zasaramel gave a small shrug.

“I did not give it much thought.”

Norah tilted her head.

“Why not?”

“Because it was not something I sought.”

Evie frowned slightly.

“You mean the match?”

“I mean… glory.”

Zasaramel said the word without judgment.

“Promoters repeatedly attempted to place a championship title on me.”

Norah raised an eyebrow.

“You turned them down.”

“Yes.”

Evie looked surprised.

“You refused a title?”

Zasaramel nodded.

“I did not pursue championships.”

Ruby laughed.

“Promoters hated that.”

Joanna added:

“They couldn’t understand why someone would refuse a belt.”

Norah glanced at her notes.

“Why did you refuse?”

Zasaramel answered simply.

“A championship represents status.”

“I was not interested in status.”

He turned slightly toward Joanna and Ruby.

“During that time, my attention was elsewhere.”

He reached out and gently took their hands.

“I married.”

Evie smiled softly.

Joanna squeezed his hand.

Ruby grinned.

“Best decision he ever made.”

Norah waited a moment before continuing.

“…but eventually the match did happen.”

“Yes.”

Zasaramel nodded.

“I was told that Vince McGeady wanted it.”

Norah’s attention sharpened slightly.

“You didn’t know Vince at that time.”

“No.”

Zasaramel shook his head.

“I had never met him.”

“…but I was told he was pushing heavily for the match.”

“Why?”

Zasaramel shrugged faintly.

“I was told it was a recruitment tool.”

Evie frowned.

“Recruitment?”

“For the wrestling promotion, the WFE.”

Zas continued calmly.

“The narrative was simple.”

He raised one finger.

“Goldstein- the unstoppable attraction.”

He raised another.

“Zasaramel- the mysterious warrior.”

Joanna rolled her eyes.

“Promoters love that stuff.”

Norah nodded.

“…and eventually you agreed to the match.”

“Yes.”

Zas paused.

“It was presented to me as a charity event.”

Evie tilted her head.

“Charity?”

“Yes.”

Zasaramel’s voice remained calm, but his expression grew slightly more serious.

“The proceeds were supposedly meant to support several international relief organizations.”

Norah asked carefully.

“…and you believed that.”

“At the time.”

Zas looked down briefly.

“I later came to suspect the charity may have been… exaggerated.”

Ruby snorted.

“That’s a polite way of putting it.”

Joanna shook her head.

“We both told him not to do it.”

Norah glanced toward them.

“You opposed the match.”

“Absolutely,” Ruby said.

Joanna nodded.

“So did half the locker room.”

Evie looked surprised.

“Why?”

Ruby answered bluntly.

“Goldstein has safety issues…and because everyone knew what Vince wanted.”

Norah raised an eyebrow.

“…and what was that?”

Ruby shrugged.

“A spectacle.”

Zasaramel spoke again, calm as ever.

“I listened to their concerns.”

He looked at Joanna and Ruby.

“…and I respected them.”

Joanna squeezed his hand again.

“…but you still signed the contract.”

“Yes.”

Norah leaned slightly forward.

“Why?”

Zasaramel answered simply.

“I had already given my word.”

Evie watched him carefully.

“A warrior keeps his word.”

“Yes.”

Then Zas added something else.

“…and when I finally spoke with Goldstein…”

Norah looked up.

“You spoke with him before the match.”

“Yes.”

Zas nodded.

“I met him during preliminary discussions.”

Norah asked quietly.

“What did you think of him?”

Zasaramel considered the question.

Then he answered.

“He was calm.”

“Respectful.”

“Thoughtful.”

Evie looked surprised.

“That’s not what the media usually says about him.”

Zasaramel shrugged slightly.

“I judge people by their conduct.”

“…and based on that?”

Zasaramel answered without hesitation.

“I believed he was a man I could trust in the ring.”

The room was quiet for a moment.

Then Norah asked the final question for this section.

“When was the match scheduled?”

Zasaramel looked directly at her.

“August 2022.”

He paused slightly.

“A special pay-per-view event.”

“…and what happened that night…”

He looked down briefly.

“…changed many things.”

Norah adjusted the tablet slightly.

“Let’s talk about the match itself.”

Zasaramel nodded.

“The match took place on August 14, 2022.”

Evie wrote quickly.

“Where?”

“Venice Beach.”

Ruby shook her head slightly.

“Outdoor arena. Huge crowd.”

Joanna added:

“They promoted it for months.”

Norah glanced up.

“What was the format?”

“An Ironman match.”

Zas spoke calmly.

“One hour.”

“The wrestler who scored the most pinfalls or submissions would win.”

Evie blinked.

“An hour?”

Zas nodded.

“Yes.”

Norah’s pen paused slightly.

“That’s a demanding format.”

“Yes.”

Zasaramel’s tone shifted slightly.

“…and that is why I had concerns.”

Norah looked up.

“Before the match?”

“Yes.”

Zas leaned back slightly.

“From the day the match was announced until the night it occurred…”

He paused.

“…Goldstein and I rehearsed it exactly once.”

Evie’s pen stopped.

“Once?”

Zas nodded.

“A light walkthrough.”

Norah asked carefully.

“No actual contact?”

“No.”

“No execution of the spots?”

“No.”

Ruby folded her arms.

“…and that should never happen with a match like that.”

Norah looked at Zas.

“Why didn’t you rehearse more?”

Zas answered simply.

“Goldstein never had time.”

Evie frowned.

“Why not?”

“Vince McGeady was building him up.”

Zasaramel spoke without bitterness- just fact.

“Goldstein wrestled frequently in the weeks leading to the match.”

Joanna nodded.

“Too frequently.”

Norah wrote that down.

“…and you watched those matches.”

“Yes.”

Zas’s expression remained calm.

“…but I noticed something.”

Evie leaned forward slightly.

“What?”

Zas answered plainly.

“I doubted he had the stamina for an hour.”

Norah’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“You believed the match could be dangerous.”

“Yes.”

“Before it even began.”

“Yes.”

Evie asked quietly:

“Then why didn’t you cancel?”

Zasaramel considered the question carefully.

“I believed I could control the situation.”

He spoke matter-of-factly.

“I have fought opponents who were trying to kill me.”

Ruby nodded slightly.

“That’s not exaggeration.”

Zas continued.

“I believed I could adapt.”

“…but once the match began…”

He paused.

“…that belief changed.”

Norah leaned forward.

“What happened?”

Zasaramel answered calmly.

“The first ten minutes passed.”

“Then I noticed something.”

“Goldstein was exhausted.”

Evie blinked.

“Already?”

“Yes.”

Zas nodded.

“He was breathing heavily.”

“His movement slowed.”

Norah asked quietly:

“…and you knew.”

“Yes.”

Zas looked directly at her.

“The match could not be sustained.”

Evie swallowed.

“What did you do?”

“I adjusted.”

Zasaramel spoke like a man describing a tactical decision.

“I slowed the pacing.”

“I attempted to control the exchanges.”

“…but eventually…”

He paused.

“…the jackhammer sequence occurred.”

Norah’s pen moved again.

“You felt something was wrong.”

“Yes.”

“The lift was unstable.”

“The positioning was wrong.”

Evie looked uneasy.

“…and that’s when you knew.”

“Yes.”

Zas spoke quietly.

“There was no turning back.”

Norah asked carefully:

“What happened next?”

Zas answered simply.

“I adapted.”

Evie tilted her head.

“How?”

Zasaramel looked at her.

“I altered my fall.”

Norah frowned slightly.

“You adjusted mid-move.”

“Yes.”

Zas gave the smallest shrug.

“Because I learned how to fall off cliffs.”

Evie blinked.

“…That’s not a metaphor, is it?”

“No.”

Ruby laughed quietly.

“Not even a little.”

Zas continued calmly.

“The adjustment prevented serious injury.”

“…but it confirmed my concern.”

Norah asked quietly:

“You ended the match.”

“Yes.”

“After fifteen minutes.”

Zas nodded.

“Approximately.”

Norah looked up.

“…and you walked out.”

“Yes.”

Ruby sighed.

“That’s when everything exploded backstage.”

Norah raised an eyebrow.

“Explain.”

Zas continued.

“Sponsors were angry.”

“The event had been promoted heavily.”

“An hour-long match ended after fifteen minutes.”

Joanna added dryly:

“They weren’t thrilled.”

Norah asked:

“…and Vince?”

Zasaramel’s expression didn’t change.

“He confronted me.”

“Angrily.”

Evie asked:

“What did he say?”

“He accused me of sabotaging the match.”

Norah wrote that down.

“…and Goldstein?”

“He confronted me as well.”

Zas remained calm.

“After I told Vince he had sent a murderer into the ring with me.”

Evie’s eyes widened slightly.

“You said that to Vince?”

“Yes.”

Norah leaned forward.

“What happened next?”

Zas answered.

“Paul Carney intervened.”

Evie looked up.

“The IWC president?”

“Yes.”

Zas nodded.

“He separated us.”

“Diffused the confrontation.”

Norah asked:

“…and Vince?”

Zas gave a small shrug.

“He told Paul…”

He quoted calmly.

“I’ll see you in court.”

Evie blinked.

“You didn’t know what that meant.”

“No.”

Zas shook his head.

“I had never encountered a lawsuit.”

Evie almost smiled.

“So when you received the notice…”

“I was confused.”

Norah asked.

“…and when you learned what it meant?”

Zasaramel’s expression hardened slightly for the first time.

“I was angry.”

Ruby nodded.

“He had every reason to be.”

Zas continued.

“Fortunately, Paul Carney agreed to cover my legal defense.”

Norah wrote that down.

“…and the case?”

“A judge dismissed the claim against me quickly.”

Evie nodded.

“…but the experience still bothered you.”

Zasaramel answered quietly.

“Yes.”

He paused.

“It left a very bad taste.”

Norah closed the tablet briefly.

The room sat in silence for a moment.

Then she said:

“Thank you.”

…but everyone in the room understood something important.

The interview had just connected Goldstein, Vince, and a prior dangerous jackhammer in a way investigators had never heard before.

The room had grown quieter as the conversation deepened.

Norah set her tablet down for a moment.

“There’s something you said earlier I’d like to revisit.”

Zasaramel nodded.

“You mentioned that you avoided serious injury because you ‘learned how to fall off cliffs.’”

“Yes.”

Norah leaned slightly forward.

“I want you to explain that.”

Evie glanced up, curious.

“Specifically,” Norah continued, “how you adjusted midair during the jackhammer.”

Zasaramel sat back, thinking.

“What exactly went through your mind in that moment?”

She continued carefully.

“Was it reflex?”

“Instinct?”

“Or was it a conscious decision?”

Zasaramel took a slow breath.

“It was… all three.”

Evie’s pen paused.

Zas continued.

“When Goldstein lifted me, I immediately felt something wrong.”

Norah nodded.

“The instability you described earlier.”

“Yes.”

“The positioning was incorrect.”

Zas lifted one hand slightly, demonstrating.

“My center of gravity was drifting too far forward.”

Evie frowned.

“What does that mean?”

“It means the landing would not be controlled.”

Zas explained calmly.

“In a proper jackhammer, the person receiving the move lands with the back and shoulders absorbing the impact.”

Norah nodded.

“That distributes the force.”

“Yes.”

Zas looked at her.

“…but in that moment, I realized the rotation was wrong.”

Evie leaned forward.

“So where would you have landed?”

Zas answered simply.

“Head or neck.”

Evie’s expression tightened.

Norah asked quietly:

“So what did you do?”

Zasaramel demonstrated with his hands again.

“I adjusted my hips.”

“Shifted my weight.”

“…and altered the angle of my shoulders.”

Evie blinked.

“You did that while upside down?”

“Yes.”

Norah watched him carefully.

“…and that’s where the cliff training comes in.”

Zas nodded.

“In Ember Hollow, falls are part of training.”

Evie frowned.

“You mean… actual falls?”

“Yes.”

Zas spoke plainly.

“We climb cliffs.”

“We jump.”

“…and we learn how to land.”

Evie stared.

“…You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

Zas continued.

“When you fall from height, you must learn three things.”

He raised a finger.

“Where your body is in space.”

Another finger.

“How to rotate before impact.”

A third.

“…and how to disperse the force of the landing.”

Norah nodded slowly.

“…and that’s what you did during the jackhammer.”

“Yes.”

Zas spoke quietly.

“I rotated slightly to protect the neck.”

“Allowed the shoulders and upper back to take the impact.”

Evie scribbled notes furiously.

“That’s incredible.”

Zas gave a small shrug.

“It is simply training.”

Norah watched him closely.

“Was that a conscious decision?”

Zas thought for a moment.

“Half-conscious.”

Evie looked up.

“What does that mean?”

“My body recognized the danger first.”

“Then my mind confirmed it.”

Norah nodded.

“So reflex guided the movement.”

“…and experience guided the adjustment.”

“Yes.”

Norah paused.

Then she asked the next question.

“Did you see the segment where Genevieve Horton and Cesar Luis were injured?”

Zasaramel nodded slowly.

“Yes.”

Evie looked up.

“…and you recognized the problem immediately.”

“Yes.”

Zas spoke quietly.

“The moment I saw the lift.”

Norah leaned forward.

“You knew it was the same botch.”

“Yes.”

Evie asked softly.

“How?”

Zas answered calmly.

“The same instability.”

“The same rushed rotation.”

“The same forward drift in the center of gravity.”

Norah watched him carefully.

“…and you knew it would end badly.”

Zasaramel nodded once.

“Yes.”

Evie’s voice was quiet.

“You feared the worst.”

“Yes.”

Norah asked the question directly.

“Explain why.”

Zasaramel folded his hands again.

“In a controlled jackhammer, the lifter pauses briefly before the drop.”

“Why?” Evie asked.

“To stabilize the hold.”

“To ensure the receiver’s body is aligned.”

Zas continued.

“In the segment involving Horton and Luis…”

He paused slightly.

“That pause never occurred.”

Evie swallowed.

“So the move was rushed.”

“Yes.”

Norah asked quietly.

“…and that meant…”

Zas answered simply.

“The receiver had no time to adjust.”

Evie looked down at her notes.

“So they couldn’t protect themselves.”

Zas nodded.

“In my case…”

He gestured slightly.

“My training allowed me to recognize the danger and adjust midair.”

“…but Horton and Luis-”

He stopped.

Norah finished the thought.

“They didn’t have that training.”

Zas shook his head.

“No.”

Evie asked softly:

“So what happened to them?”

Zasaramel’s voice remained calm but solemn.

“They trusted the move.”

“…and when it went wrong…”

He paused.

“…their bodies were not prepared to correct it.”

The room was silent for a moment.

Norah finally spoke again.

“That’s exactly what I needed to understand.”

Zas nodded quietly.

“…and it is why I walked out of the Venice Beach match.”

Evie looked up.

“Because you knew the danger.”

“Yes.”

Zasaramel spoke with quiet certainty.

“When control disappears…”

He paused.

“…someone eventually gets hurt.”

Norah studied Zasaramel for a moment after his explanation.

“Is that kind of training widespread?”

Zasaramel tilted his head slightly.

Before he could answer, Ruby chuckled.

“No.”

Joanna nodded.

“Not even close.”

Evie looked up.

“You two never trained like that?”

Joanna shook her head.

“We learned how to bump. How to protect our necks. How to roll through things.”

Ruby added:

“…but cliff diving into rocks wasn’t on the syllabus.”

Zasaramel allowed himself a faint smile.

“No. I do not believe it is common.”

Norah pressed further.

“Based on what you’ve seen since entering wrestling?”

“Yes.”

Zas folded his hands again.

“Most wrestlers are trained to fall safely.”

“…but they are trained within a system of cooperation.”

Evie looked curious.

“What do you mean?”

Zas answered calmly.

“Wrestling is built on trust.”

He gestured slightly.

“You trust that the person lifting you will control the motion.”

“You trust that the landing will be where it is supposed to be.”

Norah nodded.

“So when something goes wrong-”

“-the instinct is not to defend yourself,” Zas finished.

“It is to continue the movement.”

Evie frowned slightly.

“Because you expect it to work.”

“Yes.”

Zas looked at her.

“My training was different.”

“How?” Norah asked.

“I trained against people who were trying to hurt me.”

The room went quiet again.

“In that environment,” Zas continued, “trust is not assumed.”

“You must always be prepared for failure.”

“For betrayal.”

“For chaos.”

Evie slowly nodded.

“So cliff falling was survival training.”

“Yes.”

Zas spoke simply.

“You learn how to protect yourself when things go wrong.”

Norah wrote a note.

“…and you teach that now.”

“Yes.”

Evie looked surprised.

“You make your students do cliff training?”

Zas shook his head.

“No cliffs.”

Ruby laughed.

“We’d have zero students left.”

Joanna added with a grin:

“…and a lot of lawsuits.”

Zas continued calmly.

“…but I teach the principles.”

“Body awareness.”

“Midair adjustment.”

“Impact distribution.”

Evie nodded slowly.

“So your students learn how to react when a move breaks.”

“Yes.”

Zas paused slightly.

“…and I receive criticism for this.”

Norah looked up.

“What kind of criticism?”

Ruby answered immediately.

“People say his students are stiff.”

Joanna shrugged.

“Ugly.”

“Too rough.”

Zasaramel’s expression didn’t change.

“I accept those criticisms.”

Evie frowned.

“You do?”

Zas nodded once.

“I would rather train a wrestler who looks imperfect…”

He paused slightly.

“…than attend their funeral.”

The room fell quiet again.

Norah wrote something down.

“That’s a powerful philosophy.”

Zas continued calmly.

“I do not believe safety must come at the expense of beauty.”

Ruby crossed her arms and smirked slightly.

“That’s because he wrestles like a dancer.”

Zas gave her a small look.

Ruby shrugged.

“It’s true.”

Joanna nodded in agreement.

“He’s the best example of it.”

Evie looked curious.

“What do you mean?”

Ruby gestured toward Zas.

“He teaches safety.”

“He teaches control.”

“…and he still moves in the ring like it’s art.”

Zas looked slightly uncomfortable.

Norah noticed.

“You disagree?”

Zas shook his head gently.

“I simply do not believe I should praise myself.”

Ruby rolled her eyes.

“He’s humble. It’s annoying.”

Evie smiled slightly.

Norah leaned back.

“So your belief is that wrestling could be safer without losing what makes it beautiful.”

“Yes.”

Zas’s voice remained steady.

“Safety should be emphasized in every part of the craft.”

“The training.”

“The rehearsal.”

“The execution.”

Norah asked one more question.

“…and are people in the industry receptive to that?”

Zas thought for a moment.

“Some are.”

He nodded once.

“Paul understands it.”

Norah knew who he meant.

Paul Carney.

“…but implementation is slow.”

Zas’s gaze drifted slightly toward the ocean outside the window.

“Traditions are difficult to change.”

He paused.

“Even when people are dying.”

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the surf rolling in from Lake Erie.

Norah closed her tablet slowly.

She had been careful throughout the interview — patient, methodical, letting Zas explain things in his own words.

But there was one question investigators always had to ask eventually.

She looked up.

“Zasaramel.”

Zas met her gaze.

Norah spoke plainly.

“Do you believe Genevieve Horton’s death was preventable?”

The room went still.

Evie froze slightly in her seat.

Joanna and Ruby exchanged a glance.

Zas did not answer immediately.

He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, thinking carefully.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm.

“Yes.”

Evie’s pen stopped.

Norah did not react outwardly.

“Explain.”

Zasaramel nodded once.

“First,” he said, “I heard from other wrestlers that the move was changed without rehearsal. The move should not have been changed without rehearsal.”

Norah wrote that down.

“The jackhammer is not a simple maneuver.”

“It requires coordination.”

“Timing.”

“Control.”

Zas continued.

“If the finishing move was altered moments before execution, then the performers were placed in unnecessary danger.”

Norah nodded slightly.

“That aligns with other testimony.”

A beat.

“Do you know who told you that the move was changed without rehearsal?”

“I will give you their names later.”

Zas continued.

“Second.”

He raised a finger.

“The pace of the sequence was wrong.”

Evie leaned forward again.

“You mean it was rushed.”

“Yes.”

Zas’s voice remained even.

“In a proper jackhammer, the lifter stabilizes before the drop.”

He gestured slightly with one hand.

“There is a moment where both performers confirm balance.”

Norah remembered the footage.

That pause had been absent.

Zas continued.

“In the Horton segment, that pause did not occur.”

“So the receiver had no opportunity to adjust.”

Norah wrote again.

Evie quietly added notes beside her.

“Third,” Zas said.

“The performer executing the move was fatigued.”

Norah looked up.

“You’re referring to Goldstein.”

“Yes.”

Zas spoke carefully.

“I do not say this as an insult.”

“I believe Goldstein is a capable man.”

Evie nodded.

“He seems like a good person.”

Zas agreed.

“Yes.”

“…but he was being pushed beyond his limits.”

Norah leaned slightly forward.

“By whom?”

Zas met her eyes.

“I assume that is what you are investigating.”

Norah did not answer the question.

She simply wrote something down.

Zas continued.

“When a performer is exhausted, their control deteriorates.”

“Timing becomes rushed.”

“Stability disappears.”

Evie looked down at the footage notes she had taken earlier.

That matched what they had seen.

Norah asked another question.

“Was the injury inevitable once the lift began?”

Zas shook his head.

“No.”

“So it could still have been corrected.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“The move could have been aborted.”

Evie blinked.

“You can abort a jackhammer?”

Ruby answered before Zas could.

“You can drop into a different move.”

Joanna added:

“Or just set the person down.”

Zas nodded.

“Yes.”

“There are many ways to abandon a lift safely.”

Norah wrote quickly.

“So the decision to continue the move…”

“…created the danger,” Zas finished.

Norah leaned back slightly.

Then she asked the next question carefully.

“You recognized the problem immediately when you watched the footage.”

“Yes.”

“…and you believed it would end badly.”

“Yes.”

Evie spoke softly.

“You said you feared the worst.”

Zasaramel nodded.

“I did.”

Norah watched him closely.

“Why?”

Zas answered quietly.

“Because I have felt that instability before.”

Evie understood immediately.

“The Venice Beach match.”

“Yes.”

Zas continued.

“When the body is lifted incorrectly…”

“…there is a moment where gravity takes control.”

He paused.

“And once that moment passes…”

“…the outcome is difficult to change.”

The room was silent again.

Norah closed her notebook.

“One more question.”

Zas looked at her.

Norah spoke plainly.

“Do you believe William Goldstein intended to harm Genevieve Horton?”

Zas answered immediately.

“No.”

Evie exhaled slightly.

Zas continued.

“I believe he trusted the system he was working in.”

Norah nodded slowly.

“…and that system failed.”

Zasaramel met her gaze.

“Yes.”

He paused.

“Spectacle replaced discipline.”

The waves outside continued rolling against the beach.

…and for a moment, no one in the room spoke.

Norah looked down at her notes for a moment.

Then she looked back up.

“Zasaramel.”

“Yes.”

She spoke carefully.

“I’m going to ask you a hypothetical question.”

Zas nodded.

“Very well.”

Norah folded her hands.

“If you had been in Genevieve Horton’s position…”

She paused briefly.

“…would you have taken that move?”

Evie looked up immediately.

The room went quiet again.

Zasaramel did not answer right away.

He thought about the question carefully.

Finally, he shook his head.

“No.”

Evie blinked.

“You wouldn’t?”

Zas looked at her calmly.

“I would have stopped the sequence.”

Norah tilted her head slightly.

“How?”

“There are many ways.”

Zas spoke matter-of-factly.

“If the lift feels wrong, the receiver can shift their weight and force the move to collapse.”

Ruby nodded.

“That happens sometimes.”

Joanna added:

“Or you just drop down and turn it into something else.”

Evie frowned slightly.

“So why didn’t she?”

Zas answered quietly.

“Because she trusted the move.”

Norah wrote something down.

“…and you wouldn’t have?”

Zas shook his head slightly.

“My training does not allow me to assume safety.”

Evie considered that.

“…but wrestlers usually do.”

“Yes.”

Zas folded his hands again.

“That is the nature of the profession.”

Norah asked another question.

“Is it acceptable in wrestling culture to stop a move like that?”

Ruby made a face.

“…Depends.”

Joanna answered more directly.

“It’s frowned upon.”

Evie looked surprised.

“Why?”

Ruby shrugged.

“Because it ruins the moment.”

Norah’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“The moment.”

Zasaramel nodded.

“In wrestling, the performance is paramount.”

“Stopping a sequence breaks the illusion.”

Evie looked troubled.

“So performers feel pressure to keep going.”

“Yes.”

Zas said it plainly.

“Even when something feels wrong.”

Norah asked one more question.

“In your opinion… should that culture change?”

Zas did not hesitate.

“Yes.”

He spoke quietly but firmly.

“No performance is worth a life.”

The room fell silent again.

Watcher the dog shifted slightly on the floor, letting out a sleepy grunt.

Ruby glanced down at him.

“He agrees.”

Joanna smirked.

“He always agrees with Zas.”

Evie finally looked back at Norah.

Norah closed her notebook.

For now, she had what she needed.

…but the implications of Zasaramel’s answer hung heavily in the room.

Norah did not close her notebook yet.

There were still a few questions she needed answered.

“Zasaramel,” she said calmly, “during a segment like the one involving Genevieve Horton… who actually has the authority to stop what’s happening if it becomes unsafe?”

Zasaramel considered the question.

“In the IWC,” he said, “the wrestlers themselves have that authority.”

Norah nodded slightly.

“If something feels wrong, we stop. Management supports that decision.”

Evie wrote that down quickly.

“…and in the WFE?” Norah asked.

Zas’s expression changed slightly.

“From what I understand,” he said carefully, “if Vince wants something… he gets it.”

Evie glanced up.

Zas continued.

“In that system, no one but him can truly stop a spot.”

Norah wrote something down without reacting.

Then she asked the next question.

“Within wrestling circles, was there ever discussion about William Goldstein being difficult or dangerous to work with?”

Zas did not hesitate.

“Yes.”

Ruby shifted slightly in her seat.

“People were worried about him being unsafe,” Zas said.

“Some wrestlers did not want to work with him.”

Evie frowned.

“Did they think he meant to hurt people?”

Zas shook his head.

“I do not believe so.”

He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully.

“I suspect he was often placed in situations where the chance of hurting someone was much higher.”

Norah looked up.

“You mean the way he was booked.”

“Yes.”

Norah wrote again.

Then she asked another question.

“Did you ever raise concerns about his conditioning or stamina with anyone in the promotion?”

Zas nodded once.

“I did.”

“Who did you speak with?”

“Paul.”

Evie recognized the name immediately.

“Paul Carney?”

“Yes.”

Norah watched him closely.

“…and what happened after that?”

“Paul raised the concern with the WFE.”

Zas paused.

“No one listened.”

The room went quiet again.

Norah wrote a final note.

Then she looked up one last time.

“Final question.”

Zasaramel waited.

Norah spoke plainly.

“Would you wrestle William Goldstein again?”

Zas thought about the question.

Finally he nodded.

“Yes.”

Evie blinked.

“Really?”

Zas answered calmly.

“If the circumstances were different.”

Norah asked:

“What circumstances?”

“Preparation.”

“Rehearsal.”

“Discipline.”

He paused.

“I believe Goldstein is capable of a good match.”

Ruby nodded quietly.

“…but,” Zas continued, “I will never wrestle anyone in the WFE…”

He looked directly at Norah.

“…or participate in any match sanctioned by the WFE…”

A brief pause.

“…for as long as Vince McGeady is in charge.”

The words hung in the room.

Norah slowly closed her notebook.

…but she and Evie remained seated.

Watcher the dog shifted on the floor again, letting out a sleepy sigh.

Outside, the lake wind rattled softly against the windows.

…and inside the house, the weight of Zasaramel’s last statement settled over everyone present.

Norah slowly closed her notebook.

…but she and Evie remained seated for a moment.

As Norah stood, Evie noticed something on the far wall she hadn’t paid attention to before.

Mounted carefully above a low wooden shelf was a long, curved scythe.

Not decorative.

The blade was worn and darkened in places, the handle wrapped in leather that had clearly been replaced more than once.

Below it sat a small carved wooden bowl filled with smooth black stones.

Evie looked at it.

“…Is that-”

Zasaramel followed her gaze.

“Yes.”

“The weapon I trained with.”

Evie stared at it for a moment longer.

Then she nodded slowly.

“…That’s really cool.”

Norah gave the room one last look.

Then she closed her notebook.

“Well,” she said calmly, “that was extremely helpful.”

Zasaramel rose as well- the movement slow, controlled, almost ceremonial in the way a large giant stands.

“You are welcome.”

Evie gathered her tablet and notes, still processing everything she had heard.

Ruby walked them toward the door while Joanna moved ahead to open it.

As Evie stepped out onto the porch, she stopped.

The shoreline stretched out beyond the house- gray-blue water rolling against pale sand, the late afternoon sun catching the waves. Even in the early spring chill, the place looked peaceful.

Evie stared at it for a moment.

“…Wow.”

Ruby followed her gaze.

“It’s prettier in the summer.”

Joanna nodded.

“You should come back when it’s warm.”

Evie hesitated.

“I don’t know.”

Ruby tilted her head.

“Why not?”

Evie shrugged slightly.

“I’m comfortable with my body and everything, but… I kind of hate the beach.”

Joanna raised an eyebrow.

“Why?”

Evie made a small face.

“People stare.”

Ruby laughed.

“Not here.”

Joanna nodded toward the house behind them.

“The only one who stares around here is Watcher.”

Right on cue, the big dog padded over and looked up at Evie with the intense, serious expression of a creature who believed observing humans was his full-time job.

Ruby grinned.

“…and the worst thing you’ll get from Zas is that sentinel-watcher thing he does.”

Evie blinked.

“…Sentinel watcher thing?”

Ruby nodded toward the doorway.

Zasaramel stood just inside the house, perfectly still, arms loosely at his sides, silently observing everything happening on the porch like an enormous stone guardian.

Evie stared.

“Oh.”

Joanna chuckled.

“You get used to it.”

Norah allowed herself the faintest smile.

Then Watcher farted.

A loud, unapologetic one.

Ruby groaned.

“Oh come on.”

Joanna pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Watcher!”

The dog looked completely unbothered.

Evie burst into laughter before she could stop herself.

Even Norah let out a quiet chuckle.

…and for the first time since the interview began, the tension of the afternoon finally broke.

The Awesome Towers, March 14, 2023

11:47 local time,
City of Gotham Hill, Gotham Grand Sovereignty, UCSS

The office floor was quiet.

Most of the production staff had been reassigned or sent home in the aftermath of the Borealis Bay disaster. The once-busy halls of the Awesome Towers felt hollow now.

Kitala Mazila sat at his desk, staring at the photo on his monitor.

His son.

Helmet tucked under one arm, pads still on, standing proudly in a high school stadium under bright Friday night lights.

A linebacker.

…and a good one.

Recruiters had already come calling. The biggest opportunity was the University of Ottawa Ramparts, one of the most respected football programs in the UCSS.

His son had already been accepted.

One payment remained.

Just one.

Kitala leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly.

A few more weeks.

That was all he needed.

A few more weeks of paychecks and the tuition deposit would be secure.

That thought made his stomach twist.

Because the whistleblowing had changed everything.

He glanced down toward the open drawer beside him.

Inside sat the small external hard drive containing the copied WFE files.

The files Vince McGeady had ordered him to delete.

The files Kitala had preserved instead.

Footsteps approached.

Kitala quickly minimized the photos on his screen.

Aiden McGeady leaned casually against the doorway.

“Morning, Kitala.”

Kitala straightened.

“Mr. McGeady.”

Aiden stepped into the office, hands in his pockets.

“Just checking in on some of the server issues.”

“Everything’s stable now,” Kitala said.

“Good.”

Aiden’s eyes drifted around the room.

They stopped on the open drawer.

The external hard drive sat there, partially visible.

Aiden’s gaze lingered for a moment.

Then he looked back up at Kitala.

“Well,” he said lightly, “glad everything’s working.”

He left the office.

Kitala returned to his work, unaware.

---

Twenty minutes later

The intercom buzzed.

“Kitala Mazila to Mr. McGeady’s office.”

Kitala frowned slightly.

He stood and straightened his shirt.

---

Vince McGeady’s Office

Vince didn’t invite him to sit.

Aiden stood off to the side.

Kitala immediately sensed something was wrong.

Vince’s expression was stone cold.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“No, sir.”

Vince slid the external hard drive across the desk.

Kitala felt his stomach drop.

“I asked you to delete files,” Vince said.

“You copied them instead.”

Kitala’s mind raced.

“I-”

“You’re fired.”

The words came instantly.

Flat. Final.

Kitala stepped forward.

“Mr. McGeady, please-”

Vince raised a hand.

“You violated the terms of your employment.”

“Sir, my son-”

Kitala’s voice cracked slightly. Vince cut him off.

“Yes, I know- he’s supposed to start university this fall.”

Kitala’s eyes went glassy.

“Please, sir, I just need a few more weeks-”

Vince didn’t react.

“You should have thought about that before stealing company property.”

Kitala stood there for a moment.

The office felt smaller.

He looked at Aiden.

Aiden avoided his eyes.

Kitala turned back to Vince.

“Please.”

Vince pressed a button on his desk.

Security entered moments later.

“Escort him out.”

Kitala didn’t resist.

…but as he was led out of the office, he glanced once more at the desk behind him.

The hard drive sat there. Kitala wondered if the money he had already saved would still be enough.

He suspected it wouldn’t.

 

…and Vince McGeady was already looking past him.

Like he had never existed.

Eternal Sky Arena, March 15, 2023,

13:55 local time,
Golden Ordo Pavilion Complex, Imperial Mörön, Oirat Empire

The Eternal Sky Arena was never designed for something like this.

The vast circular structure overlooked the Horse Sea outside Imperial Mörön, its high stands normally used for wrestling festivals, archery contests, and cavalry demonstrations beneath the open sky.

Today it hosted something far less dignified.

Backstage, the WFE production crew scrambled.

Triple X stood near the entrance tunnel with a headset draped around his neck, watching the chaos unfold.

The travel situation had already been bad.

Flying talent from Panama to Imperial Mörön was difficult on a good day. Charter routes were limited, visas were messy, and the Altai weather could change without warning.

Now half the wrestlers scheduled for the relaunch were stuck somewhere between continents.

A production assistant hurried past him.

“Two more scratches,” she said breathlessly. “Flight diversion in Urumqi.”

Triple X closed his eyes briefly.

The card had already been thin.

Now it was skeletal.

Across the arena floor, Vince McGeady stood with a small group of producers and camera operators, looking pleased with himself.

At the center of Vince’s attention stood Boulderdash.

The towering recruit from the Academy looked like he had stepped out of a comic book. Massive shoulders, huge arms, an intimidating scowl.

And absolutely no idea what he was doing.

Triple X had seen enough training sessions to know the truth.

Boulderdash wasn’t ready for television, let alone for the responsibility Vince was about to put on him.

…but Vince didn’t see that.

Vince saw size.

Vince saw spectacle.

Vince saw a new star.

Triple X glanced down at the script in his hand.

It was riddled with Vince’s edits.

Several lines included Vince’s phonetic attempts at the city’s name.

“MOR-ON.”

“MOO-RON.”

One line even had Vince underlining it three times, with a note in the margin.

“Lean into the joke.”

Triple X rubbed his temples.

The Canton-born executive had spent enough time around the Altai and Inner Asian regions to know how badly that would land.

Mocking the host city on national television.

Perfect.

Absolutely perfect.

Across the floor Vince clapped his hands loudly.

“Alright people! Let’s run it again!”

Boulderdash attempted to rehearse his entrance and nearly tripped on the ring apron.

Triple X watched the whole thing unfold.

Then Triple X flipped through the latest revision of the script.

It had gotten worse.

Vince had filled the margins with notes suggesting exaggerated “Chinese-style” dialogue for the announcers, wrestlers and other performers- phonetic gibberish meant to sound vaguely Asian to the audience.

Triple X didn’t need to read the lines themselves to know what Vince was going for.

There were also instructions for gong sounds, exaggerated bows, and a suggestion that Boulderdash “enter like a kung-fu warlord.”

Triple X lowered the pages slowly.

They were in Imperial Mörön, capital of the Oirat Empire- a steppe city beneath the Altai Mountains, home to horse festivals and traditional wrestling tournaments.

…and Vince had apparently decided it was the perfect place for every tired East Asian stereotype he could think of.

Triple X muttered under his breath.

“This is going to be a disaster.”

Hall of the Blue Standard, March 15, 2023

19:11 local time
Golden Ordo Pavilion Complex, Imperial Mörön, Oirat Empire

The Hall of the Blue Standard stood at the center of the Golden Ordo complex, its massive timber pillars wrapped in silk banners that depicted horses, eagles, and the sweeping mountains of the Altai.

Unlike the stone ministries of Imperial Mörön, the hall itself preserved the traditions of the steppe. The roof curved upward like the crown of an enormous yurt, open vents allowing the scent of cedar smoke and roasting meat to drift through the chamber.

Long tables had been arranged in a horseshoe around the central floor.

Silver bowls of fermented mare’s milk sat beside platters of roasted lamb and river fish from the Uvs Basin.

At the far end of the hall sat the Oirat Emperor, flanked by ministers and generals.

Across from them sat Vince McGeady.

At first, the mood was warm.

The emperor’s chief minister spoke through an interpreter.

“The Oirat Empire welcomes the World Fighting Empire. We are pleased you have chosen Imperial Mörön for your relaunch.”

Vince smiled broadly.

“Well, Your Majesty, when I heard about the Eternal Sky Arena I knew this was the perfect place.”

The emperor inclined his head slightly.

Polite applause followed from several ministers.

Tourism officials at the table looked quietly pleased. The WFE show was expected to bring thousands of foreign visitors to Mörön.

Vince stood to offer a greeting.

…and immediately did the worst possible thing.

He bent at the waist in a deep theatrical bow.

Several Oirat officials exchanged quick glances.

The emperor did not react.

Vince straightened and grinned.

Then he spoke a carefully rehearsed phrase in Mandarin.

He had practiced it all afternoon.

A silence spread across the table.

The emperor’s interpreter leaned toward him and quietly murmured something in Oirat.

Vince continued, oblivious.

“You know, I’ve always admired the history here. Temujin, Genghis Khan- the greatest conqueror the world has ever seen.”

Another silence.

This one longer.

A general seated near the emperor slowly set down his cup.

The emperor finally spoke.

The interpreter translated calmly.

“The empire of Temujin was… significant.”

The pause that followed carried weight.

The emperor continued.

“…but the Oirat people are not subjects of Temujin.”

Vince blinked, slightly confused.

“Well sure, sure- but the Mongols, the empire, the whole thing. Incredible history.”

Across the table, one of the ministers quietly closed his eyes.

The emperor’s expression remained composed.

…but the warmth in the room had vanished.

The interpreter spoke again.

“The Oirat Empire has its own history.”

A long moment passed.

Tourism officials at the end of the table shifted uncomfortably.

The WFE show meant money. Visitors. International attention.

Cancelling it now would cost the empire millions.

The emperor took a slow drink from his silver cup.

Then he spoke again.

“The Oirat Empire welcomes your event in Imperial Mörön.”

The interpreter translated.

“…but we ask that your company show proper respect to the people who host you.”

Vince smiled, still unaware how close he had come to disaster.

“Absolutely,” he said.

Across the table, the emperor’s ministers exchanged quiet looks.

If not for the tourism revenue expected from the WFE show…

…the event would have been cancelled before Vince finished his first course.

Blue Steppe Caravan Inn, March 15, 2023

19:35 local time
Golden Ordo Pavilion Complex, Imperial Mörön, Oirat Empire

The Blue Steppe Caravan Inn looked ancient from the outside- thick stone walls surrounding a large interior courtyard- but the rooms had been modernized for visiting dignitaries and foreign travelers.

Inside Ben Hartley’s suite, the atmosphere was quieter than the arena.

Ben sat at the small wooden table across from Norah Anam and Pascal Yves. A recorder rested between them.

Outside the door, Mike Burrow and an Oirat Peace Tactical Ops officer stood guard.

Norah began calmly.

“Mr. Hartley, during a live broadcast, who ultimately decides what happens in the ring?”

Ben gave a tired smile.

“Officially? The producer. That would be me.”

He shrugged.

“In practice? Vince. It’s always Vince.”

Pascal made a quick note.

Norah continued.

“How often are matches or segments changed shortly before they happen?”

Ben exhaled.

“All the time. Vince tinkers constantly. Sometimes it’s hours before. Sometimes minutes.”

He paused.

“Sometimes seconds.”

Pascal looked up.

“Seconds?”

Ben nodded.

“If Vince gets an idea, he expects it to happen. Immediately.”

Norah glanced down at her notes.

“You also have personal history with Mr. Goldstein.”

Ben gave a small smile.

“Yeah. You could say that.”

Pascal looked up.

“His first match?”

Ben nodded.

“My last.”

Norah waited.

Ben leaned back slightly in his chair.

“Goldstein didn’t end my career on purpose. It was a rough match, but that’s wrestling. Injuries happen.”

He paused.

“I was bitter for a while. Hard not to be.”

Another pause.

“…but I’ll give the guy this.”

Ben tapped the table lightly.

“He works hard. Harder than most people in that locker room. If Vince tells him to do something, he’ll kill himself trying to make it work.”

Pascal asked quietly:

“Even if it’s dangerous?”

Ben met his eyes.

“Especially then. If anyone in that locker room was going to try to make Vince’s idea work safely, it was Goldstein.”

Norah flipped a page in her notes.

“We’ve documented that William Goldstein attempted or performed the jackhammer in nearly every appearance. Why?”

Ben leaned back slightly.

“Because Vince loved it. The audience loved it too. Big visual move. Looks devastating on television.”

He tapped the table lightly.

“…but leading up to the Horton-Luis segment, we actually stopped using the jackhammer for a while.”

Pascal raised an eyebrow.

“Why?”

“Goldstein was more comfortable with the spear. Safer for him. Roman refused to take a jackhammer in one segment, so we switched to spears.”

Ben gave a short laugh.

“Then the crowd started complaining. They wanted the jackhammer back.”

Norah exchanged a glance with Pascal.

“So when the fatal segment happened…”

Ben nodded.

“I wasn’t surprised the move got changed.”

Norah asked the next question.

“If a wrestler believed a move was unsafe, could they refuse?”

Ben hesitated.

“Technically, yes.”

Then he added:

“…but unless you’re Roman- and making Vince a lot of money- Vince usually says no.”

He folded his hands.

“Goldstein himself was often afraid to challenge Vince.”

Pascal leaned forward slightly.

“What happened before the segment involving Genevieve Horton and Cesar Luis?”

Ben spoke carefully now.

“We had a house show in Churchill. On Hudson Bay.”

Norah nodded.

“We know.”

“We were supposed to run another house show in Rankin Inlet, but weather cancelled it.”

Ben rubbed the back of his neck.

“While we were flying to Borealis Bay for Thursday Night War, Vince texted me and Goldstein.”

Pascal looked up.

“He changed the move?”

“Ordered the jackhammer.”

Norah asked quietly:

“Was there time to rehearse?”

Ben shook his head.

“Not realistically.”

He gestured toward the imaginary timeline.

“The plane lands. Everyone rushes to the arena. Wrestlers change. Production sets up.”

Ben sighed.

“There was barely time to breathe, let alone rehearse a dangerous move.”

Pascal asked:

“Did you consider changing it back to the spear?”

“I did.”

Ben nodded.

“…but Goldstein said he could do the jackhammer.”

He paused.

“…and I trusted him.”

The room went quiet for a moment.

Norah asked the final question.

“What happened backstage after the incident?”

Ben didn’t hesitate.

“Roman confronted Vince.”

Norah and Pascal both looked up.

Ben continued.

“He said what everyone else was thinking. No one wanted to perform after that.”

Ben spread his hands.

“So the locker room walked out.”

Pascal wrote something down slowly.

The recorder clicked softly.

Then Ben leaned back.

“You know… if you want to understand how the place really works…”

He looked between them.

“You should come to the relaunch tomorrow night.”

Norah frowned slightly.

“Why?”

“I can get you backstage.”

Pascal raised an eyebrow.

Norah shook her head immediately.

“That’s a bad idea. Vince will recognize us.”

Behind them, Burrow spoke from the doorway.

“Not if we don’t look like us.”

Everyone turned.

Burrow stepped inside slightly, his Tactical Ops jacket half-zipped.

“I can run security and cover with the Oirat unit,” he said. “Blend in with the backstage crew or arena security.”

The Oirat Tactical Ops officer beside him gave a small confirming nod.

Burrow couldn’t quite hide the hint of excitement in his voice.

Norah narrowed her eyes at him.

“You promise me something first.”

Burrow straightened immediately.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“If we do this… you are completely professional.”

Burrow nodded.

“Absolutely.”

Then, after a brief pause:

“…still allowed to enjoy the show a little, right?”

Norah sighed.

Pascal quietly suppressed a smile.

Norah glanced at Pascal.

Then back at Ben.

“Alright,” she said.

“Tell us how to get backstage.”

Eternal Sky Arena, March 16, 2023,

16:25 local time,
Golden Ordo Pavilion Complex, Imperial Mörön, Oirat Empire

The backstage corridors of Eternal Sky Arena were already filling with production staff, lighting technicians, and camera operators preparing for the relaunch broadcast.

Near a service entrance, Mike Burrow adjusted the black utility jacket he’d been issued by the arena staff.

Beside him stood Temür Batsaikhan, the Oirat Tactical Ops officer assigned to assist Peace for the evening. Temür wore nearly identical gear — headset, badge, and a security vest that matched the arena’s house staff.

To anyone passing by, they looked like just two more members of the event security team.

Pascal studied them carefully.

“You’re sure Vince won’t recognize you?”

Burrow gave a small shrug.

“I’ve never met him.”

Pascal looked to Ben Hartley.

Ben shook his head.

“Vince barely notices the people who actually work for him.”

He gestured toward the arena floor.

“If you’re not a wrestler, a big executive, or someone holding a camera, you’re invisible.”

Norah folded her arms.

“…and security?”

Ben smirked.

“Especially security.”

Temür clipped a radio to his vest and spoke calmly.

“The arena uses contracted guards for large events. New faces are expected.”

Burrow adjusted the security vest and glanced sideways at Temür.

“So you actually wrestle?”

Temür nodded once.

“Yes.”

Burrow’s eyebrows rose.

“Like… pro wrestling?”

Temür shook his head.

“Steppe wrestling.”

Ben looked up from the table.

“Bökh.”

Temür gave a small approving nod.

“In the Oirat leagues.”

Burrow let out a quiet whistle.

“Good to know I’m working with a real one.”

Temür’s expression barely changed.

“In Bökh,” he said calmly, “if any part of your body touches the ground besides your feet… you lose.”

Burrow grinned.

“Yeah, that’s definitely not how Vince’s show works.”

Burrow grinned slightly.

“See? We’re practically legit.”

Norah gave him a look.

“Remember what you promised.”

Burrow straightened immediately.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Temür glanced between them, clearly amused but saying nothing.

From somewhere inside the arena, the distant sound of ring testing echoed through the corridors.

The show would begin soon.

…and for the first time since the investigation started, Peace would be inside Vince McGeady’s operation while it was happening.

Norah looked toward the arena entrance.

“Alright,” she said quietly.

“Let’s see how this disaster unfolds.”

Show Time

The Eternal Sky Arena thundered with sound.

High above the ring, groups of Oirat spectators were already chanting in deep resonant tones. A cluster in the upper stands began throat singing- low harmonics rolling through the arena like wind across the steppe.

The noise was unlike anything Burrow had heard at a sporting event.

Temür nodded slightly toward the crowd.

“This is normal,” he said.

“Good crowd energy,” Burrow murmured.

The lights dimmed.

Pyrotechnics erupted along the stage.

The broadcast began.

---

Vince’s Opening

Vince McGeady walked onto the stage with a microphone, the titantron behind him displaying a polished black-and-gold memorial graphic.

His voice dropped into a rehearsed solemn tone.

“Before we begin tonight, we want to acknowledge the tragic loss of Genevieve Horton… and the injury suffered by Cesar Luis.”

For a moment, the arena grew quiet.

Even the throat singers stopped.

Vince bowed his head briefly.

“Our thoughts remain with Genevieve’s family… and we wish Cesar the very best in his recovery.”

A few scattered claps followed.

Then Vince’s tone shifted immediately.

“…and now…”

He grinned.

“…what a thrill it is to bring the WFE to this incredible part of the world!”

The titantron exploded into graphics.

Dragons.

Cherry blossoms.

Gold calligraphy.

Temür’s jaw tightened.

Vince continued.

“To stand here tonight… wrestling beneath the shadow of the Great Wall…”

A few people in the crowd looked around, confused.

“…in the land that Genghis Khan built!”

Temür spoke quietly.

“The Wall was built to keep people like us out.”

Burrow grimaced.

“Oh.”

Vince raised his fist dramatically.

“ARE YOU READY, MOO-RON?!”

Burrow closed his eyes briefly.

Temür exhaled slowly through his nose.

“…and now…”

Vince shouted a rallying cry into the microphone.

It was a phrase he had practiced all afternoon.

In Korean.

The Oirat crowd stared.

The throat singers did not resume.

---

The Show Continues

The first wrestler’s music hit.

A massive gong rang through the arena.

Then another.

Then another.

Burrow winced.

“Is that… going to happen every time?”

Temür nodded stiffly.

“It appears so.”

The first match began.

When the winner was declared, the wrestler turned toward the audience…

…and performed a deep theatrical bow.

Temür muttered something quietly in Oirat.

Burrow glanced at him.

“What did you say?”

“That is not how our people greet one another.”

The next entrance began.

Another gong.

Cherry blossom graphics drifted across the titantron.

Temür folded his arms.

“That is Japanese.”

Burrow sighed.

“Of course it is.”

---

Boulderdash

When Boulderdash finally appeared, the reaction was muted.

The giant lumbered down the ramp, performing awkward kung-fu poses Vince had insisted on.

He nearly lost his balance attempting a spinning kick.

Temür watched the ring with visible discomfort.

“That man is not a martial artist.”

Burrow nodded.

“That man is barely a wrestler.”

---

Backstage

Nearby, Norah and Pascal monitored the show from the shadows of the backstage corridor.

Pascal quietly scribbled notes.

Norah watched the monitors.

“This is worse than I expected.”

Behind them, Temür spoke again.

“This is not our culture.”

Burrow rubbed his forehead.

“Yeah.”

He looked back toward the arena.

“…and you said the worst hasn’t happened yet.”

Temür nodded once.

“No.”

His expression hardened slightly.

“The worst is still coming.”

The first hour of the show had already strained the patience of the crowd.

The next segments shattered it.

---

The Ninjas

A loud gong echoed again.

The lights dimmed and a dozen performers in black ninja costumes sprinted into the ring, performing exaggerated martial arts routines.

Burrow blinked.

“…ninjas?”

Temür’s expression hardened.

“Japanese assassins.”

The performers began flipping and kicking in a choreographed display.

Then the music abruptly cut.

Two wrestlers stormed the ring- Redwood and Ironjaw.

What followed was not choreography.

Redwood grabbed the first “ninja” and hurled him over the ropes.

Ironjaw shoved another hard enough that the man’s head snapped against the mat.

Pascal leaned forward.

“That wasn’t rehearsed.”

In the ring one of the performers rolled over slowly, clearly disoriented.

Yves frowned.

“That one might be concussed.”

Burrow muttered:

“Great start.”

---

The “Wise Monk”

The lights dimmed again.

A man walked to the ring wearing orange robes and oversized prayer beads.

The titantron graphic labeled him “THE WISE MONK.”

Temür closed his eyes briefly.

The man raised a staff and spoke theatrically.

“I bring the wisdom of Mount Fuji!”

Burrow whispered:

“That’s Japan.”

The man continued.

“I have studied the mystical arts of the East!”

He waved the staff dramatically.

“I am also… a wizard!”

The crowd responded with confused murmuring.

The segment died on arrival.

Backstage, Pascal quietly wrote something in his notebook.

---

Bratz

When Bratley “Bratz” Darkheart came out, even Burrow winced.

She was dressed in a stylized geisha costume Vince had insisted on.

The outfit restricted her movement so badly she could barely run the ropes.

Her first attempted maneuver nearly collapsed because the sleeves tangled around her arm.

Temür muttered quietly:

“This is not how warriors dress.”

Burrow nodded.

“…and definitely not how wrestlers wrestle.”

---

Danwolfen

Later, Danwolfen stood in the ring cutting a promo.

His usual bizarre charisma actually had the crowd engaged.

Then Marcus Holloway stormed the ring.

Marcus grabbed Danwolfen mid-sentence and began tossing him violently around the ring.

The attack looked unscripted.

As he did it, Marcus shouted strings of fake Chinese-sounding words meant to sound threatening.

Burrow stared at the monitor.

“…please tell me that’s not in the script.”

Temür said nothing.

His disgust was obvious.

---

Cory Reed

The lights went out again.

When they came back on, Cory Reed appeared.

He was dressed as a samurai.

The titantron showed an animation of a dragon flying across the screen while Reed fired an arrow through a bamboo stalk.

Pascal blinked slowly.

“This production has confused three different civilizations.”

Burrow sighed.

“Minimum.”

Reed entered the ring and challenged Marcus Holloway.

Marcus accepted.

---

The Match

The match began immediately.

…and it showed.

Every movement was hesitant.

Reed tried to guide Marcus through the sequence- calling spots quietly while they grappled.

…but Marcus was too green.

At one point Marcus was supposed to throw Reed into the announcers’ table.

Instead he overshot.

Reed crashed hard onto the floor beside it.

Burrow winced.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Reed rolled to his knees slowly.

He was hurt.

…but the cameras were rolling.

The match continued.

---

The Finish

Reed eventually lifted Marcus for his finishing move.

The samurai armor made the lift awkward.

Reed grimaced but powered through.

The move landed.

Marcus stayed down.

The bell rang.

Reed stood in the ring breathing heavily.

Then he grabbed the microphone.

…and began addressing the crowd.

In Mandarin.

The Oirat audience stared silently.

High in the stands, the throat singers did not resume.

---

Behind the scenes, Temür spoke quietly.

“This is an insult.”

Burrow didn’t even try to defend it.

Norah watched the monitor.

“This,” she said calmly, “is exactly what we needed to see.”

Pascal nodded.

“Systemic recklessness.”

On the screen, Vince McGeady appeared again, clapping enthusiastically.

Completely unaware of the disaster unfolding around him.

The backstage corridor buzzed with nervous energy.

Production assistants hurried past with headsets. Wrestlers in partial gear moved between locker rooms. The muffled roar of the Oirat crowd bled through the concrete walls.

Mike Burrow spotted him immediately.

Cory Reed sat on a folding chair beside a rolling equipment case, still in his elaborate samurai-themed ring gear. The dragon crest on his chest plate was smeared with sweat and dust.

Burrow froze for a moment.

Temur noticed.

“You know him?” Temur asked quietly.

Burrow swallowed.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I grew up watching him.”

Reed had his arm draped over his ribs while a ringside doctor examined him.

The doctor pressed gently along Reed’s side.

Reed winced.

“Ribs are definitely bruised,” the doctor said. “Maybe cracked. Shoulder’s not happy either.”

Reed gave a tired laugh.

“Yeah. I figured when I missed the damn table.”

Temur glanced toward the arena entrance.

“You should not wrestle again tonight,” the doctor continued. “Not with that shoulder.”

Reed nodded.

“I know.”

Footsteps approached from down the hallway.

Vince McGeady.

Perfectly tanned. Suit immaculate. Expression impatient.

He didn’t look at Reed first.

He looked at the doctor.

“How bad?”

The doctor hesitated.

“He should not go back out tonight.”

Vince frowned as if someone had just told him the catering was late.

“The main event is the rumble.”

Reed shifted in his chair.

“I can sit it out,” Reed offered. “Let someone else take the-”

“No,” Vince cut him off.

“You’re the biggest star in the match.”

He pointed toward the arena.

“That crowd is here to see you.”

Reed stared at him.

“Vince, I can barely-”

“The finish can change,” Vince said briskly.

“You go in late. Two minutes. Hit the finisher twice. Crowd goes home happy.”

The doctor shook his head.

“He should not be wrestling at all.”

Vince didn’t even look at him.

“You have something for the pain.”

The doctor hesitated again.

“That would only mask the injury.”

“Good,” Vince said.

The doctor still didn’t move.

Vince’s voice hardened.

“Give him the injection.”

Burrow’s stomach tightened.

Temur’s expression darkened.

The doctor reluctantly reached into his medical kit and prepared a syringe.

Reed leaned back in the chair, clearly conflicted.

Burrow took a step forward.

Too late.

The needle went in.

The doctor depressed the plunger.

Burrow exhaled slowly.

Then he moved.

“Alright,” Burrow said firmly.

The doctor looked up.

Burrow flashed his badge.

“Peace.”

The hallway went silent.

“You’re under arrest,” Burrow continued.

The doctor blinked in confusion.

“What?”

Temur stepped forward beside him.

“You administered medication under coercion in violation of Oirat safety law.”

The doctor looked stunned.

“I- I was ordered to-”

“…and you complied,” Temur said.

Burrow turned toward Vince.

“…and you.”

Vince stared at them.

“You’re kidding.”

Burrow stepped closer.

“Vince McGeady, you are being detained pending investigation for reckless endangerment and violation of Imperial labor safety statutes.”

Vince actually laughed.

“You think you’re shutting down my show?”

Burrow reached for his cuffs.

“Sir-”

Vince shoved his hand away.

“Get the hell off me.”

Burrow stepped back slightly and tapped his radio.

“Unit Bravo requesting immediate backup backstage.”

Footsteps approached rapidly from the corridor.

Norah Anam.

Pascal Yves just behind her.

Norah walked straight up to Vince.

She held up her badge.

“Vince McGeady.”

Vince stared at her.

“Oh for God’s-”

“You are under arrest,” Norah said calmly.

“For criminal negligence and violation of Oirat worker safety law.”

Vince’s jaw tightened.

“You can’t arrest me in the middle of my show.”

Norah nodded toward the arena.

“That’s exactly when we arrest people who break the law.”

She gestured to Burrow.

“Cuffs.”

Burrow secured Vince’s wrists.

Around them, the backstage corridor had filled with stunned onlookers.

Wrestlers.

Production staff.

Camera operators.

Even Cory Reed had stood up, watching in disbelief.

The roar of the Oirat crowd continued from the arena.

They had no idea what was happening backstage.

Norah turned to Pascal.

“Secure the scene.”

Pascal nodded.

Temur looked toward the arena entrance.

The show was still going.

…but backstage-

Everything had just changed.