The Virus: Existential Crisis

 

Midnight Sun Inn, February 10, 2023

18:11 local time,
Borealis Bay, Republic of Sǫ̀mbak’è

The Arctic twilight never really ends. It just dims.

The lobby smells like coffee and wool coats. No one has changed clothes. Some still have hospital wristbands on from visitor check-ins.

Sunny Ways is dead.

No one says her real name out loud yet.

Roman Cesar stands near the fireplace but doesn’t lean on it.

Boro sits on the edge of a couch like he might spring up or bolt. His tail curls tight around his leg- not aggressive, not defensive. Just anxious.

Curtis looks wrecked. Red-eyed. Furious in that quiet way that comes before shouting.

Kraven Nightfall is pacing.

Naya Jazz has her arms folded but not in defiance- in calculation.

Cotton Candy is still in partial ring makeup. She hasn’t looked in a mirror since the hospital.

No one looks like a star. They look like workers.

Roman opens. He doesn’t clear his throat.

“You all saw the notice.”

Silence.

Suspended.
Without pay.
Effective immediately.

It’s not just punishment. It’s a fracture attempt.

Boro speaks first.

Soft.

“I was already late on my card. I came up from the Academy because they said this was stability.”

He doesn’t accuse Roman.

He doesn’t have to.

Curtis finally explodes.

“Easy for you to take a stand. You’re rich.”

The word hangs.

Rich.

Roman doesn’t flinch.

He wants to say he’s not as rich as people think. That his money isn’t endless. That taxes, houses, obligations, families- they eat it fast.

…but he doesn’t.

Because it doesn’t matter.

This isn’t about his comfort.

Kraven Nightfall speaks next.

“What if he doesn’t cave?”

Direct. Cold.

Kraven isn’t emotional. He’s strategic.

Naya Jazz then raises her objection

“He’s betting someone breaks.”

She’s right.

Everyone knows it.

This is a loyalty stress test.

Cotton Candy, meanwhile, says nothing.

…but she’s thinking:

• Is this my push?
• Am I about to get buried next?
• Do I lose my spot entirely?

She doesn’t raise it. Because saying it out loud makes it real.

Roman steps forward. He steps forward just enough to pull the energy toward him.

“Show of hands.”

No preamble.

“Who wanted to keep working after what happened to Genevieve?”

No one moves.

Not even Curtis.

That’s the moment that matters.

Roman lets the silence stretch long enough to burn.

He nods once.

“Okay.”

He looks at Boro first.

“I know some of you are scared. You should be. Uncertainty is real.”

He looks at Curtis.

“…and yeah. I have more cushion than some of you. That’s true.”

He doesn’t apologize for it. He doesn’t defend it.

He just acknowledges it.

“…but if even one of us cracks, he wins.”

Not dramatic.

Just fact.

“I’ll help cover what I can. Quietly. No strings.”

He doesn’t say how much.

He doesn’t need to.

“If you can help someone in this room- do it.”

He looks around.

“We carry each other or we don’t carry anything.”

Then he says the line that matters.

“He will cave.”

Kraven watches him carefully.

Roman doesn’t blink.

“He needs us more than we need him.”

That’s the gamble.

Because Vince has ego…but Vince also has contracts, sponsors, and live television.

A fractured roster costs him more than a united one.

No cheers.

No applause.

Just breathing.

The solidarity is still intact.

…but fragile.

Boro finally nods once.

Curtis doesn’t apologize- but he doesn’t challenge again.

Naya uncrosses her arms.

Cotton Candy looks down at her hands and exhales slowly.

Libanona Beach Hotel, February 11, 2023

04:12 local time,
Taolagnaro, Mahafaly, Southern Gate of the Dinosanct Confederation

Marcy Carter had forgotten what it felt like to exist without being watched.

Madagascar didn’t stare. It didn’t measure. It didn’t whisper about branding or angles or who was being buried this week. The Dinosanct Confederation was warm in a way that wasn’t theatrical. Even the air felt permissive.

She walked back to her room barefoot and unapologetically naked, salt still drying against her skin, laughter still humming in her throat. Carel walked beside her, tall and steady, moving with that grounded confidence the Lizardfolk never seemed to have to perform.

She loved hugging them. It wasn’t sexual. It wasn’t even romantic. It was something biological and inexplicable- a rush that made her feel awake in a way cameras never did…and she knew they felt something too. Not the same thing, but something reciprocal.

Outside her door, she wrapped her arms around Carel again and held on a second longer than she meant to.

“Okay,” she said softly. “This is where I pretend I’m responsible.”

She meant to say goodnight.

Instead, at the last second- knowing Carel would not misinterpret it- she said, “Come inside.”

The room was dim and warm. The ceiling fan clicked lazily overhead.

That was when she saw the blinking red light on the hotel phone.

No one called the hotel phone.

She pressed the button.

Carly’s voice filled the room- small, tight, trying to sound composed.

“Marcy… it’s Carly. I don’t know if you’ve seen anything. Genevieve didn’t make it.”

There was a pause, the kind where someone is deciding whether to soften the blow.

“Sunny’s gone.”

For a moment, Marcy didn’t move. The ocean was still in her ears. The alcohol was still in her bloodstream. The joy hadn’t drained yet- it just had nowhere to go.

She had turned everything off. Wrestling feeds. Group chats. Alerts. She’d told herself she needed a clean break. Needed to reset. Needed to not be Magnolia Wine for a while.

Now it felt like she’d walked out on her own family.

She hadn’t known Genevieve well. Not deeply…but wrestling makes sisters out of proximity and bruises and shared locker rooms. That counted.

She dialed Carly back immediately.

Carly answered on the first ring.

“Marcy? It’s four in the morning there.”

“I was out,” Marcy said. No excuse. Just fact. “I missed it.”

There was a silence that carried more understanding than judgment.

“When’s the funeral?” Marcy asked.

“We don’t know yet.”

“Tell me when you do. I’m coming.”

Carly inhaled sharply, surprised. She knew Marcy had left to breathe. Knew she’d stepped away deliberately.

“Okay,” Carly said quietly.

When the line went dead, the room felt smaller.

The guilt came in waves- not because she had done anything wrong, but because joy and grief rarely coexist cleanly. She had been dancing. Laughing. Free. While one of her sisters was dying in a hospital room under fluorescent lights.

Carel stepped closer and wrapped their arms around her again.

This time the hug was different. Not electric. Not curious.

Steady.

Carel didn’t ask questions. Didn’t try to analyze. The Lizardfolk didn’t interrogate emotion the way humans did. They felt it, absorbed it, allowed it.

After a moment, Carel pulled back slightly, studying her face. There was an understanding there.

This might be goodbye.

Marcy shook her head instinctively.

“I don’t want it to be,” she said, her voice breaking. “I paid for a month.”

Carel’s response was simple. “I will watch the room.”

Practical. Protective. No drama.

Marcy let out a small, shaky laugh through tears.

“That actually helps,” she admitted.

She looked around the room- at the open balcony, at the humid air drifting in, at the world that had felt like escape only minutes ago.

It wasn’t escape anymore.

It was something she would have to return to deliberately.

“I’ll come back,” she said.

This time she meant it.

Not as Magnolia Wine. Not as someone running from a system.

…but as someone who understood that freedom and loyalty were not opposites.

Golden Lights Hotel, February 10, 2023

17:16 local time,
Borealis Bay, Republic of Sǫ̀mbak’è

The steam rose in thick white columns against the Arctic dusk, turning the rooftop terrace into something theatrical. The Golden Lights had been designed for spectacle- glass walls, clean lines, warmth cutting through northern cold like a promise money could keep.

Vince McGeady reclined deep in the hot tub, champagne balanced casually in his hand, the bubbles catching the city lights behind him. Aiden sat across from him, flushed and laughing, two women leaning comfortably against the edge of the pool, their earlier hesitation at joining strangers now dissolved in alcohol and novelty.

The world felt manageable from up here.

Below them, Borealis Bay was dimming into evening- cold, efficient, transactional.

Up here, it was heat and champagne and the reassuring hum of wealth.

Joey Ace stepped out onto the terrace without ceremony.

He was still in his Thursday production crew gear- black hoodie, headset around his neck, boots damp from slush. He looked like someone who hadn’t slept properly in days.

Vince grinned when he saw him.

“Joey! Get in. You look frozen.”

Joey didn’t move closer to the water.

“I’m good.”

Aiden noticed the tone before Vince did.

The women noticed it too.

Joey didn’t waste time.

“Reaction’s bad,” he said. “Fast and bad.”

Vince took a slow sip of champagne.

“Reaction to what?”

“To suspending them without pay.”

The word them carried weight.

One of the women shifted subtly away from Vince’s shoulder.

Vince didn’t register it.

“They walked out on me,” Vince said evenly. “Contractors breach. I respond.”

Joey exhaled through his nose.

“That’s not how it reads.”

Vince tilted his head slightly, indulgent.

“Oh? How does it read?”

“Vindictive. Authoritarian. Like you’re punishing grief.”

The word authoritarian landed heavier than vindictive.

Aiden felt the air change. He glanced at the women- they were no longer leaning in. They were calculating.

“You have to show power,” Vince said calmly. “You can’t be afraid to wield it. I’ve got a locker room to control.”

There it was.

Control.

Joey stepped closer, not aggressively- just enough to be heard clearly over the jets.

“That’s your problem,” Joey said. “You try to control everything.”

The women heard that.

Not the business nuance- the philosophy.

One of them reached for her towel.

The other followed.

They climbed out politely, thanking Vince for the champagne with smiles that no longer quite reached their eyes.

Aiden watched them go.

Vince finally noticed the shift.

He didn’t comment on it.

Instead, he stood, water cascading off him in clean, controlled movements, and stepped into a waiting bathrobe. Aiden mirrored him.

Steam swirled in the space they left behind.

Vince tightened the robe belt, eyes steady on Joey now.

“Meet me in my room in an hour,” he said. Not raised. Not angry. Just directive. “We’ll continue this properly.”

Joey nodded once.

No agreement. No defiance.

Just acknowledgment.

As Joey walked back inside, the terrace felt colder despite the steam.

Aiden stayed quiet until the door closed.

He had seen the women leave.

He had seen the online shift earlier that day.

He had seen something Vince hadn’t.

Power could be wielded.

…but it could also curdle.

…and for the first time all evening, the champagne tasted flat.

Vince’s Room

The suite overlooked the harbor- black water, ice fracturing slowly under distant industrial lights. Borealis Bay never really slept. It recalculated.

The bathrobes were gone. Vince wore dark slacks and a pressed charcoal sweater. Casual, but intentional. Aiden had swapped into a tailored blazer over an open-collar shirt, as if he’d subconsciously decided this meeting required adulthood.

Triple X stood near the window, arms folded, watching reflections in the glass instead of the room.

Joey remained in his production clothes.

Vince poured himself another drink before anyone spoke.

“Whatever you have to tell me,” he said without looking up, “better be worth scaring away those girls.”

Joey flinched slightly. Not at the tone- at the trivialization.

He didn’t bite.

“It’s bad,” Joey said.

Vince gestured with his glass. “Define bad.”

Joey stepped forward and laid it out cleanly.

“The suspension announcement hit about forty-five minutes after it leaked to talent. Within ten minutes, crowdfunding pages started popping up. For everyone. Wrestlers. Crew. Ring techs. Even catering.”

He pulled out his phone and turned the screen toward Vince.

“Some of them are already six figures.”

Triple X’s jaw tightened.

Joey continued.

“Online support’s massive. Hashtags trending across three regions. Not a single publication is backing you.”

Vince snorted. “Publications don’t matter.”

“Even Slapping Meat,” Joey added.

That made Triple X glance over.

Slapping Meat prided itself on contrarianism. If they weren’t defending Vince, that was signal, not noise.

Joey kept going.

“Sponsors are getting nervous. British Leyland just pulled their pledge for the Beach Bash champion package.”

Vince’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“They were gifting a new Triumph convertible,” Joey said. “That’s gone.”

Aiden’s posture shifted.

“Other sponsors are asking for emergency calls. Language like ‘values alignment.’ ‘Reputational exposure.’”

Vince set his glass down a little harder than necessary.

“…and EPSC?” Triple X asked quietly.

Joey hesitated half a second.

“One of their execs texted me. Off record.”

He swallowed.

“They’re considering canceling the Thursday Night War. Electronic Poetry doesn’t want to be associated with what they’re calling punitive retaliation.”

Silence filled the room.

It wasn’t loud. It was compressive.

Vince walked slowly toward the window, hands behind his back, staring out over the harbor like a general surveying territory.

“They walked out on me,” he said finally. “You don’t let that stand. If I fold now, I lose the locker room forever.”

Triple X spoke before Joey could.

“If you hold, you lose the company.”

Flat. No theatrics.

Vince turned.

“You think I’m bluffing?”

“I think you’re misreading this,” Triple X replied. “They didn’t walk out for leverage. They walked out because someone died. The public sees solidarity. You see insubordination.”

Vince’s jaw set.

“You let one group of contractors dictate terms and you don’t run a company anymore. You run a democracy.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” Joey said quietly. “Right now the public thinks they’re the moral adults in the room.”

Aiden had been silent the entire time, watching his father the way someone watches a chessboard three moves ahead.

He finally stepped forward.

“They’re not coming back because they’re scared,” Aiden said evenly. “They’re not cracking.”

Vince looked at him sharply.

“They’re gaining money and sympathy by the hour. Sponsors are aligning with them, not us. If EPSC pulls the War, we lose broadcast leverage. If we lose broadcast leverage, we lose sponsor leverage.”

He let that sit.

“This isn’t about power. It’s about math.”

Vince didn’t respond immediately.

Aiden continued.

“If you hold firm, you prove you can punish people. Congratulations. You also prove you can crater your own revenue stream.”

Triple X nodded once.

Joey added the final piece.

“The locker room met tonight. They’re unified.”

That one landed.

Unified.

Vince’s eyes flicked between them- Joey, Triple X, Aiden.

Three different personalities.

One conclusion.

He exhaled slowly.

“You’re all very comfortable telling me I’m wrong.”

“No,” Triple X said. “We’re very uncomfortable telling you you’re right.”

The room went quiet again.

Finally, Vince walked back to the bar, poured another drink, and didn’t toast this time.

“We’ll restructure the suspension,” he said. “Administrative leave. Pay continues pending review.”

Joey let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Aiden didn’t smile. He just nodded.

Triple X uncrossed his arms.

Vince took a sip.

“…but understand this,” he added, voice steady again. “I will not lose control of my company.”

No one challenged that.

Because control wasn’t the immediate threat anymore.

Relevance was.

…and for the first time that evening, Vince understood the difference.

The Day With Darman O’Day, February 10, 2023

23:39 broadcast time,
Filmed at Marquee Studios in Vancouver, Simon Fraser Province, Republican Union of Western States

The applause sign dimmed.

Darman O’Day adjusted the cards in his hand, glanced sideways at Randy Richman, and let the last punchline about President Ron Ruggle breathe just long enough for the laughter to taper.

“Alright,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Before we go any further- I usually pivot here to something extremely important. Like how Randy will never, ever date my daughter.”

Randy placed a hand over his heart in exaggerated offense. The crowd chuckled.

Darman nodded toward the camera.

“My daughter Rhiannon is a professional volleyball player now. Which is insane. I remember when her biggest athletic achievement was not tripping over our dog.”

Light laughter.

He smiled- but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Usually I bring her up to humiliate Randy,” he continued, “but tonight I… I wanted to say something else.”

He paused.

It wasn’t the comic pause. Not the beat for rhythm.

It was a gathering.

“I, uh… I spent about an hour crying in my dressing room before the show,” he said plainly. “So I’m going to try very hard not to do that again right now.”

The audience quieted instantly.

No coughs. No shifting.

Darman folded his cards and set them aside.

“When Rhiannon was just starting out, she played on a rep team here in Vancouver. They did an invitational tournament in Ohio. That meant I got to go home- Cleveland.”

He smiled faintly at that.

“Cold gym. Bad coffee. Parents yelling about line calls like it’s the Olympics.”

A small ripple of knowing laughter.

“There was a girl there. I met her between matches. She wasn’t playing. She was just… watching. I remember because she had this look. Like she wanted to be out there, but she was scared.”

He swallowed.

“Her name was Genevieve.”

The name landed differently now.

“She told me she wanted to try out for volleyball…but she was afraid she wouldn’t make the team. Afraid she’d embarrass herself.”

He looked down at the desk for a moment.

“I don’t even remember exactly what I said. It wasn’t some big speech. I think I just gave her a dad hug and told her she had nothing to lose.”

He let out a small, broken laugh.

“Well. She tried out.”

The room stayed silent.

“…and she took off.”

He nodded slowly.

“I didn’t see her again after that day. Life moves. Kids grow up. But I followed her career. And I was so proud of her. Watching her become this… force.”

He inhaled sharply, steadying himself.

“When I heard she passed… it hit me harder than I expected.”

He glanced toward the band for a second, then back at the audience.

“I’m a father. I can’t imagine what her parents are feeling right now. I just… I can’t.”

His voice thinned, but he held it together.

“Genevieve was brave. Not because she became famous. Not because she won matches. She was brave because she tried.”

He nodded once, as if concluding an argument with himself.

“So if you’re scared to try something… try it.”

A beat.

“You don’t know who’s watching. You don’t know who you might become.”

The audience began to applaud- not loudly at first. Then stronger.

Darman let the applause wash over him, blinking quickly.

“Okay,” he said, forcing a breath. “We’re going to take a break before I ruin the lighting budget with tears.”

A soft laugh through the room.

The band played them out gently.

…and for once, the joke at the end wasn’t the point.

Statement from the International Wrestling Council, February 11, 2023

Posted online at 08:09 Eastern Time

At 8:09 a.m. Eastern, the International Wrestling Council’s official channels went dark for several minutes before a single image appeared.

It was Genevieve Horton in Montreal.

Not Sunny Ways.

Not the polished, later-era version.

This was Justine Trudeau- blazer cut sharp, hair pulled back, pointing toward the hard camera with theatrical conviction. She had played the role with a wink and a steel spine: an energetic, no-nonsense aspiring politician who claimed to be part of the Trudeau lineage and vowed to “reform the system from the inside.” The crowd had loved to boo her and then loved her anyway.

The caption was simple at first.

Genevieve Horton (1999–2023)

Below it, Paul Carney’s statement appeared in full.

Carney did not mention the WFE.

Not once.

For someone who had spent years sparring publicly and privately with Vince McGeady, that restraint was deliberate. He would have loved to turn the moment into indictment. Into contrast. Into leverage.

He didn’t.

Instead, he wrote about Genevieve.

He wrote about the first time she walked into the Montreal promotion- nervous but defiant, insisting she could talk on a microphone before she had ever taken a bump. He wrote about how she learned quickly, how she listened, how she carried herself like someone who understood that wrestling was theater but the risks were not.

He wrote about long bus rides in winter.

About empty-armory shows that mattered just as much as sold-out cards.

About the strange intimacy of locker rooms- the way rivalries dissolved into shared ice packs and borrowed gear.

He called her “fearless in performance and tender in private,” a line that circulated almost instantly.

Then he addressed the reality that no promoter ever wants to acknowledge plainly.

Professional wrestling is choreographed.

The risks are not.

He called her death a tragic reminder that even controlled spectacle carries consequences. That no amount of experience eliminates danger. That every performer who steps through the curtain accepts a risk most audiences prefer not to see.

Then came the announcement.

Effective immediately, the International Wrestling Council would suspend all programming and touring worldwide for a minimum of one month.

No tapings.
No house shows.
No international affiliates running under the IWC banner.

Carney wrote that he did not know when programming would resume- only that it would return “when it is appropriate.”

That phrasing was intentional.

Not “when profitable.”
Not “when contracts require.”
Not “when public interest stabilizes.”

When appropriate.

The statement closed without flourish.

No call to action.

No merch link.

No “see you next week.”

Just a final line:

We mourn Genevieve Horton as a colleague, a competitor, and a member of our extended family.

Within minutes, wrestlers from across promotions- including those currently suspended by the WFE- began sharing the post.

It was not defiance.

It was alignment.

…and for the first time since the Thursday Night War imploded, the silence felt coordinated rather than fractured.

The Smoky Den Podcast, February 11, 2023

Posted online at 08:04 Eastern Time

The episode opened without the usual banter.

No theme music stinger joke.
No ribbing about modern wrestling.
No tirade about entrance music.

Smoky Bear Bryant came in hot- but not playful.

“I’ve been in this business fifty damn years,” he began, voice already pitched higher than normal, “and I’m tired of pretending we don’t know what this is.”

There was no need to say her name yet.

Everyone listening knew.

Sunny Ways.

Genevieve Horton.

He paced audibly- chair scraping, papers rustling.

“They’ll tell you it’s choreography. They’ll tell you it’s performance art. They’ll tell you it’s safer than it used to be.”

He snapped his fingers.

“It ain’t ballet. It’s controlled violence.”

There it was.

Bryant had built a career defending old-school toughness. Defending the grind. Mocking what he called “soft modern sensibilities.” He had rolled his eyes at concussion protocols before. Scoffed at what he saw as overregulation.

…but this morning his tone shifted.

“You can’t keep taking shots to the head and pretend it’s theater,” he said. “You can’t keep telling kids they’re fine because the lights are bright and the checks clear.”

He paused.

“You know what’s the hardest thing about this business? It convinces you you’re invincible.”

The co-host tried to interject gently, but Bryant kept going.

“I’ve buried too many of ‘em,” he said, quieter now, “and every time, somebody says it’s a freak accident. Or bad luck. Or ‘just one of those things.’”

He let out a sharp breath.

“At some point, you have to ask what we’re asking these young people to do.”

The rant didn’t turn into an attack on the WFE.

Not directly.

He criticized promoters in general. The culture in general. The glorification of taking unnecessary risks for applause in general.

…but there was an undercurrent.

“They walk through that curtain and the crowd screams and they feel ten feet tall,” Bryant said, “and nobody wants to be the one to tell ‘em to slow down.”

He went quiet for a few seconds- long enough that listeners wondered if the audio had cut.

“I used to say,” he admitted finally, “that if you sign up for this, you know what you’re getting into.”

A breath.

“That’s still true.”

Another breath.

“…but that don’t mean we can’t do better.”

For a man whose brand had been unapologetic rigidity, that was as close to a public recalibration as he was capable of.

He ended without flourish.

“Rest in peace, Sunny Ways,” he said, voice steadier than before. “You were tougher than most of us…and you deserved a longer run.”

The upload timestamp hit 08:04 Eastern.

Within minutes, clips began circulating.

For once, Smoky Bear Bryant wasn’t trending because he’d insulted someone.

He was trending because he sounded… tired.

…and maybe, finally, aware.

The Arena, February 11, 2023

Online blog,
Posted online at 08:12 Eastern Time

The headline went live without a teaser graphic or embedded hype clip.

Just text.

If Vince McGeady Has Any Shred of Dignity Left, He’ll Do the Right Thing

The Arena had spent years walking a tightrope with Vince’s company- critical enough to maintain credibility, careful enough to preserve access. That balance was gone by 8:12 a.m.

The piece opened bluntly.

-A young woman is dead.
-Her colleagues walked out in grief.
-and Vince McGeady’s first instinct was to dock their pay.

There was no hedging language about “contract disputes” or “complex labor dynamics.” The blog dismissed those as distractions.

The core argument was simple:

This was not insubordination.
It was solidarity.

The article pointed out that the wrestlers had not staged a hostile takeover. They had not demanded creative control or revenue splits. They had refused to continue performing hours after one of their own died.

Punishing that, The Arena argued, reframed grief as breach of contract.

The blog then drew a sharp contrast- without using loaded adjectives- to the International Wrestling Council’s statement earlier that morning. The IWC had suspended programming worldwide for at least a month. No spin. No revenue hedge. No contingency marketing.

For once, Vince must not think “the show must go on.”

The line was bolded.

The article did not call Vince evil. It called him predictable.

It accused him of reflexively choosing control over compassion. Of defaulting to discipline when faced with vulnerability. Of mistaking strength for rigidity.

Sponsors were mentioned. So were the crowdfunding pages now flooding social platforms in support of suspended wrestlers and crew. The Arena noted that public sympathy had aligned overwhelmingly with talent, not management.

Then came the closing paragraph:

Restore their full pay.
Lift the suspensions.
Suspend programming- not because you are forced to, but because it is right.

If there is any dignity left in the office of the WFE Chairman, this is the moment to prove it.

Within minutes, the link began circulating alongside clips from Smoky Bear Bryant’s podcast and Paul Carney’s IWC statement.

For the first time in years, criticism of Vince McGeady was not fragmented across rival camps.

It was synchronized.

…and it was gaining speed.

Zasaramel’s House, Rocky River Beach, February 11, 2023

10:12 local time,
City of Cuyahoga Castles, Sovereignty of Ohio, UCSS

The lake was gray that morning, flat and undecided.

Inside the house, the heat hummed softly, steady and domestic. The children were down for a late-morning nap. Watcher the dog lay near the back door, chin on paws, aware but still.

Zasaramel stood in the corner room he had converted into a shrine.

The urn sat centered on a low wooden table he had built himself — simple, sanded smooth, unvarnished. Behind it rested a framed photograph Joanna had once posted casually to social media: Zas and Joanna standing on either side of The Watcher at Ember Hollow. All three of them half-smiling into mountain wind, robes snapping behind them.

It had been a strange day, that one.

A day that felt permanent at the time.

Genevieve’s death had not shaken him the way it had shaken the younger wrestlers. Not outwardly. He did not spiral. He did not rage.

…but it had cracked something open.

He had once believed endurance was enough. That discipline and caution and restraint could outpace danger. That stepping away from constant escalation was protection.

Genevieve had been disciplined.

She had still died.

Zas lowered himself to one knee in front of the urn.

The Watcher had not been gentle. Not consistently. He had withheld warmth as often as he offered it. But when he spoke plainly, it carried weight that lingered years later.

Choose your battles.
Never mistake pride for purpose.
If you walk away from violence, do it fully.

Zas exhaled slowly.

He wished, selfishly, that he could hear that voice again — not as memory, but as instruction.

Joanna’s footsteps were light in the hallway. She leaned against the doorframe without interrupting him.

“You’re talking to him again,” she said softly.

Zas didn’t turn.

“Trying to.”

She crossed the room and stood beside him, eyes settling on the photograph.

“I still remember that day,” she said. “He barely spoke to me for an hour.”

Zas allowed the faintest smile.

“He was assessing you.”

“He was judging me,” Joanna corrected gently.

She moved closer to the picture.

“He gave me his wife’s combat robes,” she continued. “Just handed them over like it was nothing.”

Zas nodded.

“He never gave anything like that lightly.”

Joanna laughed quietly.

“And then he made me train. In boots. In the cold. For hours.”

“He respected you,” Zas said.

Joanna’s expression softened.

“He respected you,” she replied.

Silence settled comfortably between them.

The shrine did not feel mystical. It felt anchored. Practical. A reminder that lineage wasn’t about myth — it was about responsibility.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway again — lighter, quicker.

Raven appeared with a small stack of mail tucked under her arm, hair tied back, oversized sweater swallowing her frame. She paused when she saw them in the shrine.

“Sorry,” she said instinctively.

“It’s fine,” Joanna replied.

Raven sorted through the envelopes absentmindedly.

Bills. A flyer. Something from the city.

Then her hand stilled.

“This one’s formal,” she said quietly.

She handed it to Zas.

The envelope was thick. Cream-colored. No branding.

He opened it carefully.

Inside was an invitation.

Genevieve Horton’s funeral- February 15.

Family and colleagues invited.

Inside the envelope was a second card.

The Horton family is organizing a public memorial service for colleagues and fans on February 15.

Given your shared history in Cleveland and your experience advocating for in-ring safety, we would be honored if you would consider offering remarks.

He read it twice.

Joanna watched his face, not the page.

Raven stood very still.

“I don’t know if I should,” Zas said finally.

He had not been her mentor. Not closely. Not formally.

…but he had crossed paths with her enough to recognize the spark. Enough to know she had understood risk and chosen the curtain anyway.

“You don’t have to decide today,” Joanna said.

Zas folded the letter carefully and set it beside the urn.

The lake wind rattled faintly against the windows.

He looked at The Watcher’s photograph again.

He imagined the old man’s voice- not sentimental, not indulgent.

Speak if you have something true to say.

Zas exhaled.

“I’ll think about it,” he said.

…and for once, that wasn’t avoidance.

It was preparation.

Goldstein’s Villa, Malibu Beach, February 11, 2023

09:52 local time,
Malibu, Southern California, Republican Union of Western States

The Pacific was calm in a way that usually steadied him.

That was why he moved here.

The “Menace from Venice” had traded boardwalk noise for glass walls and quiet surf. Malibu still smelled like salt and sunblock, still felt close enough to the grit that built him, but without the chaos.

Today the quiet pressed in.

Goldstein paced the length of his living room, bare feet against polished concrete, the ocean visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Waves rolled in, indifferent and rhythmic.

His mind was not.

He replayed the segment again.

The setup.
The positioning.
The weight shift.
The lift.

Then the jackhammer.

He saw it from three angles at once- the live angle, the replay angle, the one that never aired.

He stopped pacing.

He grabbed one of the oversized couch cushions and dropped to his knees on the rug.

“Set. Lift.”

He drove down into the cushion hard.

Again.

…and again.

The rhythm was controlled. Mechanical. He was checking timing. Placement. Impact.

“Head up. Core tight.”

He reset and did it again.

The cushion absorbed everything.

It was nothing like flesh and bone.

He stood, breathing hard, then dragged two larger pillows to the center of the room. Stacked them. Squared his stance.

He visualized the moment.

Grip.

Lift.

Drive.

He jackhammered the stack harder this time, sweat forming along his temples.

“I didn’t miss it,” he muttered to himself.

He did it again.

…and again.

The ocean kept moving.

“I didn’t miss it.”

He rose to his feet abruptly and shoved the pillows aside. One hit the coffee table and fell to the floor.

He paced again.

“I didn’t miss it.”

His voice cracked into a yell.

“I DIDN’T MISS IT.”

The stillness swallowed the sound.

That was the worst part.

No crowd noise.
No locker room chatter.
No trainers moving around him.

Just surf.

He dropped to the floor again and hammered into the cushions with renewed force, pushing harder than he would ever do in a ring.

This wasn’t about form anymore.

It was about exorcism.

Toto padded into the room quietly, nails clicking softly against the floor. The small dog tilted his head, ears back, sensing the shift in tone.

Goldstein stopped mid-motion.

Chest heaving.

He looked at Toto.

The dog approached cautiously, tail low but wagging faintly.

Goldstein’s expression shifted- not to calm, not fully- but to awareness.

He sat back on his heels.

Toto nudged his knee.

Goldstein reached down absently and scratched behind the dog’s ear, fingers still trembling.

“I didn’t miss it,” he said again, but softer this time.

The ocean didn’t answer.

The room stayed silent.

…and for the first time since he started, the doubt crept in- not about whether he could perform the move, but whether it should ever have been performed that night at all.

Goldstein stayed on his knees for a long moment, breathing hard, one hand resting absently on Toto’s head.

The dog’s eyes were wide, uncertain.

For a split second- the kind of flash that comes from adrenaline and spiraling thoughts- Goldstein imagined grabbing him, setting him down the way he had the cushions, running through the mechanics one more time.

The thought sickened him immediately.

He pulled his hand back as if burned.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he muttered to himself.

Toto backed up a step, confused but still loyal.

Goldstein stood, ran both hands over his face, and walked toward the kitchen counter where his phone lay.

He hated this part.

He hated that when things went wrong- truly wrong- the first person he thought to call wasn’t a friend.

It was his lawyer.

He hit the contact.

Saul Rubenstein answered on the third ring.

“Bill,” Saul said calmly. “I was expecting your call.”

Of course he was.

“Better call Saul,” Goldstein said flatly.

Saul chuckled once. “You don’t pay me for the slogan.”

Goldstein didn’t return the humor.

There was a pause before he asked the first question.

“Should I go to the funeral?”

Saul didn’t answer immediately.

“Are you asking morally or legally?”

“Both.”

Another pause.

“Publicly, attending could be seen as respectful,” Saul said. “It could also be seen as positioning.”

Goldstein stared out at the water.

“What about making a statement?”

“You don’t make one without clearing it with me,” Saul replied evenly. “Every word will be dissected.”

Goldstein exhaled.

“Criminal charges. Are they on the table?”

Saul’s tone shifted slightly- more clinical.

“Unlikely, but not impossible.”

Goldstein’s jaw tightened.

“She was a contracted performer in a regulated environment,” Saul continued, “but you’re an international talent. If there’s jurisdictional ambiguity, Peace could look at it. Especially if there’s public pressure.”

Goldstein’s stomach dropped slightly at that word.

Peace.

International-scale oversight.

“Walk me through the move,” Saul said.

Goldstein closed his eyes.

“It was a jackhammer.”

“I know what it is. Did you pitch it?”

“No.”

“Who did?”

“Vince. Last second. We didn’t rehearse it.”

“Did you try to stop it?”

Goldstein hesitated.

“No.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want to ruffle feathers. I thought I could do it.”

Saul was quiet for several seconds.

Goldstein knew that silence. That was recalculation.

“Okay,” Saul said finally. “That changes my answer.”

“To what?”

“To the funeral and the statement.”

Goldstein felt his pulse rise.

“If you attend,” Saul continued, “you cannot speak off-script, and if you issue a statement, it cannot imply regret about the move itself.”

Goldstein bristled.

“I don’t regret the move.”

“You just told me you thought about it all night,” Saul said mildly.

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No,” Saul agreed. “It’s worse.”

Goldstein turned away from the ocean.

“Are you saying I shouldn’t go?”

“I’m saying if you go, it must be carefully framed. No spontaneous emotion. No ad-libbing. No apologies that could be construed as admission.”

Goldstein felt heat rise in his chest.

Across the country, Zasaramel had once walked out mid-match over safety concerns and been lauded by some for his restraint.

Goldstein had called him a drama queen.

A grandstander.

A man protecting his image.

Now that label felt… less certain.

“What does this mean for the WFE–IWC suit?” Goldstein asked abruptly.

Saul didn’t miss the pivot.

“It complicates it.”

“How?”

“Zasaramel survived a botched jackhammer in a cross-promotional match and walked. That became part of the litigation narrative.”

Goldstein swallowed.

“Now another jackhammer is under scrutiny. Different context. Different promotion. But similar optics.”

“So?”

“So the IWC’s legal team may argue risk culture. Or inconsistent safety protocols. Or promoter pressure.”

Goldstein ran a hand through his hair.

“You’re saying this strengthens them.”

“I’m saying it muddies everything.”

Silence settled again.

Toto had retreated to the far side of the room, watching him.

Goldstein’s voice dropped.

“I didn’t miss it.”

“I’m not arguing you did,” Saul said, “but that’s not the only question people will ask.”

Goldstein stared at the waves crashing rhythmically against the shore.

For years, he had thrived in chaos. Noise. Conflict.

Now the quiet felt like indictment.

“So what do I do?” he asked finally.

Saul’s answer was simple.

“You do nothing impulsive.”

Another pause.

“…and you prepare for questions you don’t want to answer.”

The line went silent.

Goldstein lowered the phone slowly.

Outside, the ocean continued its steady rhythm- indifferent to litigation, legacy, or the mechanics of a jackhammer.

…and for the first time, Goldstein wasn’t sure whether he feared the legal fallout more…

…or the memory of that moment in the ring.

Norah Anam’s House, Sanibel Island, February 12, 2023

11:16 local time,
Sanibel, Empire Bay, Holy American Empire

The Gulf was unnaturally calm.

Sanibel mornings had a way of making everything feel slower than it actually was. White sand. Soft wind. No visible urgency.

Inside her house, Norah Anam stood at the kitchen island with a yellow legal pad open and her laptop angled beside it. The television in the living room was muted but still cycling headlines about Genevieve Horton.

She had been Peace’s Operations and Investigations Commander for just under three months.

Long enough to understand the internal process.
Not long enough to be insulated by it.

She dialed Roy Fowler.

He answered with a tired, familiar tone. “Commander.”

“Director.”

There was a brief pause.

“I’m considering opening a review,” Norah said.

“On Goldstein?” Roy asked immediately.

“No.”

Another beat.

“Vince.”

Roy let out a slow exhale.

“You’ve been in this chair ninety days.”

“I’m aware.”

“You don’t even know what happened yet.”

“Exactly.”

Roy shifted in his seat. She could hear the chair creak.

“What are you actually saying, Norah?”

“I’m saying a performer died following a high-impact maneuver during a live segment,” she replied evenly. “I’m saying the locker room walked out. I’m saying the promoter’s first move was to suspend them without pay.”

“That’s optics,” Roy said.

“It’s context,” Norah corrected.

She looked down at her notes.

“We don’t know whether the move was rehearsed. We don’t know who called it. We don’t know whether there was pressure to escalate. We don’t know whether safety protocols were followed.”

Roy was quiet.

“You’re thinking command environment,” he said.

“I’m thinking decision chain,” Norah replied. “If authority structures influence risk escalation, that’s where liability could live.”

“Could,” Roy emphasized.

“Yes. Could.”

She wasn’t accusing.

She was mapping.

Roy sighed.

“This will be uphill. You know that.”

“I do.”

“Contracts. Waivers. Performer autonomy. Assumed risk. They’ll say everyone involved is a professional who knew what they were doing.”

“Then we confirm that,” Norah said. “Or we don’t.”

Roy leaned into the silence.

“You’re not chasing headlines?”

“No.”

“You’re not trying to send a message?”

“No.”

She paused.

“…but if there’s a systemic culture that incentivizes unnecessary risk, and it leads to death, we don’t look away because the company is large.”

There it was.

Not anger.

Gravity.

Roy spoke more carefully now.

“If you open this as a formal inquiry, you don’t control where it leads. It could stop at nothing. It could expand into safety audits. Broadcast partners. Cross-border jurisdiction.”

“I understand.”

“…and if it touches international performers, Peace could get dragged into coordination.”

“I understand that too.”

Roy let out another breath.

“Build it methodically,” he said. “Preliminary fact-finding only. No public posture. No implied culpability.”

“That’s my intention.”

“…and Norah?”

“Yes.”

“You are going to make enemies.”

She looked out the window at the bright Florida light reflecting off the water.

“I didn’t take the position to make friends.”

Roy gave a low grunt that might have been approval.

“Keep me looped in before you formalize anything.”

“I will.”

The call ended.

Norah didn’t move for a moment.

She wasn’t certain Vince was responsible.

She wasn’t certain Goldstein wasn’t.

She wasn’t even certain a crime had occurred.

What she was certain of was this:

For too long, certain industries operated in gray zones no one wanted to examine closely.

If there was nothing there, an inquiry would confirm it.

If there was something there, ignoring it would be its own failure.

She turned back to the legal pad and wrote one word at the top of a new page:

Environment.

Then she began outlining what that meant

The Awesome Towers, February 13, 2023

06:22 local time,
City of Gotham Hill, Gotham Grand Sovereignty, UCSS

Dawn hadn’t fully broken over Gotham Hill, but the city was already awake. Light filtered between towers in thin, metallic slivers.

Vince McGeady hadn’t slept much.

He should have been reviewing numbers from a successful Lover’s Lane weekend- gate receipts, streaming figures, international buys.

Instead, the event didn’t exist.

He had canceled it.

He told himself it was strategic. Aiden had been right- no one wanted to work, and forcing the issue would have detonated the locker room permanently.

Still, canceling a pay-per-view felt like surrender, even if it had been the correct calculation.

His phone buzzed on the glass desk.

An email.

Subject line: Refund Demand- Nʉmʉkarʉ National Arena

The sender:

Office of Cultural Events
City of Pahá Tʉhka Sʉhka
Capital of Comancheria

Vince opened it.

The tone was polite. Direct. Unyielding.

The city requested immediate reimbursement of all venue security deposits and promotional retainers paid to the WFE for hosting Lover’s Lane at Pahá Tʉhka Sʉhka’s Nʉmʉkarʉ National Arena.

Due to cancellation.

Due to breach of contracted performance commitment.

Due to financial harm.

Vince let out a short laugh.

“Unbelievable.”

He hit call.

It rang twice before being answered.

“Office of Cultural Events,” a calm voice said.

“This is Vince McGeady.”

There was no surprise in the response.

“Yes, Mr. McGeady. We expected you might call.”

That irked him more than if they’d sounded intimidated.

“You’re requesting a refund while my company is in a crisis,” Vince said. “That’s not how partnerships work.”

“With respect,” the official replied evenly, “our city fulfilled its contractual obligations.”

“You were aware of the circumstances.”

“We were aware your performers refused to work.”

Vince’s jaw tightened.

“That’s an oversimplification.”

“Perhaps,” the voice said, “but the event did not occur.”

Vince began pacing.

“Do you understand the scale of what you’re asking? Funds don’t simply ‘rewire’ overnight.”

“We understand,” the official replied. “Which is why we’ve included a reasonable deadline.”

Vince glanced back at the email.

Fourteen days.

“That’s aggressive.”

“It is procedural.”

“You’re threatening litigation?”

“If necessary.”

Vince stopped pacing.

“You’re prepared to sue the WFE over a force majeure scenario?”

“Your legal team did not classify this as force majeure,” the official said calmly. “Your statement cited internal decisions.”

Vince felt heat rise behind his eyes.

The cancellation statement had been careful- but not that careful.

“You benefited from the exposure,” he countered. “International marketing. Tourism.”

“Our economy benefits from completed events,” the official said. “Not canceled ones.”

The voice never rose.

Never wavered.

That was what unsettled him.

Comancheria did not need to posture.

They simply enforced.

“Refunds of this size require board processing,” Vince said. “It will take time.”

“You have fourteen days,” the official repeated. “After that, our counsel will proceed.”

A pause.

“We would prefer not to litigate.”

Vince almost laughed.

“So would I.”

“Then we are aligned.”

The line stayed silent, waiting.

Vince hated that he felt cornered in his own call.

“Fourteen days,” he said finally. “You’ll have your money.”

“We appreciate your cooperation.”

The call ended.

Vince stood motionless for several seconds.

It wasn’t just sponsors.
It wasn’t just wrestlers.
It wasn’t just Peace sniffing around.

Now sovereign cities were enforcing contracts.

He walked back to his desk and stared at the skyline.

For years, the WFE dictated terms.

Now everyone else seemed to be discovering they didn’t have to.

…and that shift- quiet, procedural, international- bothered him far more than angry tweets ever could.

Peace Field Coordination Office- Cleveland, February 14, 2023

13:12 local time,
City of Cuyahoga Castles, Sovereignty of Ohio, UCSS

The office wasn’t fully awake yet.

Screens hummed. Coffee machines clicked. The lake wind pushed weak light through the glass.

When the front door opened, Evie didn’t look up at first.

Then she did.

…and her stomach dropped.

Norah Anam.

Not on a broadcast.
Not in a briefing packet.
Not in a training video.

In the room.

Evie’s spine straightened instinctively. She wasn’t afraid- but she felt seen in a way that made her pulse spike. Norah wasn’t just Operations and Investigations Commander.

She was proof that Peace meant something.

Evie had read about her cases. Watched archived briefings. The way she spoke- clean, deliberate, never emotional.

Rock star wasn’t the right word.

…but it was close.

Elian greeted her calmly. He had known she was coming.

The rest of the bullpen hadn’t.

Norah’s presence shifted the air without effort.

She and Elian moved into the board room.

The glass door closed.

Evie stared at the frosted panel for half a second longer than she meant to.

---

Inside, Norah didn’t sit immediately.

“This is preliminary,” she said. “No accusations. No posture. I want context.”

Elian nodded.

They discussed the Cleveland jackhammer incident- the cross-promotional botch involving Zasaramel. Not because it was identical. Because it established environment.

“I’m mapping culture,” Norah said. “Not blame.”

Elian watched her carefully.

“You’ll face resistance,” he said.

“I expect complexity,” she corrected.

Then he brought up Evie.

“She doesn’t just hit ‘Enter’ when the AI queue flags something,” he said. “She evaluates the reports.”

Norah’s eyes shifted slightly toward the bullpen beyond the glass.

“That’s rare,” she said.

“It shouldn’t be.”

A pause.

Norah closed her folder.

“Bring her in.”

Elian hesitated only a fraction of a second.

“Now?”

“Yes.”

Outside, Evie was trying very hard not to stare at the board room.

The door opened.

“Evie,” Elian said. “Commander Anam would like a word.”

Her heartbeat jumped into her throat.

The rock star wasn’t on a screen anymore.

She was about to be in the same room.

Evie felt her pulse in her ears as she stepped into the board room.

The door shut behind her with a soft click that sounded, to her, like a vault sealing.

Three million questions flashed through her mind.

How do you stay calm during a press briefing?
Do you ever doubt yourself?
What was your first investigation like?
How do you know when to push and when to wait?

She swallowed all of them.

Not just because it would be unprofessional.

Because being in Norah Anam’s presence made her feel like a first-year student standing in front of the dean.

Norah studied her for a moment- not harshly, not warmly. Just assessing.

“You look like you’re about to ask for an autograph,” Norah said dryly.

Elian blinked.

Evie’s brain short-circuited.

“I- no- I mean-” She flushed immediately. “I might’ve been thinking about a hug.”

The second it left her mouth, she wanted the floor to open.

Norah’s expression shifted- just a degree.

Without ceremony, she stepped forward and gave Evie a brief, firm hug.

Not sentimental.

Grounding.

Evie froze for half a second- then relaxed into it.

The contact steadied her more effectively than any pep talk could have.

When Norah stepped back, she said, “Do a good job, you’ll earn another one.”

Evie let out a small, embarrassed laugh. The nerves loosened their grip.

Something changed in her posture. Not arrogance. Not bravado.

Focus.

Norah noticed.

“So,” Norah said, returning to the table, “let’s reset expectations.”

Evie nodded quickly.

“You are not leading investigations,” Norah continued. “You are not participating in raids. You are not interrogating anyone.”

Evie nodded again. “Yes, ma’am.”

“That work falls to me, Officer Reyes, and others in operational roles.”

Evie’s shoulders straightened.

“…but,” Norah said, “you are going to have a very important job. Potentially more important than a raid or an interrogation.”

Evie’s eyes widened slightly.

“I need information compiled and curated,” Norah said. “Public footage. Archived segments. Prior incident documentation. Statements. Commentary. Context.”

Evie’s brain immediately started calculating scope.

“That’s… a lot,” she admitted carefully. “Even with AI aggregation.”

“It is,” Norah agreed.

“…and clearance?” Evie asked, more cautiously now. “Some of that might require-”

“You will have the clearance you need,” Norah said evenly. “And you will take your time.”

Evie blinked.

“I won’t accept anything rushed,” Norah added. “Accuracy over speed. Always.”

Evie absorbed that like oxygen.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You’re building structure,” Norah continued. “Timeline first. Pattern second. Interpretation last.”

Evie nodded, more controlled now.

The nerves had settled into concentration.

Norah watched her for another beat.

“You have a future here,” she said matter-of-factly. “If you decide you want it…and if you put your mind to it.”

The words landed harder than they sounded.

Evie felt heat behind her eyes but kept it contained.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

Norah held her gaze.

“Don’t let that go to your head.”

A flicker of humor passed between them.

“It won’t,” Evie said quickly. “I promise.”

Norah gave the smallest nod.

“Good.”

The board room felt different now.

Less like a chamber of judgment.

More like the beginning of something.

…and for the first time since Genevieve’s death, Evie didn’t feel like a spectator in events moving too fast.

She felt assigned.

Peace Break Room

The break room was quieter than the bullpen.

Fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead. A small window looked out over gray Cleveland rooftops.

Norah reached the coffee machine and exhaled like someone who had finally reached neutral ground.

“Thank God,” she muttered.

Elian leaned against the counter. “That bad?”

“Roy likes his coffee strong,” Norah said, scooping grounds herself. “Strong enough to wake the dead. I swear it could dissolve a spoon.”

Elian gave a faint smile. “That tracks.”

Norah poured the water slowly, deliberately. “It’s nice making it myself. Feels civilized.”

She let the machine gurgle for a moment before glancing sideways at him.

“How are you?”

Elian knew what she meant.

Not professionally.

Personally.

He held the silence for a second before answering.

“Managing,” he said. “Some days better than others.”

Norah nodded.

“…and the kids?”

“Harmony’s buried in her studies,” he said. “San Juan suits her. She likes being in the capital of the Sovereignty of La Plata. Says it feels alive.”

“…and Kiley?”

A faint, complicated smile crossed his face.

“Working at the King’s Harem,” he said. “Server. Stage name’s ‘Candy.’”

Norah didn’t react with judgment- only a small lift of her eyebrows.

“She happy?”

“She says she is.”

“That matters,” Norah said simply.

Elian nodded.

The coffee finished dripping. Norah poured it into a mug, inhaled once, and took a cautious sip.

“Much better,” she said.

Then he tilted his head slightly.

“…and Revy?”

Norah’s expression shifted- softer, but edged.

“She’s growing up,” Norah said. “Maybe a little too fast.”

“That’s how it works.”

“I miss my little squirt,” Norah said, shaking her head lightly. “The version that thought I was invincible.”

Elian gave a knowing half-smile.

“No matter what,” he said, “she’ll still be your little squirt.”

Norah held the mug in both hands for a moment, absorbing that.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “I suppose she will.”

A beat passed.

Then she straightened slightly.

“Evie.”

Elian chuckled. “What about her?”

“I like her,” Norah said. “She’s sharp. Earnest. A little too earnest.”

“She’s young.”

“She keeps calling me ‘ma’am,’” Norah added. “Makes me feel ancient.”

Elian laughed softly. “I’ve been trying to get her to stop calling me ‘sir.’ It hasn’t registered yet.”

Norah smirked.

“Your assignment,” she said lightly, pointing at him with the mug, “is to get her to loosen up a bit. I don’t want a stuffy Peace.”

Elian raised his hands in mock surrender.

“I’ll work on it.”

“She doesn’t need to be rigid to be disciplined,” Norah continued. “Confidence doesn’t come from stiffness.”

Elian nodded thoughtfully.

“She’ll get there,” he said.

Norah took another sip of her coffee.

“Good,” she replied. “Because if she’s going to build a future here, she’s going to need to know we’re human too.”

Outside the break room window, Cleveland remained gray and steady.

Inside, two seasoned officers shared a moment of ordinary conversation- a reminder that even in investigations and institutional gravity, life continued in the small spaces between decisions.

Peace Training Room

The training room smelled faintly of rubber mats and disinfectant.

Tactical Operations officers were spread across the floor- some running drills, some lifting, others seated with tablets reviewing procedures. It wasn’t loud, but it was kinetic. Focused.

Evie hovered near the entrance for half a second, then stepped in.

Commander Hale noticed immediately.

“You lost?” Hale asked, not unkindly.

“No, sir,” Evie said automatically- then winced. “Sorry. Commander.”

Hale smirked slightly. “What do you need?”

“I was hoping to speak with Officer Burrow.”

Hale scanned the room. “Burrow!”

Mike Burrow looked up from a mat where he’d been reviewing a procedural checklist. He jogged over, wiping his hands on a towel.

“Evie? Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” she said quickly. “I just- I need help.”

That got his attention.

“With what?”

She glanced around at the officers drilling takedowns nearby and lowered her voice.

“I’ve been assigned to compile and curate everything surrounding the jackhammer incidents.”

Burrow’s expression shifted. He understood immediately which incidents.

“That’s… heavy,” he said.

“Yeah,” Evie admitted. “I can handle the timeline and documentation part…but I don’t understand the move itself.”

Burrow blinked.

“The jackhammer?”

“I know nothing about wrestling,” she said bluntly. “I don’t know what it’s supposed to look like when it’s right. I don’t know what wrong looks like.”

Burrow nodded slowly.

“Okay,” he said. “That’s fair.”

He walked over to a padded training dummy used for grappling drills and dragged it toward an open section of mat.

“Come here.”

Evie stepped closer, notebook already in hand.

“The jackhammer,” Burrow began, “is a vertical suplex variant. You lift the opponent straight up- completely vertical- like this.”

He gripped the dummy, braced, and lifted it carefully upside down, holding it straight.

“Control is everything,” he said. “Core tight. Balance steady. You’re supporting their full body weight.”

He adjusted his stance slightly.

“Then you drop to your knees and drive them down so their back absorbs the impact. Not their head. Not their neck.”

He lowered the dummy slowly to demonstrate the controlled motion.

“That’s how it’s supposed to look,” he said. “Clean. Vertical. Stable.”

Evie scribbled notes.

“…and when it goes wrong?”

Burrow repositioned the dummy.

“If your balance is off. If their weight shifts. If you lose vertical alignment even slightly-”

He tilted the dummy forward just a few degrees.

“Now the head and neck are exposed.”

He mimed the drop without full force.

“Instead of back impact, you risk compressive force through the cervical spine.”

Evie’s stomach tightened.

“That’s what happened?”

“In Sunny’s case,” he said carefully, “it looked like the vertical hold wavered before the drop. Just enough.”

Evie hesitated.

“What about Zasaramel? He survived his.”

Burrow nodded.

“Different context. Different execution.”

He lifted the dummy again.

“Zasaramel adjusted mid-air. He shifted his body slightly so his upper back took the force instead of his neck. Instinct. Experience.”

He demonstrated the subtle rotation.

“Sunny didn’t have that adjustment window.”

Evie swallowed.

“So when I’m reviewing footage…”

“Watch the setup,” Burrow said. “Look at the lift. Was it stable? Was there hesitation? Watch the vertical line- if the body starts drifting forward or backward, that’s a red flag.”

He set the dummy down.

“Watch the drop speed. Too fast means less control. Too slow means strain…and look at the landing point- shoulders versus crown.”

Evie nodded, absorbing every word.

“This helps,” she said quietly.

Burrow wiped his hands again, expression more subdued now.

“When I have time,” he added, “I’ll sit down with you and watch every Goldstein jackhammer we can find.”

Evie looked up.

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to,” he said simply.

He glanced away for a second.

“Sunny’s death hit me too. I didn’t know her. Just a fan.”

He shrugged slightly.

“…but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter.”

Evie nodded.

“I’ll start with alignment and drop analysis,” she said, more steady now.

“Good,” Burrow replied. “Don’t look for drama. Look for mechanics.”

She closed her notebook.

“Thanks, Mike.”

He gave a small nod.

“Accuracy first,” he said.

Evie almost smiled at the echo of Norah’s words.

As she left the training room, the drills resumed behind her- disciplined, controlled, procedural.

For the first time since being assigned the task, the jackhammer wasn’t just a headline.

It was physics.

…and physics could be studied.

Cathédrale Saint-Germain de Rimouski, February 15, 2023

12:07 local time,
City of Rimouski, Republic of Rimouski

The bells had already rung once.

Snow clung to the edges of the cathedral steps, packed down by boots. The St. Lawrence lay gray beyond the city, flat and distant.

This was the public service.

The private burial had happened quietly- family, clergy, a handful of close friends.

Today was different.

Today was for everyone else.

Inside, the nave filled slowly.

Wrestlers who were normally loud, kinetic, larger than life moved quietly now. Black coats replaced ring gear. Sunglasses hid swollen eyes.

Roman stood near the middle aisle, jaw set, hands clasped in front of him.

Jon and Colby spoke in low tones nearby.

Boro stood a few pews back from them, shoulders hunched slightly in a dark coat that didn’t quite fit his broad frame, hands folded carefully as if unsure what to do with them.

Paul Carney kept to the side, posture composed but watchful. Several IWC wrestlers stood behind him, subdued. His tail hung low behind him, giving a small, involuntary flick whenever someone approached the Hortons.

Zasaramel arrived with Joanna and Ruby, their family close, Raven just behind them- not drawing attention, but absorbing everything.

The Total Babes entered together- Sugar Cane, Georgia Peach, Cotton Candy, and Magnolia Wine.

Marcy had traded Malagasy freedom for a long black coat. As they paused near the pews, someone leaned in and joked lightly:

“Rough adjustment, putting clothes back on?”

Marcy let out a soft laugh- grateful for the levity.

“Brutal,” she replied quietly.

It was a small human moment. Necessary.

Darman O’Day entered with his family. Heads turned, not because he sought attention- but because grief travels across professions.

Joey Ace slipped in near the back.

One absence hung heavier than the cold outside.

Vince McGeady was not there.

At the front, Glen Horton stood beside his wife, Marie.

Glen’s posture still carried the remnants of a Peace officer’s bearing. Even in grief, there was structure in him.

Marie held Genevieve’s photo close to her chest- not the promotional shot, not the ring persona.

A simple portrait.

Yves Laroche, Genevieve’s boyfriend, stood close to them.

People approached one by one.

Hands clasped.
Quiet condolences.
Whispers of “She was incredible.”
“She inspired so many.”

No one mentioned the move.

No one said “jackhammer.”

The cathedral doors opened again.

The shift in the room was immediate.

Goldstein stepped inside.

No entourage. No bravado. Dark coat. Folded paper in his hand.

The air tightened.

Roman moved first.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, low but sharp.

Goldstein stopped a few feet inside the aisle.

“I’m here to pay my respects.”

“You’ve got some nerve,” Roman shot back.

Yves stepped forward as well.

“You’re not welcome,” he said flatly.

Several heads turned toward the Hortons.

Glen’s face hardened slightly. Marie’s eyes flickered with uncertainty.

Goldstein didn’t rise to it.

“I’m not here for drama,” he said quietly. “I know what this looks like.”

Roman’s jaw clenched.

Goldstein unfolded the paper slowly.

“I wrote something,” he said. “If the family allows it, I’d like to read it. If not, I’ll leave.”

He handed the paper to Glen.

The former Peace officer took it without a word.

Marie leaned in as they read.

The room held its breath.

Roman’s eyes never left Goldstein.

The statement was measured. Careful. No legal admissions. No grandstanding. No defensiveness.

Remorse without self-exoneration.

Grief without theatrics.

Marie’s shoulders trembled slightly as she finished reading.

She looked at Glen.

Glen studied Goldstein for a long moment- not as a promoter, not as a public figure.

As a man.

Finally, Glen spoke.

“He can stay.”

A ripple of tension moved through the pews.

Roman didn’t look satisfied. Yves didn’t look convinced.

But the decision had been made.

Goldstein folded his hands in front of him and moved quietly to the back.

The bells rang again.

…and as the service began, the cathedral held more than mourning.

It held fracture lines.

…and the fragile possibility of something else.

After the priest concluded the formal liturgy, he stepped aside.

“This is now a time for remembrance.”

One by one, they approached the lectern.

Not as characters.

As people.

---

Darman O’Day

Darman unfolded his notes, though he barely looked at them.

“I told this story on my show,” he began, voice already unsteady, “but that was television.”

A faint ripple of understanding moved through the room.

“This is real.”

He recounted the Ohio invitational. Young Rhiannon. A nervous Genevieve. A hallway conversation that probably meant nothing to him at the time- but meant everything to her.

“I gave her a hug,” he said, his voice breaking now, “and told her to try out because she had nothing to lose.”

He paused.

“She proved me wrong.”

The tears came freely this time. He didn’t fight them.

“She had everything to gain…and she did.”

The room let him finish in silence.

---

Paul Carney

Paul spoke next.

Measured. Controlled.

He didn’t mention lawsuits. Didn’t mention rival promotions.

He spoke about locker rooms.

About travel days.

About Genevieve’s stubborn streak when she wanted something.

“She made the world bigger wherever she went,” he said.

…and that was enough.

---

Zasaramel

Zas walked slowly to the front.

He didn’t look at Goldstein.

He didn’t mention the jackhammer he survived.

He didn’t turn it into a comparison.

Instead, he spoke like a student repeating wisdom passed down.

“My mentor once told me,” Zas said quietly, “that strength is not proven in battle. It is proven in how you carry loss.”

The cathedral held still.

“He also said that when someone falls, you do not ask why first. You ask how you honor them.”

He looked at the Hortons.

“We honor her by refusing to let her become a cautionary tale. She was not a lesson. She was a light.”

That line lingered.

---

Carly Sweeting

Carly’s hands trembled slightly when she reached the lectern.

“I didn’t know her long,” she said, “but sometimes you meet someone and it feels like you’ve known them forever.”

A soft murmur of agreement moved through the Total Babes seated together.

“She made me feel brave. Like I belonged. Like I could be bigger than my fears.”

Her voice cracked.

“I wish I had more time.”

It was simple.

…and it hurt.

---

Others followed.

Teammates. Trainers. Production staff.

No one mentioned Vince.

No one said his name.

…but the empty space where he might have stood felt louder than any accusation.

---

Goldstein

When his name was called, the room tightened.

He walked to the front slowly.

No music. No theatrics.

Just a man in a dark coat holding a sheet of paper like it weighed a hundred pounds.

He unfolded it carefully.

“My name is William Goldstein,” he began. Not “Menace from Venice.” Not bravado.

Just his name.

He read the prepared statement.

He spoke about Genevieve’s professionalism.

Her discipline.

Her courage.

He acknowledged the match without detailing it.

“I will carry that night with me for the rest of my life.”

His voice wavered, but he stayed on script.

Then he stopped.

The paper trembled slightly in his hands.

He could hear Saul’s voice in his head.

No ad-libbing.
No admissions.
No deviation.

Goldstein looked up from the page.

The Hortons were watching him.

Roman was watching him.

Yves was watching him.

Everyone was.

He swallowed.

“I was told to stay with what’s written,” he said quietly.

A subtle shift in the room.

“…but what’s written isn’t enough.”

His pulse pounded.

He stepped away from the lectern slightly, still holding the paper but no longer looking at it.

“I don’t know how to say this correctly,” he continued, “and maybe there isn’t a correct way.”

His voice thickened.

“I believed I could control everything in that ring. I believed I could protect anyone in my hands.”

A long breath.

“I was wrong.”

That word hung in the cathedral like a fragile object.

“I am so deeply sorry for your loss,” he said, looking directly at Glen and Marie. “Not as a performer. Not as a rival. Not as a public figure.”

He hesitated- just enough to make it real.

“As a man.”

The silence that followed was not hostile.

It was heavy.

Goldstein’s eyes glistened but did not spill.

“I will spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of the trust that was placed in me.”

That wasn’t in the statement.

That was him.

He stepped back from the lectern.

For a moment, it wasn’t clear if he’d destroyed himself legally.

Or saved himself morally.

He returned to his seat without looking at anyone.

The cathedral did not erupt.

It did not forgive.

It simply absorbed.

…and somewhere in the quiet, something had shifted- not absolution, not resolution-

-but truth, however dangerous, had entered the room.

The Aftermath

The formal service had ended.

…but no one moved.

People remained in their pews, coats still on, conversations forming in low pockets instead of dispersing toward the doors. It felt wrong to rush back into the cold.

Grief lingered in the air like incense.

---

Marcy & Joey

Magnolia Wine stood near one of the side aisles, hands clasped loosely in front of her.

Joey Ace hovered nearby, checking his phone without really reading anything on it.

Marcy tilted her head slightly.

“Can I ask you something?”

Joey glanced up. “Sure.”

“Why isn’t Vince here?”

There was no venom in her voice. Just directness.

Joey inhaled slowly.

“He thought it was better if the WFE had representation,” he said carefully.

Marcy’s expression didn’t change.

“Representation,” she repeated.

“He didn’t want to make it about him,” Joey added.

Marcy let that sit for a second.

“…and sending you doesn’t make it about him?”

Joey gave a strained half-smile.

“I’m not the headline.”

She studied him.

“That’s not really an answer.”

Joey shifted his weight.

“He’s managing a lot right now,” he said. “Sponsors. Legal. Internal issues.”

Marcy nodded slowly.

“Right.”

She didn’t press further.

…but her eyes said she understood more than he was saying.

Joey knew it too.

It was an uphill battle, trying to frame absence as restraint instead of avoidance.

“Are you going back soon?” he asked, changing the subject.

“To Madagascar?” she said.

“Yeah.”

Marcy exhaled softly.

“For a bit,” she replied, “but not before the world settles.”

Joey almost laughed at that.

The world wasn’t settling anytime soon.

---

Goldstein & Saul

Near the back of the cathedral, Goldstein stepped aside, pulling his phone from his coat pocket.

He didn’t leave the building.

He just needed distance.

Saul Rubenstein answered on the second ring.

“You went off script,” Saul said without greeting.

Goldstein closed his eyes briefly.

“Yeah.”

“I told you not to.”

“I know.”

Saul’s frustration was controlled but clear.

“What did you say?”

Goldstein leaned against a stone pillar.

“I said I believed I could control everything in the ring.”

Pause.

“…and?”

“I said I was wrong.”

Saul was silent for two seconds too long.

“Anything else?”

“I said I’d spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of the trust placed in me.”

Another pause.

“Did you apologize?”

“I expressed sorrow.”

“Did you use the words ‘my fault’?”

“No.”

“Did you say you caused it?”

“No.”

Saul exhaled.

“You understand why I didn’t want you ad-libbing.”

“I didn’t want to sound robotic,” Goldstein said. “I didn’t want to look like I was reading from a corporate cue card.”

“You weren’t at a press conference,” Saul replied. “You were at a funeral.”

“Exactly.”

Silence settled between them.

Saul recalibrated.

“Did you assign legal blame to yourself?”

“No.”

“Did you imply negligence?”

“I said I was wrong to believe I could control everything.”

Saul processed that.

“That’s philosophical,” he said finally. “Not legal.”

Goldstein let out a slow breath.

“I meant it,” he said quietly.

“I’m sure you did,” Saul replied.

Another pause.

“You didn’t sink yourself,” Saul concluded, “but don’t make a habit of improvisation.”

Goldstein looked across the cathedral at the Hortons speaking with mourners.

“I wasn’t thinking about habit.”

“I know,” Saul said.

He hesitated before adding, softer this time:

“Just remember that grief doesn’t suspend consequence.”

The call ended.

Goldstein slid the phone back into his pocket.

Across the room, Roman was still watching him.

Not with fury now.

With something harder to read.

The cathedral doors remained open.

No one left yet.

Because once they stepped outside, this would stop being a shared moment —

—and become fallout.

The cathedral had thinned, but it had not emptied.

Clusters of mourners formed gentle circles near the front. Coats remained on. No one quite wanted to be the first to step fully back into the world outside.

Magnolia Wine waited her turn.

She didn’t rush the Hortons. She watched as old family friends, former trainers, distant cousins offered their condolences. When there was finally a lull, she stepped forward.

“Mr. and Mrs. Horton,” she said softly.

Marie recognized her immediately and reached out first.

Marcy wrapped her in a full embrace- not performative, not tentative. Just human.

“I’m so sorry,” Marcy said into her shoulder.

Marie held her for a second longer than politeness required.

Glen extended his hand. Marcy took it- then surprised him by pulling him gently into a hug as well.

He stiffened for a split second out of old habit.

Then he let it happen.

Yves stood beside them, eyes tired but steady.

Marcy turned to him next.

“She talked about you,” Marcy said quietly.

Yves blinked. “She did?”

“She did,” Marcy confirmed. “The way someone talks when they’re proud.”

That hit.

Yves swallowed hard and nodded once.

Marcy reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small card- handwritten.

“I’m heading back to Madagascar soon,” she said, “but this is the direct number to my hotel there. It rings straight to my room.”

Glen frowned slightly.

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to,” Marcy said gently. “If you need anything. Anything at all. A fundraiser, travel support, someone to sit with you on a bad day. I don’t care where I am. Call.”

Marie looked at the card, then at Marcy.

“You barely knew her,” she said softly.

Marcy’s voice didn’t waver.

“That doesn’t matter.”

A small silence followed.

The kind that isn’t awkward.

Just full.

Yves stepped forward and hugged her briefly.

“Thank you,” he said.

Marcy squeezed his arm once before stepping back.

As she turned away, she exhaled slowly.

Madagascar suddenly felt very far away.

…and very close.

Across the nave, Joey noticed the exchange.

So did Roman.

No one commented.

…but in a room defined by absence, small acts of presence carried weight.

The crowd had thinned into clusters.

Roman stood near one of the side columns, coat still buttoned, expression unreadable. His hands were folded in front of him, but there was tension in his shoulders that hadn’t left since Goldstein walked in.

Paul Carney approached without ceremony.

“Roman.”

Roman nodded once. “Paul.”

They didn’t shake hands.

This wasn’t that kind of moment.

Paul stood beside him rather than in front of him- shoulder to shoulder, both facing the stained glass.

“I’m not here to recruit you,” Paul said calmly.

Roman almost smirked.

“That’s new.”

Paul allowed the faintest smile.

“I’m here to say something carefully,” he replied, “and legally.”

Roman’s eyes flicked toward the back of the cathedral, where Joey Ace was speaking quietly with someone near the doors.

Paul noticed the glance.

“Exactly,” Paul said.

A beat.

“What happened shouldn’t have happened,” Paul continued, “and I’m not saying that as a rival promoter. I’m saying that as someone who’s buried talent before.”

Roman’s jaw tightened slightly.

“You think this is about promotions?” Roman asked.

“No,” Paul said. “I think it’s about environment.”

That word again.

Roman didn’t answer immediately.

Paul kept his tone measured.

“I won’t discuss contracts. I won’t discuss timing. I won’t discuss numbers.”

A subtle acknowledgment of the legal minefield.

“…but I will say this.”

He turned slightly toward Roman now.

“Every performer deserves to work somewhere that aligns with how they see the world.”

Roman’s breathing slowed.

“That’s not tampering,” Paul added quietly. “That’s philosophy.”

Roman glanced again toward Joey.

Joey wasn’t close enough to hear- but close enough to notice proximity.

Paul continued carefully.

“You’ve always been driven by legacy,” he said. “By what this business becomes, not just what it pays.”

Roman’s voice was low.

“Money usually ends this conversation.”

“I know.”

“…and it hasn’t,” Roman said.

Paul didn’t respond.

He didn’t need to.

Roman’s eyes moved across the cathedral- over Zasaramel, over the Total Babes, over Goldstein standing alone.

“This feels different,” Roman admitted.

Paul didn’t pounce.

“Grief clarifies things,” he said simply.

Roman’s voice dropped further.

“If I ever made a move… it wouldn’t be about leverage.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Paul replied.

Another silence.

The kind where decisions aren’t made- but become possible.

“I’m not promising anything,” Roman said.

“I’m not asking,” Paul answered.

Across the room, Joey’s gaze lingered just a second too long in their direction.

Paul noticed.

“Today isn’t about business,” he said softly.

Roman nodded once.

“No,” he agreed.

…but for the first time since the walkout, the idea of a different future didn’t feel like betrayal.

It felt like consideration.

Peace Field Coordination Office- Cleveland, February 17, 2023

14:12 local time,
City of Cuyahoga Castles, Sovereignty of Ohio, UCSS

Evie had been right.

Even with AI sorting, tagging, cross-referencing, and clustering- the volume was staggering.

Match footage.
Commentary transcripts.
Fan blogs.
Injury reports.
Archived interviews.
Production notes.
Social media reactions.

The system fed her categories.

She fed it refinement prompts.

Still, it felt like trying to drain a lake with a sieve.

“Okay,” she muttered to herself. “Structure.”

She began building folders:

• Jackhammer Instances- Goldstein
• Cleveland Botch- Zasaramel
• Lover’s Lane Build
• Commentary Language Patterns
• Promoter Escalation Language

Some parts were straightforward.

Timestamps.
Injury outcomes.
Medical pauses.

Other parts felt like she was reading a foreign dialect.

She opened a wrestling match report from a major outlet.

“Goldstein planted him with a thunderous jackhammer after a counter to a failed springboard enzuigiri…”

Evie blinked.

“What is a springboard enzuigiri,” she whispered to no one.

She skimmed another report.

“The vertical hold looked shaky but Goldstein recovered before dropping him flush.”

Shaky.

Recovered.

Flush.

They might as well have been describing plumbing.

Evie leaned back in her chair, exhaling.

She could brute-force this with definitions.

Or she could ask for help.

She stood and walked toward Elian’s office.

He was reviewing a procedural memo when she knocked lightly.

“Sir?”

He looked up.

“I thought we retired that word.”

Evie flushed. “Sorry. Elian.”

He smirked slightly. “What’s up?”

She stepped inside, tablet in hand.

“I’m parsing match reports and commentary transcripts,” she said, “but I don’t understand half the terminology. I can flag mechanical inconsistencies, but I need context.”

Elian gestured for her to sit.

“I’m not Burrow,” he said, “but I know enough.”

She handed him the tablet.

He scanned a paragraph.

“Springboard enzuigiri,” he read. “It’s a kick. Off the ropes.”

Evie nodded quickly, typing.

“…and ‘flush’?” she asked.

“Means clean impact. Full connection.”

She scribbled that too.

They worked through terminology for several minutes- vertical hold, rotation, spike risk, landing alignment, ring positioning.

At some point, Elian leaned over her shoulder to point at a line in the report.

“You see this phrase?” he said. “ ‘Recovered before the drop.’ That implies instability during lift.”

Evie nodded.

“That’s not something a writer invents casually,” he added. “If they noticed it, it likely showed.”

As she typed, he placed his hand lightly on her shoulder while leaning in to look at the screen.

It was casual. Absent-minded.

Professional.

…but Evie felt it.

Not intrusive.

Not uncomfortable.

Steady.

It startled her slightly- in a good way.

He trusted her enough to stand that close. To guide rather than supervise from distance.

For a split second, the thought flickered:

This is what a father figure feels like.

She swallowed the thought before it got sentimental.

“Thank you, sir,” she said automatically.

Elian sighed.

“Evie.”

“Sorry,” she corrected quickly. “Elian.”

He gave her a small nod.

“You’re doing this right,” he said. “You’re not assuming. You’re learning.”

“I just don’t want to miss something,” she admitted.

“You won’t,” he said calmly. “Not if you keep asking.”

He removed his hand from her shoulder and stepped back.

Evie returned to her screen.

The reports didn’t feel like a foreign language anymore.

They felt like layered narrative- part spectacle, part mechanics.

…and mechanics could be understood.

As she resumed sorting footage, she didn’t feel overwhelmed.

She felt anchored.

Still nervous.

Still calling him “sir.”

…but anchored.

Aren Reddick’s House, February 18, 2023

15:19 local time,
City of Grand Island, Greater Buffalo Region, Niagara, Sovereignty of Buffalo, UCSS

The snow in Grand Island was clean and bright, the kind that made everything look sharper than it felt.

Goldstein’s rental SUV idled in the driveway for a few seconds before he shut it off.

He hadn’t told anyone he was coming.

He hadn’t even fully decided to until he was already driving south.

The door opened before he reached it.

Aren Reddick stood there in sweats and a championship hoodie, grin already forming.

“Well look who decided to visit the frozen north,” Reddick said.

Goldstein managed a thin smile.

“Congrats,” he said.

Reddick stepped forward and pulled him into a quick embrace.

“Fifty-one to seventeen,” Reddick said, shaking his head. “San Carlos didn’t know what hit ’em.”

Goldstein nodded.

“I watched,” he said.

Inside, the house still carried remnants of celebration- a championship banner draped over a chair, a framed photo from the WFL title ceremony sitting on the kitchen island.

Reddick had just led the Buffalo Beasts to a dominant championship win.

The energy in the house was victory.

The energy Goldstein brought with him was something else.

They settled into the living room.

Reddick studied him for a moment.

“You didn’t drive all this way just to congratulate me.”

Goldstein exhaled slowly.

“No.”

They sat in silence for a beat.

Back in 2014, they’d shared a locker room. Goldstein had been a running back then- bruising, relentless. They’d won a championship together.

Days later, Goldstein shocked everyone by retiring.

A week after that, he signed with the WFE.

People had called it reckless.

Reddick had just called it Goldstein.

They’d stayed close — two California guys navigating very different spotlights.

“You look like hell,” Reddick said plainly.

Goldstein didn’t argue.

“I went to the funeral.”

Reddick’s grin faded.

“I saw.”

“They almost didn’t let me in.”

Reddick nodded once.

“That tracks.”

Goldstein leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“I read the statement. Then I went off it.”

Reddick didn’t flinch.

“What’d you say?”

“That I was wrong.”

Reddick tilted his head slightly.

“Wrong how?”

Goldstein stared at the floor.

“I believed I could control everything in that ring.”

Reddick let the silence stretch.

“Control’s an illusion,” he said finally.

Goldstein let out a humorless laugh.

“Not when you’re holding someone upside down.”

Reddick leaned back in his chair.

“Bill,” he said quietly, “you didn’t come here for validation.”

“No.”

“You came here because you don’t trust the people around you right now.”

Goldstein didn’t respond.

He didn’t need to.

Lawyers were cautious.
Executives were calculating.
Press was predatory.

He needed someone who had been in the huddle with him.

“You remember 2014?” Goldstein asked.

Reddick smirked slightly.

“You mean when you ran through three defenders in the fourth quarter?”

“I retired three days later.”

“You were wired different.”

Goldstein shook his head.

“No. I was scared.”

Reddick blinked.

“Scared of what?”

“That I couldn’t control the game forever,” Goldstein said. “So I left on top.”

The room grew quiet again.

“This isn’t that,” Reddick said carefully.

“No,” Goldstein agreed. “It’s worse.”

Reddick studied him.

“You’re not asking me if you’re guilty,” he said.

“No.”

“You’re asking if you’re still you.”

Goldstein’s jaw tightened.

“I don’t know who I am right now.”

Reddick stood, walked to the kitchen, and grabbed two bottles of water instead of anything stronger.

He tossed one to Goldstein.

“Here’s what I know,” Reddick said, sitting back down. “You don’t get to rewrite the past.”

Goldstein nodded.

“…but you do get to decide who you are after it.”

Goldstein stared at the bottle in his hands.

Outside, snow reflected the pale winter sun.

Inside, the championship glow of the house felt almost surreal compared to the weight Goldstein carried in.

“I just needed someone real,” Goldstein said quietly.

Reddick nodded.

“You got me.”

…and for the first time in days, Goldstein wasn’t speaking to a lawyer.

He wasn’t speaking to a promoter.

He wasn’t speaking to a crowd.

He was speaking to someone who had once stood next to him in a huddle, knowing the game could turn in a single second.

Grand Buffalo Sports Complex, February 19, 2023

10:19 local time,
Buffalo, Niagara, Sovereignty of Buffalo, UCSS

Championship banners were already being adjusted.

Confetti had been cleaned up. The turf looked untouched.

The celebration glow had faded into routine.

Aldus Redford stood near midfield with a laminated play sheet in one hand and a tablet in the other. He wasn’t watching highlights of the 51–17 dismantling of San Carlos.

Or deciding where to put the complimentary laurel wreath the Romans gave to the WFL Champions.

He was reviewing protection breakdowns from the second quarter.

He didn’t notice Goldstein at first.

“Coach,” Goldstein called.

Redford looked up.

There was no dramatic reaction. Just recognition.

“Well,” Redford said evenly. “If it isn’t the man who ran out of my locker room the week after a title.”

Goldstein managed a thin smile.

“Morning.”

Redford walked over, hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

“You look worse than you did after that overtime game in ’14.”

“Feels worse.”

Redford studied him for a moment.

“You here to congratulate me?”

“I did that already.”

Redford nodded once.

“Then you’re here for something else.”

Goldstein didn’t waste time.

“I need coaching.”

Redford’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

“I don’t coach wrestling.”

“I don’t need wrestling advice.”

That landed.

They started walking slowly along the sideline.

“I went off script at the funeral,” Goldstein said.

Redford didn’t react.

“I said I was wrong.”

“Were you?” Redford asked.

Goldstein didn’t answer immediately.

“I thought I could control everything in that ring,” he said finally.

Redford let out a quiet breath through his nose.

“You remember the championship run?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“You remember the play we called against Houston in the fourth quarter?”

Goldstein nodded slowly.

“You audibled.”

“I saw the linebacker shift,” Goldstein said.

“…and you thought you had it handled.”

“I did.”

Redford stopped walking.

“You were right that time.”

Goldstein stared at the turf.

“This time I wasn’t.”

Redford didn’t sugarcoat it.

“No.”

A cold wind moved through the open stadium.

“You’re not asking me about mechanics,” Redford said. “You’re asking about responsibility.”

Goldstein nodded.

“When you carry the ball,” Redford continued, “you accept that you might fumble.”

“That’s not the same.”

“No,” Redford agreed. “It’s not.”

They resumed walking.

“In this building,” Redford said, gesturing around them, “we control what we can. Preparation. Discipline. Decision-making.”

He stopped again.

“…but control is never absolute.”

Goldstein’s jaw tightened.

“I don’t want to hide behind that.”

“Good,” Redford said bluntly.

Silence stretched.

“You can’t coach regret,” Redford added. “You can only coach response.”

Goldstein looked at him.

“What’s the response?”

Redford’s answer came without hesitation.

“You get better.”

“At what?”

“At whatever failed.”

Goldstein let out a quiet, frustrated breath.

“You think I don’t replay it every second?”

“I’m sure you do,” Redford replied. “That’s not improvement. That’s punishment.”

The word hung there.

Redford softened- not much, but enough.

“You were one of the most disciplined backs I ever coached,” he said. “You didn’t rely on instinct alone. You drilled fundamentals.”

Goldstein’s voice dropped.

“This feels different.”

“It is,” Redford said. “Because this isn’t about winning.”

They reached the end zone.

“You’re not asking if you’re guilty,” Redford continued. “You’re asking if you’re finished.”

Goldstein didn’t deny it.

Redford folded his arms.

“If you were finished,” he said calmly, “you wouldn’t be here asking.”

The wind picked up again, cold against their faces.

“You want coaching advice?” Redford said.

Goldstein nodded once.

“Don’t let grief make you reactive,” Redford said. “Don’t let pride make you defensive.”

A beat.

“…and don’t let fear make your next decision.”

Goldstein stared across the empty stadium seats.

“I don’t know what my next decision is.”

“You don’t need to today,” Redford replied. “You just need to make sure it’s not made out of panic.”

They stood there in silence for a moment longer.

The championship glow still lingered faintly in the air.

…but this conversation wasn’t about rings.

It was about whether a man could keep carrying weight without collapsing under it.

…and Aldus Redford, still in work mode even after a title, had given him what he could:

Not absolution.

Not strategy.

Just discipline.

The Awesome Towers, February 19, 2023

08:22 local time,
City of Gotham Hill, Gotham Grand Sovereignty, UCSS

Sunday mornings were usually quiet at the Awesome Towers.

Not today.

Claudia Donahue stepped off the elevator with a leather folio tucked under her arm, expression already sharpened. She did not appreciate being summoned before coffee had properly taken hold- but she appreciated even less being summoned without context.

Vince was pacing when she entered.

He didn’t offer her a seat.

“We have a Goldstein problem,” he said immediately.

Claudia set her folio on the desk with deliberate calm.

“We have several problems,” she corrected. “Which one would you like to prioritize?”

“The funeral,” Vince snapped. “He went off script.”

Claudia didn’t blink.

“I’m aware.”

“Fix it.”

She folded her hands loosely.

“This isn’t the same thing as giving hush money for one of your affairs.”

The room went still.

Vince’s jaw tightened.

“You’re out of line.”

“No,” Claudia replied evenly. “I’m accurate.”

He turned away, staring out at the skyline.

“I don’t want ambiguity,” he said. “I don’t want remorse spiraling into liability.”

“Then you shouldn’t have put him in that position,” she said calmly.

He whipped back toward her.

“I didn’t.”

“You put him in a company culture where escalation is rewarded.”

Vince’s temper flared.

“I built this company on pushing limits.”

“…and now the limits pushed back,” Claudia replied.

Silence.

Vince exhaled sharply.

“There are no compromises,” he said. “We win.”

Claudia tilted her head slightly.

“You can still win.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“…but you need to reframe what that win looks like.”

He didn’t respond.

She continued.

“Winning no longer means total domination. It means containment. It means controlled losses.”

“That’s not winning.”

“It is when the alternative is collapse.”

Vince walked back to his desk and sat heavily.

“Goldstein is manageable,” Claudia said. “His statement did not assign legal blame. It expressed regret. We can work with that.”

“…and the IWC?” Vince demanded.

Claudia opened her folio and slid a document across the desk.

“Settle.”

He didn’t even look at it.

“No.”

“The continuances are no longer strategic,” she said. “They look evasive. The Zasaramel litigation is hopeless in the current climate.”

“I won’t hand Carney a victory.”

“You won’t,” she replied. “You’ll hand him a resolution.”

“That’s semantics.”

“No,” Claudia said. “That’s optics.”

Vince leaned back in his chair, furious.

“They want blood.”

“They want accountability,” she corrected.

He stared at the document but didn’t touch it.

“If we settle,” she continued, “we control the narrative. We announce a new safety initiative. We pivot from defense to reform.”

Vince’s silence wasn’t agreement.

It was calculation.

“…and if we don’t?” he asked.

“Then you risk Peace expanding inquiry. Sponsor withdrawals accelerating. Talent defections. Public opinion hardening.”

She let that hang.

“You built an empire,” Claudia said more quietly. “Empires adapt or they calcify.”

He hated that she was right.

He hated even more that she said it calmly.

After a long moment, he picked up the document.

“I want it structured so it doesn’t look like surrender.”

“That’s my job.”

“…and Goldstein?”

“We talk about Goldstein when you’re not reacting,” Claudia said. “Right now, your frustration would make you reckless.”

His eyes flashed.

“I’m not reckless.”

“You’re emotional.”

Another beat of silence.

Finally, Vince nodded once- tight, reluctant.

“Draft terms,” he said.

Claudia gathered her folio.

“We’ll redefine the win,” she replied.

As she exited the office, Vince remained seated, staring at the skyline.

For the first time in years, “winning” no longer felt like a guarantee.

It felt like damage control.

Richardson Law Office, February 20, 2023,

09:42 local time,
Barstow, Southern California, Republican Union of Western States

Barstow wasn’t glamorous.

It was dry air, faded signage, practical buildings that existed to function, not impress.

Glen and Marie Horton sat side by side in the waiting area of the Richardson Law Office. The framed diplomas on the wall meant little to them. The coffee in the corner went untouched.

They weren’t there for vengeance.

They were there because doing nothing felt like betrayal.

A door opened.

“Mr. and Mrs. Horton?”

The lawyer- late forties, steady eyes, practical suit- gestured them inside.

They sat across from his desk.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” he began.

Glen nodded once.

“We’re not here for condolences,” Glen said quietly. “We’re here because this shouldn’t happen again.”

The lawyer didn’t flinch.

“Understood.”

Marie folded her hands tightly in her lap.

“We want accountability,” she said. “Not spectacle. Not profit.”

The lawyer leaned back slightly.

“Let’s talk jurisdiction,” he said.

He began listing the complications like a physician diagnosing something layered.

“You reside in the Republican Union of Western States,” he said. “Your daughter was a citizen of Rimouski. The event occurred in Borealis Bay. The promoter is headquartered in UCSS. The performer is an RUWS citizen.”

He tapped a pen lightly against his desk.

“That’s multi-sovereign tort litigation.”

Glen’s jaw tightened.

“So where do we sue?”

The lawyer didn’t answer immediately.

“The cleanest venue is Borealis Bay,” he said finally. “That’s where the injury occurred. Courts typically have strongest jurisdiction at the site of harm.”

Marie nodded slowly.

“But,” the lawyer continued, “that’s not your only option.”

He began outlining them carefully:

• Borealis Bay Superior Court — wrongful death where incident occurred.
• RUWS Civil Court — possible personal negligence claim against Goldstein.
• UCSS Federal Court — corporate liability claim against WFE for systemic negligence.
• Rimouski courts — possible derivative standing, depending on next-of-kin status and Rimouski statutes.

Glen rubbed his temple.

“This is a maze.”

“Yes,” the lawyer said plainly. “And the WFE will use that.”

Marie’s voice was steady despite the fatigue behind it.

“We’re not looking for a payout.”

“That helps,” the lawyer said. “Juries can sense motive.”

Glen leaned forward.

“We want them to change.”

The lawyer held his gaze.

“Then you need to decide whether this is a single lawsuit or a strategic pressure campaign.”

Glen blinked.

“What’s the difference?”

“A single lawsuit in Borealis Bay seeks judgment,” the lawyer said. “A multi-front approach seeks leverage.”

Marie absorbed that.

“And if we do nothing?” she asked quietly.

The lawyer didn’t soften his answer.

“Then the narrative will be written without you.”

The room went still.

Glen glanced at Marie.

They had buried their daughter.

Now they were choosing whether to enter a battlefield.

“Start where it happened,” Glen said finally. “Borealis Bay.”

The lawyer nodded once.

“That’s defensible. It establishes legitimacy.”

“And Goldstein?” Marie asked.

The lawyer considered.

“You can include him in Borealis Bay. You can also pursue him personally in RUWS.”

Glen’s expression hardened slightly.

“We don’t care about destroying him.”

“That’s good,” the lawyer replied. “Because if you overreach, it weakens your moral position.”

Marie exhaled slowly.

“Can this change anything?”

The lawyer didn’t offer false hope.

“It can,” he said. “If it survives.”

Outside, Barstow traffic moved without urgency.

Inside, the Hortons made a quiet decision that would ripple far beyond a desert office.

The funeral had been grief.

This was resolve.

Richardson & Vale Law Office, February 20, 2023,

11:22 local time,
Barstow, Southern California, Republican Union of Western States

The name on the frosted glass read:

Richardson & Vale LLP

Inside, the conference room was modest. Legal texts lined one wall. A desert sun filtered through half-closed blinds.

Across the table sat Margaret Vale, mid-fifties, deliberate eyes, voice steady without being soft.

She had already reviewed the media timeline.

Now she listened.

“We don’t want a circus,” Marie said first.

Margaret nodded once.

“You want accountability.”

“Yes,” Glen said, “and change.”

Margaret folded her hands.

“Then we start where the injury occurred.”

“Borealis Bay,” Glen said.

“Yes.”

Marie frowned slightly.

“Do we have to go there?”

“Not yet,” Margaret replied. “I’ll coordinate with licensed counsel in Borealis Bay. We can file there while you remain here.”

Glen exhaled, relieved.

“Okay.”

Margaret leaned forward slightly.

“You need to understand something. Filing in Borealis Bay is the cleanest jurisdictional move. The death occurred there. The court has primary authority.”

Glen nodded.

“…but that doesn’t mean it’s simple.”

Marie’s hands tightened slightly.

“We don’t know how any of this works,” she admitted. “We’ve seen courtrooms on television.”

Margaret allowed a small, understanding smile.

“Television is not procedure.”

She began outlining it calmly.

“First, we draft and file a wrongful death complaint in Borealis Bay Superior Court. We name defendants.”

“Who?” Glen asked.

Margaret answered plainly.

“The WFE as a corporate entity.”

“…and Goldstein?” Marie asked.

Margaret paused.

“That’s a strategic decision.”

Marie’s voice tightens.

“…but if Goldstein is the one who actually killed our daughter… why isn’t it automatic that he’s a defendant?”

The room goes still.

Margaret doesn’t flinch.

“Because the law separates outcome from liability,” she says calmly.

Glen’s jaw tightens.

“He executed the move.”

“Yes,” Margaret replies, “but civil liability isn’t just about who performed the act. It’s about who had duty, who had control, and whether the act was negligent under the circumstances.”

Marie leans forward.

“He dropped her.”

“Yes,” Margaret says again. “In a professional environment. In a scripted performance. Under a promoter. Inside a corporate structure.”

She lets that sit.

“If the environment incentivized escalation… if safety protocols were weak… if the move was encouraged or pressured… then liability may extend beyond the performer.”

Glen frowns.

“…but he was the one holding her.”

“…and juries will see that,” Margaret says. “Which is precisely why naming him immediately changes the posture of the case.”

“How?” Marie asks.

“If we name him first, the narrative becomes: ‘a tragic mistake by a performer.’”

“…and if we don’t?”

“The narrative becomes: ‘a systemic failure in a company.’”

Silence.

Glen exhales.

“So you’re saying suing him might actually protect the company.”

“It can,” Margaret says plainly. “Corporations prefer individual scapegoats.”

Marie’s hands tighten.

“We’re not looking for a scapegoat.”

“I know,” Margaret replies.

She softens just slightly.

“We can absolutely include him, and we may…but strategy matters. Filing against the WFE first forces discovery into policies, culture, and command decisions.”

Glen’s Peace training flickers in his eyes.

“Chain of command.”

“Yes.”

Marie looks down.

“We don’t want to ruin a man if this wasn’t just him.”

Margaret nods.

“Then we move carefully. We build the foundation first. We reserve the right to amend the complaint later.”

Glen asks the hard follow-up.

“…and if the facts show he was reckless?”

“Then we include him,” Margaret says evenly.

Glen leaned forward.

“We don’t want to destroy him.”

“That’s important,” Margaret said. “Including him personally signals individual negligence. Excluding him focuses on corporate environment.”

Marie glanced at Glen.

“Which changes things more?”

Margaret didn’t dodge it.

“Corporate liability changes systems.”

“…and personal liability?”

“Creates leverage.”

Silence.

Glen rubbed his jaw.

“How high do we go?” he asked quietly.

Marie looked uncomfortable even asking it.

“We don’t want to look greedy.”

Margaret nodded.

“In wrongful death cases, you don’t just ‘pick a number.’ We calculate damages- lost earnings, loss of companionship, emotional harm.”

She let that settle.

“…but,” she added, “if your primary goal is reform, the monetary figure becomes secondary leverage.”

Glen’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Leverage how?”

“Discovery,” Margaret said.

The word landed.

“If this proceeds far enough, we gain access to internal communications. Safety protocols. Production notes. Corporate directives.”

Marie looked up.

“So we could see if this was preventable.”

“Yes.”

Glen’s posture shifted subtly.

He understood that word.

Preventable.

“How long does this take?” Marie asked.

Margaret did not sugarcoat it.

“Years, if it goes to trial.”

“…and if they settle?”

“Months to a year.”

Glen exhaled slowly.

“…and the IWC lawsuit?” he asked.

Margaret’s eyes flickered.

“That complicates WFE’s posture. They are already under strain.”

“So we strike while they’re unstable?” Glen asked.

Margaret’s tone remained calm.

“We file when we are ready. Not when they are weak.”

Marie swallowed.

“What are the risks?”

Margaret answered plainly.

“They will argue assumed risk. They will argue consent. They will argue industry standard.”

Glen stiffened.

“Industry standard doesn’t excuse negligence.”

“No,” Margaret agreed, “but juries can be unpredictable.”

Marie’s voice was steady now.

“We’re not afraid of unpredictable.”

Margaret studied them.

“You’re sure this is what you want?”

Glen and Marie looked at each other.

Grief had not faded.

…but it had hardened.

“Yes,” Glen said.

Margaret nodded once.

“Then we begin in Borealis Bay.”

She closed her folder.

“For now, we focus on the corporate entity. We reserve the right to expand.”

Marie exhaled slowly.

“…and Goldstein?”

Margaret’s answer was careful.

“We let the facts guide that decision.”

Outside, the desert wind moved dust across the parking lot.

Inside, two parents who only knew law from television had just stepped into a process far slower- and far colder- than grief.

…but for the first time since the funeral, they felt something close to direction.

Not revenge.

Structure.

Ohio Sovereign Court, February 21, 2023

16:12 local time,
Columbus, Sovereignty of Ohio, UCSS

It had been a long day.

Another procedural day.

Another slow grind in a lawsuit that had stretched far beyond what anyone in the gallery considered reasonable.

WFE counsel Farley Dickens stood at the defense table, files neatly arranged, tie slightly loosened.

He didn’t want to be here.

More accurately- he didn’t want to be making this motion.

“Your Honor,” Farley began, measured and professional, “the defense respectfully requests a continuance of proceedings in light of newly developing evidentiary considerations.”

It was the same language as before.

Softer. Polished. Rehearsed.

Behind him, a WFE corporate representative watched without expression.

The judge did not immediately respond.

Across the aisle, IWC counsel Yaw Gyan closed his notebook slowly.

Deliberately.

“Your Honor,” Gyan said before the bench could reply, “the plaintiff objects.”

There was no flourish in his tone. Just fatigue sharpened into steel.

“This matter has been pending for an extended period. The defense has repeatedly sought delay under varying formulations of ‘emerging developments.’”

A quiet ripple moved through the gallery.

Gyan stepped forward slightly.

“At some point, delay becomes strategy.”

Farley’s jaw tightened, but he remained silent.

Gyan continued.

“My client has complied with discovery. My client has appeared for deposition. My client has endured public insinuation.”

He paused.

“What my client has not received is resolution.”

The judge leaned forward.

“Counsel, are you alleging bad faith?”

“I am alleging prejudice,” Gyan replied calmly. “Prejudice to my client’s professional standing. Prejudice to contractual certainty. Prejudice to reputation.”

He let the word linger.

“…and I respectfully request that the Court deny the motion for continuance.”

Silence.

Then Gyan added:

“Further, Your Honor, in the interest of judicial economy, we move that the Court compel mediation.”

That shifted the air.

Farley glanced at his notes, then at the WFE representative behind him.

He had not been instructed to address that.

The judge folded her hands.

“On what grounds?” she asked.

Gyan did not hesitate.

“Because this Court has indulged delay long enough. Because both parties have incurred significant expense…and because settlement discussions, to date, have been rejected without meaningful counteroffer.”

That last line landed harder than the rest.

Farley stood straighter.

“Your Honor,” he said carefully, “the defense has acted within procedural rules.”

“Procedural compliance is not the same as procedural efficiency,” Gyan replied evenly.

The judge’s gaze moved between them.

The clock ticked faintly in the background.

“Counsel for the defense,” the judge said finally, “how many continuances has this Court granted?”

Farley answered quietly.

“Three, Your Honor.”

“…and how much additional time is requested today?”

“Ninety days.”

There was a pause.

A long one.

“The Court is disinclined,” the judge said slowly, “to extend this matter further absent compelling cause.”

Farley’s shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly.

“With respect to mediation,” the judge continued, turning to Gyan, “this Court has discretion.”

She looked back to both tables.

“This dispute has consumed significant judicial resources. I am prepared to deny the motion for continuance and refer the parties to mandatory mediation within thirty days.”

The room shifted.

Not chaos.

…but recognition.

Farley remained composed, but the flush at his collar betrayed him.

“Your Honor-” he began.

“The defense may object on the record,” the judge said evenly, “but the order stands.”

A soft murmur filled the gallery.

The gavel did not need to strike hard.

“Motion for continuance denied. Matter referred to mediation.”

The day was over.

…but the pressure had just increased.

Outside the courthouse, the winter air felt sharper than before.

Inside WFE headquarters, the definition of “winning” was narrowing.

Bow Wow Castle Complex, February 22, 2023

02:46 local time,
City of Cuyahoga Castles, Sovereignty of Ohio, UCSS

The room was too hot.

Then too cold.

Then too dry.

Evie stared at the little dial on the space heater like it had personally offended her.

“Three is too much. Two is not enough. How is this so hard?” she muttered.

She rolled onto her back.

The ceiling didn’t offer answers.

Her brain refused to power down.

Eventually she sighed, sat up, and reached for her tablet.

“If I’m awake, I might as well earn the hug,” she whispered to herself.

She opened the folder:

Goldstein- Jackhammer Instances (Flagged)

Rows of bookmarked videos. Timestamps. Notes.

She hit play.

Goldstein lifted an opponent vertically. Crowd roaring. Commentary hyping impact.

He dropped.

The move landed clean.

She rewound it.

Played it again.

Paused on the lift.

Elian’s voice echoed in her head:

“We’re not investigating whether Goldstein made a mistake. We’re investigating whether the environment made that mistake inevitable.”

That complicated everything.

It was easy to spot wobble.

It was harder to spot pressure.

She opened another clip.

Different opponent. Different year.

Goldstein hit the jackhammer perfectly.

Crowd exploded.

Commentary called it “devastating.”

She paused the frame mid-lift.

What changes between these and the fatal one?

Fatigue?
Ring positioning?
Crowd energy?
Production timing?

Booking.

That word hovered in her mind.

If Vince had demanded escalation…
If the segment was rushed…
If rehearsal time was cut…

Those things wouldn’t show up in a move.

They would show up in context.

She chewed on her lip.

She could call Elian.

…but it was nearly three in the morning.

…and he had kids.

She scrolled to Burrow’s contact.

He would answer.

He probably wasn’t sleeping anyway.

She hesitated.

Burrow was an Ops officer. Tactical. Direct.

Not trained in parsing institutional liability.

…but he knew wrestling mechanics inside and out.

…and right now, mechanics were her problem.

She pressed call.

It rang twice.

“Evie?” Burrow’s voice was thick with sleep- but alert underneath. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “Sorry. I just… I need help.”

A pause.

“Is this about the jackhammers?”

“Yes.”

He sighed softly- not annoyed. Just resigned.

“Okay. What’s the question?”

“I can see when he botches,” she said. “That part’s obvious. But I don’t know how to tell if the botch is his fault… or if the setup made it more likely.”

There was silence on the line.

Burrow shifted.

“That’s not a simple question.”

“I know.”

Another pause.

“You watching the older ones?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you comparing pacing?”

Evie blinked.

“Pacing?”

“Look at how long he holds the vertical lift. Look at whether commentary builds suspense. Look at whether there’s a delay before impact.”

She rewound a clip.

Goldstein held the opponent up for nearly three seconds. Crowd screaming.

“That’s showmanship,” Burrow said, “but it also increases instability.”

Evie scribbled notes.

“So escalation equals higher risk?”

“Usually,” Burrow said. “The more dramatic the hold, the harder the control.”

She pulled up the fatal segment in another window.

“Was there time pressure?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Burrow said. “That whole show felt rushed.”

“How can you tell?”

“Match lengths. Backstage segments bleeding over. Commentary talking fast. You could feel production scrambling.”

Evie leaned forward.

“Production scrambling means less rehearsal.”

“Could,” Burrow said. “Doesn’t prove it, but it’s a flag.”

She stared at the freeze frame of Goldstein mid-lift.

“I’m not trying to hang him,” she said quietly.

“I know.”

“I’m trying to understand if someone above him made this more likely.”

Burrow’s tone shifted slightly.

“Then don’t just watch the move,” he said. “Watch the segment before it. Who pitched it? Who hyped it? Was it built last-minute?”

Evie swallowed.

“That’s harder.”

“Yeah,” Burrow said. “Because that’s politics.”

Silence hung between them.

“You shouldn’t be doing this alone at three in the morning,” he added.

She gave a small, sheepish smile even though he couldn’t see it.

“My heater won’t cooperate.”

He chuckled softly.

“Set it at two and use a blanket.”

“Helpful.”

“Call me tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll go through the big ones together.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Evie?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re thinking like an investigator.”

She blinked.

“I am?”

“You’re not asking ‘who dropped her.’ You’re asking ‘why was she in the air that long.’”

That landed.

She looked back at the screen.

The move.

The hold.

The crowd.

The delay.

“I’ll call you later,” she said.

“Try to sleep,” he replied.

The call ended.

The room was still slightly too cold.

…but her thoughts were warmer now.

Not because the answer was clear.

…but because the question had sharpened.

Peace Field Coordination Office- Cleveland, February 22, 2023

14:23 local time,
City of Cuyahoga Castles, Sovereignty of Ohio, UCSS

The bullpen hummed softly with printers, keyboards, and low conversation.

Evie’s tablet was still open.

Paused mid-lift.

Her head was resting sideways on a stack of printed transcripts.

Elian noticed it from across the room.

He didn’t call her name.

He walked over quietly and tapped the edge of the desk.

“Evie.”

She jolted upright instantly.

“I’m so sorry!” she blurted, already half-standing. “I didn’t mean to- I wasn’t slacking, I was just-”

“Hey,” Elian said calmly, holding up a hand. “Breathe.”

She blinked rapidly, trying to orient herself.

“I wasn’t trying to sleep.”

“I know.”

Her hair was slightly flattened on one side. She noticed and tried to fix it, embarrassed.

“I had a hard time sleeping,” she admitted quickly. “My heater won’t stay at the right temperature and I ended up reviewing jackhammer footage.”

Elian’s eyebrow lifted slightly.

“At three in the morning?”

“…Maybe.”

He didn’t scold her.

Instead, he pulled a chair over and sat down beside her desk.

“Still stuck?” he asked.

Evie nodded.

“I can tell when it looks wrong,” she said, “but I don’t know enough about wrestling to contextualize the matches. I don’t know if a shaky lift is fatigue or bad booking or pressure or just… randomness.”

Elian leaned back slightly.

“You’re overloading yourself.”

She frowned.

“I don’t want to miss something.”

“You won’t,” he said evenly. “Because you’re not the one making the final call.”

She blinked.

“…I’m not?”

“No.”

He gestured toward her tablet.

“Your job is to curate. Narrow. Flag.”

“Not decide?”

“Not decide.”

She processed that.

“I thought I was supposed to separate good jackhammers from bad ones.”

Elian shook his head.

“You’re supposed to separate ordinary from anomalous.”

That clicked.

“We’ll watch your flagged list,” he continued. “Norah will. I will. Probably two other investigators. We’ll make independent assessments.”

Evie tilted her head.

“Then why am I watching all of them?”

“Because investigators don’t want to watch two hundred jackhammers if they don’t have to,” Elian said plainly.

She gave a small, reluctant nod.

“So I’m the filter.”

“You’re the starting point.”

That sounded better.

Elian leaned forward slightly.

“This part of your assignment is a little beyond what most interns would handle.”

Evie’s posture straightened a fraction.

“…but,” he added, “I see potential.”

She tried not to let that show too much.

“I want to test that potential,” he said.

Her eyes sharpened.

“You don’t need to become a wrestling expert,” he continued. “You need to identify patterns.”

She exhaled.

“That’s manageable.”

“Yes.”

He softened slightly.

“…and this won’t be the last time you study something you barely understand.”

She frowned slightly.

“It won’t?”

He gave a faint smirk.

“This is why Spencer Reid isn’t real and why we have a team, Evie.”

She huffed a quiet laugh despite herself.

“You’re not supposed to know everything,” he said. “You’re supposed to collaborate.”

The weight on her shoulders eased.

“So I’m not failing?”

“You’re overthinking.”

He stood.

“Go for a walk. Get coffee. Splash water on your face. Whatever wakes you up.”

She nodded quickly.

“…and next time you’re sleepy,” he added, “come talk to me. Don’t pass out at your desk.”

A faint blush returned to her cheeks.

“Yes, sir.”

He looked at her.

“…Elian,” she corrected quickly.

He gave her a small nod of approval.

As she gathered her things, the embarrassment faded.

In its place was something steadier.

She wasn’t being asked to be brilliant.

She was being asked to be thorough.

…and that, she could do.

The Awesome Towers, February 23, 2023

06:19 local time,
City of Gotham Hill, Gotham Grand Sovereignty, UCSS

Sunrise hadn’t fully broken over Gotham Hill when Farley Dickens stepped off the elevator.

He had barely slept.

The summons had come at 5:12 a.m.

No agenda. No context. Just:

Be here.

Farley walked into Vince’s office to find him already pacing.

Two associates from the WFE legal team stood near the wall, tablets in hand, silent observers.

Vince didn’t offer coffee. Or pleasantries.

“What happened in Columbus?” he demanded.

Farley set his briefcase down slowly.

“The judge denied the continuance.”

“I know that,” Vince snapped. “Why?”

Farley kept his tone even.

“Because we’ve requested three already…and because the optics have shifted.”

Vince’s eyes narrowed.

“Optics.”

“Yes.”

Vince stopped pacing.

“This is about Carney,” he said. “He’s turning this into a public spectacle.”

Farley didn’t contradict him.

“…but the court doesn’t care about spectacle,” Farley replied. “It cares about docket management and perceived delay.”

Vince scoffed.

“I’m not losing to Paul Carney.”

Farley took a breath.

“This isn’t about losing to him.”

Vince stared at him.

“It’s about avoiding a loss that compounds.”

Silence.

Farley continued.

“You are not in a position of leverage.”

That landed harder than anything else.

Vince’s jaw tightened.

“I built this company.”

“Yes,” Farley said calmly, “and right now that company is facing simultaneous legal exposure.”

He began counting on his fingers.

“The IWC litigation.”

“The potential wrongful death suit in Borealis Bay.”

“The possibility of personal claims.”

“…and heightened scrutiny from Peace.”

Vince didn’t interrupt.

Farley pressed carefully.

“The continuance motion had a high likelihood of failing.”

“You didn’t tell me that.”

“I did,” Farley said evenly. “I told you it was a risk.”

Vince turned toward the window.

“…and now?”

“Now the court has compelled mediation.”

Vince exhaled sharply.

“They’re forcing us into a room with Carney.”

“They’re forcing both parties,” Farley corrected.

Vince turned back.

“I don’t settle from weakness.”

Farley met his eyes directly.

“Victory right now is not domination.”

Vince’s stare hardened.

“Victory,” Farley said carefully, “is avoiding total collapse.”

The words hung in the air.

This wasn’t Claudia reframing strategy.

This was a trial attorney telling him bluntly that the board was shrinking.

Farley softened his tone slightly.

“The IWC case is consuming bandwidth.”

Vince didn’t respond.

“You have another legal battle forming,” Farley continued. “One that carries far more public volatility.”

Genevieve Horton.

He didn’t need to say her name.

“Carney is opportunistic,” Vince muttered.

“Yes,” Farley said. “But he’s also prepared.”

Another silence.

“If we proceed to mediation,” Farley continued, “we control tone. We cap exposure. We shift the narrative toward reform.”

“…and if I refuse?” Vince asked.

“Then you risk trial under hostile optics.”

Vince sat down slowly.

The anger hadn’t disappeared.

…but it was no longer flaring.

It was calculating.

Farley didn’t push further.

He waited.

Finally, Vince spoke.

“…See what they offer.”

Farley nodded once.

“We’ll engage in good faith.”

Vince shot him a look.

“Don’t mistake that for surrender.”

“I won’t,” Farley replied.

He gathered his briefcase.

As he exited, the legal associates followed.

The office fell quiet.

For the first time since the crisis began, Vince wasn’t plotting escalation.

He was managing containment.

…and to him, that felt dangerously close to losing.

The Awesome Towers, February 23, 2023

10:49 local time,
City of Gotham Hill, Gotham Grand Sovereignty, UCSS

The boardroom was glass on three sides.

Sunlight cut across the polished table, clean and clinical.

At the head sat Vince McGeady.

To his right, Aiden.

Across from them- eight directors.

Independent. Institutional. Longtime loyalists. A former media executive. A private equity appointee. Two who had never once publicly contradicted Vince.

Until now.

The quarterly packet sat unopened in front of most of them.

This was not about quarterly performance.

The Chair of the Governance Committee cleared her throat.

“We need to discuss exposure.”

Vince leaned back.

“We’re handling exposure.”

A director from the private equity bloc spoke next.

“The mediation order changes posture.”

Vince didn’t blink.

“It changes nothing.”

“It changes leverage,” the director replied calmly.

Aiden shifted slightly.

“We still control the vote,” Aiden said. “Ninety-two percent.”

He didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t need to.

Everyone in the room knew the structure:

• Class A: public, one vote per share.
• Class B: founder-controlled, ten votes per share.
• Vince: 72% voting control.
• Aiden: 20%.
• The rest: symbolic in governance, powerful in optics.

A media executive on the board folded her hands.

“This isn’t a vote discussion.”

Vince’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Then what is it?”

“It’s a survivability discussion.”

Silence.

Another director leaned forward.

“Stock volatility is accelerating.”

Vince waved that off.

“Temporary.”

“Maybe,” the director replied. “Maybe not.”

The Governance Chair spoke again.

“We’re not questioning your ownership.”

There it was.

Ownership.

Not leadership.

“…but we are questioning operational strategy.”

Aiden stiffened slightly.

“What are you implying?” he asked.

The Chair held eye contact.

“We need to consider structural reforms.”

“Reforms?” Vince repeated.

“Yes. Independent compliance oversight. Safety protocol review. External risk audit.”

Vince gave a small, humorless smile.

“You want to neuter the company.”

“We want to stabilize it.”

A long silence followed.

Vince felt something unfamiliar in the room.

Not rebellion.

Distance.

One of the older directors- someone who had served since the early expansion years- finally spoke.

“No one here is trying to remove you.”

The sentence was careful.

…but it contained the word remove.

Vince heard it.

“…but we are concerned,” the director continued, “about concentration of decision-making.”

Aiden leaned forward now.

“Are you suggesting we dilute voting rights?”

“No,” the PE director replied. “We’re suggesting perception risk.”

Perception.

That word again.

“Investors,” the PE director continued, “are beginning to question governance.”

“They can question all they want,” Vince said flatly. “They don’t control the vote.”

“No,” the director agreed. “They control capital.”

That one landed.

Vince didn’t respond immediately.

The Governance Chair spoke softly.

“If sponsor attrition continues, if litigation expands, if regulatory scrutiny increases—”

“It hasn’t,” Vince interrupted.

“-if,” she continued evenly, “it increases, lenders may revisit covenants.”

The room grew quieter.

That was real.

Debt agreements did not care about pride.

Vince folded his hands on the table.

“You’re overreacting.”

“Possibly,” the Chair said. “That’s our job.”

A beat.

“We recommend forming a temporary Special Oversight Committee.”

There it was.

Not removal.

Containment.

“Advisory only,” she added.

Vince looked at Aiden.

Aiden’s jaw was set.

“We have 92% of the vote between us,” Aiden said evenly.

“Yes,” the PE director replied, “but not 92% of the balance sheet.”

Silence.

Vince could feel it now.

Not loss of control.

…but loss of unquestioned confidence.

That was worse.

He stood slowly.

“You’ll get your committee,” he said at last.

The room relaxed — barely.

“…but understand something,” Vince added. “This company does not exist without vision.”

“No one is disputing that,” the Chair said.

…but no one affirmed it either.

As the meeting adjourned, directors gathered their folders in controlled silence.

Aiden stayed seated.

Vince remained standing at the head of the table, looking out over the skyline.

He still had the votes.

He still had control.

…but for the first time, he understood something instinctively:

The board couldn’t remove him.

…but they could outlast him.

…and that felt dangerously close to the same thing.

Warrior Wrestling School, Cleveland, February 23, 2023

14:19 local time,
Cleveland, Sovereignty of Ohio, UCSS

The ring ropes creaked under movement.

Warrior Wrestling School felt quieter than usual. No full classes. No touring talent cycling through. Just the low hum of fluorescent lights and the soft echo of boots on canvas.

Ruby Lee circled first.

Zasaramel mirrored her.

No crowd. No entrance music. No cameras.

Just footwork.

They locked up.

Ruby tested leverage. Zas countered smoothly, transitioning into a wrist control before releasing. They reset without ego.

This wasn’t spectacle.

It was grounding.

Ringside, Raven leaned forward against the apron, chin resting on folded arms. Her eyes tracked everything- foot placement, breathing, rhythm. There was something hypnotic about it when stripped of noise.

Ruby slipped behind Zas and attempted a waist lock. Zas dropped weight, rolled through, and they separated again.

They both exhaled.

It had been too long.

Not performing.

Moving.

Halfway through the next exchange, a knock echoed faintly through the facility.

Raven glanced toward the front door.

Another knock.

Zas and Ruby disengaged.

“I’ve got it,” Raven called, already moving.

She padded across the concrete floor and opened the gym door.

Roman Cesar stood there, gym bag slung over one shoulder.

No entourage. No cameras. No production assistant.

Just Roman.

Raven blinked once- surprised- then smiled.

“You look restless.”

Roman smirked slightly.

“Is it that obvious?”

She stepped aside.

“Always.”

Roman walked in, the scent of cold air following him.

He paused when he saw the ring.

Zas and Ruby were already watching him.

“Thought you were enjoying the time off,” Zas said evenly.

Roman shrugged.

“I was.”

A beat.

“Then I wasn’t.”

He dropped his bag near the wall.

“I’ve been home. With my wife. My kids. The dogs. The turtles. The goats.” He shook his head faintly. “It’s good. It’s grounding.”

“…and?” Ruby asked.

“…and I still feel like I’m pacing.”

Zas stepped forward, leaning casually against the ropes.

“You always were a ring animal.”

Roman’s eyes shifted to him.

“You’ve always been a dream opponent,” Roman said simply.

That hung in the air.

Zas tilted his head slightly.

“Sign with the IWC,” he said. “Make it real.”

Roman’s mouth curved into a small smirk.

“We’ll see.”

Raven watched that exchange carefully.

There was no hostility in it.

Just possibility.

Roman stepped up to the apron and gripped the rope.

“You sparring?” he asked.

“Always,” Ruby replied.

Roman entered the ring in one smooth motion.

The canvas felt different under his boots than a WFE ring.

Softer.

Quieter.

He rolled his shoulders once.

Zas met him at center.

No handshake.

Just eye contact.

They circled.

The room felt smaller now.

Roman reached first- a collar-and-elbow tie-up that wasn’t explosive, but firm.

Zas absorbed the pressure, pivoted, testing balance.

Raven felt it immediately.

This wasn’t about showmanship.

It was about calibration.

Roman pushed harder.

Zas grounded.

Neither yielded.

Ruby leaned on the ropes, watching with interest.

Outside the IWC was on hiatus.

The WFE was suspended.

Sponsors were fleeing.

Courts were filling.

…but inside that ring, for a moment, there was no mediation.

No board vote.

No litigation.

Just two men measuring each other.

Roman broke first, stepping back.

“Yeah,” he muttered under his breath.

Zas didn’t smile.

“Again.”

They locked up once more.

…and Raven- watching from ringside- realized she wasn’t just enamored with wrestling.

She was witnessing a crossroads.

The air in the gym shifted.

What began as controlled sparring had sharpened.

Roman and Zasaramel circled tighter now, footwork quicker, grips firmer. The ring ropes creaked under momentum. Boots thudded against canvas in rhythmic bursts.

Roman shot in low. Zas sprawled cleanly, pivoting into a front facelock before Roman slipped free and reset.

Neither man was smiling anymore.

This wasn’t performance.

It was expression.

Roman felt it in his lungs- the freedom. No agent in his ear. No producer counting down. No camera cues. No time limit. No commercial break to hit.

Just motion.

Zas locked up again and leaned into him.

“You’re holding back,” Zas muttered low enough that only Roman could hear.

Roman’s eyebrow twitched.

“You think I’m holding back?”

Zas didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Roman exhaled once- then surged.

The next exchange was faster. Harder.

Roman drove Zas into the corner with force that rattled the turnbuckles. Zas twisted out at the last second, snapping Roman into a tight waist lock before Roman broke with a sharp elbow and spun free.

Ruby’s eyes lit slightly.

There it is.

Roman’s pace increased- not reckless, but unapologetic. His strikes were still controlled, but no longer cautious. He wasn’t auditioning. He wasn’t protecting an image.

He was working.

Zas absorbed it, matched it.

They crashed into a collar tie-up that felt closer to a real bout than a drill.

Ringside, Raven felt her pulse quicken.

It wasn’t the spectacle she’d seen on screens.

It was something rawer.

Sweat. Breath. Friction.

“You see it?” Ruby asked quietly from beside her.

Raven nodded without realizing she had.

“They’re not performing,” Raven said.

“No,” Ruby replied. “They’re searching.”

In the ring, Roman drove Zas down with a heavy shoulder block. Zas popped back up immediately, eyes sharp.

“Better,” Zas said under his breath.

Roman didn’t answer this time.

He just moved.

Ruby glanced at Raven again.

“You want to try?”

Raven blinked.

“Try what?”

Ruby gestured toward the second ring across the gym.

“Feeling it.”

Raven hesitated.

“I don’t have gear.”

Ruby shrugged.

“Doesn’t matter.”

She nodded toward a hallway near the back of the facility.

“Storage room.”

Raven followed her down the short corridor.

Ruby pushed open the door.

Inside, racks lined the walls- neatly folded sports bras, singlets, leotards, trunks, training shorts. Nothing flashy. Nothing theatrical. Just functional gear for new trainees figuring out their footing.

“People start somewhere,” Ruby said simply.

Raven ran her fingers along the fabric of a few options.

“You’re serious,” Raven said.

“Very.”

Raven let out a quiet breath.

“What if I look ridiculous?”

Ruby smirked.

“Everyone does at first.”

Raven gave a small, nervous laugh.

“Pick something you can move in,” Ruby added. “You’re not auditioning.”

Raven selected a simple set- practical, snug, not ornamental.

“Meet me at the other ring,” Ruby said.

Raven nodded.

As she stepped back into the hallway to change, the sound of Roman and Zas crashing into the mat echoed through the building.

For the first time, Raven wasn’t just watching a crossroads.

She was stepping toward one.

Raven stepped through the ropes carefully.

The canvas felt firmer than she expected.

She adjusted the waistband slightly, tugging once at the sports bra.

Ruby leaned against the ropes, studying her.

“How’s it feel?”

Raven rolled her shoulders.

“…Not one hundred percent.”

Ruby smirked.

“It never does.”

Raven raised an eyebrow.

“Serious wrestlers get their gear custom-made,” Ruby explained. “Measured. Fitted. Reinforced. What you’re wearing is for people figuring out if they even like this.”

Raven exhaled softly.

“Okay.”

Ruby stepped toward center ring.

“Lock up.”

Raven hesitated half a second- then stepped forward.

They tied up.

Ruby immediately felt it.

Raven wasn’t stiff.

She shifted her weight instinctively, hips turning, feet adjusting. Not textbook- but aware. When Ruby tried to guide her into a basic wrist control, Raven rotated her elbow subtly to relieve pressure.

Ruby’s eyes sharpened.

“You’ve done this before.”

“Not wrestling,” Raven said. “Combat training. Some self-defense.”

That explained it.

They circled again.

Raven’s stance wasn’t theatrical. It was grounded. Balanced.

She moved a little like Zasaramel- angular, calculating, reacting rather than lunging.

…but not as efficient.

Where Zas economized motion, Raven sometimes over-rotated. Where Zas conserved energy, Raven compensated with enthusiasm.

Ruby shot for a simple waist lock.

Raven dropped her base, shifted, and nearly reversed the position.

Ruby laughed softly.

“Okay.”

They reset.

Ruby picked up the pace slightly- not aggressive, but testing.

Raven responded well. Her timing wasn’t perfect, but her instincts were sharp. When she stumbled slightly on a pivot, she corrected without panic.

After a few exchanges, Ruby broke contact and stepped back.

“You’re not starting from zero,” Ruby said.

Raven wiped a strand of hair from her face.

“I’m not?”

“No.”

Ruby crossed her arms.

“With actual training? You could be very good.”

Raven blinked.

“That’s not flattery?”

Ruby shook her head.

“I don’t waste that.”

Raven glanced across the gym.

In the other ring, Roman and Zasaramel were still going- harder now. Sweat visible. Breath heavier.

It looked intense.

It also looked… alive.

Raven shifted her weight.

“It looks like fun,” she admitted.

Ruby smiled faintly.

“It is.”

Raven looked down at her hands, flexing her fingers.

“I like my job,” she said. “The King’s Harem. The performance. The control.”

Ruby didn’t interrupt.

“…but…” Raven added.

“…but,” Ruby echoed.

Raven glanced back at the ring.

“There’s something about this.”

“Ownership,” Ruby said quietly.

Raven considered that word.

“Maybe,” she said.

Ruby stepped closer.

“If you wanted to try this seriously, you wouldn’t be the first person to change paths.”

Raven exhaled.

“I don’t know if I’m built for it.”

Ruby tilted her head.

“You’re already built for impact,” she said. “You just don’t know it yet.”

Across the gym, Roman hit the mat hard and rolled through into a clean recovery.

Zasaramel nodded approvingly.

Raven watched them- then looked back at Ruby.

“…Okay,” Raven said quietly. “Maybe I try.”

Ruby’s expression shifted — not excitement.

Recognition.

“Then we start slow,” Ruby said. “Footwork. Balance. Breathing.”

Raven nodded.

For the first time since the chaos began- lawsuits, funerals, suspensions, boardrooms-

The ring didn’t feel like danger.

It felt like possibility.

Horseshoe Island General Hospital, February 23, 2023

17:31 local time,
Borealis Bay, Republic of Sǫ̀mbak’è

The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and warmed air.

Late afternoon light filtered through the tall window, pale against the snow outside.

Cesar Luis sat upright in his hospital bed, propped carefully by adjustable supports. A brace wrapped his midsection. Movement was deliberate. Measured.

Not natural.

The door opened slowly.

Boro stepped inside.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Cesar’s face lit up anyway.

“Hey,” Cesar said, voice softer than it used to be.

Boro crossed the room in three heavy steps.

He didn’t hesitate. He placed his palm gently against Cesar’s forearm.

Warm. Steady.

For Lizardfolk, touch was language.

For Cesar, it felt grounding.

“I’m glad you came,” Cesar said.

Boro’s voice was low, careful- learned speech layered over instinct.

“How are you feeling?”

Cesar let out a quiet breath.

“I don’t know.”

That wasn’t drama.

It was truth.

“They say it’s too early to tell,” Cesar continued. “Mobility might come back. Might not.”

He flexed his fingers slightly.

“They don’t know.”

Boro’s grip tightened just slightly- not crushing. Anchoring.

Cesar watched his friend carefully.

“I don’t blame Goldstein,” he said.

Boro’s eyes flickered.

“It was an accident.”

That word carried weight.

“I blame the change,” Cesar added. “Last-minute switch. No rehearsal.”

He stared at the ceiling briefly.

“That’s not on him.”

Boro nodded once.

“Has he come?” Boro asked.

Cesar shook his head.

“He’s called. More than once.”

That surprised Boro slightly.

“He’s apologized,” Cesar continued. “Said he wants to visit.”

“Do you want him to?”

Cesar paused.

“…I don’t know.”

That answer sat heavier.

Outside, wind pushed snow across the window.

Cesar’s gaze shifted downward.

“The doctors are honest,” he said quietly. “They don’t promise full mobility.”

Boro remained still.

“They say I might walk normally again. They say I might not.”

The air felt tighter now.

“My wrestling career is probably over.”

He said it plainly.

No theatrics.

“That’s not the hardest part.”

Boro’s hand remained steady.

“I’m Academy,” Cesar continued. “Which means I’m in Vince’s ecosystem.”

That phrase carried quiet bitterness.

“No insurance,” he added.

Boro’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“I’m not a Sǫ̀mbak’è citizen,” Cesar said. “So I don’t qualify for universal coverage here.”

He swallowed once.

“…and Castile doesn’t have it.”

There it was.

Not just injury.

Uncertainty.

Economic gravity.

“My future isn’t just physical,” Cesar said softly. “It’s financial.”

Boro leaned closer.

His other hand came to rest gently over Cesar’s wrist.

Not words.

Presence.

“You will not be alone,” Boro said.

Cesar looked at him.

“That’s not how this works.”

Boro held his gaze.

“It is.”

Cesar’s lips curved faintly.

“You always did think like that.”

Silence settled between them- not awkward.

Shared.

Outside, the sun dipped lower.

Inside, two former Combat Arts Academy partners sat in a hospital room that felt too quiet.

Cesar didn’t know if he would wrestle again.

He didn’t know if he would walk normally again.

…but in that moment, he knew something else:

The ring had taken something.

The system had taken more.

…and the bill hadn’t even arrived yet.

Bayou Heights, February 24, 2023

03:11 local time,
Pasadena, Harris County, Republic of Galveston

Charlie Moe was rumbling again.

Not a squeal. Not a panic.

A low, insistent grumble from the corner of the kitchen that meant one thing:

Feed me.

Carly Sweeting shuffled across the tile floor in oversized sleep shorts and a tank top, hair tied messily on top of her head.

“You just ate,” she muttered.

Charlie Moe snorted louder.

Carly set down three small plates.

The pig inspected them with dramatic suspicion.

Rejected the first.

Rejected the second.

Accepted the third.

“Of course,” Carly sighed.

She was halfway back to her bedroom when-

Knock.

She froze.

03:11.

Another knock.

Not pounding.

Firm.

Measured.

Carly’s hand moved automatically to the closet by the door. She pulled out a wooden baseball bat and approached slowly.

One breath.

She leaned toward the peephole.

Her shoulders relaxed immediately.

She lowered the bat.

“Boro?” she whispered.

She unlocked the door and opened it.

Boro stood there- massive silhouette against the dim porch light.

Before Carly could speak, Boro reached forward and grasped her forearm.

Immediate contact.

Immediate jolt.

Not pain.

Intensity.

Stress radiated through him like static.

Carly inhaled sharply.

Boro froze.

“I am sorry,” he said quickly. “I defaulted.”

Carly exhaled and steadied herself.

“It’s okay,” she said gently. “I know that wasn’t aggression.”

…but she could feel it.

Something was wrong.

“Come in,” she said.

Boro stepped inside, careful not to crowd the doorway.

Charlie Moe snorted suspiciously at the newcomer.

Boro glanced down briefly, curious but restrained.

Carly closed the door.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “You don’t knock on my door at three in the morning unless something serious happened.”

Boro nodded.

“I came from Horseshoe Island General.”

Carly’s face tightened.

“Cesar?”

Boro’s posture shifted slightly- subtle tightening along his shoulders.

“He is not well,” Boro said.

Carly swallowed.

“Physically?”

“Yes.”

“…and…?”

“He has no insurance.”

The words hung there.

Carly leaned against the kitchen counter slowly.

Boro continued.

“He may not regain full mobility.”

Silence filled the room.

Charlie Moe crunched loudly in the background, oblivious.

“I have already posted a sensory message,” Boro added.

Carly blinked.

“On your pages?”

“Yes. Human-facing and Lizardfolk-facing.”

Carly nodded faintly.

“…but I have not written words,” Boro said. “Humans require context.”

That almost made her smile.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “We do.”

“I want to help him,” Boro continued. “Immediately.”

Carly could feel the urgency radiating from him even without touch now.

“I am returning to Madagascar,” he said. “I will speak to my people.”

“You’re mobilizing the Clutchlands,” Carly realized.

“Yes.”

“…and you want Marcy.”

Boro’s eyes shifted to her.

“You know where she is.”

Carly hesitated.

“Humans don’t usually tell each other where someone is without asking them first.”

Boro tilted his head slightly.

“I do not wish to speak of this through a device.”

“That’s not how we-” Carly stopped herself.

She looked at him.

He wasn’t being invasive.

He was being literal.

“It’s urgent,” he said simply.

Carly stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him before she thought about it.

Boro stiffened for half a second- then relaxed.

The grounding effect was immediate.

She could feel the static dim.

“There,” she said softly. “You’re spiraling.”

He didn’t deny it.

After a moment, he stepped back.

“I should leave.”

“No,” Carly said instantly.

“You are tired.”

“I have a couch.”

“You have your life.”

“You’re not a burden.”

He hesitated.

She crossed her arms.

“…and you are not knocking on Marcy’s door at five in the morning.”

Boro blinked.

“That would be inefficient.”

“It would be rude.”

He considered that.

“…Understood.”

Charlie Moe snorted again.

Boro finally noticed him fully.

The pig stared back.

Carly pointed.

“That’s Charlie Moe.”

Boro crouched slightly, fascinated.

“You will like him,” Carly said.

Then she narrowed her eyes.

“Do not eat him.”

Boro let out a low, rumbling laugh.

“I would never consume a companion animal.”

“Good.”

Charlie Moe approached cautiously.

Sniffed Boro’s foot.

Approved.

Carly exhaled for what felt like the first time since the knock.

“You can stay,” she said again, softer now.

Boro nodded once.

“I will leave at sunrise.”

“Fine.”

She grabbed a blanket from the hallway closet and tossed it toward the couch.

“Tomorrow,” she said, “we write the caption.”

Boro nodded.

“For humans.”

“For humans.”

The house quieted.

Outside, Galveston humidity clung to the air.

Inside, grief was turning into action.

…and Boro, for the first time since leaving the hospital, felt steadier.

Libanona Beach Hotel, February 25, 2023

07:12 local time,
Taolagnaro, Mahafaly, Southern Gate of the Dinosanct Confederation

Morning light poured through the wide balcony doors.

The ocean shimmered beyond the palms, impossibly blue. The air carried salt and warmth and something prehistoric- a reminder that not far inland, enormous shapes still moved through protected sanctuaries older than most civilizations.

Madagascar felt free.

Marcy had returned to her rhythm.

Bare skin against sun.
Poolside laughter.
Shared meals with Lizardfolk friends who understood joy through proximity and sensation rather than performance.

She’d even taken guided tours deeper into the dinosaur sanctuaries- into tourist-safe corridors where massive herbivores grazed like living monuments. The scale of them made wrestling feel small.

Still.

The weight followed her.

She could sunbathe.
She could laugh.
She could float.

…but Genevieve was still gone.
The locker room was fractured.
Cesar was hurt.

Freedom felt thinner this time.

Marcy gathered a light wrap and sunscreen, preparing to head down to the beach when her hotel phone rang.

She paused.

Then smiled faintly when she saw the caller ID.

“Carly,” she answered. “You waited until sunrise this time.”

“Learned my lesson,” Carly replied.

Marcy could hear a shift in Carly’s tone.

“You’re not alone,” Marcy said, already knowing.

“Nope.”

There was a brief rustle, then Carly continued.

“Boro’s here.”

Marcy leaned against the balcony doorframe.

“Of course he is.”

Carly exhaled.

“He showed up at my house at three in the morning.”

Marcy laughed softly.

“That tracks.”

“I didn’t know Lizardfolk hated phones that much,” Carly added.

“They don’t hate them,” Marcy corrected gently. “They just don’t trust what they can’t feel.”

Carly went quiet for a moment.

“That explains a lot.”

Marcy adjusted the phone against her shoulder.

“This about the post he made?”

“Yeah.”

Marcy had seen it.

A vivid sensory reel- color gradients, slow hand movements, textured sound. It was beautiful.

Also confusing.

“I thought it was just… artistic,” Marcy admitted.

“It was a message,” Carly said.

“For Lizardfolk.”

Marcy’s expression changed.

“Cesar,” she said quietly.

“Yes.”

Carly explained.

Boro had visited the hospital.
Cesar’s mobility was uncertain.
There was no insurance.
No safety net.

Boro was mobilizing the Clutchlands.

He wanted help.

He wanted Marcy.

“If that’s all he wanted,” Marcy said calmly, “he could’ve bothered me at four in the morning.”

There was a small pause on the other end.

“You sure?” Carly asked.

“Yes.”

There was another shift, and Boro’s voice came through.

“Marcy.”

She smiled despite herself.

“Hey.”

Hearing her voice grounded him slightly- she could tell.

“I prefer to speak in person,” Boro said carefully.

“I know.”

“I will travel.”

“Call this number when you land,” Marcy said, glancing at the hotel placard. She read it off to him.

“I will.”

There was a brief silence.

“Thank you,” Boro added.

“For what?”

“For answering.”

Marcy softened.

“Always.”

Carly came back on the line.

“Is there a crowdfunding page yet?” Marcy asked immediately.

“No. Not yet.”

“There will be,” Marcy said, “and I’ll contribute.”

Carly hesitated.

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to.”

Another quiet beat.

“Okay,” Carly said.

They ended the call.

Marcy stood there for a moment, phone still in hand.

The ocean shimmered beyond the balcony.

Dinosaurs roamed not far from the coastline.

Laughter drifted up from the pool below.

…but the vacation no longer felt like escape.

It felt like a pause before action.

Marcy picked up her wrap again.

She would still go to the beach.

Still feel the sun.

Still breathe.

…but when Boro arrived-

This wouldn’t just be about serenity anymore.

It would be about responsibility.

McCrain Enterprises Facility, February 26, 2023

13:19 local time,
McCrain Corporate Lands, Ontario Outback

Wind swept across the private athletic track carved into the red earth of the Ontario Outback.

Kyle Edwards crossed the finish mark and bent forward, hands on knees, breathing hard- but controlled. No collapse. No instability. No hesitation.

Chesterton stood at the sideline, stopwatch in hand.

He clicked it off.

Kyle straightened slowly.

“Well?”

Chesterton checked the screen once more.

“This is the fastest time you have posted in the three months, fourteen days, sixteen hours, fifty-five minutes, thirty-eight seconds and four hundred and ninety milliseconds since your surgery.”

Kyle blinked.

“…Of course you know that.”

Chesterton’s trunk shifted faintly in what might have been amusement.

Kyle chuckled under his breath.

Elephant’s memory.

Bruce McCrain stood nearby, hands in his coat pockets, trying not to look too invested.

Thomas McCrain did not attempt to hide his investment.

Chesterton stepped toward them.

“In my professional estimation,” he said evenly, “Mr. Edwards has made a full recovery.”

Kyle exhaled.

Bruce did not. He let out something closer to a laugh- relief leaking through control.

“The run was the final benchmark,” Chesterton continued. “Speed, endurance, motor stability. All comparable to pre-surgical baselines.”

Thomas gave a single nod.

Kyle straightened fully now.

“So I’m… good?”

“Yes,” Chesterton replied.

Kyle looked out over the empty track.

He had once been a world-class soccer player.

The path had been obvious.

Until it wasn’t.

“Back to football?” Bruce asked lightly.

Kyle shook his head.

“I don’t know.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow.

Kyle glanced toward the training building.

“I’ve thought about wrestling.”

Bruce barked a laugh.

“Of course you have.”

Thomas studied him carefully but said nothing.

Bruce clapped Kyle on the shoulder.

“We’re celebrating,” Bruce declared.

Kyle grinned.

They walked off together, Bruce already talking about dinner plans.

Thomas remained on the track.

Chesterton stayed beside him.

Moments later, footsteps approached from the facility entrance.

Ralph emerged- upright, precise, canine posture alert but respectful. He carried a tablet tucked beneath one arm.

“Doctor,” Ralph said.

Thomas did not turn immediately.

“Yes?”

Ralph held out the tablet.

“A crowdfunding campaign has launched for Cesar Luis.”

Thomas finally looked at him.

“I am aware of the injury,” Thomas said.

Ralph nodded.

“There is discussion online,” Ralph continued carefully, “about whether you could perform the procedure you used on Roman Cesar and Mr. Edwards.”

Chesterton’s posture shifted subtly.

Thomas’ expression did not.

“I operated on Roman because Vince insisted,” Thomas said evenly, “and Roman insisted more forcefully.”

“…and Kyle?” Ralph asked.

“Kyle is Bruce’s friend.”

There was no softness in that answer.

Thomas finally turned fully toward them.

“Two successes do not make a standard protocol.”

Ralph hesitated.

“…but if the surgery worked twice-”

Chesterton stepped in calmly.

“The injuries were not identical.”

Ralph blinked.

“Roman and Kyle suffered compression-based mechanical damage,” Chesterton explained. “Spinal instability. Structural displacement.”

Ralph nodded slowly.

“Cesar’s injury,” Chesterton continued, “is within the spinal cord itself.”

A different tone.

Neurological.

“Mechanical reconstruction cannot repair neural disruption,” Chesterton added. “It would likely exacerbate it.”

Thomas’ jaw tightened faintly.

“I will not gamble on a third case simply because the optics are favorable,” he said quietly.

Ralph lowered the tablet slightly.

“He has no insurance,” Ralph said.

“I know.”

Silence settled over the track.

Thomas looked out toward the horizon.

“This procedure was experimental,” he said at last. “It remains experimental.”

Chesterton inclined his head.

“Hope,” Thomas added, “is not a surgical strategy.”

Ralph exhaled.

He was disappointed.

…but he understood.

“I will update the internal archive,” Ralph said.

Thomas nodded once.

Kyle’s laughter echoed faintly from the facility entrance.

Two successes.

One young man restored.

Another young man broken.

…and for the first time since Roman’s operation in 2020, Thomas felt something he disliked deeply:

Limits.

Dinosanct Confederation Forum, February 27, 2023

10:12 local time,
Antananarivo, Bara, Capital Hills of the Dinosanct Confederation

The Forum did not resemble any parliament Marcy had ever seen.

It was circular.

Open.

Layered in stone and living wood, carved from the hills themselves. Light filtered down from high skylights, refracted softly across scales and skin.

At the entrance, Marcy folded her clothes neatly into a designated alcove. Everything was sanitized. Everything deliberate.

Here, touch was language.

Clothing dulled language.

Nudity was not indulgence.

It was clarity.

Boro stood beside her, composed. For him, this was home terrain.

For Marcy, it felt like stepping into another species’ nervous system.

Benches curved around the center. Climate controls hummed softly- warmer and more humid than she preferred, but she’d been offered a small personal fan and cool cloths if needed.

As they entered, greetings began.

No words.

Just contact.

Forearms. Shoulders. Brief, full embraces.

Scents exchanged.

Postures adjusted.

Subtle muscular shifts conveyed mood.

Marcy couldn’t decode any of it.

…but she felt something undeniable:

Nothing here was false.

When a Lizardfolk’s body shifted, it meant something.

There was no separation between thought and signal.

At the center of the chamber stood a massive screen.

Not decorative.

Functional.

When the Forum began, it lit up.

Color cascaded across it in complex gradients- blues bleeding into gold, streaks of red vibrating at different frequencies. Low tones pulsed beneath higher harmonics.

Boro’s message.

Marcy sat at a smaller bench near the outer ring. A compact translation device rested in her hands. The laptop’s screen translated the visual and auditory patterns into structured English.

She had been instructed carefully:

Do not type until the display stills.
Do not interrupt the signal.
The Forum detests interruption.

Each Lizardfolk seat had a tactile buzzer embedded at the armrest. A touch would send their response to the central display.

The screen shifted through Boro’s plea.

Cesar Luis.
Injury.
Uncertainty.
Lack of communal protection.
Economic vulnerability.

The colors softened into deep violets and sympathetic greens.

The laptop rendered it simply:

Grief acknowledged.
Concern expressed.

Marcy’s throat tightened.

She had never seen empathy rendered as color.

She had never seen it without theatrics.

Overwhelmed, she glanced at Boro.

For the first time, she understood something quietly painful:

This is what it must feel like for him in human spaces.

Noise.
Language barriers.
Constant recalibration.

Something clicked inside her.

The screen stilled.

Silence.

Then one by one, Lizardfolk touched their buzzers.

Colors flared and settled.

The translation scrolled:

Clarify human medical structure.
Clarify obligation of employer.
Clarify citizenship limitations.

Marcy’s instinct was to type.

Her fingers hovered.

Too slow.

She would miss the next signal.

She leaned toward Boro instinctively and whispered, even though whispering meant nothing here.

“I’ll tell you. You say it.”

Boro took her hand gently.

“Speak.”

Marcy inhaled.

“In North America,” she said quietly, “health insurance isn’t automatic.”

Boro translated- not word-for-word, but sense-for-sense. The screen pulsed accordingly.

“Employers don’t have to provide it unless it’s negotiated in a contract. Some of us demanded it. Cesar didn’t. He’s new.”

Colors shifted.

Sharp orange confusion.

Marcy continued.

“He’s not a Sǫ̀mbak’è citizen, so he can’t use universal care beyond critical emergency services. Castile doesn’t provide universal coverage either.”

The translation scrolled:

Human systems fragment responsibility.
Individual bears burden.

“Yes,” Marcy said softly.

“When the hospital deems him stable enough to discharge, he’s on his own. Rehab. Mobility aids. Disability support. He can’t afford them.”

The chamber’s collective posture shifted.

A ripple of tension.

The idea itself disturbed them.

To the Lizardfolk, community was infrastructure.

Abandonment was aberration.

Several buzzers lit in protest colors.

The laptop translated dissent:

Caution: Precedent risk.
Humans may exploit.

Marcy stiffened slightly.

She understood that fear.

Boro responded carefully.

The translation appeared:

Cesar is not seeking system adoption.
He is kin-adjacent.
He is bonded to me.

The dissent diminished.

Votes registered.

Sympathy overrode caution.

At the highest bench, the Confederation leader rose.

Rhodony.

Broad-shouldered. Crest marked in darker scales. Movements slow but decisive.

The screen quieted entirely.

Rhodony’s posture conveyed proclamation.

The translation appeared:

Boro: is Cesar a bonded friend?

Boro stood tall.

“Yes.”

Depth of bond?

“Great.”

A pause.

Then:

Then by kinship extension, Cesar Luis is granted full citizenship within the Dinosanct Confederation.

Marcy blinked.

The translation continued:

No compulsion will follow.
No obligation will be imposed.
…but he will not be left without communal care.

The chamber’s collective posture settled into approval.

It was done.

No paperwork theatrics.

No committees.

A decision rooted in relationship.

Marcy sat frozen.

“Humans in Madagascar will accept this?” she whispered to Boro.

“Yes,” he said calmly. “The Malagasy nations recognize Confederation citizenship. There is no conflict.”

Marcy felt something close to awe.

Relief for Cesar flooded her.

…but something else surfaced beneath it.

Resentment.

Cesar had to be adopted by another civilization to be protected.

Because his own employer would not provide collective safeguards.

Because there was no union.

No shared bargaining power.

No communal insurance structure.

The Lizardfolk had extended citizenship.

The WFE had extended nothing.

As the Forum dissolved into tactile affirmations and quiet closure, Marcy stood there, the ocean wind faintly visible through high windows.

She was happy for Cesar.

Truly.

…but for the first time, she felt anger not just at a system-

-but at the absence of solidarity within her own.

Grand Buffalo Towers, February 28, 2023

14:56 local time,
Grand Buffalo Square, Buffalo, Niagara, UCSS

Paul Carney grinned like a kid on Christmas morning.

The package had just arrived.

He sliced it open with a letter opener and pulled back the cardboard flaps.

Inside was glory.

Buffalo Beasts 2023 Championship T-shirts.

Championship jackets.

Championship hats.

Even a pair of blue-and-red warmup pants with the Beasts logo stitched down the thigh.

Carney laughed quietly to himself.

“Oh, this is beautiful.”

He kept digging.

A replica championship trophy.

A commemorative banner.

Limited-run collector pins.

The team had sent him everything.

Carney always went all out for his favorite team, and his apartment already reflected that devotion. Banners hung along the walls. A signed football rested inside a glass case. A framed photograph from the championship parade dominated the far wall.

Now the new memorabilia joined the shrine.

Carney leaned back and admired the room.

“The Beasts love me better than my wives ever did.”

He poured himself a glass of wine into a Beasts-branded wine glass.

Naturally.

Then he dropped into his Beasts recliner and drummed his fingers against his Beasts-painted desk, the deep red lacquer gleaming under the afternoon light.

For a moment, everything felt perfect.

Then the Beasts-encased phone rang.

Carney glanced at the caller ID and picked up.

“Clara.”

“Paul.”

Clara Hendricks’ voice carried its usual calm confidence. As one of the IWC’s vice presidents- and its most trusted scouting mind- she rarely called without reason.

Carney chuckled.

“Before you say anything,” he said, “I apologize for the Beasts dismantling your beloved Saints.”

Clara laughed.

“I survived it.”

“Barely,” Carney said.

“…but I’m not calling about football.”

Carney straightened slightly.

“I’ve heard something interesting,” Clara continued.

“Oh?”

“Top WFE talent might become available soon.”

Carney’s eyes lit up.

Roman Cesar.

It had to be Roman.

He tried not to sound eager.

“Go on.”

“Magnolia Wine.”

Carney blinked.

Not Roman.

Magnolia.

“Her contract’s coming up,” Clara said, “and word is she may not extend.”

Carney leaned back slowly, wine glass hovering halfway to his lips.

Magnolia Wine.

One of the biggest stars in the WFE.

A centerpiece talent.

…and a personality who could electrify an arena.

Carney exhaled.

“I’m not sure we can match WFE money,” he admitted.

“Probably not,” Clara said.

“…but if she’s looking for something different…”

Carney looked around the room- Beasts banners, Beasts memorabilia, Beasts everything.

The IWC was smaller.

…but it was stable.

…and right now stability mattered.

“If Magnolia Wine jumps,” Carney said slowly, “we might have to move heaven and earth to make room.”

Clara let that sit.

“I’ll keep listening.”

“Please do,” Carney said.

“…and Clara?”

“Yes?”

“If Roman ever decides he’s tired of Vince’s circus…”

Clara smiled on the other end of the line.

“You’ll be the first to know.”

They ended the call.

Carney set the phone down and leaned back again in his recliner.

He took a long sip of wine.

The Beasts banner fluttered slightly in the air vent above him.

Championship season.

WFE chaos.

…and maybe- just maybe- a major signing opportunity.

Carney tapped his fingers against the desk again.

The wrestling world was shifting.

…and Paul Carney intended to be ready when it did.

Horseshoe Island General Hospital, March 1, 2023

13:21 local time,
Borealis Bay, Republic of Sǫ̀mbak’è

The hospital room was quiet except for the steady rhythm of machines.

Cesar Luis lay motionless in the bed, the thin blanket pulled to his chest. Tubes and wires ran from his body to the monitors beside him. The smell of antiseptic hung faintly in the air.

He had lost track of how many procedures he had undergone since the accident. Surgery. Tests. Imaging. Consultations. Every day seemed to blur into the next.

Doctors came and went, speaking carefully, never committing to certainty.

We need more time.

We’re still evaluating.

It’s too early to know.

The longer it went on, the more Cesar understood what that meant.

He stared at the ceiling, breathing slowly, trying not to dwell on the possibility that the life he knew might already be over.

A soft knock came at the door.

A nurse stepped in.

“Mr. Luis?” she said gently.

Cesar turned his head slightly.

“You have a visitor.”

He blinked.

“Who?”

The nurse hesitated for just a moment.

“William Goldstein.”

Cesar went still.

For several seconds he said nothing.

A hundred thoughts passed through his mind- the roar of the crowd, the impact, the sickening moment when everything went wrong.

He closed his eyes briefly.

Then he sighed.

“…Let him in.”

The nurse nodded and stepped out.

A moment later the door opened again.

William Goldstein walked into the room.

Without the stadium lights, the entrance music, the cameras, he looked different.

Smaller.

Older.

His shoulders were slumped, his eyes red and glassy. His hair was unkempt, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

He stopped just inside the doorway, as if unsure whether he even belonged there.

Cesar studied him quietly.

Goldstein finally stepped closer.

“…Hey,” he said weakly.

His voice cracked almost immediately.

“I… I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me.”

Cesar’s expression remained calm.

“You are here now.”

Goldstein nodded, swallowing hard.

He tried to keep himself composed.

He failed.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

The words came out fast, like they had been trapped in his chest.

“I’m so damn sorry, Cesar.”

His hands trembled.

“I thought I had it. I thought I could hit the jackhammer clean. I’ve done it a thousand times. I—”

His voice broke. Tears soon followed.

He looked down at the floor.

“I never meant for any of this to happen.”

Cesar watched him for a moment.

Then he spoke quietly.

“I know.”

Goldstein wiped at his eyes, embarrassed.

Cesar continued.

“I do not blame you.”

Goldstein looked up, confused.

Cesar shifted slightly in the bed. The movement made him wince, and the monitor beside him chirped softly.

After the pain settled, he went on.

“I blame Vince.”

Goldstein let out a hollow breath.

“…Yeah.”

Cesar gave a faint smile.

“When I became a wrestler, I knew the risks. These things can happen.”

He paused.

“…and besides… Vince never books foreigners like me very well anyway.”

Goldstein blinked.

For the first time since entering the room, he let out a quiet laugh.

“…Yeah,” he admitted. “You’re probably right about that.”

He shook his head.

“He’s more to blame than anyone. The whole thing should’ve been rehearsed.”

Goldstein rubbed the back of his neck.

“I just… I thought I could pull it off.”

Cesar nodded.

“I believe you.”

He met Goldstein’s eyes.

“…but if we had rehearsed it… we both know this accident could have been avoided.”

Goldstein didn’t argue.

They both understood that truth.

The room fell quiet for a moment.

Finally Cesar spoke again.

“So,” he said softly, “what will you do now?”

Goldstein looked at him blankly.

“I… don’t know.”

He sat down in the chair beside the bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

“I always figured I’d wrestle a few more years,” he said slowly.

“Then maybe move into producing. Help younger guys learn the business. Maybe work conventions. Sign autographs. Tell stories.”

He shrugged faintly.

“Maybe even take a corporate role with the WFE someday.”

He stared at the floor.

“I loved wrestling so much.”

His voice dropped.

“…but now it feels like wrestling doesn’t love me back.”

Cesar said nothing.

Goldstein continued.

“Roman hates me.”

He exhaled.

“…and honestly… I can’t blame him.”

He ran his hands through his hair.

“The locker room’s the same. I can feel it.”

He shook his head.

“I’ve burned so many bridges I can’t even cross the river anymore.”

His voice became bitter.

“I probably don’t have any friends left.”

He leaned back in the chair.

“My career’s over.”

The words came out flat.

“No promoter’s going to book a guy connected to a death.”

He swallowed hard.

“Even if Genevieve Horton’s death was an accident… nobody recovers from that.”

Cesar watched him carefully.

Then he spoke.

“Keep your head up.”

Goldstein didn’t respond.

Cesar continued quietly.

“I can see that you are a good man.”

Goldstein looked up.

“You made many mistakes,” Cesar said.

“…but that does not make you evil.”

He paused.

“It makes you human.”

The room was silent except for the steady beep of the monitor.

“…and humans,” Cesar said, “can recover.”

Goldstein stared at him, unsure what to say.

“Do not worry about the Romans of the world,” Cesar continued.

“Rebuild your life around the people who will still want to be part of it.”

He gave a faint smile.

“You have far more friends than you think.”

Goldstein’s eyes filled again.

He struggled to speak.

“Cesar… after everything that happened…”

Cesar interrupted gently.

“You are still my brother.”

Goldstein froze.

Cesar looked at him steadily.

“I do not know what kind of help I can give you right now.”

He gestured weakly toward the hospital equipment around him.

“…but whatever help I can give… I will.”

Goldstein wiped his eyes again.

“…Thank you.”

He stood slowly.

“I’ll help you too,” he said.

Cesar raised an eyebrow slightly.

Goldstein managed a small, tired smile.

“Because that’s what brothers do.”

The quiet in Cesar’s hospital room had settled again after Goldstein’s words.

Neither man spoke for a moment. The machines filled the silence.

Goldstein sat back in the chair, exhausted but calmer than when he had arrived.

A soft knock came at the door.

Both men looked up.

The door opened and Carly Sweeting stepped inside.

Behind her stood a tall, broad-shouldered Lizardfolk whose scaled skin carried the deep emerald and ochre tones typical of the Madagascar clutchlands. His posture was upright and deliberate, his movements slow and controlled.

Carly smiled gently when she saw Cesar awake.

“Hey,” she said softly.

Cesar’s face lit up.

“Carly.”

She stepped to the bedside and leaned down, kissing him lightly on the cheek.

“I brought some things.”

She set a woven basket on the table beside the bed. Inside were flowers, wrapped snacks, fruit, and several small gift packages.

“Nothing too crazy,” she said. “Just… things.”

Goldstein stood awkwardly when the two entered.

“I should probably-”

Cesar shook his head immediately.

“No.”

Goldstein paused.

“You should stay.”

Carly glanced at him, then nodded.

“That’s fine with me.”

The Lizardfolk also made no objection.

He stepped forward slightly and inclined his head.

“William Goldstein,” he said in slow but clear human speech. “Your presence is acknowledged.”

Goldstein blinked.

“…Thanks?”

Carly gestured toward the Lizardfolk.

“Cesar, this is Tharspin. He’s here as an official representative of the Dinosanct Confederation.”

Tharspin stepped closer to the bed.

His eyes — large, reflective, and amber-gold — studied Cesar carefully.

Then he spoke.

“Cesar Luis.”

Cesar looked at him, curious.

Tharspin continued.

“Two days ago the Confederation issued an official declaration.”

He paused, making sure the words came out clearly.

“You are now recognized as a citizen of the Dinosanct Confederation.”

Cesar stared at him.

“What?”

Tharspin nodded once.

“As a citizen, you are eligible for full state medical coverage.”

He gestured calmly toward the hospital equipment.

“Your current treatment. Future treatment. Rehabilitation.”

A beat passed.

“All of it will be covered.”

Cesar’s eyes widened.

Goldstein let out a quiet whistle.

Carly smiled softly.

“You’re not getting stuck with medical bills,” she said.

Cesar shook his head slowly.

“I… I didn’t even ask for that.”

Tharspin’s voice remained calm.

“The Confederation values loyalty and courage.”

He paused.

“…and those who stand beside our people.”

Cesar blinked again, overwhelmed.

Before he could respond, Carly reached into her bag.

“Oh, there’s something else.”

She pulled out her phone.

“Marcy asked me to play this for you.”

Cesar immediately understood.

“Marcy?”

Carly nodded.

“She and Boro recorded it this morning.”

She tapped the screen.

A video began playing.

The screen showed a warm tropical evening.

Palm trees swayed in the background and the faint glow of torches lit a poolside area somewhere in Madagascar.

Marcy Carter appeared first.

Her hair was pulled back and she looked tired but determined.

“Hey, Cesar,” she said gently.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come there myself.”

She sighed slightly.

“Honestly… I was worried the visit would turn into a circus. Media, contracts, Vince’s lawyers… the whole mess.”

She shook her head.

“I didn’t want to make things harder for you.”

She looked straight into the camera.

“…but I want you to know something.”

She gestured toward the background.

“I’ve been thinking about staying here in Madagascar.”

The camera shifted slightly.

“I’m looking at houses.”

Goldstein raised his eyebrows.

On the screen Marcy continued.

“If you want… I’d like you to come live with me.”

Cesar stared at the phone.

“I mean it,” she said.

“I’ll take care of everything.”

She smiled faintly.

“I can hire a caregiver when I’m on the road.”

Her voice softened.

“You won’t be alone.”

The camera moved slightly again.

Boro appeared beside her.

The Lizardfolk warrior leaned closer to the camera.

His large eyes focused intently.

“We wait for you,” he said.

The video ended.

The room fell silent.

Cesar’s eyes were wet.

He shook his head slowly.

“I don’t deserve all of this.”

Goldstein immediately spoke up.

“Yeah,” he said firmly.

“You do.”

Cesar looked at him.

Goldstein shrugged.

“Trust me. You do.”

Cesar turned to Carly.

“Can I call her?”

Carly pulled the phone back out.

“It might be night in Madagascar,” she warned. “I’m not sure she’ll pick up.”

She tapped the contact and held the phone up.

The screen rang.

Once.

Twice.

Then the call connected.

Marcy’s face appeared on the screen again.

The background music of a pool party could be faintly heard.

“Hey!” she said.

Her voice sounded a little surprised but happy.

“It’s almost midnight here but I’m still awake. I’m heading to another pool party later.”

Cesar laughed softly.

“You always liked the parties.”

Marcy smiled.

“You know it.”

Cesar took a breath.

“Marcy… thank you for everything you’re doing.”

His voice trembled slightly.

“…but you don’t have to do this.”

Marcy’s expression softened.

“Yes,” she said simply.

“I do.”

Cesar swallowed hard.

“…Is Boro there?”

Marcy turned the phone.

“Yeah, he’s right here.”

Boro leaned into the frame again.

“Cesar.”

Cesar smiled.

“I wish I could be there.”

He paused.

“I wish I could feel you like I used to.”

Everyone in the room understood what he meant.

Lizardfolk communication relied heavily on touch and sensory contact.

Boro tilted his head slightly.

“I feel you anyway.”

Cesar closed his eyes briefly.

When he opened them again he looked calmer.

“I don’t know when I’ll get out of this hospital,” he said.

“…but when I do…”

He smiled at the screen.

“I’ll call you.”

Marcy nodded.

“We’ll be here.”

Cesar smiled.

For once, a future that seemed so uncertain…

…no longer felt bleak.

To Be Continued...