Two days after the show, Vince Maston sat, with Lance Dawson, in a small conference room at IRW, reviewing schedules and financial reports. The smell of burnt coffee directly penetrated the air, the kind that had been lingering in the pot for hours.
Lance tapped a pen against the table. "We've got two weeks until All In. That will be our first pay-per-view under your ownership. We have to stack it up."
Vince leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin. "We're already in a good place with momentum. Maya versus Tracey is a slam dunk. That title match is a lock for the PPV."
"I agree," Lance said. "What about the tag titles?"
"We will keep the triple threat momentum going next week," Vince said purposefully. "Tease tension, maybe have them explode in a brawl, but save the actual title match for All In. We want it to feel big."
Lance nodded. "And Mason?"
Vince chuckled lightly. "He's our guy. We can have him defend every week now to show he's dominant, but at All In, he gets a real challenger. Something that's not just an easy day."
Before Lance could respond, Vince's phone vibrated. Gavin Lindman was flashing across the screen. Vince answered on speaker.
"Gavin. What's up?"
"Just wanted to say," Gavin laughed, "that end to Maya's surprise, run in from last week? Holy shit Vince. That was perfect. I don't even watch wrestling every week anymore but that segment? Had me up out of my chair."
Vince laughed and looked over at Lance. "You hear that?"
"I heard," said Lance with a half-grin.
"Honestly, Gavin continued. "Social media can't stop buzzing about it. Even outside non-wrestling circles they picked it up. You got something there. Push her hard."
"Don't worry," Vince said. "I'm on it."
They exchanged pleasantries and hung up. Vince sighed as he stood from the table. "Okay. Let's get this all down in the next few days. All In is our opportunity to prove to everybody this isn't a fluke."
____
Vince went home—a small, high-rise apartment overlooking the skyline of Harborview. It wasn't really much of a home. It was more of an office than anything, with papers all over the dining table and his laptop never turned off on the couch. He threw his blazer on a chair, walked out onto the balcony, and lit a cigarette.
The view below was a blend of shimmering lights, distant wails of sirens, and the constant hum of cars coming and going. He inhaled deeply, combining the cigarette's nicotine with the cooler night air.
He thought of the show. He thought of the numbers. He thought that for the first time since entering this strange new world, things felt… balanced.
With a final puff, he dropped his cigarette butt in the ashtray, loosened his tie, and fell down onto the couch. Moments later, exhaustion washed over him and he fell asleep with the glow from Harborview's skyline spilling into the apartment through the balcony window.
A few Days Later--
Vince was seated with Mark Rivera in the booking office, surrounded by papers and whiteboards scattered about the room.
"Okay," Vince said, taking notes. "For next week's show: we are going to open with a tag segment. All three teams get involved. Let them go at it again, but keep the match for the PPV."
Mark nodded. "The crowd is there already. What about Maya and Tracey?"
"We run an in-ring promo," Vince said. "Maya gets on Tracey, Tracey gets on Maya, but it won't be long and drawn out. It is tense. To end it, they start a pull-apart brawl, just enough to sell the heat."
Mark made it a part of his notes. "Mason's defence?"
Vince paused again. "Darren Cole. He is athletic, he's flashy, and the crowd likes him. But—" Vince smirked slightly. "We can do something unexpected. Mason retains, but afterwards, he gets blindsided by a mystery attacker. Cliffhanger ending. We then reveal who it is next week to set up his All In challenger March."
Mark raised an eyebrow. "That's bold. I like it."
That evening, Vince took a walk through Harborview. He loved this city—the energy, the people, the way wrestling posters plastered every lamppost and corner shop window. It reminded him of why he chose IRW in the first place.
He passed Iron Gym, the training center affiliated with IRW. Inside, a handful of hopefuls were running drills under the watchful eye of Gus Bradley, the head trainer. One of them stood out—a young man in his early twenties, lean but athletic, his short brown hair slicked back with sweat.
Vince stepped in, leaning against the ropes as Gus noticed him.
"Boss," Gus greeted. "This here's Grant Austin. Just got accepted into the IRW training program."
Grant stopped mid-drill and approached, extending a hand. "Mr. Maston. It's an honor. I've been watching IRW since I was a kid. This… this means the world to me."
Vince shook his hand firmly. "Call me Vince. Welcome aboard."
Grant smiled nervously. "Thank you, sir. I won't let you down."
"Good," Vince said simply. "Work hard. Listen to Gus. You'll get your shot."