Morning light streamed through the sheer curtains of James Wilson's apartment—the guy who handles the men's booker at ACW—casting a warm glow over the small dining table where he sat, cradling his usual cup of coffee. The rich aroma usually helped him feel grounded—dark roast, no sugar, just the right amount of bitterness to kickstart his brain. But this morning, his gaze wandered past the steam rising from his cup, landing on the folded newspaper resting next to it.
He opened it slowly, skimming the headlines out of habit. Politics. Markets. A minor scandal involving a city councillor.
Then, something caught his eye—a familiar acronym.
IRW.
James froze. He flipped the page completely, his eyes racing now, heart rate picking up. By the second paragraph, he nearly spat his coffee back into the cup.
IRW RETALIATES AGAINST NPJW — PROMOTION WAR SIGNALLED
His brow knitted together as he continued reading, the article packed with details that felt less like sports news and more like something out of a crime report.
NPJW had tried to pull off a surprise attack during IRW's live broadcast, allegedly sneaking into the crowd and taking on wrestlers right in the middle of the match. The scheme almost worked until the attackers were caught while trying to escape, exposed, and pushed back on live TV.
The broadcast cut off early—but not before IRW fans saw what many were already dubbing the first shot in a promotion war.
James swallowed hard, his gaze drifting down the column.
Later that night, five injured wrestlers were reportedly left tied up in front of a precinct in the New Japan area. IRW supporters launched a violent raid into NPJW territory, which ended with a fire at NPJW's makeshift arena.
As of the latest update, only one person had been arrested, and it was for something unrelated to the fire—public intoxication and indecent behavior.
James carefully folded the paper back down.
"So," he whispered to himself, his voice barely breaking the silence of the apartment. "It really happened."
He leaned back in his chair, staring blankly into space. Promotion Wars weren't exactly common—but when they did happen, they were dangerous and usually left a trail of destruction. Careers were cut short. Companies went under. Cities lost both money and goodwill.
And IRW—that very IRW, the one ACW had ridiculed just weeks ago—had jumped right into the chaos without a second thought.
James exhaled, a strange mix of disbelief and reluctant admiration curling in his chest.
After a moment, he stood, walked to the television, and turned it on. If the paper said this much, he wanted to see it himself.
-----
In a high-rise building across the city, Vince Maston found himself seated at the sleek, polished table of Vox's boardroom, his hands resting calmly in front of him. His injured hand was discreetly tucked away on his lap, the cast cleverly concealed beneath the table's edge.
Surrounding him were men and women dressed in sharp suits—some older, some more cautious—each one acutely aware that the man at the head of the table had been making headlines for the past twenty-four hours.
Not just as a businessman.
But as the owner of IRW.
And as the man whose recent promotion had sparked a whirlwind of chaos.
Vince could feel their tension like a low hum vibrating through the room, and it brought a subtle smile to his face.
"Let me be very clear," he said, his voice steady and authoritative enough to hush the rustling chairs. "Vox has been drifting. Playing it safe with conservative decisions, predictable programming, and returns that barely excite."
A few board members nodded, exchanging knowing glances.
"What I bring to the table," Vince continued, "is momentum. Attention. Yes, there's risk involved—but it's calculated risk. By the end of this fiscal year, Vox won't be scraping by on the remnants of old contracts. You'll be back in the driver's seat, leading the conversation once again."
One of the older board members cleared his throat. "Mr. Maston… with all the recent unrest surrounding IRW—"
Vince raised a hand gently, interrupting him without any hint of aggression. "I get it. You're concerned about instability. But here's the thing: instability drives demand. And demand? That creates leverage."
A hush fell over the room.
Vince leaned in a bit. "I promise you this: by the end of the year, your dividends will be at least ten times what they were last quarter."
That did the trick.
The tension in the room shifted—not in a dramatic way, but it definitely relaxed. People leaned back in their chairs. Someone let out a nervous chuckle. Another began jotting down notes. When the meeting finally wrapped up, board members left with smiles that had been absent when they walked in. A few even took a moment to shake Vince's hand on their way out, their earlier wariness replaced by a sense of optimism—or perhaps a hint of greed.
When Nicholas Branchett arrived just moments later, he noticed the change right away.
Board members passed him with unusually friendly expressions. One even gave him a pat on the shoulder, saying, "Exciting times ahead."
Nicholas paused outside the chairman's office, feeling a bit uneasy.
As he stepped inside, he found Vince standing by the window, flipping through a folder.
"You look like someone just sold your house and promised you a castle," Vince remarked without glancing up.
Nicholas managed a weak smile. "What did you say to them?"
Vince finally turned to face him, a hint of amusement in his expression. "It's nothing complicated. I just told them what they wanted to hear."
"That's… comforting," Nicholas replied, treading carefully.
Vince gestured for him to take a seat and then slid a stack of documents across the desk.
Nicholas glanced down, and his stomach dropped.
There they were—Vox's current deals: entertainment blocks, scripted shows, and some lackluster reality concepts. The red numbers next to the projected returns painted a grim picture.
"You already know what's up," Vince said softly. "Most of these need to go."
Nicholas leaned back in his chair, letting out a slow breath. "I figured this day would come. Cleaning up after the last regime was always part of the gig."
"I'm not about to settle for half-measures," Vince replied firmly. "Cut the dead weight. Open up the slots."
Nicholas studied him closely. "And what do we fill them with…?"
Vince's smile grew just a bit. "With things that people actually enjoy."
Nicholas hesitated for a moment. "You're thinking about IRW. But we've already signed a contract with them, so what then—"
"That's just one piece of the puzzle," Vince said. "Not the entire picture."
Nicholas felt a chill run through him—not fear, but a sense of anticipation. "You have a plan?"
"I do," Vince said, leaning back in his chair. "And if you're ready to build something instead of just patching up the old, I want you right in the middle of it."
Nicholas nodded slowly. "Alright, I'm all ears."