[Sunday Night Heat — October 1998]
The parking lot behind the Rose Garden in Portland was already humming hours before the doors opened. Production trucks lined the back entrance, cables snaking into the building like veins feeding a living thing. Every few seconds, another car or rental van pulled in — workers hauling their gear, agents barking into radios, stagehands wheeling crates full of ring skirts and lighting rigs.
From the far end of the lot, a black '98 Mustang rolled in slow, bass thumping.
Pantera's Walk spilled out of the cracked driver's side window.
(Third Person → First Person POV Shift)
I killed the engine and stepped out into the cold Oregon air, the sound of the arena generators a constant low rumble. Last night I was still some rookie name on the lower card. Tonight? I'm one more match closer to my first shot at gold.
Inside the building, the air was thick with the smells of sweat, leather, and whatever catering was serving — mostly stale coffee and a few trays of pasta. Sunday Night Heat was taped in a smaller, tighter setup than Raw, but the energy still bled through the walls.
Michael Cole: "This young man's been turning heads — J.J. Styles, the MMA-trained newcomer, two wins under his belt in the WWF."
Shane McMahon: "And tonight, he's up against a man with a chip on his shoulder — D'Lo Brown!"
The crowd popped when D'Lo's theme hit, his signature head shake in full swing. He jawed with some fans at ringside, European Championship belt draped over his shoulder — even though it wasn't on the line tonight. I watched him from the curtain, noting the swagger.
Then my music hit. Walk tore through the arena, the opening riff punching a hole through the chatter. The reaction was a notch bigger than last week — still not top-tier, but enough to know they were starting to get it.
Bell rings.
We circle, D'Lo trying to feel me out with quick jabs and footwork. I shoot low, hook a single leg, dump him hard on the mat. He scrambles to the ropes, eyes narrowing.
We lock up again — this time he slaps me across the back of the head on the break. I answer with a stiff forearm to the jaw. Crowd reacts with a sharp ooooh.
D'Lo with a snap scoop slam → quick leg drop.
I kick out at two, roll into a Kimura attempt, forcing him to grab the ropes.
Ref breaks it, D'Lo tries to cheap-shot me, but I duck and hit a German suplex.
The finish comes fast — D'Lo goes for the Sky High, I twist out mid-air, land behind him, and fire a Kinshasa so clean it echoes in the rafters.
1-2-3.
Shane McMahon: "That's three wins in a row for this kid!"
Michael Cole: "Styles just pinned the European Champion in a non-title match — that's a statement if I ever saw one!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm toweling off in the hallway when Marc Mero steps into my path, Sable a step behind him. Mero's still in street clothes, sunglasses on indoors.
Mero: "You think you're hot shit 'cause you got lucky twice?"
Me: "Luck's got nothing to do with it."
Sable's eyes linger a little too long before she follows him down the hall. I catch her glancing back. Noted.
[Between Heat and Raw]
The downtime between shows was always strange — the arena half-empty, crew swapping ring skirts and testing pyro while the boys milled around backstage. That's when I caught the first sign that something was shifting.
Vince was in the hallway, speaking with Kevin Dunn and an agent. When his eyes landed on me, he actually paused mid-sentence. Not the kind of look you get unless you've made some kind of impression.
He didn't say anything yet, but I filed it away.
I had a feeling he'd make his move soon.
[RAW IS WAR — October 1998]
By the time the Raw crew had the ring skirt changed and the pyro racks in place, the arena was packed to the rafters. Every seat filled, signs bobbing like a restless ocean — "AUSTIN 3:16", "D'LO SHAKES IT LIKE JELLO", "WHO IS J.J. STYLES?".
The opening pyro tore the roof off. Sparks rained down in a wall of white fire as the War Zone logo flashed on the TitanTron.
JR: "We are LIVE from Portland, Oregon, and folks, what a night it's gonna be — we've got Stone Cold Steve Austin, The Rock, Undertaker, Kane, all here tonight!"
King: "And maybe, just maybe, we'll see that kid everyone's been buzzing about — J.J. Styles."
I was already in my gear, pacing near Gorilla. My match was slotted for the second hour. That gave me time to study the monitors — watch the crowd, get a read on their mood.
Vince's corporate segment opened the night, him strutting to the ring with that smug look only he could pull off. He promised "more surprises, more competition, and more blood" heading toward Survivor Series. That last word hung in the air for me.
Hardcore Holly's music hit — he came out jawing at fans, rolling his shoulders, already looking like he wanted to knock my teeth out.
Walk blasted next, and I walked out slow, soaking in the mix of cheers and "Who are you?" chants. By the time I stepped through the ropes, Holly was already mouthing off.
Bell rings.
We tie up — Holly drives me into the corner, shoves a forearm into my throat, breaks on four just to get in my face.
I answer with a hard slap. Crowd pops.
We brawl early — fists, elbows, forearms.
At the five-minute mark, Holly takes me outside and whips me into the steel steps. The impact rattles my spine, but I roll away before he can follow up.
Back inside, I go for a Kinshasa — he sidesteps, and my knee clips the turnbuckle hard. Holly smells blood, starts stomping the leg.
We trade punches mid-ring, one of his catches me flush over the eyebrow. I feel the warm trickle almost instantly. JR calls it in real time —
JR: "Styles is busted wide open! Folks, that's no blade job — that's the real deal."
Crowd wakes up fully now. Blood dripping down my face, I duck a clothesline, hook the Kimura. He resists for a good twenty seconds before I wrench it in deep. He taps.
King: "The kid's tough, JR — but can he keep it up with the big boys?"
JR: "So far, I'd say he's proven himself."
Backstage, Al Snow caught me before I even hit the showers.
Al: "Watch yourself, kid. You start getting too much TV time, some of the boys'll take that personal."
I just nodded. I'd already felt the stares from a couple of veterans who didn't like a rookie getting a clean submission on Hardcore Holly in his second Raw match.
I was halfway to my locker when I heard her voice.
Stephanie McMahon: "J.J., right? My father's been talking about you."
She was in a tight black skirt, white blouse just unbuttoned enough to toe the line. No cameras here — just the two of us in a quiet corner of the corridor.
What started as a corporate conversation — "You've got potential… my father likes results" — shifted when she stepped closer. Her perfume hit first. Then the hand on my chest.
Her tone changed.
Stephanie: "I like confidence… but I need to know you can handle pressure."
Her lips were on mine before I could reply, hard and deliberate. The hallway around us blurred — just the heat of her mouth, the scrape of her nails down my abs.
She didn't kiss like some nervous office girl. Stephanie kissed like she wanted to take control. Her tongue slid against mine, slow at first, then deeper. One hand fisted the front of my vest, the other trailed down my side until her fingertips hooked under my waistband.
Stephanie: "You don't flinch in the ring. Don't flinch now."
She pushed me against the wall, her thigh pressing between mine. The sound of the crowd outside was muffled here — just the buzz of fluorescent lights and the faint clatter of someone wheeling a cart down the far hallway.
Her blouse came open easily, button by button, revealing black lace underneath. She guided my hands up her sides, over the curve of her hips. Her skin was warm, smooth — nothing like the corporate ice-queen image she showed on TV.
When my lips found the line of her neck, she tilted her head back with a low hum.
Stephanie: "Mmm… that's it… no cameras, no scripts. Just you and me."
Her skirt rode up as she stepped closer. She wasn't shy — her hand slipped inside my gear, wrapping around me in a grip that made my breath hitch.
Stephanie: "Mm… you're very prepared for the main event, aren't you?"
The rest blurred into a heated rush — her back arching as my mouth moved lower, her nails digging into my shoulders, the faint taste of her lip gloss on my tongue. She bit her lip to keep from moaning too loud, but the way her body moved against mine told me everything.
When it was over, she adjusted her blouse, smirking like she'd just signed a million-dollar deal.
Stephanie: "Consider this… my investment. You don't disappoint me, J.J. — in or out of the ring."
And with that, she walked away, heels clicking down the hall, leaving me with the lingering scent of her perfume and the knowledge that this was just the beginning.
By the time I got to Gorilla for the untelevised dark match, the crowd was still buzzing from the main event they'd just seen — Rock and Austin brawling with the entire Corporation. A few sections were filing out, but most stayed, curious about what was left.
Steve Blackman was already in the ring — no music, no posing, just pacing like a man ready to fight. His MMA stance was sharp, eyes locked on me the second I stepped through the curtain.
Walk hit, and I didn't play to the crowd this time. No slow strut, no taunting. I walked straight to the ring, slid under the bottom rope, and came up in a southpaw stance of my own.
Bell rings.
We circled. Blackman threw the first low kick — I checked it, shot for a clinch, but he broke free with a palm strike to my chest that echoed in the arena. The crowd gave a low "ooooh".
We traded quick jabs, feeling each other out. He went for a spinning back kick; I ducked and caught him with a leg sweep that sent him to the mat. I tried to follow with ground-and-pound, but he scrambled up, driving a knee toward my ribs.
At the three-minute mark, we went full MMA — clinch, knees, shoulder bumps. I transitioned to a body lock, drove him into the turnbuckle, and fired a quick elbow into his temple. The crowd popped.
King: "Looks like we've got a martial arts clinic in here, JR!"
Blackman got his own moment — a clean takedown into side control, trying for a kimura of his own. The irony wasn't lost on me. I rolled through, escaped, and backed up into the corner, blood still faintly visible from the Hardcore Holly match earlier.
We went to the final minute — I feinted a left, then blasted a Kinshasa knee to the side of his head. He went down, but didn't tap. Instead, I dropped into the Kimura Lock, wrenching hard until the ref waved it off.
Winner by submission: J.J. Styles.
The crowd chanted my name in pockets — not loud yet, but growing. Vince was visible at the far side of the curtain, arms crossed, watching. No smile. Just studying me.
As I walked back up the ramp, Stephanie appeared from the shadows by the curtain, brushing her hand against mine as I passed. No words — just a smirk that told me I'd earned more than one kind of victory tonight.