The indie gym was alive with the sounds of leather against mat, the occasional grunt of exertion, and the low hum of anticipation. Ace "Skyline" Ryder stood near the entrance, adjusting the black undershirt that clung to his torso and the jeans with gold spirals that ran like veins down his legs. Each spiral caught the overhead lights, glinting as if they carried a message of inevitability: he was meant for something bigger. He ran a hand through his medium-length dreads, pushing them back from his forehead, and let his gaze wander across the gym. The peeling paint, the faded posters, the mats scuffed from decades of wrestling history—they all told a story of struggle and triumph. Ace felt a deep sense of connection. These walls had seen the birth of countless fighters, dreamers, and warriors, and now it was his turn.
The journey to this moment had not been easy. After the car crash that took his parents, Ace had been shuffled through the foster system before the Johnsons took him in. They had recognized a spark in him, a resilience that refused to be extinguished. The Johnsons' wrestling gym became more than a training ground—it became a sanctuary. Ace spent his mornings running through the city streets, sprinting past closed stores and vacant lots, imagining each corner as a ring, each shadow as an opponent. The streets had taught him agility, awareness, and endurance. Nights were spent under dim lights in the gym, learning the intricacies of holds, counters, and aerial maneuvers. Every bruise and scrape was a lesson. Every fall was a chance to rise stronger.
By the time he was sixteen, Ace had developed a reputation on the local circuit. Word of his skill, poise, and charisma began to spread. But reputation meant nothing if you couldn't handle the heat backstage. And backstage was a jungle. Wrestlers tested each other constantly—not just in the ring but with words, with attitude, with unspoken challenges. Some tried to intimidate him, others tried to befriend him, but Ace had learned early that the best strategy was observation, patience, and letting your skill speak for you.
That night, the locker room was thick with the scent of liniment and adrenaline. Wrestlers stretched, practiced their entrances, and whispered strategies to each other. Ace walked through the organized chaos, nodding to allies and maintaining a polite, steady demeanor toward rivals. One of his rivals, a high-flyer known for his cocky attitude, strutted near the corner. His name was Zane "Rogue" Voss, a lanky, fast-moving wrestler with a reputation for showboating and psychological games.
"You think you can fly with me tonight, Skyline?" Zane called, a sly smirk on his face. "Better not crash and burn."
Ace didn't flinch. He knew Zane thrived on getting under people's skin, but he had faced enough challenges to know that focus was the weapon of choice.
"I'll see you in the ring, Rogue," Ace replied calmly, a subtle grin of confidence tugging at his lips.
The crowd outside was growing louder, a steady hum that swelled with each passing minute. The announcer's voice finally cut through the tension. "Next up, weighing in at 210 pounds, hailing from Memphis, Tennessee… Ace 'Skyline' Ryder!"
The roar of the modest crowd washed over Ace as he stepped through the curtain. His boots hit the sticky mat with purpose, each stride echoing his dedication and the countless hours spent chasing this dream. His opponent, a veteran known simply as "Crusher" Ronny, towered in the opposite corner, a mountain of muscle and experience. Ace circled him, analyzing stance, breath, and eye movement. The bell rang, and the match began.
Ace's early movements were careful, measured, testing Crusher's reflexes. He ducked under a lunge, rolled through a grapple, and delivered a swift strike to the midsection. The crowd responded with cheers, sensing the electricity in the air. Every dodge, counter, and hold was a reminder of his training, of the nights running through empty streets imagining scenarios that now played out perfectly before him.
Backstage, Marcus "Hammer" Cole leaned on the ropes, watching with a mixture of pride and anticipation. "Kid's got instincts," he muttered to one of the referees. "He's not just moving… he's thinking ten steps ahead."
Zane "Rogue" Voss watched too, his earlier smirk fading slightly as he realized Ace wasn't just another kid in the circuit. There was something different about him—a blend of heart, intelligence, and natural athleticism that couldn't be ignored.
As the match progressed, Ace took risks, executing high-flying maneuvers that drew gasps and cheers from the crowd. Each move was calculated, precise, yet carried a flair that showcased not just skill but personality. Crusher tried to counter with brute force, slamming Ace into the mat, but Skyline's agility allowed him to twist free, landing a jaw-dropping aerial kick that sent Crusher reeling.
Sweat dripped down his face, mixing with the adrenaline pumping through his veins. Every cheer from the crowd, every yell of encouragement, reminded him of why he had started this journey. From the tragedy of losing his parents to the nights spent training with the Johnsons, every moment had built him into the man standing in that ring.
After a particularly daring series of moves, Ace finally landed the finishing maneuver—a springboard spin kick that sent Crusher crashing to the mat. The referee's hand hit the canvas thrice, signaling victory. The crowd erupted, chanting his name. Ace stood in the center of the ring, chest heaving, dreads falling over his shoulders, eyes shining with a mix of triumph and relief. This was the moment he had trained for, the proof that the grind had been worth it.
Backstage, Marcus approached with a broad smile. "I told you, Skyline. You belong here."
Even Zane "Rogue" Voss, still catching his breath, offered a grudging nod. "You're… not bad, kid," he said, a hint of respect creeping into his tone.
Ace knew this was only the beginning. The indie circuit was just the first step, a proving ground where he would hone his craft, earn his reputation, and face rivals that would push him to his limits. Every match, every win, every minor setback was part of a larger journey—one that would eventually lead him to the ultimate goal: the PLW World Championship.
As the crowd slowly dissipated and the gym returned to its quiet state, Ace sat in the locker room, reflecting on the night. The journey from a lost child on the streets of Memphis to a rising star in the indie wrestling world had been long and fraught with challenges, but he had survived them all. He had survived, and more than that, he had thrived, He was Starborn.