Open for business part I

Stagnant air filled the studio, a cocktail of electrical heat, dust motes, and desperation. The black curtains seemed to devour any hint of natural light, while overhead, the press table lights flickered and hummed like insects trapped in dying fluorescence. A giant TWN banner hung center stage, fresh vinyl still creased from the shipping tube, while beneath it smaller, less certain was the new logo for Pacific Pro Wrestling. Someone had printed it too bright, too blue, like the ocean on a travel brochure.

Jack Stanton stood at the edge of the stage, hands shoved into his blazer pockets, watching the setup unfold. He didn’t belong here, not really. The crew moved with the kind of precision only money buys: clipboard-wielding assistants, sound engineers with headsets, PR staff whispering into earpieces. Jack looked like he’d stumbled in from another movie. His tie hung loose, his shoes were scuffed, and his coffee was already cold.

Suddenly the door slammed open, and Vincent Raines blew into the room like he owned the air itself. He looked like a man who thrived on the edge of collapse and somehow made it look like charisma. Not polished…charged. The kind of energy that comes from too much coffee, too little sleep, and a mind that never stops chasing the next angle. His mustard-gold blazer wasn’t style, it was signal flare, loud, frayed, impossible to ignore. The white T-shirt under it was the only quiet thing about him.

Every step was fast, impatient, halfway to the next thought before the first one finished. He didn’t walk; he sold momentum. Round black sunglasses clung to his face like armor, hiding eyes that never stopped calculating. His thinning hair was slicked back with military precision, not vanity, defiance. He wasn’t handsome, but he was magnetic; a street-corner prophet who could sell salvation at wholesale.

Up close, there was a tremor beneath the smirk, caffeine, genius, desperation. When he spoke, words came out like pitches, one crashing over the next, and yet somehow you still wanted to hear the next one. Vincent Raines didn’t run from chaos. He hired it. He branded it. And today, Pacific Pro Wrestling was the newest storm he planned to sell.

“Morning, partner,” Vincent said, flashing that perfectly calibrated smile. His voice landed a second ahead of everyone else’s, fast, charming, rehearsed. “How’s my favorite Hollywood miracle worker?”

Jack gave a half-smirk. “Running on fumes and gas-station coffee. You?”

“Running on opportunity.” Vincent adjusted the microphone at center stage, checking the angle as though it mattered. “Today’s the day, Jackie boy. West Coast resurrection. The Network’s soon-to-be crown jewel.”

Jack let out a small laugh. “You make it sound like we’re curing cancer.”

Vincent turned toward him, grin tightening. “We’re curing irrelevance. That’s close enough.”

They stood there for a moment, side by side, two men staring at the same stage, seeing entirely different things. Vincent saw empire: analytics, brand partnerships, performance metrics, the future. Jack saw ghosts: bingo halls, locker rooms, the faces of wrestlers who still believed this business was supposed to mean something.

“You ready to charm the suits?” Vincent asked, tone almost teasing.

Jack rubbed his eyes. “As ready as I can be to sell something that ain’t built yet.”

Vincent clapped him on the shoulder, firm but friendly. “That’s the beauty of it, my friend. We don’t sell what we have…we sell what they think we have.”

Jack didn’t laugh this time. “Yeah, I’ve done that before. Didn’t end well.”

Vincent rifled through his cue cards, still talking as he organized them. “Let’s go over the order. I open, brand mission, network alignment, the whole ‘new frontier of sports entertainment’ spiel. Then you talk heart, passion, the human element. You’re the soul. I’m the system.”

Jack paused. “Why would you open and not me? I am the promoter after all.”

Vincent pivoted instantly, smiling warm and convincing. “Right, OK… you open, brand mission, network alignment, and so forth and so forth.”

Jack nodded, eyes on the stage. “When they ask who’s the face of this thing, we should probably have an answer.” He turned toward Vincent, leaning one hand on the table. “I mean, Primetime seems obvious. Already a known figure across multiple fan bases, media-trained, marketable, he’s an easy sell.”

Vincent didn’t respond right away. He just stared at the cards for a moment, lips pursed in thought. Then that familiar salesman smile crept back in. “Let’s not name anyone yet,” he said smoothly. “We dodge the question. Build intrigue. Make them wonder who’s really leading the pack.”

Jack frowned. “Eh, I don’t know, man. That makes us sound like

we don’t know what we’re doing.”

Vincent’s grin widened as he slapped Jack lightly on the shoulder, too friendly, too fast. “We’ll figure it out,” he said, voice quick and confident. “That’s the fun part. You trust me, Jack?”

He pivoted toward the curtain before Jack could answer, already moving on, already planning the next headline. Jack stood there for a moment, watching him go, that uneasy feeling creeping up from the gut, the kind that always shows up right before someone changes the plan.

Jack muttered it low, more to himself than to Vincent. “Yeah… I trust you’ll do whatever makes you look smart.”

He turned and began walking toward the back as the sound technician gave a thumbs-up. The press had started to file in. Notepads, cameras, that low murmur of anticipation before a performance.

Jack stopped and scanned the rows of chairs. It all looked smaller than he’d imagined. The big network debut, the chance of a lifetime, and yet it already reeked of something he’d been through before, promises, bright lights, the slow leak of control.

He straightened his tie half-heartedly and began to look for Vincent toward the stage.

As they stepped into the light, flashbulbs erupted like static. Vincent basked in it. Jack blinked through it.

Two men.One microphone.And a plan that would only survive another ten minutes.