Open for business Part II

The lights were merciless, bright enough to make the stage shimmer, hot enough to turn confidence into sweat. Reporters filled every seat, cameras pointed like weapons, the restless buzz of chatter rising under the banners of TWN and Pacific Pro Wrestling.

Jack Stanton adjusted his mic with both hands. For a second, he could hear his own heartbeat over the crowd. A small, anxious percussion that reminded him of backstage countdowns in arenas long gone. He leaned forward, smile tight, shoulders squared.

“First off,” he began, voice rough but steady, “thank you for being here. Pacific Pro Wrestling isn’t some experiment or side project… it’s a promise. We’re here to bring back the feeling that wrestling used to give people. No gimmicks. No shortcuts. Just the fight, the passion, and the people who live for it.”

A small polite applause rolled through the room. Some of the reporters nodded; a few even smiled. It wasn’t the polished opener the Network had scripted, but it felt real.

Jack continued, finding his rhythm. “This isn’t about what’s trending or who’s marketable this week. It’s about the men and women who step into that ring and make you believe again. We’re building something here that belongs to everyone, wrestlers, fans, dreamers. That’s the heartbeat of PPW.”

He looked down the table, locking eyes with the wrestlers seated beside him.

Primetime sat first, sharp suit, sharper smile. The kind of man who treated the microphone like a mirror. His posture screamed confidence, his watch glinting every time he shifted his hands, always careful to make sure the camera caught it.

Next to him was Roman Vale Cross, also known as R.V.C. Calm, polished, expensive. His muscles looked like they were trying to escape from under his dress shirt, every movement controlled, deliberate, the kind of physique that told the room he was the alpha before he even spoke. His cufflinks probably cost more than Jack’s entire wardrobe. He didn’t need to move much; he just sat there, perfectly still, perfectly aware that every lens in the room was already pointed his way.

TIDAL looked wildly out of place among them, sun-bleached hair, skin still kissed by the Pacific wind, and streaks of ocean-blue and red face paint framing his eyes like crashing waves. He wasn’t built for press tables or spotlight polish; he looked like he’d been pulled straight from a beach fight and told to smile for the cameras. Yet somehow, that rawness made him magnetic. An unpolished symbol of what Jack was trying to build.

And at the end of the table, almost lost behind the nameplates and microphones, was Avo Chavez. If TIDAL was out of place, Avo Chavez looked like he was on the wrong planet. You could barely see the top of his head, just the crown of a brightly colored mask peeking over the table edge, forehead covered in glittering fabric. Every time he leaned forward to see better, the reporters chuckled softly, charmed in spite of themselves.

Jack ended with a simple line: “We’re not chasing perfection. We’re chasing authenticity.”

Applause again — more real this time. Jack leaned back, relieved. For the first time all morning, he thought maybe this thing could actually work.

Then Vincent Raines took the mic.

“Beautifully said,” Vincent began, flashing that magnetic grin that could sell out an empty room. “That’s why we’re all so excited to have Jack here, the heart of the operation. The spirit. The dreamer.”

Jack smiled, uncertain where this was going. Vincent continued, his tone tightening like a rehearsed drumbeat. “And with that heart comes opportunity. Pacific Pro isn’t just about emotion. It’s about evolution. Metrics. Reach. Vision. We’re not rebuilding the past; we’re engineering the future.”

The shift was subtle but sharp, the room’s energy tilting back toward corporate polish. Jack felt it immediately. Vincent gestured toward the banner behind them. “This brand stands at the crossroads of innovation and tradition. A place where stars can shine brighter, stories can live longer, and talent can finally be measured by performance…not politics.”

That line hung in the air. Reporters perked up, pens clicked, cameras zoomed. A voice called from the third row. “What exactly do you mean by performance, not politics?”

The room again went quiet. One of those rare press moments where even the cameras seemed to hold their breath. Vincent smiled, leaning toward the mic like he’d been waiting for the question. “It means the days of backstage games and scripted outcomes are over. Nobody’s getting handed airtime because they schmoozed the right producer or kissed the right ring. PPW isn’t about that.”

Jack nodded, picking up the thought. “We’re not here to do ‘sports entertainment.’ That era’s over. No soap-opera scripts. No writers backstage trying to tell wrestlers how to feel.”

The press murmured, some intrigued, some skeptical. Jack continued, voice steady. “What happens out there in the ring is real. You’re going to see the best wrestlers in the world competing without a safety net. There’s a producer in the truck to make sure it looks good for the audience at home, but that’s it. What you see between those ropes? That’s one hundred percent authentic.”

Vincent jumped back in, nodding smoothly. “Exactly. This isn’t about pretending to fight. It’s about fighting to prove something. The fans decide who rises, not us. That’s the system. The crowd’s the only writer in the building.”

A ripple of excitement spread through the room. Camera’s flashing, reporters whispering, half of them thrilled, the other half trying to figure out if this was genius or madness.

Jack leaned back slightly, watching Vincent out of the corner of his eye. For once, they were saying the same thing, just not for the same reasons.

A reporter near the front raised a hand. “Vincent, could you clarify your role exactly? Are you the booker, the executive producer, the… boss?”

Vincent smiled, the kind of smile meant to buy time. “Well,” he said slowly, “Jack handles the business and promotional side, while I oversee booking and talent relations. It’s a partnership, two minds, one vision. You could say it’s… fifty-fifty. That’s the magic number, right?”

Jack’s eyes flicked toward him, a quick flash of disbelief. Before the awkward pause could bloom, he leaned toward his mic and jumped in.

“What Vincent means,” Jack said smoothly, “is that he manages the day-to-day production side while I handle the direction and oversight of the brand. It’s a team effort, but at the end of the day, PPW runs through one clear vision — delivering for the fans.”

Vincent nodded slowly, lips tight behind his grin. “Exactly,” he said, even though it wasn’t.

The tension thinned the air. The reporters not believing the answer, scribbled faster, sensing the first crack in the partnership.

“Like any major wrestling promotion,” Jack said, eyes scanning the room. “Pacific Pro Wrestling will launch its weekly television series…Action!”

The word dropped like a stone in still water. The reporters froze for half a beat before the hum began, pens moving, cameras flashing, whispers overlapping.

Jack continued, calm and deliberate. “It’ll feature the top competitors from PPW, competing live here on the West Coast. No filters, no smoke and mirrors. Just pure wrestling, unpredictable, unscripted, and completely authentic.”

He paused just long enough for the noise to swell. “Action! will air exclusively on The Wrestling Network.”

Flashbulbs erupted again, louder this time. Reporters shouted questions over one another. They hadn’t seen that one coming.

Jack stayed poised, letting the chaos roll off him. For a rare moment, he looked comfortable behind the mic — like he actually belonged there.

Beside him, Vincent clapped once, politely. “That’s right,” he said quickly, stepping in to reclaim the air. “PPW: Action! the flagship series for a new generation. World-class athletes, TWN production value, and the most dynamic roster in the sport.”

Another voice cut through: “So, wrestler-wise, who’s the face of this new company? Who will we be expecting to see headlining this new weekly show?”

Jack’s eyes flicked toward Vincent. That was the cue, the question they’d planned to dodge. He reached forward, ready to take the mic.

Vincent beat him to it.

“That’s an easy one,” he said, smile slicing across his face. “Roman Vale Cross.”

Flashbulbs burst. Reporters erupted with questions.

Vincent kept going, voice smooth, confident, deliberate. “RVC represents everything PPW is about. Excellence, professionalism, and crossover appeal. He’s not just a competitor; he’s the standard. The benchmark for what Pacific Pro stands for.”

Jack froze. For a second, it felt like someone had unplugged the sound around him. His hand hovered over the microphone, then dropped to the table.

“That’s not exactly true.” Jack said trying to save the moment. “Like I said earlier, there will be no politics any of the guys up here could hold the heavyweight belt.”

Vincent didn’t waste a beat and fired back, “we both know it’s going to be RVC…look at him how could he lose?”

“Umm… that’s not what we agreed on, Vince,” Jack said, trying to cover the mic while keeping his tone calm.

Vincent chuckled for the cameras. “Spontaneity, Jack. The fans love it.” He paused before continuing with a car-salesman-like smile. “The media eats it up.”

RVC leaned into his mic, voice smug. “Guess the Network knows talent when it sees it.”

Primetime snorted, half-laughing. “Yeah, talent at kissing ass.”

Vincent’s head turned sharply. “Let’s stay professional, please.”

From the far end of the table came a small, muffled voice as Avo Chavez leaned toward his microphone, the colorful mask barely visible above the table edge. “Excuse me,” he called out, “does anyone have something I could sit on? I can’t reach the mic.”

A ripple of laughter broke the tension, but only for a second. Jack’s jaw tightened. “So that’s it? We’re picking our golden boy before the bell even rings?”

“Not picking,” Vincent replied, still smiling. “Acknowledging.”

“Feels the same from here,” Jack shot back.

A murmur rippled through the room. The press loved it, two executives sparring in real time, the promise of conflict on day one.

Vincent, unfazed, flipped to his next card. He paused just long enough for the excitement to cool. Then his grin sharpened.

“And speaking of competition…”

His voice rose, reclaiming the stage. “We’re also announcing the PPW Heavyweight Championship Tournament! One winner, to be crowned at our first official Super Card…CineMania!”

The buzz reignited, louder this time, cameras flashing, reporters shouting questions. Jack sank back in his chair, flinging his arms upward. A silent surrender that played better than words. Then he leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Anything else you want to add?” he said, half sarcastic, half serious.

“Yes, there is actually, Jackie.” Vincent replied before picking up where he left off. “No politics, no bias, just the best wrestler rising to the top.”

Jack leaned forward again, voice firm. “Finally, something we agree on. No free rides.”

That earned another small cheer. A few flashes popped. Vincent’s smile faltered just slightly before snapping back into place. Jack sat back in his chair, his grin faint but satisfied. For the moment, he’d managed to keep pace with Vincent, maybe even outshine him.

But across the table, RVC’s smirk lingered, Primetime’s confidence sharpened, and the restless hum of reporters refused to die down.

It was the sound of something coming undone, quietly, inevitably.

Under the glare of the cameras, Jack Stanton straightened his tie, eyes fixed on nothing.

He could already feel it starting.