Open for Business Part III

The applause didn’t fade; it fractured. It splintered into overlapping noise, a restless hum of voices and flashbulbs that no longer knew who they were cheering for. Flashbulbs exploded in a back-to-back succession, turning the stage into a combat zone of white-hot light. Vincent Raines stood in the middle of it, feeding off the chaos, a wolf who’d found his spotlight. His grin was polished, indestructible. Jack Stanton sat only a few feet away yet might as well have been on another planet. He stared ahead, unmoving, hands clasped on the table, hearing every sound and none of them. Somewhere in that maelstrom of questions and cheers, something between them had broken—and everyone in the room could feel it.

Primetime leaned back in his chair, muttering curses under his breath, his perfect posture starting to crack. RVC, meanwhile, thrived in the moment, adjusting his cufflinks, flexing slightly so that his muscles strained against his shirt, every flash catching his sculpted silhouette. TIDAL shifted uncomfortably, his ocean-blue face paint streaking slightly in the heat, looking like a man who’d just realized he’d stepped into a storm he didn’t start. At the far end of the table, poor Avo Chavez had somehow managed to tangle his microphone cord around his wrist, nervously pulling it free, his mask bobbing barely above the tabletop. The reporters loved him for it, at least he felt human. Everyone else looked like they were either selling something or surviving something.

Just beyond the stage lights, a woman in a headset moved like she’d done this a thousand times. Cassandra Reeve, “Cass” to the few who had earned it, stood at the control edge, her eyes cutting between the stage and a bank of glowing monitors. Her clipboard was a battlefield of handwritten notes, camera cues, timestamps, and underlined contingency plans. “Camera three, stay tight on Vincent,” she said into her headset, her voice even, economical. “Don’t show Jack’s face, he’s about to boil.”

A voice crackled in her ear. “You want me to cut the feed?”

Cass hesitated, eyes narrowing as she studied the tension under the lights. Vincent’s tone had turned smug, almost performative. Jack’s jaw was set, one twitch away from fracture. “Not yet,” she said. “If it collapses, we own it.”

She didn’t panic, Cass never panicked. She’d been in rooms where live TV came apart like wet paper. She could feel the air changing now, that subtle static shift right before a spark catches something it shouldn’t. The launch was supposed to be controlled, curated, easy to digest. Instead, it was real. And real played better on camera than safe ever would. Her fingers danced over the comms panel, cueing transitions, repositioning cameras, turning what could have been an HR nightmare into an instant promo. This was her language: orchestrating the illusion of control while everything underneath burned.

At the table, Jack leaned toward his microphone one last time. His voice didn’t rise, but it sliced through the room with surgical precision. “Anything else you’d like to announce, Vince?” It was calm enough to sting.

Vincent smiled, and the smile said everything. “Just that Pacific Pro Wrestling,” he replied, “is open for business.”

He turned to RVC and raised the man’s arm for the cameras. Flashbulbs erupted again, and the room became a storm of light. Roman basked in it like a man born to be photographed, while Jack’s expression froze. His composure barely masking what looked like betrayal. Cass clocked it instantly. She’d seen this before: the exact moment a partnership died on air. She gave a shorthand signal toward the control team. “Fade to black.”

The feed cut. The lights dimmed. The applause ended halfway through its own echo.

Backstage, though, the noise kept going. Production assistants unrolled cables. PR reps whispered damage control. The hum of generators blended with the clipped rhythm of shoes on concrete. Vincent’s entourage, producers, handlers, opportunists, descended on him like moths to the nearest spotlight. He laughed, posed for straggling cameras, shook hands, every motion deliberate. The man was bulletproof in front of an audience, even if the bullets were still flying.

Jack didn’t stay for the performance. He pushed his chair back, straightened his jacket, and walked out through the curtain. His face was pale under the makeup lights, his tie crooked, his eyes glassy with the kind of focus only anger brings. He moved fast, somewhere between flight and pursuit.

Cass caught the motion from the corner of her eye and followed. She wasn’t chasing him; she was monitoring fallout. Damage reports came in many forms, and both of these men were the kind that could turn a post-show hallway into a press liability. She stepped forward, headset still around her neck, clipboard still clutched like a shield.

“Jack,” she called.

He stopped, shoulders still tight. “Not now, Cass.”

“You should talk to him before this turns into a press leak,” she said. Her tone wasn’t sympathetic, it was procedural. Crisis management, not concern.

Jack exhaled through his nose, the breath almost a laugh. “It’s already spinning.”

He moved on, past stacked flight cases and buzzing lights, the glow of the stage fading behind him. Cass turned back toward the monitors just long enough to catch one final shot of Vincent, still onstage, smiling for the stragglers. Alone now, but perfectly lit, just how he liked it. He was already rewriting the narrative.

Cass folded her arms, head tilting slightly. “Welcome to PPW,” she said under her breath, not like a greeting, but like an incident report. She scribbled something across her notes, tore out the page, and slipped it into her folder. The crew had already started teardown. The air smelled of heat, hairspray, and ambition gone sour.

She followed the scuffed boot prints down the corridor until the noise softened to a steady, contained hum. The walls narrowed, lined with production gear and flickering fluorescent lights. Somewhere ahead, she heard them, two men talking in that low, professional tone that meant nothing good.

“That went off script,” Jack said. His voice was low but steady, sharp as a blade dulled by restraint.

Vincent’s reply came smooth, practiced, and already bored. “That’s what makes good television.”

“That wasn’t television,” Jack shot back. “That was supposed to be business. Not sports entertainment.”

Vincent leaned against a steel beam; his reflection warped in the polished metal. “Business is television now. The cameras never stop. You should know that by now. And we’re not selling sports entertainment inside the ring…we’re selling it outside. The fans need a show.”

Jack stepped closer, his tone calm but splintered at the edges. “You blindsided me out there.”

Vincent raised both hands like a man explaining to someone unreasonable. “Relax. You wanted authenticity. That’s what it looks like.”

“The fans don’t even know what they’re eating yet.”

“That’s my job,” Vincent said, almost gently. “To tell them what it tastes like.”

Fluorescent tubes buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sickly glow. Neither man moved. Cass leaned on the corner wall, out of sight but close enough to hear every word. Her expression didn’t change. She’d seen this movie before, two executives fighting for creative control, both convinced the other was dead weight. She wasn’t there to pick a side. She was there to keep the product marketable.

“You keep talking like this place is yours,” Jack said finally.

Vincent’s smile lingered. “You’re the promoter, Jack. You sell the dream. I make sure it ships.”

Jack tilted his head, studying him. “You ever think maybe you are the problem?”

Vincent’s tone dropped an octave, sharp and quiet. “You ever think maybe you’re not built for this level?”

The air thickened. Jack didn’t move. Neither did Vincent.

Cass wrote a quick note on her clipboard: TWN PR: anticipate fallout…Stanton/Raines tension may drive ratings. She underlined ratings twice.

Jack finally set down the half-empty coffee cup he’d been holding. “Do whatever you need to do, Vince. Just remember, the crowd decides who gets over. Not you. Not the Network. Not your analytics.”

Vincent’s grin twitched. “Crowds are predictable. You give them the right story; they’ll cheer whoever you tell them to.”

Jack took a half step forward until their shoulders nearly touched. “Then let’s see whose story they buy.”

Neither blinked. The silence felt charged, alive. Vincent straightened his jacket, adjusting his cufflinks like punctuation. “See you at the next taping, partner.” He turned and walked down the hallway, his reflection shrinking across the corridor glass until only the shimmer of his cufflinks remained.

Jack stood still, watching the space where he’d been. Cass stepped into view, voice calm and even. “You both just made my week harder.” Jack gave a tired, humorless chuckle. “Welcome to PPW.”

Cass didn’t return the smile. “No,” she said, glancing toward the stage where techs were still striking lights. “Welcome to television.”

The lights powered down with a dying whine, leaving only the ghost of their heat. Crew members folded banners with mechanical efficiency, their movements echoing through an arena where ambition still hung in the air like spent cologne. Pacific Pro Wrestling existed now, messy, volatile, and very, very real. And somewhere in the static, between control and chaos, the first battle line had already been drawn.