The moment the door slammed shut behind the last of the production crew, Vince Maston erupted into laughter.
He laughed like a man who had just shed a heavy weight.
Zen lay sprawled on the floor of the backstage room, his wrists bound with zip ties, his face so swollen that one eye was barely open. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, and blood speckled the concrete near his cheek.
Vince wiped his mouth, still grinning. "You should've seen your face out there," he said casually, pacing slowly around him. "The instant you realized the trap had closed."
A few wrestlers lingered nearby—Victor Cross, Brocke Steele, Diego Cortez, Austin—each one pointedly avoiding eye contact. One of them whistled softly, staring up at the ceiling, while another pretended to stretch.
Lance Dawson leaned in close to Vince's ear and hissed, "That's enough. You've made your point. Be civil."
Vince's laughter faded.
He scanned the room.
The silence hung heavy, uncomfortable. The wrestlers shifted their weight. This wasn't the Vince they were used to—the calculated, smooth-talking owner who spoke in terms of plans and ratings. This was something much more primal.
He cleared his throat and crouched down in front of Zen.
"Let me ask you something," Vince said, his tone steady. "If your hand were broken… how much would that hurt your career?"
Zen's remaining good eye widened.
He tried to find his voice. Victor's boot pressed down gently—but with a firm insistence—against Zen's shoulder.
Mark Rivera stepped in, his voice tight with tension. "Vince, this has gone far enough. We don't need to—"
Vince shot his head up.
The glare he shot at Mark silenced him immediately.
"Enough?" Vince echoed softly. "Did it feel like 'enough' when he sent me to the hospital? When I was left without medical help? When he did it in front of everyone, just to make a statement?"
Mark swallowed hard. "What I'm saying—"
"I'll skip the rest," Vince cut him off, rising to his feet. "They were just following orders. But him?"
He turned his gaze back to Zen.
"Not him."
Zen shook his head wildly, muffled sounds escaping his lips. Victor seized Zen's arm and yanked it straight.
Lance tensed up. "Vince."
Vince didn't break his stare. "Not permanent," he replied. "I'm not an idiot."
Lance hesitated for a moment, then reached into his coat and handed Vince a heavy metal flask. Solid.
A few wrestlers turned away, unable to watch.
Mark didn't linger—he walked out, his jaw clenched, unable to bear the scene.
The remaining NPJW wrestlers pressed against the wall, their eyes wide with fear.
Vince took the flask, feeling its weight in his good hand.
"How does it feel now?" he asked quietly.
Then he brought the flask crashing down on Zen's right hand.
The sound was sickening.
Zen screamed.
Again.
Again.
By the fourth strike, Victor and Lance grabbed Vince by the shoulders and pulled him back. Zen crumpled to the ground, clutching his mangled hand, sobbing uncontrollably.
Vince stood there, his chest heaving, eyes unfocused.
For just a moment—just a fleeting moment—pity flickered across his face.
Then it vanished.
He ran a hand through his hair, straightened his jacket, and let out a slow breath.
"Get a van," he instructed Lance. "We'll return their people."
-----
The bars in NPJW territory were absolutely packed that night.
Yoichi Isagi had made sure of that.
Word spread like wildfire—almost with excitement. "Tune into IRW tonight. There's a special surprise. Something you'll love." The message bounced from phone to phone, bartender to bartender. Curiosity trumped loyalty, and soon every screen in every dingy waterfront bar was locked onto IRW.
At first, the NPJW fans were a bit unsure of how to react.
The show was… impressive.
Way too impressive.
The pacing was on point. The crowd was buzzing. Even the confrontations felt electric. For a brief moment, some of them forgot where they were. They laughed. They leaned in closer. A few even started clapping.
Then someone snapped back to reality.
"Oi—what are we doing?" a guy shouted. "This is IRW!"
Boos erupted, initially half-hearted, but then they grew louder. Old habits kicked in. They jeered more out of duty than actual disdain.
And then it all changed.
Masked men jumped over the barricade.
Two IRW wrestlers were overwhelmed, beaten down without mercy. The referee was tossed aside like a rag doll. The bars went wild.
"Yes!" someone yelled. "Finally!"
When one of the masked attackers pulled off his hood to reveal Zen's face, the place erupted into cheers. Drinks were slammed on tables. Fists shot up into the air.
That's our boy.
But the cheers didn't last long.
Victor Cross stormed into the ring.
Zen barked orders. "Retreat! Get out!"
The NPJW wrestlers scrambled, only to find their escape cut off.
More masked men blocked their way.
One by one, the masks came off.
Steel Titans. Flashpoint Brothers. Apex Predators.
IRW.
The atmosphere in the bars shifted instantly.
Silence fell like a glass shattering on the floor.
No one was cheering now. No laughter echoed. They watched their own wrestlers get taken down, outnumbered and outplayed. Zen fell. Others tried to crawl away. The IRW wrestlers loomed over them, grinning.
Then—static.
The broadcast cut out.
Chairs scraped loudly as men stood up.
"What the hell was that?" someone shouted.
"Yoichi did this!" another cursed. "He told us to watch!"
Anger turned inward. Some spat at the screens. Others cursed the owner, Zen, and themselves for believing.
Then the door burst open.
"IRW ULTRAS!" a man yelled, breathless. "They're here!"
Panic ripped through the bar.
"They're smashing the warehouse!" another screamed. "NPJW arena—on fire!"
The room erupted into chaos. Some ran. Some froze. A few grabbed bottles, clubs, anything they could find, and rushed out, adrenaline pushing aside their fear.
But most didn't move.
They had just watched their champions fall.
Morale was shattered.
----
Yoichi Isagi stood alone in his office, staring at the dark screen.
His hands were shaking.
He replayed the moment Zen went down. The timing was too perfect. The ambush too clean.
Someone knew.
The thought crawled up his spine.
A traitor?
No. Impossible. He had paid them. Three months in advance. No one would bite the hand that fed them.
His jaw clenched.
It was Zen's fault. Zen's arrogance. Zen's incompetence.
The phone rang.
Yoichi flinched.
He answered.
"Yes?"
His assistant's voice—calm, infuriatingly composed—came through. "Sir… the warehouse is on fire."
AN: On second thought, I may have went a bit too overboard with the brutality. But it will be necessary later on to establish the modern wrestling rules.