A Fifty-Thousand-Dollar Gift

"This way, Sin...."

"Are you all right?"

The voices around me reached my ears as if from a great distance.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm fine."

I somehow managed to answer.

After the match ended, I had collapsed from sheer exhaustion, and the two of them had hauled me back backstage between them, one on each side. The wrestlers who had watched the match came pouring out into the corridor, applauding us as we passed.

"Great work out there!"

"That was one hell of a match, Sin!"

"Oton held his own, I'll give the bastard that."

"Christ, look at those thumbtacks stuck in his back. Get him inside and get them treated, now."

It didn't feel bad, honestly. Though I couldn't have told you who was saying what.

Maybe it was pure exhaustion, but I couldn't lift my head. The pain was beginning to creep in, too. Still, everyone understood. Half out of my mind, I stepped into the locker room, where treatment was already waiting for me.

The team doctor took my face squarely in his hands and asked, "What's stuck in your ass?"

I lowered my head. The phrasing struck me as a little off, somehow — but before I could say so, the doctor had already turned away and begun laying out his instruments.

"Sit down. We pull the tacks first, then disinfect, then we treat."

Bracing myself, I sat and endured the process.

"It only hurts a little~."

It was not little.

"Nngh—"

I clenched my teeth. They pulled the thumbtacks out one by one, disinfected the wounds, applied ointment, and taped me up.

As I was doing my best to bear the agony, I felt someone's gaze on me. Tiffany McMahon.

"Should I take a commemorative photo?"

"...I'll pass."

It was a tasteless joke. Delivered with her face drained white, it was somehow more pitiful than funny.

"Congratulations. Champion."

"Thank you."

"I told you not to overdo it, and you simply never listen."

"If I didn't, they'd never accept me as champion."

The treatment continued. Once nearly my entire back was taped, they stitched the torn wound on my forehead and covered it with gauze. The doctor, as if this were routine, recited my instructions.

"Sleep on your stomach for a while. I'll give you painkillers — take them if it gets bad."

"Yep."

"And if the pain keeps you from sleeping at all, drink some vodka and push through."

"...Can a doctor really say that?"

"No. But this place is crawling with every kind of lunatic imaginable, so I've gotten used to it."

The deadpan delivery left me snorting with laughter. Then I turned toward Oton, who, like me, had just finished being patched up.

"Oton."

"...Good work out there."

"You too. You took a hell of a beating."

"Haha, you were right — it didn't hurt quite enough to kill me after all."

"Right? Though you probably won't be able to shower for days, and the pain's only going to climb from here."

"......"

"Still, tonight's match will go down in WWF history."

"Yeah. I felt it too."

Oton rose from his seat.

"I think I finally understand what I've been doing wrong all this time."

"Glad to hear it."

Receiving a proper response for the first time, Oton looked genuinely moved.

There was no question about it — for a wrestler, nothing on earth motivated like that kind of electric reaction. Tens of thousands in the seats. Millions more watching at home. Their response was addictive as a drug, and Oton had only now gotten his first taste of it.

We shared a light handshake, and he glanced sideways with a small smile.

"See you around, then."

The perceptive bastard knew when to bow out. The medical team, finished with their work and apparently clued in to the situation, filed out as well.

And so, in the wide locker room, only Tiffany and I remained.

She'd chatted away just fine earlier, but the moment the others vanished, she turned her gaze aside and busied herself looking innocent — tucking a lock of golden hair behind her ear, feigning complete composure. Honestly speaking, it was fairly — no, extremely cute.

I spoke first.

"Something wrong, Tiger?"

"...What did you just call me?"

At the pet name Tiger, her eyes went briefly round.

"When do you head back to Georgia?"

"My flight's tonight anyway, so I need to get to the airport. ...Truth be told, I left before I'd finished my work."

"A delinquent CEO, aren't you."

"That's because you're forever about to do something reckless! Don't make people worry over you."

"So how was it?"

"Well... I came, didn't I?"

I sidled a step closer. Tiffany, pressed against the wall, looked away again. Her pale cheeks had flushed red.

"The match, I mean."

"I didn't want to watch a match like that. You were literally putting your life on the line out there."

"Still, there are people who love this business — it must have been a tremendous help."

"Ticket sales, ratings, that sort of thing? Not long ago you said you were doing all this for yourself."

"I meant my career."

"...More selfish than I gave you credit for."

"You don't mind, though, do you?"

"No. If anything, I like it. Better than being called a mere part of this company."

"I must have made you pretty angry back ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠then?"

"Of course I was. I've watched so many people burn themselves hollow doing this kind of work and simply disappear."

"Can't be helped. Everyone here wants to leave something behind."

"I can't understand it."

"And that's exactly why I'm the main eventer of a show broadcast to the entire world."

I smiled, the expression a little bitter. To become one of the handful at the very top of any field, you needed an obsession that everyone else would call madness.

Living an ordinary, moderate life was fine too, of course. That was the normal path — maybe even the best one. But what could I do? I couldn't stand the thought of anyone standing above me in this industry.

Tiffany mulled my words over for a moment, then nodded.

"...A main eventer now, are you."

"Well — semi-main, technically."

Like my match with Oton. By the rankings, roughly high-mid card. Not yet world-champion caliber, but enough to trade ranks with his challengers. In other words, this was only the beginning.

From here, I would prove myself through a proper rivalry and climb higher still.

But before any of that—

"Shall we talk on the way? I could at least buy you dinner."

"Huh? Where to?"

"We came all this way. It won't be anything fancy, but let me treat you."

"You don't need to watch the show?"

"Well, I'm supposed to, but you're the one with a night flight, aren't you."

"...And when exactly were you planning all this around me?"

Tiffany gave a haughty little scoff through her nose.

And yet she accepted my invitation without protest.

Tiffany McMahon. Daughter of Bart Maxen. Heir to that colossal corporate dinosaur — the future chairwoman who would one day marry Triple H and seize absolute power.

My impression of her was strikingly different between my two lives. In my past life, our paths had merely crossed a handful of times, leaving me with only the faintest memories of what she'd done. And once she became chairwoman, she walked precisely the same road as her father.

So when I first met her in this life, I'd been a little puzzled — because we actually managed to communicate.

A college student in her early twenties. Young, yes, but quick to understand, and level-headed enough to take criticism without flinching. On top of that, she showed real ambition — the will to take this company, and to change this industry along with it.

Which was exactly why I'd set out to exploit those qualities.

But the Tiffany I came to know while working alongside her bore no resemblance to my memories at all. She respected the wrestlers' opinions and knew how to learn. Unlike what I remembered from my past life, she was, quite the opposite, a genuinely good person.

So I'd wondered. Had she grown stubborn with age and turned into her father? Or, as chairwoman of a corporation, had she deliberately shifted her stance and learned to play clever?

Neither mattered to the immediate moment, so I'd brushed the question aside — but as I came to know Tiffany better and better, I began to suspect it was neither.

That she held genuine affection for the wrestlers — and for the backstage — was obvious. Everyone's childhood memories are mostly pure ones, after all.

So what had changed her? What had turned Tiffany McMahon into Bart, version two?

I gave it some thought. And before long, a single name surfaced in my mind.

Triple H.

The two of them had split briefly midway through, over a clash of personalities, then come back together — and not long after, married. In truth, that was part of why I hadn't answered the affection Tiffany showed me. Their marriage was an enormously important event for the WWF Universe.

The two of them would go on to form a power stable called The Authority and serve as the show's central villains. From where I stood, letting the two of them marry along the original course of history seemed the best choice on every front.

...And yet, here we were.

Flustered, I looked down at the box in front of me.

Engraved across the lid were those words and the company logo. A 'gift' from Tiffany.

Knowing next to nothing about watches, I had shown it to Flair — a man who would presumably know his way around luxury goods. He'd fainted for a moment.

Patek Philippe. The number one watch brand in the entire world. A watch that money alone can barely buy.

"Sending something this expensive, really...?"

Hadn't she been with Hunter? The moment our relationship climbed a single step, Tiffany revealing this suddenly innocent side of herself left me rather at a loss.

"A-anyway. I'll accept the gift gratefully. It's your thoughtfulness."

And so I lost all track of time talking with Tiffany.

Yes. It had come to this. I had decided to stop denying that I was drawn to her. She was attractive. We spoke easily, the conversation never stalling.

After we'd talked for a long while, I hung up the phone — and Nick Flair, seated beside me, let out a low chuckle.

"Never in my life did I imagine you'd be the one to steal our princess away."

"Ah, um. Sorry about that."

"Oh no, I'm not after an apology — I'm simply fascinated. Hunter never did win the princess's heart, after all."

"...The two of them dated?"

"Not quite like that. Hunter chased, Tiffany kept things ambiguous. Plenty of people never had the faintest idea the two of them were actually together."

"Hmm."

"Tiffany expressing her feelings for the first time in her life — that would be you, I'd wager."

"Is... is that so."

"That's why she sent you that watch. All the feelings she'd been holding back overflowed, so out came a thing like that."

"So — how much did this thing cost, anyway?"

"Fifty thousand dollars."

...I was losing my mind. That was nearly a rookie's annual salary in this industry. And she'd simply bought it and sent it over.

It was beautiful, no question. But receiving something like this — how was I supposed to know what to do with it?

"Take good care of her."

"...I'm sorry?"

"If that's what Tiffany wants, mind you. A remarkable woman deserves to be treated like one."

"Whoa."

"I've met more women in fifty years than you've had matches, my boy. Trust me on this one."

Flair laughed lightly.

And there it was again — that quiet, unanswerable pressure. I averted my eyes and managed one line.

"She is remarkable."

Yes. A remarkable woman. She had been simply 'a person,' and then, at some point, she had become 'a woman.'

I had begun looking at Tiffany that way.

Whether that was all right, I couldn't quite say. But then — ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠as long as I could keep it running alongside my work, letting my heart steer me a little couldn't be all bad.

It was, in fact, already happening.

As the WWF Intercontinental Champion, I found myself bathed in the attention of countless media outlets, my fame beginning to spread. In truth, it was only natural. The first Asian star — no, that wasn't quite accurate, but there hadn't been an Asian star like me in recent memory all the same.

The era was drifting, slowly but ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠surely, toward 'diversity.' And riding that current, I had become the first to appear on a major network broadcast — alongside Nick Flair, and Big Joe, the Rkdawn roster's resident giant.

Saturday Night Live. SNL for short.

The colossal comedy program broadcast from NBC — and the star hosting this week's episode was the one who had invited us.

The Pock.

The man who had stood shoulder to shoulder with Rock Cold as the twin superstars of the Bad Attitude Era. The legend who ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had walked away from an explosively white-hot prime and gone straight to Hollywood.

That very man had said, "It'd be a riot to have WWF wrestlers on the show," and called us in — me, Nick Flair, Big Joe. And last of all, Bart himself.

"Ah, now that's a fine toilet you've got here! Our arena's a goddamn disaster every single week — we're always fighting to unclog the damn thing!"

As he came back from the restroom, I slipped the watch box inside my jacket. No matter how you looked at it, openly flaunting our relationship in front of my future father-in-law(?) was still a touch delicate.

"So, Sin. How about it? Nerves settled?"

"...Yeah. I suppose."

Flair snickered beside me.

SNL aired live — apart from the pre-taped sketches, every second of the show unfolded in real time. Tonight, we were set to appear as the invaders crashing in from WWF.

The Pock, huh.

I found myself genuinely looking forward to that meeting.