The Studio Beneath the Villa
The studio occupied the basement of the villa.
Roughly four thousand square feet of space, crammed wall to wall with every kind of expensive equipment imaginable.
It wasn't where he cut his albums, but most of the music Snoop-Duck made just to kill time alone came out of this room.
In other words, this was the space where his sensibilities ran freest — and true to that ritual, whenever something important needed discussing, he brought his people down here to talk it out.
Friends, though they were less friends than subordinates.
"...You should turn down that Asian guy's offer, boss."
And unexpectedly — despite how much fun everyone had just a few days ago — the response from his crew was distinctly negative.
"Why?"
"It's just too on-the-nose, isn't it? Man's clearly got an angle."
"I told you. He said having a hot Oriental guy like him as a friend would be good for you."
On the surface it sounded outrageously arrogant, yet somehow Snoop-Duck found it fairly persuasive.
But his subordinates wouldn't back down so easily.
"Honestly? No matter how I look at it, the upside just ain't there."
"And the movie itself — it's just some 'indie' flick, isn't it?"
"Hip-hop was indie too."
"It only started indie, boss."
These days hip-hop was one of the most beloved genres of music on the planet.
Which was exactly why the young rappers believed a hard line had to be drawn against anything that smelled of it.
Snoop-Duck, frankly, couldn't stand the way things had gotten.
"Then call it the street, then. Damn, since when did this Snoop give a shit about any of that? Hollywood wannabes, majors, all that garbage. Straight up, I hate that shit. Hate it."
When he showed a flash of irritation, his crew didn't dare push back further.
Snoop-Duck figured they were all thoroughly misunderstanding something — this thing called hip-hop culture.
They were young, so their obsession with money and success was understandable, but the whole thing felt turned ass-backward somehow.
"Look, I like making money too. Came all the way up from that hellhole of a neighborhood on nothing but rap, so yeah, I want to dream bigger. That's real."
"We feel the same, boss."
"But what matters is, we don't need to become like the white boys. We got our own thug way of doing things, don't we?"
Cigarette clamped between his lips, he began laying out his philosophy.
"Building an image? Fine. It pays. But being chained to that image — nah, that's what I can't stand."
He pressed the cigarette down hard into the ashtray, killing it, then turned back to his subordinates, whose heads had sunk low.
"So here's the thing. I want that kid in the music video."
"...!"
"Anybody got a problem with it, speak up. I'll send the termination papers myself."
The men, who had snapped their heads up in shock a moment before, didn't utter a single word after that.
Snoop-Duck was a self-made man who had clawed his way through a hard, dangerous life, and he took enormous pride in his own eye for talent.
And in his judgment, Sin was a man worth keeping close.
They weren't in the same business, so he couldn't say exactly what it was about him.
But that boy's going to be huge. No doubt about it.
On that much, he was absolutely certain.
Today, Greg Hart's retirement ceremony was set to take place on Burning Kong.
The script handed to me was simple: at the end of the ceremony, I would step out and pay my respects to Greg.
With no real burden on my shoulders, I arrived at the arena without giving it much thought — and then—
Huh?
I spotted someone I never expected to see, standing in the corridor, and froze for a moment.
Triple H.
His bulk had doubled since I'd last seen him.
Long blond hair cascading to his shoulders and swaying with every step, he was deep in serious conversation with another man.
John Michaels.
So those two made peace too?
It was a somewhat sudden sight.
To be fair, in my past life the two of them had reconciled at roughly this same point in time.
It was Hunter's decisive help that made Michaels's return to the ring possible, after all.
Well, whatever the case.
Wondering if things were playing out the same way this time around, I decided to give the two of them their moment and slip past quietly.
Things had thawed a little, sure, but Hunter and I were still on somewhat awkward terms.
But just as I was trying to ease away unnoticed, Michaels called out to me.
"Sin! There you are!"
"...John."
Smiling awkwardly, I walked over to them and offered Hunter, standing beside him, a belated greeting.
"How's the body holding up?"
"How about yours?"
"Sorry?"
Michaels picked up on the delicate tension between us immediately.
But Hunter's stony expression softened, and after a beat he gave my shoulder a light smack.
"How's Bart's little test coming along?"
"...Eh."
Truthfully, I'd half given up on it.
Wrestle Imperium had made it crystal clear that the man simply did not listen to a word anyone said.
And the test assignments he kept doling out did absolutely nothing for my career.
If I had accepted the trial and committed to it, my role would've been nothing more than putting Greg over.
The reactions would get worse, and I'd slowly bleed away my popularity.
"It hasn't gone very well, sir."
"Starting to get a sense of how incredible the work I was doing all those years actually was?"
"Sure, let's go with that."
"I mean it. Taking Bart's ideas and still managing to draw reactions out of the crowd — that's no small feat."
He wasn't wrong.
Most of the ideas Bart Maxen pitched were garbage.
Drenched in some nostalgic sensibility from decades past, you might say. Part of it was his taste, no doubt — but I was fairly certain a good chunk of it was a deliberate squeeze, an effort to smother the rise of an Icon.
That Hunter had managed to dress up those ideas and salvage whatever detail he could spoke volumes about just how capable the man truly was.
"Well, you are exactly the kind of wrestler Bart likes."
"And you're the exact opposite."
"Hey, Hunter."
"That said — what you pulled off this time was phenomenal. I'll say it straight. I respect you now."
"...?"
"What, you're not gonna take it?"
Hunter was holding out his hand.
Michaels, who had been about to intervene, fell silent, and I too found myself at a loss, mouth half open.
He... respects me?
Hunter? The man brimming to the ears with pride, self-esteem, and every other kind of self-something?
Still dumbfounded, I shook his hand. He thumped me on the back and congratulated me once more.
Watching the exchange, Michaels flashed a grin and put me over yet again.
"That match was killer too. That running knee off the superkick at the end — man, it was just gorgeous."
"So the torch has been passed."
"That symbolism mattered. The Sharpshooter too. If my move lives on in a wrestler as fine as you, then I've got no regrets left."
"...John?"
"What?"
"That sounded ominous. You're definitely coming back for this one, right...?"
"Ah, we'll talk about that later. Today's about something else."
Michaels glanced to the side.
The locker room door swung open, and out walked Greg Hart in plain street clothes.
"What's got everybody laughing it up so cheerfully without me, hm?"
"Ah, Greg."
"Sin. You're late."
"I'd say I showed up at a perfectly reasonable time, actually."
It was barely noon. The show was still eight hours away.
As I stood there slightly flustered, John snickered beside me.
"Our senpai here was famous for being hard on juniors he thought had promise."
"Everything's squared away, and the most important man of the retirement ceremony shows up late. You got any sense at all?"
"S-sorry, sir."
"You eaten?"
"...No."
"Then we eat first. Everyone else good?"
"I'm fine, Greg."
"Same here. I wanted a word with Hunter anyway."
"Then that's settled."
Greg tidied up the situation with surgical efficiency and marched me off toward the restaurant.
Since this is my final bow, there must be something I can reveal here.
That was the bet he'd placed.
Which was why Greg wanted to show the audience something through the final staging of the retirement ceremony.
"I'm thinking we lean hard into the staging of you inheriting the era. What do you say?"
"How so?"
"Truth is, back when Michaels and I were young, we waged a vicious war over that Intercontinental Championship you're carrying now."
"I know."
"So — what if Michaels and I, belt in hand, formally acknowledge you and strap it around your waist ourselves?"
"Not bad at all. Though it'd be a glory almost too great to deserve."
"You've earned it."
"I... is that so."
I smiled a bitter smile.
Chewing slowly through the salad that had arrived, I turned it over in my mind again.
Beating the legend before my eyes and taking everything he had — even for me, it was an honor almost too lavish.
"Thank you, senpai."
"...For what?"
"For choosing me as your final rival."
"Enough. I'm trusting you with this, so handle what comes after properly."
"Of course I will."
"I'm planning to rest a little after I retire, you see. I'll be watching Burning Kong every single week, and I'll send feedback whenever something comes to mind."
"Yes, yep."
"...Here. Eat more."
Greg slid all three pieces of meat from his plate onto mine.
U-Uncle?
For some reason, I couldn't help feeling as though I'd become Russell in that moment.
So this was Greg's own peculiar way of showing affection... wasn't it?
Waiting on his ring gear to finish washing, Russell was one of the last off the touring bus.
The pathetic Orton had stayed up grinding video games until late last night and was still fast asleep.
So Russell entered the arena alone, glancing this way and that as he wandered the corridors.
Where's Sin?
And his uncle Greg, for that matter.
He wanted to catch the two of them first and hear about how today would go.
And so, hunting for the pair, Russell made sure not to skip a single greeting to the veterans and staff along the way.
Having joined the main show only at the start of the year, he was still a rookie many of the wrestlers couldn't put a face to.
"Good afternoon, senpai Simmons."
"GAHAHAHA! 'Senpai,' he says. Just call me Simmons, you dummy."
"Yes, yep."
He nodded along to Simmons's booming laughter, though of course Russell had no intention of doing any such thing.
The senior-junior hierarchy was the lubricant that kept this industry running smoothly — and that was precisely why courtesy mattered.
"Excuse me — have you happened to see Sin anywhere?"
"Hm. Can't say I have."
"Thank you anyway."
And so Russell spent a good while circling the arena in that fashion.
But the two men had vanished into thin air, nowhere to be found.
Just as he was puzzling over it, John Michaels — the first person he ran into — gave him the answer.
"Those two? They went out for lunch."
"Sorry?"
"Some restaurant around here, probably. Been maybe half an hour — why not give them a call?"
"Ah, um. Thank you."
Russell answered in a flustered rush, then scratched his head and turned back the way he'd come.
He hadn't wasted the time, of course — the detour had been for greeting the veterans — but still, he couldn't help feeling a little stung.
They could have called him, couldn't they?
When he thought about it, that was how it had always been.
"......"
Standing in the corridor waiting for the two men to return, Russell sank for a while into a gloomy place inside himself.
Sure, he'd had a spectacular debut with Sin's help.
But the feud with Orton that followed had been a failure.
It drew no attention whatsoever; the whole thing just ended with the good guy — himself — winning, and nothing more.
Orton was the worst possible partner.
At least that was how it felt to Russell. As a friend, who knew — but as an opponent in the ring, they were fundamentally incompatible.
No real drive, content to do just enough to get by — that was Orton's whole style, and it clashed head-on with the all-in, dead-serious way Russell worked.
It was never like this when I worked with Sin.
Russell thought, brow furrowed.
But now even Sin seemed to have drifted far out of reach, and an odd impatience gnawed at him.
Anxiety creeping up, slow and smoldering.
Could he really do this?
In that one year left behind at GCW — had he actually rotted away?
Shawn, who'd gone up before him, had become the Universe Champion. And Sin, who'd gone up later still, had carved out a domain all his own.
The man who had single-handedly retired Greg Hart, of all people — a role that by rights could have been his.
And at that exact moment, someone bellowed out the name of the frowning Russell.
"Oh, Russell!"
"...?"
"What are you doing standing around by yourself?"
Sin pushed through the arena doors and came toward him with a wide grin.
And in that moment, Russell coolly ran a single thought through his head.
If I worked these feelings of mine into the script...
Something magnificent, he had a feeling, was about to be born.