SIN.
SIN.
That was my ring name.
Sin.
It came from the Christian concept of Original Sin.
I believed that I, a man who had suffered a colossal failure and returned to the past, was exactly that.
The people of the pro wrestling industry, without ever knowing it, had been saddled with a sin of their own making because of who I was now.
They had defined me by the color of my skin. They had pressed me down, ground me under their heels.
And so the "me" standing here today was, in a sense, the sin they had created.
A sin they had no memory of committing — but one I remembered with perfect clarity.
It resembled the sin the Bible spoke of. That was why I had built the character of Sin.
A villain born of racial prejudice. A man prepared to do absolutely anything to succeed.
Of course, that isn't what I actually believe about myself.
It was a kind of exaggeration.
Junho Kim, the man, believed his own effort had fallen short as well. Sin, the villain, believed the exact opposite.
Sure, someone might take my words the wrong way and sneer, "You trash? Blaming your own failures on other people?"
But that was half the fun of being a heel. If they misunderstood, well — that worked for me too.
We decided to emboss the word SIN across the leather jacket.
And since I had far too much time on my hands, I ordered a cross added to it as well.
The costume supervisor, who drew the cross beside the name, soon tilted his head.
"Do you really need the cross?"
"Yes. A little religious coloring makes the character look more layered."
"...? Why would he need to be layered?"
"Because we never come out and say it, right? We never explain it. Only the fans who dig deep get to play at it — 'Sin fights while carrying a cross? I bet that means something.' That kind of thing."
And just like that, the character gains depth. Right interpretation or wrong, people felt intrigued either way.
Years of faithfully watching WWF even after my retirement had taught me one thing for certain.
People lost interest quickly in simple, one-note characters like those of the eighties.
A heel with a hint of virtue, a face with a shadow of vice — that was what made an audience truly invest.
And when a face turned heel, or a heel found redemption, the story became infinitely richer for it.
Sin — the indie-born pro wrestler who trusted no one but himself.
But that alone isn't fun enough.
Which was why I wanted to weave in the religious element, giving the character a duality, a genuine complexity.
"Hmm, how about something like this?"
The supervisor sketched out a quick revision.
He wrote SIN in angular block letters, stretched the middle I upward, and struck a horizontal line through it, turning it into a cross.
I nodded.
"That's practically a logo."
"Much better."
The costume supervisor twirled his pencil between his fingers and kept talking through the design.
But that was when one more idea occurred to me.
"What about an inverted cross?"
"Inverted cross?"
"Yes. Contrary to what most people think, it's actually a Catholic symbol too."
"Not bad. Actually — let's use both versions. That doubles the T-shirt lineup while we're at it."
"Brilliant."
We ended up with a satisfying result.
But the supervisor wasn't done. He offered a few more ideas of his own.
"Hey, you ever been shot?"
"Excuse me? No?"
I was the type to bolt at the first distant crack of gunfire.
"Let's pretend you have."
"..."
Well, it's a character, I supposed.
And with that, the supervisor sketched what looked like bullet impacts across the leather jacket.
"Like this."
"Oh, that's actually good."
"Right? Gives the sense of a man who's lived rough."
Idea upon idea piled up like that, until the design was complete.
Distinctive, and a costume that showcased my character exactly the way I wanted. The rest of the costume team looked over the finished design and nodded along, satisfied.
"Not too ordinary, not too flashy. Feels like we hit the sweet spot dead center."
"Wow, this is really good, chief. Another lesson learned from you today."
"Ha! The wrestler himself submitted half these ideas — why are you all fawning over me?"
At that, everyone turned to me and raised their thumbs. I smiled and shook my head.
"Oh no, it was all thanks to you fine people."
That's just how office life works.
Besides, the costume team genuinely had added the touches that kept the design from going flat — that much was true.
After that, work began right away.
"Looking forward to it."
"Leave it to us!"
With my farewells done, I stepped out of the office and headed for my next destination.
The sound team.
That was where my entrance music was waiting to be made.
Entrance music was a genuinely vital element for a pro wrestler.
The walk from the backstage area down to the ring is called the entrance, and music was what let a wrestler's personality explode in that moment — what set the crowd on fire.
Much like in MMA or boxing, pro wrestling leaned hard into its identity as entertainment, and the whole point was to give the audience a good time.
Some fans tune in just to watch the entrance segments alone.
There was nothing quite like the sight of a wrestler radiating charisma to the beat of his own music. Of course, for that to work, the music itself had to be great first.
That first impression matters most of all.
Think of Rock Cold's music, with that shattering glass in the opening seconds.
Or The Pock, whose theme opened with his own catchphrase.
A distinctive chord, a signature beat — grabbing the crowd's attention instantly was priority number one.
The goal: hear one single second, and know exactly whose music it is.
When I laid out that philosophy, the head of the sound team nodded, convinced.
"You're not wrong."
"Anything you think could work?"
"Hmm... the costume team just shared their materials with us. How about we try a gunshot at the start?"
"Yeah, that's a bit..."
When I shook my head, the sound supervisor caught my meaning and smirked.
"Fair enough. It is a bit much."
America saw enough gun accidents that its people were sensitive to the very sound of them.
Stroking his thick beard, the supervisor started working the computer in front of him.
"Let's start by playing you a few samples in progress. If anything sounds good, just say the word."
"Understood."
I nodded, pulled a chair over beside him, and sat down.
Several tracks began to play.
Guitar riffs. Drums. Bass.
Somewhere in this mountain of samples, I had to find the one that fit my character.
But nothing stood out. The handful that sounded halfway decent were all just minor variations of music already being used on the main stage.
"Hmm..."
"What do you think?"
"Let's keep listening."
"Ah — what style do you actually want? Something grand? Melancholy? Or bad-ass?"
"Uh, w-well..."
As I stalled for an answer, a wild, absurd thought suddenly crossed my mind.
What if, right here at this moment, I used a genre like dubstep — something that wouldn't catch fire until years from now? Would that be jumping the gun?
Lost in the dilemma, I let all manner of styles wash past my ears.
It might actually work.
But would anyone alive be able to make the music I was hearing in my head?
According to my memories, dubstep wouldn't climb into the musical mainstream until roughly ten years from now.
And the genius musicians who'll emerge then are all just students right now...
Was I really being too fanciful?
Those kids couldn't compose all that well yet. Then again, when had anything in my life ever worked out as easily as I'd wanted?
I was chuckling at the thought when a genuinely deafening noise hit my ears.
"...Dubstep?"
"What the hell is this? This isn't for me, is it?"
At my reaction, the sound supervisor paused the track. I blinked, then threw out the question.
"Whose music is this?"
"Hold on. ...Ah, damn it. This isn't one of my samples."
"Then whose is it?"
"Uhh... some nerd living in Florida sent it in. Begging us to use his music, apparently."
"What's his name...?"
"Johnny Moore."
Who?
"Goes by A.K.A. 'Skrillex,' apparently. Judging by the email, he's sent it to every place hiring freelance work."
"What?!"
I shot up out of my seat.
Skrillex.
The genius composer who debuted in 2010 and drove dubstep into the mainstream.
And this track was his?
"Wh-what's wrong? You just—"
"Let's use this guy's music."
"Sorry?"
"This track's good."
I hit the spacebar and played the song again.
Rowdy, aggressive dubstep poured out of the speakers.
It was unmistakably raw, unpolished — but you could feel the talent glittering underneath.
Maybe he noticed it too, because the sound supervisor, puzzled at first, leaned in and listened to Skrillex's music with real attention.
Then he reached his verdict.
"It's... definitely good."
"No."
I shook my head in front of him. At this sudden reversal, the supervisor tilted his head.
"It's not polished at all."
"Hm. That's true."
"But if you helped him refine it, chief, I think it could turn into a hell of a song."
He was right.
Skrillex was still a student. Strip away the raw genius, and his music was missing quite a lot.
Which meant a seasoned professional like the sound supervisor could be the one to finish it.
Apparently the idea intrigued him too — his answer didn't take long.
"Let's give it a shot."
That was exactly the answer I'd been waiting for.
After that, I kept preparing with the staff's help at every turn.
This was my first time becoming a pro wrestler since starting my new life. Maybe that was why I couldn't quite contain my excitement.
The anticipation of unveiling a "work" I'd labored over with so many hands, in front of the world.
Like a sculptor coaxing a form out of stone, the preparation came together piece by piece.
In my past life, I trained for over a year before I finally debuted.
This time, I'd barely finished trainee drills and I was already debuting as an active wrestler. And on top of that, I'd been placed as the partner who would carry Russell Hart forward.
Me — leading Russell, who'd been groomed as a prodigy since childhood. That part thrilled me even more.
But as I'd said when explaining my character, wherever the world has a good side, a bad one follows.
The trouble blew up two days before the GCW show was set to be filmed.
I figured this was coming.
I was now standing in front of a man who looked thoroughly displeased.
A red-haired man whose skin was far paler than your average white man's.
The pro wrestler currently appearing on GCW's shows — Sheamus.
He'd spent two years here before moving up to the main show, and was now a mid carder — a veteran of the industry.
I was booked in a three-minute match with him, and I'd come to the locker room to plan it out.
Already dressed in his wrestling gear, he glared at me and spoke.
"...You're Sin, was it?"
"Yes, sunbae."
For a number of reasons, the pro wrestling industry put serious weight on seniority.
By the time I'd become a veteran myself, that culture had faded — but in 2002, it went as far as outright hazing.
The nail that sticks up gets hammered down.
I'd vaguely expected this, but it seemed my "performance" hadn't exactly endeared me to the senior wrestlers.
Sheamus spent a long while owning the room, taping up his wrists, then finally rose from his seat.
"First things first — let's see what kind of man you are. Put your gear on."
"This is my gear."
I answered honestly.
Jeans and a tank top.
The costume team had made me wear it today for a test run. The verdict? It fit snug in exactly the right places, and I felt great.
But Sheamus looked me over like I was a bacterial culture on a petri dish.
Then he asked:
"That's your wrestling gear?"
"Yes, sir."
"Fine. Let's see what you've got, then."
He let out one last sneer.
He marched out of the locker room ahead of me and headed straight for the training hall next door.
I followed — and found the training hall packed to the walls with GCW's male roster.
No Russell. No Cena. I understood at once that they'd been nudged — half-forced — out of the room.
The first to speak was the man closest to the GCW championship: Bobby Ashley.
"...That's him?"
Seeing it again, the muscle on this guy is unreal.
I was a little overwhelmed by the sheer mass of muscle draped over his dark skin.
He'd been pushed hard on the main show thanks to that monstrous physique — but before long, he'd grumble about the punishing schedule and walk out of the company.
"That's right."
"The guy Baku won't shut up about? Let's see what you can do, then."
At Sheamus's words, another wrestler beside him let out a jeer.
Every single one of them, lined up against me.
And yet, strangely enough, I felt myself growing calmer.
I know every one of these guys.