The Villain from the Back Alley
GCW's arena building came equipped with all sorts of auxiliary facilities designed to aid in the filming of the show.
One of them was a dedicated room for shooting the promos that would be inserted into the broadcast.
As one could guess from the word "promotional," a promo meant anything designed to build anticipation for the show and its matches.
Superstar interviews, backstage brawls, mic-work performed solo, in pairs, or in threes — all of it fell under that umbrella.
The room's defining feature was the way the space was concealed: various props were scattered about, along with curtains emblazoned with the large GCW logo.
That was because other wrestlers were often waiting just outside the camera's frame.
Case in point: me.
I stood behind the curtain, watching the interview unfold as I waited for my cue to storm in.
I could see a neatly dressed female interviewer and Russell.
Wearing his wrestling gear adorned with the lightning-bolt emblem of the Hart family, Russell wore the look of a young man whose nerves were written plainly across his face.
The camera director, watching him, stroked his scruffy beard and chuckled.
"Nervous, kid?"
"A little."
"Don't worry. You'll be barging in right around the time they've traded a line or two."
"I'll hold out as long as I can."
Russell gave a firm nod.
When our eyes met for a brief moment, I offered him a light smile.
Truthfully, there was nothing to worry about.
He might not look it now, but Russell had been quite the smooth talker in his past life. And besides, a little nervousness actually worked in his favor at the moment.
'To deliver a good performance, you have to truly become that person.'
In that sense, "a nervous young man fresh off signing his first contract" was a perfect fit for the Russell Hart of today.
The problem was me.
Nobody had noticed, but the moment my stage entrance drew near, the nerves hit me out of nowhere.
In this state, there was no way I could pull off "the cocky villain straight out of a back alley."
No matter how kindly the GCW staff spoke to me, the opinions of professionals and the opinions of the crowd were never guaranteed to match.
Which meant that right now, I was facing a true test.
It didn't matter how skilled I was.
Or how well I spoke.
Or how outstanding my wrestling might be.
'Could I — an Asian — truly captivate an audience of other races?'
That doubt kept snagging at my heels.
It was something I'd experienced countless times. Nobody ever spared me a glance.
The stereotypical Asian booked solely to make the white champion look good.
A ridiculous clown.
A man with a long, wispy Fu Manchu mustache.
That was who I had been.
'Maybe I should have worn a mask after all.'
The thought flashed through my mind, and I quickly shook my head.
Running away was never an option.
Focus. Trust in yourself.
The live feed of the show was streaming through the monitoring TV in the room.
The opening video had just wrapped up, and a promo announcing the crowning of the next GCW Champion was playing.
'Now for the round-of-16 bracket.'
The bracket, produced by the video team, appeared on screen — but two of the slots were filled with nothing but question marks.
The commentators noticed it too and continued with a note of curiosity in their voices.
"Why are two spots empty, Jim?"
"Fresh fish belongs on a new plate, kid. Two extremely dangerous title contenders reported to GCW today. We'll find out who they are right after this commercial break!"
The commercial began.
One of the staff standing outside the door received an instruction from the production crew and shouted into the room.
"Jack! Be ready to go live the instant the commercial ends!"
"You got it! Alright, you bastards! Let's get to work polishing that ass until it shines like a damn dinner mint!"
Ah, the colorful crudeness unique to pro wrestling.
Everyone burst out laughing.
The crew began their preparations to make Russell Hart shine.
Reflectors were raised. Cameras rolled. A microphone was brought in close.
The director extended his hand.
"Three, two, one — go!"
A colossal silence.
The camera closed in on the smiling interviewer. Gripping the mic, she began in a honeyed voice.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the newest signee — the superstar who just put pen to paper today, Russell Hart."
Russell stepped forward.
The camera framed him in a full close-up, then pulled back to hold both him and the interviewer in the shot. It tilted up at a slight low angle, emphasizing Russell's presence.
"Great to meet you, Russell! Everyone is celebrating the heir of a legendary family stepping into the spotlight. How does it feel?"
"I will do my very best."
"You've been given a chance to become champion the moment you signed your contract. Any thoughts on that?"
"I intend to bring no shame upon the honor of my father and my grandfather."
A kind, righteous, and pure-hearted young man.
That was Russell's gimmick.
"Your opponent tonight is GCW's own veteran, Gorilla Moose. Do you have any final words of resolve—"
Right then, my signal came.
'Now.'
I slipped on the sunglasses tucked into the front of my jacket and stepped forward.
As sleazy and unhurried as possible.
"What's the big idea? Interview's happening and nobody says a word to me?"
I strode out, blocking the camera's view, and took my place beside the interviewer exactly as I'd planned.
Then I bent down at the waist and stared straight into Russell's face.
"Ah... um, excuse me—"
"I got dumped in this stinking place today too, y'know. So how come I gotta stand around watching an interview for some fancy 'little prince'?"
"N-no... your interview is scheduled right after this one!"
"Oh, is that right? My bad, then."
Laughing breezily as if it had all been a harmless joke, I lifted my head.
And Russell stepped toward me.
I spread my legs slightly, bringing my height level with his. He glared at me, emotions bottled tightly behind his eyes.
"Who the hell are you supposed to be?"
"What, you don't speak English? I already told you. I signed my contract today."
"Insolent bastard. Apologize at once for threatening this young lady."
"Hm... and if I don't?"
"Then I'll beat you within an inch of your life."
Russell delivered the threat with cold menace.
I held my silence for a beat, then raised both arms in mock surrender and backed away.
"Come on, no need to be so serious about—"
And in the very next instant, I drove a vicious kick straight up between Russell's legs.
"—it!"
A bolt from the blue.
The breaking ball.
"Kgh—!"
"The hell is wrong with you?"
With a snicker, I shoved the cowering Russell's face away and sent him sprawling to the floor.
"You see, I absolutely despise pompous little princes like you — the kind who act all righteous about a world they've never had to survive in."
"Wha—?!"
Then I snatched the microphone from the interviewer's hand and brought it down on Russell's head.
THUD! THUD!
But of course, it was all an act.
The camera only captured the image of me slamming the microphone down.
Meanwhile, a makeup artist smeared fake blood across Russell's forehead.
During an actual match, wrestlers usually bleed for real, but since this was pre-taped footage, we took a shortcut.
The audience, hearing the microphone thudding down again and again, would naturally imagine Russell taking the beating of his life.
So I made a point of hammering the mic down even harder, milking every last decibel of sound out of it.
"S-stop! Please, that's enough!"
And I kept swinging until the interviewer finally intervened, unable to watch any longer — though in truth, that was simply because she'd received her cue.
"Whew."
Rising to my feet, I pushed my sunglasses up with one hand and fixed the camera with a menacing glare.
Then I spoke.
"They call me Sin."
An exaggerated, theatrical tone — deliberately mocking Russell's oh-so-polite diction. And with that, I introduced myself to the world.
The garbage that clawed its way out of the back alleys and survived.
A cowardly villain willing to do absolutely anything for a win.
"Oh, and don't get it twisted. I'm a hundred percent American, so believe me — the most American man in this whole country? That's me, right here."
I brought it up deliberately, before anyone else could. I wanted people to see me through that frame from the very start, rather than fill in the blanks themselves.
My parents weren't — but I was a born-and-raised, homegrown LA American. Born on American soil, raised an ordinary American kid.
It was the question people always asked whenever someone Asian appeared on their screens.
'Where are you from?'
I wanted to open my story by cutting that racial bias off at the knees.
"Why do I do it? Because I can't stand smug bastards like him. And because I'm the kind of cruel son of a bitch who doesn't feel right until somebody's eating dirt."
My voice swelled with confidence as I painted my own portrait.
"Honor? Divine right? All that talk coming out of the little prince's mouth? Don't know anything about it. But one thing I promise you, for damn sure — history is going to remember me as a winner."
Those last words were half sincere. Which was exactly why I could pour that much more emotion into them.
I made my exit, sliding out past the edge of the camera frame.
From my spot behind the lens, I confirmed the camera now focused on the fallen Russell.
Blood was streaming down from his forehead. I had deliberately staged it a touch over the top.
"Russell! Russell! Are you all right?!"
The interviewer rushed in with the microphone, and the footage smoothly faded to black.
The camera director applauded.
"And that's a wrap."
"Great work, everyone!"
the interviewer called out brightly.
"That was one hell of a promo."
"It was live, so I was a little on edge — but it came together in the end."
Promos were usually pre-taped, but this time there simply hadn't been time for that.
Agreeing with her, I took the hand of Russell — still dabbing away the fake blood — and helped him to his feet.
"...Did I hit you too hard?"
"Sorry. I was a little nervous myself."
It was the truth.
But once I'd poured everything I'd been carrying inside into the script, I felt the tension easing, little by little.
'That went well.'
And with that thought, anticipation began to take its place.
"I can't wait to see how the crowd reacts."
But Russell, apparently taking my admission of nerves as a joke, simply smirked.
Our first promo had aired.
The audience's reaction was an unknown quantity. If the response were truly electric, it would carry clear over the wall from the arena floor — but we weren't quite there yet.
How loudly would they cheer the righteous young heir of a legendary dynasty?
And how viciously would they boo the cowardly, dirty Sin?
"Only one way to find out."
It was time to head to the ring.
After taking a moment to compose myself, I arrived at the Gorilla Position just behind the ring, where GCW's commentary duo of Jim Rocket and Davy Dawson were in full flow.
"Something astonishing has just happened!"
"The opening match between Bobby Ashley and Big Tick ended in a double knockout! Does that not tell you just how desperately these competitors crave that title?"
"This is a man's fight. Every last one of them is giving everything they have to claim the throne of champion."
'Sharp commentary. These two know their craft.'
Glancing at the monitor, I could see the crowd's reaction wasn't bad at all.
On top of that, I could hear the roar of the fans beyond the curtain.
The attendance tonight was admittedly on the small side, but the heat in the building was enough to make you forget it entirely.
Just as I was smiling at that thought, a familiar voice called out from behind me.
"Kid. Sheamus."
I turned to find Baku standing there. He beckoned Sheamus — who had been standing beside me this whole time — over to join us.
"You both ready?"
"Yes, Baku."
"Don't worry a bit."
"The opener ended quicker than expected. It runs three minutes plus two more — Russell interrupts at the five-minute mark. Between now and then, I want you two to crank this crowd all the way up."
"Understood."
"Good. Now go watch the show."
With a nod, Baku delivered a thunderous slap to each of our backs.
The impact felt like it had shattered my spine, and it snapped me wide awake.
Turning back, I approached Sheamus, who was loosening up one last time, and spoke up.
"Senpai — how do you want to play it?"
The truth was, we hadn't held a single proper meeting about our match.
I had a rough idea why, but I asked anyway.
Sheamus met my question with a direct, unblinking stare.
"I call the shots. You follow my lead and keep up."
"Could you at least give me a—"
"Oh, you think this is one of those fancy indie rings you're so proud of?"
"That's not what I meant."
"Then as the rookie, you fall in line behind your senior and keep up. Slip up, and you die out there."
"...Fair enough."
I nodded.
I'd judged that there was no point trying to push the conversation any further.
'So the hazing of the rookie isn't over yet, huh.'
But fine — if that was how it was going to be, I simply had other tools at my disposal.
The twenty-seven-year-old Sheamus would never dream of it. Just how many times I'd been through situations exactly like this one.
How, as a despised and condescended-to jobber, I had clawed out every advantage I could to make myself shine just a little brighter.
"I'm heading out."
He was probably sour about having to make his entrance first, being the senior man and all.
His music hit.
Sheamus pushed through the curtain in his red ring gear and strode out into the arena.
Then it was my turn.