Gorilla Position
The Gorilla Position — that peculiar liminal space between the arena and the backstage, where the crew watched the match and coordinated everything in real time — erupted with cheers every bit as loud as the crowd out front.
It had been a long time since anything like that happened.
Baku cracked a smile and checked the state of the arena through the monitor.
The moment Russell Hart made his entrance, most of the staff instinctively knew a new superstar had been born.
Climbing into the ring to a roaring ovation from the crowd, he and Sin traded blows back and forth at a blistering pace. Every time Russell struck Sin, the crowd cheered; every time Sin struck back, they booed — the two reactions alternating like a call-and-response.
That was the essence of pro wrestling: the audience became part of the show itself. They chanted in rhythm with the performers, and their boos and cheers cranked the broadcast's energy to its peak.
Which was why, at a pro wrestling show, the one who knew how to use even the crowd itself always rose to become the biggest star. Every performer who'd ever been an Icon symbolizing an entire era had possessed that ability.
And Baku was feeling it — not from Russell, but from Sin.
Unbelievable kid.
Today was his television debut. He had every reason to be nervous, yet at least on the surface, not a trace of it showed.
The promo had been flawless. But this reaction was the product of what everyone was already calling a 'garbage' match.
A match so frustrating to watch it could only be described as trash. Baku saw the problems immediately — Sheamus refused to give up control, and Sin, in turn, stubbornly insisted on having his way.
And the resolution came from the colossal 'botch' Sheamus committed.
Sin turned that mistake into an opportunity.
That was when Baku realized this kid was no ordinary talent.
A genius.
A shiver ran down his spine.
The opposite of love isn't hate — it's indifference. And harder to receive than cheers are boos. Yet Sin had taken the hatred aimed at himself and converted it into cheers for Russell.
That kid is the real deal.
A guy in his early twenties walks out there alone and pulls this off? Every bit of it had been Sin's work.
That said, Baku figured he owed the kid a word or two about today's dangerously reckless match.
He rose from his seat and tried to slip quietly out of the room — which was when Harley, eyes still glued to the monitor, called out to him.
"Baku, where are you headed?"
"Worried about Sheamus's condition. Thought I'd go check on him."
"That son of a gun would come in through this side. Why are you going out?"
"...Ahem."
"Ohh, right — if it's the two kids, they'd come from the other direction. Well, go on then."
Having caught on to Baku's intent completely, Harley snickered and needled him without mercy.
Grumpy old bastard.
Under Harley's pointed insinuation about his obvious favoritism toward the kids, Baku felt a guilty sting in his gut as he slipped out.
The two of them had fought all the way into the stands, trading wild blows, then kept brawling as they spilled out of the arena — leaving the crowd buzzing long after they were gone.
Gate three, probably.
Baku resolved to hurry over and have that word with him.
"You little punks...!!"
The moment Russell and I fought our way out of the arena, still locked in our blood feud, Baku appeared as if he'd been lying in wait and bellowed at us.
"Oh — hey, Baku."
I greeted him, gasping for breath. He walked up close, flashed a grin, and dropped a hand on my shoulder.
"That was one hell of a show!"
"Let's head inside first."
Russell, standing beside me, looked distinctly uneasy that people might come outside and spot us like this.
"Yeah, let's get inside."
Nodding, Baku led us back to the backstage, where — in a space sealed off from the audience entirely — he laughed heartily and showered me with praise.
"Great match."
"Thank you."
"You looked a little lost early on. Don't tell me that was scripted too?"
"...Let's just say it was."
"So it was Sheamus being uncooperative after all."
"Since you mention it, we should go check on his condition. I'm worried I kicked too hard."
There's still a problem to deal with.
With that thought, I headed toward the Gorilla Position.
Unlike Russell's flawless run-in, my earlier match with Sheamus had creaked in places.
Will it be okay?
I couldn't shake the worry. But when I arrived at the Gorilla Position with Baku and Russell, a wall of staff greeted me with open arms.
"Ah, Sin!"
"That was amazing!"
"The crowd reaction was incredible!"
"Good work out there, rookie!"
"Thank you, everyone."
I smiled and acknowledged the avalanche of congratulations, then settled in to wait for Sheamus to return. It wasn't long before he came through the curtain, propped up by the referee.
I went straight over to him.
"Good work out there, Sheamus."
"...Yeah. You too."
His eyes are glazed over.
"Are you okay? I'm not sure I didn't kick too hard."
"Funny — seems to me you should pace yourself AND get the job done right."
That was when Baku stepped in.
"Hold on, now."
"Wait, Baku — it's not what you think. Don't misunderstand."
"What?"
"It was all part of the match. Sheamus fell because I botched my first kick — I threw it too hard."
Yeah. This is how we planned it.
Here, I would shield Sheamus first. There was no need to manufacture a scapegoat when the match had ended safely. At the end of the day, he had honored the bare minimum of his duty as a fellow professional by taking my kick properly — that much was true.
Baku frowned at my defense and pressed me.
"Is that really the truth?"
"Yes. It was dangerous, but it won't happen again — I'll be more careful."
"...Mm."
Apparently out of things to say, Baku let out a short grunt and returned to his post.
I hid my smirk, then turned back to Sheamus, who stood there looking utterly dumbfounded.
"You all right?"
"You..."
"We'll call it even for that kick, yeah?"
With a light laugh, I thumped him twice on the chest.
The show ended in perfection.
The theme: the GCW Championship round of sixteen. All eight matches ended in draws — each in its own way.
A double KO. A match thrown out due to interference. A double count-out. A time-limit draw.
Every performer gave everything they had, showcased their craft, and burned with their own will to become champion. And of them all, the two names on everyone's lips were the explosive young rookies, Russell Hart and Sin.
The outlaw who had stormed into GCW, and the heir of a legendary wrestling dynasty destined to face him.
Starting the very next day, GCW's front office collected press coverage and savored every reaction that rolled in.
Watching a local news report declare that every match had ended in a draw, the executives sensed something extraordinary was unfolding.
And it didn't stop there.
"Local papers, gossip rags, the internet — everyone in Georgia is paying attention now, all at once."
"The gamble paid off."
"Has any show exploded like this in recent memory?"
"Not even Johnny drew numbers like this. When Sneaky went up, we were all wondering where the show was even headed."
"It turned out to be a blessing in disguise, really. If Sneaky had stayed, his standing would've been so dominant that booking would've been a nightmare."
That was what everyone believed. If the retooled show could hit this big, then promoting Sneaky had turned out to be a genuinely good move.
In the storyline, he was a villain whose overwhelming status meant only Johnny Ace could challenge him.
In pro wrestling, a lower-carder can't beat a higher-carder one-on-one. Demonstrating that hierarchy — establishing who stands above whom — is what victory and defeat mean in this business.
That was the iron rule of pro wrestling, born of the very existence of the script.
But if Sneaky had kept reigning as champion...
The show would've gone stale building up someone of equal standing to challenge him.
The odds of the crowd and viewers pushing back would have been high, too. Harley shook his head with a wry smile.
"Never dreamed it'd work out this well."
Right now there was no established powerhouse — a fascinating situation where anyone could plausibly become champion.
Chomping on his cigar, Harley looked around at his executives.
"What were the ratings this week?"
"Zero point seven percent."
"And how much do you think they climb next week?"
"I'd say at least a full one point zero."
The reaction had been that explosive. People found the all-draw show genuinely fascinating. All that remained was to detonate it at next week's show.
"Head of creative, get the results for next week worked out and bring them to me for approval."
"Understood."
"Baku, give the boys some encouragement. Tell everyone to gather this weekend — we'll throw a barbecue party."
"The kids will love that."
The meeting wrapped up on that warm note. Good results meant all that was left was to prepare well for what came next. Everyone rose to get back to their respective duties.
Baku stood, gathering his things, then suddenly remembered something and turned to Harley at the head of the table.
"Oh — that reminds me, Harley."
"Yeah?"
"Sin and Russell need to be signed to player contracts now, don't they?"
"...Good point."
"I'll take care of it."
"Don't pull any of your nonsense like last time — and take someone from finance with you."
"Yeah, yeah. Got it."
"Um, Baku?"
Just then, the head of creative approached him and spoke up.
"Yes, sir?"
"Could you bring me along when you go see him? That friend of yours."
"Who?"
"Sin. I was wondering if he had any more ideas brewing."
"Pitching storyline ideas directly to a talent isn't exactly good practice, sir."
"Still, I want to hear his opinions. That kid's suggestions hit like a magician's tricks — every single one turns to gold."
"..."
"Please! I'm begging you!"
He's not wrong about that, I'll give him that much.
Understanding the man's eagerness, Baku felt awkward. He was curious about Sin's ideas himself, so refusing outright would've been churlish.
Speaking of which, where is that brat and what's he up to right now?
By custom, the day after a show was reserved for resting the body.
I'll check his room first.
With that, Baku headed straight out of the office.
The day after the match.
There was nothing on the schedule, but I woke early all the same. Shina and I had arranged a separate training session.
But since it was the day after a match, I skipped the usual strength training. Instead, I spent the whole morning loosening my tense body with light yoga — after intense exertion, recovery was non-negotiable.
Shina, following along, kept looking at me like he couldn't make sense of it.
"Is this... actually doing anything?"
Lying on the mat, he held his back straight as instructed, skepticism written all over his face.
"Of course it is, Eazy."
I settled into the same pose.
It wasn't widely known at this point in time, but yoga was remarkably good for professional wrestlers. Wrestling is a craft where nothing moves properly without flexibility.
This is just the beginning.
Last night had been magnificent. Standing under the blazing lights, playing my role to the hilt and giving the crowd everything they wanted — that was what a pro wrestler truly was. I wanted to taste nights like that again and again. So even as I repeated the grueling stretches, I burned with resolve.
Shina, however — who'd been told in his past life, just as often, that he lacked flexibility — folded like a lawn chair in no time.
I ignored him, kept flowing through the poses, and didn't get up until noon.
"Shina, shower up and let's go eat."
"My... my back..."
"You're fine. You're not dying."
Peeling off my sweat-soaked shirt, I gave him a couple of playful jabs.
And right at that moment —
Thud, thud. Someone was knocking at the door from outside.
Who could that be?
Tilting my head, I left Shina struggling to his hands and knees and opened the door.
An unexpected figure stood there.
"Huh...?"
"Got a minute? We need to talk."
Believe it or not — it was Sheamus.