The Lion's Offer
A month had passed since then.
Rockcold Stevie Steen had brought his in-ring career to a definitive end with Wrestle Imperium in April 2003.
A retirement forced by a career-ending injury.
Countless fans mourned the loss, but there was nothing anyone could do about it.
An icon had walked out the door, and with him, the hero of an entire era had vanished. And in that vacuum, the WWF had gone passive.
They scrambled to find the second coming of Rockcold, and a parade of wrestlers threw their hats into the ring for that spot. Every single one of them failed.
In the end, new wine still had to go into new wineskins.
'Trying to reignite a flame that's already burnt out is nothing but a fool's errand.'
But we were different.
GCW, having adopted my proposal, had been gradually dialing back the intensity of its programming ever since.
Aside from sexual innuendo and blood jobs, we even avoided booking matches that used weapons like chairs whenever possible.
The goal was to build a show that appealed to family audiences.
At the same time, I reached out to Willie's parents, whom we'd met last time, to ask how they felt about the idea.
Their response was positive.
Just as I'd expected.
For a child locked in a battle against disease, an event like this would be an enormous source of strength.
Above all, wanting to give their child good memories is something every parent yearns for with all their heart.
Just picturing Willie's delighted face put me in a good mood.
Strictly speaking, though, this wasn't charity work. If anything, we'd be the ones benefiting from Willie.
Not that there was any reason to make that part public.
Truthfully, it was a complicated matter.
Granting the wish of a boy with an incurable illness while simultaneously gunning for the publicity it would generate — was that really the right thing to do?
But just as the Cena of the future had once said, I believed it was.
No matter what, our actions on Willie's behalf, and the memories Willie would carry from meeting us, would never lose their meaning.
In any case, all that remained was getting the green light from WWF's main office.
While I waited for their answer, I received a summons one day — Baku was calling me to his office.
A beautiful weekend, clear skies.
I opened the door, stepped inside, and froze on the spot.
A completely unexpected figure.
A completely unexpected situation.
"......"
"Look who showed up. Sin."
"You're looking sharp."
Standing beside Baku and Harley, both of whom had gone rigid, was a man with flowing blonde hair tied back in a single knot.
The Herculean bulk of his frame, the sharp dress shirt, the sunglasses worn with effortless style — the whole picture was striking.
He looked like a hero straight out of Greek mythology.
Anyone who laid eyes on him even once would carry that image etched into their memory forever.
'Why is Hunter here?'
Hunter Hays Hearst Hucley.
Triple H for short.
The WWF's greatest villain.
And in truth, a genuinely good man.
In my past life, he'd been one of the few pro wrestlers who treated me kindly.
But that was only because I wasn't 'worth stepping on.'
In reality, toward any 'athlete' who could threaten his position, he was more ruthless than anyone.
A man like an aristocrat of the old regime, who savored backroom intrigue.
Pure coincidence, no doubt, but his early-career gimmick had been a French nobleman perfectly suited to that nature — projecting gentility in spite of his wild, feral looks.
It was a gimmick that mirrored his real personality almost exactly.
In other words, the man knew how to survive and thrive.
I'd never suffered direct harm at his hands. But I could never bring myself to think well of him.
Because the wrestlers whose opportunities he'd strangled through his political maneuvering numbered enough to fill a truck.
In the not-so-distant future, he would marry Bart Maxen's daughter, Tiffany Maxen, and set his sights on the WWF chairmanship itself — a man hungry for power, like a lion on the hunt.
He took a long stride forward and offered me a handshake with a warm, easy smile.
"Pleasure to meet you. My name is—"
"There isn't a soul in this industry who doesn't know the great name of Triple H."
"Oh-ho."
Playing the game just like Hunter would, I clasped his outstretched hand without missing a beat.
"The honor is mine."
"Good. And I'm honored to meet a rising star like you too, Sin."
He smiled.
Behind that smile, he was no doubt sizing me up with cold precision. Whether I'd become his 'subordinate' or his 'enemy.'
Once we'd exchanged greetings, Harley, who'd been watching us, spoke up.
"Never thought I'd see the day they sent a man like you to a main show. When'd you switch careers to errand boy?"
"Haha, that silver tongue of yours hasn't rusted a bit since your active days, has it, Harley?"
Hunter laughed cheerfully and dropped into a chair. I, too, took a seat beside Baku, keeping my displeasure carefully hidden.
'What are you here for?'
From the look of it, he'd come to deliver the answer to the proposal we'd submitted. But did he really need to show up in person for that?
It was 2003 — nobody had a phone?
No, that's nonsense.
The moment I regarded him with open curiosity, Hunter, lounging with practiced ease, spoke up.
"Well... I do have a little something I'd like to discuss myself, as it happens."
"A discussion?"
"Let's set that aside for now. First, the request you sent over."
He removed his sunglasses.
"It's approved. Roy will send over the formal paperwork later."
Roy — meaning John Roytas, the WWF's second-in-command.
Exactly the news we'd wanted. I smiled and turned to the other two, who were equally unable to contain their joy.
Harley asked cautiously.
"Then what about the venue for the show...?"
"Ah, on that — I was told to only discuss it once you hit a ten percent rating."
"Ten percent?"
"What kind of nonsense is that? A minute ago you said our proposal went through?"
"The six percent we're pulling right now is already an all-time record, you know. Our intentions are obviously—"
"The devil is in the details, as they say. What Roy laid out was the script. That... the Captain Logan era script."
Hunter waved the objection aside.
"If you have complaints, feel free to take them up with him directly. Though I can't promise he'll pick up the phone."
Hunter smiled, entirely at his leisure.
Baku's fist clenched tight.
For a moment, I found myself wishing Hunter's walnut of a head were inside that fist.
A ten percent rating.
Absurd... no, not quite absurd, but it was unmistakably a stalling tactic.
A declaration that they couldn't be bothered with the hassle. Which meant that if the script they'd just approved failed, they'd likely wash their hands of it and pin the blame on us.
'If only Roy's walnut of a head were in Baku's grip instead.'
As I caught myself thinking it again, Hunter let out a light laugh.
"I'd say he's asking you to show some passion. Roy doesn't genuinely believe you'll ever hit ten percent."
The contempt radiated off him — the unspoken how could a little outfit like GCW ever manage that.
"That's everything I was sent to say. Now — may I move on to what I came here to discuss personally?"
"...Out with it, then."
"That man. Bring him up."
"Sin?"
"Yes. That's the only reason I came all this way — I wanted to make this pitch quietly, in person."
Hunter's expression was dead serious.
And hearing those words, I had to fight with everything I had to keep a scoff from escaping my lips.
'I know exactly what this is.'
The moment he said it, it clicked.
'A stable.'
I narrowed my eyes and studied Hunter's face.
Memories of my past life surfaced.
'Revolution.'
The legendary stable Hunter built to carry the flame after Rockcold's era ended — a faction that carved its name into WWF history.
Four members, and it would serve as the springboard for Hunter's future run of ten world championships.
But to get there, Hunter had wielded his backstage political power like a bludgeon... or so the world judged him.
And in truth, he had.
Blaming others for the declining ratings, he clung to his reign for two full years, until the era of Shawn Cena finally arrived.
'He wants to put me in it?'
Nothing else could explain Hunter personally coming down here to make a call-up offer.
Unlike the history I remembered, I had simply caught the sharp eye of Hunter Hays Hearst Hucley.
Harley let out a scoffing laugh.
"You've got plenty of wrestlers, don't you? I was planning on keeping this brat around a while longer as it is."
"No, all I've got are duds. The veterans are all retiring soon anyway. I'd rather scout fresh faces and build them up properly."
"What about that Johnny fella you called up last time? Where'd you sell him off to?"
"He can't even get on television anymore."
Hunter said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"How's a man supposed to rise without charisma of his own?"
"Johnny was our top face."
"And still a dud who couldn't be trusted in a main event."
"............"
CRACK!
Baku, who'd been holding his silence, crushed the wooden table he'd been gripping in his hand.
The air froze in an instant, and Baku spoke with eerie calm.
"Watch your mouth, Hunter."
"Still strong as ever, I see."
"Even if a wrestler is a pile of garbage, a promotion exists to package that garbage until it shines. Belittle a wrestler I trained one more time, and you'll be going home with one eye plucked clean out of your skull."
"Yes, yes. My apologies."
Hunter said, averting his gaze.
Even a man like him seemed willing to take a single step back from Baku's superhuman strength.
"But here's my question. Can you match this man's salary for next year?"
"Hmm..."
"Hey, Sin, you know this? The merch money you're pulling in here. It's about on par with a mid-carder on the main roster. You know what their salaries look like?"
Of course I knew.
Why did he have to phrase it so deliberately — didn't know that, did you? Doesn't feel unfair?
"A cool one million dollars."
Figured as much.
"So? Getting a measly fifty grand here starting to sting a little? You've got real, undeniable potential."
"I'm honored."
"No, I'm serious."
Hunter rested one massive forearm on the desk. It was thicker than a skinny man's waist.
"I'll be honest with you. I wrote you off a little at first — 'too skinny.' But that's one hell of a physique."
He looked at me with unblinking sincerity.
"......"
"The best recognize the best. That alone tells me you've got the kind of professionalism most wrestlers never build."
"Is that so."
"Choose the people who can see what you're worth. That's the only way up in this business. I'm not trying to trash GCW — but this place isn't where you belong anymore."
"Hunter, you—"
"One question, Baku. Have you ever actually taught this man anything?"
Baku's mouth snapped shut.
"You haven't, have you? I watched his first match against Russell, and it was obvious. This man walked through the door already finished."
Hunter's eyes were razor sharp.
He'd been watching my matches and evaluating my ability with startling accuracy.
"I am the number one star in this industry, Sin. Stand beside me."
Tempting... I couldn't deny it was tempting.
But I stayed careful.
Reading the hesitation on my face, Hunter rose from his chair without pressing further.
"...Give it some time to think over."
He didn't reach out his hand any further than that.
Perhaps because pushing harder would have tarnished the dignity of a man who saw himself as the lion king.
"I'd like you two to help him see which road is the better one."
And with that, Triple H left a dilemma behind in his wake and was gone.
The matter was set aside for the moment.
After Triple H left, a few of the wrestlers asked me what that had been about, but I gave them nothing. Harley and Baku seemed to be keeping quiet as well. The way people treated me didn't change one bit.
'They were looking out for me.'
Besides, with a big event right around the corner, there was no reason to sour the atmosphere.
And so I, too, shoved Hunter's offer to the back of my mind for the time being.
Everyone poured overflowing energy into preparing the show, and threw themselves just as hard into training.
And I naturally moved to the center of it all, as I always did.
I was the one who'd proposed the whole operation, after all. Everyone leaned on me heavily and came to me with questions.
And so, united as one, we rowed hard toward our goal.
Then, at last, the day of the showdown arrived.
The day we'd invite Willie, a pediatric cancer patient, to the show and give him one unforgettable day.
The plan had grown bolder along the way. Willie would appear on television today, and the commentators were slated to talk about him live on the air.
And after the show ended, off-camera, on a stage the audience wouldn't see broadcast, we'd cheer Willie on together with the crowd.
All of it would be promoted through the local news and newspapers.
'First target: a ten percent rating.'
Having mulled that over breakfast, I headed for the front entrance with Russell to greet Willie.
Russell, who'd spent far more time talking with Willie than I had, seemed to be nervous too, in his own way.
And honestly, he had every right to be.
For pro wrestlers, diving off a three-story building would honestly be the more comfortable task.
Even so, we were determined to give our absolute best for the little boy who loved pro wrestling.
While we stood waiting for Willie at the front entrance, Russell's nerves must have gotten the better of him, because he spoke up.
"What's the schedule for today again?"
"Tour of the facility first, then a celebration party. Then we shoot Willie's profile picture holding the championship belt. After that, he joins the show."
"...You actually remember all of it."
"Ebony and I pulled near all-nighters for days putting the whole plan together."
"Ebony — that nurse?"
"Yeah. She worked hard for this."
I let out a sigh.
That had honestly been the hardest part of all.
But it was absolutely essential, so we'd done everything in our power to accommodate the request.
Using the disinfectant the hospital had recommended, we cleaned GCW from top to bottom, determined to create a safe environment for the boy.
'It's only right.'
But it struck me how remarkable Ebony was, too, for sweating every last detail. None of it could have been easy.
If it were me, I probably would've quit halfway.
Part of the reason I do this work is because I love it, sure. But there's also the wealth and fame that follow when you succeed.
I enjoy watching people react when my instincts prove right, too.
That's something you can't taste anywhere else — not in theater, not in film, not in sports.
But a nurse?
I don't know much about the profession, but I imagine it demands an extraordinary kind of devotion.
Thinking of that, I couldn't help but marvel at Ebony all over again.
I'd just sunk into that thought when, before long, a white sedan came gliding up the drive from far off.
Russell and I moved forward, and the car rolled to a gentle stop in front of us.
The window lowered, and Willie's father leaned out.
"Thank you for the invitation."
"Glad you could make the trip."
"Russell! Sin!"
From the back seat, a little boy in a mask waved his hand with everything he had.
The parents were up front; Ebony and Willie rode in back.
Russell gave an easy wave.
"Welcome, Willie."
Seeing that beaming grin made me want, more than anything, to give him the single greatest day of his life.