A Flower on Willie's Grave

The conversation carried on that way for a while.

Late that night, I sat on the edge of my dorm bed and felt my thoughts churning into a tangled knot.

Willie's death was not GCW's fault. Willie had been in poor condition from the very beginning, and they said that after his dream came true, he truly did close his eyes in peace.

I had attended the funeral. Ebony had not, and Willie's parents, weeping, thanked us over and over for giving their son one last beautiful memory.

Most of the people in GCW, mindful of the matches we had coming up, said nothing — but every one of them wore the look of someone reeling from a heavy shock.

My own heart was no better. It was a tragedy, a genuinely heartbreaking thing.

And yet, listening to the hosts of that newsletter carry on, I found myself agonizing all over again — because they had a point.

Russell and I really were approaching the time to disband the tag team.

June's pay-per-view. Once it was over, I would have to negotiate my salary and decide whether to stay in GCW or move up to the main roster. Moving up meant surrendering the tag team belts — and frankly, staying wouldn't change much either way.

One thing was certain: neither of us intended to go down the road of splitting apart. We couldn't trample a child's dreams and hopes into the dirt.

But...

That, too, was a somewhat artificial answer.

If I went up alone like this, could Russell truly establish himself on his own? That was my immediate worry. And yet with Willie's promise hanging over us, my hands were genuinely tied. If I ignored what Willie had asked and attacked Russell, breaking up the team, I would become the single biggest son of a bitch under heaven.

I hate this.

The very fact that I was running these cold calculations left a foul taste in my mouth. But neither could I simply sit back and mourn Willie's death. I was a professional wrestler, and this was business. Which meant, sooner or later, a decision had to be made — what the two of us would do next.

Several days passed, and my prediction proved correct — the pay-per-view was a flawless success.

It was a night when summer had come striding close. Total ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠attendance: 10,384.

The media showered our achievement with lavish praise, and before long, the people upstairs began to take notice of GCW's marketability. It was in the middle of all this that Hallie made the trip to a headquarters meeting in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Connecticut and came back within days. And upon his hurried return, he gathered the team leaders and me into one room.

"One piece of good news."

Every one of us, our feelings a complicated mess, looked up at his face.

"And one piece of bad news."

"Give us the good news first."

"Well, for starters — effective next week, we're relocating. To a two-thousand-seat venue."

"And the bad news?"

"They're calling you up. With one condition attached regarding the storyline."

"...What condition?"

"Attack the injured Russell, put a decisive end to the script, and then come up. ...To raise your standing."

"Did they word it exactly that way?"

"Yes. It's Roitass's order."

"Triple H, then."

I let out a sigh. The shape of the situation was coming into focus. The man was on bad terms with the Hart family. Naturally, he wanted me to thoroughly bury Russell down in the developmental territory before ascending.

"That's my read as well," Hallie agreed. "But that was headquarters' condition."

"This is absurd. Hallie. The reason we're drawing this kind of love right now is the Sin-Cell team's popularity. And they want me to smash it to pieces on my way up?"

"You'd rather watch our popularity bleed out in a two-thousand-seat arena until we all get cut and everything goes back to the way it was?"

"That's exactly how it would go."

"Then why would they even do this?"

The team leaders couldn't stomach it. But the answer was simple. To Triple H, to Roitass — the business performance of a developmental territory meant nothing. The people surrounding them were nothing but yes-men.

It was laughable, but it was true. This company was the greatest in the world, yet it possessed none of the conscience to match. If anything, its savagery ran far deeper.

Still, when the proposal was put to me this nakedly — so, which side are you going to choose? — all that came out of me was a sigh.

What am I supposed to do here.

Displeasure settled over me. Objectively, it was a decent offer. Starting my ascent under a titan like Triple H wasn't a bad move at all. But following that order meant obliterating Russell on the way up, and I hated that. And yet simply shaking Russell's hand and rising together didn't sit right with me either.

Willie. Russell. Triple H. Every strand of it was knotted together, and I sank into the struggle, unable to land on an answer.

Which was precisely when it happened.

"...?"

Feeling a vibration in my pocket, I pulled out my phone — and tilted my head at an unexpected name on the screen. It was Ebony.

Late that night, I drove into downtown Atlanta and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠met Ebony at a pub. Her long hair swaying in a single loose tie, she guided me to a seat.

"Beer's fine, right?"

"I'm driving."

"Cola, then."

I nodded, and while watching her weave her way through the pub, I took stock of my surroundings. Men and women everywhere were watching GCW. At Wyatt's entrance, the whole room erupted in cheers.

...Time to pull my cap down low.

Anyway. I had no idea why Ebony had suddenly asked to meet, but I'd wanted to clear my head, and this seemed as good a place as any. Talk things through, and maybe a solution would surface.

It's been a while since I've been somewhere like this.

In my past life, I used to come often. Quietly, here and there, during my days as an active wrestler, then more freely when I worked as a producer or picked up day labor. And at some point, the pub became a habit — the place where each day's work ended. Back then, I couldn't fall asleep until I'd drowned myself in whiskey.

Youth had ended in failure, and nothing remained of it. So the deeper I slid into the back half of my life, the deeper I sank into the bottle.

That's how it was.

I'd been half an alcoholic. And yet, strangely, after my regression the habit had vanished without a trace. No craving for drink at all — only the urge to sharpen myself, endlessly. Martial arts of every discipline, training, acting, grooming my appearance. That much was only natural after coming back. But looking back on it now, it didn't feel normal at all.

Why was that, I wonder.

Just as the thought formed, Ebony returned carrying a beer and a cola.

"Here you go."

"I'll enjoy it."

"Don't mention it. I'm the one who invited you — buying a round is only polite."

"...So. What did you want to talk about?"

"I heard you went to the funeral."

She took a long pull of her beer and launched straight in.

"I did, yes."

"I was surprised when I heard. I know how busy you are — it was kind of you to bother."

"I have memories with Willie. I felt that I — and all of us at GCW — owed him that courtesy."

Russell and I had attended as representatives.

"Memories... right."

Ebony nodded as if that settled something. Now it was my turn to be curious.

"Not trying to needle you, just asking — why didn't you go?"

"My shift overlapped."

"..."

"What? Does that make me a hypocrite?"

"Everyone has their circumstances."

"I am a hypocrite, so why the surprise. Playing friendly with a handsome wrestler, playing doting caretaker to a sick kid — and then when he dies, playing like she barely knew him. Some nurse I am."

Ebony looked away. I could see her black eyes narrowed to slits, staring at nothing.

"But honestly? Even if I'd had the day off, I probably wouldn't have gone."

"Why not?"

"Because if I let myself get swept up in grief, the kids will keep being reminded — over and over — that their friend died because of me."

"..."

"At a pediatric cancer center, we work to keep the children positive and bright at all times. So no. I wouldn't have attended."

"That's a bitter thing to hear."

"Whenever I get news that one of them has died, I smoke a cigarette. Then I sleep. My shift starts five hours later, after all."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

"...But Willie was the first child I met after I became a nurse. He fell ill and was hospitalized when he was three."

Ebony's brow creased.

"So maybe I did pay a little more attention to him than the rest. Which I had no business doing."

"It's a hard line to walk."

"It is."

"Thinking of it all clinically, letting it slide right past you, then feeling disgusted with yourself for managing to do exactly that. But it's a problem with no way around it. Isn't it?"

"...How did you know?"

"Because I feel the same way."

I gave a bitter smile.

"Honestly, everyone involved does. How are we supposed to treat Willie's death? It's been weighing on me a great deal."

"...Can I ask you something straight?"

"Go ahead."

"What are you going to do now? Your tag team with Russell. There's been quite a lot of noise about whether you'll break it up."

"...How do you know about that?"

"Well. The kids all watch the shows together, so it comes up. My kid's a fan of yours, too."

"You have a kid?"

"No dad in the picture, though."

Ebony gave a short laugh. Then something seemed to occur to her, and she shook her head.

"Mm~ no. Sorry — I changed my mind. You don't need to tell me."

"Why the sudden change?"

"It feels like it'd spoil the fun of watching what comes next. Besides... I think I made a big mistake about you."

"What kind of mistake?"

"I think I took you for some character out of a comic book or a drama. But listening to you just now... you're nothing of the sort."

"What gave you that impression?"

"You're carrying the same worries I am."

Ebony chuckled softly.

Hearing those words, I felt the conclusion assemble itself inside me without much effort at all.

Ebony's mistake — equating the professional wrestler with his on-screen character — is one that people make all the time. Especially when the wrestler's persona feels plausible enough to exist in the real world. And the more tightly a character binds itself to reality, the more the wrestler gains the power to tell a real story through him.

And so I found myself recalling, without difficulty, that I had something I wanted to say through my character. The story of my persona in GCW all this time. The story of 'Sin.'

Why does he have no choice but to act this way? Why is his name Sin — SIN?

My name, forged in the mouth of a villain who cursed the world's unfairness. And to unravel it properly, what I needed, desperately, was the help of 'the dead Willie.'

Bitterly ironic, isn't it.

What lengths would a man go to — a man who returned from the end of his life to its starting point — in order to succeed? And what ending would that path deliver?

"..."

A simple answer arrived.

There's no way around it.

I asked, as carefully as I could.

"...About next week's show."

"Are you offering me a ticket?"

"No, nothing like that. Just — if you can watch it, watch it. No matter what."

I said it with a smile.

Ebony had tried to turn away from Willie's death. Given her profession's calling, that was surely the more efficient path. But I was not her. I didn't want to be. And I could afford not to be. What I wanted, here and now, was to refuse to look away from Willie's death.

I would use even that death to build a story, as a professional wrestler.

Everyone else would mourn, and try to accept the loss with quiet dignity. But I wanted to lay flowers on Willie's grave in my own way.

At the seriousness in my gaze, Ebony's cheeks flushed pink for a heartbeat before she broke into a smile.

"No fair, cheater-pants!"

"Ha — you can say stuff like that?"

I answered, dumbfounded, and Ebony grinned mischievously.

For just a moment, I thought that smile was dazzling. And in that same moment, one more realization struck me.

I had not thrown myself back into this industry to survive by licking filth off other people's boots for money. I came back because I wanted to achieve my dream. As Hallie had said, I wanted to leave behind a record that could never be erased. Like Triple H, I was a man prepared to do anything for that.

The producers who had scorned me in my past life. The wrestlers. Even the audiences.

I wanted to deliver to every last one of them a single truth: you were wrong.

And what that required was simple.

No lukewarm endings. Not this time.

A decisive, absolute finish. One I wouldn't be ashamed to carry in front of Willie. But I had no intention of tiptoeing around anyone's feelings to get there.

I would shatter Russell Hart, become the greatest villain this business had ever seen, and leave the show behind as legend.

I would become the Icon of GCW.

And with that, I reached my conclusion.