I Am SIN

The crazy woman said,

“……Want another drink?”

She hadn't stirred an inch while I carried her all the way to the room, but the second I dumped her on the bed, she woke up asking for alcohol.

“What do you say? I've got something good.”

I let out a sigh.

Tiffany McMahon, legs crossed, was undeniably an attractive woman. I had no idea why she was doing this, but it was also true that—unlike in my past life—something like a man's self-respect was being quietly fed.

Which was exactly why I said,

“Excuse me.”

“Hmm? What. Are you too scared I'll sue you, so you don't want to drink?”

“You peed yourself, by the way.”

“Hnnh……?”

“Anyway, if I skip my workout today I'll start losing muscle, so I'm heading out. Call me tomorrow.”

“Hey, since when are you the coward?”

I ignored her and walked out.

Her eyes still looked a little glazed, which worried me, but there was nothing I could do about it.

After giving the bodyguard at the door a rough rundown of the situation, I slipped out of the hotel.

It was late enough that even the buses had stopped running.

I walked to the twenty-four-hour gym near my lodging and started my workout.

The place was nearly empty and quiet, and as I listened to the clatter of iron, my thoughts naturally deepened.

I really never saw that coming.

Who could have imagined it?

And yet, this was the natural course of things. It was just that nobody knew it yet.

Families. Viewers watching as a family.

All this time, GCW had courted exactly this demographic to pull up its ratings.

Of course, I couldn't deny that circumstances had lined up neatly for us either. After all, we'd rescued a reporter who was willing to write favorable coverage about us—along with his family—from an armed robber.

That's how it started, remember.

We built outside connections that way, staged a script worthy of them, and drove the ratings up by a huge margin.

The main show went through a similar paradigm shift as well.

The existing fanbase hurled monstrous abuse at us, but on the business side, it triggered a massive expansion.

But that was a story for 2005.

There was still some time to go.

Right now, only a short while had passed since Rockcold's era ended. As a company, they'd want to avoid risk.

Which meant that even if we delivered great results this time, the change wouldn't extend all the way to the main event scene yet.

Still, that was fine.

As long as GCW grew bigger because of it and the Never Escape tickets sold well, that was enough for me.

And it was certainly going to happen.

The next day.

I got a call mid-workout.

“……We were indoors.”

“Yes, yes. Understood.”

I smirked and wiped my sweat.

To talk properly, I stepped away from the press machine first.

I was replenishing my fluids when Tiffany McMahon, who had gone silent for a moment, spoke up.

[Anyway — it's done. I talked to them.]

“What did they say?”

[They approved it, obviously. We're running the ads starting tonight.]

Excellent.

I clenched my fist.

Tiffany had attended the headquarters meeting, made her case, and gotten it approved: a ticket discount event aimed squarely at family viewers.

[We're pushing the advertising through this broadcast too. That should be a huge help for the match, right?]

“Yes — and if the crowd reacts well, it doubles as promotion for GCW itself.”

Good news, both ways.

Tiffany and I traded a few more words to nail down the exact schedule.

Strictly speaking, it was closer to me answering her questions than a real discussion.

[No issues with the script, right?]

“None. Though I never imagined they'd keep their hands completely off the main event.”

[Thank goodness. Makes all those daily calls to their head of creative worth it.]

“……May I propose a non-title match where I beat Hunter?”

[Ahaha, don't make me laugh.]

Tiffany laughed like I was ridiculous.

It had been a joke, and I hadn't even come close to recouping the cost.

[Anyway — keep this momentum all the way to Never Escape. If anyone gives you trouble, call me right away.]

“Thank you. Oh, and—”

[Hmm?]

“Could you possibly get me two ringside tickets?”

[Sure, I'll set it up.]

I wanted to invite Ebony and her mother—the pair who'd helped me through my hardest problem—to the pay-per-view.

At her easy answer, I thought, once again, that I'd chosen the right boat to board with Tiffany.

This is basically blowing my nose without touching it.

Ours was a rock-solid partnership.

Tiffany held power I lacked. And I, in turn, held something she needed.

Our relationship was going to matter more and more in the main show from here on out.

And in fact, that was exactly how it turned out.

Tiffany McMahon made our position unambiguously clear to everyone in the back.

Thanks to her, we were able to keep telling the story we wanted to tell with a smoothness so absurd it was almost comical.

So this is what power feels like.

But of course it made sense.

The chairman held more than sixty percent of the company's stock.

It was only natural that Tiffany, regarded as his successor, carried that much weight.

Besides, Bart was currently out with an injury—meaning there was no one left who could stand in Tiffany McMahon's way.

So we prepared and worked through the weekly shows flawlessly.

The reactions climbed steadily, and soon even the fans who barely knew my name were hurling expletives too foul to print.

On the other side, Russell—aligned with Greg the way he was—drew the positive response.

Week three of the program.

We had a tag team match.

I teamed with Jack Hardy, the heel mid-carder, against Greg and Russell.

The crowd was eager to see what kind of wrestling Russell and I would deliver, and we more than lived up to it.

We traded moves back and forth, showing off our craft.

Russell's flashy offense.

And my vicious counters.

The cheers swelled louder and louder.

But of course, the finish always had to be deflated by my cowardice—that was how you built anticipation for the match to come.

Late in the match.

With the referee down, I went for the low blow yet again.

A simple, brutal technique that targeted the greatest weakness a man possessed.

On my knees, I swung my arm between the legs of Russell, standing in front of me.

“……?!”

But Russell—unlike Greg last week—blocked it with ease.

I looked up in shock, and the crowd ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠erupted. My cheap tricks didn't work anymore.

Russell shook his head slowly, then pulled me to my feet. He seized my arm, and I stumbled backward in a fluster.

“Kkuhk?!”

Then Russell drove a fierce kick straight into my groin.

To soften the impact and sell it for maximum effect, I hopped slightly off the ground.

Russell stood over me as I crumpled.

The crowd cheered—but I could tell they were also a little stunned by what Russell had just done.

A babyface never, ever cheats. That had been WWF's sacred convention for decades.

But Russell shattered it without a moment's hesitation. That was the single most important beat of tonight's match.

A performer who is truly loved by the people transcends the roles of good and evil and tells the audience exactly who he is.

It wasn't easy.

But Russell and I had built a character together over all our time as a team.

And it worked in the main show, too. The crowd held its breath, watching Russell's every move.

Russell rolled out of the ring and came back up with a steel chair.

CRACK!

“Kkeuhk?!”

……That one genuinely hurt.

Chair shot to the back, I tumbled across the ring in a heap. Russell kept hammering my back, blow after blow.

As the crowd roared its approval, I made a show of writhing in agony.

Then I barely escaped.

Looking up at Russell from under the ring, I could see it plainly—he was declaring exactly what kind of man he was as a wrestler.

Forgetting the pain in my back, I smiled as I watched him from below.

Watching the babyface I had created.

And then—the momentous fourth week.

The crowd had fully bought into the long-running rivalry between Russell and me.

The reactions were unmistakable, and everything had unfolded exactly as we'd designed it.

So we built the week-four segment brimming with confidence.

The contract signing before the match.

A long table draped in cloth and two chairs stood at the center of the ring, where a suited staffer explained the proceedings.

Russell and I made our entrances one after the other to our music. Cheers and boos alternated through the arena, and we took our seats across the table from each other.

And I, for good measure, propped both feet up on ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the table.

The perfect contrast to Russell's solemn expression.

Champion and challenger.

The man at ease, and the man deadly serious.

The contrast was laid out for the crowd in crisp, unmistakable lines.

“First of all—gentlemen, thank you both for joining us for this contract signing.”

“Don't mention it.”

I answered with a smug little grin.

Hearing the insolent heel champion brush it off, the crowd showered me with boos.

And from that very moment, I pressed the attack and launched into my mic-work.

“What's the matter with all of you? You're getting to watch my brilliant match this Sunday, and not one of you has the decency to say thank you.”

Russell snorted. A short laugh caught by his microphone.

Incredulous, I turned to look at him.

“What? Did losing your mind finally catch up with you, since you're stepping into a fight you're guaranteed to lose?”

“No, it's just—that's so you.”

“…….”

“Genuinely the most you thing you've ever said, Sin. You've always been like this.”

“And what would you know about it?”

“Oh, I know plenty. Ask any of them—we were a team, once. Until you shattered it with your betrayal.”

“It couldn't be helped. Try to understand. Besides, isn't it thanks to me that you're getting this much attention from the crowd?”

“Thanks to you?”

“That's right. Thanks to me.”

“You were always like this. Arrogantly self-assured—no fight in the world could ever make you flinch.”

“Of course. I'm the best.”

“But I'm not.”

Russell's brow furrowed.

“I still remember the promise I made to that boy. That's why every single moment I have to face you is torment.”

There it was.

Finally, we'd arrived at that story.

The story everyone had whispered ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠about and avoided: the death of a boy with pediatric cancer.

Now it had been thrust headlong into the script—used without fear or hesitation, all for ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the ratings, the merchandise, the immersion of the rivalry.

We'd gotten permission from Willie's parents. Still, someone out there was bound to curse us for going too far.

Even so, we did it.

Because Willie, up in heaven, was surely watching our story with his heart in his throat, more intensely than anyone else ever could.

I smirked.

“Willie?”

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

What's he talking about?

Or—

He's bringing up Willie, here of all places?

I turned to the fans who'd lost the thread, and explained.

“You remember. The little kid who cheered for our team. Died not long ago. We made a promise to that kid—that we would never fight each other.”

“Yeah……”

“But so what?”

I rose from my chair.

Russell's eyes went wide.

“Let's make one thing perfectly clear, Russell. The kid's death was a tragedy. But it doesn't change a single thing about what I do.”

“Betraying people?”

“That's right. That's what I do.”

“That's your job?”

I laid the emphasis on thick—this was the crux.

Before I knew it, Russell had risen from his seat as well. With the staffer fidgeting nervously, I swept my gaze across the audience.

“That's right. All of this.”

“These people?”

“If I hadn't committed something big enough to betray you over, how would I ever be standing on a stage this size?”

“So that's why you betrayed me?”

“Exactly. Our time together was fun. It was great. But if I wanted to climb any higher, this was the only way.”

Buzz. Relevance.

I had regressed.

I had the knowledge.

And so I used the brilliant ideas other people would someday bring into this world, without a shred of shame.

I wanted to reach the top, whatever it took. And every sin I committed along the way—its cause was every single person in this crowd.

If these people had given me a fair look from the very beginning, none of this would have happened.

Which meant I had to do it.

“A betrayal as filthy as they come.”

A scandal big enough to make people care—to make them lean in and listen.

“Because otherwise, you people have no interest in someone like me. Someone like me? Do you know what that means?”

I ran a hand slowly down my face.

“It means the ones who can never, ever be the hero on a TV drama.”

The underdog.

An Asian.

The ones ground down by every form of discrimination. People who aren't even granted the name American.

“That's why I am SIN. Your indifference is what goads me into doing things that are shocking and vile.”

No boos came.

Silence.

Some in the crowd understood what I was saying. Others didn't. And before all of them, I gripped the microphone and poured out the rest.

“Why? Because I'm the greatest of all time! But without your sullen, grudging attention, I can never prove it! I am a creature you people created!”

Only then did the boos begin.

The sight of me shoving every ounce of blame onto their shoulders was repulsive enough.

And because my words weren't entirely wrong, it would be all the more bitter to hear.

There were no Asian heroes in the American media. And so, I had no choice but to fight this way.

And so, the boos soon faded away.

The crowd no longer saw me as just one of the countless performers who showed up on the show and played out their scripts.

Here, I was complete.

Someone began chanting my name.

The crowd hurled boos as if to bury that chant—because out there in the real world, they'd started fighting over me.

That was exactly what I wanted.

That was the work I had been doing all along.

Cheat, lie, stab backs—gather the people's attention—and in the end, seize the opportunity.

Become an Icon.

A script that had fused with reality itself.

A shiver ran through me.