The Limo Ride
Seventy-three percent.
A worldwide poll that drew roughly fifty thousand participants in a single night.
Will had crushed the other three European rookies by an overwhelming margin.
I'd assumed he'd take first place out of the four, but even I hadn't expected it to be this lopsided.
As the people around me sang Sin's praises and hoisted me up on their shoulders, I made my way to the rendezvous point where the production team was waiting.
Unlike in the States, the wrestlers traveled to the next city together with the production crew during the European tour.
We were in a foreign country, after all, so caution was only natural.
The moment I stepped off the city bus, the staff members who'd been waiting to depart rushed over to greet me.
"Sin!"
"Did you hear the results?"
"Of course I did."
"Total domination. Dammit, thanks to you I just lost ten bucks."
"Buy me a beer later, then."
It was lip service, but kind words all the same.
The staffer clearly understood I was joking and snickered.
Beyond him, most everyone else seemed genuinely delighted by my success, as if it were their own.
And they looked at me with respect.
The selection and booking of European rookies involved a great deal of input from the wrestlers themselves.
That meant I — the one who had made an unconventional choice and actually pulled it off — had accomplished something remarkable in their eyes.
The staff began to crowd around me as if I were some celebrity among them.
I was chatting away in the easygoing atmosphere when I noticed Tiffany approaching.
She waved a hand, as if she had something to say. Excusing myself from the crowd, I pushed my way out through the throng.
"So how does it feel, Tiger?"
"……Tiger?"
"That's right. Tiger. You lived up to everyone's expectations today, too."
Tiger.
A strange nickname.
For some reason, the way a heroine addressed the protagonist in a certain hero manga flashed through my mind.
"Everything went exactly as I expected."
"That's incredible, honestly. Everyone else was in complete disarray — how on earth did you see it all coming by yourself?"
"You work long enough, it comes naturally."
"……You're only in your third year, aren't you?"
"That's right."
"*Long* enough."
"Yes. Long."
I tossed off the quip lightly, and Tiffany snorted a laugh before striding ahead.
"My father wants to see you."
"Bart does?"
"Yes. He saw the results and apparently has more questions."
"It was just luck."
"You can say that all you want, but my father will hold you there until he hears the answer he wants."
"Shouldn't we be departing soon?"
"That's why I borrowed one."
"……?"
"A limousine."
Tiffany's gaze pointed somewhere. I turned to look, puzzled — and felt my mind go utterly blank.
A limousine, stretched long through its middle section, stood parked in front of the colossal trucks used for hauling equipment.
"……You've got to be kidding me."
"Nope. He intends to travel with you to the next city."
My head was starting to ache.
* * *
Originally, I was supposed to travel to London like everyone else, on the company bus.
But things had turned out this way instead.
Inside the tastefully appointed limousine.
"A brilliant idea, that."
The chairman of a major corporation was graciously showering me with praise, and yet somehow, it didn't feel good at all.
*By the original plan, I'd be playing cards with Sin right about now.*
A shame, but there was nothing to be done.
First things first — why had the chairman in front of me put me in his car?
That was what I needed to figure out.
The Bart I knew was not a man who picked up wrestlers without a reason.
To him, wrestlers were tools.
In other words, he hadn't simply brought me along to satisfy his own curiosity.
"You've got a knack for it — every script you propose turns to gold."
"Thank you."
"Even after you retire someday, come work for our writing team."
"That's a long way off."
"Haha, now that you mention it, you haven't even been debuted a full year yet, have you."
Bart let out a light laugh.
But it lasted only a moment before his gaze turned cold and sharp, boring straight through me.
"A guy doing wrestling spots in a shopping mall three years ago, and now look at him. Who could have guessed?"
"……You knew about that?"
"Of course. I research everything about anyone who catches my interest."
"Oh, come on, no need to talk like some villain. It was all on my résumé anyway, wasn't it?"
"……KWAHAHAHAHA!!"
Bart roared with laughter.
"I like how you fire back, too. A man ought to live saying what needs to be said."
Bart was generous with his praise.
As I'd noted, he had a tendency to favor talented wrestlers who spoke their minds to him like men.
In other words, Bart had acknowledged me as *capable*.
And that was a huge clue.
*So that's what this is.*
Pro wrestling might involve an army of people preparing everything, but in the end, it was the wrestler in the ring who expressed it all.
Which meant Bart wanted to get a read on my psychology in advance.
Call it a kind of test.
Was I loyal, or not?
What was my track record?
What did the people around me say about me?
Did I have the grit and the love for this business to survive ten-plus years in a brutal industry?
Did I understand how the business worked inside, and would I cooperate even with things that weren't exactly fair?
And on and on.
Why?
Because all of that determined whether I was a wrestler worth *investing* in or not.
*Roughly figured out.*
Time to steer the conversation, then.
I'd show Bart that I was a wrestler with a philosophy he could trust.
At the same time, cultivate an image of not being a flatterer.
That seemed like the best play.
"You know, this is quite amusing."
"What would that be, sir?"
"You. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine the first move of your main career would be seducing my daughter."
"Father……?"
"I certainly never expected a rookie like that to exist."
And there it was — the problem.
Bart was wary of me, of how politically sharp I'd looked from the very start of my employment.
"It was luck."
"Luck? I don't believe in that word."
"Wouldn't you say you climbed to your position on luck as well, Chairman?"
"Me?"
"Yes. Being born into a good family — you could call that luck, couldn't you? And as luck would have it, you also happened to take a great interest in the wrestling business."
"Go on."
Tiffany's face had gone pale.
But I paid it no mind whatsoever and kept laying out my thoughts to Bart.
"Building that phenomenal era was all luck, too. Didn't the business just brim with magnificent wrestlers like Logan?"
"Granted, that boy's charisma alone was the greatest in history."
"Mine was exactly the opposite."
"You just said you got lucky."
"The talented boys at GCW reaching out to me — or rather, the *Young Miss* extending her hand — that was the luck. But as you can see, I myself have none."
"As you can see…… eh?"
"Yes. After all, I'm not the white man you favor, am I?"
"Hm, it's not that I prefer white men, particularly."
Saying it without so much as a lick of shame.
"It's simply a matter of taste. And since the masses feel the same way, that's why you once lamented my background — isn't that right?"
Back when I'd first joined.
Bart had openly expressed regret about my race.
"Did I now."
"You did. Which is why I've had no choice but to work twice, three times as hard as everyone else. That is unmistakably bad luck."
"So the effort you used to paper over that wretched luck was seducing my daughter — is that what you're telling me?"
"You could also say it was closer to me charming my way in. Perhaps the *Young Miss* simply found me intriguing and gave me a chance."
"That's an interesting way to look at it."
"And I'm doing my utmost simply not to lose that attention. Deliver convincing results, and the opportunities keep coming."
"And there's your bluntness again."
"I am a product. If you handed down my release tomorrow, I'd go right back to being Junho-Kim."
That was the plain truth.
The copyright to SIN belonged entirely to the company. I could presumably recreate a similar gimmick in another promotion, of course.
But WWF's superstar, *Sin*, was a being that existed only here.
"Therefore, I rack my brain and work myself half to death every single night to produce the best possible results."
"Is that what this whole affair was, too?"
"Yes. Call it a sense of responsibility toward the company that put its faith in me and pushed me forward."
A colossal corporation supplying the world's finest pro wrestling content.
The power brokers within it.
Without them, I was nothing.
*That should do it.*
Not that I actually believed any of it.
I had the knowledge, and I never slacked on the effort.
That was why my success had been possible — because everyone believed in me and followed my lead.
But to Bart, I spun it the exact opposite way, deflecting all credit to others as I always did in public.
*I'm a cooperative guy.*
*I caught a little luck, and I did everything I could to seize it.*
*There's nothing special about me myself — but if you pick me, I'll give it everything I have.*
That was the essence of my story.
Hearing it, Tiffany's expression curdled visibly.
"Um, excuse me——"
"Quiet."
Bart sliced through Tiffany's attempt to speak with surgical precision.
Then, at last, he broke into a bright smile and clapped me on the shoulder.
"Fine words. Some wrestlers get that twisted in their heads — but I'm relieved to say you're not one to worry about."
"Sure, I've become a star and earn quite a bit more than most, but that's not purely down to my own ability."
"You truly are a remarkable creature."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
I smiled as well.
*I passed, for now.*
* * *
London, England.
A dreary, brooding city.
The air hung damp, as if rain could fall at any moment, as the WWF production team arrived at the O2 Stadium.
Newly liberated from Bart's limousine, I headed straight into the arena.
I wanted to get a feel for the layout while the facilities were still being set up.
*Pretty standard.*
Venues in our business were usually circular or rectangular arenas.
The kind used for basketball or soccer. An entrance ramp was installed at one end, with a colossal screen hung above it.
At the end of the ramp — in other words, at the heart of the arena — the bump ring went up, with barricades set around it.
Finally, additional steel folding chairs were placed between the barricades and the existing stands to create more seating.
*The bump ring is small, after all.*
There was no way around that structure.
They hung the lighting rigs, laid down the safety padding, and ran the cabling — an army of staff members pooling their strength to get it all done.
Little by little, the arena began to take shape.
Without them, I suppose I'd be performing a one-man show in an empty stadium.
But setting that gratitude aside.
*I lied in the limo.*
That was what I'd told Bart.
That my effort was, in the end, an expression of responsibility toward the people who believed in me.
But the truth was precisely the reverse.
Through my ideas, my effort, my actions, I was the one *demanding* cooperation and responsibility from the people around me.
Maybe it was just wordplay — but the difference it implied was enormous.
Call it a question of leadership.
I acted with myself as the subject. That was my way.
Well — to be precise, that had been my way ever since the regression.
*Before that, I was just drifting through life.*
Doing what others told me to do.
Living as others saw me.
Passive, all of it.
But now I knew that kind of life was over.
Besides, I was a pro wrestler — a man whose very job was performing in front of others.
*Shoulders back. Head high.*
Steadying my resolve once more, I finished my inspection of the arena and turned to leave.
Next: the backstage.
I mapped out the most important locations in my head in painstaking detail — the Gorilla Position, the bathrooms, the locker rooms.
Whenever something was unclear, I grabbed a staff member moving equipment and asked.
"Excuse me, where are the locker rooms……?"
"Every room down this corridor, opening off both sides. The nameplates should be up by end of day."
Might as well check them before then.
The shower facilities and such had been on my mind, after all.
*Hope there's shampoo.*
Then I wouldn't have needed to pack any.
Anyway, following the staffer's directions, I reached the end of the corridor and saw several doors lining both sides.
The doors were all still locked.
"……"
Now what.
Should I go fetch a key from the staff? Or just come back tomorrow and check then?
As I stood there deliberating, I noticed one of the locker room doors not far off, cracked open — just the slightest bit.
Something about it nagged at me, and as I drew closer, I spotted an extremely awkward figure inside.
*Hunter……*
But something about him looked off.
His face was drenched in cold sweat, his jeans pulled down, one hand stretched out over a muscular thigh.
And over it, he was suddenly winding a compression bandage, wrap after tight wrap.
*What the hell?*
Had he killed someone in the showers? No — then why the cold sweat?
……And if not that, then there was a *slim* chance he'd injured his thigh.