The Roulette Gambit

And so, Rakedown began.

KABOOM-KABOOM-KABOOM-KABOOM!!

A dazzling fireworks show lit up the arena as a crisp, pounding opening theme thundered through the speakers, and some twenty thousand fans waving placards cheered until their voices cracked.

I felt it all through the tremor in the locker room walls and the feed on the monitoring TV, then turned my attention back to the scene in front of me.

Standing there, visibly nervous, were Will and a rookie from France — the two men I'd be facing tonight.

I looked over the French rookie, who was shaking from head to toe.

"What was your name again?"

"P-Paul, sir."

"Paul?"

I snorted and glanced at Hunter, slumped in a locker room chair. He seemed better after the hospital visit, but it was nothing more than a stopgap measure.

"His name's Paul too."

"I-I'm honored!"

"He says so."

"……Right."

Hunter gave a slow nod. Between the heavy painkillers and the antibiotics, he'd gone from lion to chihuahua. He stared blankly into space, shivered every so often, and — well, he'd been wetting himself wherever he sat.

'……Okay, that last part was a joke.'

Anyway. Paul and Will.

"You've got the script down, right?"

"Yes!"

"We'll give it everything we've got!"

To steer my matches in a more entertaining direction, the two of us had added a few new elements to the script — namely, a roulette wheel that would decide which category of technique I was allowed to use.

Strikes.

Submissions.

Throws.

Aerial moves.

Just one of those four. That was it.

A brutally large restriction. Which was exactly why people would be burning with curiosity.

'He's going to work an entire match with nothing but aerial moves? How the hell is he pulling that off?'

Something like that, presumably.

It was unquestionably a difficult thing to do.

But pulling it off was what made a performer first-class.

"Good. Just follow my lead."

And with that, the show began.

A backstage segment explaining the roulette aired first — me, alone, idly spinning a great wheel divided into four sections: strikes, submissions, throws, aerials.

I gave the wheel another lazy spin.

My words brought the video to a close, and the screen cut back to the live arena. Standing at Gorilla Position, I waited for my cue.

"Shin, you're up."

My music hit.

Grand, sweeping electronica — who would have ever imagined such a combination? But Skullrex's genius instincts, married to the seasoned ear of GCW's head of sound, had produced something genuinely magnificent.

Wheeling out the cart bearing the roulette, I made my way through a wall of cheers, shoved the wheel into the ring, and immediately took hold of a microphone.

"The fans in London are the greatest! What a beautiful Thursday night!"

The crowd roared itself hoarse. I could feel it clearly now — the level I stood at was right about even with Sina's.

A rookie who had clawed his way to mid-carder status in no time at all, with a future everyone was watching. An unpredictable little devil. A fan favorite who drifted between heel and face at will. The hottest man in the business — beloved even by the chairman's own successor.

That was who I was now.

'When you think about it, it's honestly hilarious.'

I had shattered, single-handedly, the prejudice that East Asian men couldn't be attractive.

But anyway.

My look was working just fine on the women of Britain, too.

When the woman holding that sign met my eyes, she let out a shriek. I spent a brief moment utterly dumbfounded, then picked ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my mic work back up.

"But not the wrestlers, though. Honestly? It's been one-sided. France, Spain, Germany — and England."

"Not England, you say? Fair enough. Will is a cut above the rest. You all seem to think so, don't you?"

And just like that, I carried the story forward through this running dialogue with the crowd.

"But it's still not enough. Which is why I brought this out."

I turned to face the roulette.

"From now on, every time I face one of these European rookies, I will use only ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the technique category this wheel lands on."

A ripple of restlessness ran through the stands.

"And the rookie facing me tonight is…… the Frenchman, Paul Roan."

But that single word — Frenchman — sent the temperature soaring all over again.

"Well now. If I spin this thing badly and actually lose, I suppose I'll never be allowed back in England, will I?"

The moment those words left my mouth, Triple H's entrance music thundered through the arena. Fluorescent green light — the color of the King of Kings — flooded and dazzled my vision.

I watched Triple H make his entrance with Paul in tow. The European tour had pivoted into a four-week script, but make no mistake: he and I were still adversaries, through and through.

"Your confidence has crossed the line into arrogance, Shin. You're telling me you'll restrict your own moves with a roulette?"

"Want a spin?"

"No, thank you. Regrettably, I have no intention of wrestling tonight."

"I'm sorry — what?"

"You look positively relaxed. Since you're feeling so generous, why not take care of my opponent, Will O Speedy, while you're at it?"

"And why exactly would I do that?"

"Because I'm the World Champion?"

Hunter climbed into the ring and held his belt aloft with all the swagger he could muster. The golden belt emblazoned with the WWF logo — the symbol of supremacy that every wrestler in the world dreamed of.

"There's simply no need for me to step in the ring. Can't speak for Rakedown, but I intend to take it easy for a while."

"Then how about this?"

I smirked and let my gaze settle on Hunter's golden belt.

"Say somebody beats me within these four weeks. How about that man earns himself a shot at the World Championship?"

"What……"

"It could even be Will."

For a moment, Hunter looked genuinely thrown. The crowd raised their voices in agreement with my words. Having pulled off a counterattack in the space of a breath, I let a light smile play across my face.

Hunter's eyes narrowed to slits.

"……Then you'd just lie down on purpose, wouldn't you?"

"As if. If I lose, I put my title belt down. Simple as that."

"You'd throw away——"

"What are you talking about? These are the tag team belts that forged legendary champions. Isn't that right, everybody?"

The crowd went absolutely berserk. And just like that, the story had become genuinely interesting.

I would face the rookies using only the single style the roulette dictated — and win. If I lost, I would relinquish the belts, and the rookie who beat me would earn a shot at the World Championship.

"How about it, Hunter? If you're half the man you claim to be, put your money where your mouth is."

"You little bastard……"

"Ooh, that sounds like fun."

Another voice cut in. A woman's voice, making no effort whatsoever to hide her amusement. The crowd recognized her instantly and erupted into cheers.

Tiffany McMahon had arrived.

Microphone in hand, she showed off a beauty styled to perfection for the broadcast as she climbed slowly up onto the ring apron. Hunter's expression froze solid.

But Tiffany smiled the smile of a businesswoman who knew that business was business, and pressed on.

"We always respect choices the audience finds entertaining, Hunter. This was your proposal, after all?"

"W-well, yes, technically, but——"

"Then take responsibility for it. Surely you're not backing out because you're afraid of losing to a European rookie?"

"……! Fine. You want it? I'll play along with this damn dog-and-pony show."

Hunter's fury boiled over.

"But remember this. The moment you lose, you hand back those tag team belts on the spot."

"Gladly. ……Let's have ourselves one rip-roaring four weeks, shall we?"

Honestly speaking, at this point in the script, Hunter staying out of the ring was a significant loss. At the end of the day, people had come to this show to watch WWF's wrestlers compete.

But one good storyline had changed everything. The crowd was cheering for me and Tiffany alike.

Riding that wave of energy, I gave the roulette a mighty spin in front of everyone.

Ta-rarararar……

The wheel whirled with a vigorous clatter. I leaned back against the ropes and waited for it to slow. First up: the match against Paul.

'A submission hold would be nice.'

For the sake of realism, every match was being resolved on the spot according to whatever the roulette produced — nothing prearranged. And I trusted my luck.

Submissions against Paul.

Aerials against Will.

The wheel, spun with just enough force, began its slow, deliberate crawl to a stop.

The results came out exactly as I'd intended.

Two spins had punched through two 25-percent odds and stubbornly delivered precisely the outcome I wanted.

Against Paul: submissions only. Against Will: aerials only.

I worked both matches by emptying my entire arsenal into them.

The 'submission' category leaned heavily toward slower, more technical holds, which meant the match risked turning dull. So I overcame that limitation by deliberately toying with the 'French rookie' Paul, mocking him lightly at every turn.

Every time I handled Paul like a cat with a toy, the British crowd laughed and reacted in a big way. And that emotion would inevitably be carried through the television screens and into the living rooms of everyone watching.

The next match, however, was the exact opposite. I was showered with boos while the crowd threw their full weight behind cheering for Will. Under those conditions, I launched him into the air at every opportunity and won the match with a sprawling display of aerial offense. Using his signature springiness, Will showed off a talent unlike anyone else's, and he held onto the top spot in the fan vote, pulling further ahead.

And so a week went by.

Thursday night, the second week of the European tour. After Rakedown finished taping, I showered and stepped outside.

"Phew."

A sigh escaped me before I could stop it. I'd expected as much, but it had been brutal. Muscle aches and bruises head to toe — a week so punishing I hadn't managed a single proper night's rest.

But I had done it.

Over these seven days, on both Burning Kong and Rakedown alike, I had performed spectacularly as the main eventer of every show.

'This is exactly what I wanted.'

Which was why, even running on fumes, I refused to complain. I organized my gear while running through the evening ahead in my head — get back to the hotel, ice everything down until the travel day, let the body recover.

Next week was a tag team match. Except that, unlike Sina and JBL's Rakedown duo, I'd be facing both of them alone — a handicap match.

'Once we move to France, I'll need to start preparing for that.'

With that thought, I scooped up my sports bag and slung it over my shoulder. My legs wobbled slightly under the muscle aches. I was steeling myself, about to turn and go —

when a cold chill brushed the back of my neck.

"……?!"

"Oh, wow. You really didn't notice, did you."

I whipped around in surprise — and there stood Tiffany. My eyes went round.

"W-why are you here?!"

"I was waiting in the parking lot and you never came out. So I took a guess."

She tossed me an ice pack. As I caught it, I felt something that had been missing quietly slot back into place. For muscle soreness, nothing on earth beat this.

"Ice your left arm."

The ice packs Tiffany had brought were not just one or two. I stood frozen for a moment, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠then couldn't help but snort with laughter. Peeling off my shirt, I sat down and started icing my forearms and legs, right where the pain ran deepest.

Tiffany smelled of sweat. Arenas always ran hot under the searing stage lights and the gunpowder smoke of the pyrotechnics. Even so, she had worked herself to the bone with the field team all night. The chairman's daughter — a cushy position, if you looked at it one way — and yet she never once cut corners.

That was why, in my past life and even more so in this one, I genuinely liked Tiffany McMahon as a person.

But she was probably a little angry with me over what had happened recently.

'I did call her a princess, after all.'

She was still in her early twenties — an age when you were allowed to be drunk on dreams. And I, the very object of that dream, had trampled all over her most tender nerve. Of course she was angry.

Even so, Tiffany concealed that emotion with practiced ease and kept talking.

"Those kids are really not good, you know."

"The rookies?"

"Their execution is sloppy."

"Well. Can't be helped."

"Still, there are far too many matches. Wouldn't it be better to cut some of them?"

"That's the exact same conversation I had with Bart in the limousine."

"……Pardon?"

"Everyone trusts me. So I have no choice but to give everything I have."

"Do you truly believe that?"

"Of course I do."

"You called yourself a product. If that product breaks, do you honestly ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠think Father will lift a finger to protect it?"

Tiffany's fury surfaced instantly. She hated her father.

Or to be precise, she despised Bart McMahon in his capacity as a corporate chairman — the man who treated his own wrestlers as merchandise and discarded them without a shred of mercy. Her fond childhood memories of the wrestlers in that locker room had only deepened her loathing of the man who owned them all.

'It was probably why she left WWF for university, too.'

And then she had met me. Tiffany had marked me down as the one person who could stand against Bart at her side. And truthfully, she wasn't wrong. Our team had kept the show successful through methods entirely different from Bart's. Which meant that when I bowed my head to Bart and echoed his philosophy, she must have been deeply disappointed.

I understood her. But for me, unable to oppose Bart right now, it had been an unavoidable choice. She was welcome to think whatever she liked — what I wouldn't accept was having it forced on me.

I was about to say exactly that, but Tiffany was faster.

"I can't let you keep doing this."

"Sorry?"

"I'm going to protect you."

And with that, Tiffany laid out an idea I truly could never have imagined.

An idea that I hadn't even been able to imagine.

……And it killed me.