Joining TPA
TPA was in such a rush that they demanded we report in just two days.
We decided to get farewell gifts for the coaches who had been so accommodating with us. After some deliberation over what to buy, we settled on a bottle of whiskey for each of them. We even included Charles Starmer from the advanced class, who hadn't been assigned to us at all.
"Damn. I've never gotten anything like this before."
"You kids are the first ones who've ever handed out thank-you gifts on your way out. Really appreciate it. I'll save these for a good day."
"Whose idea was this? I'm genuinely touched. Thank you."
And then there was Charles Starmer.
"I didn't teach you guys a single thing. Am I even allowed to take this?"
"Next time we come by to train, please teach us well."
"You're welcome anytime. I'll sell for you myself. Thanks. I'll enjoy this."
"Yes, Coach."
Joining TPA didn't mean those connections were completely severed. If a contract ever fell through, people still came back to train. Sometimes they showed up for rehab, too.
And with that, we cleared out our lockers at Team 3D Academy.
After a full day of rest, we gathered in front of TPA thirty minutes ahead of schedule.
"Ugh. I'm nervous."
"Getting cold feet?"
"Cold feet, my ass! This is different. We're walking into a completely new place for the first time."
"Tsk tsk. Excuses… You're never making main eventer with that attitude."
James gets this worked up over something like this—how does he even pull off that kind of performance? The more I got to know him, the more of an oddball he turned out to be. He claimed he was shaking, yet he still led the way inside. He was the same age as Selma, but his birthday came first, so he declared himself the older brother and took point—only to eat a solid smack from Selma for it. Her hands had always been faster than her mouth.
The moment we stepped through the entrance, a security guard made a phone call somewhere, and a man came jogging over almost immediately.
"Clint Stevenson, Performance Team. Welcome."
"Nice to meet you. James Holt."
We exchanged introductions in turn and followed him inside.
"Everyone's a little scrambled right now because of TPA Hot Slam."
It was one of TPA's four major events—roughly equivalent to WWO's Summer Clash.
"Ah. That's this weekend, right?"
"That's right."
Hot Slam had nothing to do with us. Could we even get a spot on next month's Emergency on August 15th, or the September PPV Road of Victory? If this year's Road of Victory had a battle royal, maybe. We'd walk out with single-digit entrant numbers and get dumped in five minutes—pure jobber work—but still.
I was curious. Might as well ask.
"Is there a battle royal on this year's PPV, Road of Victory?"
"No, there isn't. No battle royal this year. We've got one the day after tomorrow at TPA Hot Slam."
TPA didn't lock battle royals into a fixed schedule, so I'd been hoping. Disappointing.
"Alright, here we are. Go on in."
Clint knocked, and a voice from inside told us to enter right away. Jane Kim was waiting, along with a man and a woman in training gear who looked like coaches. Jane beamed as she welcomed us.
"Come on in. Seeing you here, you really look like our talent now. Sit."
We scrambled into the empty seats, and Clint joined us.
"You've already met Clint. This is Anthony Harrington, who'll handle the men's side, and Sophia Banini, coach for the women."
We stood right back up from our chairs and greeted them.
"It's an honor to meet you."
Then James went first, and we introduced ourselves in order.
"We don't have a lot of time, so I'll cut straight to it. You four are working a dark match in one week."
"What? Come again?"
"In one week?"
"Really?"
It was way faster than any of us had expected. My colleagues and I were genuinely stunned. Hadn't it taken Lorenzo and Vanessa about a month to reach a dark match back then?
"Just listen first."
Jane spoke as if telling us to settle down, then locked eyes with each of us in turn before continuing.
"Next Friday, if the dark match goes well, that same scenario carries over five days later—the following Wednesday—and you work the house show."
Alf raised his hand immediately, something clearly on his mind.
"Alf. From now on, save questions until everything's been said. Alright—what do you want to know?"
"Is a dark match basically a rehearsal?"
"Exactly. It's a rehearsal for the house show. Given how tight the schedule is, there won't be a rehearsal for the dark match itself. You'll run through the spots, lock them in, and go straight into the match."
There were essentially two ways to prepare a match. The first was like an idol group running a full dress rehearsal—working the entire match start to finish. Chemistry and safety ran high, but the prep time was enormous. The second was the spot method: breaking things into two- or three-minute chunks and simply laying out the sequence of moves. That was for veterans, people already comfortable with each other. Prep was short, but the odds of a botch went up.
"Don't worry. All four of you are booked to lose, and your opponents have a decent amount of experience. Just follow their lead. And it's not like you won't work any chemistry at all."
Listening to Jane, it wasn't quite a dive-in-blind situation. The Burning Boys would be facing Thunder Storms—a team that had ground it out on the indies before getting signed last year. Similar builds, similar styles.
"Thunder Storms didn't go to New York. You two start practice tomorrow afternoon."
"Understood."
"Yes, ma'am."
Selma was booked against Tyna Steels, who'd shown up at the showcase. Five-four, a hundred thirty-two pounds—all-rounder, technician, high flyer. Shorter than Selma, but the same type of worker, and a mid-thirties veteran.
Then it was my turn.
"Rina, you've got that powerhouse-and-stuntman assignment hanging over you, right?"
"Yes."
"So you're working Olivia. You know Olivia?"
"I've seen her matches."
"If you're really a powerhouse, you should be able to go toe-to-toe with Olivia. Right?"
"That's right."
Olivia. Thirty-eight-year-old veteran. A fixture at TPA—practically part of the furniture. On paper she was five-nine and two-twenty, but in person she looked like she carried at least another twenty pounds. The overall effect was uncomfortably close to the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man from Ghostbusters.
"How are you planning to lift Olivia?"
"I never set it as a signature, but I can hit a chokeslam."
Both coaches and Clint kept staring at my arms. They'd seen the data and the footage, but apparently they still didn't buy it.
"Tyna and Olivia are in New York right now. Until then, train under Coach Banini's direction."
"Understood."
Next came entrance themes. Themes were usually produced in-house because of copyright, and those rights belonged to TPA as well. The Burning Boys said they wanted something bright and energetic—rock.
"Hmm. I've been thinking this over. Your gimmick is hot-blooded when you're faces, and self-righteous obsession when you turn heel, right?"
"That's correct."
"Let's expand it. Instead of just passionate young men—what about inquisitors?"
Not bad. As long as it doesn't go full religious, it could work.
James looked at us, struggling to decide on his own.
"Selma, Rina—what do you think?"
"Looks good to me, James."
"I'm fine with it too. Just as long as we don't lean too hard into the religious imagery."
Selma and I answered in turn.
"Of course. We're not putting crosses on the gear. We'll go with the flames. Face gear: white robes with gold flames. Heel gear: black robes with red flames. Themes contrast the same way—bright hymn energy versus a somber requiem. And we layer the gimmick with righteous judgment and corruption."
That's sharp. As faces, kids and parents would eat it up.
"So are we changing the tag team name too?"
"Inquisitors. You'll be the Inquisitors. Those masks of yours already look good—clean up the hair, dye it blond, and you'll look plenty devout."
Ha. A real scenario writer was something else. Jane Kim looked completely different to me now. I wasn't the only one—Alf and James both wore faces that said they loved it.
"Do we need to change our tag finisher too?"
"It's a diving neckbreaker, right? Just call it the Hanging."
Just like that, the Burning Boys became the Inquisitors.
Now it was Selma's turn.
"I'd like some drum sounds in mine. Not a drum kit—actual drums. And make it hip-hop. Something upbeat."
"Good. We'll do that for Selma. It'll fit the gimmick. Last up—Rina."
I looked Jane Kim straight in the eye.
"Give me Unstoppable."
"What?"
Unstoppable had been Jane Kim's theme in TPA in the late 2000s. Her music had changed later, and she no longer used it, so there was no problem with me taking it. In wrestling, people discarded themes all the time—gimmick shifts, simple changes of heart. Other wrestlers picking those songs up was common enough.
The moment I asked for Unstoppable, something flickered in Jane's eyes.
"Why? Unstoppable is over a decade old. It's dated."
"Unstoppable. Unbeatable. Unstoppable. Is there a better theme than that? And it's not dated. Arrange it a little grander and it'll fit me perfectly. Will you give it to me, sunbae?"
Jane couldn't answer easily, so both coaches chimed in as if telling her to hand it over.
"Oh, that's good. A Korean legend's theme getting passed down to a Korean junior? The story writes itself."
"Old fans will love it, and you could even pull in some of Jane's old following. Jane, don't let it rot—give it to her."
With both coaches backing me, Jane finally nodded.
"Alright. Fine. It's yours. Take it."
"Thank you."
"I hope you become the kind of wrestler that title describes."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Rina just needs a grander arrangement, and that settles the themes. Clint, you get all that down?"
"Yes. Everything's noted. We'll proceed as discussed."
Themes alone weren't the end of it. Signature entrance poses, mannerisms, victory poses—all of that still needed locking in. The Inquisitors said they'd decide once they heard the music. Selma said she'd model her entrance on AJ Lee—CM Punk's wife, AJ Lee. How she planned to mash hip-hop with AJ Lee's soft, swaying little walk was beyond me. And whether Selma's acting could even pull it off was another question. Jane seemed to feel the same way and decided to judge after seeing what Selma actually did once the track was ready.
Beyond that, Selma had clearly put real thought into this.
"And when I win, I leave scratch marks on my face."
"How?"
"I keep a little red ink or tint inside my gear or in a pants pocket. Dip my nails and rake them across."
"Good. You've done your homework. That could look intense. We'll keep it. Just make sure it washes off easy."
"Yes. I'll use something like a lipstick piece—deep color, but it comes right off."
Then it was my turn again.
"I come out wearing headphones, a backpack, riding a skateboard."
"A skateboard? Can you even ride one?"
"A little. Enough for an entrance, no problem. I'll practice more. And…"
"And?"
"Depending on the storyline, we fabricate a thin skateboard separately—and I use it to smash people with."
Jane grabbed the back of her neck with a dizzy look on her face. Clint stared at me like I'd lost my mind. The coaches, though, seemed fine with it and just nodded.
"Ha. You really are… You actually became a wrestler because you wanted to beat people up, didn't you?"
I just shrugged and kept going.
"I'm not done yet."
"There's more? Spit it out."
"When I win, I force-feed the opponent mint chocolate whipped cream."
"Wh… what?"
"For Gen Z, mint choco is baseline. I'm just staying true to the gimmick."
I pulled a can of Pomonai mint chocolate whipped cream spray from my bag and blasted a line of it straight into my palm.
"Not bad, right? We might even get a sponsorship from Pomonai."
Now everyone at the table—including Selma—was shaking their heads at me.
"Yep. Not normal. The fact that someone with that face is wrestling was already weird."
Clint muttered it just loud enough for me to hear.
"The skateboard I can live with. Make it thin enough and it might even hurt less than a chair shot. But the mint chocolate whipped cream is on hold."
"What? Why?"
I'd figured the cream would sail through and the skateboard would hit resistance. It went the exact opposite way.
"What if Pomonai sues us for damaging their product image?"
"We cover the logo, don't we?"
"And the wrestler on the receiving end? Anyway—on hold. On hold."
"Aw, come on! That bit would kill!"
"No."
Nothing I could do. I'd have to think of something else.
"From now on, if you run into personal issues or anything difficult, contact Clint. Clint—did you hand out your cards?"
"Ah, not yet…"
We took Clint's business cards.
"Starting tomorrow, security will wave you straight through."
"You all have Stargram, right? Give Clint your info."
"Uh. I made an account, but I haven't posted a single photo."
Stargram? I'd made one, sure. I'd created it to check whether the male me—Lee Tae-ho—existed in this world. Of course he didn't. Even in my older brother Lee Tae-jin's family photos on Stargram, I was nowhere to be found. The pictures with Mom and Dad looked like those of an only child—no other siblings at all. And Seo Jeong-woo, the friend who'd built me that editor program… I'd thought about reaching out, scrolled through his photos. The second I saw the middle school and high school field trip shots, the graduation pictures, with no trace of me in them, I gave up on contacting him. In this world, a person named Lee Tae-ho had never existed to begin with.
"You said you were going full Gen Z. Then you have to do this too. Even in an era that doesn't keep kayfabe, there are still things you handle properly."
"I'll upload the photos and videos from the academy right away. And once I debut, I plan to protect kayfabe completely."
"Talent who actually protect kayfabe make a writer's life easier. If managing Stargram is a hassle, just give Clint your passwords and he'll handle it. Clint, walk them through Stargram management and the mandatory dos and don'ts."
Staff managing the Stargram accounts? That was honestly better.
"Yes. I'll leave mine with you. I'll give you the password."
"Then send over the photos."
"Yes. I'll send them right away."