Yoichi Isagi hurled the remote at the couch, barely missing it. It bounced once and hit the floor with a clatter, but he didn't give a damn. His gaze was still locked on the TV, even though the IRW broadcast had wrapped up and the channel had switched to some late-night filler.
Damn it.
He leaned back, raking a hand through his dyed hair, his jaw clenched tight. He didn't want to admit it—wouldn't dare to say it out loud—but that show had been something else. No, not just something else. It had been exhilarating. The pacing, the confrontations, the way the crowd surged and fell like one living thing. Even Hogan Hornet, that washed-up veteran ACW had tossed aside, had stirred something ugly and unwanted in his chest.
Excitement.
He scoffed, clicking his tongue. "Tch."
How could this be happening?
NPJW had younger, hungrier wrestlers. Guys who lived and breathed violence in that rundown warehouse of theirs. So why—why—were IRW's ratings shooting up while his were scraping the bottom of the city charts?
His fingers gripped the armrest tighter.
That name stung. The outsider. The wealthy kid who had the nerve to stand up to Zen and actually survive. Yoichi couldn't help but sneer as he replayed the scene in his mind. Sure, Zen had given him a serious beating—but it wasn't a fair fight. Vince had fought back. He'd landed punches.
Yoichi's annoyance morphed into something darker.
No, this wasn't just about Vince.
There was someone else pulling the strings. Someone experimenting. Twisting wrestling into a spectacle. People gossiping. Insulting one another. Turning brawls into narratives.
Who was the men's booker for IRW again?
Yoichi snapped his fingers. "Rivera. Mark Rivera."
He leaned in slowly, a grin creeping across his thin face. IRW was already on a path to ruin. NPJW would make sure of that. But before it all went down—why not sow some chaos from the inside?
A lifeline offered at just the right moment could easily turn into a noose later on.
Yoichi chuckled, starting softly before it erupted into a loud, manic laugh that echoed through the dim apartment. He could already picture it: Vince in a panic, Rivera tempted, IRW beautifully crumbling from within.
He wiped his eyes, still grinning.
"Sometimes my genius, it is almost frightening," he whispered to himself.
-----
Backstage at IRW, the vibe was anything but chill.
Hogan Hornet barreled down the corridor like a man on a mission, pushing past crew members and wrestlers without a second thought. His face was flushed, veins popping in his neck as he yelled Eddie Prince's name over and over.
"Eddie! You little punk! Get out here!"
A lighting tech barely managed to dodge him.
"That belt shot—after the match?" Hogan growled. "Is that how you roll now?"
Hands reached out to him—some hesitant, some more assertive—but Hogan shrugged them off. His pride was burning hotter than the throb in his head.
Mark Rivera stepped into his path, flanked by Victor Cross, Diego Cortez, and the Steel Titans. Even as a group, they looked uneasy. Hogan was furious in a way that didn't care about scripts or repercussions.
"Where is he?" Hogan demanded, poking a finger into Mark's chest.
Mark raised his hands in a calming gesture. "Easy, Hogan. Easy. Eddie's gone to cool off. This doesn't need—"
"Doesn't need what?" Hogan shot back. "Respect? Because I sure didn't get any of that tonight."
Victor shifted his weight, arms crossed. "You won the match. The crowd was on your side."
"That's not the issue," Hogan snapped back. "I won fair and square. He attacked me like a coward."
Just then, footsteps echoed down the hallway. Lance Dawson appeared, closely followed by Vince Maston.
Vince looked worse than he had earlier in the week—bruises still visible around his eye, his wrist in a cast—but he wore a composed, almost detached expression. He hadn't been backstage during the show, opting to watch from the sidelines because of his injuries, but now his presence was undeniable.
Hogan turned to him immediately. "Are you going to do something about this?"
Before Vince could respond, a voice sliced through the tension in the hallway.
"Oh, come on, relax."
Eddie Prince stepped out from behind a production crate, the championship belt slung over his shoulder, his face hard to read.
Hogan lunged forward.
Steel Titans and Cross reacted in unison, grabbing both Hogan and Eddie as they strained against each other, shouting over the chaos. The hallway erupted with noise.
"Touch me again and I'll—"
"Say that without hiding behind them!"
Lance raised his voice. "Enough!"
The command held weight. The struggle slowed, though neither man broke eye contact.
Lance turned to Vince, his eyes pleading for assistance.
Vince had remained silent throughout the commotion.
Then he finally spoke.
"If Hogan wants Eddie punished," Vince said calmly, "then Hogan can handle it himself."
The hallway fell silent.
Eddie stared, bewildered. "What?"
Hogan blinked once, then broke into a smile.
Vince kept his voice steady. "In two weeks. A special two-hour event. The final IRW broadcast on RedTV."
Lance's head whipped around to face him. "Two hours? Vince, that's—"
Eddie's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What kind of match are we talking about?"
Vince's lips curled into a smirk. "Falls Count Anywhere."
Mark frowned, confusion etched on his face. "What does that even mean—"
"Pinfall," Vince clarified calmly, "anywhere in the arena. No ropes. No breaks."
The reaction was instant.
Shock. Excitement. Fear.
Hogan let out a hearty laugh, clearly pleased. "Now you're talking."
Eddie didn't smile, but he nodded in agreement. "I accept."
Lance rubbed his forehead, looking stressed. "How are we supposed to pull something like this together so quickly?"
Vince finally turned his gaze to him. "We'll figure it out."
The tension didn't disappear, but it shifted—now it was focused, sharper.
Later that night, Vince found himself alone in his office, the soft hum of the building settling around him like a familiar blanket. He was absentmindedly rubbing his wrist when a knock at the door broke the silence.
"Come in."
Maya Hart stepped inside, and Vince looked up, a bit taken aback. "How did you know I was still here?"
Maya shrugged, a playful glint in her eye. "Word travels fast. Plus, I heard things almost got a little heated."
Vince leaned back in his chair, a smirk creeping onto his face. "Yeah, that's usually how it goes. Anyway, what brings you here?"
She offered a faint smile and closed the door behind her. "You're the women's booker too, remember? I wanted to chat."
Vince gestured toward the chair across from him. "Please, take a seat."
She sat down, her gaze fixed on him. "About that two-hour event. Was that something you had planned?"
Vince chuckled. "Not even close."
Maya blinked in surprise. "You just… threw it out there?"
"Sometimes," Vince replied, "you don't plan the fire. You just give it a little oxygen."
She shook her head, a mix of amusement and disbelief on her face. "You're out of your mind."
"Comes with the job."
They shared a brief, quiet moment before Maya spoke again. "The women want more time. More… visibility."
Vince nodded, his expression serious. "And you'll get it. Once we wrap up with RedTV."
Her eyes brightened. "Really?"
"Absolutely."
She stood up, looking lighter than when she walked in. "Then I'll hold you to that."
As she turned to leave, she paused for a moment. "You know… for a guy who just whipped up a major event on the fly, you seem pretty composed."
Vince smiled knowingly. "That's the secret."
Maya laughed softly as she stepped out.