The vibe inside the IRW headquarters on the second morning after Promotion Wars was practically electric.
Production staff were exchanging high-fives with talent in the hallways, trainers were passionately dissecting the previous night's highlights, and even the receptionist in the lobby was glued to a small screen replaying the thrilling moments of Andre's explosive debut and Maya Hart's hard-fought win.
Vince had just settled into his chair when Lance Dawson knocked twice and strode in, a hefty manila folder clutched tightly in his hand.
"The list," Lance declared, dropping it right in front of Vince.
Vince glanced up, still holding a stray stack of paperwork. "So soon?"
"Part of the deal," Lance replied with a casual shrug. "NPJW had a strict deadline to submit their entire active roster by noon today. The five we highlight will officially be part of IRW."
Vince opened the folder.
Inside was a comprehensive directory of every wrestler under contract with NPJW, complete with their ages, weights, heights, salary details, and how much time was left on their contracts.
Without a second thought, Vince uncapped a pen and boldly circled the very first name on the list.
Rodney Anoa'i
Ring Name: Yokozuna
Lance leaned over the desk, a knowing grin spreading across his face. "I had a feeling he'd be your top pick."
"He was always going to be," Vince replied, his gaze lingering on the name.
In Vince's past life, Rodney Anoa'i had been a key figure in the legendary Anoa'i wrestling dynasty—a lineage that would go on to transform the industry for years to come.
Whether history would repeat itself in this alternate reality was still up in the air.
Maybe names like Roman Reigns or Umaga would never make it to the marquee here. Or perhaps they were already part of the story.
Lance let out a low chuckle. "Yoichi is going to have a complete meltdown."
"He always has a breakdown nowadays," Vince remarked dryly.
"And now we're snatching his champion right out from under him., he will be even more frustrated."
Vince's smile was faint, lacking any trace of sympathy. "He signed the contract, Lance. He knew what he was getting into."
The pen moved again, circling another familiar name.
Bob Orton
Solid. Dependable. A master of the basics who could hold any locker room together.
Then came the third choice: Rocky Johnson.
Lance blinked, taken aback. "Him?"
"He's incredibly athletic, has that natural charisma, and still has plenty of gas left in the tank," Vince explained, a subtle, private smile creeping onto his face.
In another reality, Rocky Johnson's biggest claim to fame would be raising the most electrifying man in sports entertainment.
Whether a young Dwayne Johnson existed in this universe was a question for another time. But it didn't matter; Rocky's talent alone made the contract worthwhile.
Vince continued scanning the roster until his eyes landed on a particular name: Zen.
Without a second thought, he didn't just circle it. He drew a thick, bold black line straight through it.
Lance laughed. "I knew you couldn't stand the guy."
"I really can't."
"Then why cross him out completely? Why not just skip over him?"
Vince leaned back in his leather chair, tapping the pen against his chin. "Because he'd never actually show up for us. Even if we picked him, his pride would make him refuse, not to mention the fact that I'd probably break his knuckles. It's a wasted pick."
Lance nodded, conceding the point. "Fair enough."
With only two selections left, Vince closed the folder and slid it back across the desk. "You take the last two."
Lance blinked, a bit surprised. "...Me?"
"One man. One woman," Vince instructed calmly. "You know the current gaps in our roster better than I do right now."
After a brief moment of hesitation, Lance took the folder back. "I'll have the finalized paperwork ready for your signature by this afternoon."
"Good." Vince stood up, grabbing his coat. "I have somewhere else I need to be."
Lance raised an eyebrow. "Already? We just won the war."
Vince offered a tight, ambitious smile. "Wrestling isn't the only empire I'm building, Lance."
---
Thirty minutes later, Vince found himself stuck in the relentless flow of midday traffic in downtown Dodge, glaring out the window of a worn-out yellow cab.
"I really need to get a car," he grumbled under his breath.
The driver caught his eye in the rearview mirror and let out a chuckle.
By the time the taxi finally lurched to a stop outside the sleek facade of Maston Holdings, Vince had bumped 'buying a vehicle' right to the top of his urgent to-do list.
He stepped out into the sticky air and headed straight for Gavin Lindman's executive office.
The heavy oak door stood wide open, but Gavin was so absorbed in his work that he didn't even notice Vince's arrival.
The young CEO was pacing back and forth beside his desk, a phone pressed tightly to his ear, surrounded by a chaotic mess of financial documents.
"...No," Gavin said, his voice strained. "We've already explored that option... Yes, I get it... Thanks for your time, though."
He slowly lowered the receiver, staring blankly at the wall until he finally noticed Vince standing in the doorway. "You're here."
Vince nodded, stepping into the room and taking a quick look at the desk. It was a total disaster zone of paperwork:
Balance sheets
Cash-flow projections
Manufacturing overhead estimates
Revenue forecasts
Charts and graphs cluttered nearly every inch of the wood surface. Vince studied the complex data for a moment before looking up. "I don't get any of this."
Gavin let out a weary, hollow laugh. "I didn't think you would."
He sank heavily into his executive chair, rubbing the fatigue from his eyes. Vince took a seat across from him, crossing his legs. "No luck with the fundraiser?"
Gavin shook his head slowly. "None at all."
A heavy silence hung in the air, thick enough to cut with a knife.
Vince's gaze was fixed on the young man sitting across from him. Just a year ago, when Maston Holdings was still just a wild idea scribbled on paper, Gavin Lindman had been its first true believer—and the driving force behind its finances.
As the last surviving heir to the Lindman family fortune, Gavin had come into millions under the most heartbreaking circumstances, losing both parents in a tragic car accident on the very day he graduated from Harvard.
Instead of celebrating his achievement, he found himself at a double funeral.
When Vince had first approached him with the vision for Maston Holdings, Gavin hadn't been dazzled by the technology itself; he had simply realized that immersing himself in the relentless pursuit of corporate success was a lot less painful than facing his solitude and grief.
Together, they had brought the company to life. But now, for the first time since they teamed up, Gavin looked utterly drained.
He waved a hand at the chaotic pile of papers on his desk.
"We've got a potential billion-dollar product just waiting downstairs in Carl Holler's workshop. And yet, we don't have the cash flow to actually make it happen."
Vince nodded, a grim understanding settling in. He was all too aware of the bottleneck. The prototype was flawless.
Carl had nailed the engineering, but the leap from a brilliant prototype to mass production was where so many tech startups met their end.
"We used up our last liquid reserves to finance the Vox acquisition," Gavin continued, running a hand through his hair in frustration.
"Listen, Vince... you don't know this because I kept it off your radar to keep you focused... but I invested the last of my family's personal wealth into Maston Holdings weeks ago."
Vince frowned, leaning in closer. "You should have told me."
"There was no point. You would have just worried, and you had a battle to fight," Gavin replied softly.
"...but selling our Dongle shares right now would be pure insanity," Vince concluded.
Dongle had quickly become the fastest-growing search engine in the country.
Their equity stake could be worth a small fortune in just a few years. Cashing out now to deal with a temporary cash flow issue would be incredibly shortsighted.
"So," Vince leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "Lay it on me. What's the real cost of a production line?"
Gavin sifted through the stack of papers and pulled out a specific folder, sliding the detailed breakdown across the desk.
"I've crunched the numbers from every angle. A modest, optimized production line that can produce about a hundred units a day—factoring in specialized machinery, factory setup, precision tooling, supplier contracts, assembly line training, and initial raw materials... we're looking at around 18 million dollars."
Vince let out a low whistle, clearly impressed. "And what about the marketing effort?"
A genuine, albeit weary, smile finally broke through Gavin's fatigue. "Luckily, that's one area where we have a significant edge."
He pointed to another projection sheet.
"We own nearly a third of Dongle. We have complete control over Vox. We can cross-promote on both platforms for a fraction of the cost.
"We could organize a huge, nationwide tech exhibition," Gavin continued, a spark reigniting in his eyes.
"Carl or you could do a live demo of the Eden 1. Vox would broadcast the event worldwide. Dongle would drive search traffic and ad placements directly to the stream. Our actual marketing expenses would be just a tiny fraction of what a big competitor would have to shell out."
Vince nodded slowly, taking in the strategy.
The marketing plan was solid, but the 18 million dollar price tag for manufacturing still loomed large.
Finally, Gavin leaned in closer, his expression turning serious. "There's only one viable way forward."
Vince looked up, intrigued. "What is it?"
"The banks."
Vince sat there, quiet as ever, his disdain for institutional power well known.
"I get it, Vince. You're not a fan of debt, and neither am I," Gavin urged.
"But those private venture capitalists? They're like sharks. The moment they catch a glimpse of the Eden 1 prototype, they'll sense blood in the water. They'll barge in, bring along a whole crew of secondary investors, demand majority board seats, and strip us of our voting rights.
Honestly, some of them would flip their shares to our competitors without a second thought if the price was right. I won't let outsiders take control of this company."
Vince couldn't help but agree completely. Control was everything. "So, what's the plan?"
"We leverage what we've built," Gavin replied without missing a beat. "We mortgage our existing assets. We use our equity shares as collateral and secure a corporate loan.
We'll build the factory, launch the Eden 1, and use the immediate surge in consumer sales to clear the debt. After that, everything we make is pure profit."
Vince rhythmically tapped his fingers against the armrest, contemplating the weight of the risk. It was enormous.
If the Eden 1 flopped, the bank would pick apart Maston Holdings piece by piece.
But if it took off... they could leap ahead of the entire tech sector by a decade.
After a tense minute of silence, Vince stopped tapping.
"...Which bank?"
For the first time that morning, Gavin's smile radiated confidence as he closed the file.
"The same bank that oversaw the Vox deal. The Bank of Federation."