The hallway outside Rupert Mudcock’s private office had taken on that sick kind of energy that only lived in stadiums before something ugly. Stagehands hurried past with their heads down. Security stood a little stiffer than usual. Somewhere deeper in the bowels of the Tokyo Dome, somebody rolled a cart of weapons across concrete, and the sound of metal rattling against metal scraped down the corridor like a warning. Not props. Not theater. Not tonight.
Colton Hurst heard it and stopped cold.
His jaw tightened instantly.
The muscles in his neck flexed as he looked past the traffic and caught sight of one of the production boys pushing a black road case with fluorescent tape slapped across the top. Another followed behind him with a second case, this one half open, revealing coils of barbed wire, bundles of light tubes, and the ugly silver glint of thumbtacks sealed in plastic containers. Colton stared at it for a second too long, like he was trying to will the whole thing out of existence through pure disgust alone.
He turned and shoved Rupert’s office door open without knocking.
Rupert Mudcock stood behind his desk with one hand braced on the edge of it, the other holding a rocks glass with two fingers of amber liquid sloshing near the rim. Smoke from the cigar in the ashtray curled through the lamplight. The office television mounted on the wall was muted, cycling through highlights and sponsor graphics as if the company around them was not one bad decision away from crawling back into the mud it had been trying to wash off for months.
Rupert looked up, annoyed first, then guarded when he saw who it was.
Colton didn’t bother sitting.
Colton: What the hell is that out there?
Rupert took his time answering, which only made it worse.
Rupert: Wrestling I believe, Colton.
Colton stepped farther into the room and shut the door behind him hard enough to make the framed poster on the wall shiver.
Colton: Don’t play cute with me. I asked you what the hell is that out there.
Rupert exhaled through his nose and set the glass down.
Rupert: Equipment.
Colton laughed once. No humor in it. Just disbelief.
Colton: Equipment. Right. Barbed wire is equipment now. Light tubes are equipment. Thumbtacks are equipment. You want me to keep going?
Rupert said nothing.
That told Colton everything.
He planted both hands on the front of Rupert’s desk and leaned in.
Colton: You told the shareholders we were cleaning this place up. You told them we were stabilizing the brand. You told them the bloodbath garbage was over. That was the whole point. That was why they put me in charge of tightening things down. Better image. Better discipline. Less chaos. Less trash. And now I walk backstage and see death match toys being wheeled around like it’s 1999 in a parking lot promotion?
Rupert’s eyes narrowed.
Rupert: Watch your tone.
Colton: No. You watch yours. Cassie’s walking into that match.
That landed.
For the first time, Rupert’s face shifted. Not softer. Just more honest. More irritated at the truth than at Colton.
Rupert looked away toward the muted television, then back again.
Rupert: You think I don’t know who’s in it?
Colton: Then stop it.
Rupert let out a dry, humorless chuckle and sank into his chair, suddenly looking heavier than he had a second before.
Rupert: You think I can.
Colton stayed standing.
Colton: You own the company.
Rupert barked out a laugh at that.
Rupert: Do I?
The room went quiet for a beat.
Rupert leaned back, reached for the cigar, then thought better of it and left it smoldering in the tray.
Rupert: You still think this thing works the way it says on paper. You still think because my name is on the office door and my face is on the press releases, I can snap my fingers and rewrite reality. I can’t. Not tonight.
Colton’s stare never moved.
Colton: Then explain it to me.
Rupert drummed his fingers once against the desk, then finally gave up the performance.
Rupert: Haruki Tanaka has me by the balls. When I signed the contract to have this war between Ultimate Wrestling and All Asia Pro Wrestling there were certain iron clad stipulations written into it that I couldn’t get out of no matter what lawyer I brought in.
Colton said nothing, but the anger in his face sharpened.
Rupert: Empires End was a negotiated event. Cross-promotional. Political. Legal. Financial. Every piece of this thing had hooks buried in it before half the card was even announced. Broadcast rights. talent exchange. title recognition. distribution in Japan. travel exemptions. sponsorship coverage. all of it. And buried in that contract, right in the middle of the AAPW terms, was the match.
Colton: Then you should’ve rejected it!
Rupert snapped back immediately.
Rupert: Rejected it? That bastard waltz into the Tokyo Dome with this entire roster like a band of Thugs and brutalized me on international television? I had no choice but to sign! I had the entire company's image, hell the entire country's image on the line!
He stood now, voice rising.
Rupert: My guess? He wanted Kyoki Piero and Cassie Hurst in a death match at Empires End because he knew exactly what it would do. He knew it would sell. He knew it would make noise. He knew it would drag our people into his world on his terms. If I backed out, he had contingencies waiting for me.
Colton: Such as?
Rupert stepped around the desk, suddenly too agitated to stay behind it.
Rupert: Such as pulling AAPW talent off the show. Such as freezing the distribution package. Such as torching the whole relationship in Japan after I spent months planting this company’s flag here. Such as making me look weak in front of every investor, partner, and jackal circling this business waiting for me to stumble.
Colton’s nostrils flared.
Colton: So you sold Cassie to protect your deal.
Rupert stopped moving.
That one hit clean.
Rupert: Don’t do that. At the time when I signed the contract there was blood pouring from my nose. I could barely read what I was signing and you know it.
Colton: Ahhhh!
Rupert: I did what I had to, to keep the company from detonating on the biggest night of the year.
Colton: At her expense.
Rupert: At everyone’s expense!
Colton took a step toward him.
Colton: You don’t get to flatten that out and make it abstract. This isn’t a balance sheet to me. That’s my sister.
Rupert’s face hardened again, but there was strain under it now. Real strain. The kind men like him tried to drown in money, smoke, and noise and could never quite kill.
Rupert: And you think I’m happy about it?
Colton: I think you always tell yourself there’s no other choice right before you do the thing you wanted to do anyway.
Rupert’s eyes flashed.
Rupert: You think I wanted this because it’s messy television? Because blood sprays well under arena lights? Grow up. I’m not booking this because I’m horny for violence. I’m booking it because I signed a contract with a man who does not forgive weakness and does not tolerate public embarrassment and the fans here are the same way. Tanaka doesn’t bend. He collects leverage. And right now he has enough of it to make this entire weekend collapse if I go against him.
Colton stared at him, breathing hard through his nose.
Out in the hall, the muffled roar of the crowd swelled for a moment, then receded again. Somewhere nearby, a production runner shouted for a camera operator. The whole building kept moving. The machine never cared who got fed into it.
Colton glanced toward the door, then back at Rupert.
Colton: Then why the hell am I here?
Rupert frowned.
Colton: If I’m supposed to be the guy cleaning this place up, what am I doing? Because from where I’m standing, you’ve got me out there smiling for shareholders and talking about reform while you keep signing blood contracts behind closed doors.
Rupert didn’t answer right away.
That silence was uglier than anything he could have said.
Finally, Rupert spoke, quieter now.
Rupert: Don’t ask me! Ask the board and my spoiled rotten children!
Colton’s expression darkened.
Colton: There it is.
Rupert: Don’t be naïve. Optics matter.
Colton: So that’s it.
Rupert: Tonight? Yes.
The answer was so blunt it almost made the room colder.
Colton looked at Rupert like he was seeing him clearly for the first time, not as a loudmouth boss or a carnival barker in a suit, but for what he really was underneath it all. A survivor. A parasite. A man who could rationalize any compromise as long as he got to stay on top of the wreckage afterward.
Colton straightened up slowly.
Colton: If anything happens to her because of this, I’ll bury you and take full control of the company.
Rupert lifted his chin.
Rupert: Hah! Okay Hurst. Run along now before you say something extremely stupid again.
Colton: You can take that to Bank Baby Boomer.
He turned and headed for the door, then stopped with his hand on the knob.
Colton: Pray she walks out of that match.
Rupert said nothing.
Colton opened the door.
Before stepping out, he looked back one last time.
Colton: And you should pray I don’t decide the shareholders need to know exactly how powerless you really are.
Then he left, slamming the door behind him.
Rupert stood alone in the office, breathing through his nose, staring at the ashtray while the cigar burned down and the television silently flashed images of a company trying to look bigger, cleaner, and stronger than the rot running through its foundations. Outside, the sound of the crowd grew louder.
The death match was coming.
And everyone in the building knew it.
To Be Continued In PART - 7