The sushi bar was a speakeasy in all but name, hidden behind an unmarked door on a narrow Tokyo alleyway. It defied the lockdown with brazen disregard, its patrons reveling in the art of disobedience. Officially, such places didn’t exist during the Blovid-13 pandemic. Yet here it was, an open secret whispered among the city’s outlaws, gamblers, and anyone else unbothered by moral or legal obligations. Inside, cigarette smoke clung to your lungs like a parasite, and the dim lights turned every face into a shadow. Conversations floated in fragments: arguments about rigged dice, whispers of a drug deal gone sideways, laughter so loud it bordered on hysterical. Patrons leaned against the sticky counters, their eyes glazed over from alcohol, drugs, or both. The bartender—an unshaven specter of indifference—chain-smoked as he poured drinks with the precision of a surgeon who had stopped caring whether the patient lived or died.
I sat at the bar with my own macabre feast laid out in front of me. A neat row of ikura nigiri gleamed like gemstones under the low light, their translucent orange eggs trembling with each vibration from the overhead TV. Next to them, sea urchin roe spread across its bed of rice like a crime scene—alien, raw, and unapologetically grotesque. The fish eggs burst against my teeth with an explosion of salt and brine that filled my mouth like the sea itself had waged war on my palate. It was an obscene sensation, and I savored it.
Above me, the television played the footage on repeat. Tanaka, the self-proclaimed emperor of All Asia Pro Wrestling, throwing a punch that connected with Rupert Mudcock’s fleshy, leering face. A slow-motion masterpiece of violence, the shockwave rippling through Mudcock’s jowls like a boulder tossed into a swamp. The camera then panned to the declaration that followed: a 60-man Ronin Rumble—AAPW’s 30 best versus Ultimate Wrestling’s 30 finest. A war on two fronts, televised for the masses.
I sipped my sake and tried not to laugh. Tanaka had challenged the very organization that had pulled me out of the gutter, yet here I was, debating whether I gave enough of a damn to care. Loyalty wasn’t in my nature; survival was. And if there was anything to survive here, it was the bitter taste of American capitalism dripping from Ultimate Wrestling like poison into the well.
The door slammed open, and a gust of cold air cut through the haze. Duc Huy Nguyen entered like a soldier returning to the battlefield—head held high, chest puffed out, but eyes scanning for threats. He looked around briefly before his gaze landed on me, his face breaking into a humorless grin. I didn’t invite him over. Duc didn’t need invitations.
He pulled out the stool next to me with the kind of confidence that made you want to punch him in the throat, then sat down like we were old friends sharing war stories. His cologne was overpowering, a sharp contrast to the damp, metallic stench of the bar. Without a word, he flagged down the bartender and ordered a whiskey. The bartender nodded, not bothering to make eye contact, and poured something brown and probably lethal.
Duc: You don’t like to talk much, do you?
I didn’t bother looking at him. The sound of the ikura squelching under my molars was answer enough. He chuckled, though it was a dry, humorless sound that betrayed his nerves. He wasn’t here for the ambiance, and he sure as hell wasn’t here for me.
Duc: I get it. You’re a man of action. No bullshit, no wasted words. I respect that.
I finished another piece of sushi, letting the silence hang long enough to make him squirm. I liked seeing him uncomfortable. Duc Huy Nguyen—five years as the Vietnamese Heavyweight Champion. A man who’d carved his legacy into the bones of lesser men before losing everything in one humiliating match. Now here he was, sitting next to me, as if we shared something deeper than contempt for the world around us.
Duc: I need to talk to you, though. It’s important.
I raised an eyebrow but still didn’t turn to him. He took it as an invitation to keep going.
Duc: I’m meeting with the others later. The fighters Tanaka threw out—fired, blacklisted, discarded like trash. You know, the ones Devin and Mudcock picked up for Ultimate Wrestling. We’re talking about working together. You know, a united front for the Ronin Rumble. Strength in numbers and all that.
I popped another piece of uni into my mouth, its velvety texture coating my tongue in a way that felt both luxurious and obscene. It wasn’t that I didn’t hear him—I did. Every word he said hung in the smoky air between us like a ghost begging for acknowledgment. I just wasn’t sure if I cared enough to respond.
Duc: Look, I know you don’t trust me. Hell, I wouldn’t trust me either if I were you. But this isn’t about trust—it’s about survival. You’ve seen what Tanaka’s capable of. The man runs AAPW like a damn warlord, and he’s out for blood. You want revenge? This is your shot.
I finally turned my head, just enough to catch his reflection in the greasy mirror behind the bar. His jaw was set, his dark eyes narrowed with determination. He wanted this. Needed it, maybe. But I wasn’t about to make it easy for him.
Gao: And what makes you think I care?
He smirked, a flash of white teeth cutting through the dim light.
Duc: Because I’ve seen what Tanaka does to people he can’t control. He didn’t just fire us; he broke us. Humiliated us. You hate him as much as I do, maybe more. Don’t pretend you don’t.
I said nothing, reaching instead for my sake cup and downing the contents in one fluid motion. The warmth spread through my chest, dulling the edge of the conversation but not enough to make it disappear. Duc leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
Duc: It’s not just us, you know. Some of the others have even bigger scores to settle. People Tanaka screwed over so badly, they’d die for a shot at revenge. You think you’re above this, but you’re not. You want to make him pay, same as the rest of us.
I set the empty cup down and glanced at him, finally meeting his gaze. His face was a mask of earnest desperation, a man clinging to the hope that his words might sway me. I respected Duc as a fighter—five years as a champion wasn’t a fluke. But his blind loyalty to whatever cause he’d latched onto this time? That, I couldn’t stomach.
Gao: You think teaming up with a bunch of rejects will change anything? Tanaka and Yamamoto don’t lose. They burn the field and leave nothing behind.
Duc didn’t flinch. If anything, his grin widened.
Duc: Maybe. Or maybe this time, he’s overplayed his hand. You’re right—Tanaka doesn’t lose. But Mudcock doesn’t either, at least not when it comes to business. You think he’s not going to throw everything he has into this? The Ronin Rumble isn’t just a match. It’s a war. And like it or not, you’re already in it.
The bartender slid Duc’s whiskey across the counter, the glass clinking against the wood. Duc took a sip, his eyes never leaving mine.
Duc: I know you don’t like me. Hell, I’m not even sure I like me half the time. But this isn’t about us. This is about Tanaka. About showing him that we’re not the trash he thinks we are.
I leaned back on my stool, letting the smoke-filled air wash over me. He wasn’t wrong. I hated Tanaka with a passion that burned hotter than the sake in my stomach. But Ultimate Wrestling? Mudcock? They weren’t saints. Their version of justice was as corrupt as the system they claimed to fight against. The idea of fighting for them left a sour taste in my mouth, worse than the brine of the fish eggs still lingering on my tongue.
Duc: You don’t have to decide now. Just think about it. The meeting’s at midnight. Graffiti alley, two blocks down. We need you, Gao. Whether you like it or not.
He finished his whiskey in one gulp, set the glass down, and stood. He hesitated momentarily as if waiting for me to say something. When I didn’t, he shook his head and walked away, his footsteps fading into the murmur of the bar.
I stayed where I was, staring at the remnants of my sushi and the flickering images on the TV screen. Tanaka’s smug face filled the frame, his words echoing in my mind:
“Ultimate Wrestling doesn’t stand a chance.”
Maybe he was right. Or maybe, just this once, the odds weren’t as stacked as they seemed. I picked up another piece of ikura and bit down, the salty burst of flavor mixing with the bitterness in my gut. Midnight wasn’t far off, and I had a decision to make. The sushi bar faded into the background as the sake warmed my insides. I stared blankly at the flickering images of Tanaka on the screen, his arrogant sneer carving its way into my psyche like a blade. My grip tightened around the sake cup as my thoughts slid backward, unbidden, into the memory that had haunted me since the day I left All Asia Pro Wrestling.
The arena had been suffocating that night, packed with fans screaming my name. "Gao Yun! Gao Yun!" The chant echoed like a thunderstorm, the electricity in the air a sharp counterpoint to the lead weight in my stomach. Across the ring, Bo Chen stood tall—bigger, stronger, younger. The heir apparent to the title I’d defended for three grueling years. The Chinese National Heavyweight Championship had become my identity, my armor against the politics of AAPW’s hierarchy. But I’d known going in that the match was a setup.
Tanaka had made sure of it.
Every step of the match had been a slog through quicksand. Bo Chen fought like a man possessed, and every time I thought I’d found an opening, he’d counter. By the time he hit his finishing move—a thunderous spinning powerbomb that knocked the wind clean out of me—I knew the inevitable was coming.
The three-count felt like it lasted an eternity. The crowd roared, a mixture of cheers for Bo Chen and stunned disbelief at my loss. I lay there, staring at the ceiling lights, my chest heaving as the referee raised Bo Chen’s hand in victory.
Then came the voice. Tanaka’s voice.
Tanaka: Well, well, well! Ladies and gentlemen, what a match!
His tone was honeyed with mockery, and his presence loomed over the ring like a specter. He climbed into the ring, microphone in hand, grinning as though Christmas had come early.
Tanaka: Gao Yun, our former Chinese National Heavyweight Champion!
His words were a dagger, the crowd’s gasps twisting the blade. I pushed myself up to my knees, glaring at him, but I didn’t have the strength to stand. Tanaka’s grin widened as he leaned closer.
Tanaka: You’ve been a pillar of AAPW… but pillars, like you, sometimes crumble. It seems the time has come for us to part ways.
The crowd fell silent, the weight of his words settling over them like a heavy fog. I pushed myself up to my knees, glaring at him, but I didn’t have the strength to stand. Tanaka’s grin widened as he leaned closer.
Tanaka: You’re fired, Yun. Effective immediately. Oh, and just to make sure you understand how final this is—
He motioned to Bo Chen, who stepped forward and kicked me square in the ribs. Pain exploded through my side as I collapsed to the mat again, clutching my stomach. The audience roared now, split between outrage and sadistic excitement. Tanaka raised Bo Chen’s hand again, basking in the chaos.
Tanaka: Say goodbye, Gao Yun. You’ve been replaced.
The memory hit me like a sucker punch, my chest tightening as though Bo Chen’s kick had landed all over again. I gritted my teeth, my sake cup trembling in my hand. That night had branded me in ways no match ever had. The humiliation, the rage, the helplessness—I’d buried them deep, but they clawed their way to the surface now, raw and unrelenting.
Tanaka’s face filled the TV screen again, his voice muffled by the bar’s ambient noise but still clear enough to mock me. His words from that night rang in my ears: “Say goodbye, Gao Yun.”
My jaw tightened. No. I wouldn’t say goodbye. Not to him, not to AAPW, not to the past they thought they’d erased. They’d taken everything from me—my title, pride, and career—and now they were coming for Ultimate Wrestling. For all its flaws, Ultimate Wrestling had given me a chance when no one else would. And if Tanaka thought he could waltz in and destroy that, he had another thing coming.
The bartender shuffled past, refilling my sake without a word. I downed it in one gulp, the liquid fire igniting something primal in my gut. Midnight wasn’t far off, and the alley two blocks down suddenly didn’t feel so far away.
Duc’s words replayed in my mind as I walked.
“This isn’t about us. This is about Tanaka. About showing him that we’re not the trash he thinks we are.”
He was right. For once in his life, Duc Huy Nguyen was right. This wasn’t about Ultimate Wrestling or even the Ronin Rumble. It was about Tanaka. About making him feel the humiliation he’d inflicted on me and every other "gaijin" he’d discarded. It was about redemption, not just for me, but for everyone he’d cast aside.
The neon glow of the city flickered around me as I turned the corner, the entrance to the meeting spot coming into view. I paused for a moment, staring at the shadowy figures gathered there. A mix of faces I recognized and ones I didn’t. Former champions, discarded talent, warriors with scars that matched my own.
I stepped forward, my resolve solidifying with each step. Tanaka had underestimated me once. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
This time, I’d make sure of it.