The double mahogany doors opened and closed behind him, the noise in the room increased.
Jey was temporarily blinded at the door. The flashes of white light came from the dozens of camera lenses in quick succession. It was a brand new style of blinding in contrast to the wonderful arena lights. Those lights were intended to make him look good... these flashes seemed to be designed to expose whatever vulnerabilities lay underneath his mask.
He blinked several times and his eyes slowly adjusted to the glare. The room was large and had a high ceiling. On the opposite side of the room was a long wooden table, which was polished, surrounded by large promotional banners featuring the JW logo.
Mr. Shin was seated in the middle of the table. The dark suit he was wearing was immaculate, but his expression appeared the same as the night before when they were backstage. He raised his hand pointing to the empty leather chair to his right.
Jey took in a breath, his white shirt constricting his neck. He took a step forward, ignoring the stiffness in his ribs. He sat down, the leather of his seat creasing a little under his weight.
In front of him was a large folder.
The man who accompanied him quietly leaned over his shoulder and spoke in a hushed tone over the noise of the reporters. The handler softly opened the stapled papers inside the thick folder to the annual pay clause. "Read it carefully," he said.
Jey scanned the neatly typed Japanese characters and the English translation that was provided below. He found the bolded text.
Base Annual Pay: 3.4M (Yen).
The number caught Jey’s attention. He was at it right away, converting. Three and almost half a million Yen. About $22,000.
For the big guys, the guys who headlined the Tokyo Dome, that sold thousands and thousands of t-shirts per week, it was nothing big. It was developmental money, the regular fee for a mid-card.
But to Jey, looking at those zeros, it was a lifeline.
It meant that they were able to buy the special imported foods that his mother required to follow her autoimmune diet...and most important of all, Bambietta wouldn’t have to work overtime to help him keep the lights on. It meant survival.
Mr. Shin pressed the microphone in front of him. The room fell deathly quiet when a loud feedback whine was heard.
Mr. Shin started off his speech with "Ladies and gentlemen of the press," echoing loudly through the room’s speakers. "Welcome to the ranks of Japan Wrestling, let me introduce you to a man who showed his fighting spirit last night, our newest roster member, Ray Jr."
The cameras went off once more. Jey’s face was blank.
One journalist from the front row rose with a small digital recorder. He spoke very quickly in Japanese. A woman at the right of Jey, who the company supplied as a translator, leaned towards Jey’s ear.
The translator whispered, "He wants to know about your match with Yamza. He wants to know if your style is too reliant on high-flying maneuvers for a company that prides itself on Strong Style."
Jey moved toward his microphone. Jey said, "Yamza has been around for quite a while," his voice unshakeable. "I beat him." Murmurs continued.
"I will strike hard, I will grapple, I will fly, I will do whatever it takes to win in a JW ring."
Mr. Shin gave a subtle nod. The right answer was given.
Then another reporter rose to his feet. This one was older with a fedora and holding a notepad. He was speaking in English but with a thick accent. "Ray Jr, you wear the mask of a legend, your dad died outside the ring after your first match. Are you carrying his ghost with you or is the mask something of a burden?"
The room was suddenly silent. It was the question everyone wanted to ask, the elephant in the room that had all the media buzzing.
Jey’s jaw tightened. He remembered the room in the hospital in Mexico, he thought of Billy’s venomous words. You’re a joke, Jey, you will never be him.
"My father sacrificed his health for the wrestling industry," Jey replied gravely. "I am not here to duplicate the past... I’m here to create the future, my future, and I honor him with the mask I wear. But I’ll make it my own with my blood and sweat."
The reporters jotted and jotted. The camera shutters seemed to form a hive as they flashed.
Mr. Shin came forward, indicating the conclusion of the press conference. "Questions are behind us, it’s time to make it official."
The handler put a big, silver fountain pen on the contract.
Jey picked it up. The metal was cold on his fingers. He signed his legal name and then added the stylized signature of Ray Jr.
It was done. He was owned by Japan Wrestling.
Mr. Shin stood up and extended his hand. Jey stood up to button his suit with his free hand and took the handshake. Shin’s grip was tight, a silent pledge of the hard physical demands that lay ahead. They took one final round of pictures with the contract signed in between.
10 minutes later, the handler was escorting Jey back, down the long quiet corridor of the corporate headquarters.
As they walked the handler said, "Excellent work, Mr. Ray. Very composed, our development center is free for use anytime."
At the main lobby, the handler said that the front desk would check his details and send the money across as soon as possible.
"Welcome to JW."
Jey gave a nod of thanks and made his way across the vast marble in the lobby. He made his way through the thick glassed revolving doors and came out into the Osaka afternoon.
The heat struck him on the spot, unlike the aggressive AC in the corporate building. However, the heat was not the only thing in his way.
On the sidewalk, a group of independent photographers and freelance paparazzi had been assembled, but not allowed to enter the official press room. As soon as Jey walked outside, they all surrounded him and started asking him questions.
"Ray Jr! Over here!"
"Just one picture!"
"What’s the amount on the contract?"
Jey put his head down, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the blinding flashes. He walked on, politely but firmly, trimming away the small crowd, his eyes on the end of the block, where the subway station was. He just wanted to get back to the apartment. He wanted to remove the suffocating suit, pet the dog and tell Bambietta that they would be fine.
He made his way through the edge of the paparazzi and stepped onto the curb of the bustling intersection.
He was waiting for the pedestrian light to turn green. Another camera came into view on the other side of the street, a harsh beam of light glaring across from the click.
Jey froze.
Standing on the opposite side, amongst a sea of Japanese businessmen in identical dark suits and teenagers glued to their phones, was a man who absolutely did not belong.
He wore a white shirt with the sleeves folded, a black tie, a black one piece that housed everything...and most distinctively, he wore an incomplete mask.
It reminded Jey of his brother Billy, back in his early wrestling career.
The man didn’t look like he was waiting for the light. He was looking into the lanes of traffic, his eyes fixed on Jey.
He looked like he was in a state of pure bitterness... somehow that was visible through his mask.
Jey’s heart pounded. He moved forward, and ignored the flashing red Do Not Walk sign above him.
Then, a big city bus raced through the traffic, obscuring the view. The blasting of the exhaust fumes swept over the sidewalk.
Jey impatiently moved, trying to see round the back of the bus as it slowly passed.
"Hey!" Jey shouted with a crack in his voice, totally oblivious to the reporters, who were a few feet behind him.
The bus finally made it passed the intersection, accelerating down the avenue.
Jey looked at the other side. The businessmen were still there. The teens were still there, starting to cross the street as the light turned green.
However, the man in the white shirt was gone. That side of the road was back to being a regular part of the busy Osaka urban landscape.
As the pedestrians continued to cross the street, Jey stood still on the curb, his shoulders rubbing against those of the others.
"Billy?"