Her phone buzzed again. Only this time it is a text message.

  Good luck today at your dream job. Your dad and I are so proud of you.—Mom.

  She snorted to herself. " Right, Dad is so proud."It wasn't the time to engage in her daddy drama. For now, she needed to take a breath, put one foot in front of the other, and make a great first impression.

  The moment she stepped into WCWE headquarter's it engulfed her whole. WCWE headquarters is filled with an electric dynamo that fills the air the moment you push that door to the other side. Spectacle, egos, and chaos were what this business thrived on. Leather, metal, and the faint musk of sweat clung to the air, mixed with the far-off cngs of training rings getting hammered into. All of it was alive, and when she stepped in, she felt that she had entered a world other than any other.

  Her bck, wide, no-slip shoe squeaked against the shining floors as she fought to keep up with the blur of activity surrounding her. Producers screamed into headsets, interns ran past carrying stacks of paper, and a group of wrestlers—towering, rger-than-life men—were engaged in an angry argument over something she couldn't quite catch. It was loud. It was frenzied. And it was ideal.

  The telephone operator had a mobile headset on, putting calls on the phone and transferring the important ones first.

  “ Excuse me, I’m here to see Marissa Carter.”

  The rude telephone operator couldn’t be bothered to look up from her computer screen to respond to PR Girl. A few minutes passed by before the telephone operator finally answered her question.

  " If you have no appointment, I am going to have to have you removed. The WCWE has no use for wandering strays."

  PR Girl was a bit taken aback. Did her dress make her resemble a homeless person or even a stray cat? Okay, it wasn't some formal suit or even a pencil skirt with a very revealing blouse. I mean, PR Girl could have done that, but she didn't think she had to use sex to get to the top.

  She wears a trendy bck off-the-shoulder crop top, which cinches in at the correct points. Long, buttoned sleeves drape elegantly over her arms, and the ribbing adds texture and depth to her streamlined look. Off-the-shoulder style shows just enough shoulder and colrbone to bance seduction with gmour. Her distressed light-wash high-waisted jeans hug her curves in all the right pces without sacrificing their rexed, fashionably effortless charm. The small tears in the denim add a little edge to her look, hinting at a wild side beneath the serene facade. For accessories, she wears oversized gold hoop earrings that glint in light, in tandem with stacked neckces, a delicate choker, and a small pendant dangling barely above the colr of her top. On her wrist, a collection of stacked bracelets adds an aura of sophistication and individuality. In her other hand, she grasps a small, slender handbag, the final flourish on her carefully assembled outfit.

  Yes, hair color was the most unique color you'd ever see on a woman having. Her long, big hair cascades in soft, flowing waves, a stunning blend of deep brown and copper highlights that shine in the sunlight. The stark contrast of dark and warm colors gives her an almost ethereal quality, a mix of fierce independence and natural beauty. She was damned proud of it, too.

  PR Girl's tolerance was wearing thinner. She spped her hands on the counter with the smile she could manage.

  "Could you get Marissa Carter for me, please? Thank you, love." Her tone was all saccharine sweetness, but the venom lurking underneath wasn't difficult to discern. As the operator paged Ms. Carter to the lobby.

  As PR Girl sat around, she could see interns darting by with stacks of paper and a group of new wrestlers walking into the ring to practice their moves before going off to a live show. Looking up above her, she could see the banner of all the greatest former champions hung from the ceiling. Only the best of the best are ever to be remembered and never to be forgotten by anyone.

  Marissa Carter is the kind of woman who simply enters a room and cims it without saying anything. She is tall, sophisticated, and effortlessly commanding, her confidence stemming from having seen every trick in the book and having written a few of her own.

  Her raven-bck hair is as smooth as it is sleek, hanging just below her shoulders in an appearance that's both professional and dangerously seductive. Her bright hazel eyes, speckled with hints of gold, bze with a ferocity that it's impossible to determine if she's appraising you for business or tearing you apart for recreation. No ambiguity in her eyes, but control and calcution.

  Dressed in a perfectly tailored business suit, she is the very essence of power and precision. The charcoal-gray bzer, expertly tailored, nips in at the waist, adding to the elegant yet intimidating presence she exudes. Over this, she wears a crisp, ivory blouse, the neckline modest but commanding, a symbol of authority and not ornamentation. Her tailored pencil skirt, the rich gray of her bzer, hugging her curves but not hampering her movement, a dispy of her mastery of uniting poise and purpose. The slit in the back gives her just the room she requires for her confident step, and her bck patent-leather stilettos strike with metronomic exactness against the floor, a subtle but unmistakable decration of power.Her accessories are minimal but intentional. Her simple gold wristwatch and single show-stopping piece of jewelry on her right ring finger are the ideal reminders to people that she appreciates the finer details but doesn't need to funt them. Slight wisps of rich, warm vanil musk drift through the air when she passes by, leaving a subtle reminder of where she's been long after she's gone.

  Marissa Carter's not the dy you underestimate for by the time you realize, she's a good ten steps ahead.

  "Your new PR girl, clearly. Welcome to WCWE. Hope you have good thinking face."

  "Yes, ma'am, I'm your new PR coordinator. Thanks so much for having me… And, um, I also would like to apologize for my inebriated friend's telephone call."

  Marissa smirked. “Don’t be. It’s the only reason you’re here.”

  Well… that was concerning.

  The PR girl stares at her with a bit of a worried face. What kind of crazy house is she about to walk into?

  "My bad. We've got so many qualified candidates a year who come on here. They're so boring. None of them would've survived for a week here. I'm lucky if I can find someone to make it through day one." You can see the mental exhaustion on Ms. Carter's face.

  Aw, shit, I knew it was too good to be true.

  "Well, come on,we don't have all day." Marissa spun around on her heel and was already moving down the hallway.

  "As I said before, PR here is not like corporate work," Marissa continued, avoiding a camera crew that was about to do an interview. "It's survival. If something goes wrong, you clean it up. If the wrestlers make a scene, you spin it. And trust me— they will make a scene."

  She clenched her teeth but acquiesced. " I'll be okay, I'm great at spinning reality."

  Marissa bestowed upon her that look which said, We'll see, as she pushed open a door and led her into the center of WCWE activities.

  The deafening crash of a smming locker door resounds through the air, combined with the far-off sound of voices and the random explosion of ughter or rage. The scent is unmistakable—a pungent mixture of sweat, adrenaline, and victory, combined with a touch of testosterone-fueled machismo that seems to permeate the very atmosphere. It's the scent of men who have fought, conquered, lost, and cannot wait to do it all again.

  They are lined with shelves of steel lockers, dented from rage-filled punches and pstered with personal stickers, taped-up photos, or remnants of old feuds and inside jokes. Benches, battered and worn from years of use, line down the middle of the room, covered with duffel bags, knee pads, and discarded wrist tape.

  A tall mirror down one side of the room has its surface smeared with hurried looks and final adjustments before stepping into the ring. The mirror's reflection usually captures wrestlers cing up their boots, taping their wrists, or psyching themselves out—a moment of calm before the tempest. To the side, there's a dusty old vending machine whirring away, stocked with protein bars, energy drinks, and the occasional stray can of soda. A water cooler stands at attention, covered in empty bottles and discarded towels, the de facto meeting spot for post-game discussion and pre-game strategy.

  On the wall hangs a chalkboard with match lineups scribbled on it, st-minute changes, and inside jokes written in smudged marker. In the corner sits a worn leather couch beneath a dimly lit TV, broadcasting live coverage of the ongoing matches or reruns of iconic fights between legends. The air is heavy with tension, a mixture of nerves, excitement, and raw ambition. Each of the wrestlers who enter this room wears the burden of their reputation on their shoulders, aware that out there, somewhere beyond these doors, stands a ring ready to see them pushed to their limits. Some will emerge victorious, others will depart shattered—but here they are all equal: warriors preparing for war.

  To say she was nervous was an understatement.

  It was here that she would be encountering the faces of WCWE, the rger-than-life personalities who dominated television screens across the country. Not to mention she's going to be working with these big stars.

  Marissa waved her hand in the direction of someone, beckoning them over to where she was standing with this individual.

  A towering and formidable presence, this man exudes confidence and athleticism. His muscles are honed to perfection with broad shoulders, sculpted pectorals, and well-toned arms that justify his dedication to physical training. The tanned appearance of his skin brings out the angurity of his body.

  His face is remarkable—firm, symmetrical features and a defined jawline and high cheekbones. His piercing blue eyes are sharp and commanding, exuding intensity and charisma. His golden-blond, short hair is neatly trimmed, adding to his clean, polished look. A light beard, neatly trimmed, frames his face, giving him a rugged yet refined look.

  Hoodie-style or tight-fitting athletic tank top, hugged around his well-muscled chest and shoulders, he decres his strength in casual attire. His tank top is sweat-wicking and designed for performance, and his compression shorts, which are gray or bck, accommodate stretching and movement space. His toned legs are braced by lightweight, ventited gym shoes, built both for strength training and agility. Workout straps wrapped around his wrists procim that an individual means business at workouts.

  With his squared-up stance and unflinching stare, he resembles a warrior ready to test his limits at the gym. The neutral background makes sure that all attention is drawn to his commanding presence, making him an eye-catching figure in any gym environment.

  "PR Girl, I would like for you to meet the golden hen of the company, Cody Ragnar."

  “Welcome to the madness,” Cody greeted her with a firm handshake. “Hope you’re ready for it.”

  Dame, you understand when people tell you don't meet the star because they're nothing like they are in real life. Well, the person who ever told you that was a liar because Cody was all you wanted the face of the company to be. He was just as charming and as professional. His smile was dazzling, and his demeanor was great. He was the type of person sponsors wanted around.

  "Think I can do it," she replied back, but Cody only smiled. "We'll see."

  "Thanks, Cody; you can resume working out. I'm sure you have better things to do at the moment." Marissa towed PR Girl a little farther around the locker room.