The first day at a new job always starts the same way: a badge that doesn't scan yet, a hallway that smells like industrial cleaner and adrenaline, and a production assistant walking too fast while talking even faster.

Y/N had been backstage at arenas before, but never like this. Not as part of the machine. Not with a WWE lanyard hanging around her neck and a production schedule already buzzing on her phone.

The production assistant disappeared around a corner before Y/N could ask where craft services was.

The hallway opened into a cavernous backstage area, all steel beams, black curtains, and crisscrossing cables. Stagehands wheeled road cases past. Somewhere nearby, a speaker crackled with a soundcheck. The air hummed with pre-show energy.

A few wrestlers passed in street clothes—duffel bags slung over shoulders, headphones on, eyes forward. A couple of crew members nodded at Y/N. Most didn't.

Y/N took a breath. New job. New world. Same goal: prove she belonged.

Then a voice cut through the noise, warm and teasing.

The man had the kind of smile that came easy, paired with a confident swagger and a gold chain glinting under the fluorescent lights. He pushed off the case and strolled over, hands in the pockets of his black jeans.