Alice sat on a lone stool beneath the glow of the only three spotlights illuminating the ring. Her head hung low, shoulders slumped forward, fingers restlessly tapping against one another as she waited for the first applicant to arrive.
A stark contrast to her theatrics was Daeymeter, an elderly man seated behind a makeshift desk just outside the ring. Handling the paperwork Alice had delegated to him while she focused on directly evaluating potential additions to the roster.
She had entrusted him with the administrative side of these interviews because, if there was anyone she could rely on for something this important—and this fundamental—it would be an elderly busybody with as much experience as him. And the elderly man had no intention of doing anything other than carrying out his favourite part of the job to the letter. After all, the recruitment itself was already set in motion. All that remained was selecting Gart's new girls. But that part was precisely the delicate one. It would be a disappointment if there wasn’t any worthwhile talent here.
“
Are we to wait much longer?” The miss asked.
"Not at all," he replied, unfazed as he reviewed neither schedule nor clock.
"Someone will be here any second now." The steady ticking of his wristwatch had already told him exactly what time it was.
Alice barely moved as she spoke. She didn’t intend to receive any candidate outside the ring—if someone was going to be evaluated, it would be under her terms, in her space. Still, even her patience had limits. Thirty seconds of delay was the maximum she tolerated from anyone, and she was already twenty seconds in.
Just as her patience was about to snap, the doors finally opened. The first candidate stepped in.
The girl walked forward casually, even waving while still talking on the phone. Alice didn’t return the gesture. Her attention had already locked onto the device pressed against the girl’s ear.
She was already concluding about how seriously this amateur was taking the interview if she couldn’t even disconnect a call.
“
That's the first?” Alice muttered.
Only the elderly man caught it. Because of the short distance.
“Yes, Miss...” He replied, checking the prospect list.
“
The name?”
“Frannie… Douglas.” He knew exactly how his partner's hyper-organised mind worked. Using her ringname would not help her remember.
“
From WCW, correct?” And as he assumed, Alice caught it flawlessly.
“Exactly.” There was irony in his tone as he crossed Frannie’s name off the expected list.
They kept two lists. One for known prospects—sent through trusted agents like Alex Wilson, who had arranged Frannie’s visit. The other was blank. That one was for amateurs who walked. Alex Wilson had no idea they would register his client’s name on a special list.
Meanwhile, Frannie was already setting her things down at a nearby table as Alice cracked her knuckles, slowly.
There was something about the girl’s ease that irritated her. Not fearlessness—something closer to indifference. As if this weren’t a tryout, but a casual meeting that the amateur had already assumed she’d passed.
Frannie finally removed the phone from her ear and looked up. Only then did she seem remotely present. Even so, she still carried herself like this was just another step already secured, not a gate she still had to break through. Like she didn’t fully grasp how much this mattered for her career—or for the expansion of the brand Alice represented.
Alice narrowed her eyes at the girl with the phone pressed to her ear.
“Don’t be hard on her. They say she’s good. Talented,” Daymeter defended. The man was the pub’s eyes and ears—he knows what he’s talking about when he goes out of his way to vouch for someone.
“
Every girl is ‘talented’,” Alice said as she pushed herself up from the barstool, rolling her shoulders and puffing out her chest. While Frannie would be slipping through the ropes and into the ring. “
Until they step inside a wrestling ring.” And with that irony hanging in the air, she kicked the stool toward the ropes with her heel.
If it weren’t for the ropes, it would’ve dropped straight into the elderly man’s desk.
“
Tryouts? Yes... Naturally.” Her tone was sharp—almost severe.
With effortless elegance, she grabbed her own sweatshirt and, arching her back, began peeling it off. She was left only in her promotion gear.
The sweatshirt was meant to land on Daymeter’s desk—but with the elderly man halfway up the ropes, it caught him square in the face instead, much to his displeasure.
Alice ignored the aftermath.
“
We need talent. Not just a pretty face,” she said, her gaze briefly dropping to Frannie’s feet before climbing back up. “
But I see… you’ve got a style that might actually work with us.”
The elderly man—dressed in a striped shirt and long black trousers—stepped forward, producing a thick couple of collars from behind himself. He approached Alice first, then Frannie, offering them. Only then did the detail become clear: both collars were connected by a thin but clearly reinforced chain.
“
It will be a dog collar match!” The words echoed through the empty gym.
“
Submit me… and you earn a place in my faction. If not—well, consider it proof you’re not what we need...Lady.”
The elderly man’s brow tightened. It was already obvious what her partner thought about this girl. And it wasn’t exactly kind. Maybe even a bit too harsh for what was required.
“Good luck, girl… you’ll need it,” he added more quietly.
“Though I won’t judge you if you refuse. Gart's pub is not for everyone.” But even as he said it, there was something deliberate in his stance—like he, too, intended to test her in his own way.
