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Discipline. Obsession. Perfection.

Three words. Three commandments. They run my life, from the moment my eyes open at five in the morning to the minute I finally crash. I don’t do mediocrity. I don’t waste time. I sure as hell don’t settle.

At 5:30, I’m in the gym, sweat dripping, muscles burning. By seven, protein shake. After that? The grind continues, structured down to the minute. I didn’t claw my way to the top by accident—I did it because nobody wants this more than I do.

This business is my heartbeat, my oxygen. Wrestling isn’t just a job; it’s who I am. Every sacrifice, every bruise, every sleepless night—it’s all worth it. Being the best means making the hard choices no one else will. My social life? Nonexistent. Relationships? Distractions I can’t afford. My entire existence is dedicated to one thing: greatness.

My house screams it from every corner.

The place is immaculate, every surface spotless, every room in perfect order. But it's not about vanity—it’s about clarity. I don't leave room for clutter. My walls tell my story: framed posters of wrestling legends, photographs capturing moments of victory and agony. Championship belts are displayed proudly in glass cases, trophies from every war I’ve survived. My legacy isn’t decoration—it’s motivation.

The gym is sacred ground, custom-built and equipped with ruthless precision. A state-of-the-art ring stands outside, ready for endless drills. Heavy bags hang battered and bruised from punishing routines, free weights perfectly organized, and mirrors line the walls—not for vanity, but for accountability. Opposite them, a shrine of grit and triumph: cracked chairs from hardcore matches, torn wrist wraps, bloody towels from nights that nearly ended my career.

Every piece reminds me of the price I’ve paid. And every day, I get up ready to pay it again. Because being Ryan Pierce isn't just about being good.

It’s about being undeniable.

Travis Moreno grunts beside me, pushing out another set of reps on the bench press. His glossy blond hair is damp with sweat, strands sticking to his forehead, but he doesn’t stop. That’s what I respect about him—he’s relentless. Leaner than me, but cut, defined. Where I’m sheer size and bulk, he’s agility and precision. We’ve been through it all together. From the Indie circuits to the biggest stage in the world, from empty gym halls to sold-out arenas. We’re not just best friends. We’re battle-tested.

“That’s it, Moreno. One more set,” I say, standing over him, spotting him as he powers through. “You gonna let me outdo you today, or what?”

He huffs out a breath between reps. “I’m saving my energy for when we hit the ring next week.”

“Yeah, sure you are,” I laugh, stepping over to the squat rack, loading on more weight. The burn in my muscles is a familiar ache, one I crave.

We’ve got this whole brotherhood thing down—a constant, unspoken competition that keeps us both sharp. It’s why we push harder. Why we’ve gotten this far. He gets it—this life, the grind, the sacrifices. The long nights, the pain, the loneliness. There’s no room for laziness. No room for complacency. In this business, the second you stop pushing forward, someone hungrier takes your spot. I refuse to let that happen. So, I stay a fucking beast.

“You hitting heavy squats today?” Travis asks, grabbing a towel, draping it over his shoulder.

“Always,” I say, adjusting my grip. “Legs make the power. That’s why I put guys through the damn mat.”

Travis chuckles. “Yeah, tell that to my spine after you power bombed me last month.”

“Hey, that’s on you. Keep your center of gravity next time.”

He flips me off, and I laugh, bracing as I drop into my set. The weight is heavy, but I thrive on it. The burn, the struggle—this is where I grow. One rep after another, controlled, precise. I can feel Travis watching, making sure my form is locked in, just like I do for him. It’s why we train together. No egos, just a mutual drive to be the best.

Travis and I finish our morning session, both breathing hard as we wipe down the equipment. My phone vibrates loudly on the bench. The office. I grab it, signaling Travis to hold on.

“Pierce,” I answer sharply, pacing away a few steps.

“Ryan, it's Marcus. Change of plans—we need you in New York first thing tomorrow,” Marcus dives straight in, urgency clear in his tone. "Promo filming, plus Brian wants you to review some merch designs. He insists it has to be you."

"Tomorrow?" My jaw tightens. Rest days don't exist in this business. “I had the next three days cleared.”

“I know, man, but marketing's breathing down our necks, and Brian’s adamant. You’re the face. Your input matters most.”

I exhale sharply, already mentally rearranging my plans. “Fine. But make sure everything's ready when I land. I’m not wasting my time."

"Of course," Marcus replies quickly. "Thanks for rolling with it. By the way, our new intern is going to be on the same flight, maybe you could keep an eye out for her, make sure she gets here okay."

"You're pushing it now." I groan, and hang up abruptly, tossing the phone onto the bench harder than necessary.

“Already back to the grind?” Travis smirks, leaning casually against the squat rack, running a towel over his sweaty face. “Didn’t even make it through breakfast.”

“Promo filming. New merch,” I say, rolling my eyes and stretching out the tension in my shoulders. “Apparently, my opinion matters.”

“Must be nice.” Travis grins, arms folded over his toned chest. “Still chasing the crown, huh?”

“You bet your ass,” I shoot back, stretching my neck until it cracks satisfyingly. “No one remembers second place. This is our year, Moreno. No holding back.”

“Damn right.” Travis chuckles, whipping the towel at me. I catch it effortlessly, flicking it back at him with force. “Don’t get cocky, Pierce.”

“Confidence, not cockiness,” I correct, smirking as I adjust the wrap around my wrists. “Subtle difference. You should try it.”

Travis laughs, shaking his head as he pushes off the squat rack. “See you in New York. Try not to scare the interns this time.”

“Hey,” I call after him, feigning offense as I grab my water bottle. “I’m motivational.”

“Motivational, terrifying—same thing,” he tosses over his shoulder with a grin, waving dismissively as he heads out the door. “Don’t ever change, man.”

After Travis leaves, I head upstairs, already mentally shifting gears. Time to pack. Time to prepare. Time to dominate.