Gorilla Position, Dallas, Texas
The roar of the crowd bleeds through the curtain.
In Gorilla Position, the monitors show the tail end of a Val Venis promo, crowd still reacting to whatever innuendo he just dropped.
Kevin Dunn's voice crackles over the headset:
"Alright, cue the rookie's music… camera two on the curtain… go."
I hear it before I even step out:
The slow, chugging riff of "Walk" by Pantera.
The arena explodes. Not polite applause — a raw, guttural roar. That riff owns the room in three seconds flat.
I step through the curtain in my black Shield-style gear, hair down Ragnar-style, no smile, no cheap pops.
Lights strobe with each drum hit.
The opening lyrics cut through: "RE-SPECT! WALK!"
JR (on commentary): "Folks, that right there is J.J. Styles — six feet tall, two-hundred and twenty pounds of MMA-trained bad attitude!"
King: "Bad attitude? Look at him! He looks like he's already mad at Dallas!"
I don't rush. The Lone Wolf doesn't sprint for approval. Every step is deliberate, and I lock eyes with the camera like I'm looking straight into someone's living room.
At ringside, I glance up at the hard camera and just mouth, "Watch."
No shouting, no pointing — just letting the audience wonder what I'm about to do.
Marc Mero's already in the ring with Sable at his side. He's smirking, trying to play cocky, but I can see him sizing me up.
Sable, on the other hand, keeps her gaze on me longer than necessary.
This moment would bleed perfectly into the opening lock-up and TV match flow, with commentary and crowd reacting to every stiff strike like they've never seen a WWF rookie move like this before.
Ding ding ding.
We circle.
Mero shuffles like a boxer, hands up. I stay low, MMA stance.
He tries to close the distance with a jab — I parry and snap a low leg kick that echoes in the arena.
The crowd "ooohs".
JR: "That's that MMA background we've been talkin' about, folks — you don't see too many low kicks in this company."
King: "Yeah, well, you don't win matches with shin bruises, JR."
Mero backs off, shaking his leg.
We lock up, collar-and-elbow.
Mero tries to muscle me to the ropes, but I spin into a standing switch, trip him down, and transition to a waist lock on the mat. I ride him, grapevining his legs.
The fans pop for the technical display — not flashy, but aggressive.
Mero scrambles to the ropes, forcing the break. The ref pulls me off.
I release clean, but keep my eyes locked on him.
Mero offers a handshake.
The crowd boos — they've seen this before.
I don't take it.
He uses the hesitation to sucker punch me.
King: "See? Smart move! Styles was overthinking it."
JR: "That was a cheap shot, King."
Mero whips me into the corner and follows with a running knee. I stagger out, and he plants me with a quick snap suplex. He goes for a cover — 1… kickout at 1.
Mero whips me again — I reverse and catch him coming back with a brutal spinning back elbow that drops him hard.
The crowd roars.
I stalk him, hit a quick snap DDT, and float into a cover — 1… 2… kickout.
I drag him up, hook both arms, and start drilling Muay Thai knees into his ribs. He tries to cover up, but every shot lands snug.
I'm in full control until Sable jumps on the apron, yelling at the ref.
Mero uses the distraction to rake my eyes and hit a low blow from behind.
The crowd erupts in boos.
JR: "Come on, ref! That was blatant!"
King: "What? I didn't see anything."
Mero climbs the turnbuckle, looking for the Marvelocity moonsault.
He leaps — but I roll out, and he crashes chest-first into the mat.
The crowd is on its feet as I stalk behind him.
He slowly stands, clutching his ribs.
I explode forward — KINSHASA!
The sound is thunderous, the crowd reaction instant.
Cover — 1… 2… 3!
Ding ding ding.
The ref raises my hand as "Walk" hits again.
Sable slides into the ring to check on Mero.
She looks up at me — not smiling, not hostile, just… curious.
I give her a small nod before turning to leave.
At the top of the ramp, I glance back — Stephanie is watching from the curtain, arms crossed, smirking like she knows something the rest of the world doesn't.
I step through Gorilla, still riding the post-match adrenaline. The music fades, and the first thing I hear is Vince McMahon's voice — low, deliberate.
"Good… good," he says, nodding slowly. "That… was impact. Crowd bought it."
Kevin Dunn chimes in: "Camera loved you, kid. We'll get some good replay shots for next week."
Vince leans in.
"But don't smile. Don't give them the satisfaction. You're not here to make friends."
I nod once and keep walking.
I pass by the locker room, where Brian Christopher and Scott Taylor are mid-conversation. Brian grins when he sees me.
"Well, well… look who just beat up ol' Johnny B. Badd."
I shrug. "Just another fight."
Brian steps closer. "Oh, it's more than that. First match on Raw? That's not nothing, rookie."
Scott chuckles. "Careful, Brian — keep talking like that, and Vince'll have him replace you in Too Cool."
The sarcasm isn't lost on me. I don't bother responding and keep walking.
Down the hall, I see Sable exiting the trainer's room. She's in a simple black dress now, hair pulled back.
We make eye contact.
"You kick hard," she says with a small smile.
"Better than getting punched in the face," I reply.
Her smile lingers for half a second before Marc Mero calls from down the hall. She turns without another word and walks away.
I turn the corner toward catering — and there's Stephanie McMahon, leaning against the wall, arms folded. She's in a black leather jacket over a white top, jeans, casual but still McMahon confident.
"That was… impressive," she says.
"Just doing my job," I reply.
She tilts her head. "A lot of guys come in here trying to make friends. You didn't even look at the crowd tonight."
I meet her gaze. "They're not the reason I'm here."
Her smirk grows. "Good. Because the only way to survive here is to not need anyone… until the right people find you."
She steps past me, brushing her hand against my arm just long enough to notice, then disappears down the hallway.
As the show closes in the arena, I'm already in the locker room, unlacing my boots, thinking about what she said.
Not the crowd.
Not the locker room.
The right people.