The Dirt Sheet War

The Manhattan skyline shimmered with a golden hue in the setting sun, casting a majestic and ethereal glow over the sprawling cityscape. Towering skyscrapers, their steel structures bathed in warm light, appeared as a crown of brilliance visible through the expansive floor-to-ceiling windows of Victor Blackwell's luxurious penthouse office. The grandeur of the view was a testament to the city's relentless energy and ambition. Weeks had passed since Cade Mercer's victory at the tournament, and the dust was finally settling. Or so Victor had thought.

He stood before the view, letting the warmth of aged scotch settle in his chest. His eyes drifted to the latest issue of Tapout Magazine on his desk – one of those garish publications that had somehow survived since the territory days, all cheap paper and sensational headlines. The kind of magazine Peak Media Group wouldn't even consider for their portfolio. A relic, really, catering to the most hardcore segment of wrestling fans who still believed they were "in the know."

Usually, Victor wouldn't give such a publication a second glance. Peak Media Group dealt in prestige – The Capital Chronicle and the Global Commerce Review coverage, respected journals, with respected journalists. But something about this issue had caught Genny's attention enough to have it delivered to his office.

The private elevator chimed softly. His assistant began walking towards the doors, "anything else before I leave Mr. Blackwell?"

 Victor didn't turn, but his reflection smirked in the window, "that'll be all," he said, voice carrying the casual authority of a man who never questioned his commands would be obeyed.

Only when the elevator doors closed did Victor move to his chair – Italian leather, positioned precisely for optimal lighting. He settled in, noting with distaste how the magazine's ink had already smudged on his assistant's fingers. The cover screamed in bold text: "PEAK MEDIA'S POWER PLAY: THE TRUTH BEHIND THE SUMMIT!"

With a flick of the wrist Victor thumbed through the magazine's thin pages and located the article. His smirk vanished by the third paragraph.

"Months after its conclusion, Strike Force Legends' rebranding into the Summit Fighting League feels less like evolution and more like corporate conquest. What began as an ambitious tournament has devolved into Victor Blackwell's vanity project, with Peak Media Group's fingerprints overwhelming any authentic competitive spirit. Even Cade Mercer's impressive victory feels secondary to PMG's relentless self-promotion. Sources close to the situation suggest this may be just the beginning of Blackwell's attempt to monopolize combat sports and bankrupt independent wrestling..."

The crystal tumbler groaned under the pressure of his grip, threatening to shatter. This wasn't mere criticism; it was outright insolence. Some hack writer holed up in a dingy basement office, likely hammering away on a relic of a typewriter from the '80s, had the audacity to question his grand vision. Victor's jaw tightened like a vice, a muscle twitching violently beneath his meticulously shaved cheek. His breathing was a deliberate effort to remain calm, yet his free hand was a clenched fist, trembling with restrained fury on the armrest.

He continued to read, with every paragraph more infuriating than the previous one. There were mentions of unnamed sources and conjecture about PMG's "aggressive acquisition" of the independent sector. It even included a remark from a "seasoned industry insider" implying that the results of the tournament had been decided in advance.

Without tearing his gaze from the mirror, he snatched up his phone and punched in the number with a sense of urgency. The ring echoed like a countdown, once, twice, each chime slicing through the air. His reflection bore into him relentlessly, the features sharpened by the dimming light, a fierce and unyielding presence.

"I saw it." Genny Vaughn's voice carried the weary tone of someone who'd been expecting this call.

"A dirt sheet, Genny. A fucking dirt sheet is undermining everything I've built."

"It's one outlet, Victor. The kind of publication that thrives on controversy, plus they still gave the show a 3 star rating. The mainstream coverage since the tournament has been overwhelmingly positive. Ring Report Elite gave us—"

"I don't give a damn about stars or the Ring Report." He cut her off, standing to pace before the windows. "This rag might be printed on toilet paper, but their readership? Those are the hardcore fans. The ones who influence the broader narrative. This is the story they'll spread online, the one they'll quote in forums, the crack in our foundation that every other critic will chip away at until—"

"Until we control the narrative," Genny finished. "I've already drafted a response strategy. We'll secure a follow-up piece with Henderson at Fight Network, push out interviews focusing on Cade's journey, and I've got calls in to our media partners about editorial tone moving forward."

Victor stopped pacing, staring out at his city. His city. His league. His narrative.

"That's not enough. If some basement-dwelling dirt sheet jerk off can threaten my reputation, we need to do more than damage control."

"Victor—"

"I didn't build this empire by letting others control the narrative, Genny." He took a slow sip of scotch. "I want a complete media analysis on my desk by morning. Every journalist with credentials, every outlet with access, every social media influencer we've courted since the rebrand. From the Wall Street Journal down to the last fucking stupid wrestling blog. I want to know who's truly loyal and who's a liability."

A quiet pause lingered between them as he could almost hear Genny deliberating on what to say.

"And the liabilities?" she finally asked.

Victor's reflection smiled – not the practiced, media-ready smile, but something harder. Colder. "They'll learn that even dirt sheets need to respect the hierarchy."

After ending the call, Victor remained at the window as darkness crept across the city. One by one, lights flickered on in distant buildings, like stars appearing in an artificial sky. He pulled a small leather notebook from his jacket pocket and began to write. Two columns formed on the cream-colored paper: allies and enemies.

The scotch was gone, but Victor barely noticed. His pen moved with deliberate purpose, each name a piece on his new game board. Let them huddle in their basement offices, thinking their cheap paper and insider sources gave them power. He would show them what real power looked like.

The last light faded from his office, leaving only his silhouette against the glittering cityscape and the scratch of his pen on paper, plotting a course that would remind everyone – from the corporate boardrooms to the dirt sheet publishers – exactly who controlled this narrative.

Let them call it a vanity project. Soon they'd call it exactly what it was: his empire. And there wouldn't be a publication left, prestigious or otherwise, that dared to suggest otherwise.