SCW Boards
Roleplay Boards => Climax Control Roleplays => Topic started by: RyanKeys on November 28, 2025, 06:45:17 PM
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The gym looks different after midnight. Most people never see it like this—lights buzzing overhead like they’re trying to stay awake, mirrors dim with a thin film of humidity, treadmills sitting motionless like sleeping animals. The air is thick with the smell of rubber mats, chalk, and the ghost of sweat left behind by people who trained earlier in the day. The whole place feels like a church that’s long been closed, except for one man still inside, praying with his fists.
Ryan Keys stands in front of the heavy bag. Shirtless, drenched, chest rising and falling like waves battering a shore. His hair is pushed back and dripping, a few strands stuck to his forehead from the hours he’s clearly spent here already. His knuckles are red—not bleeding, but close—the kind of red that comes from repetition, friction, and refusing to stop even when your body begs to.
He draws back and hammers the bag.
THUMP.
THUMP.
Three hits in a rhythm that’s almost meditative, except nothing about the way he’s moving looks peaceful. Every punch is thrown like he’s trying to punch his way out of something invisible wrapped around him. Something tight. Something unforgiving.
His breaths come sharp. Controlled. Angry.
He steps back only when the bag swings hard enough that he has to steady it with both hands. He closes his eyes and lets his forehead rest against the side of it. Sweat rolls down his temples. His breath fogs in the faintly cold air around the leather.
Eventually, he lifts his head and turns to look directly at the camera that’s been following him. There’s no smirk this time. No playful eyebrow quirk. Just tired honesty sitting in his chest.
“You ever get sick of hearing your own heartbeat?” he asks, voice low and rough from the workout. “Mine has been loud as hell all night. Won’t calm down. Won’t settle. It’s like it knows I’ve got a title match coming up before I do.”
He grabs a towel off a bench, wipes the sweat from his face, and drapes it around his neck. He begins pacing. Short, restless steps. The kind of steps a man takes when he’s trying to outrun a thought that won’t leave him alone.
“I should be home. I should be in bed. I should be doing all the responsible shit wrestlers always brag about. Ice baths. Hydration. Meditation. Visualization. Deep breathing. Whatever.” He waves the towel in the air dismissively. “But here I am. Punching a bag like it betrayed me.”
He stops pacing and leans against the squat rack. He taps the metal with the back of his knuckle, like testing its patience.
“You know what stuck with me after High Stakes?” he asks. “It’s not the loss. Losses I can handle. Losses come with the business. Sometimes you win, sometimes someone gets lucky, sometimes you get outsmarted. I don’t get hung up on that.”
He lifts two fingers, pinching them together until they almost touch.
“No. What stuck with me was how close I was. A breath. A blink. Less than a second. I watched that match back so many times I can recite it in my sleep, and every time it’s the same thing. I am right there. Right on the edge. Right at the doorstep of something big. And then…”
He flicks his fingers apart.
“It slips.”
He looks down at his hands—at the calluses forming, at the way the veins stand out from how tightly he was clenching them earlier.
“I’ve been stuck on that word. Almost. Almost beat Logan. Almost avoided that damn grave. Almost took the Internet Championship. Almost isn’t supposed to be a lifestyle, but lately it feels like one.”
He reaches for the heavy bag again, steadying it in place with one hand.
“You woke something up in me at High Stakes, Miles,” he says. “You didn’t embarrass me. You didn’t break me. You didn’t ‘prove I wasn’t ready’ or whatever people like to say online. You woke up something worse. Something that’s been sleeping for a long time.”
He releases the bag, steps back, and strikes it once—a single, perfect cross that lands with such force the chain overhead rattles.
“You woke up my hunger.”
The bag swings. He watches it, breathing deep. Not satisfied, not relieved—just acknowledging the hit like it’s another mark on a long wall of tally lines.
“I’m tired,” he says plainly. “Not of wrestling. Not of training. Not of fighting. I’m tired of almost.”
He walks to the center of the gym floor. There’s a long mirror stretching across one wall. He stands in front of it, staring at his own reflection.
“Do you know what it’s like to look at yourself and know you should be further along? That feeling that you’re good enough, strong enough, fast enough—but for some reason something keeps just… keeping you behind?” He presses his knuckles against the mirror. “That’s where I’m at. And that’s what I’m trying to change.”
He takes a slow breath and steps back.
“I like being the fun guy. The party dude. The Vegas energy. I like making people smile. I like making things entertaining. But sometimes people confuse that with being unserious.”
He shakes his head slowly.
“I’m serious. I’ve been serious this whole time. I just disguise it behind jokes because it hurts less that way when you fall short.”
He turns from the mirror and picks his gloves off the floor, tossing them onto a nearby bench.
“But now? I’m done hiding it. I’m done pretending I’m just here for good vibes. I’m here to win. I’m here because I want that belt—not because it looks pretty, not because it’s good for photos, not because it’ll look great around my waist—because it means something. It means that the hours I’ve spent in here alone weren’t pointless. It means that people who believe in me don’t have to keep telling me ‘you’re almost there’ like it’s a consolation prize.”
He walks back to the heavy bag and rests his forehead against it again.
“This rematch isn’t about proving the crowd wrong. Or proving the internet wrong. Or proving management wrong.”
He lifts his head slowly.
“It’s about proving myself right.”
He hits the bag again, harder this time. The chain trembles.
“I can do this.”
He hits again.
“I can win.”
Another punch.
“I can beat you, Miles.”
A final blow—
The gym lights flicker as if reacting to the impact.
He steps back, chest heaving again, letting the moment settle.
The lights inside the ring aren’t flattering. They’re harsh, buzzing overhead with the relentless hum of electricity. They wash everything out—make the canvas look more worn, the ropes more frayed, and the sweat on Ryan’s skin glisten like it’s a spotlight pointed at every flaw he feels.
He climbs through the ropes quietly. No showmanship. No posing. Just a man stepping into a place that feels more like a confession booth than a wrestling ring at this hour.
The mat creaks beneath his weight. The sound echoes through the empty gym like a reminder that nobody else is around. No trainers. No sparring partners. No coaches giving advice. Just him and whatever’s been gnawing at him since High Stakes.
He starts bouncing lightly—nothing fancy. Small hops. Feeling out the ground beneath him. Testing his balance. Testing himself.
“You wanna know something weird?” he says, but not to the camera yet. More to the air. To the ropes. To the ghosts of everyone who’s ever trained late at night before a big match. “Big matches don’t make me nervous before they happen. They make me nervous after.”
He moves toward one corner and leans back against the turnbuckles, gripping the top rope with both hands.
“People think guys like me don’t get stressed,” he continues. “They see me dancing, joking, smiling like I’m made of sunlight. They think I wake up every day full of energy. That I float through life like nothing touches me.”
He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the padding of the turnbuckle.
“But when the lights go off… when the match is over… when the crowd goes home and the adrenaline dies out? That’s when the match keeps going. Up here.” He taps the side of his head. “And here.” He presses his fist against his chest.
He pushes off the corner and begins pacing the ring.
“You didn’t break me at High Stakes, Miles. Let’s get that out of the way. You didn’t embarrass me. You didn’t expose some weakness I’ve been hiding. You know what you did?”
He stops mid-ring and points to the canvas beneath him.
“You haunted me.”
He lets the quiet settle for a moment. Not dramatic—honest.
“You ever lose a fight by so little that you feel the moment sliding through your fingers for days? Weeks? Like you’re replaying a moment where you could’ve twisted just a little harder… jumped just a little faster… leaned a little more?” He shakes his head. “That’s me right now.”
He turns, walking backward toward the ropes.
“I’ve watched our match more times than I want to admit. I’ve paused it, rewound it, slowed it down, studied it like it’s the Zapruder film. And every time, it’s the same thing.”
He holds his thumb and forefinger close together again.
“I am right there. I am a hair away. I am one heartbeat behind. One breath off. One instinct delayed.”
He stops and looks toward the nearest camera.
“And that messes you up more than losing clean.”
He rests his arms on the ropes, leaning forward so his upper body spills over them.
“Losing to someone better? Fine. You swallow that. You train harder. Losing because you made a dumb mistake? Happens. You shake it off. But losing because you were almost perfect? That keeps you up at night.”
He pushes off the ropes and circles the ring again.
“It got in my head, Miles. I’ll admit that. Not in the ‘oh no, he’s too good, I can’t beat him’ way. Nah.” He gestures to the gym around him. “If I thought I couldn’t beat you, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be pushing myself this hard.”
He stops in the center again.
“It got in my head because I know—deep down—I’m good enough. I KNOW it. And yet… I didn’t walk out with the belt. That gap between knowing and having? That’s the part that haunts you.”
He lowers into a fighting stance, hands up. Shadowboxes slowly at first. Sharp jabs. Precise footwork. He’s not doing it to show off. He’s doing it because his body runs on instinct when his mind won’t quiet down.
He walks up to the ropes again.
“I’ve been walking around this company for a while now hearing people say the same thing.” He shifts his voice into a mocking impression: “‘Ryan’s gonna get there eventually.’ ‘Man, Ryan is SO close.’ ‘One day, that guy’s gonna hold gold.’”
He shakes his head, leaning forward against the top rope.
“I’m tired of ‘eventually.’ I’m tired of ‘one day.’ I’m tired of almost.”
He shifts so he’s sitting on the middle rope, legs dangling into the outside area.
“I didn’t come back to SCW to be the fun match guy. The good sport. The reliable mid-carder. The guy who makes champions look good.”
He smirks slightly.
“Don’t get me wrong—I AM fun. And I DO make champions look good. But that’s not all I am.”
He stands up fully and leans on the ropes again, voice rising with new force.
“I’m a closer. I’m a finisher. I’m someone who can take a championship match and turn it into a main event moment, because that’s who I’ve always been.”
He grips the ropes tighter.
“People forget that because I smile too much. Because I joke around. Because I don’t scowl at the camera like I’m brooding in the mountains. But every time I get in this ring, every time I lace up, every time I take a breath before the bell rings—I’m fighting for something real.”
He steps into the center, eyes locked ahead.
“And now, at Tempe, I’m fighting for the one thing I haven’t been able to claim yet: proof.”
He places a hand over his heart.
“Proof that the work I’ve put into myself—physically, mentally, emotionally—means something.”
He taps the mat with his boot.
“Proof that this ring hasn’t just been a place I’ve shed blood and sweat, but a place where I can finally break the narrative people keep giving me.”
He clenches his fists.
“Proof that I deserve the Internet Championship.”
He pauses for a moment, letting the weight of that settle.
“I’m not afraid of you, Miles,” he says plainly. “I’m not afraid of the match. I’m not afraid of the belt. You know what I’m afraid of?”
He taps his chest again.
“Walking out of that arena with nothing to show for this version of me.”
He shakes his head hard.
“I can’t do that again. I won’t.”
He walks toward the ropes, slips out of the ring, and stands on the floor looking back up at the canvas.
“You survived that version of me at High Stakes. The one who was still figuring things out. The one who wanted the belt because it seemed fun. The one who thought being almost there was still good enough.”
He lifts his chin.
“This version of me? The one standing in this ring tonight?”
He places a palm over his heart.
“He needs this win.”
A breath.
“And Miles?”
He steps closer to the camera.
“I don’t think you’re ready for a version of me who needs something.”
He nods once.
The locker room is cold in that way that feels more emotional than physical. The kind of cold that sneaks in when a place is too quiet for too long. The fluorescent light above the sinks flickers every few seconds, humming just loud enough to be annoying, not loud enough to be a real excuse to leave.
Ryan sits on a wooden bench in the middle of the room, elbows on his knees, fingers loosely laced. There’s a duffel bag beside him, half-zipped, towel hanging out of it like it gave up halfway inside. His shirt is tossed carelessly in the corner. His skin still has that gym sheen, but his face looks less like he’s working out and more like he’s thinking too hard.
Across from him, there’s a long mirror above the sinks. It’s not spotless; it’s streaked and smudged, showing just enough detail to be unforgiving. His reflection sits there too, folded in the same posture, staring back at him.
He lifts his head slowly, meeting his own eyes.
“You ever feel like you’re looking at a version of yourself that you haven’t caught up to yet?” he asks, voice soft but clear. “Like you can see the person you’re supposed to be, but you’re just… not them yet.”
He studies his reflection’s expression, as if waiting for an answer.
“I keep seeing a champion when I look in this mirror,” he admits. “Which sounds cocky as hell to say out loud, I know. But I do. I see someone who can hang with the best in the company. Someone who doesn’t fold under pressure. Someone who doesn’t keep walking out of big matches with empty hands.”
He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose.
“And then I watch tape, or I scroll comments, or I hear people talking, and it feels like everyone else sees something different.”
He leans back, letting his hands dangle between his knees.
He pushes off the bench and stands, walking toward the mirror. The floor under his bare feet is cool, the tiles a little slick from whatever half-hearted mopping job was done earlier.
He braces both hands on the edge of the sink and leans in. Up close, the mirror shows every little thing—dark circles, creases of exhaustion near his eyes, the way his jaw tightens when he’s chewing on something that isn’t food.
“I know what people say about you too, Miles,” he says, eyes still on himself. “You’re the fun one. The party boy. The good time. The loud one. The guy who drinks, dances, and then shows up on Sunday and still goes hard in the ring.”
He tilts his head a little to the side.
“We’ve got more in common than people think.”
He taps the glass where his reflection’s chest is.
“Because underneath all the jokes? I know you care. Deeply. You don’t hold a belt like that without caring. You don’t survive guys like me at High Stakes without carrying something heavier than the strap itself. Pressure. Expectations. Doubt.”
He shifts his gaze slightly, like he’s trying to see through his own reflection to someone else.
“And me?” he continues quietly. “I care too. Maybe too much.”
He straightens, rolling his shoulders, trying to shake off the stiffness and the lingering tension.
“There was a time where being the guy who almost won was enough,” he admits. “I could take the moral victories. I could be proud of hanging in there. I could tell myself, ‘Hey, you gave them a hell of a fight. That’s something.’”
He nods, slowly, eyes drifting down.
“But that only works so many times before it starts sounding like a lie.”
He pushes his tongue into his cheek for a second, thinking.
“When Logan choked me out, I told myself it was okay. That it proved I could survive that kind of violence. That I could hang with someone built to break people. When you pinned me at High Stakes, I told myself it was okay because I pushed you. Because the crowd believed in me. Because ‘almost’ meant I was close.”
He lifts his head again, jaw set.
“I don’t want close anymore.”
He cups water from the sink and splashes it on his face, the cold shocking him a little. He stares at the drops running down his temples, the way they cut little paths through the sweat.
“I’ve seen the reruns,” he says quietly. “Of me. Of guys like me. People who stay in that space forever. Good. Fun. Always competitive. Never quite the guy who holds it for long. If he ever gets it at all.”
He pats his face dry with a small towel and tosses it aside.
“I don’t want to be another rerun.”
He turns away from the mirror and walks back to the bench, sitting down again, this time facing the camera more fully.
“You know what scares guys like us, Miles?” he asks. “It’s not getting hit. It’s not falling off ladders. It’s not taking moves that could shorten our careers.”
He presses a hand over his chest, fingers splayed.
“It’s the idea that we peak as the guy people are pleasantly surprised by, instead of the guy people expect to win.”
His eyes soften, but the intensity doesn’t fade.
“I’m not interested in being a pleasant surprise anymore.”
He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back as he exhales slowly.
“I want that title. I want the Internet Championship. Not just because it’s shiny. Not just because it’s a belt. Not just because it’ll look nice in pictures when I inevitably post fifteen too many photos of it.”
A flicker of a grin appears at that, but it fades quickly.
“I want it because it changes the way people talk about me,” he says. “It changes the way they look at me when I walk through the curtain. It changes how they frame my name when they bring me up. It turns ‘Ryan is fun’ into ‘Ryan is dangerous.’”
He looks at the camera like he’s willing it to believe him.
“And that’s what I want to be. Dangerous. In a way that doesn’t rely on weapons or shock value or flukes. I want people to see my name next to a title match and feel that little twist in their stomach. That ‘oh, this might not go how we think.’”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees again.
“You have that right now,” he says. “People see your name with a belt and they don’t think, ‘Oh, they’re just giving him a run.’ They think, ‘Oh, he earned that.’ They see you as someone who clawed your way there.”
He smiles faintly, but there’s weight behind it.
“I want that story too.”
He looks down at his hands, opening and closing them slowly like he’s testing the grip on an invisible rope.
“You know what really stuck with me after High Stakes?” he asks. “It wasn’t the kick-outs. It wasn’t the moves. It wasn’t the crowd. It was this one thought that kept knocking around in my head after the show.”
He lifts his head again.
“If I had beaten you that night, would people have thought it was a fluke?”
He doesn’t blink while that hangs in the air.
“Would they have said, ‘Wow, what an upset’? Would they have put an asterisk next to my name in their heads? Would they have assumed you’d just get it back later?”
He sits back, lips pressed together.
“That’s what bother me,” he admits. “That deep down, even when I was fantasizing about winning, part of me was already defending it. Already arguing with imaginary people, trying to prove to them it wasn’t lucky. I don’t want to win like that.”
He shakes his head firmly.
“I want to walk out of Tempe with that title and have people say, ‘Yeah. He earned that. There’s no question.’”
He points toward the camera, not aggressively but with conviction.
“And for that to happen, you need to bring the best version of you. The version that wrestles like he’s terrified of losing everything he built. The version that’s fought through his own almosts. Because I’m not coming in to scrape by.”
He taps his chest twice.
“I’m coming in to finish.”
He leans back, letting his shoulders drop as if he’s finally said something that’s been pressing on his lungs.
“I don’t know if I’m going to like who I am after this,” he says. “Win or lose. I don’t know if I’ll recognize myself when I look in the mirror next time. But I know I can’t be this version forever. The one who gets close and then laughs it off.”
His gaze hardens just a fraction.
“I’m done laughing it off.”
He glances toward the mirror again, seeing his reflection watching him.
“The next time I come in here after a match,” he says, “I don’t want to see someone who almost did it. I want to see someone who did.”
He holds that thought for a second. Then he nods, more to himself than anyone else, as if sealing a private deal.
The overhead light flickers again, humming.
Ryan doesn’t look away.
The lounge feels like it belongs to another era. The cushions on the chairs are cracked where countless bodies have slumped after training, the coffee table is scarred with rings from water bottles and protein shakes, and the TV on the wall is playing some old SCW highlight package with the volume turned all the way down. The only real light in the room comes from the screen and the soft glow of a vending machine humming in the corner.
Ryan sits in one of the worn chairs, elbows on his knees, a tablet in his hands. The blue light paints his face in an unhealthy shade, emphasizing the shadows under his eyes, the sharp lines carved there by weeks of not resting properly.
On the screen is the match graphic for Tempe: Miles Kasey, Internet Championship held diagonally across his shoulder like it was born there, smiling with that mix of ease and edge he’s known for. Next to him, Ryan—same half-grin, same cocky slant to his posture, but the energy feels different. Less polished. Less official. Challenger energy.
He studies the image for longer than he’d admit.
He tilts the tablet slightly like he’s trying to see something that isn’t obvious on the surface.
“I’ve seen a lot of graphics in my time,” he mutters. “A lot of ‘big match’ posters. A lot of ‘can he do it?’ teasers.”
He zooms in on Miles’ side first. The gold, the lighting, the way the belt catches the glow, making it look almost unreal.
“Right now? You’re the guy,” he says quietly. “The measuring stick. The one everyone lines up against to see if they’re worth talking about.”
There’s no sarcasm in his tone. Just acknowledgement.
He swipes down, letting the screen scroll to comments, predictions, fan polls. Small icons show percentages. Miles in the majority. Ryan trailing just behind—not an afterthought, but not the favorite.
His thumb slides slowly as he reads.
“Miles retains again, Keys will push him though.” “Ryan’s great but this isn’t his time yet.” “Would love an upset but Kasey’s got too much momentum.” “This will be a banger, but I’m betting champ.”
He exhales through his nose, half laugh, half sigh.
“Almost a compliment,” he says. “Almost.”
He leans back in the chair, letting his head tip against the worn cushion as he stares up at the ceiling for a moment. The tablet rests on his thigh, screen still bright with people’s opinions of his limits.
He rests the back of his head against the chair once more, staring at his own face on the graphic.
“I don’t want to be a cute pick.”
He opens a different page with a few taps—the match history, the listing for High Stakes. He scrolls until he finds their match and taps into it, the text details and still photos loading slowly.
There’s a shot of him on his knees, sweat-soaked hair hanging in his face, eyes blazing as Miles stands in front of him with the belt held high. Another shot of a nearfall, his shoulder a fraction of a second from staying down. Another of him on the mat, staring up at the lights.
He pauses on that one.
“That’s the shot people remember,” he says. “Not the combinations I landed. Not the times I had you rocked. Not the crowd roaring when it looked like I might pull it off. They remember this.”
He turns the screen toward the camera briefly, then back to himself.
“‘Almost.’ That’s what this says. ‘Almost got him.’”
He sets the tablet face-down on the table with a soft thump, like he’s putting down a glass he doesn’t trust himself to hold anymore.
“There’s a difference between how people talk about that match and how I feel about it,” he says after a moment. “To them, it was great. High drama. Close call. You walking out with the belt just barely, me proving I belong. Good story. Good TV.”
His fingertips drum slowly on his knee.
“To me, it was a promise I haven’t cashed yet. It was the universe saying, ‘You’re close, but you don’t get to have it yet.’”
He leans forward, elbows digging into his thighs, hands clasped loosely.
“I don’t blame anyone for betting on you,” he says. “You earned their trust. You earned their confidence. Every time you walk in and walk out still champion, that number next to your name climbs. That’s what a reign is supposed to do.”
He looks at the blank tablet like it’s still showing him the numbers.
“What people on the outside don’t see is everything that happens between those graphics, though,” he continues. “They don’t see the stuff I’ve been doing since High Stakes. They don’t feel what it’s like to be on the other side of being almost. They just see me as the guy who came close in a really good match.”
He smiles faintly, but there’s no joy in it.
“I respect the hell out of you, Miles,” he says. “You didn’t duck me. You didn’t brush me off. You didn’t move on to easier challengers. You said my name. You publicly tied your belt to my shot again. You wanted this.”
He nods slowly.
“But there’s a cost to wanting this kind of match,” he adds. “Because now you’re not just defending a championship. You’re defending a story. You’re defending the idea that last time wasn’t a fluke. That you weren’t lucky to escape with that belt. That you can do it again, clear, undeniable.”
He lifts his gaze toward the muted TV. A random highlight plays—a champ posing, a pinfall count, a belt held high. The crowd on the screen looks like static from this distance.
“You want to prove you can shut me down a second time,” he says. “I want to prove you can’t.”
His voice loses some of its softness, sharpening on the edges.
“So yeah. Let the odds say what they want. Let the comments run wild. Let people cast their votes and place their bets and frame their tweets ahead of time. That’s all noise.”
He stands, stretching his back until it pops, rolling his shoulders.
“I’ve been the underdog before,” he says. “I grew up in a place that practically prints them. Ninety-nine percent of them lose. One percent hit. When they do? Everything flips. The casino, the favorite, the narrative. All of it.”
He picks up the tablet again, looks at the match graphic one more time, then clicks the screen off and tucks it under his arm.
“You’re still the favorite,” he says quietly. “You should be. You’ve earned that. But don’t confuse that with being safe.”
He walks toward the door, one hand on the frame as he looks back into the dim lounge, at the empty chairs and the sleeping TV.
“The fun thing about odds?” he adds. “They don’t fight the match. We do.”
He flicks off the light as he leaves, letting the room fall into darkness.