SCW Boards
Roleplay Boards => Climax Control Roleplays => Topic started by: RyanKeys on December 02, 2025, 09:25:24 PM
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The video starts mid-movement — a blur of ceiling, then floor, then the side of Ryan’s face as he fumbles with the camera. There’s a small gasp, then his hand slides over the lens, smearing the view for a second before he finally pulls the phone back to a proper angle.
“Okay—there we go. I have no idea why my camera always starts like a jump scare, but here we are.”
He pushes his hair back, adjusts the strap of his gym bag on his shoulder, and starts walking down a backstage hallway that hums with the echo of distant audio checks. The camera shakes lightly with each step, but Ryan’s face stays steady in frame, bright and alert like he just woke up from the best nap of his life.
“Alex, hey. What’s up, future opponent who probably stretches better than me. I need your attention for a little bit, because we’ve got something to talk about.”
He gestures forward with his free hand, then sharply turns into another hallway, moving with purpose instead of his usual chaotic drifting.
“I’ve been training. Like actually training. Heavy conditioning, ring drills, footwork, strikes — the whole deal. And before anybody acts shocked, let me just say it: yeah, I work hard. I don’t just show up looking cute and doing flips like I wandered in by accident.”
He gives the camera a knowing smirk, the kind that carries confidence without trying to announce it.
“I prepare. I take this seriously. I don’t show up hoping luck does the heavy lifting. I’m in the gym, I’m watching tape, I’m putting in the work you don’t see — the stuff people love to pretend I don’t do.”
He steps aside as two crew members push a giant rolling case down the hall. Ryan presses himself against the wall with an exaggerated gasp, then slides back into the center of the shot.
“Which brings me to you, Alex.”
He walks a little slower now, giving the words more space, but still keeping that bright, bouncing rhythm under his voice.
“I’ve watched how you move. The discipline. The structure. The form. You’ve got this calm control that a lot of people wish they had. Everything you do is calculated. Clean. Intentional. You’re not out there making noise just to make noise — you’re out there making choices.”
He lifts the phone closer, as if letting you in on something private.
“And I respect that. Because honestly? It takes real work to wrestle the way you wrestle.”
He swings the phone back out at arm’s length and speeds up again, passing by a table of equipment and ducking under a half-lowered lighting rig like it’s a natural part of the walk.
“But here’s the thing — I don’t wrestle like that. And I’m not supposed to. My strength comes from something totally different.”
He taps his chest lightly.
“I react. Instantly. Naturally. I don’t need to pause and evaluate. My body knows what to do because I’ve trained it to respond without hesitation.”
He punctuates each word with a step, like he’s walking in rhythm.
“People confuse that with chaos. They think I’m random. Unplanned. Just doing whatever. But that’s not it. I move with purpose — it just happens to be fast.”
He turns another corner, this one leading into a more active section of backstage. Voices echo, equipment beeps, and the lights flicker with the shift from quiet corridors to the heart of production.
Ryan doesn’t stop.
“So when we get in the ring? You’re not stepping into a test. You’re not stepping into a checkpoint. You’re not stepping into some predictable ladder rung.”
He shakes his head, smiling with a confidence that settles into his shoulders.
“I’m not a gateway. I’m not the measuring stick. I’m not the guy you face to see how good you are.”
He leans closer to the camera, voice lowering—not serious, but intentionally sharper.
“I’m a whole different challenge.”
He pulls back, grin returning like sunlight breaking through.
“You don’t measure up to me. You deal with me. That’s the difference.”
He rounds the corner into the catering hallway — empty trays, tables covered with half-eaten snacks, a lonely stack of plastic cups. Ryan pauses at a table, shifting the camera to his left hand as he grabs a water bottle with the right.
“Look, people keep trying to fit me into that role — the stepping stone, the mid-boss, the warm-up act. They see the fun personality and assume I’m someone you beat on your way up.”
He uncaps the bottle and takes a long drink, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before returning focus to the camera.
“But that’s not me. I’m not the warm-up. I’m not the trial run. I’m the part where people go, ‘Oh. Oh, he’s actually a problem.’”
He tosses the cap in a trash bin without looking — it makes it in — and he gives the camera a smug little nod.
“Yeah. Skill.”
He steps out of catering and back into a quiet hallway that leads toward the loading dock. The echo changes. The air shifts. Ryan’s pace picks up slightly, like being in bigger open spaces gives him more room to talk.
“And let me be really clear about something, Alex: I’m confident. Not fake confident. Not loud-for-show confident. Real confident.”
He gestures at himself.
“Because I’ve earned it. I’ve trained for it. I’ve worked for it. And I’ve proven it, again and again, even if people like pretending otherwise.”
He pulls open the heavy door to the loading dock area, the air cooler and the soundscape opening wide around him.
“I don’t need to convince anyone. Not the crowd. Not the locker room. Not you.”
He shrugs like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
“If someone doesn’t see what I bring to the ring by now? They’re not supposed to.”
He keeps walking across the concrete floor, weaving between palettes and coiled cables, the camera steady in his hand.
“But YOU see it. You saw it the second you watched my matches. You recognized the way I move. The danger in it. The challenge in it.”
He lifts the camera up slightly, tilting it to catch the dim light over his shoulder.
“You know I’m unpredictable. Not messy — unpredictable. Not unstable — unpredictable. You can’t chart me. You can’t map me. You can’t prep for me the same way you prep for everyone else.”
He pauses at the ramp leading back into the arena tunnel, taking a breath, eyes bright and steady.
“And the best part? I’m not stepping into this match to compare. I’m not walking in wondering how I match up against you. I’m not here to measure anything or prove anything.”
His grin widens — the kind that says he’s exactly where he wants to be.
“I just want the fight. The speed. The exchange. The thrill of wrestling someone who actually keeps up.”
He rests his free hand on the guard rail for a moment, leaning in toward the camera with a warm spark behind his eyes.
“Alright, Alex. Let’s get into the fun part.”
Ryan pushes off the guard rail and starts walking down the tunnel, the dim blue lights along the walls throwing soft shadows across his face. The camera catches the shift in his expression — not serious, not heavy, just more awake, more tuned in.
“So let’s talk about this match for real.”
He tilts the phone back for a second to show the long tunnel behind him — empty, quiet, the far-off thump of music bleeding through the arena walls — then brings it right back to his face.
“You and me? We’re gonna be moving the whole time. No slowing down. No standing around. No dead spots.”
He lifts his chin, smiling.
“I don’t even do dead spots.”
He walks a little faster, like the thought itself puts energy under his feet.
“See, Alex, people like putting wrestlers into categories. The tough guy. The smart guy. The flashy guy. The big guy. The ‘fun’ guy. And once they put you in a box, they think they’ve got you figured out.”
He gives a louder laugh.
“Spoiler: they don’t.”
He angles the camera down at the ground while stepping over a thick cable, then swings it up toward his face again.
“They do that with you, too. They call you the clean one. The steady one. The guy who always knows what he’s doing. And sure — that’s true. You ARE steady. You ARE clean. That’s one of the reasons I like this matchup.”
He presses a hand to his chest in an exaggerated “aw.”
“It’s cute.”
Then his grin kicks up again.
“But that’s not ALL you are. You’ve got bite. You’ve got fight. You hit with purpose. You read people fast. And you’re not afraid to get aggressive when things start heating up.”
He nods like he’s confirming something important.
“That’s the version of you I want. Not the ‘let’s play it safe’ version. I want the one who shows up ready to swing.”
He stops for a moment beside a metal door, resting his shoulder against it to fix the grip on his phone.
“’Cause I’m gonna be swinging right back.”
He starts walking again, but slower now, the tone still bright but a little more controlled.
“You know what the funny part is?
Some people think I show up late on purpose. Like I’m trying to make some kind of dramatic entrance or whatever.”
He waves his free hand.
“No. I’m just bad with time. Disaster with time. Time sees me coming and starts shaking.”
He laughs again, shaking his head.
“But it works out. Every time. I show up exactly when I’m supposed to. Not early, not planned, not perfect — just right.
Like a weird superpower but less useful in real life.”
He taps the phone lightly.
“And the best part? Even when I’m cutting it close, even when I’m rushing, even when I’m sliding into Gorilla with one foot in my boot — I’m still ready.”
He gives the camera that sly, self-assured smile he gets right before he says something honest.
“Because I actually train for this.”
He lifts his wrist like he’s checking a non-existent watch.
“Cardio? Insane. Agility? Even more insane. Conditioning? Locked in.
I put in the hours.”
He shrugs.
“Not because someone told me to. Not because I’m trying to prove anything.
Just because I like being good.”
His footsteps echo as he walks through a larger loading area — stacked gear, long shadows, the rumble of a truck outside — the camera catching the whole environment in small tilts.
“And that’s the thing about me you can’t prep for, Alex.”
He raises the phone closer.
“I don’t need to show off to feel confident. I don’t need a big speech about destiny or whatever. I don’t need to stand there screaming about how I’m ‘the future.’”
He rolls his eyes with a laugh.
“I know I’m good. That’s it.”
He shifts the camera to his other hand as he walks past a group of road crew, giving them a casual nod.
“And you? You’re good too. That’s why this match feels like a rush.
I’m not walking in thinking, ‘Oh, I need to prove I can hang with Alex.’
I already KNOW I can hang. I KNOW I can push the pace. I KNOW I can run circles if I want to.”
He snaps lightly with one hand.
“You’re the one guy who won’t get lost in the blur.”
A genuine smile follows, warm and competitive at the same time.
“You’re not showing up to ‘test yourself.’ You’re not showing up to measure me like I’m some kind of level check.”
His tone shifts — more grounded, more centered.
“Good. Don’t.”
He points at the camera like he’s pointing at Alex directly.
“I’m not a checkpoint. I’m not a warm-up. I’m not a bar you pass.
You don’t ‘measure’ against me — you FIGHT me.”
He steps through another door and enters a quieter hallway — framed posters, dim lights, long stretch of carpet. He slows, almost strolling now, letting the words breathe.
“And you’re smart enough to know the difference.”
He looks down the hall as he walks, not at the camera, as if thinking for a second — then looks back with a sharper grin.
“You know what makes me dangerous?
Not the flips. Not the speed. Not the footwork. Not the cardio.
It’s the fact that you can’t read me.”
He gives a slight tilt of his head.
“Every other opponent you’ve had?
You could look at them and get a feel for what they were gonna do.
Big guy? Power moves.
Technical guy? Grabs and holds.
High flyer? Spots and jumps.”
He shrugs.
“Me? I’m every direction. Every angle.
I’m not unpredictable to be cute — I’m unpredictable because it’s how I win.”
He drifts toward a framed poster, brushing his fingers over the glass before turning back to the camera.
“And you’re not gonna shake me.
You’re not gonna rattle me.
You’re not gonna walk in there expecting me to crack under pressure.”
He lifts the camera a little higher, catching the light just right on his cheekbones.
“I’m not here to compare myself to you.
I’m not here to see ‘how I stack up.’
I don’t walk into matches with that kinda thinking.”
He leans against the wall, relaxed, confident, balanced.
“Honestly? I don’t even care how people compare us.
That’s their problem.”
He taps the screen gently with his finger.
“I don’t need to convince anybody I can win.
I already know what I can do.”
His eyes brighten — that spark he gets before a match.
“What I want… is the challenge.”
He pushes away from the wall and starts walking again, the camera smoothing back into motion.
“And you’re a challenge in the right way — the fun way. The ‘try to catch me’ way. The ‘oh damn he kept up’ way.”
He laughs.
“I live for that.”
As he approaches another set of doors, he glances back at the camera, voice dropping just slightly in excitement.
“Alright. Let’s amp this up.”
Ryan pushes through the next door and steps into a quieter part of the arena — the hallway that leads toward Gorilla. The hum of the crowd is faint but steady, like a heartbeat waiting on the other side of the curtain. He glances toward the noise, then back at the camera with a small smile.
“This is my favorite part of the whole arena. Right here. This little in-between spot.”
He walks slowly now, letting the camera catch the soft glow of the tunnel lights.
“This is where everything gets real. Not stressful-real. Not dramatic-real. Just… alive.”
He shifts the phone to his other hand.
“This is where I start feeling the match before it happens. My legs get a little warmer. My chest opens up. My head clears. It’s like flipping a switch.”
He laughs under his breath at himself.
“I don’t get nervous.
I get ready.”
He lifts the camera closer.
“And I like that you get that kind of ready too. You’re not walking into this match shaky. You’re not second-guessing anything. You’re not thinking, ‘Oh, maybe I shouldn’t have taken this one.’”
He tilts his head.
“Good. I don’t want an unsure version of you. I want the one who knows what he’s doing.”
He slips around a stack of crates, the camera bouncing lightly with each step.
“But here’s the part you gotta understand about me.”
He gestures at himself casually.
“I’m confident.
Not the loud kind.
Not the fake kind.
Not the ‘let me scream my resume’ kind.”
He taps his own chest with two fingers.
“It’s simple.
I know what I can do.”
He rolls his shoulders, loosening them, letting energy settle comfortably.
“And yeah, I’m late to pretty much everything that isn’t wrestling. I miss calls. I forget I have plans. I run into Gorilla with a boot half on. I’m always in a rush.”
He shrugs, grinning.
“But every time I get out there?
I’m locked in.”
He points at the camera.
“You can count on me for that.
Every single time.”
He slows his walk again, passing under a low arch of metal scaffolding.
“You know what else you can count on? That I’m gonna make this fast. And not fake-fast. Real fast. The kind of fast where the second you reach for me, I’m already somewhere else.”
He snaps his fingers once, sharp.
“Not because I’m trying to be unpredictable.
But because that’s just how I move.”
He takes a breath that isn’t heavy or dramatic — just steady, focused, ready.
“You’re smart enough to know that’s a problem.”
He gives a small, playful shrug, like he’s saying “What can you do?”
“People who don’t know me think they can plan for me. They sit down and say, ‘Okay, Ryan does this, Ryan does that, Ryan likes jumping off things.’”
He rolls his eyes.
“Yeah. Good luck with that.”
He swings the phone around to show his feet for a second, stepping around a pile of cables, then back to his face.
“I react. That’s my thing. You do something, I’m already moving around it. You switch directions, so do I. You speed up, I speed up more. You try to slow the match down? Never gonna happen.”
His smile kicks up a little sharper.
“You’re walking into a match you can’t control.”
He lightly taps the top of the camera like he’s knocking on a door.
“And I know you can handle that. That’s what makes this fun for me.”
He reaches the end of the tunnel and stops for a moment, standing in the wide open concrete space before Gorilla. A few crew members walk by in the distance, but Ryan stays focused on the camera.
“You know what I don’t get about some people? They think matches like this are about proving something. Like I’m supposed to show everyone how I ‘measure up.’ Like I’m supposed to walk in with a checklist.”
He tilts his head, amused.
“I’m not checking anything.”
He lifts the camera to eye height, leaning in a little.
“I’m not here to measure myself against you.
I already know who I am.”
He straightens, letting that confidence settle fully in his posture.
“I’m not here to show you that I’m good enough.
I know I’m good enough.”
He wipes his forehead with the back of his wrist, flicking a stray drop of sweat to the ground.
“I don’t need to convince anyone of anything.
Not the fans.
Not the locker room.
Not the people backstage counting the minutes.”
His smile softens, but the fire behind it doesn’t.
“If people don’t get me by now? That’s on them.”
He looks off to the side for a moment as a forklift beeps and rolls past. He waits, then swings the camera back toward himself with a smooth pull.
“You get it. And that’s why you’re dangerous.
Not because you’re trying to prove something.
But because you actually know what you’re doing.”
He lifts his chin.
“So do I.”
He pushes off the wall and starts moving again, slower now, more grounded.
“And that’s why this match is gonna hit different. You’re not walking in trying to climb over me.”
A grin spreads.
“Good.
Because I’m not a climb.”
He lifts a hand, flicking his fingers outward.
“I’m a whole different challenge.
You don’t go through me to get somewhere else.
You deal with me.”
He shakes his head, amused by the truth of it.
“People love that ‘stepping stone’ story.
I’m not that. Never been that.”
He angles the camera slightly upward as he walks under another set of lights.
“And you’re not treating me like one.
That’s why I’m excited.”
He breathes in deep and lets the energy settle into his shoulders.
“I want the version of you that fights back.
The version that sees me moving fast and says, ‘Alright, bet.’
The one who doesn’t freeze.”
He gives a nod.
“You don’t freeze.”
He walks toward the final corner, lights from the arena glow pulsing faintly in the distance.
“And I don’t slow down.”
He stops right before the turn, leaning the camera close. His voice drops just a little — not dark, not heavy, just focused and ready.
“So here’s what you can expect, Alex.”
He holds the phone steady.
“I’m coming in confident.
Not cocky.
Just sure.”
He exhales once, sharp, controlled.
“I’m coming in ready.
Legs loose, lungs open, mind clear.”
He nods once.
“I’m coming in unpredictable.
Fast.
Sharp.
On your heels the whole time.”
And then a grin — bright, wild, fun.
“And I’m coming in because I want this.”
He steps forward, turning toward the glow of the entrance lights.
“Let’s give them something stupid good.”
He walks toward Gorilla, camera held high, a spark in his eye.
“Time to make this fun.”