Las Vegas -
Turnberry Towers
The dining room in Turnberry Towers had been transformed into a battlefield Kevin Chapman had built with a lot of care for a night of fun. It was a full Dungeons & Dragons setup, brand new from his Christmas morning haul. A felt-lined dice tray. A grid map with little dungeon walls and a miniature figure for each player. There were note cards stacked in careful piles, pencils sharpened to lethal points, and a separate notebook opened beside everyone. All he needed now was a group to practice with, and that’s where our story comes into play.
Kevin sat at the head of the table, a Dungeon Master screen with the art of a dragon separating him from the rest of the players. It was Kevin’s first try at running a campaign and he didn’t want anyone to see when or if he got nervous. Except everyone at this table already knew him well enough to recognize nerves in the way he paused or how he cleared his throat.
Carter sat to Kevin’s right, and played as a Drow assassin named Paeris. “One name.” As Carter phrased it. “Like Cher.” Carter was a long-time player but admitted that it had been awhile and was thrilled to be invited to play again. Across from Carter sat Miles, the epitome of casual indulgence, having never played before but was open to a fun night with family and friends. Miles was playing as Aelarion Vael, a High-Elf Wizard.
Next to Miles was LJ, seated comfortably like a man who’d come ready to have fun and whose character sheet had a doodle of a screaming axe. He was playing as Marmalade Ironbelly, a Dwarf Barbarian with a comedic attitude. Beside LJ, his girlfriend Alexandra Calaway sat. She’d taken her time choosing spells and features, and it paid off with her character, Seraphine Nyx, a Tiefling Warlock.
Beside Alexandra was her daughter Ashlynn, perched on her chair like she was ready to launch into action at any second. She was playing as Pip Underbough, a Halfling Ranger.
And then there was Connor Wayley, sitting close enough to Kevin that their shoulders almost touched when they leaned forward. Something everyone else at the table noticed though nobody brought the attention to either boy. Connor’s character sheet was neat, but the corners were already bent from being handled too often, like he’d been rereading it in anticipation. Connor was playing as Jace Merrin, a Human Rogue.
Kevin glanced down at his notes, then lifted his eyes above the screen, voice tightening into that storyteller’s cadence he’d found halfway through the night.
“You come to a door.” Kevin said. “It’s stone. There’s a face carved into it but the eyes are wrong. And the mouth looks like it’s almost smiling.”
Carter leaned in. “I don’t like it.”
Kevin’s eyes shifted to Carter, then back to his notes, gaining confidence from the fact that Carter was invested enough to dislike a pretend door. “There’s writing on the bottom. Old script. Aelarion, you can read it.”
Miles straightened, slipping into character. “I read it.”
Kevin took another breath. “It says ‘Confess, and be made clean.’”
Alexandra tapped her pencil thoughtfully. “That’s either a trap or a moral test.”
Kevin nodded, grateful they were taking the bait. “There’s also a small bowl carved into the stone beneath the writing. Like it’s meant to hold something.”
Alexandra leaned in, voice smooth. “Seraphine steps forward and says, ‘I confess I have stolen secrets from people who trusted me.’”
The table went quiet, because Alexandra had executed what was expected perfectly. Kevin looked down at his notes and nodded.
“The bowl fills with dark liquid.” Kevin said. “Like ink.”
Ashlynn made a face. “Gross.”
Connor murmured, “Cool.”
Miles’s wizard asked, “Do we have to drink it?”
Kevin lifted his hands, both palms up behind the screen. “I don’t know. Do you?”
Carter groaned and looked at Miles. “Kevin is trying to kill us.”
Kevin’s mouth twitched into a smile. “That’s literally the Dungeon Master’s job.”
Connor leaned back with a grin and added, “We’re trying to start a D&D club at school. This is good practice.”
Miles mused, “So we’re your guinea pigs.”
Kevin said, “I prefer educational sacrifices.”
The game rolled forward and after they’d survived the confession door, Kevin glanced at the time on his phone. “Snack break?” He suggested it to everyone and was met with approval.
Carter stood first, taking charge as host, “I’ll grab us something.”
He headed to the kitchen and moved with ease, pulling out bowls, shaking pretzels into one, Kevin’s favorite jalapeno Doritos into another, all the while throwing a bag of cheesy popcorn into the microwave. When he came back into the dining room, Miles picked up his phone, declaring, “I’m ordering pizza!”
Everyone happily approved of this plan, especially the three teenagers, because what teen doesn’t appreciate a pizza dinner? Miles looked to Connor and asked, “Your folks okay with you eating here?” To which Connor nodded, “They just said I had to be home by ten.” Earning a nod of approval from Miles.
Kevin watched Carter as he carefully arranged the bowls around the table so as not to disturb Kevin’s set up. Kevin asked shyly, “Can we get a Dr. Pepper? Me, Connor, and Ashlynn?”
Connor nodded immediately, “Please!” Ashlynn the same.
Carter gave a nod and went back into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and leaned in. Bottled water. Juice. Leftovers stacked neatly. And tucked behind a container like it was hiding? One can of Dr. Pepper. “Bad news!” He announced, “We’ve got exactly one can left! Good news? We can take a break and I’ll run down to the store.”
Miles’s head turned immediately, protective instincts snapping into place. “I should go with you.”
Carter grabbed his keys out from the seashell dish. “It’s just down the block.” He declared. “I’ll be right back.”
Miles’s expression tightened, concerned. “Still...”
Carter kept his voice gentle but firm. “Miles, you just ordered pizza. One of us has to be here to pay for it. Unless you want to shake Connor for it?” Connor looked up from his conference with Kevin and Ashlynn with wide eyes.
He declared, “I’ll be right back!” And headed out, the door clicking shut behind him.
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN PAID FOR BY THE PRIDE OF SCW
“Inception VIII, the first big night of 2026! New year, new noise, same old truth. That I have to continue silencing critics and proving myself to all the people who think I don’t deserve to be the World Heavyweight Champion. And you know something? That’s fine. That’s alright. I’m fine with that because the more I prove myself, the more I humble every person who tries and tells me I have no business being at the top of the mountain.”
“And I think about men like Finn Whelan when I say that. I think about what it meant when Finn held this title for over a year and made it feel heavy in the best way. There are champions who wear gold like jewelry, and there are champions who wear it like a responsibility. Finn was the second kind. When I won this championship, Finn looked me dead in the eye and told me, plain as day, ‘Don’t drop the ball.’ Not congratulations or good luck. He didn’t tell me to enjoy the moment. He said don’t drop the ball. Because that’s what this is. It’s a ball you can fumble, and the second you do, there’s this pack of hungry hands reaching in and tearing it away. I took that to heart because after J2H, Finn set the standard. I’ve replayed it in my head on the days where my body felt like it got hit by a truck, on the nights where I could’ve coasted by, on the moments where it would’ve been easy to be like Alexander Raven and take a shortcut and call it smart. I didn’t get to be Helluva Bottom Carter by being the guy who takes the easy route. I got here by doubling down when everybody else started backing toward the door.”
“So going into Inception VIII, I’m not asking for applause or begging to be accepted. I’m telling you what I already know. I have lived up to that standard. I have carried this title like it matters. Every week I have shown up as the champion this company deserves and can put at the front of the line and not worry about being embarrassed. I have done champions like Finn Whelan proud, because I didn’t take the crown and start acting like a king. I took the crown and started working like a man who knows the whole place is watching!”
“And then there are ‘men’ like Alexander Raven.”
“Alexander, I want you to listen closely, because I know you’re the type who hears what he wants and then calls everything else propaganda. You’re the type who thinks a fact is just a rumor that hasn’t been bullied enough yet. You’re the type who loses a match and starts looking around for hidden cameras, secret agreements, the deep state, the shallow state, and whatever other state makes you feel better about the fact that you came up short. Only for you, it’s the state of denial. You come up short in a match and immediately it’s ‘the Rings of Saturn got in my eyes!’ or ‘the Earth’s axis was tilted unfairly!’ You have built a whole identity out of excuses dressed up like revelations. You don’t just miss the goalposts, you swear somebody else moved them, then you write a manifesto about it!”
“But here’s the part you can’t conspiracy-theory your way out of. You’re stepping into Inception VIII against a champion who doesn’t need smoke and mirrors to make any sort of impression. You’re stepping into the first event of the new year against a man who has made a career out of being both fabulous and undeniable. And you are coming into it with a fresh reminder, stamped right on your forehead, that when you don’t get to stack the deck. You just fold.”
“Let’s talk about that tag match two weeks ago, hm? Let’s talk about you teaming up with Brayden Williams, and me teaming up with Eddie Lyons. Because I know you’ve been chewing on that one. I know you’ve been trying to rewrite the story. I know you’ve been telling anybody who’ll listen that the whole thing was some cosmic alignment of unfairness designed specifically to embarrass you. That’s what you do, right? If you look bad, it’s because someone made you look bad. If you lose, it’s because the universe is against you. If you get outworked, it’s because the other guy had some unfair advantage. Well allow me to clear the fog from your mind, Alexander. You didn’t get betrayed. You didn’t get robbed. You got beaten clean enough that you could’ve eaten off the mat afterward.”
“And it wasn’t just the fact that you lost. It’s how you lost that matters. Because Eddie Lyons stood across from you and didn’t even blink! Eddie didn’t get rattled by the fact that you cheated your way to victory the previous week. Eddie looked at you like a professional looks at a problem, and then he solved it. Meanwhile you were out there trying to play chess with the pieces glued to the board and you still managed to lose your Queen, pun intended! Which brings me to my next point…”
“Do you see now what happens when your wife isn’t there to bail you out of trouble? Do you see what happens when you don’t have somebody at ringside ready to jump in and play damage control the second reality starts to set in? Because I saw it! Everybody saw it! Eddie warned you! I warned you! You were reaching for that safety net and it wasn’t there, and suddenly Alexander Raven didn’t look like some diabolical mastermind. He looked like what he really is. A man who’s been propped up by interference, shortcuts, and a whole lot of noise!”
“And I know you’re sitting there thinking that you can call my bluff. I mean, you tell the world that you have no control over what your wife does in regards to interfering in your matches when that's really just more excuses. So let me save you the trouble of digging yourself into an even deeper hole.”
“I don’t believe you have the stones to leave your bitch in her kennel!”
“There it is in plain language. Not lip service. Nothing sugarcoated. You don’t have it in you to walk into the Main Event of Inception VIII and tell your little security blanket to stay backstage. You’re addicted to the idea that if you can just muddy the water enough, nobody will be able to see you drowning. That is literally all there is to you. You don’t wrestle matches, you manufacture confusion. You don’t win, you just survive long enough for somebody else to do the dirty work. There is nothing - NOTHING - about you that isn't skin deep!”
“So here’s the problem, Alexander. I’m not stupid. I know you think otherwise but that's your room delusions screwing around with your head. I’m not the kind of champion who wanders into a title defense like it’s a friendly sparring session and not expect things to go South. I’m the kind of champion who plans for every version of you there is. Dirty, desperate, delusional, all of it! You want to bring Lassie, er, Luna to ringside? I’ve got a leash ready. You want to bring Luna to try and cheat your way to the World Title? I’ve got my own insurance policy on the likely chance you don’t have the guts to do this like a man!”
“And before you or Luna start clutching pearls about my having a backup plan, let’s clarify there’s a difference between having a plan and needing one. You need one. I prepare one. That’s the difference between a champion and a snake. I don’t rely on my plan to win. The plan is just there to make sure your nonsense doesn’t rewrite the outcome. The plan is there so I don’t get caught in some Raven-produced episode where the ending doesn’t make sense but the villain still walks away smiling. I’m not letting you turn the World Heavyweight Championship into a prop for your paranoia.”
“Because that’s what you do, Alexander. You take the simplest thing in the world, two men competing athletically to see who is better and you complicate it until it resembles a Stephen King novel! Every time you get called out for your tactics, you don’t deny them. You justify them. You dress them up like you’re some noble rebel fighting a corrupt system. You act like you’re exposing SCW from the inside out, when really you’re just a guy who wants an excuse to do whatever he wants without the benefit of consequences.”
“You hit someone below the belt? ‘They made me do it!’ You grab the tights? ‘That’s strategy!’ You bring your wife into it? ‘I can’t control what she does!’ These are all the excuses that you’ve used in the past and you don’t even hear yourself doing it! You call it ‘truth’ when it’s convenient and ‘lies’ when it’s not. Meanwhile, I’m standing here with the one thing you can’t manufacture. Credibility.”
“Credibility is built over time, over defenses, over the way you handle pressure, over the way you show up when you’re tired, when you’re hurting, when your back is against the wall! Credibility is walking into a new year with the biggest target in the company on your chest and still sleeping just fine because you know you’ve done the work! That’s me. That’s what this title has turned me into. You think being champion is about being the center of attention. It’s not. Being a champion is about being the center of accountability. Every hungry contender wants a shot. Every bitter veteran wants to prove you’re a fluke. Every rising star wants to use you as a stepping stone. And you either stand up to that pressure or you break.”
“I’ve been standing tall since May 2025. You, Alexander? You don’t break, you shatter. And then you hold up the pieces and insist it was sabotage.”
“So let’s talk about Inception VIII like grown-ups. Let’s talk about what’s really happening. You’re not getting this title match because you’re the most deserving. You’re getting it because you’re loud. You’re getting it because you’re a problem people want solved. You’re getting it because SCW knows that if they put you in a world title match, you’ll show up, you’ll run your mouth, you’ll try your tricks, you’ll stir the pot, and people will tune in to see if you finally get your teeth knocked in. Congratulations, Alex! You’ve finally made yourself useful!”
“You are not the future of this company. You’re not going to be the guy who carries SCW into 2026. You’re nothing more than a speed bump. You’re a chapter the real story has to get through before it gets to the part people actually want to read. And I know that stings, because you see yourself differently. You see yourself as the main character. You see yourself as the misunderstood genius. You see yourself as the only one brave enough to tell the so-called truth. But the truth is simpler than any of your theories; Alexander Raven is nothing more than a placeholder for legitimate contenders.”
“Legitimate contenders like Eddie Lyons.”
“Let’s say his name again, because I can tell it bothers you. Eddie Lyons. A man who doesn’t need his ego to be his tag partner. A man who doesn’t need outside interference to feel important. A man who doesn’t need to turn every loss into a conspiracy board with black Xs across a dozen blurry screenshots. Eddie Lyons is the kind of contender who fights forward, who takes his lumps, who learns and comes back sharper. Eddie Lyons is the kind of contender who can look a champion in the eye and make you believe he’s ready. And after Inception VIII, after you do what you always do and you find a way to choke when it matters most, I want Eddie next in line.”
“Because I’m not here to dodge the best. I’m here to beat the best. That’s what a real champion does. A real champion doesn’t hide behind politics. A real champion doesn’t pick opponents he can out-cheat. A real champion looks at the division and tells the match makers to line them up! That’s me. I want the men who can actually take this title from me, because if they can’t, then all we’re doing is wasting everybody’s time. And Alexander, you are the definition of wasted time.”
“You’re going to come into Inception VIII with the same bag of tricks and the same need to control the story. You’re going to try to bait me into making a mistake. You’re going to try to get under my skin. You’re going to try to turn this into the sort of chaos that you can thrive in. You’re going to start whispering about referees and management and favoritism, because if you can plant enough doubt, you think you can make my confidence look like arrogance and your paranoia look like insight. But I’m not playing your game. I’m stepping into a world title match where the only thing that matters is which one of us can go the distance. And that’s where you’ve always come up short. Because when the shortcuts get cut off, when the noise gets quiet, you don’t have what it takes to finish the job.”
“And deep down, you know it.”
“That’s why you cling to the dirty tactics. That’s why you try to justify everything. You are so terrified of a clean fight because a clean fight forces you to stand on your own two feet, and Alexander Raven has never trusted his own two feet to carry him anywhere worth going.”
“Meanwhile, I’m built for this. I was built for the nights where everything is on the line! I was built for the nights where one mistake could cost me everything! I was built for the nights where the challenger is desperate and the champion is expected to deliver!So here’s how this is going to go, Alex. You can bring your wife. You can bring your excuses. You can bring your theories. You can bring every dirty little trick you’ve ever used to steal a win! And I’m going to do what I always do.”
“I’m going to out-think you when you try to get clever. I’m going to out-fight you when you try to get violent. I’m going to out-last you when you try to drag this into deep water. And when you reach for that escape hatch, when you look for the bailout, when you look for the shortcut, when you look for the moment you can twist into an excuse, I’m going to slam it shut in your face! Because I’m not just defending a championship at Inception VIII. I’m defending the idea that this title means something. I’m defending the idea that the man holding it is the best man in the company, not the luckiest, not the sneakiest, not the loudest. I’m defending the standard men like Finn Whelan handed me when he told me not to drop the ball. And I haven’t dropped it yet. You, Alexander, are not the man to make me fumble.”
“And when you choke, like you always do, I’m going to walk out with the World Heavyweight Championship still around my waist. Both earned and respected. Then I’m going to look down the line at the legitimate contenders, men like Eddie Lyons, and I’m going to keep doing what champions are supposed to do; defend this title against men who have stepped up and earned it the hard way, not tossed the wrestling equivalent to a pity fuck!”
The moment Carter set foot into the parking garage, he immediately wished he had relented and allowed someone to come along. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, telling himself that he was being ridiculous. He was going to a store that was, by his own words, “just down the block,” because the kids wanted Dr. Pepper. He should have been thinking about what kind of pizza Miles ordered, whether Connor would like pineapple on his pizza, whether Miles would steal looks at his drow character sheet.
Instead, Carter’s mind kept dropping into darker grooves it had no business visiting.
A shirt in their closet that didn’t belong to anyone who lived there. A bottle of wine left in Miles’s shopping cart. The phone call that still made Carter’s stomach clench when he remembered the voice asking if they’d “checked their cat”.
Every incident wasn’t just a moment. It was a message that said, “I’m close. I’m here.”
So yes, he was feeling paranoid as he walked quickly to where his car was parked, stealing glances at every shadow and dark corner. His lime green Beetle sat where it always sat, a bright absurd dot of color in a world of gray concrete. It looked cheerful. It looked harmless.
It looked like a target.
He reached the driver’s side, slid his key into the door, and unlocked it with a click before opening the door and climbing inside - perhaps quicker than he would admit to.
He shut the door quickly and slid his key into the ignition and froze. That was when he saw it.
The little Stitch figurine on the dashboard. Miles had teased him about it at first, calling it “Carter’s emotional support alien”. The world knew Carter’s love for all things Stitch and this was just another testament. Except for one thing.
Stitch was knocked over.
Carter stared at it for a beat too long. His fingers tightened around the key until the metal bit into his skin. He hadn’t driven since the last time he’d been in the condo. Stitch had been upright then.
Before Carter could fully process it, a figure rose up from the backseat like a nightmare unfolding and something clamped over his face! A rag, rough and soaked with a slightly fruits albeit minty odor! Chloroform! The smell hit like a punch, sharp and wrong, and Carter’s body reacted instantly! He tried to inhale and his throat spasmed! He tried to shout and the sound came out muffled, crushed into fabric!
His eyes flared wide! His hands flew up, grabbing at the attacker’s wrist, at the rag, at anything! His nails scraped skin! Carter bucked in the seat, twisting his torso, slamming his shoulder back to try to knock the attacker off balance! His muffled screaming filled the small car and went nowhere! His lungs burned! The chemical smell crowded his head, turning the edges of his vision strange and swimming! The attacker leaned in harder, bracing his knee against the back seat behind Carter’s body, trying to keep him from thrashing too much, trying to keep the rag sealed tight!
Carter’s glasses flew off in his wild struggle! His legs kicked and his back arched, heels striking the underside of the dashboard! His hands scrabbled blindly across the center console, searching for the door handle, the window buttons, anything that could make noise, anything that could bring the outside world crashing in!
His fingers found the steering wheel! He didn’t even realize what he’d hit until it happened…
The horn blared!
Not a simple beep. It erupted like a scream that felt too big for the small green car thanks to the acoustics of the cement walls of the garage! It filled the space! It announced Carter’s presence like a flare shot into the night!
Then panic ripped through the attacker’s body! The grip on the rag tightened reflexively, but the plan had just cracked open! Noise was the enemy. Noise meant the attention of security, residents, anyone within earshot! The figure scrambled backward, fumbling for the door handle in the backseat, movements jerky and frantic.
The horn continued to blare, a relentless alarm! Carter’s hand was still pressed into it, either by accident or instinct, his body clinging to the one thing that had shifted the odds in his favor!
The back door flew open and the attacker spilled out, half-falling, then caught themselves and bolted into the garage shadows! Carter saw only a blur of dark clothing, the quick retreat of a form in his foggy mind.
He gasped for oxygen but the smell was still on him, in his nose, in his mouth, coating his tongue with bitterness. His heart hammered so hard it hurt. His head swam, his senses reeling like a boat in a storm at sea!
He reached for the driver’s side door handle. His fingers were clumsy, disobedient. He grabbed the handle, missed, grabbed again. His vision blurred at the edges. The garage lights smeared into bright streaks. Somewhere in the distance he heard running footsteps and voices growing louder.
Carter fumbled the handle and finally pulled, the door finally falling open and Carter tumbled helplessly out and to the concrete floor of the garage, one knee scraping hard, palms slapping the ground! The world tilted again, harsher this time as he fell over onto his back. TPeople were coming, shadows turning into bodies, bodies turning into faces.
“Oh my God!” A woman’s voice cut through. “That’s Carter McKinney!”
Carter tried to lift his head while his vision fought against him. He could make out a phone held up as someone called for help. His chest heaved. His mouth tasted like chemicals and fear.
“Carter!” Someone, a woman’s voice, called to him. “Carter, what happened!? Are you alright!?”
But he couldn’t answer. He felt like he was slowly being pulled under, his eyelids fighting him to remain open, the back of his throat burning!
Another voice, deeper, urgent, shouted over the growing crowd. “Someone get Miles Kasey in 5C! Now!”
The panic set in even deeper as his eyes started to drift closed, despite his best efforts to keep them open, and he felt like he was losing himself to unconsciousness…
Las Vegas, Nevada -
Turnberry Towers
The camera filled with the face of Maya Ortega, news reporter for WNVN 8 NEWS. Behind her, the scene was filled with the dire nature of what had just happened. Multiple police cruisers with red and blue lights flashing against the concrete, along with an ambulance backed in tight.
“Good evening. I’m Maya Ortega with WNVN 8. We are live tonight at Turnberry Towers here in the heart of Las Vegas, where World Wrestling Champion Helluva Bottom Carter was attacked under mysterious circumstances just moments ago. Residents heard a car horn blaring continuously, and when they rushed down, they discovered Carter by his car, barely responsive. Paramedics are treating him on-site, and investigators are now working to determine how this happened and who may be responsible.”
Carter lay flat on his back on the cold concrete, limbs heavy and awkward, his chest rising unevenly and drawing ragged breaths as he continued to struggle to remain awake. The mere thought of losing consciousness an absolute terror to his mind. Paramedics crouched and hovered over him, gloved hands working carefully as he drifted in and out, losing his focus as the lingering chemical effects threatened to drag him under. The news camera pushed as close as it could without crossing the invisible boundary of authority and aid.
One paramedic swabbed and treated along the irritated skin where the chemical had made contact. A sharp, bitter smell hung in the air even from this distance, and a detective’s voice carried from the open car nearby…
“It’s chloroform. Bottle’s spilled everywhere … rag in the back seat.”
The oxygen mask came out but the moment a paramedic tried to bring it down over Carter’s face, his entire body snapped awake in a burst of terror that didn’t match his strength a second earlier. He bucked and twisted, hands batting wildly with his mind returning suddenly to the inside of his car and the stagnant fumes of the chemical agent playing recurring nightmares with his mind! Paramedics struggled to keep him from hurting himself as they tried to angle the oxygen mask into place without resorting to restraining him which would have resulted in his fighting even harder!
And then Miles was there, pushing into the edge of the circle, his face was tight with a fierce blend of both rage and worry carved deep. He didn’t fight the paramedics, but positioned himself right there, crouching near Carter’s head where Carter could see him.
“Carter! Love, look at me!” Miles said, words softened at the edges despite the emotional turmoil he was experiencing racing through his mind like an open floodgate. “It’s alright! You’re safe! You’re safe, yeah? Just breathe…”
Carter’s eyes flicked toward him, panicked and glassy, and when he tried to speak it came out raw, hoarse, a rasp like his throat had been sanded down. “M-Miles…” He croaked, then coughed as if the name itself hurt.
Miles leaned closer, voice steadier than he felt. “That’s it. Stay with me. Let ‘em help. I’ve got you.”
At the limegreen car, detectives in gloves photographed everything. The interior, the mess made in the struggle, the evidence frozen in time. A knocked-over bottle glistened on the floor of the backseat and beside it, more ominously, a bundle of zip ties and a roll of duct tape. On the dashboard, knocked askew, that small Stitch figure, like it had watched the whole thing happen and couldn’t do anything to help. On the front passenger-side floor, Carter’s discarded glasses lay twisted where they’d fallen, one lens cracked and the right temple bent at a bad angle.
A detective leaned in, careful not to disturb anything, a flashlight beam skimming surfaces as another dusted for prints with patience defying the given circumstances. They checked the door handle, the window edge, and the lock mechanism. Questions plagued their expert minds. How had they gotten in? Had they waited? Another officer peered toward the garage entrance and then up toward the security cameras overhead, pointing once.
Miles was guided back a step by LJ and Alexandra, both of them trying to give space while also refusing to be far from Carter. LJ’s hand landed on Miles’s shoulder, reassuring and strong. Alexandra’s face was tight, her fury at someone hurting a loved one near equal to Miles’s own. Miles didn’t want to move, but he let them pull him just enough so the paramedics could finally settle the oxygen mask into place with less resistance. He watched with a kind of contained violence, fists opening and closing at his sides as his eyes tracked every touch. Miles wanted to cause some damage to whoever did this to his husband.
Two more figures stood at the edge of the scene, talking to police. Anne Thompson, the HOA President of Turnberry Towers, and beside her, the building’s chief of security, Darius Kell. Anne gestured toward the elevator and then out toward the garage ramp, voice rising and falling with panic. Darius spoke more evenly, but his hands moved when he talked, betraying agitation.
“We heard the horn and came running.” Anne said. “But we didn’t see anyone. Just Carter.”
An officer turned his head slightly and made the demand they were ready for. “Security footage. We need to see the cameras. Now.”
Darius nodded once. “Come with me, I’ll get it for you.” Leading the officer inside of his security office.
The paramedics lifted Carter with careful coordination, one hand supporting his head, another steadying his shoulders. Carter’s body slackened again, the fight draining out of him as the chemical haze and exhaustion took their toll. When the gurney rolled, Miles stepped in alongside them. He turned to his brother and close friend, saying, “Take care of the kids. Make sure Connor gets home safe. Please…” LJ and Alexandra nodded as Miles turned to go with his husband in the back of the ambulance.
The camera followed, close enough now that the frame was crowded with shoulders and uniforms and flashing light. Maya Ortega moved with it, voice rising into the foreground again as she tried to intercept.
“Miles Kasey? Miles, can you tell us what happened? Did Carter recognize his attacker? Was…?”
Miles tried to go around, jaw clenched, ignoring the microphone. The camera kept stepping with him, persistent, invasive... until something in him snapped. Miles’ hand came up and shoved the camera aside, the frame jolting hard, lights streaking, audio popping as the last shot was of gravity taking its toll and the world lurching aside in the tumble!
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Miles blurted. “Get that bloody thing out of my face, you fucking vultures!”
“Let's be honest here. At this point in time? Alexander Raven is beginning to resemble a broken record more than he does a broken wrestler. Which I can understand, I mean I'm not inhuman. This is our third time around in a row and someone with as limited of vocabulary as Raven seems to have would be at a disadvantage. Sort of like bringing a glow stick to a lightsaber duel.”
“The man tends to lean hard on the same six words like they’re a life raft. Hypothetical. Narcissist. Sycophant. Poison. Promise. And my personal favorite, every time you swear you’re at peace right before you spend fifteen straight minutes proving you are anything but! You’re not a prophet, you’re not a philosopher, and you’re sure as hell not some tragic hero! You’re a man who found a mirror one day, hated what it showed and decided the problem was everyone else’s reflection!”
“So let’s do this step by step, since you love to talk like you’re some sort of intellectual instead of some lunatic who preaches reading from the back of a box of corn flakes. First you have the ‘I’m content’ routine. That’s really adorable. That’s like watching a rattlesnake tell you it’s a garden hose. You can hiss and perform, but you’re still the same creature that crawls on its belly. You didn't come back to be a savior. You came back because the only time your brain stops screaming is when you try to turn damage into applause.”
“Second, the autobiography you use as a weapon. Eighteen year veteran. Thirty-six years old. Broken body. Spilled blood, bones… congratulations! It's your Greatest Hits album! And I’m not even mocking the wear and tear, because I respect mileage when it’s real. What I’m mocking is how you weaponize it like it entitles you to the happy ending you want. You keep presenting your suffering like you can cash in for my championship. Like the universe owes you a refund because you spent too many years in pain. Newsflash, Raven! Everybody in this industry pays! Some of us just don’t stand in the middle of the store yelling at the cashier that life is unfair until they hand us the belt out of pity!”
“Third, you called yourself consistent and transparent, which is one of the only honest things you’ve ever said! You are transparent, Alexander. You’ve spent years building a fog bank around yourself so nobody has to focus on your mediocre reality. Everyone can see you for what you actually are and the sad fact is that alone terrifies you above anything else.”
“Now let’s talk about your favorite little word, ‘hypothetical.’ You use it like a priest uses holy water. ‘Hypothetically I beat you.’ ‘Hypothetically you beat me.’ ‘Hypothetically I go after Miles after I finish with you.’ You see how that works, right? It’s the verbal equivalent of pulling a knife in a crowded bar and then going, ‘Relax, I didn’t hurt anyone!’ You want intimidation without accountability. You want fear without consequence. You want to be the monster and the victim in the same sentence because that’s the only way your ego can fit through the door.”
“And since you dragged my husband into it like you were tossing raw meat into a cage, let’s address that like two mature adults, well one mature adult. Miles Kasey is not next on any menu. Well, except for my dessert menu. He’s not a lever you pull to get a reaction out of me. He’s not some hostage you can wave around because you’re running out of fresh material. The fact that you keep circling him tells me everything I need to know about you. You don’t want to beat me. You want to hurt me because you can’t stand the idea that I can love something without it becoming ammunition. You want to hurt me because deep down, you can’t beat me.”
“Now, you also took a swing at me about never giving Miles a shot at the top. You framed it like I’m hoarding the spotlight because I’m scared. That’s hilarious coming from the guy who has made it his mission to need the entire company to revolve around the gravitational pull of his trauma! Miles doesn’t need me to allow him to be great. He is great whether I’m the World Champion or not. The reason you don’t understand that is because you can’t comprehend a relationship that isn’t transactional, which speaks volumes about your own relationship with Luna. You don’t know what it looks like when two people are on the same team without one of them keeping score. You think everything is about appearances because you don’t have anything else to offer! You’re the one who treats people like props, Raven, and you only called me that because you saw your own reflection and didn’t like the angle!”
“Then we get to the part where you just start unloading insults like you’re trying to win a fight by throwing the entire dictionary at my head. ‘Inconsiderate.’ ‘Narcissistic.’ ‘Sycophantic.’ Seriously, did Luna buy you a Word of the Day calendar for Christmas and a mirror to practice in front of? Well here’s a little more truth for you to chew on, and it’s something that you’ve proven to everyone the world over. When you run out of credible points, you start throwing insults with more than one syllable and then demand a participation trophy from someone higher up! You need people angry and rattled in order for you to feel relevant! You need people playing on your emotional frequency because if they don’t, you’re just you. A mediocre little man with a limited vocabulary, a failing body, and a mind you keep excusing as fractured while you sharpen it into a dull blade at best.”
“I don’t have to be you in order to beat you. Therein lies your mistake where I’m concerned. You insist I wish I could be you like you’re some final boss form of wrestling evolution! Raven, I would rather be a prissy anything on my worst day than be whatever the hell you consider yourself on your best day! You want the legend. You want the myth. You want to be the man that everyone remembers and tells stories about. Fine. I’ll give you that much, you are consistent at one thing. You are consistent at trying to drag your opponent down into the depths of your own depravity so you can beat them in the only environment you feel comfortable in. You want chaos because chaos is the only place where your mistakes look like strategy. When everything is dirty, you can pretend you’re clean. In your twisted logic, that makes you someone to look up to.”
“But here’s the problem for you, Alexander. This is Inception VIII. This is for my World Heavyweight Championship. This isn’t a support group. This isn’t therapy. This isn’t your confession booth where you get forgiveness by saying you warned me before you do whatever it is that you’re already planning to do. You tell everyone that you’re not afraid and that you’re ready for whatever I bring. Kudos to you, Alexander. That’s the bravest lie you’ve told all year. Because if you weren’t worried, you wouldn’t be writing fanfiction in your head about my downfall. You wouldn’t be building contingencies where even losing is a win because you can try to hurt someone I love. You wouldn’t be pre-loading excuses about your body, your health or your age! You’re already crafting the story you want people to tell when this doesn’t go your way. That’s not bravery, Raven. That’s an insurance policy.”
“Let me be very clear about something you keep trying to twist. I don’t hate you because you’re damaged. I don’t hate you because you’re intense. I don’t hate you because you’re angry. I hate how you talk about empathy like it’s a weakness and then beg for understanding every time you bring up your past. I hate your hypocrisy and how you think you can have it both ways! You don’t get to call the world sick for rejecting cruelty and then act offended and bitch when people don’t clap for yours!”
“You think success corrupts, and maybe it does. It especially has that effect on people who are already rotten. It just finds the decay in their heart or soul and embellishes what is already there. But success doesn’t corrupt me, Raven. It shows exactly who I am when the stakes are highest. And what it’s going to reveal at Inception is that you are not the inevitable end of my reign. You are literally nothing more than an obstacle. A dangerous one, sure. A stubborn one, absolutely! But still just an obstacle between me and the future I’ve built.”
“You want me rattled. You want me furious. You want me so emotional that I chase you into your kind of match at your own pace. You want me to prove your whole theory correct by becoming the villain you’ve already written me as in your mental walk about. It’s not happening. I’m going to do what champions do. I’m going to listen with my ears. I’m going to watch with my eyes. And then I’m going to walk into Inception VIII with my head clear and carve your little manifesto into confetti! And when the final bell rings, all your conspiracy theories about me are tossed in the garbage bins. Because in the real world, there’s only one truth that matters. Can you take the championship from me? Not in a threat. Not by terrorizing the people I love. In the ring, in front of everyone. You beat me once with help when the stakes didn’t really matter. Can you do it a second time around when they do? You said I’m in your way. So move me. Stop making empty promises and even emptier threats! Walk into Inception and earn the ending you keep trying to write!”
“Because I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, Alexander, and I am not going to waste either of our time with theatrics or sweet words. I’m going to outthink you when you try to bait me! I’m going to outlast you when your body starts screaming and shuts down! I’m going to outclass you when you reach for shortcuts! And if you decide you’d rather hurt people than win, then I’m going to hurt you back in a way you can’t romanticize and make yourself the victim!”
“You want Sin City to fear something new? How’s this? The end of your own story. Not because you were robbed. Not because you were betrayed. Because you walked into this match with the same tired threats, and the same addiction to being the victim in your own violence and you met a champion who doesn’t need to be you in order to beat you!”</color>
Las Vegas, Nevada -
Sunrise Hospital
The hospital room’s lightning was kept dim as the doctor leaned in and shone a penlight into Carter’s right eye, then the left, watching the pupils tighten and release. The doctor kept his voice calm and asked, “Can you tell me your name and where you are?”
Carter squinted against the light and forced the answer out, and it came hoarse and ragged. “Carter … Carter Kasey-McKinney.” He croaked. His eyes drifted around the room, a little lost at his hospital room surroundings like he was trying to remember how he’d got here. “Where …?”
“You’re at Sunrise Hospital.” The doctor said immediately, lowering the penlight. “Emergency department. You’re safe.” He glanced to the monitor and then to the nurse at the bedside, who busied herself checking his vitals and keeping records on her clipboard.
Miles stood at the bedside like a silent sentinel, close enough to be a constant in Carter’s blurred periphery. Carter’s glassy eyes finally found his husband and he croaked in a voice pained by his throat suffering damage from inhaling the chloroform. “Miles…”
“I’m here, love.” Miles said softly, keeping his voice low for the surroundings. “I’m right here. You’re all right.” Miles hovered close, jaw clenched and hating this feeling of like he somehow failed to protect his greatest love. He started to say something when Carter sat upright and as if expected, the nurse grabbed the wastebasket in time for Carter to pull the oxygen mask off just in time to get violently sick into the waste!
When it finally eased, Carter fell back against the pillows, trembling and damp with sweat. The nurse wiped his mouth and offered water. Carter tried a swallow and flinched, coughing hoarsely against the rawness.
The doctor nodded like he had expected it. “Irritation from the chemical exposure and from vomiting. We’ll treat the nausea through the IV, give you fluids, and keep you on the monitor. I’m ordering blood work. Electrolytes, liver enzymes and an EKG. If your confusion doesn’t clear, or if there’s concern you hit your head, we’ll consider imaging.”
Miles bristled at the word ‘confusion’, hands gripping the rail. “How long are you keeping him?”
“Long enough to be safe.” The doctor answered, then turned back to Carter with simple grounding questions. “Do you know what day it is? Do you remember where you were before you came here?” Carter blinked slowly, trying to reach for memory, and came up with only fragments. He shook his head, and admitting it made him angry.
The next stretch became a procedure, step by step. EKG stickers went on with efficient gentleness. The nurse adjusted oxygen tubing beneath Carter’s nose, a sensation he hated but she helped talk him through it. Anti-nausea medication helped soothe the nausea and IV fluids began to drip while the monitor kept its rhythm.
Carter’s panic still threatened to overtake him, the feeling of his attacker standing there in the corner of the room, smiling from the shadows. Miles lowered his voice and slowed his own breathing. “Look at me. You’re safe, you’re with me. No one’s getting near you.”
Only when the doctor was satisfied did he step to the curtain and speak quietly with someone waiting outside. When the doctor returned, he spoke calmly. “A detective is here to ask a few questions, if you’re up for it?”
Carter nodded, stiff. “Yeah.”
The detective stepped in with a plain notebook and a posture careful not to crowd the bed, eyes flicking first to the monitor and IV, then to Carter’s face to assess whether or not he was getting a coherent person. “I’m Detective Stabler.” He introduced himself. “Mr. Kasey-McKinney, do you know who might have done this?”
Carter’s jaw tightened. He blinked, tried to pull the memory into shape, and came up with nothing. “No.” He rasped. “I-I don’t know.” The detective’s pen moved without judgment, and he shifted to Miles. “Has there been anyone threatening him? Any reason someone would target him?”
Miles sighed and shook his head. “I think there’s been a stalker. A shirt showed up in our closet like someone wanted us to find it. Carter’s films were moved around, not stolen, just rearranged. A bottle of wine appeared in my grocery trolley when I know I didn’t put it there. The patio door was locked before bed and unlocked in the morning. And our cat’s been spooked, hiding and staring at corners like there was someone in the house.” Saying it all at once made Miles feel regret that he didn't take action sooner.
The detective’s expression hardened at the escalation. He asked for dates and details and Miles did his best, guilt rising the longer he talked until it spilled out sharper than intended. “This wouldn’t have happened if you’d let me go with you.” Miles said, the words escaping before he could catch them and regretted it a beat too late.
Carter’s head snapped toward him, eyes hot, and he tried to speak fast, but the hoarseness forced his voice into a rough rasp. “Are you saying I asked for this!?”
Miles flinched, then answered, “I’m not blaming you! I’m saying I should’ve been there. I should’ve insisted!”
Before Carter could argue, the detective stepped in. “With that history, neither of you should be taking unnecessary risks. You shouldn’t be going anywhere alone. Not until we know who we’re dealing with.”
Carter’s temper flared but the detective didn’t let it spiral. He tilted his head slightly and asked in a quieter tone. “Do you have any idea what was found in the backseat of your car?”
Carter stared at him, confused by the question, then shook his head slowly.
“Zip ties.” The detective said. “And duct tape. That meant this wasn’t just a physical attack. This was an attempted kidnapping.”
The room felt like it dropped in temperature. Carter’s face changed from confusion to comprehension. His face drained of color. Miles went rigid, color thinning in his face, knuckles tightening against the bed rail. “Oh my God…” He said, and it wasn’t dramatics; it was horror with nowhere to go. His gaze flicked to Carter. Miles had only been five floors up in their building when his husband had almost been… So close….
“That’s planning.” The detective confirmed. “It means we treat this as high risk. We’re pulling security footage, canvassing the garage, working building access logs, documenting the prior incidents, and we’ll be prioritizing safety measures for both of you.”
Carter’s breathing stuttered, panic threatening to surge again. He still tried to claw back control the only way he knew how, with stubborn insistence. “I want to go home…”
“No!” Miles said immediately, his tone final. “The doctor has more tests to run, and after what we’ve just heard you’re not walking out of here to prove a point! Kevin is safe with LJ and Alexandra.”
Carter’s pride flared anyway and collided with the reality of the situation. “I’m fine.” He insisted, the lie obvious to everyone. Miles’ patience snapped and he reached for the leverage he hated using but trusted when fear overrode diplomacy. “If you keep fighting everyone, I’ll call your mum!” He declared. “And your grams!”
“Go ahead!” Carter’s voice burned. He fumbled for the phone in his pocket, and in a burst of stubborn fury he flung it across the room! By some miracle, Miles managed to catch it and felt it vibrating relentlessly. “Do it!” Carter croaked. “I’m on the fucking news! They probably already know! My phone’s been buzzing since they put me in the ambulance!”
Miles reacted like someone who recognized someone on the verge of a mental breakdown. He didn’t match Carter’s heat with his own. Instead he lowered his voice. “All right.” He said softly. “I hear you. You’re scared and pissed, and you’ve every right to be. But you’re still coming out of what they did to you. You’re not thinking clearly, and that’s not your fault. We’re not making decisions out of rage. We’re making them out of safety.”
The detective let that settle, then closed his notebook with controlled finality and shifted from adrenaline to logistics. “We’re going to find out who did this.” He said. “In the meantime, do you have somewhere safe where you can stay? Somewhere you can change your routine?”
Miles answered immediately, “We’ve a house in Olympia. We could go there...”
Carter’s refusal was visible before the words came out, “We can’t.”
Miles’ brow furrowed, frustration and disbelief warring on his face. “Why not?”
“Kevin.” Carter rasped, simple and absolute.
The detective asked, “Who’s Kevin?”
Miles answered before Carter could shred his throat any further. “Our kid.” He answered. “We have guardianship. We can’t just yank him out of school. This shit is already risking custody.”
The detective nodded once, taking this new information in. “All right.” He said, voice steady. “We’ll take that into account. We’ll talk to you again once you’ve had your tests and you’re more clear-headed. For now, stay here. Don’t leave. And don’t go anywhere alone.”
He exited, and with his exit, the seriousness of the situation seemed to magnify. Miles stayed at the bedside, gaze fixed on Carter like he was afraid to blink, while Carter stared at the ceiling with an expression caught between rage and shock.
A few minutes later the curtain parted again and the nurse returned, this time with a fresh cup of ice chips and a small spoon. “For your throat.” She said softly, offering it to her patient. Carter took one spoonful at a time, letting it melt slowly on his tongue, wincing as the cold slid down the raw back of his throat.
The phone in Miles's hand started to ring again, incessant and non-stop. Carter flinched at it, the screen lighting up with a name that made both men go still for a beat. He glanced at Carter with a look that was equal parts apology and necessity, and answered before the second ring could finish.
“Hi Grams…” Miles said quietly, then he stepped out into the hallway, pulling the curtain partway closed behind him as he left the room to explain what had happened.