The camera turns on crooked—like it got bumped in a hurry—and for a second it’s all cheekbone and eye, Ryan too close to the lens.
He pulls it back with a soft laugh like he caught himself.
“Alright. Okay. We’re live. We’re alive. We’re—” he looks past the camera, squinting at the chaos behind him, “—we’re definitely not pretending this is gonna be a quiet day.”
He pivots the phone and the concourse comes into view like a holiday rush got dropped inside an arena. Volunteers in bright shirts moving crates. Long folding tables stacked with toys still in plastic wrap. Bright boxes everywhere—action figures, dolls, little remote control cars, a few plush animals so big they look like they could have their own zip code. Kids with wristbands already on, holding them up like trophies. Parents moving carefully, like they don’t want to break the moment by stepping too loud.
“Toys for Tots day,” Ryan says, and he doesn’t say it like an announcement. It’s just what it is. “Which means… if you came here expecting a normal load-in? You came to the wrong show.”
He swings back to himself, grin easy, eyes bright.
“And before anybody asks—yes, I am wearing my Santa hat. Yes, it’s on purpose. No, I’m not taking it off. If you don’t like it, go tell Santa. I’m sure he’ll handle it.”
He takes two steps and somebody calls his name from off-camera.
“RYAN!”
He leans toward the sound automatically, like his body already knows how to meet people where they are.
“What’s up?”
A kid comes into frame with a toy clutched to their chest. Ryan drops into a crouch, camera tilted slightly down, the angle suddenly less “wrestling promo” and more “older cousin filming your day.”
“You got one already?” Ryan asks.
The kid nods hard.
“Okay, okay—hold it up like you just won a title,” Ryan says, coaching with a seriousness he absolutely doesn’t mean. “No, like this—yes. Yes! That’s the entrance pose. Perfect. That’s your entrance pose. You nailed it.”
A parent laughs somewhere behind the kid and Ryan’s grin widens.
“Alright, we’re starting strong. First minute of the day, we’ve already got champions.”
He stands, the camera catching the tables again, the piles of toys turning into a colorful wall.
“Look,” he says, walking slow down the line, “this is my favorite kind of day. Everybody’s got their guard down just enough to remember why they love this stuff. No pretending. No ‘too cool.’ Just… a bunch of kids having the best day they’ve had in a while.”
He stops at a table and picks up a boxed wrestling figure, holds it close to the camera.
“And yes, I see the irony. I know. ‘Wrestling toys at a wrestling show.’ Groundbreaking. But—” he points at the box like it’s evidence in a trial, “—this one? This one is going home with somebody who’s gonna put it through more chaos than anything we’ll do in the ring tonight.”
He sets it back down carefully like it matters.
A volunteer passes, carrying a box that looks heavier than it should be. Ryan steps out of the way without thinking, then turns the camera back on himself.
“Okay, we’re gonna do this vlog style today,” he says. “Because it’s a charity show, it’s Christmas edition, it’s the last Climax Control of the year, and the whole building is already vibrating like it drank three energy drinks and a peppermint mocha.”
He leans in like he’s sharing a secret.
“Also, I’m not gonna lie—somebody told me every match has a festive stipulation tonight. ‘Holiday mayhem.’ That’s the phrase they used. Holiday mayhem. Which sounds adorable until you remember this is SCW.”
He makes a face like he’s picturing someone getting launched into something with tinsel on it.
“So. That’s where we’re at.”
He flips the camera again and starts walking.
“Let’s go meet some people before I get dragged into something loud.”
The feed cuts.
—
The next clip comes on a little later, and the background noise is louder now—voices stacked on voices, laughter, the clatter of equipment being moved somewhere nearby. You can hear a faint test of music in the arena bowl, like someone’s checking levels and trying not to blow the speakers.
Ryan’s closer to a barricade now, Santa hat still on, hair a little messy from moving around.
“Alright,” he says, lowering his voice like he’s conspiratorial. “We are… not even an hour in. And I have already signed my name on three posters, two shoes, and—”
He looks off-camera.
“—yeah. That’s a lunchbox.”
He shrugs like it’s completely normal.
“Honestly? Respect. If you’re bold enough to hand a wrestler a lunchbox and ask for an autograph, you’re gonna be unstoppable in life. Like, that kid is gonna run a company someday.”
He shifts slightly and you catch glimpses behind him—ugly Christmas sweaters, a Santa beard that looks too real to be fake, someone in a referee shirt already arguing with a staff member about tape placement. The whole place hums with that pre-show electricity: nothing has started but everybody can feel it coming.
“This is the last Climax Control of the year,” Ryan says. Not as hype. Just fact. “You can feel it. Everybody’s a little louder. A little sharper. Like they don’t want to leave anything on the table before January hits.”
He glances toward the toy tables again.
“And yeah, I know,” he adds, softer. “It’s a charity show. It’s Christmas. Everybody’s in a good mood.”
A beat.
“That doesn’t mean it’s not serious.”
He doesn’t say it like a warning. He says it like a promise to himself.
The feed cuts again.
—
This time he’s leaning against a railing, the arena floor visible behind him. Seats are filling in. Kids already near the barricade, swinging their legs, clutching bags that definitely weren’t empty when they walked in. One of them spots Ryan and waves like they’re already friends.
Ryan waves back immediately—no hesitation, no performance. Just instinct.
“I like days like this,” he says, quieter now. “Before the lights go down. Before the music hits. When it’s just people showing up and doing the thing.”
He turns the camera slightly, letting the ring sit in the background over his shoulder. The apron is dressed for the night—Christmas colors woven into SCW branding, festive without being soft. Festive like a wrapped present that might explode.
He looks back to the lens.
“Alright,” Ryan says, nodding to himself. “Enough wandering. It’s gonna get loud soon.”
He lifts his free hand and adjusts his Santa hat like it’s armor.
“And when it does,” he adds, like it’s an afterthought, “we’ll get to work.”
The footage cuts.
—
When it comes back, it doesn’t cut so much as it settles.
The sound is different now—less scattered, more focused. The crowd’s found their seats. The wandering has turned into waiting.
Ryan’s standing off to the side of the arena floor, ring visible behind him. The camera’s steadier now. His posture is relaxed, but grounded in a way that reads like he could start moving fast the second he wants to.
“This is usually the part where people start getting in their heads,” he says, tone easy, conversational. “Last show of the year. Going Home. Everybody thinking about what comes next.”
He shrugs—small roll of the shoulders.
“I’ve never been great at living five steps ahead.”
A crew member walks past with cables. Ryan shifts without breaking his flow.
“There’s something about nights like this,” he continues. “They don’t ask you to explain yourself. They just ask if you’re ready.”
He looks at the ring like it’s an honest question.
“People think the end of the year is about wrapping things up,” Ryan says. “Closing books. Tying bows. But this?” He nods toward the ropes. “This is where you find out what actually sticks.”
The smile he’s had all day doesn’t disappear, but it tightens into focus.
“Because once the bell rings, nobody cares what kind of year you think you had,” he says. “They care about what you do when it matters.”
He turns back into the lens and holds eye contact longer this time.
“This is a Going Home show,” Ryan says. “Which means everybody’s carrying something in here tonight. Momentum. Pressure. Nerves—whether they admit it or not.”
A pause.
“I don’t carry much.”
He says it plain. Not a flex. Not a confession.
“I show up. I listen. I move.”
He lets the quiet sit, then he adds the thing that actually matters, the thing everybody’s here for.
“And tonight, I’m in the ring with the Roulette Champion.”
He doesn’t rush the name. He doesn’t over-sell it.
“Vincent Lyons Jr.”
There. Clean. Direct.
“Champion for a reason,” Ryan continues. “Momentum behind him. Confidence that comes from things going his way.”
He nods once, accepting reality.
“I respect that.”
Another pause.
“But respect doesn’t mean distance.”
He shifts his gaze back toward the ring again, eyes tracking the ropes like he’s already measuring space.
“This is a non-title match,” he says. “Mid-card. One of a lot of matches on a night built to be loud and unpredictable.”
He doesn’t sound defensive about “mid-card.” If anything, he sounds comfortable.
“Some people hear that and think it means less,” Ryan says. “I hear it and think it means freedom.”
He gestures with one hand, palm open.
“No safety net. No reason to hold back. No reason to protect anything except yourself.”
He exhales slowly.
“Sharing a ring with a champion doesn’t feel heavy to me,” he says. “It feels normal.”
He looks back at the camera just long enough to land the next line.
“This isn’t about chasing something. It’s about standing where I already am.”
And then the tone shifts—not darker, not serious in mood, but sharper in intent.
“People love talking about fate in this business,” Ryan says, almost casually. “Who was supposed to be where. Who was always meant for this spot.”
A corner of his mouth lifts.
“By that logic,” he continues, “I should still be back in Vegas. Neon lights. Late nights. Hitting the pole because it paid the bills and made sense on paper.”
He doesn’t sound ashamed. He doesn’t sound proud. It’s just a fact.
“That was a version of my life,” Ryan says. “Not a prophecy.”
He takes a small step closer to the ring, like the words pulled him forward.
“Fate didn’t put me here,” he says. “Showing up did.”
Another step.
“Trying something new did.”
Another.
“Staying when it got hard did.”
He stops at the edge of the floor, the ring towering above him like a challenge that never lies.
“So when people talk about inevitability,” Ryan adds quietly, “I don’t argue with it.”
He looks up at the ropes, eyes clear.
“I just keep proving it wrong.”
He turns the camera slightly like he’s about to end the clip—and then he stops himself, like he remembers something.
“Oh,” he says, and the playful edge comes back for a beat. “Also—before anybody asks—yes, I did try to buy those pre-tangled Christmas lights.”
He holds up a finger like he’s about to make a public service announcement.
“Because I saw the segment. I saw it. I thought, ‘That’s hilarious.’ I thought, ‘That’s a perfect bit.’ I thought, ‘I should get them. I should commit to the bit.’”
He leans in.
“So I’m on my phone, right? I’m scrolling. I’m like, ‘Pre-tangled Christmas lights, add to cart, add to cart, add to cart—’ and then my screen freezes.”
He blinks, deadpan.
“And then… I get a pop-up.”
He points at the camera like the camera is the pop-up.
“It says, ‘Congratulations! You are the one millionth visitor! Click here!’”
He pauses.
“I’m not an idiot.”
He pauses again.
“Okay, I’m not a total idiot.”
He smirks.
“I didn’t click it. But then my phone started acting like it had a demon in it. Like, suddenly my keyboard’s in a different language and Siri’s whispering threats.”
He shakes his head.
“So anyway. I’m not buying pre-tangled Christmas lights anymore. Because the last thing I need right now is a virus that steals my banking info and my dignity.”
He points to the Santa hat.
“I still have my dignity. I’m wearing this because I chose to.”
A beat.
“And before anyone decides to get cute tonight—”
He glances toward the curtain.
“—I’m also here keeping Ms. Rocky Mountains safe.”
He says it like it’s obvious.
“Anthrax scared her last show wearing a Santa hat,” Ryan says, voice flattening just enough to make the point land. “Which—first of all—respectfully? That’s embarrassing for him.”
He lifts his hands a little, like he’s weighing the logic.
“Like… if your whole thing is being intimidating, maybe don’t borrow Santa’s brand identity. Santa’s got better PR than you.”
He shakes his head, smile back.
“So yeah. If he shows up again trying to play Grinch-in-a-metal-band? I’m right there.”
He points behind him at the ring.
“And I’m also done standing on the outside.”
His grin fades into focus again.
“I’m ready to hit the ring.”
He turns the camera off.
—
Later, when the promo portion really hits, it doesn’t feel like a new segment. It feels like the same night, the same energy—just tighter now. Like the fun and the charity and the Christmas lights all exist, but the ring is still the ring.
Ryan steps up onto the apron, palms resting briefly on the edge of the canvas. No dramatic pause. No music cue. Just a moment to feel where he is.
“The ring’s funny like that,” he says. “You can talk about it all you want from the outside. You can build stories around it. But once you’re in here?”
He ducks between the ropes and straightens.
“None of that follows you.”
He rolls his shoulders loose, then paces once—testing the give of the canvas under his boots like it’s a language he speaks fluently.
“The ring doesn’t care what people decided about you,” Ryan continues. “It doesn’t care about streaks, or speeches, or the titles you carry, or what you were supposed to become. It just reacts to what you do next.”
He stops near center ring and looks straight ahead like Vincent is already standing there.
“I’m not the biggest guy in this building,” Ryan says. “I’m not the loudest. I don’t walk in here pretending I’m carved out of destiny.”
He points at the mat with the toe of his boot.
“What I am is comfortable.”
He says it like it’s the most important advantage he can have.
“Comfortable moving. Comfortable adjusting. Comfortable when things don’t go the way people expect them to.”
He exhales and looks toward the hard camera.
“That’s the part people miss,” Ryan says. “They think intensity wins fights. Sometimes it does. But intensity tightens you up. Makes you rush. Makes you protect what you think you’re owed.”
He shakes his head once.
“I don’t wrestle like that.”
He drifts toward a corner and leans against the ropes, stretching his arms over the top strand.
“When the bell rings, I don’t need to be angry,” Ryan says. “I don’t need to be afraid. I don’t need to convince myself this is the biggest moment of my life.”
A faint smile.
“I just need to move.”
He pushes off the ropes again.
“Vincent’s a champion,” Ryan says, and he doesn’t say it like he’s begging for the belt’s glow to rub off on him. He says it like a measured reality. “Champions don’t get there by accident. They learn how to protect momentum. How to keep things going their way.”
He nods once, acknowledging the truth.
“But protection creates habits,” he adds. “And habits get tested when there’s nothing on the line except the fight itself.”
He takes a step closer to the hard camera like he’s narrowing the distance between the audience and the point.
“Non-title matches are dangerous like that,” he says. “No reason to play it safe. No reason to conserve energy for later. No reason to worry about what tomorrow looks like.”
He breathes steady, voice calm.
“I expect Vincent to come in sharp,” Ryan continues. “Focused. Aggressive. I expect a champion who doesn’t want to be surprised.”
He smirks slightly, because there’s something about him that finds that idea fun.
“I’ve made a career out of being the part that doesn’t fit.”
He looks out toward the crowd—families, kids with toys, fans in holiday gear, people ready for chaos and charity and a last show of the year.
“This crowd?” Ryan says. “They’re going to feel everything tonight. The good stuff sticks. The bad stuff echoes.”
He looks back into the camera.
“I like that.”
He paces again, just one slow circle, like he’s thinking with his feet.
“Here’s what I know,” Ryan says. “Momentum is real. It’s also fragile. It isn’t a pet you walk on a leash. It’s a reaction.”
He stops.
“And reactions change when somebody finally asks a different question.”
His tone stays bright, but the point is sharp.
“Vincent’s been on a winning streak,” Ryan says. “I don’t need the exact number. I don’t need to count it out loud to make it matter. The point is: he’s gotten used to winning. He’s gotten used to the ring behaving for him.”
Ryan lifts a hand slightly.
“And I’m not saying that like it’s a flaw. If you’re the Roulette Champion, you should be used to the ring behaving for you. That’s the job.”
He drops his hand again.
“But there’s a difference between confidence you earned and confidence that’s been reinforced by repetition.”
He speaks like he’s explaining something simple, not dramatic.
“When things keep going your way, it starts to feel permanent,” Ryan says. “Like the night already knows how it’s supposed to end. That’s where people get comfortable.”
He smirks.
“I don’t get comfortable.”
He shifts his stance.
“I’ve never had the luxury of believing something was guaranteed,” Ryan says. “Not in wrestling and not before it. So certainty doesn’t scare me. It doesn’t hypnotize me. It doesn’t make me step backward like I’m supposed to make room for it.”
He points at himself, then at the ring.
“I’m here,” he says. “I chose this.”
He takes a breath.
“And that’s why I don’t talk about fate the way some people do.”
He glances up at the lights, like he’s acknowledging the word without letting it own him.
“Because fate didn’t get me out of bed early,” Ryan says. “Fate didn’t keep me in a gym when nobody was watching. Fate didn’t ask me to be uncomfortable and honest at the same time.”
He shrugs lightly, almost casual.
“If fate had its way, I would’ve stayed exactly where I was. Doing what made sense. Doing what people already understood.”
He smiles slightly.
“Vegas is good at making sense on paper.”
He lets that land with a grin that doesn’t need more explanation.
“Neon lights,” Ryan continues. “Late nights. A version of me that could’ve stayed very comfortable—very easy—very paid.”
He taps the mat once with his boot.
“But I asked different questions.”
He looks into the camera again.
“I left comfort,” Ryan says. “I left ‘makes sense.’ I left ‘guaranteed.’”
He spreads his hands a little.
“And I ended up here.”
He straightens.
“So when Vincent talks about fate—when he moves like fate is a thing he can weaponize, like inevitability is a tool he can hold in his hand—”
Ryan shakes his head.
“I don’t argue with it,” he says. “I don’t debate it. I don’t try to out-poetry it.”
He smiles.
“I just keep proving it wrong.”
He steps forward slightly.
“And tonight?” Ryan says. “Tonight is one of those nights where the ring gets to be honest.”
He gestures toward the entrance, like he’s including the whole card without naming it.
“It’s Christmas edition,” Ryan says. “Festive stipulations. Holiday chaos. Everybody acting like it’s cute until the first chair gets wrapped in tinsel and somebody realizes this isn’t a Hallmark movie.”
A beat.
“And the heart of it is charity,” he adds. “Kids in need getting VIP passes, getting toys, meeting the roster.”
He nods with real warmth.
“That part is bigger than any match,” Ryan says. “That part matters.”
He points toward the crowd again.
“And because it matters, I’m not walking into tonight half-ready,” he says. “I’m not walking into tonight playing safe because it’s a charity show.”
He smirks.
“If anything? That’s when you show up the most.”
He leans forward slightly, voice still calm.
“Vincent,” Ryan says, and now it’s direct—talking to him, not around him. “I’m not here to explain you to anyone.”
He pauses.
“I know what you are in that ring,” Ryan continues. “I know how you move when things are clean, when timing’s right, when the first shot lands and the second one comes easy.”
He nods once.
“You’re decisive,” he says. “You commit. You don’t hesitate.”
He points again, clean and simple.
“That’s why you’re a champion.”
He lets the crowd noise swell slightly and then continues without raising his voice, because he doesn’t have to.
“But here’s what nobody says out loud,” Ryan says.
He takes a step to the side, like he’s shifting the angle of the whole conversation.
“That confidence you carry? It works best when the match stays on script.”
He ticks the points off with his fingers.
“When the pace is fast,” he says. “When the pressure is obvious. When the other guy feels like he has to meet you head-on just to prove he belongs.”
He drops his hand.
“I don’t wrestle like that.”
He takes another step.
“I don’t come into matches looking to win the first thirty seconds,” Ryan says. “I come in looking to see what happens when the first plan stops working.”
He points down at the mat again.
“Because that’s where matches change.”
He lifts his gaze.
“You’re used to people reacting to you,” Ryan says. “I don’t react—”
He pauses like he’s choosing the cleanest word.
“I adjust.”
He lets that hang, then continues, voice steady and almost conversational.
“You step forward, I let you,” Ryan says. “You rush, I wait. You swing harder, I get quieter.”
He spreads his hands.
“Not because I’m trying to frustrate you,” he adds. “Because that’s where your choices start to matter.”
He glances toward the crowd.
“And I don’t say that like some spooky prophecy,” Ryan says. “I say that like a plan.”
He paces once.
“This isn’t about stealing momentum,” he says. “This isn’t about statements. This isn’t about your title.”
He stops.
“This is about what happens when a champion realizes the night isn’t behaving the way he expected it to.”
He nods once.
“Non-title matches don’t take pressure off,” Ryan says. “They move it.”
He lifts his hands slightly.
“There’s nothing to protect,” he says. “Nothing to conserve. No excuse to say you were holding something back.”
He points toward the entrance again.
“So when you step into that ring with me, understand this,” Ryan says.
He leans forward, eyes locked.
“I’m not trying to beat you at what you do best,” he says. “I’m trying to see how you move when you have to do something else.”
He pauses and then adds the part that makes the whole thing personal without making it heavy.
“When the crowd gets louder,” Ryan says. “When the rhythm changes. When the space opens instead of closing.”
He nods.
“Because that’s where the real fight is.”
He steps back, shoulders loose, breathing even.
“And if you’re everything people say you are,” Ryan says—faint smile returning, almost playful—“then you won’t need certainty.”
He taps his chest once.
“You’ll be comfortable without it.”
He lets that sit.
“And if you’re not?” Ryan adds, same tone, same calm. “Then tonight gets real uncomfortable.”
He turns slightly like he’s picturing Vincent standing across from him, belt gleaming, posture tight with that champion confidence.
“And I’m not saying that like a threat,” Ryan says. “I’m saying that like a fact. Like gravity.”
He smiles again, because he can’t help it.
“Look,” he says, “I know what tonight looks like on paper. ‘Non-title showdown with Supercard implications.’ ‘Momentum and message-sending.’”
He does air quotes with just enough sarcasm to make it funny.
“That stuff is cute,” Ryan says. “It’s also true.”
He points toward the camera.
“Because you’re walking into Inception VIII with gold,” Ryan says. “You’ve got a title defense coming. You want to walk into that night feeling untouchable.”
He nods.
“I get it,” he says. “I would want that too.”
He pauses, then his smile turns a little sharper—not mean, just honest.
“But I’m not here to help you feel untouchable.”
A beat.
“I’m here to touch you.”
He lets that land without raising his voice, without swaggering around it.
“I’m here to make you work,” Ryan continues. “I’m here to make you feel time. I’m here to make you breathe harder than you wanted to.”
He shrugs lightly.
“I’m here to make you realize the Going Home show doesn’t belong to the champion by default.”
He points at the ring again.
“Because here’s the truth,” Ryan says. “Non-title doesn’t mean low stakes.”
He shakes his head once.
“Non-title means you can’t hide behind the stakes.”
He takes a breath.
“And I’m not hiding behind anything either.”
He drifts toward the ropes again, one hand resting there as he looks out over the arena like he’s taking the whole night in—charity, Christmas, chaos, the smell of popcorn and cheap beer and anticipation.
“It’s the final Climax Control of the year,” Ryan says. “Christmas chaos. Charity night. A champion standing across from me.”
He glances down at his Santa hat like it’s part of the bit and part of the point.
“And me,” he adds, “looking like Santa’s most athletic nephew.”
He smirks.
“When that bell rings,” Ryan says, tone tightening into a clean finish, “there’s no fate left to talk about.”
He turns his head slightly, eyes sharp now.
“There’s just whoever’s still standing.”
He steps through the ropes, dropping to the floor as the arena noise swells again—closer now, louder—like the show is finally about to begin.
“And if anybody wants to test Ms. Rocky Mountains tonight—” Ryan adds as he backs toward the ramp, looking straight at the lens, “I’m right here.”
He taps the side of his Santa hat like it’s a signal.
“Holiday spirit,” he says. “Holiday violence. Holiday consequences.”
A grin.
“Pick one.”
The camera lingers on the ring for one beat longer—empty, waiting—before the feed cuts.

 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.

Night hangs over the makeshift graveyard set at Knott’s Scary Farm in Buena Park. Fog rolls low across fake headstones and dirt mounds, still disturbed from the match earlier. A single open grave sits near the center — the same one Ryan Keys got knocked into. The loose pile of dirt beside it looks freshly turned, like it hasn’t decided whether it’s done with him or not.
Ryan sits on the edge of the grave, one boot hanging inside, the other settled on solid ground. His forearms rest on his knees. Dirt clings to his fingers and across his jeans. A deep bruise wraps his throat where Logan Hunter locked in that final choke.
“Was almost mine,” he says quietly.
He grabs a handful of loose dirt and lets it fall. The grains hit the bottom without a sound.
“Logan worked damn hard to keep me down there.”
Ryan shifts, rubbing the side of his neck. The skin is tender. Purple. Reminds him he didn’t imagine that ending — and reminds him there’s High Stakes XV on the horizon watching how he answers it.
Earlier, Logan blindsided him with a shovel — cracked him across the back before he even saw it coming. Ryan hadn’t even found him yet; Hunter was hiding behind a headstone, waiting. As soon as Ryan turned, WHACK — metal to spine. He dropped. Hard.
That hit gave Logan time to drag him toward this grave — ready to toss him in and finish the job. Ryan didn’t make it easy; swung his leg up and caught Logan flush between the legs just to buy a second to breathe.
Didn’t buy much.
A few minutes later, Logan caught him again. Another shovel shot. This time Ryan went all the way down — straight into the open grave.
Ryan lowers his head, remembering the moment he hit bottom and looked up at the sky framed by dirt walls. Cold. Tight. No ropes. No ring. Just him in a hole.
“Never thought I’d have to fight uphill just to breathe,”
Logan got hold of a shovel and went to work, tossing dirt down into the grave. Not enough to bury him, but enough to make things get real uncomfortable real fast. Ryan could hear the dirt hitting his chest and legs, could hear Logan grabbing more. Could feel the clock ticking.
He dug his boots into the side and started climbing. No plan. No space. Just instinct. Dirt gave way under him, but he kept scrambling, pulling himself toward the edge. Logan turned his back for a second — maybe to grab more — and Ryan dragged himself out before the grave could swallow him.
“Got out before he could finish,” he says.
 “Barely.”
Ryan stands and moves a few steps down the row of headstones. Lantern light follows him like it’s scared to be left alone.
Losing never scared him.
 Getting buried alive?
 Yeah, that’ll make you think twice — especially with High Stakes XV coming up and every eye waiting to see if he flinches.
“Some people act like that grave stuff is just a gimmick,” he says.
 He shakes his head.
 “Ain’t funny when you’re in it.”
The wind cuts across the set, moving the loose tarps and grass around his boots. Ryan stares at the ground, thinking about the rest of the match — the part after he escaped.
He came out swinging.
 Hard shots.
 Both men trading punches, kicks, whatever they could grab. There were weapons everywhere, but at some point, it all went bare-bones — just two guys trying to break each other down.
Logan landed more.
 Simple as that.
Caught Ryan, cinched his arm around Ryan’s throat, and tightened. No shovels. No graves. Just a choke that cut everything off. Ryan tried to fight it — pull, twist, anything — but there wasn’t air. No way to answer. The world just went quiet and slid out from under him.
He reaches up and brushes his fingers over the bruise again.
“He beat me,” Ryan says, steady.
 “No excuses.”
He looks back at the grave.
“Could’ve been worse.”
A small breath leaves him — part disbelief, part acceptance.
“He tried to put me under dirt… but he didn’t. Everyone talks big until they’re staring up from six feet down.”
He smirks lightly.
“You learn a lot when you’re the one trying to climb out.”
He scoops another little handful of dirt and sprinkles it onto the ground beside him.
“I got tossed in. Almost buried. Then choked out.”
 He shrugs.
 “And I’m still here.”
He stands and steps away from the grave again, taking a slow walk between the rows. The fake tombstones look real in the dark, which somehow makes it worse.
Ryan stops. Looks into the camera.
“Streak’s done. That’s fine.”
A beat.
“Streaks don’t make you. What you do after does.”
He taps his chest with two fingers.
“I didn’t stay down there.”
He keeps walking, quiet footsteps through fake grass and real dirt.
“Almost buried ain’t buried.”
He glances over his shoulder at the grave one more time.
 Just once.
“I ain’t finished.”
The lantern behind him flickers… then fades out completely.
Only the moon keeps watch as Ryan walks deeper into the dark — headed toward High Stakes XV, not hiding from it.
Later that night, Ryan ends up outside the arena lot, walking along a quiet back road that cuts through the edge of Buena Park. The graveyard set is long behind him now — replaced by streetlights and the faint hum of traffic rolling somewhere out of sight.
He’s got his gear bag slung over his shoulder. Hoodie on. Head down. The bruise along his throat catches faint orange light each time he passes under a lamp.
He spots a small park — nothing fancy. A couple benches, a broken water fountain, a few palm trees swaying. He steps off the sidewalk and heads toward the empty swings. The chains squeak when the wind hits them.
He sits on one of the swings, setting his bag down by his feet. The chains creak under his weight.
For a while, he just listens.
 The wind.
 The chains.
 Distant cars.
He presses ice from a convenience-store bottle against his neck. A small flinch. Still sore.
“You ever take a loss that sticks to you?” he asks the empty park — like someone might answer.
He shifts the bottle in his hand.
“Not because of the score… but because of what almost happened.”
His voice stays low. Like he’s trying not to wake anyone.
A light breeze kicks dirt across the concrete. Ryan watches it scatter, thinking about how fast things change — how one minute you’re breathing air and the next, you’re wondering if you’ll get another breath at all. And how the next time out — High Stakes XV — everyone will want to see if he remembers how to breathe with a belt on the line.
He leans forward, elbows on his thighs.
“When Logan got that choke on… everything felt like it just shut down. Not painful. Just… gone.”
He pauses, like expecting the feeling to return just from remembering.
“That’s the part that gets me. One second you’re fighting… the next you’re on the ground, and someone else decides when it’s over.”
A long breath leaves him, slow and steady.
He’s been choked out before. Everyone who’s wrestled long enough has. But this time felt different — maybe because it came after a shovel shot, after nearly getting buried, after the panic of scraping at dirt walls trying to climb out.
It wasn’t just a loss.
 It was a moment.
And moments follow you — especially into High Stakes.
Ryan leans back, letting the swing move a little under him. His boots drag slow across the concrete.
“Feels stupid,”
 “I didn’t get buried. I walked out. Should be grateful.”
A beat.
 He exhales through his nose — a tired laugh.
“Still feels heavy though.”
He rubs his hands together, dirt still caught under his nails no matter how many times he’s washed them. He rolls a bit of grit between his fingers, staring at it like he expects it to mean something.
Maybe it does.
He thinks about the shovel shots — the way they rattled his spine, stole his breath, blurred his vision. He thinks about the cold dirt hitting his chest, his arms, his legs. That low scrape of metal on stone as Logan went for more. And then the moment he reached up and caught the edge — when he felt his body move before his mind did.
That climb felt like instinct.
 All fight.
 No thought.
“Worth something… I think,”
He sits back slowly, letting the swing rock.
Ryan never cared about looking tough. He cared about showing up — about giving everything he had, every time. Some guys chase gold. Some chase legacy.
Ryan chases truth.
Where he stands.
 Who he is.
 What he can take.
Losing didn’t answer those questions.
 It just raised better ones — the kind that get answered under the lights at High Stakes XV.
He glances toward his bag on the ground. A piece of broken stone — pulled from the graveyard set — sticks out of the side pocket. He must’ve grabbed it without thinking.
He picks it up, turning it in his hand. It’s chipped, dirt still clinging to one edge. Nothing special. But it feels heavier than it should.
“Funny. I brought a piece of the grave with me.”
He flips it over once, then just holds onto it.
“Most people would’ve covered that hole and called it done. Me? …I keep coming back to it.”
He pushes gently off the ground, swinging a little.
His phone buzzes in his pocket — a notification. He doesn’t check it. Just pulls it out long enough to silence the screen before slipping it away again.
“Everyone’ll have something to say,” he mutters.
 “They always do.”
He’s not wrong.
 Social media loves a fall.
 But it also loves a comeback.
Ryan, though?
 He doesn’t care about either.
 He just cares about being better than yesterday — and ready when High Stakes XV calls his number.
He stands up from the swing, tossing the broken bit of stone gently from one hand to the other. Then he pockets it.
He grabs his gear bag and slings it over his shoulder. Looks out at the empty road.
“Close don’t count…” he says, more to himself than anyone.
 “…and almost buried ain’t buried.”
He nods, like that settles something inside him.
He starts walking down the sidewalk again — slow, steady steps. No rush. He’s tired, but not defeated.
Off in the distance, the theme park lights blink soft through the trees. The night smells like dust and asphalt.
Ryan adjusts the strap on his bag and keeps moving — not away from the loss, but with it.
“I’ll figure it out.”
He says it quietly, but sure.
A few days pass.
The grave dirt is gone from Ryan’s clothes, but not from his thoughts. The bruise on his throat has begun to fade, yellowing around the edges. His body’s healing faster than his pride — that part always takes longer.
Tonight he’s in a small gym a few miles outside Vegas — the kind of place only locals know about. No neon signs. No fancy rings. Just a square of canvas, a few battered mats, and a weight rack that’s seen better decades. The air smells like chalk and old sweat — a real gym.
Ryan’s here late, long after most people have gone home. He’s alone under flickering lights, hand-wrapping slow and methodical like he doesn’t trust his own pace yet.
The graveyard night taught him patience.
 High Stakes XV will ask if he learned it.
He finishes wrapping and climbs through the ropes. The canvas creaks under his boots. He paces, shaking out his arms, rolling his shoulders.
Haunted nights make honest workouts.
 Big nights test them.
He starts throwing slow strikes — just feeling his body respond. Jab. Cross. Step. Hook. His rhythm returns piece by piece, quiet and sharp. Every couple minutes he stops to stretch out his neck, feeling the ghost of Logan’s choke in the muscle.
He exhales short through his nose.
“Still here,” he mutters.
It’s half a reminder, half a promise — the kind you cash in at High Stakes.
Ryan moves around the ring again, shadowboxing. His strikes are clean but thoughtful — not wild, just controlled. The kind of movement from someone who’s replayed a match a hundred times in their head and wants to fix every inch of it.
Between combinations, he stops — hands on his hips.
There’s another thought sitting in the corner of the ring with him. One that’s been lingering ever since he left the set at Knott’s Scary Farm.
Miles Kasey.
 The Internet Champion.
The man who threw out an open challenge.
Most people heard it as a celebration.
 Ryan heard it as an invitation — and a signpost pointing straight at High Stakes XV.
He drags a stool into the center of the ring and sits, elbows resting loosely on his knees.
“Open challenge,” he says quietly.
 “That’s how you find trouble.”
A faint, dry smile crosses his face — just enough to show he appreciates the irony.
Ryan adjusts the tape at his wrist.
“Miles Kasey…”
He says the name steady.
 Not mocking. Not reverent.
 Just aware.
“Champion. Workhorse. The kinda guy who doesn’t mind fighting anyone in any building at any time.”
He nods once, respectful.
“Gotta respect that.”
He shifts the stool back and puts his feet firmly on the mat.
“But open doors mean anyone can walk through.”
He sits in that truth for a beat.
“And right now? That’s me.”
He rises and starts to jog in place lightly — warming back up.
Miles is a different fight.
 Different stakes.
 No dirt mounds.
 No graves.
 No weird gimmicks waiting to swallow him whole.
Just wrestling.
 Straight up.
 Champion vs challenger.
 High Stakes XV waiting to put the exclamation point on whichever one speaks louder.
Ryan knows some people see him as the wildcard — the guy who shows up smiling, carefree, maybe not serious. The life-of-the-party type who laughs first and hits second.
They don’t know that the mask comes off when the bell rings.
 They don’t know the switch flips.
 They don’t know how fast the playfulness goes quiet.
The ring gets the real Ryan — not the grin.
He steps forward, grips the top rope, and leans into it. The tension rolls through his arms and shoulders.
“People think I’m unpredictable,” he says.
 “Good.”
He pushes off the ropes.
“Makes it harder to study me.”
He starts pacing side to side in the ring, his boots soft on the canvas.
“Miles prides himself on being a workhorse. Someone who shows up every time.”
He nods again, acknowledging that truth.
“That’s not a weakness.”
He shrugs.
“But it does mean he’ll try to muscle through things instead of dancing around them.”
Ryan rolls his shoulders again, thinking.
“Workhorses forget one thing…”
He looks into the camera.
“…there’s always someone hungrier.”
He hops out of the ring and walks across the worn gym floor toward the heavy bags. One hangs crooked, chain rattling every time the wind sneaks through the door.
He steadies it with one hand, then throws a clean right hook — not hard, just deliberate. The bag swings wide.
Ryan watches it move.
“I’m not coming for Miles because I hate him.”
Another hook.
 The bag shudders.
“I’m coming because he said ‘anyone.’”
A sharp jab.
 The bag snaps back.
“Because I’ve got nothing to lose…”
A short exhale.
 Left hook.
“…and he’s got everything to give up.”
He grabs the chain to stop the bag, holding it still.
“A champion should know—”
He pauses.
“—that momentum doesn’t care about belts.”
He lets the bag go.
“You can be on top one night and clawing your way out of a hole the next.”
He wipes his forearm across his forehead, pushing sweat back into his hair.
“Ask me how I know.”
Not bitter.
 Just honest.
He walks toward a low bench and sits, leaning back against the cool wall behind him.
“People are lookin’ at me right now thinking I’m coming in wounded. Shaken. Unsure.”
He points a thumb to his chest.
“Nah.”
He shakes his head slowly.
“Losing doesn’t make me afraid.”
His foot taps the floor, steady and rhythmic.
“It makes me dangerous.”
His eyes sharpen.
“Because I already know how it feels to hit bottom.”
A slow breath.
“And I know I can get back up.”
He stands again, this time calmer.
There’s something different in his posture — same casual looseness, but with a current underneath. Confidence. Readiness. The kind of current a man brings to High Stakes XV when he means it.
“Miles is a good champ.”
 “He works hard. Shows up. Defends his gold.”
Ryan nods.
 Respect given.
“But I’m the wrong guy to be standing across from when you’re feeling generous.”
He pulls his hoodie from the ring post, slinging it over his shoulder.
“An open challenge is bait.”
 “And I’m the fool crazy enough to bite and smart enough to swallow.”
He chuckles low, shaking his head.
“You’re the champion, Miles.”
 “You should know better.”
His face settles into something quieter.
 Not smug.
 Not angry.
 Just sure.
“I don’t need momentum.”
 “I don’t need a streak.”
He taps his chest.
“I just need one night.”
Ryan reaches down, grabbing his bag, and heads toward the exit. The metal door squeals as he pushes through. Outside, neon glow from a liquor store sign paints the sidewalk pink and red.
He stops under the light, hands at his sides.
“I’m walking in with nothing to lose…”
He lifts his chin, bruise visible again, but he doesn’t hide it.
“…and walking out with the Internet Championship.”
A faint breeze drags through the quiet Vegas street.
 Ryan doesn’t move.
“You offered the fight, Kasey.”
 “Now you’re getting it.”
He turns and walks away — slow steps disappearing into the night.
Blackout.
Press week.
Vegas glows from every direction — neon signs, casino fronts, headlights stacked in glittering lines. The city feels loud even when it’s quiet. Like everyone’s awake, thinking about their next big play.
Ryan Keys steps out of a hotel loading dock, hoodie pulled up against the breeze. His gear bag hangs from his shoulder. He carries a to-go cup of coffee he definitely doesn’t like — but he needs something warm in his hands.
He crosses the street toward the venue hosting the press walk-through. The PPV banners are already hung outside — huge vinyl sheets stretching across the entrance. One shows the Internet Championship. Another shows Miles Kasey, grinning, holding the belt over his shoulder.
Ryan stops in front of it.
The guy looks proud.
 Earned.
 Solid.
Ryan respects that.
He adjusts his hood and keeps walking until he’s inside, where a media setup is staged: lights, backdrops, promotion posters, a table with water bottles and cheap chairs lined up for interviews.
A few local reporters hang around, chatting, waiting.
Ryan steps into frame, hands in his pockets, posture easy. No bravado. No hype. Just here.
A staffer gestures to the camera crew.
“This’ll be quick,” she says. “B-roll, short statements.”
Ryan nods — fine by him.
He positions himself in front of a backdrop showing the Internet Championship belt and HIGH STAKES XV stamped loud across the corner.
He huffs quietly.
“Guess we’ll see,” he says under his breath.
The camera light clicks on.
Ryan stands steady — relaxed shoulders, clear eyes. The bruise on his neck has faded but still shows under the collar.
He looks straight at the lens.
“Miles Kasey.”
Clean. Direct.
“You threw out an open challenge… and I stepped forward.”
He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t need to.
“That wasn’t courage.”
 A short nod.
 “That was instinct.”
He shifts his weight, thumb hooked in his pocket.
“You’re a workhorse. Everybody knows it. You show up, you grind, you defend, you smile through it. I respect the hell out of that.”
He taps his chest once.
“But I’m not here to praise you.”
He lets that sit.
“I’m here to take your belt.”
Nothing fancy. Just fact.
He walks a few slow steps to the side, pacing into his words.
“Some matches are about bad blood.”
 “Some are about revenge.”
He stops, glancing back toward the poster.
“This one’s about opportunity… and High Stakes XV is where I turn it into history.”
His fingers drum his thigh lightly — not nerves, just energy.
“I’m not walking into this with arrogance.”
 “I know who you are. I know what you’ve done.”
 “But I also know what I can take.”
He raises his chin slightly.
“The thing about open challenges?”
 A faint smile.
 “You don’t get to pick who answers.”
He shrugs.
“And sometimes the wrong guy steps forward.”
He walks toward the entrance tunnel — the one that leads to the arena floor. The event isn’t happening yet, but the space looks ready: barricades set, ring poles waiting to be raised, cables coiled on the ground.
Ryan steps onto the bare concrete floor, imagining the crowd in place. The noise. The pressure.
He closes his eyes for a moment, letting the feeling take shape.
When he opens them, he’s steady.
“When that bell rings… I’m not showing up as a guest.”
He looks directly at the camera.
“I’m showing up like it’s already mine.”
He drops down to sit on the edge of the ramp. Legs dangling. Hands hanging loose between his knees.
The lighting here is softer, splashing gold over his shoulders.
“People want to talk about momentum. About records. About favorites.”
A quiet scoff.
“Don’t care.”
He shakes his head once.
“That stuff only matters if you’re afraid of losing.”
He lifts his wrist, studying the hand tape he hasn’t bothered to take off since the gym.
“I’m not afraid.”
His jaw shifts slightly — not nerves, just grounding.
“When the ring’s all you’ve got, every night feels like a title fight.”
He stands, brushing dust from his palms.
“But this one actually is.”
 “Internet Championship. You shine that thing up, make it look real pretty for pictures…”
His eyes narrow a touch — focus, not malice.
“…but belts only look right when they’re earned in the middle of the storm.”
He steps down from the ramp, walking the aisle where fans will soon roar.
“You’ve earned your moments, Miles.”
 “Now I’m here for mine — at High Stakes XV.”
He stops mid-aisle, turning back toward the camera.
“I don’t dance around the point…”
 “…I’m walking into the PPV to take your title.”
A beat.
“I don’t care how many defenses you’ve got.”
 “I don’t care how many people believe in you.”
He points to his chest.
“I believe in me.”
He lets that rest.
“Open challenges…”
 He chuckles.
 “…they only feel good until someone actually answers back.”
He starts heading toward the exit again, pace slow but confident.
“You gave me an inch, champ.”
 “Now I’m taking the whole mile.”
He pushes through the hallway, past crates and rolled-up banners. At the end of the corridor is a framed poster of the PPV card — Miles front and center with the belt; Ryan listed across from him.
Ryan stops.
 Studies it.
The Internet Championship gleams under the printed lights.
 Right now it’s just a picture.
“Won’t be soon.”
He reaches back and kills the hallway light.
 The poster goes dark.
Fade.
Ryan doesn’t wander Vegas. He narrows it. From the media floor he heads straight to the venue’s service entrance, flashing his laminate and slipping through a quiet corridor where forklifts sleep and cables coil like black snakes. A night-shift crew is taping lines on concrete. Someone’s testing a spotlight. The arena isn’t dressed yet, but it’s breathing — a beast rolling over, almost awake.
He takes the long route on purpose. Hallway turns, utility doors, the smell of paint and dust. He wants to see it raw. Wants to feel where PPV night will happen before anyone stacks it high with noise. The ring isn’t up yet, just four posts lying on the floor beside bundled ropes, the canvas folded like a flag.
He sets his bag down and kneels by the stacked turnbuckles. The leather smells like salt and old adrenaline. He palms one of the pads, presses his thumb into it, then sets it back exactly how he found it. Small rituals matter. They’re not superstitions; they’re anchors. Things you can touch when everything else turns to air.
He stands in the center of the concrete where the canvas will live and draws a square in the air with his hands — four sides, four corners. He steps through his invisible ropes and bounces once, twice, just enough to tell his legs: remember. His shoulders loosen. His face tips up into the dark.
“You called for anyone,” he says, voice steady.
 “You got me.”
He paces the short way, turns, paces back. Measured. Deliberate. He isn’t rehearsing lines. He’s setting rhythm. The same rhythm he’ll bring when the bell rings.
“I heard your reputation before I ever heard your voice. Workhorse. Grinder. No days off.”
 A small nod. Respect given, not surrendered.
 “That’s a strong way to live. Stronger way to defend.”
He points to the floor.
“But on event night, this isn’t your pace. It’s ours.”
He angles his head, listening to quiet air like it’s an opponent trying to circle behind him. He answers it with footwork. Slide. Plant. Turn. His body speaks: I’m here to cut your lane, not follow your route.
“People think I’m chaos,” he says, almost amused.
 “They see the grin and figure I’m a coin flip.”
 His jaw sets.
 “I’m a metronome with a fuse on it.”
He stops where the center will be and spreads his fingers like he can feel the mat underneath. He can. He’s felt it everywhere he’s been — warehouse shows, county fairs, rec centers with bad lights and better crowds. Places where thirty people can sound like three thousand if you let them.
“I don’t need the perfect stage,” he says.
 “I build one when I wrestle.”
Down the tunnel, a cart rattles past. Someone calls to someone else and then the building goes quiet again. Ryan breathes in and finds that small vertical fire inside his ribs — the one that doesn’t always burn hot but never goes out. Not anger. Not ego. Purpose.
“You’re the champion because you kept showing up,” he says.
 “When the bell rings, I show you what that looks like standing across from you.”
He walks the imaginary ropes and leans into an invisible corner, hands on nothing, head bowed like he’s listening for a count. He hears his pulse. Hears the shape of his breath. Hears the echo of a crowd that isn’t here yet and the crack of the first lock-up that hasn’t happened. In the quiet, he smiles.
“I don’t need momentum,” he says — softer, then sharper.
 “I need a moment.”
He straightens and points to the floor again, to the exact patch of concrete where the referee will kneel, where shoulders are checked and calls are made and cameras find answers.
“Right here.”
He steps out of his drawn ring and grabs his bag. The nylon rasp sounds loud in the empty space. On his way to the tunnel, he passes the rolled canvas and stops. He brushes the top layer with the back of his knuckles like you’d touch the hood of a car you’re about to drive too fast.
“You and me on PPV night,” he tells the cloth.
 Half joke. Half oath.
In the corridor, he finds a taped “X” on the ground where cameras mark promos. He stands on it for a heartbeat, then steps off. He doesn’t need the spot to find his frame. He carries it with him.
At the service door, cool night crawls in around his ankles. Vegas murmurs outside — a living thing. He looks back at the dark interior, at the skeleton of the ring, at the space that will turn into a thunderhead.
“Miles,” he says, like he’s already addressing the man standing ten feet away, belt on his shoulder.
 “You know how to endure. I know how to ignite.”
He lifts the bag and sets it on his shoulder. His stance squares up without thinking, hips and feet aligned like the bell just rang.
“You wanted anyone.”
 A breath.
 “You got the wrong one.”
He steps into the night, pace picking up, not jogging but hunting speed. The fired-up edge you see in a competitor who’s done negotiating with doubt. You don’t hear fury when he speaks next; you hear certainty sharpening into impact.
“I’m walking in hot,” he says, eyes forward.
 “And I’m walking out with yours.”
The door swings shut behind him, the arena swallowing its quiet. Out on the loading dock, the desert wind lifts and turns, pushing heat into his face like a dare. He doesn’t blink. He keeps moving. The wait is a small word. The fight is a big one.
He answers both with the same promise.
“Bell to bell, champ.”
 “Feel me.”

The Anaheim night hums with an odd kind of electricity. Inside the Convention Center, workers are tightening ropes, testing microphones, and taping down cables, but out here? Out here it feels like another show entirely. The carnival sprawled outside is a different kind of stage. Only it’s not a stage bursting with energy anymore. This is the last call of a long day. The smell of fried dough and buttered popcorn hangs in the cool air, sticky-sweet and faintly burnt. Crumpled tickets scatter across the ground like confetti from a party nobody bothered to clean up. Lights overhead buzz, some flickering, some already dark, giving the midway that haunted glow of a dream that won’t quite end. 

And walking down the middle of it all, casual as anything, is Ryan Keys. Not in sequins, not in ring gear. Just a plain hoodie unzipped over a white T-shirt, jeans faded at the knees, sneakers unlaced. He strolls like this is his runway, like the empty midway was set up for him alone. His grin stretches wide, and his head swivels left and right as if every booth is still open and begging for his dollar. 

Ryan Keys: “Now this… this feels right. Anaheim. Climax Control. A carnival sittin’ right outside the Convention Center? Come on. You can’t write it better. Lights flashin’, rides creakin’, chaos around every corner. And tonight? Roulette decides it all. You spin the wheel, and your whole night changes. That’s my kind of party.” 

His sneakers crunch across the gravel as he wanders closer to a dart booth. Half the balloons sag, half are gone. The worker behind the counter is already boxing up the last of the cheap prizes. But a dart lies on the counter like an invitation. Ryan picks it up, twirls it in his fingers like he’s holding a microphone, and lets it fly. The dart misses by a mile, bounces off the plywood, and clatters to the ground. 

Ryan doesn’t blink. He reaches over, grabs a stuffed rabbit from a box, and holds it up like he’s just claimed gold. 

Ryan Keys: “See that? Didn’t hit a damn thing. Still walked away with the prize. That’s me in a nutshell. Never been perfect. My aim? Usually off. My timing? Always late. But when I connect? When I hit? It’s the shot that counts. That’s Roulette in one sentence. You don’t need every spin to land. You just need the one that matters.” 

He tosses the rabbit over his shoulder and keeps walking. Up ahead, a painted clown cutout leans against a booth, its paint cracked and peeling. One eye is half gone. Its mouth stretches in a grin that feels too wide, too human. Ryan slows his pace, side-eyes it, and mutters. 

Ryan Keys: “…Man, I don’t trust clowns. Never did. Always grinnin’, always waitin’, always lookin’ at you like they know somethin’ you don’t. Bet one’s lurkin’ out here right now, ready to pop out when I least expect it.” 

He glances behind him, scanning the empty midway. Only the squeak of the Ferris wheel answers. He shakes his head, laughs nervously, and keeps moving. 

Ryan Keys: “Look, I already beat one, right? Stared it down, walked out standin’. Doesn’t mean I’m relaxin’. That paranoia don’t go away. I’ll probably be watchin’ over my shoulder for the next decade. But if I can handle that? Brandon Hendrix? Roulette? That’s nothing.” 

Ryan digs a coin from his pocket as he nears the Ferris wheel. The lights blink unevenly, half gone, the other half buzzing weakly. He flips the coin, catches it, taps it against the railing. 

Ryan Keys: “Brandon Hendrix. Big man. Six-five. Two-sixty-five. Built like a tank. People see you comin’ and they expect wreckage. And you bring it. Respect where it’s due. But you wanna know the thing about tanks? They only go straight. They don’t spin. They don’t swerve. They don’t play games. And this? This isn’t about goin’ straight. This is about Roulette. This is about chaos. And chaos is where I live.” 

The midway narrows. A ring toss booth waits on the corner. The bottles are stacked, but most have been packed away. A single plastic ring lies forgotten on the counter. Ryan picks it up, flicks it sidearm, and watches it bounce off the table and fall short. He throws his head back and laughs. 

Ryan Keys: “See that? Missed by a mile. Still feels like a win. That’s the secret. I don’t need every throw to land. I don’t need to look perfect. I just need the one that changes everything. And that’s how Roulette works. Chaos don’t ask you to be perfect. It just asks if you’re ready to spin.” 

Ryan walks toward the carousel. Its horses are frozen mid-gallop, chipped paint smiles pointed into the dark. He swings a leg over one, straddling it like he owns the ride, arms folded across the pole. 

Ryan Keys: “People look at me and see the party guy. The Life of the Party. They think I’m just out here jokin’, smilin’, dancin’. But you don’t last ten years in this business if that’s all you are. You gotta have more. And me? I got more. Chaos don’t scare me. It never did. I don’t run from it. I live in it.” 

He leans forward on the carousel horse, rocking back and forth, eyes fixed down the midway where the clown cutout still sits. 

Ryan Keys: “Still don’t trust ‘em.”

Ryan Keys: “Brandon, you’re serious. You’re the kinda guy who locks in, who doesn’t blink, who doesn’t joke. And that’s respectable. But me? I’m built for the spin. People look at Roulette like it’s unfair, like it’s a disadvantage. Me? I see it as the great equalizer. Doesn’t matter how big you are, how tough you are, how scary you look. The wheel don’t care. It just spins. And when it lands, it favors the one who’s ready for anything. That’s me.” 

He wanders past a popcorn cart. The butter smell clings to the air. A few kernels are left on the counter. Ryan plucks one, pops it in his mouth, chews. 

Ryan Keys: “Let’s play it out. The wheel lands on a Ladder Match. That’s perfect. I’ll climb, I’ll dive, I’ll swing like a kid on the monkey bars. You can throw me down, sure, but I’ll get up, climb again, and if I fall? I’ll probably laugh on the way down. Because it ain’t about how many times you get knocked off. It’s about who’s smilin’ when they’re still standin’ at the top.” 

He slaps a ladder propped against a nearby ride, nodding like it’s a sign from above. 

Ryan Keys: “Street Fight? Even better. No boundaries, no limits. That’s just a party moved to the floor. I’ll throw knees, elbows, spin kicks, whatever gets the crowd off their feet. You might think the size advantage saves you, but chaos don’t care about size. It cares about surprise. And surprise? That’s my specialty.” 

Ryan swings by a shooting gallery booth, grips one of the chained plastic rifles, and fires at nothing. The hollow click echoes in the silence. 

Ryan Keys: “No DQ? Please. I’m from Vegas. You ever seen a Vegas party at three in the morning? Bottles flyin’, chairs breakin’, people laughin’ about it after. You think a chair shot’s gonna throw me off? Nah. It just feels like home.” 

He sets the rifle back down gently, smirking. His sneakers scuff across the gravel. 

Ryan Keys: “Submission Match? Fine. Not my favorite, but I’ll find a way. I’ve been locked up before, twisted in knots, and I’ve always found a way out. You think you’re lockin’ me down? I’ll slip right out. And if I gotta choke somebody out? Well, guess the Life of the Party just found a new closing act.” 

The midway is darker now. One row of lights fizzles out. The clown cutout is closer again, its shadow long under the last bulb. Ryan stares for a long beat, mutters under his breath. 

Ryan Keys: “Still don’t trust ‘em.” 

His tone softens as he reaches the Ferris wheel again. Half the lights are gone. Workers are finishing up. Ryan pulls his phone from his pocket, glances at it, and his eyebrows jump. 

Ryan Keys: “…Wait. Call time already passed? Man, I thought I had another hour.” 

He pockets the phone, still laughing as he strolls toward the Convention Center doors, shoulders bouncing with each step like a man who’s never once panicked about being late in his life. 

Ryan Keys: “Guess I’m late again. Story of my life. But hey — better late than lucky, right?” 

Behind him, the carnival goes dark one booth at a time, each bulb flickering out until only the Ferris wheel remains. It spins slow, groaning in the night, casting shadows across the lot. Ryan doesn’t look back. He keeps walking, hoodie bouncing against his shoulders, grin still on his face.