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Climax Control Roleplays / Better Options
« on: July 17, 2026, 08:15:26 PM »
Las Vegas, Nevada -
EōS Fitness


The gym was quieter than Ciarán preferred, though that was partly his own fault for waiting until most normal people had finished their workouts and gone home. Only a handful remained, scattered around the room with headphones on, lifting weights or walking nowhere on treadmills beneath a row of televisions. Still, it gave him the relative peace he usually craved that came with being left to his own personal demons.

Ciarán sat on the end of a flat bench, elbows resting against his thighs while he waited for the burning in his shoulders to settle. Sweat had soaked through the front of his grey training shirt, his red curls were damp around the edges, and the towel hanging around his neck had stopped being useful several sets ago.

He had gone too heavy again. That was becoming a habit, but he had a list of excuses at the ready, just in case anyone felt inclined to question it. He had a match coming up. Travel had thrown off his training schedule. His conditioning needed work, and he had spent too many days making do with whatever equipment passed for a gym in his extended-stay hotel or on the road.

While his eyes flickered toward the TV screen across the Gym, his phone buzzed beside him. Ciarán glanced at it, saw the screen light up and reached for his water instead. Most messages could wait, and the people who knew him had either learned that by now or had stopped expecting much in the way of prompt communication.

The phone buzzed again before he had finished drinking.

“Persistent bastard…” He muttered, wiping the back of one hand across his mouth.

He expected something from SCW. A schedule update, travel information or someone reminding him about some obligation he had already forgotten. There was always the chance it had come from Ireland, though, and that thought got to him before he could stop it. He reached for the phone for that reason alone but the name on the screen was not one he had expected.

Mason Avery.

Ciarán stared at it for a second before looking at the message beneath it.

“Still pretending Norfolk wasn’t interesting?”

A laugh slipped out before he could stop it. He looked around the gym almost immediately, though nobody nearby had noticed and there was no good reason why it should have mattered if they had.

He leaned back slightly on the bench and read it again.

Mason had sent other messages since Norfolk. Nothing constant or demanding, which was probably why Ciarán had continued answering them. Mason had an annoying talent for appearing at exactly the right moment with something cheeky enough to earn a reply.

Ciarán’s thumb rested above the screen without opening the message. The name alone had already pulled his thoughts somewhere else.

Norfolk, Virginia -
Waterside District -
One week ago


The beer had gone warm by the time he reached the end of it.

Ciarán was still seated on the bench where Mason had left him to rejoin his friends, one arm stretched along the back while he watched the Elizabeth River. The crowd around Waterside had changed over the last hour. Most of the families had gone home, smoothly replaced by groups of adults, young and old, drifting between bars and restaurants with drinks in hand and voices that grew louder with every passing minute.

A band had started playing somewhere along the waterfront, just a weekend group working through songs most people seemed to know. A few strings of lights hung above the patio, and several couples had started dancing wherever they found enough room. The music carried enough to reach the benches without making conversation impossible. Ciarán had been listening for the better part of half an hour, though he would have struggled to name a single song if somebody asked.

He had bought a second beer after finishing his food and that had been twenty minutes ago, maybe thirty. He had stopped checking the time because the only place he had to be was back at the hotel, and there was nothing there worth rushing toward.

The bench was comfortable enough. Ironically more comfortable than the bed in his room. The beer had been cold when he bought it, and the band was better than he expected from a place where people paid too much money for drinks with fruit floating in them.

Ciarán lifted the bottle and finished the last mouthful. It was warm enough now that he almost regretted it. As he lowered it, another beer appeared in front of his face.

Ciarán jerked backward and knocked his shoulder against the bench. “Jaysus Christ!”

“Sorry!” Mason said. “Next time I come up behind you, I’ll try to talk dirty.”

Ciarán followed the arm holding the bottle upward until he found Mason standing there with a smile that was far too pleased with itself.

“Jaysus, lad!” Ciarán said. “You leave for an hour and come back feral?”

Mason’s smile widened. “You didn’t seem to mind.”

Mason held the new bottle out farther, giving it a little shake of invitation. Ciarán looked at it, then back at him before finally taking it.

“What the hell are you doin’ back here?” He asked. “Thought you had friends you had to hang with.”

“I do.”

“And they’ve already had enough of you?”

Mason laughed and sat down beside him without waiting for permission. He seemed more comfortable than he had earlier, though a little of the nervousness remained beneath it.

“They wanted to go somewhere else.” Mason said.

Ciarán glanced toward him. “And you didn’t?”

Mason looked out toward the water, dragging the moment out as though there were several possible answers and he needed to choose the right one.

“I decided I had better options.”

Ciarán turned slowly toward him. “Did you now?”

“Maybe.”

“No, no. Don’t be retreatin’ now.” Ciarán settled back against the bench, the fresh beer resting against his thigh. “You came all the way back here with a drink and a line prepared. Stand by it. Means you’ve been thinkin’ about me without proper supervision.”

Mason looked down, though not fast enough to hide the smile. “You make it difficult not to.”

There it was again. Mason could spend several minutes tripping over his own words, then come out with something like that as though he had not nearly forgotten how to speak when they first met.

Ciarán twisted the cap from the beer. “Careful, lad. You’re startin’ to sound confident.”

“I had time to recover.” Mason answered casually.

“From the accent?”

“The accent. The arms. The general attitude.”

Ciarán nodded as though Mason had listed three serious medical complaints. “It’s a lot for one man.”

Mason laughed. “Do you ever get tired of yourself?”

“Not once.” Ciarán answered somberly. “Can’t speak for no others.”

“That must be nice.”

“It’s a gift.” Ciarán said. “Comes from being Irish.”

The band changed songs, and the heavier beat earned a cheer from the people gathered near the patio. More of them had started dancing now, couples and loose groups taking up whatever open space remained between the tables.

Mason looked toward them.

Ciarán noticed immediately. “What?”

Mason asked, “You want to move closer?”

“I can hear it from here.”

“You can barely see them.”

“I’m not plannin’ to marry the drummer.”

Mason laughed, but Ciarán kept his eyes on the water.

The crowd near the band had thickened while they were talking. People squeezed around one another, bumping shoulders and lifting their drinks over their heads as they passed. Even from the bench, Ciarán could hear them shouting to be understood.

His fingers shifted around the bottle. It wasn’t the sort of crowd he wanted to be squeezed into the center of.

Mason looked at him for another moment, then leaned back again. “Fair enough. The drummer probably couldn’t handle the competition anyway.”

Ciarán glanced over. “Competition from who?”

“You, obviously.”

“I don’t play the drums.”

“I meant for attention.”

“That’s better.”

Mason left it alone after that. He did not ask again or try to drag Ciarán toward the crowd under the excuse of showing him a good time. He stayed where he was, one arm resting along the back of the bench while the music reached them in uneven waves.

“So…” Mason said after taking a drink. “Is this what you do when you’re travelling? Find a bench, judge everybody nearby and pretend you’re not having a good time?”

“What makes you think I’m pretending anything?”

“Because you’ve been sittin’ here for an hour, and you’re still smilin’ at me like Norfolk finally managed to get one thing right.”

Ciarán quipped, “Me Nan once said a stopped clock is always right twice a day.”

Mason laughed into his beer. When he lowered the bottle, his shoulder brushed against Ciarán’s. It could have been accidental. There was enough room on the bench that it probably wasn’t. The point was, neither of them moved.

Ciarán took another drink and watched the lights from the waterfront break across the river. Mason’s knee rested lightly against his now, close enough that moving away would have required almost no effort.

He left it there.

“You really staying here for work?” Mason asked.

“Aye.” Ciarán answered. “Just for the weekend.”

“And you still won’t tell me what you do?”

“I told you. I travel, I perform, and people hit me.”

“That somehow raises more questions.”

“Good. Means the conversation won’t die.”

Mason looked at him. “I don’t think that’s in danger.”

Ciarán rubbed his thumb along the edge of the beer label. He could have made a joke out of it. Usually he had one ready before anything had the chance to become too honest, but Mason had caught him half a second too early.

“You always this bold after two drinks?” Ciarán asked.

“I can leave if it’s bothering you.”

The words came lightly enough, but Mason had stopped smiling when he said them. He did not move his shoulder or his knee, though he had given Ciarán every opportunity to tell him to.

Ciarán looked at him properly. He said, “If it was botherin’ me, lad, you’d know.”

Mason held his gaze for a moment, then nodded. “Good.”

They stayed there with the river in front of them and the busier part of Waterside safely off to one side. Mason’s shoulder remained against his, and the pressure of his knee had stopped pretending to be an accident several minutes ago.

Ciarán kept drinking his beer and let it happen.</color>

Las Vegas, Nevada -
EōS Fitness


The song playing through the gym speakers changed, bringing him back to the bench beneath him and the phone still resting in his hand.

Mason’s message remained on the screen.

“Still pretending Norfolk wasn’t interesting?”

Ciarán read it once more before opening the conversation. His thumb hovered over the keyboard for a moment, then he started typing.

“I’m fairly certain Norfolk only became interesting after you came back feral.”


“I’m still feelin’ sore after gettin’ run over by that truck by the name of Cyrus Riddle. The man hit like he was tryin’ to leave tyre marks across my chest, and I’ll give him credit for that much.”

“Now I’ve got the wrestlin’ equivalent of an Amazon delivery van comin’ my way in Brandon Hendrix. And no, I’m not dignifyin’ that desperate little ‘F’n’ he wedges into his name, because that’s not intimidating, Brandon. That’s attention-seekin’ from a man terrified people might forget he’s in the room.”

“Though after Summer XXXTreme XIV, maybe bein’ forgotten should be the least of your worries. You got dumped over the side of the ship, and I’m honestly surprised the officials even bothered fishin’ you back out of the drink. I can picture them standin’ there, lookin’ over the rail and wonderin’ whether the paperwork was worth it. Then somebody must’ve remembered SCW had already paid for your return flight, so back aboard you came.”

“And now here you are, sniffin’ around Alexander Raven, hopin’ the World Heavyweight Champion might toss a crumb your way. Funny how that works, isn’t it? You take a nosedive off the side of a ship, then crawl back onto dry land and immediately start settin’ yourself up for a showdown with the top dog.”

“You’re arrangin’ the wrestlin’ equivalent of a pity party, Brandon. That’s how you operate, after all. Even when you fail spectacularly, you target the biggest name you can find because standin’ near somebody important is the easiest way to drag the spotlight back onto yourself. This time, that spotlight happens to belong to the World Heavyweight Champion. You’re hopin’ that if you bark loudly enough at Alexander Raven, people will stop rememberin’ the splash you made when you went overboard.”

“There’s one problem with that plan, though. Before you get your grand moment with the champion, you’ve got to stand across the ring from me. And we’ve done this before, haven’t we? You couldn’t beat me, so you took the easy way out and got yourself disqualified rather than face what was comin’.”

“That left a mistake in the record books. It left unfinished business where there should’ve been a clear result, and this time we’re goin’ to correct that little mistake. Because how bad is it goin’ to look when you march toward your showdown with the champion carryin’ another loss? Not just any loss, either, but a loss to the same man you couldn’t beat the first time without gettin’ yourself thrown out.”

“You can call yourself Brandon F’n Hendrix as loudly as you like. When that bell rings, all anyone’s goin’ to remember is that Ciarán Doyle finished what you were too afraid to let him finish before.”

2
Climax Control Archives / A Night of Possibilities
« on: July 10, 2026, 08:03:35 PM »
Norfolk, Virginia -
Waterside District


The sun had slowly started to sink down into the horizon and with it, the lights, music, restaurants, bars and people were moving in every direction, all of it pressed up against the Elizabeth River. The evening was warm, the sort of sticky Virginia heat that made the breeze off the river feel like a blessing as the weekend closed in and there were far more bodies than what was normal.

SCW Superstar, Ciarán Doyle stood at the edge of it for a moment, hands resting low in the pockets of his dark jeans, sunglasses pushed up into his red, curly hair. He had not planned on coming out. Or at least, that was what he had told himself repeatedly while standing in his hotel room, staring at nothing in particular and pretending he was only deciding whether or not he was hungry.

Of course he was hungry. That part was true enough. He had survived for so long in that hotel room in Vegas, eating crap from vending machines, that he was practically malnourished while trying to maintain his composure as a physical athlete.

But he was also restless. There were only so many times a man could sit on the end of a bed, scroll through his phone, check the time and tell himself he was relaxing before he had to admit he was doing no such thing. So he had thrown on a fitted black tank top, jeans and boots, and had come down to the waterfront because at least there, if he felt strange, he could blame the crowd and beat a hasty retreat back to his room.

The tank top had been a choice. It showed his shoulders and arms well enough that more than one person had looked as he passed, and there was some comfort in that. Not a deep comfort. Not anything that would fix a bad mood or settle a man’s head. But he had always understood the usefulness of looking like he meant to be seen, even when he was not sure he wanted anyone looking too closely.

The outdoor bar had a small line, but it moved quickly enough. Ciarán joined it and looked up at the menu, eyes narrowing at the number of options. Every place in America seemed determined to make food sound more complicated than it had to be. He only wanted something decent, something cold to drink, and no server with too much energy asking him whether he was having an amazing evening.

The woman behind the counter looked up as he reached her, and he knew the second she heard his voice.

“What’s actually good here?” He asked. “And don’t be tellin’ me everything is good, because that answer has never helped anyone in the history of food.”

The woman laughed, glancing at him properly now. “You want the honest answer?”

“I’d be grateful for it, yeah.”

“Get the crab cakes.” She said without hesitation. “And fries. Local beer if you want something cold.”

Ciarán gave the menu one more look, then nodded as if she had made a reasonable argument. “I’ll trust you, but if you’ve led me wrong, I’ll be devastated.”

She smiled as she put the order in, and Ciarán stepped to the side to wait, accepting the plastic number she handed over. The breeze moved through the crowd, carrying the smell of fried food, beer, river air and too much perfume and musk. Seriously, how could people afford a night out like this but seemingly unable to afford a five dollar stick of deodorant?

Somewhere nearby, a man was laughing too loudly and a family by the railing were trying to get a child to smile for a photo. A group of young women were huddled for a pose together while doing that ridiculous ‘duck lips’ for the camera.

Ciarán watched it all without really meaning to, and that was when he noticed the young man.

He was standing a few feet away, holding a drink in one hand and his phone in the other, though he had clearly forgotten about both. He was in his mid-twenties at most, maybe a little younger, with a neat fade, a short-sleeved button-up covered in tiny white anchors and a handsome face. At that moment, the thoughts were obvious enough.

It was not recognition. Ciarán knew what recognition looked like. Recognition came with squinting, whispering, a quick glance at a phone, or that sudden nervous shift when someone was trying to decide whether to approach him.

This was something else. Simpler. Funnier? Maybe. More flattering? Definitely.

The young man had heard the accent first. Then his eyes had done the rest of the work, taking in the tank top, the arms, the shoulders, and the way Ciarán stood there like he had been deeply inconvenienced by being attractive in public.

Ciarán let him suffer with it for a second before he opted to break the ice.

“All right there, lad?” He asked, turning toward him with a slight tilt of his head.

The young man blinked, then laughed in a rush. “Yeah. Sorry! I just wasn’t ready for the accent.”

Ciarán glanced down at himself, then looked back up with a wounded expression. “Just the accent, was it? Jaysus, I’ll have to try harder.”

The lad’s cheeks went red so quickly that Ciarán almost felt bad. Key word being almost.

“I mean…” The young man said, looking like he regretted beginning the sentence but was too far into it to stop. “The arms aren’t exactly hurting your case.”

Ciarán looked at his own arm as if he had forgotten it was there. “Good. I’d hate to think I brought them all the way to Virginia for nothin’.”

That got a real laugh out of him. Not the startled one from before, but something easier. Ciarán liked that better. A nervous flirt was sweet, but a brave one was more fun.

“You always talk like that?” The young man asked.

“Like what?”

“Like you know exactly what you’re doing.”

Ciarán’s mouth curved. “That’s a dangerous thing to accuse a man of.”

“Is it?”

“Well, if I admit it, I sound arrogant. If I deny it, I sound like a liar.”

“So which are you?”

“Irish.” Ciarán smirked. “We’re often both, but people tend to forgive us when we say it nicely.”

The young man laughed again and looked down at his drink, as if it might rescue him from the conversation he had willingly entered. When he looked back up, he had recovered a little, though his eyes still flicked once toward Ciarán’s arms before settling back on his face.

“I’m Mason.” He said.

“Ciarán.”

Mason repeated it carefully. “Ciarán. That’s a nice name.” Mason said.

“It was a gift from my parents.” Ciarán replied. “I’ll let them know if they’re ever lookin’ too pleased with themselves.”

Mason smiled. “You visiting?”

“For the weekend. Work, mostly.” Ciarán glanced around the waterfront. “Thought I’d come down here and see what Norfolk does when it’s not busy tryin’ to look too serious.”

Mason followed his gaze. The crowd was a mix of tourists, locals, families, couples, groups of friends, service members and people who looked as though they had come out simply because going home had felt too final.

“This is pretty much it.” Mason said. “Food, drinks, water and people pretending they came for the view.”

Ciarán looked back at him. “And did you?”

“Come for the view?”

“Aye.”

Mason gave him a quick, sideways smile. “I thought I did.”

Ciarán huffed a quiet laugh at that, amused despite himself. He could have made something sharper out of it, but he let it sit there instead. Mason had earned that much. There was a difference between flirting and begging for attention, and Mason was managing to stay on the right side of it.

The bartender set Ciarán’s beer on the counter. He thanked her, lifted the glass and took a drink. It was cold, bitter enough to be welcome, and better than he had expected from a place that clearly catered to tourists.

“Not terrible.” He said.

“That’s high praise from an Irishman.” Mason said.

“You’ve known me for three minutes.”

“I’ve learned a lot.”

“Have you now?”

“You’re hard to impress, you like being complimented more than you want people to know, and you’re pretending you came here for food when really you didn’t want to sit alone wherever you’re staying.”

Ciarán looked at him then. The shift was small, but it was there. Mason had said it lightly enough, maybe not even realizing he had touched something real. Ciarán could have laughed it off. He almost did. The answer was there on his tongue, some easy bit of smartness that would turn the moment back toward safer ground.

Instead, he took another drink.

“That’s not a bad guess.” He said after a moment.

Mason’s expression softened, but not in a way that made Ciarán feel pitied. That mattered. Pity had a taste to it, and Ciarán had never had the stomach for it.

Their food numbers were called close enough together that Mason declared it fate. Ciarán told him it was more likely a kitchen doing its job, but he did not object when Mason followed him toward a high table near the railing. Their baskets landed between them, the river dark behind Mason’s shoulder, the waterfront noise rolling on around them.

Ciarán studied the crab cakes with the appropriate amount of suspicion.

Mason watched him. “Don’t look at them like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like they offended your family.”

Ciarán pointed a fry at him. “You’re gettin’ very bold for a man who was speechless ten minutes ago.”

Mason’s smile widened. “I recovered.”

“You’re doin’ all right.”

Ciarán took a bite of the crab cake and chewed slowly, because he could feel Mason waiting for a reaction and saw no reason to give him one too quickly. It was good. Annoyingly good, actually. Warm, crisp where it needed to be, and seasoned well enough that he did not have to lie.

“Well?” Mason asked.

Ciarán looked down at the basket, then back toward the river. “Fine. Norfolk gets ten minutes of peace from me.”

They ate for a few minutes with the sort of silence that did not feel awkward. That surprised Ciarán. He was good with words when he needed to be, but silence was harder. Silence gave too much room for the mind to wander, and his mind had a habit of going places it had not been invited.

Here, though, it was different.

The crowd filled the empty spaces. The river moved beside them. Mason leaned against the table, comfortable now, neither feeling the obligation to fill the silence between them with idle chit chat. There was something easy about him that Ciarán found himself appreciating.

“You said work brought you here.” Mason said eventually. “What do you do?”

Ciarán wiped his fingers on a napkin and took his time answering.

He could have told the full truth. He could have watched for the moment Mason placed him, if he placed him at all. He knew how that went. Sometimes it was flattering. Sometimes it was tiring. Sometimes it made people change the way they looked at him before they had finished saying his name.

Tonight, he did not feel like handing over that much of himself.

“I travel.” Ciarán finally said. “I perform. I get hit more than any sensible man should, and now and then I hit back.”

Mason narrowed his eyes. “That’s either sports, theater or the worst customer service job in America. Either way, it sounds exhausting.”

“It can be.” Ciarán looked out toward the water again. “But it’s good when it’s good. There’s noise and pressure. Everyone watchin’ the same thing at the same time, waitin’ to see what happens next. Hard to explain if you’ve never stood in the middle of it.”

Mason was quiet for a moment. “You miss it when it’s quiet?”

Ciarán gave a small, humorless smile. “Sometimes I miss it when I’m still in it.”

That came out too honest. He knew it as soon as he said it. The words sat there between them, heavier than the rest, and for a second the noise around them seemed to push farther away. Ciarán looked down at his beer and wished he had made a joke instead.

Mason leaned his forearms against the table and said, “I get that. Different reasons, probably, but I get it.”

There was no reason for Ciarán to believe him, and yet he did.

Ciarán lifted his glass slightly. “To strange places bein’ better than hotel rooms, then.”

Mason tapped his cup lightly against it. “I’ll drink to that.”

They drank. The moment might have turned too serious if Mason had let it, but he leaned back after a second and gave Ciarán a look that was pure mischief.

“So…” Mason said. “Do people always react like that when you talk?”

“Like what?”

“Like they’ve just forgotten all control of their inhibitions.”

Ciarán raised an eyebrow. “Are we discussin’ other people now, or are you confessin’?”

“I already confessed.”

“You blamed the accent.”

“And the arms.”

“That’s true. You did objectify me very thoroughly.”

Mason covered his face with one hand. “I did not objectify you.”

“You did.”

“I complimented you.”

“With your eyes first.”

“That’s not fair. Your arms were there before I was ready.”

Ciarán leaned a little closer, lowering his voice just enough for the Irish in it to thicken. “Careful, Mason. Keep talkin’ like that and I’ll start thinkin’ you’re tryin’ to charm me.”

Mason dropped his hand slowly. The blush came back, but so did the smile.

“Is it working?”

Ciarán held his gaze for a moment. He could have dodged it. He could have turned it into something teasing and harmless. Instead, he let Mason have the answer, not too much of it, but enough.

“You’re doin’ grand.”

Mason’s smile softened at the edges. He was about to answer in kind when his phone buzzed on the table. He glanced down at it, ignored it, and then it buzzed again almost immediately. His mouth twisted.

“I’m supposed to meet friends.” He said. “I already ignored two texts. If I ignore a third, they’ll come looking.”

“Then you’d better go before they send a search party.” Ciarán said. “I’d hate to be blamed for ruinin’ your evening.”

Mason picked up his drink, but he did not leave right away. His eyes flicked toward the river, then back to Ciarán, and something in his expression shifted.

“You staying here awhile?”

Ciarán glanced toward the water, then he looked back at Mason.

“Depends on whether Norfolk keeps bein’ interesting.”

Mason smiled, slower this time. “It might.”

“Is that a promise, or are you defendin’ the city’s honor?”

“Maybe both.” Mason laughed, but he was watching Ciarán closely now, like he was trying to decide whether the door was open or whether it only looked that way from the outside. Ciarán did not close it, nor did he open it wider. He only stood there, one hand around his drink, expression calm enough to give nothing away.

Mason took one step backward, still smiling. “Enjoy your view.”

Ciarán’s mouth curved. “I was, actually.”

Mason’s face went red all over again, and this time Ciarán did not bother pretending he had not done it on purpose. The grin was bright and wide.

Then Mason was gone, slipping back into the crowd and the lights and the music near the water. Ciarán watched him for a moment, not long enough to be obvious. At least, that was what he told himself. He turned back toward the river before he could be caught smiling like an eejit over a conversation with a stranger.

For perhaps the first time tonight, he was glad he left the hotel. Here, there was color and noise and some pretty damn good live music. There were people making ordinary memories under city lights. There was a bartender who had given him honest advice, a crab cake that had earned its reputation, and a handsome lad in an anchor shirt who had nearly lost his mind over an Irish accent and a pair of arms.

Ciarán took another drink and let himself enjoy that.

He finished the rest of his food slowly, watching the water more than the crowd. Now and then his eyes drifted back toward the place Mason had disappeared, though he would have denied he was looking for him if anyone had asked. A man could notice a thing twice without making a confession of it.

A man could wonder whether Norfolk still had more to offer without giving the thought a name.


“At Summer XXXTreme XIV, I took the plunge. I mean that in every sense of the word, because when the Roulette Championship was on the line and Ryan Keys stood across from me, I went into that match knowin’ there was every chance I’d end up wet, sore, humbled, or all three before the night was done.”

“And that’s exactly what happened, yeah? I lost. I took my shot, I came up short, and I’ve no shame in sayin’ that because there’s no disgrace in losin’ to a grand champion like Ryan Keys. The man proved why he carries that title, and at least unlike when the champ hit the pool, I wasn’t wearin’ peek-a-boo white for the whole world to admire.”

“So if anyone expects me to stand here wounded, bitter, and complainin’ about how close I came, you’re wastin’ your time. I don’t mind startin’ over, because I’m patient, and patience is a dangerous thing when it belongs to a man who remembers every lesson a loss teaches him. You fall, you get up, you wring the water out of your pride, and then you start walkin’ back toward what you want.”

“But I’ll give the bosses credit where it’s due. They didn’t waste much time or effort wonderin’ what to do with me next, did they? They took one look at Ciarán Doyle, fresh off a Roulette title loss, and said, ‘Right, let’s see what he’s made of when we put Cyrus Riddle in front of him.’”

“And Cyrus Riddle? That’s not exactly a soft landing, is it? That’s the sort of man whose reputation walks into the room before he does, and I don’t mean you need a thousand matches and a dozen championships to know your hands are goin’ to be full with him. You can take one look at Cyrus Riddle and know that win or lose, you’re wakin’ up the next mornin’ feelin’ like your body had a private argument with a brick wall.”

“That’s not an insult, Cyrus. That’s respect. There are men in this business who look dangerous because they try very hard to look dangerous, and then there are men who look dangerous because life did half the work before they ever stepped between the ropes. You strike me as the second sort, and those are the ones a man with sense takes seriously.”

“And then there’s the company you keep, isn’t there? Any man who can claim Kat Jones and Mac Bane as family is already carryin’ a certain pedigree in this sport, whether people like it or not. That tells me plenty about where you come from, what kind of standards have been around you, and what sort of fight I should expect when that bell rings.”

“So no, Cyrus, I’m not lookin’ past you. I’m not treatin’ you like a name on a card or a convenient step after a bad night at Summer XXXTreme. I know exactly what kind of match this can become, and I know exactly what it says if I walk into Norfolk and beat a man like you.”

“Because that’s what this is for me now. I’m startin’ over with purpose, not because I’ve been thrown back to the bottom and told to behave, but because I know what I want and I know what I have to do to make people look at me again. The next time the bosses start talkin’ about contenders for the Roulette Championship or the Internet Championship, I want my name sittin’ there in the middle of the conversation where it belongs.”

“Not the World Heavyweight Championship. Not yet. I’m confident, Cyrus, but I’m not so full of myself that I think one good run and one brave swim earns me the biggest prize in the company before I’ve built the foundation properly.”

“I want the gold that matches where I am right now. I want the titles that prove I can be dangerous in chaos, that I can adapt, that I can take punishment, give it back, and keep movin’ with a smile on my face and fire in my chest. If that road begins again with Cyrus Riddle, then I suppose the bosses have given me a fine test and a terrible headache wrapped in the same package.”

“And that’s grand by me. I don’t need easy, and I don’t trust easy, because easy rarely tells the truth about a man. Cyrus, you’re goin’ to tell me the truth about where I stand, and I intend to return the favor with interest.”

“So I’ll say this plain. I respect you, I respect where you come from, and I respect the fight I believe you’re bringin’ to Norfolk. I hope you bring every bit of grit, power, pride, and family pedigree you’ve got, because I’d hate to beat a man who left any of himself behind.”

“And from the bottom of my Irish heart, Cyrus, I wish you the luck of the Irish. Of course, bein’ Irish myself, I should warn you that can mean blessin’s, bruises, bad decisions, or survivin’ somethin’ terrible by the skin of your teeth. Come Norfolk, I suppose we’ll find out which kind I’ve given you.”

3
Supercard Roleplays / LEARN A ROUTINE WITH THE STARS
« on: June 26, 2026, 08:31:12 PM »
Well, this could have started off better.

Ciarán Doyle stood outside his cabin door on the Princess Cruise ship with his gym bag over one shoulder, his suitcase leaning against his hip, with the faint but unmistakable feeling that everyone passing by him in the crowded hallway was watching him lose a private argument with modern technology.

The keycard didn’t work the first time, because of course it didn’t. He pulled the card out, looked at it as though it’d personally insulted his mother, then slid it through the reader again, resulting in another blinking red light.

“Aye, grand!” Ciarán muttered. “Good to know I’ve been rejected by a door! If this is any indication of what's to come, I better not be looking for company during this cruise!”

Somewhere down the hall, a couple of fans walked by in Summer XXXTreme XIV shirts and tried very hard not to stare. One of them failed completely and whispered his name with the same tone of reverence a person might use with anyone with any sort of celebrity standing.

Ciarán gave them a polite nod, then turned back to the lock and slid the card through a third time. The light finally flashed green.

“Third time’s the charm!” He said, relief washing over him and pushing the door open with his shoulder. “Guilt works. I'll have to remember that.”

The cabin was smaller than the photos had suggested, because photos lied for a living, but it was nice enough. For his first experience, he certainly wasn't going to complain.

There was a bed against the far wall with linen tucked tight it could have been made by military hands. There was a little desk, a television mounted to the wall, a balcony door with sunlight spilling around the curtains, and a towel animal sitting on the bed with what Ciarán could only describe as judgmental ears.

He dragged the suitcase inside with one hand and let the door shut behind him. He stood in the center of the room for a moment and listened. There was a muffled cheer from somewhere below, music thumped faintly through the walls, and outside the balcony, the ocean flashed blue and bright like something expensive.

“Well…” Ciarán said to the towel animal. “At least if anything goes wrong, we can throw ourselves dramatically into the sea.”

The towel animal offered no opinion. Ciarán closed his eyes and muttered halfheartedly, “Get it together, Doyle. Yer talkin’ to a feckin’ towel!”

Ciarán set his gym bag on the chair and started looking around the cabin. He checked the closet, opened the bathroom door, tested the balcony handle, and found that it stuck badly enough to make him wonder if the ship was encouraging him to remain indoors.

After a shove with his shoulder, the door opened, and a rush of warm sea air moved through the cabin, carrying the smell of salt, sunscreen, and the sounds of people in all directions, talking at full volume and some screeching like they were fighting to be heard above everyone else. He stepped onto the balcony and leaned his forearms on the rail.

The ocean stretched out in every direction, and he tried to take it all in at once and somehow failed to do so. He’d performed in plenty of strange places, but this was different. There was nowhere to leave if he became tired of being seen. That didn’t settle with him too well.

In fact, that thought sat with him longer than he liked.

He turned back into the cabin and noticed the envelope waiting on the desk. It was placed neatly in the center, which immediately made him suspicious. Nothing good ever came from an envelope left for you in your own private room.

His name was printed across the front in clean lettering.

CIARÁN DOYLE

That made him even more hesitant at picking it up, let alone reading it. But he soon lost the struggle against himself and he picked it up.

“If this is a bill for the balcony door, I’m fighting someone.”

He murmured as he opened the envelope and pulled out a notice on SCW letterhead. The top of the page welcomed him aboard the Summer XXXTreme XIV Cruise in language so bright and polite that he already knew there was something dangerous hiding near the bottom.

“Mr. Doyle,

Welcome to the SCW Summer XXXTreme XIV Cruise aboard the Princess Cruise ship!

On behalf of Sin City Wrestling, I hope you enjoy yourself during this traditional working vacation. This cruise is our chance to thank the SCW stars for everything they do for the fans throughout the year, while also giving everyone the opportunity to relax, unwind, and make memories away from the usual arena setting.

Please enjoy your downtime, take advantage of the ship’s amenities, and have fun with your special assignments.

Sincerely,
Evelyn Hall


Ciarán stopped reading.

He lowered the paper, looked out toward the balcony, then back at the page.

“Special assignments.” He repeated.

The words had the same energy as a smiling woman who stood dangerously outside of shopping mall perfume stores with a bottle in hand. Pleasant in theory. Dangerous in practice.

There was a second page tucked behind the first one. Ciarán pulled it free and raised his eyebrows as his eyes moved down the schedule.

Fan photo greeting? That sounds fun, actually.

Costume social appearance? Costume? What the fu-

Autograph table? Always loved doing those.

And there, highlighted in blue because Evelyn Hall apparently believed crimes should be decorated, was the one that made him stare.

“LEARN A ROUTINE WITH THE STARS

Hosted by Ciarán Doyle”

“Oh, she’s taking the piss!” Ciarán exclaimed aloud, as if anyone was in the room besides himself to overhear.

He read it again, just in case the words had rearranged themselves into something less insulting. They hadn’t.

A dance class.

Not a meet-and-greet where he could smile, sign, and slip away. Not a photo op where he could stand still and let people make bad jokes about looking short beside him. No, they’d assigned him to teach a dance class to fans and fellow SCW stars on a cruise ship, as though the sea itself hadn’t already made balance enough of a challenge!

He set the paper down on the desk and stared at it.

The worst part, and he hated this deeply, was that Evelyn Hall hadn’t been wrong. If you wanted someone to walk into a room full of strangers and make movement feel less humiliating, Ciarán Doyle was a reasonable pick. An annoying pick. A suspiciously accurate pick. But a reasonable one.

Dance had been part of his life long before wrestling had taken him by the throat and dragged him under brighter lights. Back then, movement hadn’t been about applause first. It had been about control. Learning how to stand. Learning how to enter a room. Learning how to make eyes land where he wanted them to land and not where fear told them to go.

He’d learned very young that if people were going to look, he’d better decide what they saw.

Ciarán looked back at the towel animal on the bed.

He asked, “Why did I think this cruise was going to be anything remotely close to fun?”

By the time he reached the activity lounge later that afternoon, the event was already louder than it needed to be.

The room had been cleared for the class, with chairs pushed against the walls and a speaker system set up near the front. There were fans in cruise casual clothes, a few in SCW shirts, a couple of older guests who looked like they’d wandered in by accident and decided it was too late to escape, and several wrestlers who were clearly there because someone in management hated them personally.

A woman with a clipboard stood by the sound table. She was small, blonde, cheerful, and had the hardened eyes of someone who’d scheduled activities on cruise ships long enough to fear nothing living.

She looked up when Ciarán walked in.

“Mr. Doyle!” She said brightly. “We’re so excited to have you!”

“That makes one of us…” Ciarán replied, glancing around the room, wondering if there was an escape route.

Paige smiled wider. “Evelyn said you’d say something like that.”

Ciarán gave her a look. “I’m becoming concerned by how well that woman knows me. Especially considering she never talks to me.”

Paige handed him a wireless microphone and pointed toward the open floor. “We have forty-three participants, including four SCW talent members, one birthday group, and a gentleman named Dennis who says he has two left feet but a brave heart.”

A man in a floral shirt near the back raised his hand proudly.

Ciarán looked at him. “Dennis, already I respect the honesty! We’ll see what we can do about the feet!”

Dennis gave him two thumbs up. His wife beside him looked thrilled, which told Ciarán everything he needed to know about whose idea this class had been.

Ciarán clipped on the microphone and walked to the front of the room. The chatter quieted as people turned toward him, some excited, some nervous, some already regretting every choice that led them there.

“Right then!” he called. “Who here signed up willingly?”

Several hands went up.

“And who here was dragged in by someone who claims to love you?”

More hands went up, including Dennis’s - and right before his wife pulled his hand right back down.

“There we are!” Ciarán said. “The truth is healing!”

The room laughed, and that helped. Laughter was useful. It loosened people before their bodies had to.

Ciarán looked across the group and spotted the problem areas immediately. A young woman in the front row was standing half behind her friend, arms folded tightly over herself. A broad-shouldered wrestler near the side wall stood like he was guarding a prison gate. Dennis was already bouncing in place with confidence he hadn’t yet earned.

It was going to be a long hour.

“Before we start…” Ciarán said, pacing slowly in front of them. “Nobody’s here to win anything. Nobody’s here to be judged. If you mess up, you laugh and keep moving. If the person beside you messes up, you mind your business unless they’re about to kick you in the knee.”

That got another laugh.

“Good!” He said. “That’s the sound of people realizing nobody dies from looking foolish. An important lesson! TAke it from a man who used to take his clothes off dancing. I know what foolish looks like!”

He paused beside an elderly woman and said, “It was usually the other lads.” Which sparked even more laughter from the implied mischief.

Paige started the music. It was some bright, simple pop song with enough beat for beginners and enough cheerfulness to qualify as harassment. It made Ciarán cringe from the inside out.

Ciarán listened for the count, then lifted one hand.

“Simple first. Step right. Bring it in. Step left. Bring it in. That’s all. Do not add drama yet. Some of you are already thinking about drama and I can see it in your shoulders.”

They tried and were terrible. Not hopeless, but terrible.

Half the room moved early. The other half moved late. Dennis moved with such confidence in the wrong direction that his wife had to grab his sleeve before he collided with a fan in a captain’s hat.

Ciarán stopped the music. He stood there for a second, nodding slowly.

“Alright.” He said. “We’ve discovered the problem.”

A woman near the front covered her mouth, already laughing.

“The problem is all of you.”

The whole room broke.

Ciarán pointed at them. “But that’s fine! I’ve seen worse. I’ve been worse! The difference between dancing badly and standing there apologizing with your entire body is effort. So we try again.”

He restarted the music and counted them in. This time, he moved with them, exaggerating each step so they could follow. The room did better. Not well, but better.

“See?” He said. “Progress! Very small progress, but we respect it!”

They went through it again. Then again. Step right, bring it in. Step left, bring it in. A shoulder roll was added, which caused immediate distress among people who apparently believed shoulders were meant to remain private. Ciarán corrected them gently at first, then less gently when one man began moving like a malfunctioning coat rack.

“No, no.” Ciarán said, walking over. “Your shoulder isn’t filing a complaint. Let it move.”

The man laughed and tried again.

“There!” Ciarán said. “Look at that! Nearly human!”

The class kept going. The awkwardness didn’t disappear, but it changed shape. People began laughing at themselves instead of flinching. That made all the difference in the world. Ciarán knew the difference because he’d lived in that difference for years.

Ciarán noticed the young woman in the front row was still hiding behind her friend.

He didn’t call her out. That was the mistake amateurs made. You didn’t drag someone into confidence by making the whole room watch them panic. You gave them something small enough to survive.

He moved closer during the next count and adjusted his own posture where she could see him.

“Eyes up.” He said, not directly to her but near enough that she knew. “The floor’s not going to help you unless you’ve dropped money. Usually in me waistband.”

Her friend laughed. The young woman smiled despite herself and lifted her gaze for half a second.

Ah! There it was!

Ciarán moved away before she could regret it. They added a turn next, which nearly destroyed everything.

Paige, standing by the sound table, made the mistake of laughing into her clipboard. Ciarán pointed at her.

“Don’t you laugh! You helped cause this!”

“I’m being supportive!” Paige called.

“You’re documenting casualties!”

Dennis raised his hand. “What if we get dizzy?”

“Then you stop spinning.” Ciarán answered. “This is a dance class, not a hostage situation.”

Dennis nodded thoughtfully, as though this was valuable advice.

They tried the turn again. This time only three people went the wrong direction, which Ciarán declared a miracle. The room was warmer now, both from movement and from embarrassment burning itself off. People were sweating, laughing, bumping shoulders, and grabbing water between counts. The class had become less about dancing and more about permission. Permission to look foolish. Permission to take up space. Permission to stop waiting until they were good enough to participate in their own lives.

Ciarán didn’t say all of that. He fixed shoulders instead.

“Back.” He said, tapping one fan lightly between the shoulder blades. “Don’t cave in. You’re not sneaking past the room. You’re entering it.”

The fan straightened.

“Chin up.” Ciarán told another. “Not because you’re better than anyone. Because you’re not asking anyone whether you’re allowed to be here!”

That one landed harder than he meant it to. The young woman in the front row looked at him again. Really looked this time. Ciarán pretended not to notice and turned back to the room.

“One more time from the top!” He called. “And this time, try not to dance like you’re apologizing to your ancestors!”

The final run was not clean. It would’ve gotten them booed out of any serious dance studio in the world, and possibly several unserious ones. Dennis turned late, the wrestler forgot the shoulder roll, one of the birthday women added a hair flip that nearly took out her friend, and Paige had to put the clipboard over her mouth to stop herself from laughing too loudly.

But it had actual life.

When the song ended, the class burst into applause. Some of them clapped for Ciarán, but most of them clapped because they’d made it through and were proud despite themselves. That was better.

Ciarán bowed with unnecessary flourish, because if a man couldn’t be dramatic on a cruise ship dance floor, where could he be?

“Thank you!” He said. “You were brave! Not coordinated, but brave!”

The applause turned to laughter. People began gathering their things, still talking over one another, already recreating their favorite disasters from the routine. Dennis’s wife made him pose with her for a photo, and Dennis did a hip pop so alarming that Ciarán looked away out of respect for the marriage.

The young woman from the front waited until the crowd thinned before approaching him. Her friend stood a few steps away, pretending not to listen and failing.

“Can I say something?” The young woman asked.

Ciarán turned fully toward her. “Aye.”

“I almost left before you came in.” She said. “I thought everyone would look at me.”

“People usually do.” Ciarán replied. “They’re nosy creatures.”

She laughed softly, then looked down at her shoes. “I hate that. Being looked at.”

Ciarán leaned one shoulder against the wall, giving her space but not dismissing her. “Most people do, at first.”

“You don’t.”

He smiled a little. “Love, I’ve made a career out of looking like I don’t.”

That made her glance up. He let the honesty sit there without dressing it up too much. There were some things people understood better when you didn’t explain them to death.

“Dance taught me a trick.” He said. “Not magic. Not confidence. A trick. You move before fear finishes talking.” Ciarán said. “That’s all. Shoulders back, chin up, step when the count tells you. Fear can catch up later if it’s that desperate.”

The young woman looked over at the empty dance floor. “I did feel stupid.”

“Aye.” He said. “And you survived it.”

She nodded, and this time when she smiled, it looked less like an apology. “Thank you.”

“You did the work.” Ciarán said. “I only yelled numbers at you.”

Her friend finally stepped in. “You also insulted our ancestors.”

“Yeah, well… they had it coming.” Ciarán said.

Both women laughed, and that was better than any deep speech he could’ve given them. They asked for a picture after that, and he agreed as long as nobody made him look shorter than he was. Paige took the photo, and when she handed the phone back, the young woman looked at it like she’d expected to hate herself and didn’t.

That, Ciarán thought, was no small thing.

When they left, the lounge was almost empty. Paige began collecting discarded water cups while Ciarán unplugged the microphone and placed it on the sound table.

“That went well.” Paige said.

Ciarán looked at her. “You say that like you expected riots.”

“I expected more complaints.”

“From them or me?”

“Yes.”

He snorted and reached for his bottle of water. “Tell Evelyn Hall she owes me a drink.”

“I will.”

“And tell her if she assigns me to anything else involving public rhythm, I’m reporting her to whatever authority governs crimes at sea.”

Paige hesitated.

Ciarán slowly lowered the bottle.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Paige.”

She hugged the clipboard to her chest. “There may be a towel animal workshop tomorrow.”

Ciarán stared at her.

“There may also be a celebrity guest judge.”

He closed his eyes. “I’m the celebrity guest judge, aren’t I?”

“You’re very popular.”

“I’m being punished for something I did in a past life!”

Paige laughed and left him there with the empty room. Ciarán stood alone for a moment, looking at the floor where forty-three people had stepped wrong, turned late, laughed loudly, and somehow left standing taller than when they came in. He’d spent enough of his life being watched to know that attention could take from a person. It could strip you down, flatten you out, make a thing of you before you’d a chance to be a man.

But not always.

Sometimes, if the room was kind enough, or if someone made it kind by force of will and a few sarcastic comments, being seen could remind a person they were still there.


"What a week it’s been! Me first cruise, a week of fun and sun and fans, and I’ll tell ye true, I didn’t know how badly I needed it until I was standin’ out there with the ocean all around me and no road beneath me feet to run down. I’ve got me demons. I’ve never pretended otherwise. There are things in me head and me heart that don’t clock out just because the ship leaves port, but this week gave me somethin’ rare. It gave me time to lock those demons away for a little while, shut the door, turn the key, and remember that life is not only about survivin’ the dark."

"And I value that time more than I can properly say. Because there have been days when even a bit of peace felt like somethin’ I had no right to touch. Days when joy felt suspicious, like if I smiled too long then somethin’ cruel would come collect the debt. But this week, I let meself breathe. I let meself laugh with the fans, feel the sun on me face, and remember that I am more than every bad thing that has ever tried to drag me under."

"And now that the sun’s gone down on the fun, now that the laughter and the fans and the memories have had their moment, it’s time to talk about the Roulette Championship! Ryan Keys. Four-time champion. A man who does not just carry that title, but understands the weight of it because he’s carried it again and again. Zayvion Lyons. Former champion. A man who knows what it feels like to have gold in his hands and then feel the cold air where it used to be. And then there’s me. Ciaran Doyle. The man with some catchin’ up to do!"

"Ryan, ye said I’m comin’ into this from a different place, and ye’re right. I’m not walkin’ in tryin’ to reclaim what I lost. I’m not standin’ over the pool haunted by the ghost of a championship that slipped through me fingers. I won King’s Ransom. I climbed while men tried to stop me, I reached while bodies were crashin’ around me, and I earned the contract that put me right here. That means I didn’t wander into your picture by mistake. I forced me way into the frame."

"And as for the crack about poles and tips, I’ll give ye this much, Ryan. Ye got a laugh out of me. We’ve both lived lives where performance paid bills, and neither one of us needs to blush about it. But at Summer XXXTreme, I’m not climbin’ for applause, I’m not climbin’ for a wink and a folded note tucked into me waistband, and I’m not climbin’ because somebody booked me as a novelty act. I’m climbin’ because above that pool hangs the first piece of SCW gold that could ever belong to me."

"Ye said ye see me, Ryan. Good. Keep your eyes open, lad, because blinkin’ is where champions make mistakes. Ye know I’m not goin’ to wait politely while you and Zayvion settle your history. Ye know I’m not there to be the extra man in somebody else’s rematch. But know this too. Seein’ me does not mean stoppin’ me. Respectin’ me does not mean survivin’ me. And intendin’ to throw me into that pool does not mean ye’ll be the one still dry when the match is done."

"Zayvion, ye asked what I’m fightin’ for, and I’ll answer ye plain. I’m fightin’ for the flash, the glitz, and the glamour. Aye, I am! I’m fightin’ for the lights and the roar and the moment where the whole world has to look up and admit that Ciaran Doyle is not just a lad with a contract and a dream. But I’m fightin’ for more than that too. I’m fightin’ for the one thing neither you nor Ryan can answer for me. I’m fightin’ to find out whether I belong."

"That’s the question, isn’t it? Not whether I can wrestle. Not whether I can climb. Not whether I can take a hit, or make a crowd believe, or keep comin’ when me lungs are burnin’ and me hands are slippin’. I’ve answered those already. But championship matches ask a harsher question. They ask if ye can stand between men who have already tasted the top and refuse to feel like an outsider. They ask if ye can look at a champion and a former champion and say, no, lads, history does not get to decide the future without me."

"And I have lived too much of me life wonderin’ where I fit. Wonderin’ if I was too much for one place, not enough for another, too damaged for peace, too stubborn for pity, too proud to admit when I was breakin’. In this business, people love to say someone has potential, and it sounds lovely until ye realize potential is just a room ye’re expected to live in until somebody decides ye’ve earned the door. I am tired of bein’ potential. I am tired of bein’ the man people nod at and say, someday. Summer XXXTreme is not someday. It is now."

"Ye said respect doesn’t win championships, Zayvion. Hunger does. I’ll not argue the first part. Respect won’t climb for me. Respect won’t hook me arm around a cable. Respect won’t drag Ryan down, throw you off balance, or put that championship in me hands. But don’t mistake me smile for satisfaction. Don’t mistake me gratitude for weakness. I may not be hungry in the same way ye are, but I am hungry. And in nature, it is not always the hungriest beast that gets fed. It’s the one willin’ to reach out and take what will finally satisfy that hunger!"

"And that is what I intend to do. Not because I think either of ye are lesser men. Not because I think Ryan’s reign is a decoration, or Zayvion’s hunger is some pretty speech meant to fill time before the bell. I know better. I know I’m steppin’ into danger with two men who have every reason to believe this match belongs to them. But the beautiful thing about the Roulette Championship is that it does not care what any of us believe. It cares who adapts. It cares who survives the spin, the stipulation, the chaos, the climb, and the fall."

"And I heard ye when ye spoke of family. I’m not bringin’ them into this as ammunition, because that’s not my place and not my way. I understand family. I understand sacrifices made to keep family alive in every way that matters. I also understand the harm a man can do to himself when he decides he has to shield the people who love him from the truth of what he’s carryin’. I know. I nearly buried meself because I thought I knew better than family."

"So when ye say ye’re fightin’ for them, I believe ye. When ye say ye want to be an example, I believe ye. When ye say ye’ll shake the winner’s hand if ye leave empty-handed, I believe that too. Ye have a lovely family, Zayvion, and I mean that with every bit of respect in me chest. But their influence is not goin’ to keep me from dunkin’ ye in that pool and walkin’ away with me first taste of gold."

"Ryan has the championship. Zayvion has the need to get back what he once held. And me? I have the opportunity I earned, the question I need answered, and the nerve to take the leap even if there’s nothin’ beneath me but water and consequence. That makes me dangerous. Not because I have nothin’ to lose, because I do. Pride. Momentum. Belief. The chance to prove that all this fightin’ has been buildin’ toward somethin’. But I’m still comin’."

"I’m comin’ as the man who survived his own head long enough to stand here with clear eyes. I’m comin’ as the man who climbed his way into this match instead of waitin’ for someone to notice him. I’m comin’ as the man who can respect Ryan Keys, respect Zayvion Lyons, and still look both of ye dead in the face and say that respect will not soften me hands when it’s time to fight. I’ve been patient. I’ve been grateful. I’ve been honest. Now I need to be selfish."

"So at Summer XXXTreme XIV, above that pool, on that cruise ship, under those lights, the Roulette Championship hangs where only one man can reach it. Ryan, I respect the reign. Zayvion, I respect the hunger. But respect is where this starts, not where it ends. When the bell rings, I’m not askin’ permission to belong. I’m reachin’ up, I’m takin’ hold, and I’m doin’ everything in me power to make sure the first taste of gold belongs to Ciaran Doyle!"

4
Supercard Roleplays / Re: RYAN KEYS (c) vs ZAYVION LYONS vs CIARAN DOYLE - ROULETTE ULTIMATE X
« on: June 20, 2026, 07:57:02 PM »
Las Vegas Coin Laundry -
Las Vegas, Nevada


Yeah, not the most glamorous of situations for a so-called celebrity, is it? You would imagine a professional wrestler in Sin City Wrestling to be shown partying in one of the Strip casinos or dining in a five-star restaurant.

Well, baby steps.

It's not so easy when mental health is on the table.

Ciarán Doyle had made it three blocks from his hotel with a duffel bag over his shoulder and the kind of determination usually reserved for workouts or competition, not one of the most basic household chores. He had told himself before leaving the room that this was all he had to do today. Go to the laundromat, get it done and come back.

Easy, am I right?

Or at least it should have been. It should have been nothing, but these days nothing had a way of becoming something the second he had to open a door and step outside where people could see him. He's Irish, isn't luck supposed to be on his side by rote? Keep a four leaf clover in his pocket, Make A wish upon a rainbow big? Isn't that how it's supposed to work?

The laundromat wasn't really anything special. It was one of dozens throughout the city. Through the large plate glass windows, it looked like any other. People taking care of their own business, holding their laundry and leaving. Simple.

Ciarán stood outside for several seconds, watching strangers move around inside like they all belonged in the world more easily than he did. There weren't too many but just enough to make him want to pay the employees to do it for him but that would just mean he would have to return. Better to get it over with.

“Fecks sake!” He muttered under his breath, then bought against the urge to turn around and instead reached for the door. “It’s just laundry, Doyle!”

He pulled the door open and stepped inside. No sooner did he do so than his nose was under attack by the smell of cheap bargain store detergent. The heavy hum of the washers and dryers drowned out any casual conversation some of the men and women inside were having, both with each other as well as on their phones.

No one looked up, no one said anything. Ciarán kept his head down and moved toward a washer near the back.

He took care of his business as quickly as he could, eyes averted from everyone else and not inviting conversation as he did so.

He loaded the clothes quickly, dumped a cap full of detergent without a care like any good-natured bachelor, paid the outlandish price and waited. Water filled the washer and for one stupid second, he felt like he had come out a step ahead.

He sat down in one of the plastic chairs with his phone out, pretending to scroll but in truth, it was all an act to keep anyone from initiating conversation as a means to pass the time. It wasn't something he felt up to at this point.

That was when his phone vibrated in his hand, startling him. He looked at the screen to see that it was an unknown number, which under most circumstances would have made him ignore or block the call. But the fact it was an Irish country code gave him pause.

He could let it ring. He could have let it go to voicemail and dealt with it back in the hotel with the door locked and the curtains drawn, but he didn’t. The phone buzzed again, and Ciarán answered before he lost his nerve. “Hello?”

“Mr. Doyle?” The voice on the other end sounded familiar. “It’s Detective Detective Shaughnessy. Have I caught ye at a bad time?”

Ciarán’s fingers tightened around the phone. There was no good time to hear from the detective attached to the case that nearly shattered his life into two.

“No.” He said, swallowing hard. It was funny how a dry throat made the slightest swallow feel like needles. “No, you’re grand. I’m just out.”

“Are ye somewhere ye can talk?” Detective Shaughnessy asked. Ciarán looked around the laundromat, at the woman unloading a dryer, the older man near the vending machine, and the child hunched over a tablet in the far corner.

It wasn’t private by any stretch of the imagination but it was just public enough that he might not let himself fall apart.

“Aye.” He lied. “Go on.”

Detective Shaughnessy paused just long enough for Ciarán to know she was choosing her words. She spoke, “I wanted to ring ye myself. There’s been movement forward in your case.”

Ciarán closed his eyes for a second. “Movement” was such a small word, but large enough to open the world up ahead of him and make his stomach drop.

“What kind of movement?” He asked.

“We were granted the warrant.” She answered. “The phones of the women who attacked you have been seized.”

His eyes opened and for several seconds he just stared blankly ahead of him at nothing in particular, causing one or two sets of eyes to curiously turn his way and then avert their gaze before he noticed.

“Their phones?”

“Aye.” Detective Shaughnessy answered. “Several devices belonging to the women you identified. They’re in evidence now and they’ve been passed over to digital forensics.”

Digital forensics. That was what they called it, then. Not dragging the truth out of where someone tried to bury it, but digital forensics could pull the truth from seemingly nowhere - even when you were certain that you had removed it from existence.

That was what hurt the most from that experience. Not the fact he had been raped by multiple women. The fact that he had known they recorded it and it could be out there, anywhere.

“Have they found anything?” He asked.

“I have to be careful with what I say at this stage.” Detective Shaughnessy told him. “I don’t want to promise ye anything I can’t follow through with.”

“Right.” Ciarán said, closing his eyes and nodding even though she couldn’t see him. “I understand.”

“The initial examination suggests files were deleted from at least two of the devices.” She continued. “Photos, videos, possibly messages as well. The forensic team is working to recover what they can.”

Ciarán’s hand clenched so hard around the phone that his knuckles ached. “They deleted it.”

“They attempted to delete it.” Detective Shaughnessy corrected. “That distinction matters.”

“They recorded me...” Ciarán said, his voice quieter now. “Now the bitches are trying to hide!”

Ciarán stood up too quickly, and the plastic chair scraped loudly against the floor. The woman near the dryers glanced over before looking away, and Ciarán turned his back to the room and moved further away toward a corner like a naughty child with something to hide before his face could betray him.

“What else?” Ciarán asked.

“There are indications they communicated with one another after the report was made.” Detective Shaughnessy answered. “Fragments so far, but we’re seeing signs they may have coordinated their stories.”

Ciarán leaned one shoulder against the wall. “Their stories.”

“Aye.” The detective answered. “Perhaps they were trying to remove evidence or get stories straight just in case. Saying it was consensual or it was paid for…”

“Consensual.” Ciarán closed his eyes, feeling like he wanted to throw up then and there. “I guess it would be hard to argue with that logic with a ball gag stuffed in me mouth!”

“Yes.”

He pressed his free hand over his eyes until he saw those strange little dots behind his eyes. “Now they’re going to all say I allowed it. Get their stories straight and play the victims. Bunch of innocent birds against one lowly stripper!”

“That appears to be the concern.” Detective Shaughnessy said. “They’re going to want to get their stories coordinated so when questioned, their accounts match with one another against you. That would look stronger against you in most circumstances but…”

“But?”

“But if anything is found by forensics, then it becomes a very different story whether they match or not.” The Detective answered. “The word consensual doesn’t hold up well when the victim was gagged and restrained.”

“Did they send it to anyone?” He asked, and his voice broke on the last word.

Detective Shaughnessy was quiet for a moment. “That is one of the things we’re trying to determine I won’t lie to ye. I don’t have that answer yet.”

Ciarán closed his eyes. There it was, the question that had followed him for months through hotel rooms, showers, airports, and every sleepless hour when the ceiling above him looked too much like a place he couldn’t escape.

Anyone could have seen that video of him being raped by a group of women. Men who would have wished it were them. Women who would see it as empowerment. It could easily ruin his career and his life.

Who saw? Who laughed? Who still had it?

“I need to know.” He said.

“I know.” Detective Shaughnessy replied as gently as she dared. “And if there’s evidence anything was shared, we will pursue it. Right now, the devices are in our possession and that question is being treated seriously.”

Ciarán nodded again. It was something. Not enough, but something.

“I’m not ringing to ask anything from ye today.” Detective Shaughnessy said. “I wanted ye to know there’s movement. We’re making progress. The forensic work may take time, but this is not standing still. It might not be going as quickly as ye might have hoped, but it is still moving forward. That’s progress Ciarán.”

Ciarán leaned his head back against the wall. “Right.”

“And Ciarán?”

“Aye?”

“Look after yourself after this call.”

His mouth twisted faintly. “I’m doing laundry. That counts, doesn’t it?”

“It does.” She said, and there was the smallest warmth in her voice. “More than ye might think.”

He breathed through his nose and tried to steady himself. “If they recover anything…” He started, then stopped. He cou;dn’t finish whatever it was that he wanted to say.

Detective Shaughnessy understood what he wanted to say anyway. “You won’t be blindsided. I’ll do what I can to make sure of that.”

“Thank you.”

“You’ve nothing to thank me for. Ring me if ye need to, and if I don’t answer, leave a message.”

“I will.”

“I mean it now.”

“I know.” He said. “Thank you, Detective.”

The call ended, and Ciarán stayed in the corner for another minute with the phone still in his hand. The laundromat noise crept back in slowly, the hum of machines, the thump of dryers, and the distant sound of someone laughing at something that had nothing to do with him.

The television hung in the far corner to give folks something to do was flickering with highlights of a recent game of the World Cup and the chants from a team that was anything but flattering to the President of the United States. The fact it brought a smile to his face somehow felt absolutely vulgar.

The world around him continued to move, and slowly but surely he found himself able to move along with it.

When he returned to the washer, the cycle had finished. His clothes sat in a damp heap, waiting for him as if nothing had happened. He moved everything into a dryer and fed coins into the slot with shaking fingers. The machine started with a heavy turn, lifting the clothes and dropping them again, and Ciarán stepped back to watch them tumble.

Attempted to delete. He held onto that because the word did not heal anything, but it gave him something solid to grip. Something that somehow felt close to hope. The first time he had felt anything remotely close to it in nigh a yeat.

Not deleted. Attempted.

They had tried to erase what they did, and maybe, for the first time, trying would not be enough. Ciarán sat down while the dryer ran and thought about calling Ruairí.

His thumb found the name before he could talk himself out of it, but he did not press call. He just stared at it, imagining his best friend’s voice, the anger, the worry, and the familiar bite of home in every word. Not to mention the simple fact that the time difference between Las Vegas and Ireland was an altogether different thing. The Detective probably only ignored the difference because the news held too much hope to wait.

Ruairí would ask if he was alright. Ciarán would lie of course, and of course Ruairí would know. That was the problem with friends like Ruairi. When you’re so close and so loved that even when you lie to shield yourself or others, those friends know. They know and they don’t let it go.

So he put the phone face down on his knee and waited.

When the dryer finished, he folded the clothes badly. The first shirt came out crooked, and he had to do it again, but he kept going because stopping felt more dangerous than failing. He zipped the duffel bag when he was done. Outside, the sun had dropped lower and somehow, miraculously, Ciarán felt the strange desire to find somewhere to eat on the way home. Not takeout. Not somewhere he could order delivery to his room.

Somewhere he could sit, surrounded by people but alone, and simply live by experiencing an actual meal. Ciarán stood near the door, hand on the strap of his bag, and tried to decide whether he had enough in him to do just that. That was when his phone buzzed, and for one sharp second, fear shot through him again.

Then he looked down and saw the name on the screen to spot the name of Ruairí O’Callaghan.

The message was simple.

“Just checking in, lad. You alright?”


“Awkward. That’s the word for all of this, isn’t it? When I first got into the sport of professional wrestling, I thought I had the rhythm of it figured out fairly quickly. It was a bunch of posturing between a bunch of lads talking shit about how they would kick one another’s arses, insult each other’s haircuts, mothers, fashion sense, and general ability to stand upright, and then after the match was over? They’d be grand. Maybe they’d shake hands, maybe they’d glare for the cameras, maybe they’d share a drink when nobody was looking, but the rules of engagement were easy enough to understand.”

“But how is that strategy supposed to hold up against two lads I respect and actually like? How am I supposed to stand here and spit venom at Zayvion Lyons and Ryan Keys when the truth is, I don’t have any venom for either of them? I’m not going to pretend I hate them just because there’s a championship hanging above us and a pool waiting below us. I’m not going to insult two men who have earned better from me than cheap shots and lazy lines.”

“So aye, this is awkward. It is awkward because I have to look at two men I respect and say, with my whole chest, that I’m still planning to beat them both. It is awkward because I can admire the man standing across from me and still intend to send him into that pool with no apology. That is the business we’re in, and that is the line we all learn to walk sooner or later. Respect does not mean surrender, and liking a man does not mean letting him leave with what you came to take.”

“Zayvion Lyons, let me start with you, lad. You came from out of nowhere and became another gold star in the legacy of the Lyons Den, and I know that might not be what you want to hear. Maybe that comparison gets under your skin a bit. Maybe you’re tired of people hearing the name Lyons and deciding they already know the story before you ever open your mouth. I can understand that.”

“You want to forge your own path. You want people to look at you and see Zayvion first, not a surname, not a family tree, not a reputation handed down to you like an old jacket someone expects you to wear whether it fits or not. And do you know what? So far, you’ve done exactly that. You might be a Lyons, but first and foremost, you’re Zayvion, and anyone who has watched you in SCW with both eyes open should know the difference.”

“You debuted and moved faster than most anyone expected. You stepped into this company with all those shadows trailing behind you, because legacy is a heavy thing whether people admit it or not, and you did not let them swallow you. You stepped out from under them, made your own noise, took your own space, and before anyone could decide whether you were promise or pressure, you won the Roulette Championship. That does not happen by accident. That does not happen because of a name alone.”

“And then, just as quick, you learned the part nobody likes to talk about. You went from challenger to champion and back to challenger, and a lesser man might have let that knock the wind out of him. A lesser man might have sulked, blamed the wheel, blamed the match, blamed the champion, blamed everyone but himself. But you didn’t do that. You kept moving, and more importantly, you kept moving without stepping on people just to make yourself look taller.”

“That matters to me. It matters because I have seen men get one little taste of attention and suddenly forget how to treat people. I have seen men chase gold like it gave them permission to be rotten, like ambition was a hall pass for arrogance. You did not do that. Even when your path crossed with mine, you showed respect. You even said you liked me, which tells me your taste in people is not completely hopeless.”

“And for what it’s worth, the feeling is more than mutual. I like you, Zayvion. I respect you. I think you have the kind of future in this business that people will be talking about long after the novelty of your arrival has worn off. But liking you does not mean I can afford to hesitate, and respecting you does not mean I can let you climb past me when the bell rings.”

“That is where the awkward part becomes simple. You and I have the same goal. We both want the Roulette Championship, and there is only one belt hanging above that pool. So when the time comes, all the respect, all the mutual admiration, all the polite nodding and good faith between us has to be set aside long enough for us to take care of business. I will shake your hand after, lad. I will mean it too. But during the match, if I have to kick you off that structure and watch you hit the water below, then into the pool you go.”

“And that brings me to the business at the center of all of this. Ryan Keys. SCW’s original Party Boy. The man with the smile, the style, the swagger, and now four Roulette Championship reigns to his name. Four. That is one more than Logan Hunter, which just has to gall the little piss ant something fierce, but we’re not here to talk about the guy with the Ramen hair. Not today, anyway.”

“We’re here to talk about Ryan Keys, and Ryan, I am not going to stand here and pretend you are some lucky pretty boy who stumbled into history because the lights caught your cheekbones at the right angle. That would be stupid, and I try not to be stupid more than once before breakfast. Four Roulette reigns tells the world something very clearly. It tells the world that Ryan Keys is more than a pretty face and a fun party style outside of the ring.”

“It tells the world that inside of the ring, you are all business. It tells the world that when the bell rings, the music stops, the party lights go dark, and what’s left is a man who knows how to win under conditions that change by the minute. That is the real trick of the Roulette division. It is not just toughness. It is not just athleticism. It is being able to adapt before the ground finishes shifting beneath your feet, and Ryan, you have done that again and again.”

“That belt around your waist is proof. Nobody gets four reigns by accident. Nobody survives the wheel, the chaos, the ladders, the falls, the weapons, the madness, and the pure nonsense that comes with that championship unless there is something real beneath the flash. You have earned your place. You have earned the respect that comes with being champion. And aye, you’ve earned mine.”

“But respect is not protection. Respect will not keep you dry. Respect will not save you when I get my hands on you, and it certainly will not stop me from doing what needs to be done when that championship is there for the taking. I saw what happened the first time Ryan Keys took the plunge in the pool at Summer XXXTreme. I remember it well enough, and I know the circumstances are different this time. Different match, different stakes, different version of you, different version of me.”

“But history has a funny way of circling back around, doesn’t it? Sometimes the details change, but the image remains the same. Ryan Keys, SCW’s original Party Boy, splashing down in front of everybody while someone else reaches up and takes what he came to keep. That is not me mocking you, lad. That is me telling you the truth as I see it. At Summer XXXTreme XIV, Ryan Keys is going in that pool again.”

“And Zayvion Lyons? You’re going in too, kicking and screaming if that is what it takes. I know you will fight. I know you will claw for every inch. I know you will not make this easy, and I would be insulted if you did. But I am not coming into this match hoping to survive the two of you. I am coming into this match to beat the two of you, and there is a world of difference between those things.”

“I know what people might expect from me here. They might expect nerves. They might expect doubt. They might look at Ryan’s four reigns and Zayvion’s rise and decide Ciarán Doyle is the lad caught between the established champion and the shining future. That would be a lovely little story for someone else to tell. Unfortunately for them, I am not interested in playing the convenient third man in anyone else’s history.”

“I have my own history to write. I have my own reasons for standing upright when it would be easier not to. I have my own scars, my own pride, my own stubborn refusal to be treated like a footnote in a match where I know damn well I belong. Zayvion has his legacy, Ryan has his reigns, and I have my moment in front of me. I intend to take it.”

“That is the thing about respect. Real respect is not gentle. Real respect is not me standing here and saying, ‘Ah well, they’re great lads, maybe next time.’ Real respect is me telling both of you the truth. I believe you are dangerous. I believe you are worthy. I believe either one of you could win this match if I give you the opening. So I will not give you the opening.”

“I am going to fight Ryan Keys like a four-time Roulette Champion deserves to be fought. I am going to fight Zayvion Lyons like a man who has already proven he can rise faster than anyone expected and still keep his feet under him. And I am going to fight myself, every doubt, every hesitation, every instinct that tells me respect should make me kinder than the moment allows. Because in that match, kindness can wait.”

“The wheel can do what it wants. The water can wait below us. The crowd can cheer for who they please, and the champion can carry himself like the man to beat because he has earned that much. But when it comes down to the final reach, the final breath, the final desperate second where one of us holds on and the others fall, I know exactly where I plan to be. I’ll be hanging on, reaching up, and taking that belt above for my own.”

“So Zayvion, Ryan, understand me when I say this with love and respect. I like the both of ye. I respect the both of ye. When this is over, drinks are on me, and I mean that sincerely. We can toast the fight, toast the effort, toast the bruises, and laugh about the poor bastard who swallowed half the pool on the way down.”

“But until the bell rings and the dust settles, do not mistake warmth for weakness. Do not mistake respect for mercy. Do not mistake the fact that I like you for any lack of willingness to do what must be done. At Summer XXXTreme XIV, Zayvion Lyons is going in the pool, Ryan Keys is going in the pool, and Ciarán Doyle is climbing out of that chaos with the Roulette Championship in his hands. Then, and only then, lads, we’ll have that drink.”

5
Climax Control Archives / Seen, Not Taken
« on: May 29, 2026, 08:41:46 PM »
The door was stuck again, because of course it was. The back door of the kitchen always seemed to stick if you pulled on it too gently. He remembered from the first time he thought he had locked himself out in the alleyway to throw out garbage and the matron of the soup kitchen came looking for him.

She had complained to the church parish but the overall budgets were tight enough so they had to resort to trickery to open the door as opposed to a full-on repair.

With his palm flat, Ciarán pushed with his shoulder, forcing the door open and allowing Ciarán to slip inside, black hood up, gym bag over one shoulder, and the smell of onions, dishwater, coffee, and bleach settling over him before the door shut behind him.

“You’re late!” Called a woman's voice from the prep table.

Mrs. Marisol Flores, a Hispanic woman in her sixties, stood across the kitchen, working with a bustle that defied her age, issuing orders to the many other volunteers that hurried around the kitchen.

“By three minutes.” Ciarán replied, setting down his bag and moving to grab an apron.

“Four.” She countered in her thick accent.

“Well put me in front of a firing squad!” Ciarán declared, having knotted his apron strings and turned around to face her. The two engaged in a brief stare down before she smiled genuinely and said, “That's my boy “

The first time he had come to Saint Jude Community Kitchen, it had been in the middle of the day. He had not meant to. He had left his apartment because the walls felt like they were closing in tight and well-meaning friends and family simply would not leave him alone.

Marisol had been taking out trash when she found him looking up at the church affixed to the kitchen. A tall Irishman in an emerald green hoodie, hands in his pockets and looking like he was either lost or was trying not to break.

She had asked if he was hungry or looking for a bed, and it suddenly hit him like a freight train how bad he must have looked. He nearly walked away, but instead he asked if she needed help in the kitchen. Back in Ireland, he and his family were heavily into charitable contributions but with a catch. The Doyles believed for it to be a true act of charity, it had to be away from recognition.

Marisol nodded once, handed him a trash bag, and told him if he was not hungry, he could be useful. They always needed help.

That had been two months ago.

Ever since then, he showed up a minimum of twice a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays mostly. He chopped carrots, carried crates, mopped floors, fixed a loose pantry hinge, scrubbed pans and once spent nearly an hour helping someone look for a missing wedding ring that turned out to be folded into their own sleeve.

Now once he had washed his hands thoroughly, he busied himself with the one chore that Marisol said he was made for. Peeling potatoes. Because in her own words, *You're an Irish man. You should know your way around potatoes.”

Ciarán had temporarily forgotten himself in retorted, “That would be so offensive if it wasn't true.” And got straight to work.

Nobody asked why he came. That was part of why he kept coming.

“Skin on or off?” Ciarán asked, picking up a peeler.

“Off tonight.” Marisol answered. “We're mashing them.”

“Yer a cruel woman.”

“Keep talking and you can do onions too!”

He shut his mouth and started peeling. Daring he might be but he knew when to pick his battles.

There was comfort in this work to help the hungry, though he would not have said that out loud. No one stared. No one softened their voice when they spoke to him. No one treated him like some fragile porcelain doll.

In the ring, every movement was watched. In interviews, every word was listened to and dissected. Here, if he stood still too long, Marisol thought he needed more to do to keep busy and gave it to him.

He liked that.

He had not come here because he believed in people. People hurt each other. People believed your pain belonged to them because being a celebrity, you naturally gave up your right to privacy.

But people were also hungry.

That was the bit that made being angry at humanity inconvenient at best. It was easy enough to hate mankind as an idea. It was harder to hate the old man who thanked him twice for extra gravy. It was harder to be angry at the mother who pretended she was not hungry so her kids could eat first. It gutted him seeing the small child with second hand clothes and a dirty face act like that slice of pie was the Second Coming.

So Ciarán came here. Not because he was good, mind you. Not because he was healed. He came because some stubborn part of him refused to let the worst people he had known become the only proof of what people were.

By six, the kitchen was a loud and chaotic mess of efficiency. Food was pulled from the ovens. Someone dropped a stack of bowls and swore so badly that Marisol smacked him with a towel and told him the Lord heard every word.

Ciarán stayed in the back, where he preferred it. He stirred potatoes with a long-handled spoon, added butter when Marisol told him to stop being cheap and tried not to think about the weekend ahead. Soon enough there would be lights again. Cameras. His name said in that way people said it when they wanted the wrestler, not the man standing in a kitchen with mashed potatoes on his nose.

Here, he was just Ciarán.

Sometimes not even that. Sometimes he was “Red,” other times “big boy.” Once, a woman out front had called him handsome and asked if he was married, and he had walked into the freezer trying to escape while Marisol laughed herself breathless.

“Red!” Marisol called. “Take this tray out. They need more rolls.”

He looked up. “Out front?”

“That is where the food goes, yes.”

He stared at the tray with all of those warm rolls glistening with butter. Nothing dangerous. Nothing worth the tightness that started under his ribs. He finally picked up the tray and pushed through the swinging door.

The first thing that he noticed was how tragically full the dining area was. Not just with homeless people in search of perhaps their only hot meal of the day, but people who were so down on their luck scraping by that they had to decide between rent money and a meal.

He moved to the counter where a line of volunteers were serving the people and set down the rolls when he heard it.

“Grandma!” It was a boy’s voice, low but not low enough. “That’s Ciarán Doyle!”

His shoulders tightened before he could stop them. He already knew what was coming and he slowly looked up and over to the direction the voice came from. The boy was maybe fourteen, skinny, brown hair falling into his eyes, hoodie too big for him. Beside him sat an elderly woman with short white hair and a cardigan buttoned to her throat despite the heat. Her tray was untouched. She looked at Ciarán, then at the boy.

The boy shrank a little.

Ciarán saw the phone in the boy's hand and it started to turn and he felt himself reacting. But this time it was not about himself. There were people bent over soup bowls with their heads down. A woman at the far end kept her face turned toward the wall. An older man had flinched every time the door opened. No one here had come to be captured in the background of someone else’s memory.

Ciarán held up a hand and shook his head. “Please don’t.”

The boy froze and his face paled. “I wasn’t gonna... I-I'm sorry!”

Ciarán looked at the boy properly, and the people working the line shifted uncomfortably. Ciarán then saw the panic threatening to take over a boy who was already experiencing the unfair hardships that life had to offer on a silver platter and he immediately regretted his tone.

“You’re alright.” Ciarán said, softer as he approached the table. “Just not in here, yeah? People deserve their peace.”

The boy nodded quickly. “Yeah. Sorry. I-I didn’t think!”

Beside him, the elderly woman with the white hair studied Ciarán over her untouched food. His gran perhaps? Maybe his guardian or, heaven forbid... both? Ciarán didn't know their story and it wasn't his place to. He just knew he came here tonight to stay anonymous and help... Well, one out of two wasn't bad.

He placed a hand on the back of the boy's chair and the other on the table, saying, “After dinner, if you still want one, we can step outside. One picture. No one else in it.”

Malik’s face lit before he could stop it. “Really?”

Ciarán nodded, nodding toward the elderly woman. “And she takes it, so there’s a witness if you make me look short.”

For the first time all evening, the boy laughed -- and the Grandma figure looked forever grateful for it.

When Ciarán came back through the swinging door, Marisol was at the oven, quickly and efficiently removing tray after tray of brownies and setting them on a table to cool. Ciarán stood at the table's edge and rubbed the back of his neck. “A lad recognized me.”

Marisol looked at him, a flicker of concern on her face. “Out there?”

“Aye. Fourteen, maybe. Sweet kid. He had his phone up for half a second.” Ciarán glanced toward the door. “I told him not to. Kid seemed embarrassed and I felt embarrassed for him.”

Marisol took that in, the maturity of the situation and the way he thought about the dignity of those people ahead of his own self discomfort at the recognition. Ciarán tried to smile but failed spectacularly. “That’s why I asked to stay back here.”

Marisol didn't press, she simply waited.

He looked down at his hands. “It’s not just because I don’t want people staring at me. I mean, I don’t, but it’s more than that. There’s people out there who don’t want to be seen. People hiding from someone. People ashamed. People who’ve had a rotten enough day without ending up in the background of a stranger’s photo.”

His jaw worked once.

“That’s not fair to them.”

Marisol’s face softened and before Ciarán could react, she reached up and stroked his long, red hair as if she were his Nan and not a mini tyrant boss in a kitchen. Ciarán startled, but met her eyes and she said, "You're a good boy. You know that?"

Ciarán huffed, trying to pass it off. "Debatable." Earning him a light swat to his bare shoulder with a dish towel before she put him back to work.

Afterwards, Ciarán stepped back into the dining room. Malik was helping his grandmother gather their trays, his old phone tucked carefully in his hoodie pocket as if he had decided not to risk getting his hopes up.

Ciarán approached their table and the boy looked up so fast his hair fell into his eyes. Ciarán nodded toward the side hall near the pantry door, where the wall was plain, the light was kind, and no one else would be caught behind them. “Still want that picture?”

Malik’s mouth opened, then shut and then opened again. “Yeah, please! Are you sure?”

Ciarán just smiled, doing what he did best. Put on a show. Ciarán led him and his Gran to the side hall and stood with his back to the blank wall. Ciarán put one arm lightly around the boy’s shoulders, loose enough that he could step away if he wanted. The boy beamed so brightly one could almost forget he had been eating in a soup kitchen only minutes earlier.

The elderly woman held up the boy's phone and said, “Smile! ... Or look haunted and dramatic. I understand that’s popular now.”

Ciarán laughed despite himself, and that was the picture she took. A real laugh. The boy grinning beside him.

From the kitchen doorway, Marisol watched with her arms folded. She did not call attention to it. She only smiled and gave one slow nod and Ciarán caught it over the boy’s head.

For once, being seen did not feel like being taken from. It felt like giving something back.


"Last week I climbed into the King’s Ransom Ladder Match asking for a chance, and now I am standing here having earned one. I didn’t like being in that type of match. I think I made that abundantly clear. But we play the cards we’re dealt, don’t we? And for me, it paid off in the end.”

“I won’t pretend that didn’t mean something to me. I wanted that opportunity. I wanted that spotlight that only comes with a Supercard event! I wanted that road to Summer XXXTreme XIV, and now that I have it! And I promise you this, I am not stepping onto that cruise ship just to make up the numbers! I am stepping on to face Ryan Keys as the challenger and stepping off as the new champion!"

"But before Summer XXXTreme, before the Ultimate X over the pool for the Roulette Championship, I have Zayvion Lyons standing across the ring from me. You know, the former champion. And Zayvion, let me say this clearly so everyone out there - especially yourself - can understand! You have nothing to be ashamed of. You lost the Roulette Championship to Ryan Keys, aye, but that means you had the Roulette Championship to lose in the first place. That is more than I can say personally. You stood at the top of that division. You wore the gold. You carried it into battle, and nobody can take that away from you!"

"Some people might mock a man for losing a championship. Some people might point and laugh because it makes them feel taller. Most of those men have never worn gold around their waists so to hell with `em! I am not going to do that to you, Zayvion. I am not going to pretend that losing the Roulette Championship makes you any less talented. If anything, you should take comfort in the fact that you are already more respected as a former one-time champion than Logan Hunter is as a former three-time title holder!"

"That is the truth of it. Championships matter, but how a man carries himself after the bell matters too. There are men who win gold and somehow make it look smaller around their waist. Then there are men who lose gold and still walk out with their name intact because everyone knows they fought for everything they had! That is you, Zayvion. You had the title. You fought for the title. You lost the title. Now the question is not whether you can survive the fall. The question is what kind of man climbs back up after landing hard."

"I have nothing but respect for you. As a man, as a fighter, as someone who walked into SCW with a name that already carried history and still wanted to carve out something of his own. That is no small thing. You come from great stock, lad. Eddie Lyons is a name that still lives on to this day because men like that do not fade just because time keeps moving. And Victoria? Any man or woman in this business could and should aspire to have even half the bloody command she carries when she steps into a ring! That is the kind of legacy around you, Zayvion. That is the weight on your shoulders. And to your credit, you have not let it crush you. You have taken it and tried to turn it into something that belongs to you and you alone!"

"So when that bell rings, understand what I am coming for. I am not coming to dance on the grave of your title reign, because that would make me a fool and a coward besides. I am coming to make you remember that the man who won the King’s Ransom Ladder Match did not stumble into the Ultimate X. He earned it."

"So bring me your anger, Zayvion. Bring me your pride. Bring me whatever is left burning after Ryan Keys took that title from you, because I know there is fire there yet! Bring me the weight of the Lyons name and the hunger to make your own roar louder than all of them put together! Bring me the man who refuses to be remembered only for the night he lost!"

"And I will bring you Ciarán Doyle. I will bring you the man who climbed the ladder, took the King’s Ransom and punched his ticket to Summer XXXTreme XIV! I will bring you respect, aye, but do not mistake respect for hesitation. You have held the Roulette Championship. I have not. And that, Zayvion, is exactly why I am fighting like a starving man with the feast finally in sight."

"When we meet, it will be about two competitors standing in the ring with something to prove and no room for excuses. You are trying to show the world that losing the Roulette Championship did not break you. I am trying to show the world that winning King’s Ransom was only the start. So let us give them a match worthy of both stories!"

6
Climax Control Archives / Not alone any more
« on: May 22, 2026, 09:50:46 PM »
Killarney, County Kerry, Ireland.


The Garda station was only twenty yards away, but from where Ciarán Doyle sat in Ruairí’s car, it could have been twenty miles.

A light rain pelted against the roof of the car, and both men seemed transfixed by the streaks of water running down the windshield. It was typical weather in Ireland. A day without rain would be like a morning without orange juice. Ciarán could remember better days where he found the sound to be one of the most soothing. Now it was just noise.

He had been sitting in the passenger seat for nearly ten minutes, staring straight ahead, breathing through his nose and trying to gather the courage for what he knew was coming next.

Beside him, Ruairí O’Callaghan sat with both hands on the steering wheel despite the engine having been turned off. On Ruaini’s lap rested a leather folder. Evidence for Ciarán so that hopefully he could walk away today feeling whole once again.

Ruairí looked at him, then back through the windshield and toward the station ahead. “We don’t have to go in right now.” He said quietly. “We can sit here as long as you need.”

Ciarán’s mouth twitched, but the smile held no humor. “Another minute won’t make me any less of a coward.”

Ruairí turned his head at that, looking at his childhood friend whose head was downcast.

“Don’t.” Ruairi warned. “I’m in no mood to let ye lie about yourself.”

Ciarán let out a thin breath and looked down at his hands. He murmured, “I waited a year.”

“You survived a year.” When Ruairi spoke, his voice stayed gentle. “You kept living. Some days that’s all you can do.”

Ciarán stared at the station doors again. People went in and out, conducting their business as if everything was entirely normal.

“I don’t know if I can say it.” Ciarán admitted.

“Ye can, Ci. Ye just start slow.” Ruairi said gently. “That’s all.”

“They’ll ask for details.”

“They will.” Ruairi nodded. “ They'll have to.”

“They’ll ask why I didn’t report it.”

Ruairí looked down at the folder and said, “Then ye tell them the truth.”

Ciarán gave a bitter little laugh. “The truth. Simple as that.”

“Nothing about any of this shite is simple, Ci.” Ruairi said. “But I'm right here. We'll get ye through this.”

That oath of family and brotherhood hung in the air between both men. Ciarán closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and unfastened his seatbelt…

They crossed the short distance to the station without rushing. Ruairí walked close, not touching him, but near enough that Ciarán could feel the reassurance of his presence.

Inside, the station was warm and smelled like rain water and stale coffee. The lobby was small and ordinary, unlike anything one might expect from a TV show or movie. The two men glanced around before they found their eyes fall upon a Garda seated at the front desk, eyes glued to the computer screen in front of him.

It took several moments before Ciarán finally led Ruairi past the waiting people and to the desk where the Garda looked up.

“How’re ye getting on?” He asked.

Ciarán opened his mouth but nothing came out. That was when Ruairí stepped in beside him, not in front of him.

“My name is Ruairí O’Callaghan.” He said. “I’m here with Ciarán Doyle. He needs to report a sexual assault. It happened here in Killarney about a year ago.”

The Garda’s face changed. Not with shock or pity. There was just a careful stillness that settled over him.

“Alright.” He said, his voice lowering. More serious. “Ciarán, is it?”

Ciarán nodded.

“I’m Garda Liam Foley. We’ll get ye somewhere private.”

They were led down a short corridor into a small interview room with a round table and three chairs. Ciarán sat down slowly, keeping his coat on. Ruairí took the chair beside him, the leather folder on the table between his hands.

A few minutes later, a plain clothed woman entered the room. Middle years and eyes that Ciarán would bet noticed everything around her.

“Ciarán?” She said, sitting across from him, Ciarán subconsciously but silently raising a hand. “I’m Detective Sergeant Maeve Ní Shaughnessy. Garda Foley’s told me the basics. Before we begin, do ye want Ruairí to stay with ye?”

“Yes.” Ciarán said immediately.

“Then he stays.” Detective Ní Shaughnessy opened a notebook but did not start writing yet.

She started, “Today, we’ll take an initial complaint. Ye tell us what happened in your own words. Some questions may feel difficult, but that doesn’t mean we doubt ye. It means we need to understand clearly. If ye need to stop, ye say so. Alright?”

Ciarán nodded. “Alright.”

“Start wherever ye can.”

Ciarán stared at the tabletop and for a few seconds, he couldn't speak. He lifted his eyes and stole a sidelong glance at Ruairi who gave him the subtlest nod of encouragement.

“My name is Ciarán Doyle.” He finally said. “I used to work for Celtic Thunder. Male revue work. Hen parties, private events, birthdays, that sort of thing.”

Ciarán closed his eyes and took in a deep breath before he was able to continue.

“About a year ago, I was booked for a hen party at the Muckross Park Hotel. The bride was Aisling Moriarty. At least, that was her name then. I don’t know what her name is now.”

“Aisling Keane.” Ruairi said quietly. “I did some research from her records.”

Ciarán swallowed before continuing, “There were six women. Maybe eight. I’m not sure. They were drinking, but they weren’t falling down drunk. They still had their wits.”

Garda Foley stood near the door, listening without interruption.

“I did the act. At first, it was loud and handsy, but I’d dealt with that before. Then they stopped me from getting dressed. Stopped me from leaving. One of them jumped on me and knocked me onto the bed and then they dog piled me.”

He stopped and rubbed both hands down his thighs, trying to ground himself.

“Part of me wishes I would have fought back, start swinging but…” He shook his head. “I couldn't. Got me mam and little sis. I couldn't hit a woman. Sounds so damn stupid now!”

“It doesn’t.” Detective Ní Shaughnessy said.

He looked up briefly, then back at the table.

“They cuffed my wrists first. Then my ankles. To the posts. It happened fast, like they already had the plan made. Once I was locked up, I started yelling for them to let me go.”

His swallowed hard.

“That’s when they put a ball gag in my mouth.” Ciarán kept going because if he stopped now, he was not sure he would start again. “I couldn’t speak. I could make noise, but not words.They had me wrapped so tight I couldn’t move. That’s when they cut my thong off and…”

Detective Ní Shaughnessy’s pen paused only for a heartbeat. “Sexually assaulted ye?”

“Yes.”

“More than one person?”

“All of them.” He confessed, his voice raw. Ciarán shut his eyes. “Some filmed it. Some took pictures. I remember the bride saying something about proof I was worth the money.”

The room was quiet enough for the rain to be heard faintly against the windows somewhere beyond the door.

“I don’t know how long it lasted,” Ciarán said. “Long enough for all of them to get a turn. Someone unlocked me eventually and threw money at me while the rest of them laughed. I got dressed in the bathroom. I remember the marks on my wrists and ankles. I remember trying not to be sick.”

“Did ye go to hospital?” Garda Foley asked gently.

“No.”

“Did ye tell anyone at the time?”

“No.”

Detective Ní Shaughnessy nodded.

“That’s common. We’ll work with what we have.”

Ciarán let out a sound that was almost a laugh, except there was nothing living in it. He said, “I went back to work eventually. Because if I stopped, people would ask questions. And what was I meant to say? That I’d been raped at a hen party by a group of women?”

Neither Garda answered. To their credit, they seemed to understand what would have been going through his mind at the time.

“I could hear it before anyone said it.” Ciarán continued. “Lucky lad. Some men would pay for that. Must’ve been some night. All that shite.”

Detective Ní Shaughnessy looked at him steadily. “What happened to ye was a crime.” She said. “The fact that they were women doesn’t change that.”

Ciarán stared at her for a moment. His throat worked, but he said nothing.

Garda Foley glanced at his notes, then back at him. “I need to ask ye something.” He started. “Why did ye wait a year to report it?”

Ruairí’s head turned toward him, but Ciarán answered first.

“Would you have reported getting raped by a group of women?” Ciarán leaned back, his voice rougher now. “Would ye? If ye were a man paid to perform at hen parties? If ye knew half the people who heard it would laugh? So no, I didn’t come in the next morning. I buried it. Badly.”

Garda Foley set his pen down.

“I’m sorry.” He said. “The delay has to be asked about and recorded. But I understand.”

Detective Ní Shaughnessy added, “Delayed reporting is very common in sexual offences. Shame, shock, fear of not being believed. We’ll include what ye’ve told us.”

Ciarán nodded once, staring back at the table.

Ruairí slid the folder forward. “These are the records from Celtic Thunder.” He said. “I own the company now. I didn’t at the time, but I have access to the old booking system. I brought everything connected to that night.”

Detective Ní Shaughnessy put on gloves before opening it.

“Tell me what’s inside.”

Ruairi answered, “Booking confirmation. Client name, Aisling Moriarty. Contact number, email, hotel, suite number, payment trail, performer schedule. There are two other names in the email chain, Niamh Buckley and Siobhán Daly.”

She turned the pages carefully.

“Muckross Park Hotel, Suite 307. Fourteenth of May last year. Deposit by card.”

“That’s it.” Ruairí said.

“Did the company keep a list of guests attending?”

“No. Just the client and secondary contacts.” Ruairi answered. “The previous owner was careless.”

The detective looked at Ciarán again and asked, “Do ye remember any other names from the room?”

But Ciarán shook his head, “I wasn’t there to make friends or meet anyone. Just entertain. I remember… one had a tattoo on her shoulder. Swallow I think. Heard the name Fiona, but that’s all.”

“Do ye remember anything else?”

Ciarán leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table’s edge, his eyes all but a blank stare. He finally said, “One said, ‘Don’t let him loose. He’s loving it.’” His voice broke on the last word. “I wasn’t.”

For the next while, they worked through the first account. Not every detail. Not the worst of it in full. But enough to begin. The booking. The hotel. The restraints. The gag. The number of women. The phones. How he left. Why he stayed silent. Why he was here now.

Ruairí answered what he could. He explained how Ciarán had told him, how he found the records, and what Celtic Thunder’s safety standards had been like under the previous owner. No escorts. No check-in protocol. No proper verification beyond payment and a booking name. A business model built on charm, cash, and hoping nothing went wrong.

“I’ve changed all of it.” Ruairí said. “No one goes alone now. No private booking without verified ID, proper contracts and a second person nearby.”

Detective Ní Shaughnessy made a note and said, “We may need a formal statement from ye as well.”

“You’ll have it.”

Garda Foley looked between them and his expression went hard. He said, “Do not contact any of the women yourselves. If there may be evidence on phones or accounts, we don’t want anyone warned.”

Ciarán looked at the folder, then at the detective across from him. “If they filmed it, can ye still find it after a year?”

“We can look.” she said. “We’ll start by preserving record and identifying the women involved. I won’t promise what we don’t know, but a year doesn’t automatically mean nothing can be recovered.”

That was when Ruairi asked, “What happens now?”

“We file the report today.” She said. “Then we arrange a fuller statement from ye. We’ll review the records you provided, seek hotel information, identify suspects and witnesses, and decide the next investigative steps. If there’s enough evidence, a file can go forward for charging decisions.”

“So it doesn’t end today.” Ciarán asked, already knowing the answer.

“No.” She answered with regret. “But it starts today.”

At last, the initial report was completed. Ruairí signed a receipt for the copies he had handed over. Detective Ní Shaughnessy gave Ciarán her card with another number written on the back.

“If ye remember anything else, even if it seems minor, write it down and contact me.” She said. “NaI mean anything. Don’t decide it doesn’t matter before we’ve looked at it.”

Ciarán took the card and said, “Thank ye.”

“And Ciarán?”

He looked up.

“You did the right thing coming in.”

Outside, the rain had not stopped. If anything, it seemed to have picked up.

Ciarán and Ruairí stood under the narrow shelter by the station entrance, both of them quiet as the town continued to move on around them. Ruairí held the now-lighter folder under his arm.

“You did it.” He said at last. “Proud of you man.”

Ciarán choked back a half laugh, saying, “Don’t be. I about half shit myself a dozen times in there.” Causing Ruairi to chuckle and wrap his free arm around his buddy’s shoulder and he led him toward the car.

“Come on.” He said. “I’ll bring ye somewhere quiet. Tea, food … whatever ye can stomach.”

Ciarán slipped Detective Ní Shaughnessy’s card into his coat pocket.

“I can’t.” He answered with regret. “I have to fly back to America.”

“Ciarán.”

“I’ll come back for the full statement.” Ciarán interrupted before Ruairi could start. “I’ll answer whatever they need. But I have work.”

Ruairí’s expression softened, anger and worry turning into something quieter. “How do you feel?”

Ciarán considered that, walking around to the passenger side of the car and he finally answered, “Like I’m still carrying it. But maybe not alone.”

Ruairí nodded once. “You never were.”


“Okay, I’ll admit it. When I saw me name in another ladder match, I near laughed myself into a spiritual crisis.”

“I still don’t understand how climbing a ladder is meant to decide who the better athlete is. I’ve never understood it. Wrestling is meant to be about skill, endurance, technique, and having enough sense not to stand underneath another man who’s holding a steel chair above his head. Not by settling athletic excellence by seeing which one of us can scramble up a ladder like a panicked cat trying to escape a bath!”

“But the King has spoken, hasn’t he? An’ when the King speaks, the rest of us poor souls are left to either obey or get flattened beneath the royal madness of it all. So here we are! Ciarán Doyle versus LJ Kasey versus Logan Hunter in a King’s Ransom Ladder Match, and hanging above that ring is something worth breaking your back for! The winner gets a Roulette Championship opportunity at Summer XXXTReme XIV!”

“That is not some wee pat on the head. That is not a participation medal handed out because everyone tried hard and remembered to bring their boots. It’s bigger than that. That is a direct line to the Roulette Championship, and a direct line to Summer XXXTreme XIV!”

“And I’ll tell ye this much. For all I’ve done in my life, for all the places wrestling has dragged me, for all the countries and arenas and dressing rooms I’ve walked through, I have never been on a cruise. Not once! So if winning this match sends me toward a Roulette title shot on a bloody cruise ship, then I’m taking that as a sign from the universe! A deeply dramatic sign with too many moving parts and likely overpriced drinks. But a sign all the same!”

“And I’d be a fool not to listen.”

“Now, LJ Kasey. I’ll start with you because respect should be given where respect is earned, and whether anyone likes it or not, you’ve earned yours a dozen times over.”

“For a long time, people looked at you and saw Miles Kasey’s little brother. That’s the shadow they put over ye. Miles, the World Champion. Miles, the name everyone knew. Miles, the man people measured ye against before ye’d even had the chance to stand fully on your own. And that’s not fair, but wrestling was never built on a level ground of bein’ fair. Wrestling is built on noise, ego, pain, and people believin’ in their own hype! So there ye were, LJ, trying to make your own name while everyone else kept attaching your brother’s to it like a tag ye couldn’t peel off!”

“But lately, ye’ve been doing the work.”

“Ye beat Brandon Hendrix recently, and that is no small thing. Ye’ve shown growth. Ye’ve shown focus. Ye’ve shown that ye are not content to be introduced as anyone’s little brother. Ye’re becoming your own man in that ring, and I respect that. I’ve also heard the whispers backstage that ye’re advancing your education, and if that’s true, then fair play to ye. Truly. In a business full of lads who think reading a contract counts as literature, seeing someone better himself outside the ring is worth acknowledging.”

“But here’s the thing, LJ. Once that bell rings and we start swingin'? That’s the precise moment when the respect doesn’t stop. It takes a pause. When that bell rings, I’m not looking at a lad building a future, getting better, sharpening himself, or proving people wrong. I’m looking at someone standing between me and a championship opportunity. And if ye’re between me and that ladder, between me and that contract, between me and the Roulette Championship, then ye are not someone I’m giving a kind path through the match.”

“Everything between the opening bell and the end is business. If I have to knock ye off the ladder, I will! If I have to drive ye down hard enough that ye’re left staring at the lights wondering where the last ten minutes of your life went, I will! And when it’s over, when the bell rings and one of us has won, the respect can resume. I’ll shake your hand. I’ll tell ye straight to yer mug that ye fought well.”

“But until then, ye’re in my way.”

“And then there’s Logan Hunter.”

“Now, Logan, I’d say it’s a pleasure, but I’m trying to cut back on the lying. Bad for the skin ye understand.”

“You are one of the most insecure men I have ever seen in this business, and that is saying something, because wrestling is packed wall to wall with lads whose entire personalities are held together by spray tan, theme music, and unresolved childhood trauma! But you? You carry that chip on your shoulder like it’s a championship belt! You walk around like the whole world owes ye something, as if every person in SCW should kneel down and apologize because Logan Hunter hasn’t been handed the respect he thinks he deserves!”

“And maybe, just maybe, the reason people don’t respect ye is because ye don’t act like a man worth respecting. I mean, look at what you’ve done with Carter. Helluva Bottom Carter, a graduate peer of yours. Someone who came through the same system, someone who should have been able to look at ye as a fellow fighter, maybe even could have been a friend or at least a traveling companion. But ye couldn’t even manage that, could ye? Ye couldn’t make nice, could ye? No, ye had to make it ugly. Ye had to actively try to ruin his career! And that tells me plenty about who Logan Hunter is!”

“It speaks badly enough that ye’d go after Carter the way ye have. But what speaks even worse is how ye manage to get through nearly every fight with Brooke sticking her plastic nose where it doesn’t belong!”

“Tell me something, Logan. Where would ye be without her? Where would Logan Hunter be if Brooke Shields wasn’t circling every match like a crow waiting for something to die? Where would ye be if she wasn’t grabbing ankles, causing distractions and making sure the poor wee delicate flower that is Logan Hunter doesn’t have to stand alone in the wind?”

“Maybe without Brooke, ye might actually have to learn how to stand on your own two feet. Maybe without Brooke, ye might have to win a match because ye were better, not because someone else tilted the board while the referee was looking the other way. Maybe without Brooke, ye might have to look in the mirror and realize that all that anger, all that swagger, all that precious wounded pride doesn’t make ye dangerous. It just makes ye loud.”

“This weekend, Brooke can scream, stomp around and make every face she likes at ringside. She can flap about like a seagull that’s spotted an unattended chip bag on O’Connell Street. But she can’t climb that ladder for ye, Logan. She can’t reach up and take that opportunity down for ye. And when the match gets ugly, when that ladder bites into your ribs and the crowd is roaring and LJ is fighting and I’m coming straight at ye, she can’t lend ye a spine!”

“And that’s your problem, lad. You’ve spent so much time hiding behind Brooke’s skirts that if someone handed ye a backbone, ye’d probably ask her where to put it!”

“That’s the difference between us. I know what it means to walk into a room afraid and walk out anyway. I know what it means to have people doubt ye, judge ye an’ laugh at ye. I know what it means to have your name spoken by people who don’t know the first bloody thing about who you are behind the cameras! And I know what it means to keep moving, not because it’s easy, not because it’s pretty, but because stopping would give too much power to people who don’t deserve another inch of your life!”

“So when I walk into Climax Control, when that bell rings, there are no brothers to hide behind. No girlfriend to climb for ye. No excuses worth a damn! There is only the ladder, the contract, the title shot, and the man willing to fight hardest to claim it!”

“I may not like ladder matches. I may not understand why this company keeps trying to turn professional wrestling into a construction accident with ring ropes. But I understand opportunity. And when I reach the top, when my hand closes around that King’s Ransom, there won’t be a question beside my name. There won’t be anyone left to say I didn’t earn it. There’ll only be Ciarán Doyle, standing above the both of ye, with the next shot at the Roulette Championship in my hand!”

“And lads?”

“That’s not luck. That’s not fate.”

“It’s just business.”

7
Supercard Archives / No More Borrowed Silence Part 2
« on: May 01, 2026, 09:43:18 PM »
Killarney, County Kerry, Ireland.


The Doyle house looked smaller to Ciarán now, though he knew it wasn’t.

The sitting room still had the same worn sofa pushed against the wall, the knitted throw folded over the back because Siobhan insisted it looked nicer that way. The bookshelf was still jammed with paperbacks, framed school photos, old DVDs, and the little ceramic cottages she kept buying from charity shops while claiming she had no interest in collecting anything. The mantelpiece carried the usual family pictures in mismatched frames: Róisín with a missing front tooth, Ciarán scowling in a school uniform, Ciarán at some cousin’s wedding with his arm around his sister.

The kitchen sat just beyond the sitting room through the open doorway. It smelled faintly of tea, toast, and furniture polish - the three staples of the Doyle household. The little table by the back window was marked from years of family life: plates set down too hard, homework spread across it, bills sorted into piles, elbows during arguments, and cups of tea offered afterward because the Doyles had never been good at sitting quietly for very long.

For most of his life, home had meant noise. His mother calling from one room to another. His father grumbling about the heating. The radio left playing in the kitchen. The kettle whistling. Doors opening and closing. Someone asking where the good scissors had gone, and no one admitting they were the last one to use them.

Tonight, the quiet was wrong.

Siobhan Doyle stood near the counter with both hands wrapped around a mug she had not touched. She had fussed over him the second he stepped inside. She had pulled him through the door, touched his damp hair, scolded him for not calling, asked whether he had eaten, whether he was freezing, whether he was hurt, and asked it all so quickly he had barely managed to answer one question before the next followed.

Patrick Doyle had come in from the sitting room after hearing Siobhan say their son’s name in a tone she did not use for anything ordinary. He had stopped when he saw Ciarán in the hall, rain on his jacket and a bag at his feet.

“Jaysus!” Patrick had said, surprise breaking across his face before he covered it with habit. “Look what the cat dragged in!”

That was Patrick all over. A rough edge first, warmth underneath. But then he had looked at Ciarán properly, and the smile had faded.

Now the three of them were in the kitchen. Siobhan had made tea because Siobhan always made tea, but no one had settled into it. Patrick sat at the table with his forearms resting on the wood, his mug untouched in front of him. Siobhan kept half-standing by the counter, as if sitting down would make the situation too real. Ciarán stood near the back door, one hand still gripping the strap of his bag even though he had already set it down.

“Will ye sit down, love?” His mum asked. “You’re makin’ me nervous standin’ there like you’re waitin’ for a bus.”

Ciarán looked at the chair across from his father. He nodded once, pulled it out, and sat.

Patrick watched him, not angry, not impatient, just worried. He had always been quieter than Siobhan when things were serious. Siobhan filled the room because she could not help herself. Patrick went still and waited until he knew what needed doing.

“All right.” Patrick said carefully. “What’s happened?”

Ciarán tried to answer. Nothing came.

Siobhan’s fingers tightened around her mug.

“Ciarán?”

He looked at her then, and that nearly finished him before he had even started. His mother was sitting at the same kitchen table where she had helped him with homework, fed him soup when he was ill, threatened to sell him to the Travellers if he dragged mud into the house one more time. Her hair was pulled back in a messy knot, her cardigan wrapped tight around her shoulders, and her face had gone pale with the understanding that this was not a surprise visit.

He swallowed.

“I need to talk to ye.”

Siobhan nodded too quickly. “Of course. Whatever it is, we’ll sort it.”

“No.” His voice came out sharper than he meant it to, and he winced at himself. “I don’t know if it can be sorted. Not like that.”

Patrick sat up a little. “Are you in trouble?”

Ciarán shook his head.

Patrick’s voice dipped lower. “Is Ruairí all right?”

That almost got him.

“Aye. Ruairí’s fine.” Ciarán rubbed both hands over his face, dragging himself through the moment by force. “He’s part of why I’m here, actually.”

Siobhan finally sat down.

“What is it luv?”

Ciarán stared at the table. There was a nick in the wood near his right hand, from years ago when he had dropped a knife trying to cut birthday cake before anyone had told him he could. He remembered his mother shouting his name, not because of the table, but because the blade had landed near his foot.

He wished this could be that simple again.

“It was last year.” He said. “Before SCW. When I was still workin’ parties an’ for Celtic Thunder.”

Siobhan’s expression changed, but not with judgment. Just confusion, then worry. “You mean dancin’?”

Ciarán gave a short nod. “Aye.”

Patrick’s mouth pressed into a hard line. He had never been thrilled about that job. Ciarán knew that. They both knew it. They had worried, especially Siobhan, because private parties with drunk strangers were exactly the sort of thing parents imagined going badly. Patrick had made a few gruff comments about hen nights and eejits with too much money, but he had never made Ciarán feel dirty for it.

He continued. “It was a hen night. They’d booked me for a private job. Nothin’ strange at first. Loud women, drink everywhere, grabby hands, jokes that stopped bein’ funny long before they stopped makin’ them. I’d handled rooms like that before.”

Siobhan’s face went very still.

“I thought I knew how to manage it.” Ciarán said, his voice shaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “That was the job, wasn’t it? Smile, flirt, keep control, get paid, get out.”

Patrick had not moved. Siobhan lifted one hand toward her mouth, then lowered it again.

“But they didn’t care about the line.” He shut his eyes. “I said no.”

The words came out almost too quietly, but both of them heard him.

“I said no more than once. I told them to stop. I tried to get out of it. And they laughed.” He opened his eyes, though he could not bring himself to look at either of them. “They raped me.”

Siobhan made a small sound, broken off almost as soon as it began. Patrick went pale.

“They dog piled me.” He said. “Like it was funny. Like I was a whore they’d booked for the night. I’d shove one off and there’d be another one there.”

Siobhan’s hand went fully to her mouth then. Her eyes filled at once.

“They handcuffed me to the bed.” His voice cracked, but he kept going because stopping would be worse. “And when I tried to yell, they stuffed something in my mouth.”

Patrick closed his eyes and stayed still. Not calm. Not even close. But still, the way a man stands at the edge of a cliff and knows one wrong movement will send him over.

“And they took pictures.” He hated how small he sounded then. How ashamed. “Videos too. While it was happenin’. Like I wasn’t even a person anymore. Like I was just some filthy joke they could keep on their phones and laugh about later.”

He swallowed hard.

“I’m sorry.” He said quickly. “I know this is a horrible thing to put on ye. I know ye didn’t ask to hear it. I know it’s not fair of me to come here and drop it in your laps like this, but I couldn’t ring ye! I couldn’t say it down a phone! I couldn’t sit in a hotel room in Las Vegas and tell me mam that her son was raped like I was givin’ her a weather update!”

“Stop.” Siobhan’s voice was quiet, but it caught him hard enough to make him look at her.

Her eyes were full of tears. Her hand shook where it rested against the table. But there was steel in her too, the kind that had raised children, buried relatives, argued with doctors, and frightened teachers who had thought her son was easy to dismiss.

“You do not apologize to us for this!” She said. “You listen to me! You do not apologize for tellin’ us you were hurt! You do not apologize for comin’ home! You do not apologize for needin’ your parents!”

Patrick pushed his chair back a little, then stopped himself. His hands had curled into fists on the table. Ciarán saw it and braced before he could stop himself, his body reacting faster than sense could catch up.

Patrick saw that too. He opened his hands slowly and laid them flat on the table.

“I’m not angry at you, son.” He said, his voice rough. “Not one damn bit!”

Ciarán looked at him.

Patrick’s eyes were wet, though he was fighting it with the usual Doyle stubbornness, as if swallowing it down might make him useful.

“I am angry.” Patrick said. “God help me, I’m angry enough to tear the world apart! But not at you. Never at you.”

Ciarán looked away, blinking hard.

“I thought ye’d hear what the job was and maybe, I don’t know.” A short, bitter laugh slipped out of him. “Maybe ye’d think I should’ve known better. That I put meself there. That I was askin’ for trouble because I made money takin’ me clothes off for drunk women who thought payin’ meant they owned me.”

Siobhan’s chair scraped back.

“Ciarán Doyle, look at me!”

He did. That tone had been law in their house since before he could remember. His mother leaned forward, both hands on the table now, her face wet and fierce.

“You were workin’!” She said. “That is all! You were doin’ a job. It does not matter what that job was. It does not matter what you were wearin’, what they paid! They had no right to you!”

His breathing shook.

“They had no right!” She repeated. “Not to your body. Not to your dignity. Not to one inch of my son!”

He looked down at himself, at the body that had carried him through matches and training and hotel rooms and airports and still felt, in that memory, like it had betrayed him.

“I froze, and they made proof of it. Pictures. Videos. Things I can’t stop existin’. I kept thinkin’ maybe if I’d done more, if I’d fought harder, if I’d been stronger, if I had been willing to hit a woman…”

He stopped there because the rest was too ugly.

Patrick stood and came around the side of the table. He did not crowd Ciarán. He lowered himself into the chair nearest him, close enough to be there, far enough not to box him in.

“No.” Patrick said. “You’re not puttin’ their crime on your shoulders because you weren't willing to hit a woman! Do you hear me?”

Ciarán could not answer.

“I don’t care if you fought like a wildcat or froze solid or went quiet or screamed the place down! None of that changes what they did!” Patrick stopped, cleared his throat, and tried again. “Survivin’ is not failure. It is not weakness. And it is not permission!”

“And those pictures…” His mum said, voice trembling. “Those videos. That shame is theirs, Ciarán. Do you hear me? Not yours.”

Ciarán shut his eyes. “It doesn’t feel that way.”

“I know,” Siobhan whispered. “God help me, love, I know it doesn’t. But we’ll keep tellin’ you until it does!”

Patrick glanced at Siobhan, then back to their son.

“And if those images exist, they may be evidence.” He caught the way Ciarán flinched at the word and softened at once. “Only if you choose to use them that way.”

Siobhan reached for a napkin and wiped at her cheeks, though it did no good.

“How long have you carried this?” She asked.

Ciarán looked down. “Since it happened last year.”

“Alone?”

He hesitated.

“Ruairí knows.” He added. “He’s the one who started gettin’ through to me about it. He found information. Told me there might still be a way to report it. I don’t know if anythin’ can come of it, but he said I had choices. That it wasn’t too late. That I deserved better.”

Patrick nodded once, grim but grateful. “Good lad, Ruairí.”

“Aye.” Siobhan said, wiping at her face again. “Remind me to thank him when I can speak without cryin’ all over him.”

For the first time since he had sat down, Ciarán almost smiled. It was small and gone quickly, but it had been there. Patrick reached toward the table and stopped halfway, leaving his hand there between them.

“I’m goin’ to put my hand here.” He said. “You take it if you want. If you don’t, that’s all right.”

Ciarán stared at his father’s hand.

Large. callused. Familiar. The hand that had steadied the back of his bicycle seat, fixed shelves, held school reports, ruffled his hair when he was small enough to tolerate it. Now it rested on the kitchen table, waiting.

Ciarán took it and Patrick closed his fingers around his son’s hand, gently.

“I see my son.” Patrick said. “That’s all. My son. Not dirty. Not weak. My son, who should never have had to carry this alone.”

Ciarán’s face almost crumpled, but he dragged it back into place. Siobhan stood, then stopped before coming closer.

“Can I hold you?” She asked.

All his life, his mother had hugged first and asked questions somewhere during or after. She had kissed cheeks, fixed collars, smoothed hair, swatted arms, grabbed his face between her hands to inspect him when he came home sick or drunk or heartbroken and pretending not to be. She had always touched him with the easy right of a mother whose love had built the first safe place he ever knew.

Now she was asking.

Ciarán tried to answer. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. His eyes burned. The room blurred at the edges. Then, he nodded once.

She came around the table slowly, giving him time to change his mind. He did not. Siobhan knelt in front of him first, not rushing him. She looked up at him with tears shining on her face.

“My beautiful boy.” She whispered. “My brave, stubborn, impossible boy.”

That did it. Ciarán broke.

Not neatly. Not pretty. His breath caught once, then again, and the strength he had been using to keep himself upright finally gave out. He bent forward, one hand over his face, and a sound came out of him that he would have buried anywhere else.

Siobhan rose and gathered him into her arms, careful at first, then tighter when he leaned into her. Ciarán gripped the back of her cardigan like he was a boy again, like he had come home from some terrible storm and only just realized how cold he had been. She held him with one hand cradling the back of his head and the other pressed between his shoulder blades.

“I’ve got you.” she said, her own voice breaking. “Mammy’s got you now.”

Patrick stayed beside them, his hand firm on Ciarán’s shoulder. He turned his face away for a moment, not leaving, not hiding, just trying to keep himself together enough to be useful. He did not ask for names. He did not shout. He did not make his son manage his anger.

Ciarán cried into his mother’s arms while the rain kept tapping against the kitchen window, and for the first time since that night, he was not the only one holding the truth.


“Japan!"

“I mean it, lads, I have been out here livin’ the dream. Properly livin’ it! First time in Japan, first time takin’ all of this in, and I’ve been walkin’ around like a tourist with no shame at all! Universal Studios Japan had me grinnin’ like an eejit! The food, the lights, the people, the sheer madness of standin’ there on the other side of the world thinkin’, ‘How in the name of Jaysus did a lad from Killarney end up here!?’"

“But every dream has a point where you have to wake up."

“And when I wake up from all the lights and the rides and the magic of bein’ in Japan, reality is standin’ right there in front of me. My reality at Into the Void XV comes in the form of Ryan Keys and Bulldog Bill Barnhart."

“Ryan, I’ll get to you in a minute, because you spoke to me like a pro, and I’ll answer you like one. But Bill? You and Bea stood there last week and reminded me of somethin’ I’ve been noticin’ for a while now."

“You’re a pair of liars! And ye’re hypocrites on top of it!"

“I listened to you, Bill. I listened to you say you don’t care what Ryan and I do. I listened to you talk about how this King For A Day match is goin’ to be rough and tough and brutal, like you’re some wise old veteran steppin’ into battle with a noble heart and sore knees. Then, before you could even finish congratulatin’ yourself, you were already cryin’ about outside interference."

“That’s not confidence. That’s an excuse you’re hopin’ to file after you lose!"

“You said you’re not a coward whose wrestling ability is so low that you need to cheat. And Bill, I’ll give you this much. That was funny. Not intentionally, maybe, but funny all the same. Because you and Bea have made an entire routine out of pointin’ at everyone else and shoutin’ ‘cheat’ while the two of ye are standin’ there with your hands still dirty."

“Every time one of ye is booked against anyone, it’s the same act. They’re cowards. They’re stabbin’ you in the back. They’re payin’ people to interfere. They’re part of some grand scheme against the Barnharts, as if everyone in SCW wakes up with one shared goal, and that goal is makin’ sure poor Bill and Bea don’t get their fair shake."

“Except that’s rubbish, isn’t it?"

“Bea interferes constantly. She distracts, she argues, she sticks her nose into places it does not belong, and then she stands there afterwards with that innocent little act, denyin’ everything like we all didn’t just see it happen! And you, Bill, you turn a blind eye every single time. You’ll lecture the locker room about honor with Bea practically still wipin’ the fingerprints off the evidence!"

“That’s the Barnhart way. If someone else bends a rule, they’re disgracin’ professional wrestlin’. If Bea does it, she’s bein’ a manager. If anyone else shows up at ringside, it’s a conspiracy. If Bea and Iris are out there for you, we’re supposed to pretend it’s a sweet family day out and not another chance for ye to tilt the table when nobody’s lookin’!"

“And Bea, since you had plenty to say too, let’s not pretend you’re only there to hold the leash and nod along. You’ve made yourself part of the problem. You pull shady little deals, deny what everyone can see, and then act like SCW management personally came to your door with flowers and an apology for ever doubting you."

“Which means you’re either delusional, or you’re a feckin’ liar! An’ at this point, I’m not convinced those are separate categories."

“Bill, you said only a few wrestlers in SCW can come up to your level of performance. Then you praised Ryan Keys, which shocked me so badly I nearly checked to see if I’d lost hearin’ in one ear. But when you got to me, out came the usual Barnhart nonsense. Ciarán can’t lace his boots. Ciarán trips over his laces. Ciarán violates rules. Ciarán hires interference. Ciarán talks smack. Ciarán’s an idiot to be in wrestlin’."

“I beat you. That’s the bit you keep tryin’ to talk around. I got in the ring with you, and I beat you. You can insult me until your face turns purple. You can say whatever helps you get comfortable at night beside your wife, your bulldog, and your imaginary list of injustices. But the record says I beat you."

“And what did you do after that? You attacked Ryan and me … from behind. Not like the rough, tough, brutal warrior you keep advertising yourself as. You hit us cheap because the truth got too close and you didn’t like the look of it. Now you’re already spinnin’ it, tryin’ to make Ryan and me sound like the dangerous ones. Like we’re the cheats. Like we’re the ones plannin’ a grand conspiracy to rob you of what you think you’re owed."

“Are we meant to believe we imagined it? Did Ryan Keys and Ciarán Doyle suffer the exact same hallucination at the exact same time? Did poor innocent Bulldog Bill Barnhart stand there mindin’ his own business while the two of us dreamed up bein’ jumped from behind?"

“You’re not worried about Ryan and me cheatin’ because you think we’re cheaters. You’re worried because you know how you and Bea operate when things stop goin’ your way. You accuse everyone else first, so if you get caught later, you can shrug and say, ‘See? They would’ve done it too.’"

“So, Ryan ... What you said about me last week? I heard it. And I respect it."

“You said I had momentum. You said I beat Bill, and you weren’t goin’ to take that away from me. You didn’t pretend I got lucky just because it would make your life easier. You said I handled him, and now I get to walk into Into the Void knowin’ I already proved somethin’."

“That mattered, because it was honest, so I’ll be honest back."

“You’re dangerous. Not because of the jokes. Not because of the smile or the gear or the way the crowd reacts to you. Not because you’ve got that whole thing about you where it looks like you’re havin’ more fun than anyone else in the room, even while everyone else is tryin’ to break their neck. You’re dangerous because underneath all of that, you’re still payin’ attention."

“You proved that when you caught Bea. You called the match clean. You saw what needed to be seen, and that matters in a company where too many people only notice the truth when it benefits them."

“You’re a former two-time Roulette Champion, and I’m not goin’ to act like that means nothin’. It means you know chaos. You know stipulations. You know what it feels like when the match changes shape under your feet and you have to adjust before it eats you alive. You can walk into madness with a smile and still know exactly where the danger is comin’ from."

“And you were right. I am hungry. I want this. I want that crown. I want King For A Day. I want the power that comes with it and the chance to stand in front of SCW with everyone forced to listen, whether they like my accent, my attitude, my face, or not!"

“But you warned me about that too. You said hunger can make a man climb too soon. Momentum can mess with your head. One big win can make you think the next chapter owes you the same ending."

“That’s fair, but I don’t think the next chapter owes me a damn thing. I think I have to take it."

“Bill Barnhart did not give me momentum. I earned it by beatin’ him. SCW did not hand me this match because they felt charitable. I earned my spot. And when I’m in Osaka with that crown above the ring, I won’t be climbin’ because I think destiny is waitin’ up there with a welcome mat. I’ll be climbin’ because I know both of you will drag me down if I give you half a second."

“That’s what this match is. There’s a crown above the ring. There’s a ladder beneath it, and there are three men desperate enough to climb while the other two are tryin’ to tear them down."

“I came here to prove Ciarán Doyle is not a pretty little flash of momentum. I’m not a footnote in Bulldog Bill’s comeback story. I’m not a stepping stone in Ryan Keys’ next chapter. I’m not the lad who got lucky once and wandered into deeper water than he could swim in."

“So dream time is over. It’s time to call it what it is."

"Ciarán Doyle, King For A Day!"

8
Supercard Archives / No More Borrowed Silence
« on: April 25, 2026, 09:58:40 PM »
McMullan’s Irish Pub -
Las Vegas


McMullan’s Irish Pub sat in the heart of Las Vegas like a stubborn little piece of home that had refused to be swallowed by the desert.

Inside, it was all warm wood, dark booths and the steady low noise of people trying to forget they were in a city built on money and bad decisions. The restaurant section was busy without being loud. Most of the noise belonged to the bar, while the tables carried the softer sounds of diners eating and casual conversation.

And at a booth near the back, Ciarán Doyle sat alone with his back to the wall. He had not wanted to come out. He had stood in his hotel room for nearly twenty minutes, arguing with himself over whether hunger was worth the effort of being seen by other people. Still, leaving had felt like a bigger thing than it should have. In the end, hunger won out. Or perhaps pride. Maybe some tiny, exhausted part of him had finally gotten sick of staring at the same room, pretending it wasn’t really hiding.

Now he sat in McMullan’s, staring down at a plate of shepherd’s pie with a half-finished pint of Guinness beside it, trying to convince himself this counted as normal. He had eaten half of it already without tasting much of anything. He lifted his fork, stopped, then sighed through his nose.

The pub should have helped. Places like this usually did. There was comfort in Irish accents, authentic or Americans doing their best after a couple pints. There was comfort in the decor and the familiar names on the menu. It wasn’t Killarney. It wasn’t Kerry. Not even close.

But it was nearer than the hotel room, and for tonight, that had to be enough.

Ciarán reached for his pint and took a measured drink. The Guinness settled bitter and familiar on his tongue. He closed his eyes for a second, letting the cold glass rest against his palm, and tried not to think about the things Ruairí had said before he left.

Ruairí had always been able to get under his skin, not because he was cruel, but because he loved Ciarán too well to let him get away with lying to himself. There had been no grand speech. Just Ruairí’s voice, steady and careful, telling him what could be done. Everything he needed to know if he wanted justice enough to humiliate himself.

And how none of it had been Ciarán’s fault.

That was the part that kept returning to the forefront of his mind. None of it had been his fault. Simple words, but cruel. Because if he believed them, then he would have to face what came next. He would have to admit how much of himself he had folded away so no one else would notice the damage. He would have to stop calling survival the same thing as healing.

A burst of laughter came from two tables over. Ciarán glanced that way out of instinct, then lowered his eyes again when he saw nothing but a family sharing chips from a basket. Normal. Harmless. The kind of thing that made him feel foolish for being wound so tight. He was about to take another bite of his dinner when a small voice spoke beside the booth.

“Excuse me?”

Ciarán looked up. A boy stood there, barely having entered his teens, holding a phone in both hands. He was a lad that was obviously working overtime to make himself seen and be comfortable whether people liked what they saw or not. He had dyed hair, a denim jacket covered in pins, and the anxious look of someone who had spent five full minutes talking himself into taking three steps across a restaurant.

Ciarán blinked once, then softened his face.

“All right there?”

The boy swallowed and found his voice, “You’re Ciarán Doyle, aren’t you?”

“I am, yeah.”

“I’m sorry. I know you’re eating. I just...” The boy glanced down at the phone, then back up. “Could I maybe get a picture? It’s okay if not.”

Before Ciarán could answer, a female adult hurried up behind him, face flushed with embarrassment.

“Oh my God, I am so sorry!” The parent put a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. “We talked about not interrupting you while you’re eating. I’m sorry, he just got excited!”

Ciarán set his fork down and shook his head.

“No harm done. Truly.” He gave the boy a small smile and beckoned the boy closer with a wave of his hand.

“Are you sure?” The Mom asked. “We can leave you alone.”

“`Course I’m sure.” Ciarán slid out of the booth and straightened his jacket. “Come on, then. We’ll make it a good one, yeah?”

The boy’s face lit up so brightly that, for a moment, Ciarán forgot the heaviness that had followed him all day. They stood beside the booth while the Mom took the phone. The boy hovered awkwardly, unsure how close to stand, so Ciarán angled himself beside him with respectful space and gave the camera a faint smirk that betrayed more confidence than he felt. The Mom counted down, took the picture, then checked it.

“That’s great.” She said. “Thank you so much.”

The boy took the phone back but did not immediately move away. His fingers tightened around it.

“I just wanted to say…” He began, then stopped, cheeks going red. “Sorry. This is stupid.”

Ciarán’s expression changed, just slightly.

“It’s not stupid if it matters to you.”

The boy looked up at him then, and there was something painfully sincere in his face.

“I just wanted to say … thank you. For, you know, being yourself. The way you talk and dress and carry yourself and don’t apologize for it.” He gave a nervous little shrug. “It helped me. A lot. Helped me be more myself, I guess.”

The words landed harder than any chair shot ever could.

For a second, Ciarán did not answer. He knew how to take a compliment about a match. He knew how to shrug off praise and how to make himself sound clever and untouchable. He knew how to stand in front of a camera and sell himself to make certain all eyes would be on him.

But this was different. This was not about wrestling, not really. This was a boy standing in a Las Vegas pub telling him that his existence had made his life a little easier to bear.

And all Ciarán could think was that he was a fraud. He cleared his throat and asked, “What’s yer name?”

After a moment’s hesitation, the teen answered, “Kirk.”

“That’s not a small thing, Kirk.” Ciarán said quietly. “Bein’ yourself. Don’t ever let anyone make you think it is.”

The boy nodded, eyes shiny now. He said, “I won’t.”

The parent’s face softened. They thanked him again, more quietly this time, then guided the boy away from the booth.

Ciarán remained standing for a moment.

He watched them return to their table. He watched the boy sit down and immediately show the picture to someone else at the table.

Then Ciarán slowly sat back down.

His shepherd’s pie had begun to cool. He picked up his fork, but his appetite had gone strange and distant. The pub noise returned around him, but it felt muffled now, like he was underwater. He stared at the plate, at the pint, at his own hands resting beside them.

Thank you for being you.

Ciarán let out a breath that almost became a laugh and almost became something worse. “If only you knew.” He whispered to himself.

But that was the thing, wasn’t it? The boy did not know. His fans did not know. His opponents did not know. The people watching him walk into Into the Void XV against Bulldog Bill Barnhart and Ryan Keys did not know. Maybe Ruairí knew pieces now. Maybe enough pieces to understand the shape of it. But his family? His mother?

Siobhan Doyle knew her son as sharp-tongued, stubborn, dramatic and loving when cornered into admitting it. She knew the boy who had torn through the house in Killarney with too much energy and too many opinions. She knew the young man who abandoned a lucrative career as a male danger without explanation to join the rough and tumble world of professional wrestling without a single word of reason.

She did not know. He had kept what happened to him from her.

At first, he had told himself it was kindness. She did not need the pain. She did not need the details. She did not need to picture her son hurt or violated. What mother deserved that? What good would it do to put that image in her head?

Then, over time, the excuse had changed shape. It became easier to say nothing because saying something meant tearing the old wound open. It meant watching her face change. It meant hearing the silence after the words left his mouth. It meant letting himself be someone’s son instead of someone’s fighter, someone’s mouthy bastard, someone else’s problem.

Ciarán swallowed hard and reached for his Guinness.

By the time he left McMullan’s, the sky over Las Vegas had gone dark. He took a rideshare back to the hotel and said almost nothing to the driver beyond a polite greeting and a thank you. He had dragged himself out of the room to eat. Somehow, he came back with more baggage than what he left with.

The hotel room was exactly as he had left it. Too neat in the way temporary spaces always were. Ciarán shut the door behind him and took off his jacket and threw it over the chair. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together.

For a while, he did nothing. He thought of the boy in the pub.

“Thank you for helping me be myself.”

He leaned back and rubbed both hands over his face. His body ached from the tension he carried so constantly that he barely noticed it. Into the Void XV waited ahead of him. “Bulldog” Bill Barnhart waited ahead of him. Ryan Keys waited ahead of him. The match, the chance to prove himself on a stage that could change the shape of things.

But none of that felt as terrifying as him picking up the phone.

Ciarán glanced at it where it lay on the nightstand. The screen was dark. He did not need to touch it to know what he would find. Messages he had answered too late. Calls he had dodged with excuses. His mother’s name, buried beneath travel alerts and work texts. But he picked it up anyway.

The screen lit against his face.

There was a message from his Mum from two days earlier.

“Saw the card for Into the Void. Your auntie says Bill Barnhart looks like he bites. Please don’t let him. Your sister thinks Ryan Keys is cute. Call when you can, love. Proud of you.”

Ciarán stared at the words until they blurred.

It was so like her that it hurt. Love and pride offered without condition. He could do it now. He could call and tell her everything through a phone line from a hotel room in Las Vegas, sitting on a bed that was not his, under lights too harsh for a confession that old. He could hear her voice crack from thousands of miles away and hate himself for not being there to take her hand.

No. Not like that.

Some truths deserved to be spoken face to face.

Ruairí had given him information. The fan had given him a mirror. His mother had given him a way back without even knowing it.

Ciarán lowered the phone slowly into his lap.

For a second, the old voice rose up in him. The one that said he was being selfish. The one that said his mother did not need this. The one that said he had lived this long with the silence, so what was another week, another month, another year?

Then he remembered the boy’s face.

He remembered telling him he was proud. He remembered Ruairí looking at him like he was worth saving, even when he did not know what to do with that. He remembered his mother’s message, waiting there with a joke and a warning and pride that had never asked him to earn it.

Ciarán tightened his grip around the phone and he started to dial.

Killarney, County Kerry, Ireland.


Rain pelted the edges of the street beneath a gray sky. Having been in Las Vegas for so long, Ciarán had to admit he missed the constant rains of Ireland, something fierce.

Siobhan Doyle’s house sat in a modest middle-class neighborhood on the quieter side of town, away from the worst of the tourist rush. The homes were well kept, a mix of semi-detached and detached houses with tidy front gardens, low stone walls, narrow drives, and bins tucked near side gates. A few had flower boxes beneath the windows despite the weather. A bicycle leaned against a house beneath a covered entry. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked once and then lost interest in whatever had captured its attention.

The house that Ciarán and his family grew up in.

Cream walls. Dark roof. A blue-gray front door with a brass letterbox polished brighter than necessary. Two pots of flowers sat on either side of the step, because his mother had always believed a front door should look like someone cared. The curtains in the sitting room window were half drawn, and warm light glowed behind them.

Ciarán stood at the edge of the small front path with his bag in one hand and for a moment, he could not move. The hardest distance was not the distance between Las Vegas and Ireland. It was the few steps between the pavement and that blue-gray door.

Through the window, he saw a shape move behind the curtain. His mother, perhaps. Somewhere inside that house was the smell of tea, laundry detergent, old photographs, and the particular warmth of a simple thing called home.

Then, he walked up the path. At the door, he set his bag beside him and lifted his hand to rap on the hard wood. He could have simply walked in. He had a key, it was his home. But a small part of him continued to hold back, feeling the part of an outsider.

Then footsteps approached from the other side. A latch turned, the door opened and Siobhan Doyle stood there.

His Mum.

Her red hair was lightly streaked with snow white strands and pulled back, a cardigan wrapped around her shoulders, and her face held the distracted look of someone expecting a neighbor, a parcel, or a question about a car parked too close to the curb.

Then she saw her son standing before her and her eyes widened.

The surprise came first. Then delight, sudden and bright, breaking over her face so openly that Ciarán felt every mile he had traveled lodge behind his ribs.

“Ciarán!”


"I’ll admit it. I’m excited."

"First time in Japan. First time standin’ under those lights in a country where wrestling is treated with the kind of reverence it deserves. There’s history there. There’s a standard there. And for a lad like me, walkin’ into Osaka for Into the Void XV with a chance to become King For A Day? That’s not a small thing. That’s one of those moments you know you’ll remember, win or lose."

"But let’s be honest, I’m not goin’ there to take in the sights, bow politely, and say thanks for havin’ me. I’m goin’ there to climb a ladder, take the crown, and change the course of my career!"

"Now, a Triple Threat match on its own is already a different beast, isn’t it? One-on-one, you know where the danger is comin’ from. You can read one man. You can feel the rhythm of one opponent. But when there’s three of you in there, the whole thing becomes timing and strategy. It becomes knowin’ when to strike, when to wait, when to let two other men beat lumps out of each other while you keep just enough in the tank to take advantage."

"But then SCW looked at that and said, ‘No, no, let’s make the poor bastards climb for it too!’"

"So now you throw ladders into the mix, and the whole match changes, doesn’t it? Strategy still matters, but suddenly speed matters more. Luck matters more. Placement matters more. Bein’ in the right place at the right second matters more than bein’ the toughest man in the ring."

"Because nobody has to pin anybody. Nobody has to tap anybody out. Nobody has to prove they can hold another man’s shoulders down for three seconds or twist a limb until he begs for mercy."

"No. This match is about one thing. Who can climb the ladder fastest and reach that crown above the ring."

"And that brings me to Ryan Keys."

"Ryan, I’m not goin’ to stand here and insult you like you’re some afterthought, because you’re not. You’re a former two-time Roulette Champion. Twice, you held a championship built on chaos, surprises, stipulations, and the kind of madness that makes lesser men panic before the bell even rings."

"That tells me plenty. It tells me you can adapt. It tells me you can take whatever gets thrown at you and find a way through it. It tells me you’re not afraid of a match where the rules can twist sideways and the floor can fall out beneath your feet. And in a ladder match, that matters. Maybe more than anything else."

"I respect that. I respect you. But respect doesn’t mean I’m steppin’ aside for you. Respect doesn’t mean I’ll hesitate if you’re halfway up that ladder and I’ve got the chance to pull you back down. Respect doesn’t mean I won’t use every second, every opening, every mistake you make to make sure you’re lookin’ up at me when I take that crown."

"You’ve been a Roulette Champion twice, Ryan. That’s an achievement. Truly. But at Into the Void, that experience only gets you so far. Because there’s no wheel to spin, no title to defend, no referee countin’ a fall. There’s only a ladder, a crown, and the question of whether you’re fast enough to reach it before I do."

"And then there’s Bulldog Bill Barnhart."

"Bill, do you know what annoys me most about you? It’s not the barkin’. It’s not the ego. It’s not even the way you carry yourself like every room should be grateful you bothered to walk into it. It’s that I respected you. I did. I respected what you’d done. I respected the career, the years, the toughness, the fact that you’ve been around long enough to earn the right to be called a veteran. I looked at you and thought, ‘There’s a man who’s seen it all and maybe there’s somethin’ to learn from him.’"

"Then you attacked me and Ryan from behind. And just like that, all that respect took a nasty little tumble down the stairs. Because that’s not veteran instinct, Bill. That’s not ring general brilliance. That’s not some grand psychological masterstroke from the old dog teachin’ the younger lads a lesson. That’s cowardice dressed up in experience."

"And I have to say, I’m startin’ to see how you and Bea are right made for one another. Because the two of you have this gift, don’t ye? This remarkable talent for actin’ like every nasty, underhanded, miserable thing you do is somehow everyone else’s fault. You swing first, then cry disrespect. You cheap-shot people, then talk about bein’ owed admiration. You behave like a bully, then expect the world to applaud your courage. Or ye just deny what everyone saw you do in the first place an’ tell bold faced lies!”

"No, Bill."

"You don’t get to attack people from behind and then demand to be treated like some noble old warrior. You don’t get to bark about respect after throwin’ yours in the bin. And you definitely don’t get to pretend I’m supposed to be intimidated because you’ve been around longer than me! Because all that experience won’t mean a damn thing if you’re too slow to stop me climbin’."

"And that’s what this match comes down to, doesn’t it? Not who hits hardest. Not who talks loudest. Not who has the most years behind him or the most titles on his résumé. Not who can grind out a submission or steal a pinfall when somebody else isn’t lookin’."

"No pins. No submissions. No escape clause. Just a crown hangin’ above the ring, three men beneath it, and one ladder that can turn a career in a matter of seconds."

"Ryan Keys wants to prove he’s still dangerous in chaos. Bulldog Bill Barnhart wants to prove the old dog still has teeth."

"An’ me?"

"I’m goin’ to prove that the future doesn’t ask permission from the past before it climbs over it."

"So Ryan, bring that Roulette Champion credibility. Bring the speed, bring the creativity, bring every bit of chaos you’ve mastered!"

"Bill, bring the size, bring the experience, bring Bea’s excuses with you if you need emotional support."

"But understand this, lads. I’m not goin’ to Osaka just to participate in some spectacle. I’m not goin’ all the way to Japan to be a footnote in someone else’s story. I’m not climbin’ that ladder for the sake of a nice photo and a polite little pat on the back. I’m climbin’ because that crown means control."

"It means opportunity. It means power. It means the chance to stand in front of SCW and say, ‘Now you listen to me.’”

“And maybe that’s what scares the two of you most. Because I’m not the biggest man in this match. I’m not the most decorated. I’m not the veteran. I’m not the former two-time Roulette Champion. But I am fast. I am hungry. I am clever enough to know that in a match like this, one second is all it takes."

"One slip. One bad landing. One hand reaching too slow. One look in the wrong direction. And while the two of you are busy provin’ who’s tougher, I’ll be the one above you, reaching for the crown."

"So at Into the Void XV, in Osaka, Japan, the three of us are goin’ to find out who can climb fastest, who can think sharpest, and who fate decides to smile on when steel ladders start crashin’ and bodies start fallin’."

"And if that sounds mad to you, well… I don’t get it either."

9
Climax Control Archives / The things we bury
« on: April 17, 2026, 08:17:22 PM »
Harry Reid International Airport -
Las Vegas, Nevada


The departure lounge at Harry Reid International was alive and active in that way that airports always seemed to be. Rolling suitcase wheels rattled over the tiled floors. A baby cried somewhere near the windows before being soothed by a mother. Parents ignored their children as they ran rampant around the seats and passengers, disturbing everyone else but their ignorant parents. Two businessmen in business suits spoke to one another in clipped, impatient exchanges. Overhead, announcements were made every few minutes for flight departures and arrivals.

Ciarán Doyle sat slouched back in one of the lounge chairs, long legs stretched out in front of him, a paper cup of coffee held in one hand while the fingers of the other drummed along the arm rest. He had managed to secure an Escort Pass so he could bypass security and accompany his best mate to the gate and bid him a proper farewell. At Ruairi’s insistence of course. Ciarán had been prepared to say goodbye at check in but he knew deep down his longest and best friend deserved better. And Ruairi?

Ruairí O’Callaghan sat across from him with his carry-on at his feet and the easy posture of a man who looked calm if you didn’t know him well enough to see the tension in his shoulders. He glanced toward the departure board, then over at his friend. “Thanks for seein’ me off.”

Ciarán snorted and took a sip of his coffee. “You didn’t give me much choice, did ye? Yer man was literally jumpin’ on me fecking bed to wake my arse up so I could go with you!”

That got the ghost of a smile from Ruairí.

Ciarán shook his head and looked around at the crowd moving through the lounge. “Still don’t know why in God’s name we had to get here three hours early. Yer not flyin’ to the moon, lad.”

Ruairí leaned back, exhaled through his nose, and said, “Because I wanted to talk.”

Ciarán closed his eyes at once, not dramatically, just tired of avoiding the topic he knew Ruairi wanted to discuss. “Ruairí…” He muttered past gritted teeth.

“No.” Ruairí’s voice stayed level, his eyes never leaving Ciarán’s own even if he wouldn’t meet them directly. “Don’t ‘Ruairí’ me like that and hope I’ll drop it. I won’t. I’m just as stubborn as ye happen to be!”

Ciarán opened his eyes and stared past him for a moment, toward a television mounted above the bar that nobody seemed to be watching. He rubbed at the back of his neck. “We’re in an airport.”

“Aye.” Ruairí said. “And I’m on a plane in a bit, so now’s when ye’re gettin’ it.”

He bent down, unzipped his carry-on, and pulled out a slim folder thick enough to mean something. He held it out. Ciarán looked at it, then at him, but made no move to take it at first. “What’s that?”

Ruairí kept his hand there until Ciarán finally reached for it. “Information.”

“That clears everythin’ right up.” Ciarán retorted sourly.

“It’s the file on the women from the hen party.”

Ciarán’s fingers tightened around the folder.

He didn’t open it. In truth, he wanted to drop it, or even better? Toss it in the nearest dust bin. His eyes just rested on the plain cover like it might burn him if he looked too hard. Around them the airport carried on in its usual rhythm, ignorant to the weight that had settled between the two men.

He set his coffee aside with trembling fingers and he opened it.

Pages. Notes. Names. Dates. Location. Typed records. Handwritten annotations. The sort of neat, careful bookkeeping only a paranoid bastard or a very thorough one would ever keep. Ciarán flipped one page, then another, his face giving away almost nothing except the slow hardening around the eyes.

“The former boss at Celtic Thunder kept records.” Ruairí said quietly. “Who hired who. Where they were sent. What for. Dates, payments, all of it.”

Ciarán let out one hollow breath that might have been a laugh if there were any humor left in him for it. “And what exactly am I meant to do with this?”

Ruairí didn’t answer right away. He let the question hang there because both of them knew it wasn’t really a question. It was resistance.

“What happened to ye doesn’t vanish because ye’d rather bury it.” Ruairi finally answered. He whispered so (hopefully) only Ciarán would hear. “And the statute of limitations on sexual assault in Ireland doesn’t run out near as quick as other crimes. Ye could have them charged.”

Ciarán’s gaze stayed on the folder, but something in his face shifted then, not toward anger, but toward that old familiar hurt he hated anyone seeing.

“Could I really?” Ciarán snapped the folder shut. “Because from where I’m sittin’, what I see is a stack of paper and a year gone by and me standin’ there tellin’ people what happened while they look at me like I’ve grown a second head. That’s what I see.”

Ruairí leaned forward, forearms on his knees. “And what I see is my best friend destroyin’ himself pretendin’ he’s grand.”

Ciarán’s head came up at that, emerald green eyes glaring at his friend’s chestnut brown ones. “I just want to forget it!” He said, and the words came out raw, stripped of the sharp edge. “Just leave it buried and let it stay there!”

Ruairí’s expression tightened, not with anger but with the strain of caring too much to let it go. “And how’s that workin’ out for ye?”

Ciarán said nothing so Ruairí pressed on. “That’s why ye’re in the state ye’re in! That’s why ye’ve been driftin’ from one bad week to the next, tellin’ everybody ye’re fine when yer plainly not! It can’t keep goin’ on like this. It’s eatin’ ye alive!”

The words landed hard because they were true. Ciarán looked away, jaw tightening. He watched as a little girl ran after her father with a stuffed rabbit tucked under one arm. Somewhere behind them, a gate agent called for priority boarding. A burst of laughter came from the bar, too bright and careless for the moment.

Ruairí lowered his voice. “And it’s not just hurtin’ you anymore. It’s hurtin’ yer family. It’s hurtin’ me.”

That brought Ciarán back around. For a moment he simply stared at his friend, as if he hadn’t expected the line to be drawn there, not between them. His throat worked once. The fight drained out of his face in a visible, painful degree.

“Don’t…” He said, but there was no heat in it.

“I will.” Ruairí said. “Because somebody has to. I’ve watched ye try to carry this like it’s some private shame ye earned, and I’m tellin’ ye now, it’s breakin’ more than just you.”

Ciarán looked down at the folder in his hands. When he spoke again, his voice had gone rough around the edges. “I’ve no evidence.”

Ruairí gave a small, disbelieving shake of the head. “Ye told me those women took pictures. Videos too. Evidence like that doesn’t just disappear into thin air. Not now. Not with the way people hoard everything. Somebody has it. Maybe more than one somebody.”

Ciarán’s mouth twisted. “That’s meant to comfort me, is it?”

“No.” Ruairí said. “It’s meant to tell ye have options other than shutting down.”

He sat back then, letting the pressure ease just enough to breathe. “I can’t make ye do anythin’. I know that. But I’m askin’ ye, as yer best mate, to think about it. Properly think about it. Not for five minutes and then shove it in a drawer and tell yerself that counts.”

Ciarán was quiet for a long time. His eyes dropped to the folder again, and this time there was less fear in the look than exhaustion. The kind that came from carrying something far too long and knowing, somewhere deep down, that maybe the burial hadn’t worked as hoped.

At last he nodded. “I’ll think about it.”

Ruairí studied him as if measuring whether that was real or only enough to get through the conversation. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him because he gave a small nod of his own.

Ciarán looked up and the gratitude in his face was awkward and worn and sincere all at once.

“Thank ye.” He said.

Ruairí’s expression softened. “You don’t thank me for doin’ what I should’ve done sooner.”

“Aye, well. I am anyway.”

An announcement crackled overhead for Ruairí’s flight, boarding to begin shortly. Around them, travelers stirred, gathering bags and jackets and charging cords, lives resuming their restless forward motion. But neither man rose just yet.

They sat there in the middle of all that movement, the folder between them now, the conversation finally had, and for the first time in a long while Ciarán did not look like a man trying to outrun his own shadow. He only looked like one who had been forced to turn and face it.


“I’ll tell ye true, this one feels overdue.”

“For all the names I’ve stood across from since comin’ into SCW, for all the miles I’ve put on these boots already, it does surprise me that somehow I’ve not had the honour of steppin’ into the ring with Bulldog Bill Barnhart before now. That feels like one of those matches that ought to have happened already. One of those pairings ye just assume would’ve crossed paths by now. But here we are.”

“And I won’t pretend otherwise. There’s a part of me that’s lookin’ forward to this for more than just the fight itself, because when ye talk about Bulldog Bill Barnhart, ye’re not talkin’ about some flash in the pan or some lad who got hot for five minutes and started thinkin’ himself a legend. Ye’re talkin’ about one of the most experienced men on the entire roster. A man who has seen near enough everythin’ there is to see in this sport. Champion wherever he goes. Hall of Famer more than once.”

“A man who’s been in this game long enough to outlast trends, outlast eras, and outlast plenty of loud mouths who thought they were the next big thing. That kind of career does not happen by accident. That kind of name is not built on luck. It’s built on hard miles, hard matches, and a hard-headed refusal to go away.”

“So aye, there is respect there. There has to be. But respect and hesitation are not the same thing, and I’ve never been the sort to start shrinkin’ back just because the man across from me comes with trophies on the shelf and plaques on the wall. If anythin’, that only makes me want it more. Because if ye’re goin’ to prove yerself in this company, then ye do it against men who’ve already carved their names deep into it. And Bill Barnhart has done exactly that.”

“This match is important enough on its own, but what makes it all the more interestin’ is what it means beyond this one night, because this isn’t just Ciarán Doyle versus Bulldog Bill Barnhart. Not really. This is a sneak preview of what’s waitin’ down the road at Into the Void XV. This is a glimpse of what’s comin’ when the King for a Day match rolls around and me, Bulldog, and Ryan Keys all go to war for the right to reign over SCW for one day.”

“That prize is not some small trinket ye hang on the wall and forget about. That’s power. That’s control. That’s a chance to sit in the seat for one night and remind everybody what ye’d do with the crown if it were placed on yer head. So when I look at this match with Bulldog, I’m not just lookin’ at the man in front of me. I’m lookin’ at one of the men standin’ in my way at Into the Void. One of the men I’ll have to beat if I want that day to belong to me.”

“And the thing is, neither one of us was handed that spot. We earned it. All three of us did. Well … Bulldog and I did. No offense to Ryan, he’s a good sort but that little bitch Logan practically handed the third spot to him.”

“In Osaka, both me and Bulldog punched our tickets. We fought our way into that match. We proved we belonged in that conversation. So this is not about some random draw or some convenient booking. This is two men who earned their place, steppin’ into the ring before the bigger collision, gettin’ a chance to test the waters and maybe learn somethin’ before the stakes rise even higher.”

“That’s what makes this dangerous. Because the man who wins this one gets momentum, aye, but he also sends a message. And messages matter in this business. If I beat Bulldog Bill Barnhart, then I’m not just sayin’ I can hang with one of the most decorated men on this roster. I’m sayin’ I can beat him. I’m sayin’ that when the lights are brightest and the names get bigger, Ciarán Doyle does not get smaller. I rise to it. That’s the kind of statement a man remembers.”

“Now as for the third man in this whole affair, Ryan Keys, he’ll have a seat closer than most this time around because the Party Boy is the special guest referee. So here’s hopin’ Ryan can call things right down the middle, because I’d hate for any excuses to start floatin’ about after the fact. I’d hate for fingers to be pointed at stripes and count speeds and who saw what when the bell rings and the dust settles.”

“I’d rather it be exactly what it ought to be. Two men who earned their place, one referee who’d best remember his job, and a fight that gives the whole world a taste of what’s comin’ at Into the Void XV.”

10
Climax Control Archives / Do Not Disturb Part III
« on: April 03, 2026, 09:14:26 PM »
Las Vegas -
Peppermill Restaurant and Fireside Lounge


Ruairi looked over at Ciarán on the Uber ride over to Peppermill and his heart went out to this best friend of so many years and what he had gone through and what it was doing to him, both mentally and physically. He still looked worn out. There was no getting around that. He was barely even speaking to him, but that was to be expected. He did just arrive on his ‘door step’ from out of nowhere, no warning, nothing. He all but forced him into the shower to wash what had to be days of unwashed grime and stank off of his body, then dragged him out of that room, practically kicking and screaming, and all to play unexpected and unwanted host.

Peppermill glowed ahead of them when the car pulled in, all bright neon and modern excess. It was places like these that warned people that had seizures it might be best to stay away. And one look at Ciarán had him wondering if maybe he had taken things a step too far - but they had come this far so if things went south, Ruairi had only himself to blame for trying.

Inside, it was exactly the kind of place Ruairi had hoped for. Plush booths, low colored lighting, mirrored surfaces, the whole thing practically screamed that Vegas glamour that managed to be both ridiculous and comforting at once.

Ruairi stopped just inside and looked around with deep approval. “Ah now! This is beautiful!”

Ciarán led him toward a booth, grumbling. “You’ve very low standards.”

“I’ve excellent standards! That’s why I’m thrilled.” Ruairi protested. “Seriously, Ci! Go find this in Ireland!”

Once they were seated, Ruairi opened the menu and nearly swore at the size of it. “Fecking hell!” Okay, so he did in fact swear.

Ciarán glanced up, not bored but his facial features somewhat slacked. “What?”

“The portions!” Ruairi looked up in both shock and awe. “Are they feeding us or preparing us for next winter!?”

“That depends.” Ciarán answered. “Are you planning to hibernate?”

“I might have to after this!”

For a moment, it felt easy. Not perfect, not untroubled, just … easy. Then Ruairi, looking at Ciarán properly across the table for the first time since they’d come in, saw the strain beginning to creep back in around the edges. Tiredness. Unease. The effort of being out in public, of being all right enough to pass. It was not hard to spot once you knew him. And Ruairi had known him for over two decades.

Ciarán must have felt eyes on him, because he dropped his eyes to the menu and said lightly, “What? Still trying to revive the dead?”

The words hung there. Ruairi went still. Ciarán did too, as if he had heard himself a fraction too late.

The sounds of the diner carried on all around them, but at their table the air changed. Ciarán’s face emptied out, not into anger but into that terrible blankness Ruairi had begun to fear most.

“Ciarán…” He said quietly.

Ciarán stared at the menu without seeing it. “Don’t.”

“No.”

“I mean it!”

“And I mean no!”

Ciarán shut the menu and set it down, but he would not look up. “Leave it alone, Ruairi. I’m serious.”

Ruairi leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I did not come all this way to watch you talk about yourself like there’s already a gravestone somewhere with your name on it.”

That hit. Ciarán flinched, just slightly, but enough. For a few seconds he said nothing. Then, without lifting his head, he said, “I’m trying.”

Ruairi’s face softened at once, though his voice stayed steady. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” The words came out rougher than Ciarán intended. “You don’t know what it’s like when it keeps coming back. I can be standing somewhere ordinary, doing absolutely nothing, and it’s there again. The room. Their hands. The laughing…. Every time I think maybe I’m all right enough to get through the day, it starts over. I about had a fecking panic attack backstage when the lady reporter tried talking to me! I still owe her an apology!”

His fingers tightened around the edge of the menu until his knuckles whitened. “Do you know what that felt like when I told you? To say it out loud and make it real? To know people can look at me and know?”

Ruairi let him speak. He did not interrupt. Ciarán had been alone with this too long. If the words were coming, they needed room.

Ciarán gave a bitter, exhausted laugh that held no amusement at all. “It’s pathetic.”

Ruairi’s expression sharpened. “No.”

Ciarán finally looked at him then, and what Ruairi saw in his face made his chest ache. Shame. Anger. Misery. And beneath all of it, the wounded confusion of a man who had been hurt and then somehow convinced it had become a mark against him. Like he had been to blame simply because of his profession at the time.

“What else would you call it?” Ciarán asked. “I let it happen.”

Ruairi slapped his palm against the table hard enough to cut through the sentence before it could settle.

“No!” He said again, fiercer now. “You did not let anything happen! Something was done to you. Those are not the same thing, and I’ll not sit here while you take their filth and try to wear it like it belongs to you!”

Ciarán stared at him.

The waitress arrived then, completely oblivious to the dramatic friction between the two men, and the interruption saved them both from the moment tipping too far. She even seemed slightly flustered by the thick Irish accents of both men and Ruairi had to do everything seemingly possible to refrain from falling into his flirtatious stage. Ruairi ordered for himself, then waited while Ciarán chose something like a man who could not have cared less what was on the plate in front of him.

Once she’d gone, the silence returned between them but it had changed in the air. It was not a dead silence, just … subdued.

Ruairi sat back and rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I know I can’t fix it mate.” He said after a moment. “I know that. If I could, I would. I’d go back and tear the whole rotten thing apart with my bare hands. But since I cannot do that, I’m here. And I’ll stay as long as I need to.”

Ciarán swallowed hard.

Ruairi held his gaze. “You are still you. Not just what was done to you. Not just the worst night of your life dragged on repeat. You’re still here, whether you believe that or not.”

Ciarán’s eyes had gone bright, though the tears did not spill. “You shouldn’t have had to come all this way.”

Ruairi gave him a tired, fond look. “Who else was going to drag you into daylight and force you to share a meal with his bestie?”

That pulled the ghost of a smile out of him. He shook his head. “Please, never say ‘bestie’ again.”

“Would you prefer sexless lover?”

“Ruairi… yer going to make me taste bile here in a moment.”

“Non-romantic life partner it is then!”

Ciarán nodded, “And there’s the bile.”

The food arrived in absurdly generous portions, and Ruairi stared at the plates with open awe. It was pretty well known in international culture that portions in America were absolutely huge by comparison to most of the rest of the world. He shook his head and said, “Well now! If this doesn’t heal us, it’ll kill us!”

That got another laugh from Ciarán, quieter this time but easier.

They thanked the waitress with honest appreciation and the two men proceeded to eat.

Not elegantly, and not quickly, but properly. Ruairi kept the conversation moving in small, manageable ways and Ciarán listened. To everything and that part was vital. Sometimes he answered. Sometimes he only shook his head. But he stayed with him. He ate more than Ruairi had expected, and some of the strain in his face eased with the simple relief of no longer having to pretend he was fine.

After a while, Ruairi set down his fork and said, “I’m only going to say this once because I know you’ll start snarling if I get too emotional over me mate hurting.”

Ciarán glanced up from his half finished steak, wariness etched on his features but still, he said nothing in protest.

“You telling the truth did not make you weak.” Ruairi’s voice stayed low and steady. “It made you brave. Braver than most men I know. And if anybody has made you feel ashamed for that, they can fecking answer to me!”

Ciarán looked down at his hands for a moment before saying quietly, “You’re a stubborn bastard.”

Ruairi smiled. “You love me.”

For a little while after that, neither of them said much. They did not need to. The two men settled into a gentle, quiet routine over the next several minutes. Eating, drinking … Ruairi people watching as if he didn’t make a living taking his clothes off in places just like this. The waitress made her rounds, refilling drinks and constantly asking them how their meals were. Ruairi strongly suspected she was flirting but Ciarán brought that theory crashing down when he pointed out she was probably being overly friendly in hopes of a larger tip.

The quiet stretched on seemingly without end until at last Ciarán said, “I don’t know how to stop feeling filthy.”

Ruairi’s face changed. Not with pity. He would never insult him with pity. With grief, perhaps. With fury on his behalf.

“You start by not being alone with that thought all the time, yeah?” He said. “You start by letting someone else be in the room when it comes on you. You start small. Eat your dinner. Open the curtains tomorrow. Get outside again the day after. Answer your phone when I ring. Say nothing if you’ve nothing to say, but don’t vanish.”

Ciarán’s gaze stayed on the table.

Ruairi went on, gentler now. “You don’t have to climb out of it all at once, Ci. You just have to stop digging the hole deeper.”

That landed between them and stayed there.

When they finally got up to leave, night had taken full hold of the city. Ciarán stood beside him outside of the restaurant, still tired and hurt, but no longer looking quite so much like some Irish ghost of his usual self. Under the neon, there was a little more color in his face. A little more steadiness in the way he held himself.

Ruairi glanced at him. “Back to the hotel?”

Ciarán was quiet long enough that Ruairi thought perhaps the day had caught up to him all at once. Then he looked out toward the street, toward the lights of the city.

“Walk a bit first.” He said.

Ruairi did not grin, because that would have ruined it. He only nodded once, easy and matter-of-fact. And together they started down the pavement into the neon glow of the city.


“Haven’t we already done this, Brayden?”

“That’s not even me trying to be clever. That’s not me reaching for some grand opening line so the people at home can all nod along and pretend they’re hearing something profound. No, that’s a genuine question, because I could swear I’ve stood across from you before with people saying the exact same shite that they’re saying now.”

“ Ciarán Doyle’s first match. Ciarán Doyle’s debut. A newcomer. An unknown. And over in the other corner, poor Brayden Williams, with all the expectation and all the desperate hope piled onto his back, because surely, surely this would be the night he finally got it done. Surely this would be the night the third-generation wrestler finally found his footing. Surely this would be the moment where the story changed for you and all the talk stopped being about what you might become and started being about what you are.”

“And then the bell rang and I beat you and then the streak rolled on.”

“What was it, Brayden? 0-12?”

“That’s not me being cruel. That’s me being accurate. That’s me reminding you, and maybe reminding myself as well, that the very first time I stepped into an SCW ring, they put me across from you because they thought they were doing you a favour. They thought you were getting handed a win that night. They thought you were getting a lad making his debut, maybe a bit green, maybe a bit nervous, maybe a bit overwhelmed by the lights and the moment and the occasion.”

“Instead, what you got was me.

“And what I got was a lesson in who Brayden Williams is. A man with a famous surname an’ lineage. A man who keeps being introduced like greatness is inevitable, like it’s hereditary, like all you have to do is turn up and eventually the bloodline does the heavy lifting for you. Only that’s never really happened for you, has it?”

“That’s the bit I cannot get past with you, Brayden. It’s not even the losses. Christ, everybody loses! Everybody gets beaten. That’s wrestling. That’s sport. That’s life. What I cannot understand is why you keep insisting on being the locker room punchline. Why do you do it?”

“Why do you keep dragging yourself out there, wrapped in all that family history and all that expectation, only to keep giving people one more reason to laugh behind your back? Because don’t mistake silence for respect, laddie. A lot of the people around you have made peace with what you are. They don’t even say it with malice anymore, which is nearly worse.”

“They look at Brayden Williams and they think, there he is. There’s the lad with the great wrestling bloodline and none of the bite to match. There’s the lad born into a legacy he cannot carry. There’s the lad who keeps turning up with his chin high and his chest out, only to walk back through the curtain having done absolutely nothing to change the topic of conversation.”

“You’re a third-generation wrestler, aye. We all know it. We’ve all heard it. It gets repeated often enough. But has it ever occurred to you, even once, that maybe the greatness of your family skipped your generation? That maybe all that history behind you is just that? History?”

“That maybe you’re not the next chapter in a proud line of warriors. Maybe you’re jest the answer to the question nobody wants to ask out loud. What if the name is the most impressive thing about you?”

“That’s the thing that should keep you awake at night, Brayden. Not me. Not this qualifier. The thing that should haunt you is the possibility that you’ve already shown us exactly who you are, and it simply is not enough.”

“Now as for me, this is where things get interesting. Because this is not just some ordinary match tucked in the middle of the card, forgotten the second it’s over. This is a King for a Day Qualifier. This matters. Win here, and you move on to Into the Void XV. Win here, and you keep marching toward the chance to become King of SCW.”

“King. There’s a word that means something where I come from. Ireland knew kings long before this company ever thought to drape a crown over somebody’s skull and call it destiny. We had kings men still talk about. High Kings. Warrior kings. Men whose names outlived their bones because they conquered, because they endured, because when history came calling, they answered it with steel in their hands and fire in their hearts.”

“And now here I stand, an Irishman in a qualifier with a chance to move one step closer to a crown of my own. You want poetry in it, do you? There’s your poetry. The old kings of Ireland belong to history. The next one, Brayden, the world is looking at right now.”

“And that is the difference between you and me. You walk into this match hoping. Hoping the story changes. Hoping people finally see you as something more than the bloke who never quite got there. Hoping that maybe this time, maybe this one time, the name on the back of your gear becomes more than borrowed prestige.”

“I walk into this match knowing exactly what I am. I am the man who already beat you once when everyone thought you were due! I am the man who did not need a famous bloodline to make a name for himself like it was owed to me! And I am the man who intends to walk through you on the way to Into the Void XV!”

“ So aye, haven’t we already done this? Because from where I’m standing, it looks an awful lot like history getting ready to repeat itself!”

11
Climax Control Archives / Do Not Disturb Part II
« on: March 27, 2026, 09:26:07 PM »
La Quinta Inn & Suites -
Las Vegas, Nevada


“Ciarán Doyle!”

Ruairi calling his name hit Ciarán like a punch to the chest. For a second, he just sat there on the floor with the food in his lap, treating the situation like a bad neighbor. Like the situation would go away if he just ignored it. His heart was going too fast. His mouth was dry which made the hard swallow that followed damn near impossible. He could hear Ruairí shifting outside, close enough that he could hear his best friend moving on the other side of the wooden door.

“Ciarán!” Ruairí called again, the Irish accent behind the commanding tone was thick and familiar. “I know you’re in there! Open the door before I start gettin’ the staff involved!”

That threat made Ciarán move. The last thing he could handle was hotel security, a manager, a welfare check, strangers asking questions while he stood there looking like absolute dog shite. He pushed himself up, legs shaky, and crossed the room in a straight line because if he hesitated he might lose his nerve. His fingers fumbled with the lock. The chain rattled. He hated the sound of it. It made everything feel even more pathetic.

He cracked the door open and he found Ruairi’s hazel green eyes meeting his own emerald green ones. He was right there, almost like he’d been ready to catch the door the second it moved. He looked exhausted in the way people look after a long flight, jacket still on, hair slightly mussed, but his eyes were wide and sharp. They took one quick scan of Ciarán’s face and then softened into something Ciarán didn’t want to see.

“Jesus…” Ruairí said quietly, shaking his head in a dismal way that made Ciarán feel about so tall.

Ciarán’s throat tightened. He tried to straighten, tried to look normal, but it was pointless. He could see it in Ruairí’s expression. Ruairí wasn’t seeing “SCW wrestler Ciarán Doyle or that former dancer that used to bring the houses down.” He was seeing his best mate looking wrecked in a hotel doorway.

“What the hell are you doin’ here?” Ciarán snapped, forcing the words out before the emotion could smooth them over. “All the way from Ireland? In Las Vegas? Are ye out of your fecking mind!?”

Ruairí didn’t flinch. He just shook his head like Ciarán was the one being ridiculous.

“Aye.” He said. “Maybe I am, but you weren’t answerin’. You weren’t answerin’ anyone. You can’t just disappear like that and expect me to sit at home pretendin’ it’s grand. Jest be grateful it’s me an’ not yer mam!”

“I’m fine.” Ciarán said automatically, the lie coming out as easy as breathing. “I’m just takin’ some time to meself. You didn’t need to come.”

Ruairí’s eyebrows lifted, slow and disbelieving, and then his gaze flicked past Ciarán into the room. The kebab bag on the floor. The half-empty water bottles. The general stillness of the isolation that surrounded the place. His jaw tightened.

“Fine?” Ruairí repeated, like the word offended him. “You smell like you haven’t seen a shower in a week, and you look like you’ve been starin’ at the ceiling makin’ friends with cracks in the paint. So no, you’re not fine.”

Ciarán felt heat crawl up his neck. “Go back home.” He said, harsher than he meant. “Get on a plane and go back to Ireland. You can’t fix me by showin’ up like this.”

“I didn’t fly all this way to turn around!” Ruairí said flatly, heat behind his concern. “I’m here now.”

Ciarán stared at him, stuck between anger and something that felt too close to relief. Ruairí leaned closer, lowering his voice.

“Are you lettin’ me in or not?” He asked. “Because I’m not standin’ in this hallway all day.”

“Fecks sake!” Ciarán hesitated, then stepped back with a defeated exhale. “Fine! Come in, then.”

Ruairí walked past him and into the room like he belonged there, like this wasn’t awkward at all. That was what made it worse and better at the same time. He looked around, taking in the bed, the bland furniture, the way the room felt like it was being used as a hiding place instead of somewhere someone lived. His face tightened.

“This is where you’ve been living?” He asked, his words quieter now but no less concerned. “For how many months?”

“It’s a room.” Ciarán said defensively. He shut the door and locked it automatically. The click sounded loud. He hated that Ruairí probably noticed. And he did notice. He glanced at the lock, then back at Ciarán.

“Right.” Ruairi said, like he filed it away without comment. “Just a room.”

Ciarán’s mind jumped to the one thing he couldn’t stand the idea of. He turned on Ruairí, voice sharp. “Did you tell my mam?” He demanded. “Did you tell her what happened? Did you go runnin’ your mouth about it!?”

Ruairí’s eyes widened for a moment, then hardened with offence at the idea his best friend thought him capable of such a betrayal.

“No!” He said. “No, I didn’t. I told them I was comin’ to see you, that you were busy. That’s it. That’s all! I’m not takin’ that from you. If you ever tell them, it’s because you choose to.”

Ciarán’s shoulders dropped slightly. He nodded once, relieved and sick with guilt at the same time.

Ruairí shifted his weight, trying to find a way into the conversation without pushing too hard. He glanced at Ciarán, then at the floor.

“Listen…” He started carefully. “...About what you told me, about that night? About the bridal shower…”

“No.” Ciarán cut in fast. The word came out sharp with a finality behind it. “Not right now. I can’t. I-I’m not doin’ that right now.”

Ruairí held his stare for a second, then nodded once. “All right.” He said quietly. “Not right now.”

The silence that followed was thick, awkward, heavy with everything they weren’t saying between them. After all, what could be said between friends when one confided he was sexually assaulted? Ruairí broke the silence first, forcing a lighter tone.

“Y’know, I’ve never been to America.” He said. “Las Vegas is … somethin’. Like a fever dream with neon on top.” He tried a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “But I’d like to get somethin’ to eat that isn’t airport food. And you’re comin’ with me.”

“I already ate.” Ciarán said, even though it wasn’t true.

Ruairí pointed at the kebab bag like it was evidence. “You didn’t eat.” He said. “You ordered. There’s a difference.”

Ciarán’s mouth opened, then shut again. He hated how right Ruairí sounded. He hated even more that he cared.

“Come on.” Ruairí said, firmer. “We’ll go somewhere quiet. You can sit with your back to a wall if you want. I don’t care. But you’re not stayin’ in here.”

Ciarán stared at the floor, then finally sighed. “Fine.” He muttered. “We can go.”

Ciarán moved toward the dresser to grab his wallet and keys, but Ruairí stepped in his path and shoved a change of clothes into his hands, like he’d come prepared for this exact moment.

“Shower first.” Ruairí said.

Ciarán recoiled. “I’m not showerin’. We can go now.”

Ruairí pulled a face, exaggerated and blunt in the way only a best friend could get away with. “Ciarán?” He said, “You smell like you’ve been livin’ inside a sock. You’re showerin’. That’s not negotiable.”

“Go to hell.” Ciarán muttered, but there was no real bite to it.

“Aye.” Ruairí said, unfazed. “After you wash. Go on, get goin’.”

Ciarán stood there a moment, torn between embarrassment and the strange comfort of being bossed around by someone who genuinely cared. Then he turned and walked into the bathroom before he could change his mind. The door shut. A second later the shower came on, the sound of running water filling the room with steady noise.

Ruairí sat down on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. He stared at the bathroom door and listened to the shower run, his face set in a tight, worried expression that he couldn’t joke away. He stayed there, still as stone, like he was afraid if he looked away even for a second, Ciarán might disappear again.


"Austin James Mercer."

"I’m gonna say this plain, ‘cause there’s no point dressin’ it up. You haven’t been seen in that six-sided ring since January 2024, when you lost to Señor Vinnie in the World Heavyweight Championship tournament. That’s the last proper time anyone watched you compete in SCW, and I’m sure that loss tasted rank, because you vanished after it. Two years, Austin. If one defeat sent you packin’ for that long, it must’ve hit you harder than you’ll ever admit."

"And aye, I’ve heard what people’ve been sayin’. I’ve heard you’ve been around Wolfslair, helpin’ train, lendin’ a hand, passin’ along what you know. Fair play. That matters. The young lads need guidance, and a veteran can do a lot of good there."

"But don’t go confusin’ that with wrestlin’."

"There’s a world of difference between coachin’ in a gym and steppin’ into the ring when it’s live, when the crowd’s there, when the fella across from you isn’t listenin’ for advice, he’s lookin’ to beat you. Trainin’ is safe compared to competition. In the gym you can control the pace. In the ring you don’t get that luxury, and you can’t hide behind reputation."

"Then you come back and the first proper thing you do is interfere in the World Heavyweight Championship match and cost Carter the title. That’s not making some grand ‘return,’ that’s kickin’ a door in so everyone has to look at you. Because otherwise yer afraid that deep down nobody will give a shite that yer back! And you try to justify it by sayin’ somebody had to stop that ‘abomination’ of a title reign."

"Here’s my problem with that, Austin. Carter did more as World Champion than you’ve ever done when you held the gold! He showed up, he carried it, he defended it, and he made people talk. Love him or hate him, he did the job he was meant to do! When was the last time SCW had a World Champion that came to every show and represented us all the way he did? So when you call it an abomination, it doesn’t sound like you’re protectin’ the belt. It sounds like you couldn’t stand seein’ him hold it!"

"It sounds like you’re one of those lads who peaked years ago and now can’t handle watchin’ the next generation take the spotlight away from ye! You’re fine with young wrestlers when they’re trainees, when they’re ‘the future,’ when deep down you think they’re beneath you. But when one of them becomes the present, when one of them becomes the champion, suddenly you show up with moral speeches and interference and act like you’re savin’ the company!"

"You’re not savin’ anythin’. You’re tryin’ to matter again, and you’re tryin’ to do it the quickest way possible."

"Now, I’m not stupid. You’re a big boy. You’re strong, you’ve got size, and you’ve got the kind of presence that can make a lad hesitate if he lets himself. Under the right circumstances, that power can end a match in a hurry."

"But the right circumstances don’t just happen, do they? They’re created. And if I’m smart, if I keep the pace where it needs to be, if I don’t stand still and let you get your hands on me, then size doesn’t mean as much as you’d like it to. Strength doesn’t help you if you can’t catch what’s in front of you. Power doesn’t save you if you’re blowin’ up and I’m still movin’."

"That’s what this match is for me. It’s not about your reputation, or what you were two years ago, or how big your shoulders look under the lights. It’s about what you’ve got right now, and whether you can actually back up this big comeback you’re tryin’ to sell!"

"You want momentum. You want a statement win. You want to come back and remind everyone you’re still Austin James Mercer, like the world owes you a place at the top like you never left!"

"It doesn’t."

"And you picked the wrong man to build your return on, because I’m not here to play a supporting role in your comeback story. I’m not here to nod along while you talk about standards and abominations and how things used to be!"

"I’m just here to stop you."

"So bring whatever you think you’ve still got. Bring the size. Bring the strength. Bring the veteran edge and the old confidence. Because I’m gonna be the roadblock that kills the momentum of your return, and I’m gonna prove, right in the middle of that six-sided ring, that SCW wasn’t waiting with anxious anticipation for you to make some triumphant return!”

“It just moved on while you were gone."

12
Supercard Archives / Do Not Disturb
« on: February 28, 2026, 07:03:35 PM »
La Quinta Inn & Suites -
Las Vegas, Nevada


Ciarán lay on his back, not even trying to sleep. He stared at the ceiling the way people stared at a television when they didn't care what was on. There was a hairline crack in the paint above the bed that forked like a tiny lightning bolt, and he found himself tracing the arc with his eyes. Just for something to do.

His mind did not race the way it did before a match or performance. Instead, it felt as if he was struggling to form even the most basic of coherent thoughts. He knew well what he should be doing. The mental checklist was at the forefront of his mind. Shower. Teeth. Food. Check in with the family.

He knew what he should be doing. He wanted to do it. The problem was the mental gap between imagining and moving felt about as wide as Whittard Canyon.

He shifted once and even that felt like a monumental effort and made him want to close his eyes. Not to sleep, just to do something besides stare at the ceiling. The bed had become a mental sanctuary, more so than the isolation of the room overall. Here, he was not Ciarán Doyle the wrestler, not the bloke who took his pants off and gave the ladies a show. Here, tucked away in the confines of his room, he could be nobody at all. He was just a body taking up space.

At some point his stomach tightened with hunger but he ignored it. He told himself he would feel better if he ate, but the idea was just too much to deal with. He told himself he would feel better if he showered, but the idea of standing under the hot, cascading water felt unbearable. All he wanted to do was just lay there.

So by the fourth day, time just seemed to stop. It was just light and dark inside of the room with the shades drawn, at the time he didn't even pay attention to the clock to tell him what time it was. There were weak signs scattered around the room that served as evidence that life went on. A t-shirt he had dropped by the chair. A pair of socks kicked under the bed. A half-empty bottle of water on the nightstand. The trash bin was filled with crisps wrappers and protein bar sleeves because they required no effort beyond unwrapping.

He knew he smelled, not horribly so but just enough to be aware of himself. Sweat dried on his skin. His hair lay greasy against his forehead, which was a testament to how he felt internally as his hair had always been his pride and joy. His toothbrush sat by the sink. The thought of brushing his teeth felt absurdly complicated. He would have to stand there, mirror in front of him, looking at himself. Looking at his own, haunted eyes looking back at an emotional ghost.

He had been good at self-discipline once. Training schedules, meal plans, the rituals of a wrestler/dancer who knew his body was his job. Now the rituals felt like demands made by a stranger. He would stand in the bathroom doorway and stare at the shower and he would not step in. He would turn away and simply go back to bed. He told himself he was choosing rest. He told himself he was recovering. But the truth was that he had started to dread movement because movement meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering the sound of pain and disappointment in Ruairí’s voice when he confessed about the night he was sexually assaulted at a bridal shower.

His phone buzzed but he didn’t bother to look. It buzzed again later but he still couldn't bother to look at the screen to see who was trying to reach him. On the third buzz he immediately reached blindly for his phone and turned it off.

Then the knock came the following morning. Ciarán froze, staring at the door like it might burst open on its own.

“Housekeeping.” A woman called from outside, cheerful and professional. “Hello? Housekeeping.”

He held his breath, waiting for her to go away. Another knock followed, slightly firmer, and the voice repeated. He imagined her with a cart outside, keys jangling, a schedule in her head, a list of rooms to turn over and reset. He imagined her patience thinning.

The thought of someone entering made his stomach turn. The mess. The smell. The bed he had lived in like it was the only safe place on earth. He literally was feeling shame more so than dread. He sat up and rubbed at his eyes that felt like sandpaper.

“Just a minute!” He called, and his voice came out hoarse.

He stood up and steadied himself with a hand on the dresser before crossing to the door and opening it. The housekeeper was a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a genuine smile, pushing a cart stacked with towels and cleaning supplies.

“Good morning.” She said. “Would you like service today?”

Ciarán swallowed. He could smell himself more clearly now, shame rising to color his neck and ears. He forced his face into something neutral, something that might pass for normal.

“Aye.” He nodded, stepping aside to give her entry into the room. “Sorry. I’ve been a fair bit out of sorts.”

She did not ask questions. She just nodded. “No worries. If you want to step out for a bit, I can take care of the room.”

Stepping out felt like stepping off a cliff, but staying in while she worked felt worse. Ciarán grabbed his keycard and slipped past her with awkward politeness. Stepping out onto the patio, he closed his eyes, almost remembering when he used to love the warm winds and bright blue skies. Now? Now he just wished the Las Vegas air would blow the stink off of him. He walked to the railing by the stairwell and tried to breathe slowly, but each inhale caught in his chest. Behind him, he heard the soft rustle of the housekeeper moving in his room. The sound of sheets being pulled, trash being gathered, the small clink of bottles. Ordinary noises that felt like nails on a chalkboard.

When she finally emerged, she smiled again. “All done. Fresh towels inside.”

“Thank you.” He said quickly.

“Have a good day.” She replied, and she moved on down the hall and toward the next door.

Ciarán quickly went back inside and closed the door behind him, pressing his back to it for a moment. The room looked cleaner, brighter. The bed was made with tight corners that made, the trash was gone. He even noticed that the window was slightly open to air the room out, perhaps a silent tell from the lovely lady that there indeed was an odor, be it the room or him.

Then, quietly, he climbed under the covers again and lay down. He didn’t even know when he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. All he knew was that when he woke up, his stomach was in painful knots from hunger. He had a stash of snacks from the lobby, crackers, jerky, and a bag of pretzels. Safe foods. Foods his mam would call shite and she’d be right to do so.

But the day came when the snacks ran out and he was left with nothing but hunger. He lay there until his body began to protest. His hands trembled slightly when he tried to open a bottle of water. His stomach cramped from nothing filling it. He developed headaches and felt that weak feeling one went through when going too long without eating. That’s when he finally broke down and picked up the phone, ignoring the multitude of missed calls and texts inquiring about his well being. The only thing he cared about right now was the Door Dash app.

The app offered him pictures of food that looked too colourful, too alive. Burgers with glossy buns. Tacos stacked high with bright salsa. Bowls of noodles steaming. His throat tightened as if he might cry, and he did not understand why. Food was just food. Ordering it was normal. He had ordered food a thousand times. Yet the act of choosing felt like admitting he needed something, and the act of needing something felt like failure.

His emerald green eyes gazed at the various options offered to him from the menu of countless restaurants, everything from Italian to tacos and even so-called traditional kebabs. The same ones he used to order for his family back home. That memory alone brought a fresh wave of emotion against him and he didn’t know why. It was just food.

The waiting felt worse than the hunger. Every sound outside made him visibly tense. He sat on the floor, his eyes staring at the updates on his phone app as the delivery driver drew nearer. When the app said “Delivered,” he forced himself up and walked to the door. He opened it a crack and saw the bag sitting there. He picked it up fast and shut the door with a shaky hand. The smell hit him immediately, the smell of lamb kebab reminding him of home and it felt like his heart fractured.

He sank to the floor with the bag in his lap and pressed his forehead to his knees. Tears came abruptly, hot and humiliating, and he covered his mouth with his hand to keep from making sound. His shoulders shook. He cried like a man who had been holding his breath for days. The sobs were silent but violent, pulling at him from the inside. He hated himself for it. He hated that something as small as a meal could break him.

When the crying eased, he wiped his face with the sleeve of the same hoodie he had been wearing too long. He opened the bag and started to pull the kebab and chips along with a small but generous salad when the knock came again, startling him. It was not the same polite rhythm from housekeeping earlier. This was heavier, more deliberate.

Ciarán stared at the door and waited, hoping whoever it was would decide it was the wrong room. A second knock followed, louder. Even more insistent than before.

“Ciarán!” A voice called through the door, and his blood went cold. Not from his name being spoken like that. But the voice behind it. The Irish, rough around the edges, all-too familiar voice.

“Ciarán Doyle!” The voice repeated, closer to the door now, as if the speaker had leaned in. “Don’t you dare sit in there pretendin’ you can’t hear me! Open the damn door, lad!”

Ruairí O’Callaghan.

His best friend.


"Aye, so here we are."

"Blaze of Glory XV. Not just yer average Sunday night tune-up match. This is a prime Supercard event, and for the first time since I walked into Sin City Wrestling, I made the cut. I’m in a match where the prize isn’t just a win, it’s momentum. It’s the kind of opportunity that changes the way this locker room looks at you an says your name."

"And it’s not just any opportunity either. It’s a chance at the Roulette Championship. That belt is chaos personified. You don’t defend it against the same sort of lad every time. Every opponent is different, every match decided with a flick of the wheel. As Roulette Champion, you don’t get to settle in and get comfortable. Roulette means uncertainty. It means every defence could be a different kind of fight every night and the champion has to be ready for all of it. That title turns a good wrestler into an unpredictable sort capable of changing at a moment’s notice an’ everyone’s always lookin’ for the right moment to take it off you."

"An’ that sounds good to me because I didn’t come across the ocean to be some novelty act. I didn’t come here to be the Irish lad with the accent who can scrap a bit and make the crowd cheer because I’ve a new face with a bright smile. I came here because I know there are nights in this sport that change careers. Blaze of Glory is one of those nights. This match is one of those chances."

"Now I’m goin’ to say somethin’ that might make a few of you laugh, and a few more of you nod because you already know. I don’t quite understand the concept of a Ladder Match. I’m not sayin’ I don’t understand the rules, I’m not thick. Four men. One ladder. A briefcase hangin’ up there like a shiny promise. Climb. Unhook. Win. I get that much."

"What I don’t understand is the way some of you talk about it like it proves who the better wrestler is. Because tell me this … how does climbin’ a ladder decide who’s the best between the ropes? If the measure of greatness is who can climb faster, we may as well book a track meet and hang titles at the end."

"But maybe that’s the point of it here in SCW. Maybe this place is sayin’ if I want a shot at the most unpredictable title in the business, then I have to earn it through pure chaos. Fine, I say! Bring those three lads along for the ride and let’s see which of us can survive a night’s chaos for a moment that will define us.”

"I’m new around here, aye. I’ll own that. I’m still learnin’ the rhythm of this place, still learnin’ who shakes your hand and who smiles while they’re lookin’ for a knife. But bein’ new doesn’t mean bein’ soft, and it doesn’t mean bein’ blind. It means I’ve been watchin’, and I’ve been takin’ notes. It means I’ve been learnin’ what makes each of my opponents dangerous, because a Fatal Fourway Ladder match isn’t about outwrestlin’ one man. It’s about survivin’ three at once while the environment itself is tryin’ to break you."

"So let’s talk about them."

"First, ‘Bulldog’ Bill Barnhart. That name carries weight. It carries history. Multiple championships. Multiple Hall of Fame inductions. When people talk about legacy in this locker room, his is one of the first names they mention because he’s been doin’ this so long and so well that it’s easy to forget he was once the young lad fightin’ for respect too. And I’ll give him his due. Bill Barnhart is the kind of opponent you don’t get every day. He’s the kind you face and you learn somethin’, even if the lesson comes with a fist to the jaw. I’ve been waitin’ anxiously for a chance to stand across from him because, for me, that’s a true test. That’s the standard. That’s the question I have to ask myself. Can I look at a man who’s done it all and make him respect me the hard way?"

"But I’ll be honest as well. There's one part of the Barnhart package that sticks in my craw and it’s his wife, Bea. The manager. The one always gettin’ involved, always meddlin’, an’ always playin’ the victim after as if the opponents are the guilty party for reactin’."

"So Bill, let me say this plain. I respect you. I respect what you’ve done. I respect that you’ve paved the way for lads like me to be taken seriously when we arrive in a new place. But if Bea puts her hands on this match, if she starts playin’ puppet master then you an’ she both are gonna learn that this is a ladder match, which means anythin’ goes, and it also means consequences come quicker than apologies."

"Now for Zayvion Lyons."

"I’ll admit it, it’s a damn shame to lose Eddie Lyons. You don’t replace a name like that and pretend it’s business as usual. But SCW didn’t bring in Zayvion to replace Eddie. They brought him in to carry the Lyons Den forward, and the lad’s been on fire since his debut. Until recently he’d been unbeaten, and even now he carries himself like someone who believes he’s meant for bigger things. The fans love him and me? What I respect most is he doesn’t want to rely on the Lyons name. He could coast on it, but instead he’s tryin’ to prove that when he wins, it’s because he earned it, not because of what’s on his birth certificate. That’s a decent sort of man, that."

"So Zayvion, I’m lookin’ forward to steppin’ in the ring with you. Not because I think you’ll be easy. You won’t. You’re quick, you’re hungry, and you’ve got that confidence that makes a lad dangerous, especially in a ladder match where hunger turns into high risk. But I’ll tell you this as well. If you climb that ladder and you reach for that briefcase, I’m meetin’ you up there, and I’m draggin’ you down, because this is my first Supercard cut and I’m not lettin’ it become your coronation."

"And then last and certainly least, there’s Brayden Williams."

"Brayden, what is it now, 0-12? I’d call it a record, but for that to be accurate you’d have to have a win somewhere along the line. You’re collectin’ losses like souvenirs, lad. I remember facin’ you in one of my first matches here an’ everyone thought the third generation star would shine through. But it wasn’t the brightest of stars, was it? It was a fallin’ one. Bright for a second in the minds of people desperate to believe a story, and then gone. And the longer you’ve been here, the more it looks like the story was wishful thinkin’."

"So I have to ask, and I’m not askin’ to be cruel, I’m askin’ because I genuinely want to understand. How is someone with your track record the son of Crystal Zdunich? Why did they waste the ink signin’ you to a contract if it wasn’t mommy pullin’ a few strings? And more importantly, why did they put you in this match? What have you done to deserve the opportunity?"

"Because this is supposed to be a match for a chance at the Roulette Championship. This is supposed to elevate people. It’s supposed to be a match where you look at the names and you think, ‘Aye, any of them could take it.’ But you don’t feel like a contender, Brayden. You feel like padding. Like a body they tossed in to take a bump off a ladder and make the others look even better than they already do. In other words, you’re nothing more than a sacrificial lamb."

"And that should offend you. That should light a fire in you, because desperation is dangerous. Desperation makes a man do stupid things. It makes him swing a ladder like it’s a baseball bat and hope it connects. It makes him climb when he shouldn’t, reach when he’s not steady, take a risk that ends with his arse kissin’ the canvas."

"So maybe that’s why you’re in this match. Not because you deserve it, but because they know you’re reckless. They know you’ll do somethin’ insane just to feel relevant. And that means I have to treat you seriously, even if I don’t respect you. Just remember that while you think of yourself as a star, any grade school kid can tell ya that a star ain’t nothin’ more than a big ball of gas."

"Now let’s talk about Blaze of Glory and what’s actually goin’ to happen."

"I didn’t claw my way into this match to be background noise. I didn’t make the cut for the biggest show of the season so I could fall off the ladder and get a participation trophy. I made the cut because someone looked at my work and decided I was worth the spot, worth the risk, worth the gamble. Either way, I intend to make them lok back at their decision and think to themselves, that I did them right.."

"I might not believe a ladder match proves the better wrestler, but I do know what it demands. It demands willingness. It demands pain tolerance. It demands that when the safest choice is to stay down, you choose to get up anyway. That’s not a ladder match thing, that’s basic survival."

"So when I say I’m goin’ to climb, I’m not sayin’ it like a lad who thinks the ladder makes him better. I’m sayin’ it like a lad who knows the ladder is just the stage for what’s always been true. The one who wins is the one who refuses to quit when quittin’ makes sense. The one who wins is the one who takes the hit, tastes the blood, feels the pain, and still finds a way to keep movin’ toward the prize."

"Bill Barnhart, you’re the test. You’re the measurin’ stick. You’re the proof that experience still bites. I respect you, and I’m goin’ to hit you like I respect you, which means I’m not holdin’ back. Zayvion Lyons, you’re the future tryin’ to become the present, and I won’t be the steppin’ stone you use to get there. Brayden Williams, you’re the question mark they tossed in, and if you do somethin’ stupid, I’ll make you pay for it."

"At Blaze of Glory XV, there’s goin’ to be a moment when the ring’s littered with ladders and bodies, when the crowd’s roarin’ and the lights are hot. There’s goin’ to be a moment when one man starts to climb and the whole match narrows to that image, hands on rungs, boots searchin’ for balance, the briefcase hangin’ there like it’s nervous about bein’ claimed."

"And in that moment, I want all of SCW to understand somethin’ about Ciarán Doyle."

"I didn’t come here to be ‘a good hand.’ I didn’t come here to be ‘potential.’ I didn’t come here to be the nice addition to the roster. I came here to take somethin’. I came here to earn somethin’ that can’t be handed to me by politics or legacy or family names. I came here to put my name on the kind of match that forces people to remember it."

"So if the ladder is the way SCW wants to measure me, fine. I’ll climb. I’ll climb over a Hall of Famer. I’ll climb through the fire of the Lyons Den. I’ll climb past a fallin’ star swingin’ wild because he’s terrified of bein’ forgotten. I’ll climb with my ribs achin’ and my hands shakin’ and my lungs burnin’, and I’ll do it because the view from the top is where careers change."

"And when my fingers close around that briefcase, when I unhook it and I hold it up, you’ll have your answer."

"Blaze of Glory XV. Fatal Fourway. Ladder match. Chance at the Roulette Championship."

"I made the cut, and I’m not leavin’ empty-handed."

13
Climax Control Archives / It happens to men too
« on: February 13, 2026, 07:16:33 PM »
La Quinta Inn & Suites -
Las Vegas, Nevada


Ciarán sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, back slouched. The television was on but he couldn't say what the show was. He wasn't watching it, he wasn't watching anything really. His green eyes simply stared straight ahead, at absolutely nothing in particular as his ears tuned out the sounds of the "City of Sin" from outside of the window in the hotel room he called home.

His phone began to buzz on the corner of the bed, drawing his attention from whatever inner demons were torturing him from the inside out. He didn't move. His eyes shifted just enough to see the name light up on the screen. Ruairi O’Callaghan calling. The sight of the name of his best friend caused a tightness in his chest, one where he had to draw in a deep breath through his nose in order to steady himself.

He picked up the phone and hit decline, then dropped the phone back to the bed and resumed staring at nothing. Seconds later it started again, that same buzzing sound cutting through his mental fog like a swarm of bees trapped in his mind. Ruairi again. He let it buzz longer this time, hoping for it to stop on its own before he hurriedly declined it again. He just needed Ruairi to give up. He should have known better when the third call came.

He stared at the name and cursed under his breath. Ruairi always had been a right stubborn bastard. He snatched the phone up and stared at the name as if willing it to simply go away and leave him alone. But the phone continued to go off until he finally yielded and hit accept, holding it to his ear and spoke in a flat tone, hoping to pass for calm.

“Aye.”

“Ah, there y’are, thank Christ!" Ruaini declared from his end. "I was about to ring the bloody hotel desk and have them batter your door down! Three calls, Doyle, three! What in God’s name are ye playin’ at?”

Ciarán closed his eyes briefly and pinched the bridge of his nose, but kept his tone even, detached, as though discussing weather.

“I’m after answerin’, aren’t I? What d’ye want?”

Ruairi did not bite at the brusque tone. He took a breath and tried to steady himself.

“What do I want? I want t’know if my best mate is alive in there, that’s what I want!" Ruaini declared. "Your mam rang me this mornin’, then your sister rang me after, both of them in bits! They said ye barely call, and when ye do it’s two minutes of nothin’. All promises and no follow-through. They’re worried sick, lad. I’m worried sick.”

Ciarán’s gaze drifted down to the half-empty boxes of Chinese takeout on the dresser and forced a small laugh that didn’t fool anyone, least of all his best friend.

“I’m grand. Busy, that’s all. Ye know what it’s like over here, shows, travel, no sleep.” He reasoned. “Tell Mam and Niamh not to be makin’ a drama out o’ nothin’.”

Ruairi made a snort of derision, clearly not believing Ciarán. “Don’t feed me that shite, Ci. Not me. I knew ye when ye were nine! I know when you’re lyin’ through your teeth. Busy never sounded like this! Busy doesn’t vanish for weeks! Busy doesn’t ignore family!”

Ciarán’s fingers tightened around the phone, but his voice stayed stubbornly dull. “I said I’m fine. Leave it.”

Ruairi’s reply softened in volume but hardened in intent, the way a man lowers his voice when he is trying not to shout.

“No, I won’t leave it there.” Ruairi stubbornly refused. “Not this time. I’ve done the polite check-ins. The quick texts, tellin’ yer mam yer just wrecked routine, and I’m done pretendin’ that’s enough! You cut me off, you cut your own family off, and every time I mention home ye go colder than January rain! Somethin’ happened, and ye can keep denyin’ it, but I’m not blind!”

Silence stretched between them. It was ugly and heavy, like it was lingering - waiting.

“Just hear me for a minute. Come home.” Ruairi tried a gentler, coaxing approach. “Fly back t’Ireland for a few weeks. No pressure. I’ll sort the flights meself. I’ll pick ye up, and ye can stay at mine if ye don’t fancy your mam fussin’ over ye. We’ll go down by the water, get chips, do nothin’, just breathe. And when ye’re ready, there’s a place for ye at Celtic Thunder…”

Ciarán’s expression did not change, but he looked suddenly older in the dim light of the lone lamp he had afforded himself to turn on so he wasn’t basking in complete darkness.

“No.”

“No what?”

“No flights. No homecoming. No Celtic Thunder. I’m not comin’ back.”

Ruairi exhaled through his teeth and spoke faster, urgency climbing.

“Okay, listen, if this is about money, we can fix that. If it’s about the schedule, we fix the schedule. Set your terms! No hen nights, no private bookings. Just the stage and your people.”

Ciarán turned his head slightly and stared at his own reflection in the dark window, as faint and distorted as he felt himself. His reply came out thin, controlled.

“No.”

Ruairi’s temper flickered, then cracked.

“Would ye stop givin’ me one-word answers like I’m some gobshite telemarketer ringin’ at dinner!?” He barked. “I’m your friend, for feck’s sake! Your brother in all but blood! You don’t get t’shut me out and call that kindness!”

Ciarán flinched despite himself at the word brother. He swallowed and looked down and away from his reflection and instead, studied how his thumb and forefinger were rubbing against each other without him realizing he was even doing so.

“I’m not shuttin’ ye out. I’m just.. tired.”

Ruairi’s voice broke on the next line, emotion getting through despite his effort to keep it steady.

“You’re not tired, Ci, you’re disappearin’!” He pleaded. “I can hear it.!Your mam can hear it! Niamh can hear it! You’re in there and you’re hurt and I don’t know how t’help ye if ye won’t let me in!”

Ciarán closed his eyes, trying to fight against the tidal wave of love and friendship and bloody logic and reason that Ruairi was throwing in his path. The man always did know what buttons to push to get him to open up and quite frankly, it pissed Ciarán off royally.

Ruairi was not letting go.

“Come on, mo chara. Talk t’me. Even a little.” Ruairi’s words pounded in his head like thunder. “Tell me where this started. Tell me why Celtic Thunder makes ye go quiet. Tell me why the lad who used t’light up a room now sounds like he’s sitting in the dark countin’ cracks in the wall!”

Ciarán shut his eyes and let his head tip back a fraction, jaw tight enough to tremble. When he spoke, the words were almost mechanical.

“Drop it, Ruairi. Please.”

“No, I won’t drop it!” Ruairi answered immediately, firm and raw and pleading  all at the same time. “Be angry at me if ye want! Call me a nosy bastard! Hang up if it makes ye feel better but I am not leavin’ ye alone in this! Not anymore!”

 Could hear Ruairi take a deep breath to steady himself before continuing, “I should’ve got on a plane months ago and dragged your stubborn arse out for a walk and a fry-up and a real conversation! That’s on me. But I’m here now, and I’m askin’ ye, please, Ciarán, tell me what happened to ye!”

The plea settled into the room like dead weight. Ciarán did not answer. Not at first. He sat utterly still on the bed, phone to his ear, eyes open but unfocused. His breathing shallow and uneven. His face was blank in that frightening way that comes with wondering if anyone was home. For several long seconds there was only Ruairi’s quiet breathing at the other end, waiting.

Then, without any change in posture, without so much as a blink, a single tear escaped from the corner of Ciarán’s eye and streaked down his cheek…

Dublin, Ireland -
2025


Inside the Dublin hotel penthouse, the show was already in full swing, bass hammering through the suite while shrieks and drunken chants acted as a chorus. Ciarán Doyle was in motion at centre of the performance, body moving along to the beat of the stereo with practiced perfection. His costume was long gone and his oiled up body was on full display in nothing more than a rainbow-tasseled thong that left so little to the imagination that anything less would probably be illegal.

He worked the room like an expert, sweat sheening along his skin as he played and teased the six women watching him with obvious delight and hunger behind their eyes. He planted a hand on the edge of the coffee table and vaulted over, landing in a damn near perfect split that sent another roar through the hen party. He gave the bride-to-be a teasing lap dance, retreating before hands could close on him as that was a Celtic Thunder no-no on both sides. He snapped into a body roll that made the whole suite erupt again.

At first, it ran like any other private booking. Women howled and clapped, banging glasses on tabletops, chanting over one another while phones wave in the air trying to catch every second. Ciarán spun out of a grab with an easy grin, redirected a “naughty hand” with a joking wag of a finger, and kept moving. He rolled his shoulders to the beat, then dropped smoothly to the carpet for a final sequence, skin flashing while the group of women roared their approval and the bride-to-be screamed with delight.

Then something shifted.

Someone crossed to the door behind him and the lock clicked with a sharp finality that did not belong in the middle of a party. Another woman reached the speaker and killed the music in one hard tap. The sudden silence landed heavy, broken only by a few stray giggles that sounded wrong. Ciarán straightened, chest rising with controlled breaths, one hand already reaching for the discarded clothes he came in as he nodded toward the exit.

“Right so, show’s wrapped, ladies.” He said with a smile. “Mind yourselves, have a great night now.”

He took two steps toward the door and three women blocked his path. His smile dropped. He angled sideways to pass and another body closed the gap. Ciarán’s posture changed in an instant, shoulders squaring, palms open, tone clipped and serious now.

“Move, now.” He insisted. “I’m done. Let me through.”

But no one moved. A hand clamped his forearm. He jerked free and turned, but another grip caught his bicep from the other side. He twisted, planting a foot, trying to break the holds with leverage instead of force, but someone drove into his shoulder from behind with enough momentum to take him off of his feet. He hit the bed hard, the breath knocked out of his body! The room exploded back into noise, laughter, shouting, cheering!

He bucked up, nearly free for a second, then weight dropped across his thighs and hips as he was being piled on!

“Stop it, for God’s sake, stop!” He shouted. “Get off me!”

Another set of hands forced his right arm flat. The cold band of the handcuff bit his wrist, the other end snapping closed around the bedpost! His left arm was dragged wide - another click!

“No!” He shouted, almost pleading! “I said no!”

He strained, the muscles in his neck and shoulders tearing as he pulled but the bed frame was as solid as the handcuffs! His ankles were yanked apart and fixed to opposite bedposts before he could kick clear, the restraints tugged tight enough to jerk him flat and rendered completely immobile!

Ciarán thrashed, hard, a full-body effort that shuddered through the mattress and frame, but there was no give! Someone’s hand grabbed his jaw and held it firm!

“No, wait, ple – Mmph! Nnnh!” A rubber ball gag was forced between his teeth and buckled behind his head, cutting his words into a muffled, broken sound. “Mmf! Mmph!
Nngh! Mmmf! Mmph! Nnngh!” He tried to shout and all that came out was raw noise swallowed by the room.

He could not sit up. He could not bring his knees in. He could not free a single limb.

Faces blurred at the edges of his vision, leaning in and out, shadows crossing the light. Laughter rose and fell in waves while he fought the restraints until his wrists stung and his ankles burned and his breath turned ragged behind the gag!

His eyes locked on the ceiling because there was nowhere else to look.

.......

The hallway outside the penthouse door swam in and out of focus. Ciarán stumbled into it and caught the wall with his palm, shoulder thudding against the wall as the corridor tilted sideways beneath him. He stood there bent and shaking, dragging air into his lungs in short, uneven breaths. Red and purple marks ringed both wrists and both ankles, already darkening into angry bruises.

His shirt hung crooked, buttons mismatched, collar half folded in. He took a step, then another. At the elevator, he saw his reflection in the mirrored doors and flinched. His eyes were glassy and hollow, jaw clenched around the strap marks at his cheeks, hair disordered, skin slick with cold sweat. The lift arrived with a soft ding. He got inside without looking up, one hand braced to the rail as the numbers dropped toward the lobby.</color>

La Quinta Inn & Suites -
Las Vegas, Nevada


Ciarán sat on the edge of the bed with his phone pressed to his ear, shoulders rigid and eyes fixed ahead on the television screen where some family was busy making life seem too perfect. His confession of what happened to him that night felt like it left only the shell of his former self. On the other end, Ruairi did not speak for several long, painful seconds, but when his voice finally came through, it was rough with disbelief and grief.

“Holy God, Ci... Jesus, Mary and Joseph…" Ruairi’s voice was rough, filled with anger and anguish alike. “That-That happened t’ye and ye carried it on your own!? Sweet sufferin’ Christ!”

The anger in his best friend rose fast, but it was not anger directed at Ciarán. It was the helpless rage of a man hearing that someone he loved had been broken open but kept chugging along and ignored it simply because it was what he perceived as being expected of him.

“Why didn’t ye tell me, lad!?” Ruairi begged of him. “Why didn’t ye tell anyone at all!? We’d have come for ye! Why did ye sit in that alone!?”

“Because I knew how it’d sound.” Ciarán answered, his voice was low and worn thin from holding too much for too long. “Because I kept hearin’ it in me own head before anyone else could say it. That I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve seen it comin’. Because men aren’t meant t’say that happened t’them. And if they do? Half the world laughs and the other half asks what they did t’cause it! Because shame’s a cruel bastard, Ru, and it keeps ye quiet till the silence feels safer than people!”

“You should’ve gone straight t’the Gardaí.” Ruairi made a broken noise, then spoke again. “Jesus, Ci, tell me ye went. Tell me there’s a report, names, somethin’ we can still use!”

“I did go.” Ciarán gave a bitter laugh with no humour in it, eyes still hollow and vacant. “One of them looked me dead in the face and called me a liar. Another one smirked and said he wished a group o’ women would do that t’him. That’s what I got for tryin’ t’do it right.”

The line went quiet again, but this silence was different, thick with Ruairi’s horror. When he spoke, his voice was softer than before, trembling at the edges for a friend who suffered the ultimate in violation.

“That is bullshit!” Ruairi exclaimed.  “I’m sorry, Ci. I’m so, so sorry!”

Ciarán’s fingers tighten around the phone. He swallowed hard and forced out the next words like splinters.

“Do ye know the worst part?” He asked. “Not the pain. Not even the pictures and videos they were takin’. After all six had their turn, they threw money at me. Like it was only a transaction. Like I was just a whore they’d paid for and were done with.”

Ruairi exhaled sharply, the sound of a man punched in the chest by helplessness.

“I’m sorry!” Ruairi “I-I should’ve seen it sooner, I should’ve pushed harder when y’got back! I could see somethin’ went wrong but …! I should’ve been there! You didn’t deserve any of that!”

Ciarán closed his eyes, building that wall back up that he just allowed Ruairi to bring down. “I know. I’ve to go.” He said calmly.

“Wait, just listen t’me for one more minute!” Ruairi pleaded. “Don’t hang up, please! We’ll figure this out! I can book a flight tonight, I can come t’...”

Ciarán ended the call before the sentence landed. The room fell silent. He sat motionless on the edge of the bed, phone still pressed to his ear for a second too long, staring into nothing.


“SCW’s Angry Cop. Is that anything like that game, Angry Birds? You know what? Not important!”

“Angry Cop… That’s what they call ye, and I’ll be honest, Liam, the name fits ye about as well as a discount police officer’s uniform. Too tight at the shoulders, inseam pinchin’ yer bollocks. It’s no damn wonder why yer so uptight, you’d have trouble dragging a needle outta yer arse with a tractor! So tell me this, lad. What’s the matter with ye, really? What's the source of all that fury ye drag around like it’s the only personality ye have to call yer own? Did your chief take away your little bell on your police bicycle, is that it? Did he pat ye on the head and say no more ching ching for Officer Davis, and now ye don’t know how t’pull over criminals without ringin’ a toy and puffin’ out your chest, ordering them into that little wicker basket by the handlebars? Because from where I’m standin’, your whole act looks like a man who mistakes noise for authority, and temper for strength.”

“So I’ll tell ye what let’s do, hm? Let’s walk through this proper, nice and slow, because you keep performin’ anger like it’s proof you’re hard, when really it’s proof you’re brittle. Cops with anger issues are a powder keg, everybody knows it, and it never ends clean. I’ve got me own reasons for distrustin’ police, and I don’t hide that for a second. But even without my history, this much is obvious: Men who can’t regulate themselves escalate normal, every day routines and interactions into disasters, then call it pressure, stress, or disrespect when the consequences come to bite them in the arse. So answer this like a grown man. How many times has that temper o’ yours gotten ye into trouble with the public? How many arguments became complaints, how many complaints became reports, and how many reports had your name stamped on them because ye couldn’t control your own pulse?”

“Now you’re tellin’ yourself this ring is your outlet, your healthy release, your noble wee method of workin’ through the rage. Grand story, lad! Right grand! How’s that goin’ for ye, Liam? Are ye calmer these days? More measured, more disciplined, or are ye still the same lit fuse with better lighting and louder music with an audience who can still read ye like a cheap Sunday paper? Because anger management literature, psychology, all of it says the same thing in plain language. Unmanaged anger wrecks judgment and makes a man blame everybody else for the fires he started himself! Most self-inflicted chaos comes from the same three places. Low control, high ego, and zero accountability. That’s not bad luck, lad, that’s pattern, and patterns get punished when they meet someone who can read them!”

“And newsflash! I can.”

“Here’s the reality check ye can’t arrest your way out of. You’re not on patrol now, and this isn’t your street corner. You’re in my world, in that ring, and in there you’ve no handcuffs, no nightstick, no badge to hide behind when things get uncomfortable! You won’t be dealin’ with scared kids shoutin’ police brutality from behind a barrier. You’ll be dealin’ with an Irish lad who knows how t’scrap, who can fight through pain, and who doesn’t fold when a loud man gets in his face! You bring rank to a wrestling match and it means nothin’. Your badge? Means even less once that bell rings. You bring rage without control and that is what is going to cost you in the end because I’ll turn it against ye until every mistake ye make becomes just another lesson stamped into your mind for you to run rewind in that noggin’ of yours, trying to figure out what went wrong an’ how you can possibly put the blame on anyone else BUT yourself!”

“So think o’ me as your therapist if that helps ye swallow what’s comin’. You bring me your anger, your excuses an’ your bruised pride, and I’ll give ye treatment in the only language a man like you ever listens to. Consequences. By the time that bell rings, your source of anger won’t be the chief or the criminal that escaped justice by some fluke in the legal system. It’ll be me, Ciarán Doyle, standin’ over ye while your plan falls apart and your temper finally meets someone it can’t bully.”

“Then we’ll see what’s left when the shouting stops, no costume an’ no authority. Just you, your choices, and the ticket comin’ due.”

“SCW’s Angry Cop? Keystone Cop is more like it.”

14
Climax Control Archives / Ask not for whom the bell tolls...
« on: January 30, 2026, 08:16:11 PM »
La Quinta Inn & Suites -
Las Vegas, Nevada


Okay, so he didn’t do as promised the last time around when he told his mam that he would start looking for an actual apartment to stay in rather than this single budget hotel room. At least, not yet. He had his reasons. For one, his room had that particular kind of quiet you only got in places built for noise. Even with the curtains drawn and windows shut, Las Vegas still found ways to creep inside. Whether it be the noise of the streets outside or the faint pulse of light that made the walls feel like they were breathing. Ciarán sat on the edge of the bed, forearms braced on his thighs, shoulders hunched forward like he could make himself smaller by force of will. Every time he shifted his weight, the ache in his ribs answered like a reminder he hadn’t asked for.

His phone vibrated again in his palm, bright and insistent. He stared at the screen and saw the icon of his beloved Mam. He swallowed and took the call.

The screen filled with home. Not Ireland itself, not the smell of rain on stone or the familiar dark of the windows after tea, but the warm kitchen light, his mam’s ancient cat that kept its reign tight atop its throne, otherwise known as mam’s foot stool, and the kettle his folks got for their wedding from his grandparents, sitting back on the hob. His mother leaned close to the camera as if she could climb right through it, her face lined with worry. Beside her, his sister’s face appeared in the frame, bright-eyed in a way that made the contrast hurt. She had Ciarán’s cheekbones but softer, Ciarán’s dark hair but worn loose around her shoulders. Six years younger, yet right then she looked about sixty from sheer stress.

“Róisín.” Ciarán said, voice rough with lack of sleep and something much worse. “Hiya.”

“Ciarán.” His mother replied, the word sharpened with the kind of fear mothers had a knack for. “Are you sittin’ down? You look awful, love.”

“It’s just the camera.” He replied. “Makes everyone look like a corpse.”

Róisín’s mouth twitched. “You’re some dose.” She murmured. “Jaysus, Ciarán! We both saw what he done to you!”

His mother made a sound low in her throat, and the way her hand came up to cover her mouth, an emotional force of habit. “That animal.” She whispered dangerously. “They let him do it. They stood there and let him!”

Ciarán kept his face still, the mask slipping into place as naturally as breathing. “Mam, it’s wrestling. It’s…”

“It’s nothin’!” She cut in fiercely. “Don’t you stand there and try to sweeten it for me! I’m not a child! I watched him keep goin’ after the bell like it meant nothin’! Do you know what I felt? Do you know what your sister felt? We’re here on this side of the world, helpless, and you’re there lettin’ yourself be murdered for strangers!”

Róisín leaned in closer, her voice softer. “You won, Ciarán. You won the match and still you looked like you were bein’ punished for it.”

He shifted on the bed, and pain flickered across his ribs like a warning light. He kept his jaw set, eyes steady on the screen. “I won by disqualification.” He said, the words tasting bitter. “That’s not a win anyone wants.”

“But you did win.” Róisín insisted. “And he still brutalised you. That’s not sport, that’s a fella enjoyin’ the hurt!”

Ciarán exhaled through his nose, slowly. He could feel the bruise on his shoulder pulling tight when he moved. He could feel last week’s torment like it had happened just yesterday. It wasn’t the pain that haunted him. It was the helplessness of it, the way his body had betrayed him by being breakable.

Mam’s voice gentled, which somehow made it worse. “Listen to me now. You don’t have to do this. Do you hear me? You’ve proven what you are. You’ve nothing left to prove. Come home.”

“I can’t.” He said automatically.

“You can!” She snapped, then softened again, grief leaking in around the anger. “You can. You come back, and you dance. You were happy when you danced!”

Róisín nodded quickly. “You were, Ciarán! You were yourself. You weren’t-You weren’t carryin’ that look around. You know, Ruairí rang me?”

Ciarán’s brow tightened. “Ruairí?”

“Aye.” Róisín said. “Your best mate, Ruairí. He bought the rights, Ciarán. To Celtic Thunder. He’s puttin’ it back together proper, not that cheap tourist shite. He said he’d bring you in tomorrow if you’d let him!”

Mam leaned into the frame again, eyes shining. “He said you’d be a lead, love. He said you’d have the stage and none of this savagery.”

For a moment, just one, Ciarán felt the pull. The vivid, aching memory of rehearsals in a drafty hall, the stomp of shoes in unison, the thud of hearts beating in time. The way a crowd sounded when they loved you without wanting to see you bleed. It came to him like a door cracked open to a room he’d once lived in. Then the trauma resurfaced just as quickly and he slammed the door shut.

“I’m not quittin’.” He said, quietly but immovable.

Róisín’s face fell. “Ciarán…”

“I’m not quittin’!” He repeated, and there was steel now behind his words. “I know what it looked like. But I’m still standin’, aren’t I?”

Mam’s eyes flashed. “That’s your measure, is it? Still standin’? Christ, Ciarán. You’re not a martyr!”

He swallowed. The words he wanted to say sat too big in his throat. Instead, he said the safer thing. The simpler thing. “I’m fine.” Ciarán lied, and hated himself for it.

Róisín’s eyes narrowed, sharp as a pin. “You’re not.”

Mam’s voice went low, a warning. “Don’t you dare say you’re fine to me when your eyes are tellin’ me the truth. You look hollowed out, love.”

Ciarán stared at the screen and tried to keep his breathing even. “It’s been a rough week. That’s all.”

“A rough week.” Mam repeated. “And what about the next week? And the next? And what happens the day it’s not just bruises, Ciarán? What happens the day it’s…”

“Aye.” He said quickly, trying to cut off the image before it could form in any of their minds. “I get it. I’m not deaf.”

Róisín leaned forward, voice shaking. “We’re not tryin’ to rob you of somethin’ you love. We’re tryin’ to keep you alive.”

“I love you both.” He said, and his voice cracked just enough to make Mam’s face crumble. “I do. But you don’t understand what this is to me.”

“Then explain it!” Róisín pleaded. “Explain why you’d choose this over bein’ safe!”

Truth was, what he wanted to tell her was the truth. That when he was dancing, he wasn’t safe. His last time proved that, it just wasn’t something he ever wanted to talk about. Instead, he looked down at his lap. “Because I’m good at it. Because I fought to be seen for more than the lad who can shake his arse an’ show his goods. Because it’s nice to be cheered like I matter.”

Mam’s eyes filled completely. “You mattered before any crowd ever cheered, Ciarán Doyle.”

That should’ve been comforting. Instead it was a knife, because part of him didn’t believe it. He had learned how to feel real through performance. Quiet love was harder to hold. He forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m headin’ to Fresno tomorrow. Just wanted to talk before I left. I’m grand. Promise.”

Róisín’s jaw tightened at the word ‘promise’, as if she knew it was flimsy. “Ciarán…”

“I’ll ring you after.” He said too quickly. “After the show. I love you.”

Mam wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, angry at the tears. “I love you too.” She said, voice trembling. “And I’m tellin’ you now, if you ever feel like you’re sinkin’, you ring. You don’t sit there bein’ proud.”

Ciarán nodded, swallowing hard. “Aye. I will.”

He ended the call before he could say something that would betray him. The screen went black. His own reflection stared back at him for a half-second. Then it was just his home screen, the Cliffs of Moher back home.

Ciarán sat there with the phone in his hand like it weighed a ton. His throat burned. His chest felt tight, but he told himself it was the ribs. He stood, wincing, and crossed to the bathroom mirror. Under the harsh light, the bruising looked uglier, purple shadowing along his shoulder, a faint yellow line on his cheekbone. He stared at his own eyes, vacant and haunted.

He changed his shirt, pulled on a hoodie, shoved his phone and wallet into his pockets. It wasn’t a plan so much as an impulse to escape the room. He left the room and rode the elevator down with two strangers laughing loudly about nothing. He nodded at them when they glanced his way, put on a polite face, and stepped out into the lobby like a man walking on a stage.

Outside, the night air hit him warm and dry, smelling faintly of cigarettes and perfume. He told himself he’d just walk. Get his head right. Ten minutes. Fresh air. Motion. People. Anything but sitting still, alone with his demons.

Fremont Street was a living thing with the heartbeat of the city surrounding it. Music bled from every direction, live musical artists along the pavement, performing for appreciated tips. The lights of the casinos and hotels, hypnotic in their splendor. People by the hundreds in every direction. Just … living.

At first, it almost worked. The noise drowned his thoughts out. The lights made everything too bright for shadows. He blended into the crowd, just another tall bloke in a hoodie, head down, moving with the flow.

He watched a group of Japanese tourists take selfies like they’d discovered the meaning of life. He passed a man dressed like a cowboy playing a saxophone. He caught sight of a street performer painted silver and standing perfectly still on a platform, and for a moment the stillness fascinated him.

He breathed in. Breathed out.

“I’m fine.”

A chant, soft in his head.

“I’m fine.”

He made it another few steps. The sounds of Fremont sharpened, each one suddenly too distinctive. The shriek of laughter, the clatter of coins, the shouted lyrics from a nearby singer. The lights overhead seemed to tilt, the world closing in around him. His breath snagged.

“I’m fine.”

He kept walking. His heart hammered. His palms went damp. The crowd thickened. A woman’s perfume hit his nose, sweet and choking. Someone screamed happily at a performer and it went straight through him like a siren.

“I’m…”

His chest tightened, not his ribs this time. Like a fist closing around the inside of him. He tried to inhale and the air didn’t go where it was supposed to. It just stuck. He just stopped moving.

People flowed around him as if he were a lamppost. His vision narrowed. His hands curled at his sides, knuckles whitening. He could feel the panic climbing, climbing, searching for the edge of him. He stumbled sideways, forcing his way toward the edge of the foot traffic, trying not to shove anyone or draw attention. He found a spot near a concrete pillar and pressed his back to it, eyes scanning the crowd, lungs refused to cooperate.

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to breathe like he was in training. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Simple. Controlled. But his body didn’t want controlled. It wanted escape. That was when a voice cut through the noise close to him, calm as the hand on the back of his neck.

“Hey. Look at me.”

He opened his eyes. A street performer stood a few feet away, mid-thirties maybe, hair pulled back, a small drum slung at their hip. He wasn’t in a flashy costume. He was just a performer with eyes that were kind and steady.

Ciarán tried to speak and managed nothing. The performer lifted a hand, palm open. “You’re not in trouble.” He said, voice low enough that it didn’t carry. “You’re just overwhelmed. It happens. All right? Follow me.”

Ciarán’s throat worked. He nodded once, sharp, because that was all he could do. The performer tapped the drum gently. Not a song. Just a slow, even beat.

Thum. Thum.

“In through your nose on two beats.” The performer said. “Out slow on four. Ready? One… two...”

Ciarán tried. The air came in shallow, but it came. He followed the drum beats.

Thum. Thum.

“Good.” The performer murmured immediately. “Again. One… two…”

He inhaled. His chest still felt tight, but the breath made a small dent in it.

“Out, two… three… four...”

He exhaled shakily, cheeks hollowing. The performer stayed where he was, not crowding him. Ciarán’s eyes stung, sudden and infuriating.

“There you go.” The performer said softly. “Keep going.”

The world didn’t quiet, not really. Fremont Street kept roaring around them like a storm. But inside that small pocket, the beat gave him something to grasp onto. His lungs began to obey again. The tight fist around his chest loosen. He swallowed hard, jaw clenched and trying to keep his face from crumpling in front of a stranger.

Ciarán blinked, and a tear slipped out anyway, quick and humiliating. He wiped it away with the heel of his hand like it was sweat. The performer didn’t react. Didn’t call attention. Just kept the beat.

Thum. Thum.

After a minute, the performer slowed the tapping and let the silence between beats extend. Ciarán’s breathing had steadied. His fists unclenched.

“You all right?” The performer asked.

Ciarán nodded, swallowing hard. “Aye.” He admitted, and this time it wasn’t a lie so much as hope. “Thank you.”

The performer gave him a small, almost conspiratorial smile. “Anytime. If it comes back, same thing. Find a rhythm. Your feet. Your breath. A song. Doesn’t matter. Just something steady.”

Ciarán nodded again, more firmly, committing the advice to memory like a drill. He pushed off the pillar carefully, testing his ribs, and adjusted his hoodie. He didn’t feel cured. He still felt bruised and tired and a little raw around the edges. But he felt … better.

The performer tapped the drum once more and turned back, melting into the chaos of Las Vegas as if nothing unusual had happened. Ciarán stood there for a moment longer, letting the lights wash over him without swallowing him whole. He pulled out his phone, stared at it, then opened a message to Mam. His thumb hovered.

He typed, deleted, typed again, and finally left it simple.

“Love you. I’m okay. I’ll ring after.”

He hit send before he could overthink it. Then he tucked the phone away, drew in a slow breath through his nose, and started walking like a man who’d taken a hit and stayed on his feet.


“Alexander Raven.”

“I need ye to listen to me because I’m not here to sell you some feel-good fairy tale about courage and heart and all that shite they love to paste over a man’s bruises like it’s tape. I’m here because I’ve been told to be here. I’m here because last week I won a match on paper n while Brandon Hendrix booted the absolute shite out of me, and I didn’t even get the decency of a week off to breathe after it! Not a week to let the ringing in my skull settle! Not a week to let the ache in my ribs stop whisperin’ every time I laugh or I turn wrong! Not a week to be a human bein’ for five minutes! No, no. Instead they’ve looked at the mess Hendrix left behind and said, ‘Grand, Doyle, you’ll do. We’ll throw you in there with the most dangerous man in SCW next!’”

“That’s the joke, isn’t it? That’s the punchline. I’m meant to stand here and pretend that’s just how it goes in this sport. I’m meant to grin through a split lip an’ bruised ribs an’ say, ‘Sure! Let’s give me another!’ because that’s what a wrestler does. But I’m tellin’ you right now, I’m not grateful for it. I’m not thankful they’ve given me ‘another opportunity.’ I’m bitter, and I’ve earned the right to be bitter because there’s a difference between testin’ a man and tryin’ to break him, and some of you in the back have gotten far too comfortable confusing the two!”

“And Alexander Raven… You’re not a test. You’re a warning. You’re the kind of match they book when they want to see what’s left of someone after the world’s had its go at them. You’re the match they whisper about, the one that makes lads in the locker room go quiet for a second because everyone knows what you are. Not just dangerous in the ring. Plenty of men are dangerous when the bell rings. You’re dangerous because you don’t care what you have to turn a person into to get what you want. You don’t care if you have to drag them down to a place they can’t climb out of. You don’t care if you have to make it personal, make it ugly, make it something a man carries home in his bones!”

“But here’s the part you’re not going to like, Raven. I’ve already been dragged. I’ve already been made ugly. I’ve already had a boot pressed into me while people stood around and watched, and I’ve already had that moment where the air leaves your lungs and your pride tries to leave with it. So if your plan is to walk into this thinkin’ you’re catchin’ me soft because Hendrix did what he did, then you’re comin’ in with your head up yer arse! All Hendrix proved is that pain doesn’t end me. It makes me mean in a way I don’t always like, but I’ll use it if I have to!”

“Now, I’ve been watchin’ you. Don’t roll your eyes at that. You’ve been impossible to ignore, haven’t you? You’ve made sure of it. You’ve pushed and prodded and cried loud enough that the whole company had to turn and look your way, and fair play. It worked. You took the World Champion to the brink, and now you’ve got the chance to do it again. Not because you earned it quietly. Not because you walked the straight line and did the right things and waited your turn. No. You got it because you made noise. You got it because you demanded it. You got it because you kept pokin’ at the wound until somebody finally said, ‘Fine, fine, give him what he wants! Maybe he’ll shut up.’”

“And that right there? That tells me everything I need to know about SCW. It tells me you can do all the hard work in the world, you can bleed in silence, and still the man who gets rewarded is the one who throws the loudest tantrum in the locker room. You can get whatever you want if you cry loud enough. That’s the lesson, aye? Don’t be better, be noisier. Don’t be disciplined, be disruptive. Don’t earn, demand!”

“So here’s what I’m doin’, Raven. First, I’m acknowledging exactly what you are. I’m not going to stand here and pretend you’re just another opponent on the card, just another lad I’ve to outwrestle. You’re a threat, and you’ve proven it. You’ve shown you can push the World Champion to the edge, and you’ve shown you can turn a match into a nightmare when it suits you. That’s not hype. That’s reality. I respect reality a hell of a lot more than I respect reputations.”

“Second, I’m acknowledging what I am. Not the version of me you think you know. Not the ‘Irish lad who used to take his clothes off for money,’ the lad that people like to clap for because it makes them feel good. I’m a man who’s been hit, and hit, and hit again, and I’m still standin’ here talkin’ to you! I’m a man who doesn’t get weeks off to heal, and I still show up! I’m a man who can feel the weight of the world on his chest and still lace the boots because some stubborn part of me refuses to be told when to stop! That’s just who I am.”

“Third, I’m making this very clear. You're not using me as a stepping stone to make your point about Carter. You’re not using me as a message. I’m not here to be the collateral damage in your little campaign for attention. If SCW wants to reward the loudest man in the room, grand! Let them! But don’t mistake their choices for my consent. I didn’t agree to be sacrificed so you can keep your story moving!”

“And finally, Raven, I want you to know and understand that I’m not just angry at you. I’m angry at the whole bloody machine that thinks it can chew men like me up and spit them out and call it entertainment! I’m angry that Hendrix can brutalize me and walk away smirking, and then I’m expected to stand tall a few days later like I’m made of stone! I’m angry that you can howl for another shot at the World Champion and the company jumps, but a man who’s been kicked to bits doesn’t even get a moment to breathe! I’m angry and I’m taking that anger into our match like a weapon, because if they insist on booking me like a punishment, then I’ll fight like it’s one!”

“So you go ahead and bring that darkness you like so much. Because I’m going to show you something you can’t cry your way out of. I’m going to show you that there’s a difference between being loud and being unbreakable. You might be the most dangerous man in SCW, but you’re about to meet a man who’s already had the shite kicked out of him, didn’t get a week off to breathe, and still turned up anyway!”

“And that, Raven, should terrify you more than any chant ever could!”

15
Climax Control Archives / Baby steps
« on: January 23, 2026, 07:22:15 PM »
Las Vegas, Nevada


The week after the holidays always had that sad, empty feel to it in Las Vegas, or anywhere for that matter. People wait with anticipation for Christmas and New years and just like that, the most anticipated time of the year is all over. Ciarán Doyle hated that part most. How quickly the noise disappeared and left him alone with the quiet that was heavy to both heart and soul.

La Quinta Inn & Suites didn’t pretend to be anything it wasn’t. The room was a studio with beige walls and a small kitchenette tucked along one wall, complete with a small refrigerator, cabinets and a microwave. A partisan wall split the room, giving the illusion of having more space than it did. On one side of the room was a desk with a chair and a lamp that threw light on a small stack of papers that he had yet to take care of. On the other, a bed that was ironically more comfortable than it had any right to be and above the headboard was a desert print of a cactus in the soft colours of a sunset. There was soft, plush carpeting underfoot rather than the prototypical hardwood floors so many hotels designed to use. That fact alone was something that sold him on this particular location.

The room gave a sense of belonging as opposed to just being somewhere that you might pass through. And Ciarán was doing neither. This was not a simple hotel for a random stop while on tour. For Ciarán, this was home. He’d been living like this by choice, week-to-week. He had his reasons, all of which had fallen on deaf ears where his friends and especially his family back in Ireland were concerned. They had questioned his life as an exotic dancer, but they flat out did not understand why he became a professional wrestler, putting that same body he would flaunt so openly previously directly in harm’s way.

But, where his welfare was concerned, and his comforts, they all thought he should at least have a steady place to call his own while in the states. It only made sense. By Ciarán’s logic, that was exactly what he was doing. Just … not how his loved ones intended.

He tossed his duffel onto the desk chair and stood there for a beat, listening to the hum of the air conditioner and the sounds of the city outside of the hotel. His eyes fell to the takeout menus that were left in the room by management, something offered to every tenant in every room. The idea of delivery appealed to him, as lately he had little desire to cook anything fresh or homemade in his meager kitchenette.

He forced a breath through his nose, and let the mask slide down a fraction. Not off. Never truly off. Just … loosened. And just like that, the phone buzzed in his hand before he could talk himself out of it.

“Mam.”

He stared at the name until it blurred at the edges, then swiped to answer and immediately put on the practiced voice, warm and ready, like he’d been born with a spotlight pointed at him.

“Ah here.” He said, half a laugh as he answered. “How’re ya, Mam?”

“Don’t ‘how’re ya’ me.” His mam, Fiona Doyle, snapped, but he could hear the smile behind the reprimanding tone. “Did you eat, or are we callin’ coffee a meal again?”

He let out a quick chuckle, the kind that came easy. “I’m getting ready to, promise. That counts for somethin’.”

“Aye, it counts for the bare minimum.” She said. “Now, where are you stayin’?”

“Same spot.” He said, light as he could make it. “Just off the Strip. It’s grand.”

“Still the hotel.” She said, and the disappointment landed soft but sure. “Ciarán, love, why won’t you get yourself an apartment? Somewhere decent. Somewhere yours.”

He felt it then, that familiar tightening behind the ribs. Annoyance first, because annoyance was easier than the rest. He pushed off the wall and wandered toward the kitchenette, opening the fridge even though he already knew it was mostly empty. A bottle of water. Some fresh fruit that had seen better days. A couple of takeout tubs he’d promised himself he’d bin yesterday.

“Because rent over here is daylight bleedin’ robbery. I’m payin’ half for this lot what I would an actual apartment.” He said, sharper than he meant to. “Swear to God they’d charge you extra for air if they could, I swear.”

“But you can afford it.” She said, plain as anything. “Don’t be actin’ like you’re stuck.”

That stung, because it was true in one way and not true in another. He could afford the numbers. The rest was a different story.

“It’s not just the money.” He said, and his own voice surprised him, more honest. Then again, he was talking to his mam. “If I sign a lease, that’s roots. That’s me sayin’ I’m stayin’.”

“And aren’t you?” She asked, gentle now, and the gentleness was worse than being scolded. “You sound like a fella standin’ at the pier waitin’ on a boat that’s not comin’.”

He shut the fridge and rested his palm against the cool white door, like it could steady him. He could feel the dip of the week in his bones, the post-holiday blues, leaving his family in Ireland again, only to not have a spot or even an appearance at Inception VIII, then when everyone went back to their lives, he went back to a room that looked like a placeholder.

“I don’t know.” He finally said, quiet.

Then, because he couldn’t leave it there, he tried to build a wall out of words. “And would ya blame me? The cost of livin’ is cracked, and the whole place is in a state. Politics are a circus. Half of them are roarin’, the other half are fecking bigots cheering the kidnapping of kids!” He stopped himself before it turned into a rant he’d regret. He blew out a breath. “It’s chaos. Why would I plant myself in the middle of that when their President is a fecking lunatic?”

On the other end of the line, the silence stretched. He could picture her in the kitchen back home, hands on a tea towel, lookin’ out the window like Ireland might hand her the right words. “Because you deserve a home.” She said finally, simple and direct “Not a room you can be put out of if the card declines.”

His throat tightened, sudden and stupid. He reached for the old reflex of charm. He put a grin in his voice like he could fool her through the phone.

“Ah I’m not gettin’ put out.” He said. “They’d miss me. I’m the entertainment.”

“Don’t!” She warned, but there was love under it. “Don’t turn it into a joke if it isn’t.”

Ciarán stared at the desk, at the lamp, the little welcome card, the empty space where a life might go if he let it. Anywhere his eyes could find surface, some semblance of his being there. His fingers tapped the fridge door in a subconscious rhythm.

“I’m fine.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t.” She replied, so gentle it felt like her hand on his cheek. “I asked you why you won’t let yourself have a place to come back to.”

He huffed a breath, half laugh, half sigh, and leaned his forehead to the fridge door, thankful this wasn’t a video chat.

“Because I do.” He said, steadying his voice by sheer force of will. “I’ve got Ireland. I’ve got home. If it all goes sideways here, I can get on a plane and I-I’m back where I belong. So why would I start pretendin’ this place is anythin’ more than a stop?”

Another pause. Not empty. Careful.

“Ah, love.” His mam said at last, and there was steel under the softness now. “Ireland isn’t a life raft you keep tucked under your seat on some plane.”

His mouth twitched. “Isn’t it?”

“No.” She said, firm. “Ireland is your home, aye. Your family’s here, aye. But you don’t get to use us like an emergency exit so you never have to build a life where you are.”

He opened his eyes and looked out of the window, staring at absolutely nothing in the distance. Yeah, real glad she couldn’t see him right now.

“You make it sound like I’m doin’ somethin’ wrong.”

“I’m sayin’ you’re doin’ what you’ve always done.” She replied. “You keep one foot out the door. You keep your bags half-packed. You tell yourself you can always come home, so you never have to risk feelin’ settled or risk bein’ hurt.”

His throat tightened again and he hated it. Hated how quick she could find the tender bits he’d taped over.

“I’m not…” He started to protest but she deftly interrupted.

“You are. And listen to me, Ciarán Doyle. You will always have Ireland. You’ll always have us. But I don’t want you comin’ back here as a man who never let himself belong anywhere else, waitin’ till you’re worn out and empty and callin’ it home when really it’s just where you ran when you couldn’t stand your own life anymore.”

That landed hard. He swallowed, staring at the carpet’s looping pattern until it stopped swimmin’. “I’m not runnin’.” He said, but the shine had gone out of his voice.

“Maybe not.” She said, soft again, like she’d reached through the line and eased a hand on the back of his neck. “Maybe you’re just keepin’ yourself from bein’ found.”

Ciarán shut his eyes. The room felt smaller. He could taste the metallic edge of panic he hadn’t invited.

“I don’t know how.” He admitted, so quiet he nearly missed it himself.

“I know,” she said, gentle as anything. “That’s why I’m askin’ you to try. Not for us. For you. For the part of you that deserves to come back to somethin’ that doesn’t feel like borrowed time.”

He breathed in slowly. Out slower. If only he could make her understand how he felt, or why he was feeling the way he was feeling. But how could he get her to understand if he didn’t understand himself?

“I’ll look.” he said at last. “Not promisin’ miracles. But I’ll look.”

“That’s all I wanted.” She replied, and he could hear her smilin’ through the worry. “And you’ll eat somethin’ green?”

He gave a weak laugh. “Yes, Mam.”

“And Ciarán?”

“Aye?”

“I love you.”

The words lodged in his chest, warm and awful and real. “Love you too.” He managed.

When he hung up, the room was still the room. But Ciarán stood there a little longer than he usually let himself stand in one place, phone in his hand, breathing steady until the heavy quiet stopped feelin’ like a threat and started feelin’ like a choice.

He sat on his bed, more heavily than intended and just stared. Until those emerald green orbs of his drifted onto the end table where this pamphlet of an Irish takeaway place called out to him. He slowly reached over and slid it into his fingers. He picked up his phone again and started to dial.

Baby steps.


“Brandon Hendrix. I’m gonna say this nice and slow so it sinks in through whatever thick skull you’re swingin’ around these days. You’re a big boy, aren’t ya? One of them rough ones. Broad shoulders, heavy hands, the kinda fella who thinks intimidation is a personality and bruises are a love language. I’ve seen your type since before I ever set foot inside of a wrestling ring. Men who learned early that if they’re loud enough and hard enough, nobody asks what they’re scared of. You stomp in, you puff up. I’ve seen fellas like you in the audience when I danced, trying to assert dominance over the performers because yer ladies came to look at us rather than settle for what they had at home. I’ve seen bulls like you backstage in SCW, thinkin’ yer the shit. Grand. Brilliant, even! Except it doesn’t scare me, Brandon. It just tells me exactly what you’re tryin’ to do.”

“Step one for you is always the same. Find someone you can throw around and call it ‘sendin’ a message.You don’t speak to anyone, you don’t prove anything. You pick a moment, you pick a body, and you try to carve yourself a reputation with somebody else’s blood and pain. And the maddening thing is, it used to not be like that with you. That’s the part that really sticks in my teeth. You were one of the good ones, once upon a time. You were one of the lads you could look at and say, ‘Aye, he’s rough, but he’s fair. He’s mean, but there’s a line.’ Then somewhere along the way you turned into a right prick, and now you carry yourself like the world owes you applause for being cruel.”

“Step two, you show the world you’ve no shame about it. Inception VIII an’ LJ Kasey. You didn’t go after him because you had a point to prove about him. You went after him because he was there, because he’s got a name people care about an’ because you knew the cameras would catch it and the crowd would react. And that reaction is the only thing you’re truly chasin’. You didn’t attack LJ to beat him. You attacked him to wear him like a trophy. That wasn’t a fight, Brandon. That was you turning a person into a prop so you could feel like the biggest lad in the room for five short minutes.”

“Now step three is where you start eyein’ me, isn’t it? You look around SCW and you see a new face and you think, ‘There’s a fresh story I can hijack. There’s a new name I can smear my boots all over. There’s a fella with an accent and a smile, and the crowd’s lookin’ at him. An’ if I put him down hard enough, I get the attention he was gettin’!’ That’s the plan. You’re not subtle, Brandon. You’re not clever. You’re just heavy. You plan to use me the same way you used LJ. To try an’ make yourself feel massive by makin’ someone else feel small. And maybe it works on lads who don’t see you comin’. Maybe it works on lads who still believe there’s some honour in you left to appeal to. But I’m not that kind of stupid.”

“Because here’s the part you’re not accountin’ for, yeah? I’m flirtatious, I’m fun, I’ll give you that. I’ll grin an’ wink. I’ll talk sweet an’ make the crowd laugh. An’ you’ll think that means I’m soft. You’ll think that means I’m here to entertain while you’re here to hurt. But I’m direct, Brandon. Direct enough to tell you the truth to your face without dressin’ it up. You’re not scary because you’re big. You’re dangerous because you’re careless, and careless men get surprised when the world hits back. An’ I will hit back. Not because I’m tryin’ to be a hero, but because you’ve made it personal by decidin’ I’m just another body you can use!”

“You want me scared. You want me dazzled by your size. You want me to panic when you start swingin’ like a brawler in a pub car park. But I don’t panic, Brandon. I watch. I learn. I wait for you to do what you always do, because you can’t help yourself. You overcommit. You lean too hard into bein’ the giant and forget in every story, the giant is always cut down. You throw that big weight around like it’s invincible, and you leave gaps. Gaps big enough a blind man on the moors could see and take advantage of. And before you start cryin’ about metaphors, I’ll make it simple enough so a simple man like you can understand. I’m gonna take your momentum, your ego, your temper, and I’m gonna turn it all against you until you’re the one wonderin’ how the room got so small!”

“And when it’s over, you’re gonna realise somethin’ that’ll sting worse than any hit you’ve ever taken. You can’t patch the hole where your honour used to be by tearin’ pieces off other people. You can’t keep attackin’ lads like LJ and thinkin’ it makes you a monster worth fearin’. All it makes you is a bully with a marketing plan. And I don’t mind bullies, Brandon. I’ve met plenty. They’re predictable. They’re loud. They’re brittle. They break the minute someone refuses to play the part they wrote for them.”

“So come on big boy! Come in rough. Come in mean. Come in thinkin’ you’re about to make yourself a name off my back. I’m tellin’ you straight, with all the Irish kindness I can muster. It’s not goin’ to go your way. Not this weekend, not with me. Because if you’re lookin’ for someone to use, you picked the wrong fella. An’ you’re about to find out what happens when the ‘right prick’ runs headfirst into a man who doesn’t flinch.”

16
Climax Control Archives / Behind the velvet curtain
« on: December 12, 2025, 07:39:15 PM »
Boulder, Colorado -
Friday evening


The sign was green, of course. Because why wouldn’t it be? Nothing spells Irish stereotypes like beer and anything green.

The forefront of the pub sported a painted shamrock and some vaguely Celtic knotwork Ciarán would wager was copied off of clip art. Below the shamrock, in an elaborate gold lettering was the name “O’Brennan’s Irish Pub.” The flag of Ireland hung in the window, and when the door opened, Ciarán heard the collective sounds of loud music, TVs blaring and laughter and chatting one might expect from any pub.

Ciarán stood on the pavement outside and stared at the door. It wasn’t home, but it was bright and noisy, and full of people. And that felt better than four hotel walls and his own thoughts. He breathed in the cold Colorado air and reached for the pub door.

Inside, there was a TV over the bar showing American football. Proof positive this wasn't a genuine Irish pub. Green string lights were draped around the mirrors. Jerseys and Guinness signs lined the walls, along with a framed, sun-faded photo of some cliffs that weren’t from anywhere close to Ireland, but the locals obviously weren’t aware. Ciarán snorted at the thought.

Heads had turned when he stepped in, partly because the door had let in a blast of cold air, partly because it was just natural curiosity. He gave the room a once-over, then made his way to the bar and took a seat near a couple of local lads, but far enough away to afford himself the comfort of privacy.

The bartender, a woman in her early thirties with a ponytail and a T-shirt that read “Kiss Me, I’m O’Brennan’s,” slid over with an automatic smile.

Bartender: Hey there. What can I get ya?

He leaned his forearms on the bar, already slipping into the rhythm.

Ciarán: Tell me you’ve somethin’ that at least pretends to be Guinness there, will ye love?

She laughed and reached for a tap.

Bartender: We’ve got Guinness. Might not stack up to the homeland, but it does the job.

He clucked his tongue, shaking his head with mock dismay.

Ciarán: Sure, that’s what ye all say. I’ll be judgin’ ye harshly now, mind. My mam’d never forgive me if I let a fake pass me lips.

He was half-joking, half-remembering the way his mother used to talk about pubs and how they didn’t know how to pull a proper pint. When she set it down in front of him, he thanked her properly.

Bartender: So where in Ireland are you from?

He smiled, taking that first sip. It wasn’t home, but it was close enough to fake it for an evening.

Ciarán: Killarney, County Kerry. Ye can tell by the way I talk shite, can’t ye?

She grinned, leaning against the bar.

Bartender: I could tell by the “mam.” People don’t say that here. What brings you to Boulder?

Ciarán: On tour with SCW. We’ve a show here Sunday night.

Her eyebrows shot up. The couple of guys in flannel on either side turned their heads, interest sharpening.

Bartender: Wait, like professional wrestling on TV?

He gave a small grin, tilting his head.

Ciarán: Aye, that’s the one. Tight gear, bright lights, lads throwin’ each other about for the craic. I’m on the card Sunday.

One of the guys nearby leaned in.

Local #1: No shit? My buddy was talkin’ about that. You’re actually on the show?

Ciarán lifted his pint in a small salute.

Ciarán: Me third match.

The bartender’s eyes raked over him more critically now, taking in the broad shoulders and the way he carried himself.

Bartender: Damn. That’s kinda badass. What’s your name again? In the ring, I mean.

He hesitated a beat. He’d been selling himself as someone else for so long in other lines of work that saying his real name and having it matter still felt new.

Ciarán: Ciarán Doyle. Same in the ring as out of it. Easier to remember when they’re shoutin’ abuse at ye.

One of the locals jumps in, having overheard.

Local #1: Dude, he’s on the roster page. Look, Ciarán Doyle. Says it’s your third match?

He turned the screen to show a promo photo:  Ciarán lit dramatically, jaw set, eyes intense. The version of him built for posters. Ciarán rolled his eyes.

Ciarán: That lad looks far too serious. Needs a proper drink.

Bartender: Well, damn! We’ve got a celebrity in the house tonight! You better not get too beat up Sunday. I’m gonna tell people I poured Guinness for you.

That sparked a ripple of attention further down the bar; a couple more patrons glanced over, taking a longer look at him now that he’d been labeled.

Another man approached with a cautious grin.

Local #2: You’re really SCW? Dude, my roommate loves that show! You shoot pool?

The invitation was there. It would have been easy to shrug it off, finish his pint alone at the bar, keep his world small and quiet. But quiet was dangerous. Quiet was when and how homesickness came in through the cracks. Ciarán set his glass down and slid off the stool.

Ciarán: Ah, I might’ve tapped a cue once or twice. But I’m warnin’ ye now, I’m a terrible loser. I’ll be throwin’ the balls at yer head if ye beat me.

Local #2: Guess I’ll have to go easy on you then, Kerry. Name’s Nate.

They wove through the bodies and tables to the pool table at the back. A couple of people drifted over to watch. After all, an Irish accent and a TV wrestler were exotic currency on a Friday night in Boulder.

The night settled into a rhythm of  shots, bad jokes and friendly back chat. Ciarán looked to be in his element. He leaned casually on the cue. He used his hands when he talked. When he sank a tricky shot, he threw his head back with a laugh that made heads turn.

Nate lined up his next shot while his curiosity grew.

Nate: So, SCW, huh? Who you wrestling?

Ciarán chalked the tip of his cue, staring at the white dust gathering on the blue.

Ciarán: Fella named Logan Hunter. Big name, bigger mouth, too.

One of the onlookers, a woman in a Broncos hoodie, pulled out her phone.

Local #3: What time is the show? My brother’s into wrestling. I might drag him.

Ciarán: Sunday evenin’, doors open six. Come along, give us a shout. I’ll pretend I don’t know ye when I’m gettin’ choked out in the corner.

That drew another burst of laughter. The interest felt good, warming him from the outside in, but it was still attention, still performance. He knew how to ride that wave, how to keep it from cresting into anything real.

As the game wore on, he let little pieces of himself slip into the banter, carefully edited and polished.

Nate: So what do you miss most? About Ireland?

Ciarán lined up a shot, eyes narrowing.

Ciarán: The rain, maybe. Back home it hits ye from every angle. And everyone knowin’ everyone. Your mam hearin’ about what trouble you’re in before you’ve even finished bein’ in it.

He took the shot, the cue ball striking the red stripe into the pocket. He straightened with a flash of triumph.

Ciarán: And the chips. Jaysus, ye don’t know chips here at all, do ye?

That got another round of laughter. It was easier to talk about chips and rain than to talk about waking up in a foreign hotel and reaching for his phone, fingers already typing his mother’s number before he remembered the time difference and the way her voice went quiet when she asked when he was coming home and he didn’t have an answer.

He sank another shot, putting on a victorious swagger.

Ciarán: Look at that, will ye? There’s hope for me yet.

Later, after another pint and another game, the night began to come to a premature end. On his way back to the bar to close his tab, the bartender leaned in, resting her elbows on the wood.

Bartender: Hey, if I’m off Sunday, I might swing by that show. Gotta see if you’re as entertaining in the ring as you are over a pint.

He smirked, despite himself.

Ciarán: Oh, I’m worse in the ring, love. At least there I’ve the chance to hit someone who deserves it.

Bartender: Now that I gotta see!

She waved him closer with a conspiratorial grin.

Bartender: You good, Killarney? Need me to call you a ride?

He hopped back onto the barstool with a little bounce. His cheeks were warm, his limbs loose.

Ciarán: I’m grand, I walked from the hotel. You’ve survived my company for a whole evenin’, that’s a medal for ye. What’re ye doin’ with yourself after your shift?

She shook her head with a flattered smile that showed teeth.

Bartender: Going home to my dog and my couch. Very glamorous American nightlife.

He clutched at his chest theatrically.

Ciarán: And here's me thinkin’ I’d be swept away on a Colorado adventure!

She laughed, ringing up his tab.

Bartender: Dare to dream! That’ll be fifty-two even. And good luck Sunday. I’ll say I knew you when!

He pulled out his card, glancing once more at the mirror behind the bar. He looked like he was having the time of his life. He looked like a stranger wearing his skin.

He added a generous tip, remembering his mam’s lessons for a job well done.

Ciarán: Listen, thanks for the hospitality, yeah? Ye did the pint justice. Tell your boss there’s at least one Irish lad who’ll not report ye to the embassy.

Bartender: I’ll let him know we passed inspection.

He left them with one last wave, one last smile and then pushed the door open and stepped back out into the Boulder night. The cold hit him immediately. And his smile faded all too easily.

He shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets and started walking. His legs knew the way back to the hotel. By the time he reached the hotel, his warm buzz had chilled into something heavier. Part of him wanted to keep walking right past the hotel but he didn't.

Once inside, his room greeted him with a finality that practically made his blood chill. He closed the door behind him and stood there for a second with his back against it, as if bracing himself against the weight of nothing.

The personality he had been wearing all night. The funny, flirty Irish lad. The life of the party. It all fell off him like a coat that was suddenly too heavy.

He let his jacket slide off his shoulders and dropped it on the nearest chair instead of hanging it up proper. He kicked his boots off and didn’t bother setting them right. Empty takeaway containers sat on the desk from the previous night, a crumpled paper bag and a plastic fork. His suitcase lay open at the foot of the bed.

He crossed to the bed and sat down on the edge, elbows on his knees. He stared at the patterned carpet, his eyes unfocused. He knew he should shower. Wash off the bar smell. He knew he should perhaps check his timetable for Sunday and his match with Logan Hunter. All the little tasks of a professional on tour.

Instead, he reached for his phone.

The lock screen glowed to life in the darkened room, the only source of light save for the city lights through the open curtain. He swiped it and went straight to his messages. A family group chat sat near the top, unread messages from earlier in the day when he had been on the move. He scrolled back up, skimming through.

Mam: How’s the travel, love? You eat anythin’ proper yet?

A photo from his younger sister, making a face for the camera.

Sis: Ma’s after burnin’ the stew again. Come home and cook for us!

He smiled, a small thing that didn’t reach his eyes. His thumb hovered over the text box. He started to type.

Ciarán: I had a great night. Place here tries to be Irish. It’s gas. Miss ye. Wish…

He stopped. His chest tightened. He stared at the words “miss ye”. It felt too much like an admission he wasn’t ready to send across an ocean. He held down the backspace key with his thumb. The sentences vanished, leaving the text box empty again.

He paused, then tried again.

Ciarán: All good here. Had a pint for ye, Mam. Show’s on Sunday. I’ll send a pic.

He hit send and immediately hated how cheerful it looked.

There was no immediate reply. It was the middle of the night in Ireland and they were asleep. He was awake in a hotel room in Colorado, lit by the screen light of his phone and left wondering why he didn't grab a bite to eat while he was out.

He scrolled aimlessly through social media next. Notifications from fans and casual followers. A thirsty comment sat under a shot of him bending over in the ring to grab his opponent. He thumbed past it all with a hollow kind of detachment. These people thought they knew him. They knew the character. They didn’t know the man sitting on the edge of a hotel bed, alone.

He tossed the phone on the bed beside him and scrubbed both hands over his face. His skin felt too tight, his chest too heavy. He stood up quickly, walking to the window and had a look outside.

Outside, all he really saw were sources of light. Streetlamps, neon signs, car headlights gliding along the roads. Somewhere far off were the mountains, outlines dark and solid. He searched for a shape that even vaguely resembled anything from home but found nothing. His throat tightened and he drew the curtain shut.

He crossed to his suitcase and knelt, rummaging past folded shirts and rolled gear until his fingers brushed something small at the bottom. He fished it out, a slightly battered St. Christopher medal on a thin chain. His mam had pressed it into his hand the day he left, her lips moving in silent prayer as she did.

Her voice echoed in his head now, thick with worry and pride.

“Mind yourself, love. Don’t go forgettin’ where you come from.”

He sat back on the carpet, legs stretched out, the medal resting in his palm. The metal was old, the edges worn smooth by time. He closed his fingers around it and pressed it to his forehead for a moment, eyes shut.

Ciarán: Right. You’re grand. You’re fine. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?

It was a trick he knew too well. Talk to himself like he’d talk to a friend who was spiraling. But the words did him no good and he didn't try further for himself like he might a friend or family member.

He pushed himself up to his feet and moved to the nightstand where his phone was where he had dropped it. He picked it up again and flicked through his music until he found a playlist titled “Home.”

The first song was an old ballad his father used to sing, something slow and sad. He hesitated, thumb hovering over it, then tapped play. The opening chords were low and familiar. He stood there in the middle of the room, one hand holding the phone, the other curled tight around the medal, as the first line in Irish slipped into the air.

He lasted thirty seconds before his thumb stabbed the stop button. The music cut off and the silence that rushed in afterward was somehow worse.

He dropped the phone back on the nightstand with more force than necessary, the clatter loud in the quiet room.

Ciarán: Can’t even listen to a fuckin’ song without goin’ to bits.

He said it with a bitterness that surprised him. He sat on the bed again, letting himself fall back, sprawling across the duvet, arms spread, eyes fixed on the ceiling. His jeans dug into his hips, his shirt bunched up under the small of his back. He did not move to fix either.

The subdued sounds from the city outside and his own steady breathing were the only sounds in the room. His mind, freed from the distractions of being someone else, began its slow, familiar spiral.

He thought of his mother at the kitchen table with her tea, the way she always sat stiff and silent with worry over one of her children. He thought of friends who could walk into their local and know half the room, of cousins who would be there for birthdays and holidays he might miss because he was in some other country pretending to be larger than life.

A pulse of something heavy rolled through him, like a wave over sand. It wasn’t sharp like panic or hot like anger. It was dull, thick, slow. His entire person felt swallowed by it.

He lay there in his clothes, staring at nothing, long enough that his back started to ache and one leg developed that pins-and-needles sensation. And yet, he still didn’t sit up.

He blew out a slow breath and finally rolled onto his side, dragging himself up just enough to grab the remote. He clicked the TV on, not caring what channel it landed on. Some old, American sitcom filled the room, something about four old women living together in Miami. Grand. He left the volume low, just enough to make the silence less sharp.

The St. Christopher medal was still in his hand. He lifted it to his lips and pressed a quick, almost embarrassed kiss to it the way his mam did at Mass, then closed his fingers around it again. He curled on top of the bedspread, shoes still on, the TV flickering shadows across his face. Inside room 417, Ciarán Doyle lay alone in the half-light, the life of the party gone quiet, as sleep finally dragged him down into a restless silence.



“A’right, let’s get this outta the way first, yeah?”

“Aiden Reynolds, fair play t’ye. I’m not too proud to say ye got one over on me. I walked into that match thinkin’ I was ready for every trick and you still found a way t’plant me on me arse and walk out with the win. That’s not luck. That’s just a good night’s work from a tough bastard who came prepared. So good on you.”

“Now, my path’s crossed with a different sort. I’m walkin’ into a match wi’ a man who is literally afraid of his own girlfriend. Logan Hunter, explain this t’me, will ye? How in the name of sweet suffering Jaysus am I supposed t’be intimidated by a fella who jumps when his lady raises her voice? Ye don’t stand up straighter when she walks into the room, Logan, ye shrink. Yet we’re all meant t’pretend you’re man I should be losin’ sleep over.”

“Let’s talk about Brooke for a second. She runs right over ye, doesn’t she? She makes the calls, she throws the tantrums, and ye just trail along behind her like a lost pup hopin’ she’ll throw you a scrap of affection. She doesn’t care what ye’re put through. She doesn’t care if you’re humiliated, as long as she gets what she wants. And ye’re too scared of losin’ her to say a single word against it.”

“That’s how this whole mess started, isn’t it? These punishments. By all rights, Brooke should be the only one gettin’ punished. She lit the fire. But somehow, someway, it’s you payin’ the price every week. And it’d be almost sad if it wasn’t so pathetic to watch.”

“Evelyn Hall stood there and laid it all out on the table. It would end if Brooke apologized. That’s it. One apology. One tiny moment where Brooke admits maybe she’s not the center of the universe and other people’s rules might matter. One word of humility and the punishments stop. But Brooke refuses, deciding her pride is worth more than your well-being. And you do absolutely nothin’.”

“Ye don’t stand up to her. Ye don’t take her aside and say yer finished bleedin’ for her ego here. No. Ye swallow it and nod along. Ye let yourself be punished over and over for somethin’ you didn’t even do. Because the idea of Brooke bein’ cross with you scares you more than the thought of another public humiliation. And that’s the same man I’m meant t’be afraid of steppin’ into a ring with? Ooo!”

“This is the boogeyman that I’m meant t’look across the ring at and think ‘what a dangerous threat’? Ye’re not a threat, Logan. Ye’re the poster boy for what happens when a wrestler lets someone else hold the leash. Every time Brooke snaps her fingers, ye flinch. Every time she scowls, ye lower your head. And every time the punishments roll on, you take it, even though the escape clause is right there in front of you. I’m not intimidated by that. I’m insulted I’m even bein’ asked to treat ye like a threat!”

“Now I hear you’ve convinced yourself ye’re gonna be the next Roulette Champion. Maybe, by some weird twist of fate, you will manage to pull it off. Maybe the stars line up, the wheel spins just right, and the universe decides to give you a shiny belt to cling to while Brooke takes all the credit. But let’s not pretend what that would really be, yeah? Because most of the credit for anything you’ve done lately, and anything you might do, doesn’t rest on your shoulders. It rests on the way Brooke inserts herself into your matches and bails you out every time you start to drown. I mean, we’ve all seen it. The referee’s back is turned and Brooke’s claws are in someone’s eyes or she’s shriekin’ like a banshee on the apron. She doesn’t have faith in you to get the job done on your own, Logan, and you know it. If she did, she wouldn’t have to cheat for you. She cheats because she knows she’s the only reason you’re still in the conversation.”

“I’m not daft. I know I’m not just dealin’ with Logan Hunter. I’m also dealin’ with Brooke, screamin’ on the outside, lookin’ for any little crack she can pry open. I’m expectin’ the two-for-one odds. I’d say it’ll be three-for-one, but truth be told, Marissa seems like the only one of the three of ye with her head screwed on straight.”

“Logan, you’re walkin’ into this match thinkin’ it’s just another punishment. The championship contender against the wet behind the ears rookie. But I’m not part of that story. The way I see it, the second you kept your mouth shut, the second you decided you’d take the punishments rather than stand up to Brooke, you made your choice. You chose this path. You chose to be the man who suffers in silence instead of the man who fights back. So when I step into that ring with you, I’m not walkin’ in feelin’ sorry for ye. I’m walkin’ in seein’ an opponent who had a dozen chances to stand tall and chose to stay on his knees.”

“That’s the difference between us. I make my own luck with my fists, my boots, and the stubbornness of an Irishman who doesn’t know when he’s meant t’stay down. It won’t matter how carefully Brooke meddles and twists matches in your favor. Cuz there are some lads you just can’t cheat your way past. I’m one of them.”

“And here’s the thought that keeps turnin’ over in my head, Logan. When I put your shoulders to the mat for the one, the two, and the three, when the ref’s hand comes down and your grand dreams of Roulette glory flicker like a candle in a storm, what happens then? What happens when the company looks at the situation and realizes that the man they penciled in for a Roulette Title match against Vincent Lyons Junior at Inception VIII can’t even survive Ciarán Doyle without his house of cards collapsing around him? In a business where momentum is everything, where perception shapes reality, how long d’ye really think they’ll keep your name in that slot if I beat you clean in the middle of the ring?”

17
Climax Control Archives / Introducing Ciarán Doyle! Act One, Part Two
« on: November 28, 2025, 06:15:07 PM »
Previously in the tale of Ciarán Doyle…


The roar from the other side of the curtains was so loud, compacted screams of delight, whistles and catcalls, was so strong that Ciarán could have sworn he felt it in his teeth! The young Irishman was this close to turning tail and bolting when he felt Ruaoro’s hand on the small of his back.

“Go!” Ruairí urged behind him, pushing him through the gap in the middle of the curtains and all Ciarán could blessedly see was the glare of the stage lights! A blessing in disguise as if he had been able to see the audience themselves, then he might have frozen - and he was still this close to doing so!

Ciarán’s eyes were glued to Ruairi, watching his every move and mimicking him as best he could without looking completely foolish. As the music pulsed across the entirety of the nightclub and the cheers and whistles washed over the men, they hit their first formation of two lines, then a staggered V and he did exactly what Ruairí had told him to do. He watched his mate like a hawk and copied every move half a beat behind. Step forward, roll a hip then turn. Hands dragging up oiled torsos, hips popping to the bea....

Seriously, how the feck did he get talked into making a complete arse out of himself!?

Ciarán wasn’t perfect. More than once he stepped left when the line went right, or his arm came up just a fraction too late. But every time he fucked up, he locked back onto Ruairí and corrected himself, falling back into synch!

And just like Ruairí had promised him, nobody out there seemed to give a shite. They were too busy screaming and fawning over thrusting pelvises and oiled up pecs. The rush of it washed over Ciarán, an insane blend of terror and adrenaline that had him grinning despite himself.

Midway through the number, the formation split. The music shifted, driving into a heavier, dirtier beat. One by one, the dancers peeled off from the line for a quick centre-stage moment under the brightest spotlight, ten seconds each to do something dirty enough to send their section of the crowd into orbit. And seeing this had Ciarán practically shitting himself.

A lad with a buzzcut dropped into a spinnarooni before righting himself and running his hands up his thighs. Ruairí’s turn brought a roar from the front row as he mimed loosening his belt and unbuttoning his pants, teasing the audience thoroughly.

And then there was space in front of Ciarán. The others had fanned back. He felt as if his heart had plummeted into his stomach suddenly.

“Go on!” Ruairi urged from the line behind him.

His mind was completely blank. He stood there like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming semi. He heard a woman near the front shout, “Take it off!”

With absolutely nothing else to grab onto, he did the first thing his panicked brain offered. He lifted both hands behind his head and rolled his hips while turning his body in a complete circle where he stood. The reaction was instantaneous as his movements drew immediate cheers and shrieks of delight!

Ciarán felt his face burn, but the reckless bit of him kept the grind going for one extra beat before he stepped back into formation.

“Ya filthy hoor!” Ruairí hissed happily as he slid in beside him again. “Told ya you had it!”

“Shut up and get me out of here!” Ciarán muttered, breathless.

The track changed again and just when Ciarán thought he had the pattern of the number clocked, the line turned as one and headed not back upstage but straight down the steps and into the crowd.

“What are we doin’!?” Ciarán hissed between his teeth.

“Mingle!” Ruairí shouted back over the roar. “Try not to get mauled!”

And then he was gone, swept off toward a cluster of women waving bridal sashes, leaving Ciarán nudged forward by the lads behind him until his boots hit the club floor. The table right in front of him erupted in schoolgirl delight.

“There he is! Grease-boy!” A woman in a veil  squealed, clearly having had more than her fair share of drinks. She had a plastic tiara that read “Bride To Be” and a sash with the words “Last Fling Before the Ring”. Her friends, each in a “Team Bride” t-shirt, moved closer around the table.

A hand ran a path down his chest. Another slipped a twenty (deep) into his belt. The bridal party and the bride herself all crowded around in front of him as someone held their phone out for a group selfie.

For half a second, all he could manage was a startled laugh. “Jaysus, ladies, steady on, will ye?”

“Aw, he’s shy!” One of them shrieked with delight. “Do the hip thing again!”

They clapped and chanted, “Hip! Hip! Hip!” like a drunken chorus.

What else could he do? He didn't want to refuse and cause a bad review for Ruairi and his buddies. So Ciarán placed his hands behind his head and repeated his move as best he could in the tight space. The table went absolutely feral.

“Best. Night. Ever!” The bride declared. “If this weddin’ doesn’t work out, I’m comin’ back for you!”

A familiar hand landed between his shoulder blades. “Sorry ladies!” Ruairí’s voice came as he slid in beside him. “Borrowin’ him back for a minute. Union rules, y’know.” Already steering Ciarán away with an arm around his waist, guiding him through the crush of bodies and back toward the steps. “Come on, superstar. Finale time.” Ruairi declared.

“Don’t you ever say ‘mingle’ to me again!” Ciarán muttered as they climbed back toward the stage.

Ruairí just laughed. “You smashed it, Doyle. Now focus.”

They slid back into position as the others reformed the line. The final chorus hit and they moved together to the beat, the whole stage pulsing. Ciarán lost himself in it,  still not perfect but keeping up as best he could with the steps he memorized.

On the last beat, the lads struck their final pose and the club detonated into screams, whistles and applause. Then the house lights dipped and the line peeled away in slick, practiced order,  backstage and behind the curtains as the MC again took control of the show.

Backstage was a blur of sweat, laughter and the high that came after a good show. The moment they cleared the curtain, the line of lads gave one another high fives and hugs, congratulating one another on a successful show. Ciarán stood there, heart still batterin’ his ribs, still coming to terms he just did … that! Before he could gather himself, one of the dancers, the same buzzcut lad from earlier, strode over and clapped him hard on the shoulder.

“Cheers, mate!” He said, grinning wide. “You saved our arses!”

Another fella with long hair tied back in a bun chimed in as he passed, giving Ciarán’s other shoulder a squeeze. “Would’ve been a shambles without that extra body out there. Thanks, Doyle!”

“Good man!” A third added, flicking his tie at him as he walked by. “Hard to believe it was yer first time the way you did that hip circle.

Ciarán could only manage “No worries.” His cheeks burning hotter with every compliment.

Ruairí appeared in front of him, eyes bright as Christmas. He slapped both hands onto Ciarán’s shoulders and gave him a little shake. “See? Wasn’t so bad now, was it?”

“Wasn’t so…!?” Ciarán gaped at him. “Are you completely deranged!?”

He threw his hands up. “I made a holy show of meself out there!” He ranted. “I got molested six different ways by strangers and I’m fairly sure that I just might be engaged now!”

The nearby lads burst out laughing!

“Ah, would you stop!” Ruairí said, rolling his eyes. “You’re makin’ it sound worse than it is! You did grand! Crowd loved ya! You definitely pulled a few tips as well, don’t be coy!”

“Oh, I pulled tips alright!” Ciarán snapped. “Down in the promised land, apparently!”

Before anyone could ask, he hooked his thumb under the waistband of his trousers, ignoring the surprised chorus of “Steady now!” and wolf whistles, and reached down the front of his pants, expression twisted in indignation as he fished around.

“Jaysus, Mary and Joseph!” He muttered. “Could they not have used me belt like normal people?”

He finally got a grip on the wad and yanked his hand back out, holding up a crumpled bundle of notes. “There now!” He said, waving the wad in Ruairí’s face. “Look at this! I think I’ve just committed adultery with an entire bridal party via legal tender!”

The lads roared. With laughter, each one of them having experienced much the same throughout their careers.

Ruairí leaned in for a closer look, still grinning. Ciarán glanced down at the money himself, intending to dramatically fling it in his friend’s direction, and then did a double take.

“Hold on…” He said, squinting. “These aren’t singles. These are twenties!”

His brows shot up towards his hairline. “Who the hell is stuffin’ twenties down me jocks like that’s normal behaviour!?”

Ruairí snorted. “Hen nights, lad.” He replied with incredulous delight for his buddy. “They come loaded!”

He pointed with his chin at the bundle still in Ciarán’s hand. “There’s a fifty in there as well, look.”

Ciarán fanned the wad out with reluctant curiosity and sure enough, there it was. A crisp, brand new fifty. “Jesus wept… I’m gonna have to tithe this on Sunday. Cleanse me soul.”

“Or…” Offered a smooth, amused voice from beside them. “You could consider it an advance?”

Both Ciarán and Ruairi turned to find the group’s manager Seán, having materialized from somewhere behind them, a faint, satisfied smile on his face.

“Hell of a debut, Doyle.” He said. “Crowd went mad for ya! That hen table in front is already askin’ if you’re on again next week.”

“Absolutely not!” Ciarán said in reflex, clutching the money like it might either bite him or vanish entirely.

Seán chuckled. “You say that now. But….” He tipped his chin at the wad of cash. “There could be more where that came from. Bit of part-time work? Couple of nights a month? Easy money.”

Before Ciarán could even form a refusal, Ruairí was already chiming in, eyes alight with mischief. “And if he ever decided to go the full monty…” He added happily, “He could really…!”

“Nope!” Ciarán cut across him, voice going up a full octave. He stuffed the notes into his pocket like contraband, face scarlet. “No! Absolutely not! The answer is no from now ‘til Judgement Day! I am done! Finished! Career over before it even started! Now where…!” He demanded, turning around and looking down the hall for a dressing room or shower - something!  “...Can I wash this shite off me?!”

He stomped off down the corridor, muttering under his breath about oil and hips and defiling currency! One of the lads leaned out of a dressing room to point helpfully toward the showers, barely holding in his laughter.

Ruairí watched him go, that wide, fond grin still plastered across his face. Beside him, Seán folded his arms, eyes tracking Ciarán’s retreating, very popular backside. “Stubborn, that one.” He sighed. “Shame. He’s a natural.”

Ruairí shrugged one shoulder, utterly unconcerned. “Give him a bit. Once he’s not feelin’ like a greased pig on display and he’s counted that wad properly?”

He flashed the manager a knowing smile.

“He’ll be back.”


Pussy Willow: And you weren't.

Ciarán Doyle: And I wasn’t.

Two faces filled the screen, SCW reporter Pussy Willow and newcomer, Ciarán Doyle. Revealing that the entire story from the past week and this, had been a podcast interview broadcast on-air.

Ciarán Doyle: Not even a little bit. Back then if you’d have told me I’d be standin’ under lights with that kind of carry on, I’d have laughed you out of the room. I had all these grand ideas about dignity and keepin’ to myself. I thought I was above that sort of thing.

Pussy Willow: So what changed your mind?

Ciarán Doyle: The money. Plain and simple. I’d love to dress it up, but it was the bills on the table and the landlord bangin’ on the door. Rent doesn’t care about yer pride. The `lectric company doesn’t give a shite about yer boundaries. I was knowin’ if somethin’ didn’t give I’d be sleepin’ in a doorway. Simple as that. An' me lad Ruiain meant what he said at the time. Goin’ full monty was where the real coin is.

Pussy Willow's eyes shot up.

Pussy Willow: So does that mean...?

Ciarán nodded.

Ciarán Doyle: That somewhere out there on the wide and wonderful internet, there are pictures and videos of my banger floatin’ about, yeah. I’m not gonna sit here and pretend there aren’t. Somewhere some poor gobshite’s phone is full of angles of me I definitely never imagined bein’ archived for posterity.

Pussy Willow: And now here you are, not dancin’ for rent money but wrestlin’ for a career. Your second match in and they’ve already lined you up with Aiden Reynolds. That’s a big jump. What does that tell you?

Ciarán Doyle: It tells me exactly what the brass think of me. My first night in, I do what I’m brought here to do and I get me hand raised. I prove I can walk the walk inside those ropes. Now for match number two, instead o’ givin’ me another soft touch and lettin’ me coast, they throw me in with Aiden feckin’ Reynolds! A right bastard with anger issues and a chip on his shoulder the size of a tour bus. That’s them sayin’, all right Doyle, let’s see if you can swim with a shark!

Pussy Willow: What do you see when you look at Aiden Reynolds as an opponent?

Ciarán Doyle: I see danger, first off. I’m not stupid. I see a former Roulette Champion, a lad who’s been in there with killers and come out the other side still standin’. I see Wolfslair an' everything they're about all over his history. I see the fella who took Helluva Bottom Carter, the World Heavyweight Champion himself, right to the edge two pay-per-views in a row. Aiden dragged him into deep water, twice, and made him swim for his life! That tells me I’m facin’ a man who knows how to hurt, and how to keep goin’ when he’s hurt!

Pussy Willow: And yet you’ve also called him the bridesmaid, not the bride, especially when it comes to names like Alex Jones and Austin James Mercer. Can you explain what you mean by that, without takin’ anything away from those guys?

Ciarán Doyle: Aye. Alex Jones and Austin James Mercer? They're what you might call the stabdard bearers of the men in Wolfslair. They’ve put the work in. They’ve held the big gold more than once. And when you stand Aiden beside big name lads like that, he’s always right next to the top but never quite reachin’ it. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. The guy everyone looks at and says any day now, he’s gonna break through. Almost world champion. Almost the face of the brand. That eats away at a man more than any loss.

Pussy Willow: Do you think that’s where some of the anger comes from?

Ciarán Doyle: I do, yeah. When you’ve been that close that many times? You look at the world like it’s robbed you. I watch the way he carries himself. It’s the body language of a man who thinks the universe owes him a refund. He’s barely holdin’ it together. And that makes him dangerous because a man who feels cheated doesn’t mind cheatin’ opportunity out of the next guy if it gets him where he wants to go.

Pussy Willow: So you respect what he’s done. Why is that?

Ciarán Doyle: Because I’d be an eejit not to respect Aiden Reynolds! The man tore the World Champion apart before he just barely lost! I’ve watched tapes of his matches. I’ve seen what he's capable of. But I’m not the one carryin’ his history on my back, now am I? That’s the difference between him an' me. Every time he’s stood in the ring feelin’ the world slip through his fingers, that’s that much more weight on his back. Me? I’m comin’ in fresh with no ghosts of wrestlin' past in me ear. So while he’s draggin’ his past behind him, I’m runnin’ toward my future. I know what I’m walkin’ into. He doesn't.

Pussy Willow: You’ve talked a lot about roles in wrestling. Where do you see Aiden’s role right now? And your own?

Ciarán Doyle: Right now, Aiden is the measuring stick. He’s the man they send newcomers through to see if the hype is real. The bosses know that fella is a loose cannon that's going to break the new lads down bone by broken bone. You want to know if some new fella can hang with the big boys? You put him in with Aiden Reynolds. If he breaks, you can save yourself bother. If he survives, you got an investment. But here’s the truth of bein’ the measuring stick. You’re a tool. No more, no less. My role? I'm the one the office and the locker room are still tryin’ to figure out. I’m the question mark.

Pussy Willow: If he’s the measuring stick, what kind of match do you expect to have against him?

Ciarán Doyle: Step by step you mean? Bell rings, and he comes at me like a bull. That’s what a man with his anger does. He tries to set the tone, tries to hit me hard and early. I’m ready for that storm. I’ll take some shots, I’ll eat a few stiff ones, but I’ll still be standin’ there, hittin’ back. Then we get to the grind, the back-and-forth. Every time he hooks my leg and hears two instead of three, that chip on his shoulder gets heavier. And that’s where I make my living. In the moment where his temper gets ahead of his talent, I slip in, I catch him, and suddenly the bridesmaid is lyin’ on his back while the ref’s hand hits three.

Pussy Willow: Are you tryin’ to take his spot, then? To leapfrog off his name and step into the conversations he’s been havin’ for years about titles and main events?

Ciarán Doyle: Of course I am. What’s the point of gettin’ in there if you’re not tryin’ to move up the ladder? He’s spent years knockin’ on the door, and that constant knockin’ has worn the wood down. I’m showin’ up now to kick what’s left of it in. Every time they put a name opposite mine, I’m thinkin’ about how I can use that name as a step upward. When I beat Aiden, it’s not just a line on a win-loss record. It’s proof that I’m not just a fun new toy. I’m a threat. He stays the man who could have had it all. I become the man people start whisperin’ about.

Pussy Willow: Final thought. When the match is over and people look back at Ciarán Doyle versus Aiden Reynolds, what do you want Aiden to feel, and what do you want the fans to remember?

Ciarán Doyle: I want Aiden to feel that sick twist in his gut he knows all too well. That he did almost everything right and it still wasn’t enough. I want him lyin’ there, starin’ up at the lights, wonderin’ how he let it slip again. As for the fans, I want them to look at that match and say, that was the night Ciarán Doyle stopped bein’ an interesting newcomer and started becomin’ a problem. I want them to remember that I stepped in with a former Roulette Champion, a Wolfslair bruiser, the man who took Helluva Bottom Carter to his limits, and I won. That’s the story I’m writin’ here. I’m the lad who’s only just gettin’ started.

Pussy Willow: Thank you, Ciarán. And good luck this Sunday.

Ciarán Doyle smiles as the podcast interview is brought to its conclusion.

18
Climax Control Archives / Introducing Ciarán Doyle! Act One, Part One
« on: November 21, 2025, 08:22:07 PM »
Dublin, Ireland -
A fair few years ago


Night in the city of Dublin had already fallen and the bass from the club could be heard clear to the outside, some in the long line of predominantly women dancing in place as they waited to be let inside. The Velvet Stag, as the sign above the club indicated, was clearly one of Camden Street’s top attractions, especially with the live entertainment regularly on offer.

“Jaysus, you owe me for this.” Ciarán Doyle muttered, his lips pressed into a thin line, lowering his head from gazing at the neon sign, one of very few men in the immediate vicinity. He was not in the long line, waiting to go inside. He was standing off to the side alongside another man, near the security letting the patrons in a few at a time.

“Relax, will ya?” His friend grinned. “It’s a club. There’s tunes. There’s drink. There’s me. Either way, you win!”

Ciarán shot him a look. “You better appreciate this! I don’t usually be hangin’ around feckin’ male strip shows!”

Ruairí O’Callaghan laughed and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I do appreciate it. Cross me heart.” He traced a quick cross over his chest and continued. “But think of it this way. You get to spend the night in a club packed with a load of wound-up women! Could be worse ways to pass a Friday.”

Ciarán rolled his eyes. “You’re makin’ it sound like a charity case.”

“Ah, you love it!” Ruairí said. “C’mon, before the manager has a stroke.”

They moved with the crowd into the entrance, showing that the Velvet Stag’s interior was pretty much what one might expect in the Dublin nightlife. Dimmed, neon lights overhead and exposed brick walls. The lit up dance floor. Velvet-upholstered seating and marble-topped tables. Everywhere there were groups of women gathered in sashes and birthday tiaras, enjoying themselves with drinks raised.

Ruairí leaned in to smile. “See? Prime huntin’ ground.”

“Yeah,” Ciarán said dryly. “Because nothin’ says romance like plastic willies and dodgy tiaras.”

Ruairí just laughed when a staff member with a headset met them near the stairs. “Ruairí, you’re late!” She then noticed Ciarán. “This your plus-one?”

“Yeah, this is Ciarán,” Ruairí said. “He’s only mildly judgin’ us all.”

Ciarán gave a silent polite smile and a wave.

“Don’t worry, you’ll have fun!” She winked before turning to Ruairi. “First set’s in ten. Ruairí, backstage. Now.”

Ruairí turned to Ciarán. “Grab a pint and find a good spot. Give us a cheer!”

“I’m not roarin’ your name while you’re grindin’ on hen parties,” Ciarán said.

“You’re a saint, Doyle!” Ruairí called, already being ushered away.

Ciarán shook his head and pushed toward the bar that stretched along the entirety of the club’s side wall. He managed to flag down a young man with a well-trimmed goatee and a shamrock tattoo on his forearm.

“What’re ya havin’?” The bartender shouted.

“Pint of Guinness there, if you don’t mind.” Ciarán called out, settling onto a vacant barstool.

“Good man.” The bartender nodded. He poured it like an expert, no head of foam, and slid the pint across. “There ya are, boss.”

“Cheers.” Ciarán paid and wrapped his fingers around the cool glass and took a long, steadying pull and watched as the DJ’s voice boomed out.

“Ladies of Dublin! Welcome to Celtic Thunder!”

The place erupted with screams, whistles and applause that grated on Ciarán's ears. He shook his head and took another drink. “Feck’s sake…”

“You in with one of the hens, are ya?” The bartender observed.

“Just here with one of the lads,” Ciarán said. “Big eejit with the dimples. Answers to Ruairí.”

The bartender laughed. “Ah, him! You’d wanna keep an eye on him or they’ll whip him out the fire exit!”

“That’s his own problem!” Ciarán laughed. “I’m just here for the beer.”

The music kicked on as the opening performance began. The curtains parted and a line of men stepped out in matching black trousers and no shirts, spreading out across the stage in formation. Ciarán watched with a slightly disbelieving expression on his face as the dancers moved in sync with spins and gyrations, teasing the crowd. It was cheesier than he’d expected.

He shook his head again and turned back to the bar, continuing his chat with the bartender as time passed and the numbers blurred into one another. Ciarán was in the middle of telling the bartender about a disastrous stag party in Galway when someone rushed up beside him.

“Are you Ciarán Doyle?”

He turned, brows knitting. A young woman stood there, a staff badge pinned to her chest. She looked like she’d legged it through the building.

“Depends. Am I in trouble?”

“I’ve been tryin’ to find ya!” She huffed. “You need to come backstage! Yer mate’s lookin’ for ya!”

Ciarán straightened on his stool. “Is he alright?”

She stammered an answer, her eyes wide. “He just said it’s important. C’mon!”

She didn’t wait for an answer, already moving toward a side door marked “Staff Only”. Ciarán set his pint down and followed. They slipped through the door into a brightly-lit corridor.

At the end of the hall, he saw Ruairí, half dressed in black trousers and standing next to a shorter man in a dark blazer that looked like he was about to have a heart attack from stress.

“There he is,” Ruairí said, pushing off the wall.

Ciarán came to a stop, asking. “What’s the story? You alright?”

“I’m grand, relax,” Ruairí said. His gaze turned to the man beside him. “This is Seán Keane, the manager. Seán, this is the lad I was tellin’ ya about. Ciarán.”

Seán gave a brisk nod, his gaze flicking over Ciarán. “Howya, Ciarán. Sorry to drag you away from your pint. Bit of a disaster on our hands.”

Ciarán’s unease deepened. “Will someone tell us what’s actually goin’ on?”

Ruairí rubbed the back of his neck. “Right, so…! One of the lads, Dara, just got a call. Proper family emergency. He’s already legged it out the door.”

Seán cut in. “He had to go. No question. But the timing’s bleedin’ brutal. We’re one man down for the second half, and Dara’s not just background. The whole run of the show is built on a full line.”

Ciarán frowned. “What’s that got to do with me? I can’t fix your choreography.”

Seán and Ruairí shared a look.

Ruairí stepped closer, eyes turning properly hopeful. “That’s the thing. We were thinkin’ maybe you could.”

Ciarán blinked. “You what?”

“Fill in?” Seán said, blunt as anything. “Just for tonight. Step into Dara’s place for the group bits. We can stick you into formation, keep the structure so the lads don’t lose their marks.”

Ciarán stared at him, then at Ruairí, then back again.

“You’re takin’ the absolute piss!”

“Just hear us out a second!” Ruairí said, hands up.

“No! Absolutely not!” Ciarán shot back, shaking his head. “I am not a dancer!”

Ruairí said. “You are a dancer! I’ve seen ya at weddings! Don’t be lyin’ to me.”

“Dancin’ half-locked at me cousin’s wedding is not the same as…!” He gestured around. “...This! An’ I dance with me clothes on, thanks very much!”

“Not always.” Ruairí muttered, then winced when Ciarán shot him a look that could strip paint. “Alright, sorry! But serious now! You’ve rhythm! You pick things up quick!”

“An’ we’re not askin’ for the full monty.” Seán cut in, practical and brisk. “Just shirt off, trousers on. The focus is still on the full line, not just you. The women’ll assume you’re one of ours!”

Ciarán stared. “You want me to go out there half naked, in front of a rake of drunk women, and pretend I know what I’m at?”

“You won’t be pretendin’!” Ruairí said. “You do know. You’ve the timing. You just stick to me. I’ll be right beside ya. I go left, you go left. I drop, you drop. It’s easy!”

Seán said quickly. “Look, the main thing is the line doesn’t have a big ugly gap in it. If we cut Dara completely, the spacing goes to shite! It’ll look like amateur hour, and word of mouth’ll kill us!”

Ciarán dragged a hand down his face, heart hammering. “This is cracked!” He said. “Properly cracked! I came in for a quiet pint and to laugh at you, not to…!”

“Ciarán.” Ruairí stepped closer, hand landing on Ciarán’s shoulder. “Look at me, will ya?”

Reluctantly, Ciarán met his eyes.

“I wouldn’t be askin’ if I didn’t think you could hack it!” Ruairí said. “You know that, yeah? Dara’s sittin’ in a taxi right now, sick with worry, and we’re back here tryin’ to keep the show from fallin’ to bits. The lads rely on this gig. If the crowd turns, it hits everyone.”

Ciarán huffed and Ruairí continued. “It’s one night. One set. You go out, you follow me. We get through it, and you can rip the piss outta me about tonight for the rest of me life!”

Seán nodded. “We’ll pay you Dara’s rate for the night. Plus whatever tips come your way. But right now we’ve about twenty-five minutes before you’re meant to be on for the second half.”

“Twenty-five minutes? I don’t even have clothes for this yoke!” Ciarán protested, gesturing at himself. “I’m in jeans and a shirt!”

“We’ve wardrobe,” Seán said. “We’ll find somethin’ near your size. We’ll oil the torso, job done. Trust me, they won’t be lookin’ at yer outfit!”

“I am not gettin’ oiled up like a turkey!” Ciarán muttered.

“You are, yeah.” Ruairí said. “Everyone does. It’s the law!”

“This is ridiculous.”

“That it is.” Ruairí agreed cheerfully. “But it’s the best ridiculous option we have. Please, man?”

Ciarán looked between them. Seán’s stressed face, hopeful in spite of it. Ruairí’s familiar eyes, all the usual cheek peeled back to something pleading. Ciarán let out a slow breath, like something loosening and giving up inside of him. Ciarán closed his eyes for a beat, then opened them again.

“Alright.” He said. “Fine! I’ll do it. Just this once, do you hear me?”

Ruairí’s face split into a grin as Seán exhaled hard. The easy part was over. Now came the hard part - pun not intended….

Later backstage….

Ciarán stood there, heart racing, wondering what in the name of God he’d just signed himself up for. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Ruairí, staring wide-eyed at the bottom of the curtains.

“Holy God!” He muttered under his breath.

He was not wearing his jeans anymore. Wardrobe had descended on him the second he’d said yes. Now he was poured into a pair of black trousers that sat indecently low on his hips, tight enough to show every curve of his ass and thighs along with a pair of polished black boots.

Up top, there was nothing. No shirt. No vest. Just a simple black tie that nested between his developed pecs that looked shiny from the oil.

The oil he had very much not agreed to.

“I said I’d dance!” Ciarán protested. “I never said I’d be basted like a Christmas turkey!”

“Everyone gets oiled, love.” The female tech insisted, already squirting something into her palm that smelled of coconut. “Arms up.”

He shot Ruairí a betrayed look as his friend leaned on a costume rail, laughing.

“Don’t you dare!” Ciarán warned.

Before he could escape, the dresser’s hands were on him, brisk and efficient, smoothing warm oil across his chest and shoulders and down over his arms.

“Jaysus, would you pack it in!” He flinched. “I feel like a feckin’ steak!”

“You’ll thank me when you see the photos.” She said, utterly unmoved with his grousing, finishing with a quick pass over his collarbones.

“I feel like a greased-up pig at a country fair!” He muttered out of the corner of his mouth to Ruairí, eyes still locked on the curtains.

Ruairí snorted, giving him a slow, appreciative once-over. “You look unreal, would ya stop! The women out there are gonna lose their heads!”

“That’s what I’m afraid of!” Ciarán said. “I’ll slip and go skatin’ off the front of the stage like a bar of soap!”

“Then at least go knees first.” Ruairí said. “They’ll think it’s part of the act.”

He reached out suddenly and grasped Ciarán’s forearm, his eyes running over his friend, taking in the tense shoulders and the clenched jaw.

“Jaysus, yer shakin’.” He said quietly. “Look at you.”

Ciarán glanced down at his shaking hands. “Grand…” He said. “That’ll make it easier to shake me outta these pants, won’t it?”

Ruairí barked a laugh at that, and just beyond them, the rest of the lads were lining up. Someone cracked a joke about not tripping over a bridal sash on the floor, and a ripple of laughter ran through them, everyone but Ciarán that is.

“Right, places!” Seán strode into the group of his dancers. “Stick to Ruairí like glue.” Seán said to Ciarán. “You’ll be grand. Don’t overthink it. Smile. Or smirk. Whatever you’re capable of. They’ll eat up whatever ya give ’em.”

“That’s comfortin’,” Ciarán muttered but Seán had already moved on, ensuring everything else was in order just on the off chance that Ciarán was not able to pull this off and nothing else could possibly happen to compound the problem.

“Here.” Ruairí said, reaching up to straighten Ciarán’s tie, tugging it a little looser, letting it drape down between his pecs, hiding a little more than wardrobe originally intended. “There, bit of mystery. When we yank it off later, they’ll scream the place down.”

“Why are you speakin’ like this is normal?” Ciarán demanded.

“This is my job, remember? It is normal for me.” Ruairí chuckled. “And in about five minutes, it’ll be normal for you too. You’ll see.”

Ciarán swallowed hard, his mouth dry. “If I survive five minutes.”

Ruairí leaned in until their foreheads almost touched, his voice dropping to something only Ciarán could hear. “Breathe in.”

Ciarán inhaled, his breath shuddering despite himself.

“Breathe out.”

He let it go, slow, still shuddering.

“Good man.” Ruairí reassured him. “You’ve got this. Just remember, if you get lost, you look at me. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ciarán said, voice low.

Ruairí grinned, gave his shoulder a last solid pat, and turned him gently so he was facing the curtain dead-on, slotted into his place in the line of gleaming bodies. A couple of the lads gave him quick nods of encouragement, knowing and recognizing what he’s doing for them.

Through the curtain, they could hear the MC’s voice booming now, clearer than before.

“Alriiiiight, Dublin!” Celtic Thunder’s MC shouted into the microphone, his voice carrying to every corner over the music. “Have ye got any energy left for us tonight?”

Another wave of cheers, whistles and ear splitting shrieks!

Beside him, Ciarán felt Ruairí lean in one last time, his lips close to his ear. “That’s your cue.” He said with a grin in his voice. “No backin’ out now.”

“Feck off!” Ciarán hissed, but it came out with obvious nerves.

The opening beats of the track thumped even louder, loud enough Ciarán could feel it in his feet. The curtains shuddered as one of the stagehands grabbed the rope.

“Ready lads?” Sean called down the line.

There was a chorus of confident responses from the young men waiting to hit that stage. And Ciarán? Ciarán’s heart hammered against his ribs, eyes wide as he stared straight ahead. The curtains parted and he felt Ruairí’s hand on the small of his back, ushering him out onto the stage…

TO BE CONTINUED -
I know, I’m a wicked little tease, ain’t I?



“Right, first off, I owe you lovely lot a bit of an apology, don’t I? I just left you good folk on a bit of a cliffhanger with that little story about me shakin’ me arse on stage in Dublin. Trust me, I had a good reason. Wrestlin’ an’ dancin’ have one thing in common, yeah? You always leave them wantin’ more. You don’t give the whole show away in one go. You give ’em a taste. You watch their eyes light up, and then you make ’em come back to see how the story really ends.”

“And speakin’ of stories, I’ve been sittin’ here wonderin’ for a while whose story I was goin’ to be the sacrificial lamb for in me first proper outing in the ring. Me SCW debut, as it were. I thought it’d be somethin’ obvious. A name like Anthrax, or the Troll, one of the big mad yokes they send out to see if the new lad swims or sinks. That’s how it usually goes, isn’t it? Feed the fresh meat to the monster or the basement sweller and see what’s left. So imagine me surprise when I see the card and it’s not Anthrax or the Troll. It’s Brayden Hilton. Third generation star. Golden boy lineage. And the son of SCW’s current World Bombshell Champion, Crystal Caldwell. If you could see me right now, this’d be the bit where I’m rollin’ me eyes so hard I can see into last week. ’Cause honest to God, I reckon I’d have a better match against Anthrax or the Troll than I will draggin’ Brayden through his own ego.”

“Now, I’m not just talkin’ out me arse here, yeah? Let’s actually look at Brayden’s track record, because it reads less like the rise of a third generation prodigy and more like a cautionary tale. Fella shows up August 8th, 2021, big debut, all puffed up, runnin’ his mouth at Fenris of all people. And what happens? He gets his head kicked clean off his shoulders. That’s not me exaggeratin’, that was just a common Sunday for Fenris. And I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ he must never have gotten that head properly reattached, because look how he follows up for the rest of his SCW career.”

“August 22nd, same year. Triple Threat against Caleb Storms and Cassian Reed. You’d think the lad might tighten up, yeah? Learn from the Fenris experience. But no. He drops that one too. Now, I’ll be fair. He didn’t take the fall. He wasn’t the one pinned. But let’s not be daft. If you don’t win, you still lose. You’re still walkin’ to the back with nothin’ to show for it but embarrassment and excuses. Brayden can wrap it any way he likes, the record still says the lad couldn’t get it done.”

“Then we skip on a bit to October 10th, still 2021, and he’s up against David Shepherd. Fresh chance, clean slate, right? Nah. Loses that one as well. By this point, if you’re keepin’ count, we’re not talkin’  a rookie rough patch anymore. We’re talkin’ patterns. And the pattern is Brayden Hilton showin’ up, talkin’ big, and goin’ home lighter in pride than he what came in with.”

“But we’re still not finished. Not by a long shot! November 7th, 2021, High Stakes XI. Big stage, big eyes on the show, and Brayden finds himself in a Fatal Four Way against Mac Bane, Señor Vinnie, and Miles Kasey. That’s some serious company, no doubt about it! And what does he do with it? He tanks it. Doesn’t rise to the occasion, doesn’t shock the world, doesn’t steal the show. Just another notch in the L column while the real killers in that match go on to bigger and better things.”

“First time we see him back after High Stakes is November 28th, and he’s across the ring from Ken Davison. Another chance, another fresh bell. And once again, the ending’s the same. Loses that one too. Then on December 4th, he’s dropped into another Triple Threat, this time against Lincoln Daniels and Alexander Raven. New mix of talent, new opportunity to prove he’s learned anything at all. Result? Same story. Lost again. At this point, if you’re Brayden, you’ve either gotta dig deep and reinvent yourself, or you quietly wander off before people start usin’ your win-loss record as a punchline!”

“And clearly that last one stung because we don’t see him again for a while. He disappears, vanishes into thin air. Poof! And when he finally slinks back into the light on February 19th, 2022, he’s starin’ across the ring at Austin James Mercer. And what happens? He gets pulverised. You can dress that up all you like with any excuse you can come up with. The result is the same. He ate another loss, walked to the back, still not a single win to his name.”

“Now here’s the part that really gets me. Despite all that, despite this whole catalogue of disappointment, Brayden’s still struttin’ around backstage like he’s the second comin’! Tries to issue an open challenge to Kris Ryans, like he’s earned the right to say that name. And Kris Ryans, multi-time champion, Hall of Famer, just goes, ‘Nah! I’m grand, but thanks!’ Wouldn’t even give him the time of day! Wouldn’t waste the mileage on the boots! That’s how little weight Brayden’s name carries when all he’s done is talk loud and lose louder.”

“Last time we see Brayden in that run is April 3rd, and it’s against Mark Cross. Different opponent, same ending. He tanks it. Again. No twist, no surprise, no heroic underdog story. Just Brayden Hilton linin’ up another loss in an already impressive collection.”

“So let’s do the sums together, will we? ’Cause I know numbers can be tricky when your head’s been kicked in as often as his has. By my count, that’s eight matches. Eight back to back showings. Eight straight losses. Not one solitary win in the whole bin. And sure, fair enough, a few of those names are stiff competition! A couple of Hall of Famers in there. Some former and future World Champs to boot! But the way Brayden struts around the place now, chest out and feathers up like a right peacock, you’d swear he’d pulled a miracle out of the bag somewhere along the way. You’d swear there was at least one night where he backed up the talk. But no. He just fades away into SCW’s history like a bad subplot, and we don’t see him again. Until now that is.”

“Funny timing that, isn’t it? Man hasn’t been seen in three bloody years. Never won a match here. Not once. No stock. No leverage in negotiations. But the very moment his mam wins the World Championship, suddenly there’s a contract on the table for young Brayden. Suddenly the doors that were closed are open again. Suddenly he’s back bein’ called a future star. Where I’m from, we’ve a phrase for that. That’s called bein’ a nepo baby. That’s not grind. That’s not hunger. That’s not  even ‘I clawed me way back because I love this business!’ That’s, ‘Me mam’s got gold, so I got lucky!’”

“And it doesn’t stop there, does it? Either he’s hidin’ behind his sister while she does more damage than he does, lettin’ her throw fists and or take the brunt of the damage while he plays in the background, or he’s leanin’ on his mam’s name like it’s a crutch! When your ring gear is stitched together out of other people’s accolades, you can’t be shocked when no one takes you seriously. When the Hilton legacy walks into a room now, it’s Crystal makin’ the floor shake. Brayden’s just the echo of the door slammin’ suit in his face.”

“For a third generation star, the star’s light clearly went dim somewhere along the line. The grandparent built somethin’ to stand on. His mam is World Champion, carryin’ the top prize and doin’ the family proud between those ropes every single night. And what has Brayden done to honour that family name? Nothin’ but run and hide when the goin’ gets tough! First sign of real resistance, he disappears. First stretch of bad luck, he vanishes for three years and only creeps back in when the path is greased for him by someone else’s success. That’s not legacy. That’s not pride. That’s a passenger climbin’ onto a train someone else paid for.”

“Now, I’m not gonna stand here and pretend he’s got nothin’ goin’ for him. That’d be stupid, and I’m not stupid. Brayden does have one very real advantage over me: experience. He’s been in there with some serious hitters. He’s stood across from monsters and legends and men who don’t know the meanin’ of takin’ a night off. He’s felt what it’s like to get smashed on a big stage, heard the bell ring when it wasn’t his hand gettin’ raised. That counts for somethin’, I’ll give him that. He’s walked this road before I ever laced a boot in SCW.”

“But here’s the part he’s not ready for. He is not, absolutely not, gettin’ his first win in over four years at my expense! I don’t care what his surname is! I don’t care who’s holdin’ the World Title in his house! I don’t care how many times he’s practiced lookin’ intense in the mirror with that bulldog nose sneer of his! This third generation star is walkin’ into that ring with a clean slate on paper and a dirty record in reality, and I’m not about to be the soft landing he never earned. If he wants to restart his career, he can do it somewhere else, on someone else’s bones. I’m not here to be his rebound victory. I’m here to make sure his story picks up exactly where he left off. Flat on his back, starin’ up at the lights, wonderin’ where it all went wrong.”

“So Brayden, if you’re listenin’, remember this one thing from your Uncle Ciarán, yeah? You can come out to your fancy music, you can wear all the right gear, you can stand in your ma’s shadow and hope a bit of that shine rubs off on you. But once that bell rings, there’s no mammy, no sister, no family name standin’ in there with you. There’s just you and me. And when it’s all said and done, when the ref’s hand comes down for three, you’re gonna realise somethin’ very simple. The only thing you inherited in this place is expectation. The beatin’ you’re about to take?”

“You’re earnin’ that all by yourself.”

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