Love, Carefully Handled
Las Vegas, Nevada
Valentine’s Day

Miles had already decided they weren’t going out before Carter ever said the words. Truth be told, Carter hadn’t said them at all.

He’d hovered in the bedroom doorway earlier that afternoon, keys in hand, that careful look on his husband’s face, the one that meant ‘I’m fine, really’, except Miles knew better now. Knew the way Carter still clocked exits without meaning to. He also knew how the idea of crowds still lived somewhere between exhausting and impossible.

So Miles had taken the keys from his hand, kissed him once on the cheek, and said, “Sit. I’ve got this.”

And that was that.

Now the condo smelled like rice vinegar and ginger, clean and grounding. Two containers of sushi sat on the counter, meticulously chosen, checked twice, nothing that would even think about triggering Carter’s allergies. Miles had been ruthless about it for years now and he was not about to take shortcuts or risks.

A bottle of Carter’s favorite wine rested on the counter like a quiet promise. Candles, not dramatic, just intentional, waited unlit on the coffee table.

It wasn’t fancy. It was theirs and exactly how they liked it.

From down the hall came the unmistakable sound of teenage panic.

“Miles...” Kevin called, voice wobbling, “How long does it take to decide if this is ‘trying too hard’ or ‘not trying enough’?”

Miles didn’t look up from slicing avocado, “Depends. Are you staring at yourself in the mirror like it’s about to judge you?”

“...Yes.”

Miles smiled, “Come ‘ere, let’s see.”

Kevin appeared in the kitchen entryway, hoodie half-zipped, his dark curly hair still damp from the shower, hands jammed in his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them. He was obviously nervous with an edge of earnestness. You could tell he was trying so hard it hurt. And it was adorable, reminding him of Carter at the beginning of their relationship.

Miles leaned back against the counter, pursuing the look. Kevin stood there like he was waiting to tell him it was all wrong. Miles sighed and waved to him, “All ‘ight. Come here.”

Kevin shuffled closer. Miles glanced at him over and then reached out, tugged lightly at the hoodie zipper, adjusting it by a fraction, “Ok, first of all relax your shoulders. You look like you’re about to sit down to a huge exam.”

Kevin groaned, "This is worse.”

Miles snorted, "I mean...Fair. But it’s not like you two haven’t been out before.” Then, absolutely unhelpfully, he started to sing “Love is in the aaaiiir...”

Kevin froze, "Miles...please....No. Don’t. Please don’t.”

“Every sight and every soouuund...”

“For Gods sake....MILES!!”

From the living room came a sudden, off-key intrusion, "Dooon’tcha wish your girlfriend was hooooot like meee...” It sounded less like singing and more like an owl with asthma trying to seduce a room.

Kevin slapped both hands over his face, "I am never emotionally recovering from this.”

Miles turned slowly to see Carter was sprawled on the couch, blanket over his legs, grinning like a menace, clearly proud of himself.

“That,” Miles said flatly, “Was a crime, love.”

Carter coughed and tried again, worse this time, "Don’tcha--” He broke into laughter halfway through, "Okay, no. I’m done. My voice tapped out.”

Kevin groaned, "You’re both grounded, you are to stay in this house and not embarrass me any further....” Just as his phone notification goes off, “Connor is in the building. He’ll be here in a few.”

Miles laughed, walked over, and squeezed Kevin’s shoulder, "Go on. Before we embarrass you further.”

Kevin hesitated, then nodded, "Okay. Are you sure that I look okay? I mean...”

“You look amazing, Kev! Have fun!!!”

“Trust us, kid. We want you to be comfortable.” Before he could move, Miles pulled him into a quick, firm hug, "Text when you get there. Text if you’re going late. CALL if you need us. But most importantly be yourself and have fun.”

Kevin hugged back harder than expected, "I will.”

The knock came a moment later, Connor’s voice echoed from the hallway, bright and nervous. Kevin grabbed his jacket and headed out, cheeks pink.

Miles locked the door behind them, habit ingrained especially after everything, then turned back to the condo.

Carter was still smiling.

Miles started setting things out, plates, chopsticks, candles. He picked up the wine bottle last and that’s when Carter’s smile faltered. It was just a flicker and almost easy to miss. Miles caught it anyway.

“Hey,” he said gently, "You good?”

Carter looked at the bottle, then away. His fingers curled slightly in the blanket, "I....can we not tonight?”

Miles didn’t ask why. He already knew. The image was burned into both of them, Miles standing in a grocery aisle, confused, a bottle of wine sitting in his cart that he didn’t put there. The quiet message, ‘I’m watching.’ Miles set the bottle down without hesitation and slid it out of sight, "Of course.”

Carter let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, "I’m sorry, babe.”

“No,” Miles said immediately, "Don’t. We can have fun without the inebriations, I don’t even know why I grabbed it.”

He grabbed two glasses anyway, filled them with water instead, and carried everything to the coffee table. Carter watched him with something soft and aching in his eyes.

“You didn’t even hesitate,” Carter said.

Miles shrugged, "It’s just a drink, love. I rather you enjoy this night more than anything. I don’t want you to forget that, okay?”

Carter reached out and caught his wrist gently, "But...It meant something for us.”

“Hey,” Miles leaned down and kissed him, slow and careful, "You matter more, and tonight it is about us.”

They settled on the couch, sushi between them, candles flickering softly with Netflix roulette about to kick on in full effect. Outside, Vegas kept being loud and sharp and unforgiving. Inside, love was quiet. A little ridiculous. Carefully handled and for tonight, that was enough.

-----------------

A Few Days Later
Las Vegas, Nevada

Miles noticed the quiet first. Not the good quiet. Not the peaceful kind. The settled quiet, the kind that only shows up after something bad has already happened and everyone is pretending it didn’t leave fingerprints behind.

Morning light crept through the blinds in thin bands, striping the bedroom wall. Carter was still asleep beside him, breathing steady, one arm slung across Miles’ waist like it had always belonged there. No nightmare this time.

That alone should’ve been enough to let Miles relax.

It wasn’t.

He lay there staring at the ceiling, cataloguing the apartment the way he did every morning now. He had messaged Kristjan the night before just to give him the morning off. Sleep was harder lately, especially with his head constantly making lists: Locks. Cameras.

He could hear the faint hum of the hallway monitor. Took note of the weight of Carter’s arm. The absence of Kevin’s footsteps, school day, he must be running behind because he heard the alarm go off a while ago.

For all of it, it was just...Normal.

Miles had learned the hard way that normal was not the same thing as safe.

Carefully, so he wouldn’t wake Carter, he slipped out of bed. Bare feet hit the cool tile. He moved through the condo on instinct, not paranoia, at least that’s what he told himself. He checked the door, glancing at the monitor. Adjusted the camera angle in the living room by half an inch, because the sun glare hit it weird at this hour.

He didn’t remember when he’d started doing that.

The coffee machine clicked on. He didn’t drink it right away. He stood there with his hands braced on the counter, staring at nothing, thoughts drifting back to the ring, to the echo of his own voice when he’d announced the stipulation.

Last Man Standing. It wasn’t about Alex anymore, or even that SCW Internet Championship.... Not really.

That part of him, the one that wanted blood, consequence, finality, had already made its peace with that choice. He’d meant every word he said. He still did. But there was another truth sitting heavier in his chest now.

He wasn’t fighting for a title.

He was fighting because he’d seen how quickly everything he loved could be placed on a scale and weighed by people who didn’t know them or didn’t care. They didn’t see Carter wake up choking on memories or Kevin hovering in doorways like he needed permission to exist.

Miles had lived his whole life knowing how to take hits, his old man made sure of that one.

What he’d never learned, what nobody ever prepared you for, was how to stand still while the world threatened to take things from you.

He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaled slowly.

From the hallway came the sound of a bedroom door opening.

Kevin shuffled out in socks, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair still a little wild from sleep. He stopped short when he saw Miles and gave a small, sheepish smile.

“Morning,” Kevin said.

Miles turned, surprised, and then he froze. Kevin wasn’t tense or guarded. He didn’t seem to be scanning corners or folded inward like he had been weeks ago. Just... tired normal teenager that sat on the edge of 16.

“Morning,” Miles said quietly.

Kevin crossed the kitchen, grabbed a granola bar from the bowl like it was muscle memory, "Connor texted me very early. Apparently he still has been finding chocolate and popcorn in his hoodie since Saturday. I think he’s dramatic.”

Miles snorted before he could stop himself, “You can thank Bella for the recipe when we see her next time, tell him if he needs it dry cleaned to bring it over and I’ll see what I can do.”

Kevin glanced up, caught the sound, and smiled wider—proud. Like he’d earned it.

“I may stay a bit after school, they are doing track tryouts and...I don’t know, I was thinking about trying it out.” Kevin added, "The gym teacher has always said I was the fastest runner they’ve seen in quite some time.”

“Well how about this....Text me when you’re done,” Miles said automatically, "I’ll pick you up. Now are you sure you don’t want a ride in this morning?”

“Nah, Connor’s dad said he can grab me this morning,” Kevin hesitated, then leaned in and hugged him, quick, unannounced, solid, "But I will do that.”

Then he was gone, door clicking shut behind him. Miles stood there long after, coffee forgotten, chest tight in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

Behind him, Carter’s voice drifted softly from the bedroom, "Kev gone?”

“Yeah,” Miles answered, "Didn’t wake you, did we?”

“Nah,” Carter appeared a moment later, hair messy, eyes still soft with sleep. He crossed the kitchen and pressed a kiss to Miles’ shoulder without thinking, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Miles let himself breathe as he wrapped an arm around Carter, grounding himself in the warmth, the weight, the here.

-----------

Iron Sharpens Iron
Las Vegas, Nevada
Late Night

The gym was empty in the way Miles preferred.

No music pumped through the speakers. No mirrors crowded with people checking themselves. Just fluorescent lights humming overhead, rubber mats scuffed by years of use, and the faint metallic smell of sweat and disinfectant that never really left a place like this.

Miles, believe it or not, liked it better when the room didn’t watch him back....most of the time.

He wrapped his hands slowly, methodical, the tape pulling tight around knuckles that were still a little tender if he pressed too hard. He ignored that part. Pain was familiar. Pain was honest. Pain didn’t lie to you about what you were capable of.

The heavy bag swung slightly as he nudged it with his shoulder, setting it in motion.

Brandon “F’N” Hendrix wasn’t the reason he was here tonight....Miles knew that.

Hendrix was a stop. A speed bump. A message written in someone else’s blood if it came to that. Useful, necessary, but not the point. Still, Miles smiled to himself as he rolled his shoulders and took his stance.

“Cheeky bastard,” he muttered under his breath, thinking of his brother.

LJ had handled the aftermath of that cheap shot from Hendrix exactly the way a Kasey would, grinning through the chaos, refusing to shrink, turning indignation into fuel....and dropping his drawers in front of an international audience that made him the talk of the town for 2 weeks plus some. Miles had watched the footage more than once, not out of concern, but out of something closer to pride.

Once a chav, always a chav.

They just learned when to aim it.

Miles drove his first punch into the bag, hard, clean, snapping the chain overhead taut. The bag swung back and he met it again, rhythm settling in. Each strike echoed in the empty gym, sharp and final.

Hendrix liked to posture, liked to swing big and loud, and liked to make moments messy and personal. The kind of bloke who thought escalation was the same thing as dominance.

Miles had fought men like that his entire life.

He pivoted, elbow cracking into the bag, then followed with a knee that made the chain rattle. Sweat broke across his shoulders almost immediately, shirt clinging as heat bloomed under his skin.

“Should’ve kept your hands to yourself,” Miles said aloud, voice steady between breaths, "The Bill Barnhart match wasn’t your business.”

Another strike, followed by another.

“You made it our business.”

The bag swung wide. Miles let it. He let it come back at him like a threat and stepped inside it, smothering it with a brutal combination that left his forearms buzzing.

He paused then, resting his forehead briefly against the bag, breathing deep.

LJ’s face flickered through his mind, not hurt, not shaken, but ready. The same look Miles had worn once upon a time when the world thought it could take a bite out of him and walk away clean.

Miles straightened and went to the weights.

The barbell was already loaded heavily. He didn’t check the plates again. He didn’t need to. He lay back on the bench, hands wrapping around the cold steel, and pressed.

Once.
Twice.
Again.

His muscles burned. His chest screamed. He pushed anyway.

Because Hendrix wasn’t the real audience.....Alex Jones was.

Miles sat up after the set, breath rough, sweat dripping down his temples. He wiped his face with the hem of his shirt and stared at his reflection in the darkened mirror across the gym.

Alex would be watching Climax Control. Of course he would. The teacher just couldn’t help but stand there measuring, judging and waiting for cracks to appear in front of him.

Waiting to see if Last Man Standing was bravado or prophecy.

Miles snorted quietly, "Don’t worry,” he said to the empty room, "I know you’re watching.”

He stood and paced, rolling tension out of his neck. The gym felt smaller when he stopped moving, like it wanted him in motion or not at all. He grabbed his phone from his bag and checked the screen. A message from LJ sat unread, timestamped a few minutes earlier.

Miles opened it.

LJ: You better not break him too badly. I still want my turn.

Miles laughed, the sound bouncing off concrete walls. He typed back with sweaty thumbs.

Miles: I’ll leave you a little something. Can’t promise he’ll be pretty.

He hesitated, then added:

Miles: Proud of you, by the way. Keep being annoying. It suits you.

The reply came almost instantly.

LJ: I learned from the best.

Miles shook his head, smiling despite himself, and tossed the phone back into his bag. He moved to the ropes next, practicing footwork, light on his feet despite the weight still clinging to his limbs. Every movement was sharp, intentional. There was no wasted energy and no theatrics.

This wasn’t about showing off. This was about reminding the world, and himself, who handled the grown-up problems when they stopped being games.

Brandon Hendrix would get the lesson first. Alex Jones would get the reminder.

Miles wiped his hands on a towel and glanced once more at the heavy bag, still swaying gently like it hadn’t quite recovered. After a few he sat on the edge of the bench, forearms resting on his thighs, hands still wrapped. Sweat drips off his knuckles and hits the mat. He doesn’t look at the camera at first.

When he does, it’s steady.

“Brandon ‘F’N’ Hendrix.”

A breath through his nose. Almost a laugh.

“You know what the funny thing about you is? You think you matter right now.”

He leans back slightly, rolling his neck.

“You swing on my brother after a match because you apparently desperately needed attention announcing your return with authority. You needed your name attached to something with heat, something with blood, something that made people stop scrolling and look twice. And congratulations, mission accomplished.”

He nods once.

“But here’s where you miscalculated.”

Miles’ eyes harden.

“You thought LJ was the target. You thought he was the lesson. You thought because he smiled, because he joked, because he handled it with that cheeky little grin we Kaseys are known for... that he wasn’t taking you seriously. And you thought I wouldn’t take it personally.”

He leans forward now.

“Let me be very clear with you, Brandon. You didn’t start a feud with my brother. You volunteered to stand in front of me.”

Miles exhales slowly.

“I have to admit, I’ve watched you for a while. You’re loud, you’re reckless and you hit hard and you hope that’s enough to scare people into backing down. You call it intensity. You call it being ‘real’.”

He shakes his head.

“I call it lazy. You want to be the guy who makes a moment ugly. You want to be remembered as the bloke who doesn’t care about consequences.”

Miles’ mouth twitches.

“That’s adorable, bruv.”

He sits up straighter.

“Because here’s the difference between you and me: I care very deeply about consequences. I just choose them. I’m still paying for them even with some still not being around.”

His voice lowers.

“Climax Control isn’t about teaching you a lesson. It’s about correcting a mistake. And that mistake was you thinking you could touch my family and keep walking.”

He lifts one wrapped hand, flexes it.

“And mate, I’m not going to rush you. I’m not going to brawl for the sake of noise. I’m going to take you apart in a way that makes sense, piece by piece, until that ‘F’N’ in your name starts feeling real personal. I promise my brother I’ll leave a little bit of you left. I’m a man of my word.”

His eyes sharpen again.

“But understand this, Brandon, whatever version of you walks into that match? He is not walking out the same.”

Miles finally leans back, gaze drifting just off-camera.

“And Alex Jones?” A slow, knowing smirk, "I know you’re watching. You always are.”

He looks back to the lens.

“This isn’t me warming up. This isn’t me blowing off steam. This is me reminding the world what happens when you mistake my patience for softness.”

He stands.

“So Brandon....you wanted attention.”

Miles turns away from the camera.

“Congratulations. Ya got it, mate. In spades.”

That First Night Home

The elevator ride felt like it was moving through molasses.

Miles kept one arm firmly around Carter’s waist, guiding him slowly, step by careful step. Carter wasn’t collapsing, but he wasn’t steady either. His legs trembled, not from weakness alone, but from the shock that still clung to him like static.

The doors slid open onto their floor.

Two things hit them immediately: A uniformed Turnberry Towers security officer posted directly outside their condo, posture alert but respectful, a quiet presence meant to reassure. Silence from inside the condo, too still for a place usually echoing with teenager energy.

The officer gave a small nod. “Mr. Kasey. Mr. Kasey-McKinney. I’m posted here all night per the building manager’s request. If you need anything, you call the desk.”

Miles nodded, his voice strained. “Thank you.”

The lock beeped, the heavy condo door swung open, and Kevin was standing in the entryway.

He must’ve heard them in the hall. He must’ve been waiting.

The hoodie he wore looked too big on him tonight. His hands clutched the bottom hem, twisting it, and his eyes, they were big and wet.
Quietly spiraling.

The moment Carter crossed the threshold, Kevin froze like he was trying not to startle a wounded animal.

Miles closed the door behind them, engaging the lock, the deadbolt, the chain. Then exhaled once. Then turned.

Kevin looked from Miles to Carter to the faint red marks on his Carter’s face and the way he was holding himself together with stubbornness and pride.

“Carter...?” Kevin’s voice broke.

Carter lifted his head, tired, hurting, but trying to keep it gentle. “Hey, kid.”

The word kid made Kevin swallow so hard his throat clicked. He approached slowly, almost cautiously, like he was afraid touching Carter would make it worse. Carter lifted a hand anyway, inviting him closer.

Kevin stepped into him and wrapped both arms around Carter’s middle, careful, light, like he thought he might break him. Carter stiffened for half a heartbeat from pain, but then melted into it, resting his chin lightly against Kevin’s hair.

“I’m okay,” he whispered, though it still rasped. “I promise.”

Kevin didn’t let go.

Miles stood there, watching the two people he loved most in the world cling to each other and he had to swallow down the burn behind his eyes.

After a moment, Kevin pulled back, wiping his face on his sleeve like he could hide the fact he’d been crying. “I, I made the couch up for you guys before LJ and Ally took down stairs for his ride Connor and Ash home. I didn’t know if...”

Miles placed a hand on the back of Kevin’s neck, gentle. “Thank you, mate. But we’re sleeping in our room.”

Kevin nodded. Of course he understood.

He followed them into the living room anyway, hovering near the arm of the couch as Carter was lowered into the cushions.

“Do you need anything?” Kevin asked immediately. “Water? Blanket? Ice? I can....”

Carter shook his head softly. “Just you being here is enough.”

The kid blinked like he didn’t quite believe that, but he sat down on the ottoman facing the couch anyway, hands knotted in his lap.

Miles went to get water, and Kevin used the seconds he was gone to whisper, barely a breath, “I thought I was gonna lose you.”

Carter’s expression hurt in a different way than any bruising or chemical burn. “You didn’t.”

“But I could’ve.”

Carter reached out, placed a trembling hand over Kevin’s. “You’re stuck with me. You hear?”

Kevin nodded, but his eyes stayed glassy.

Miles returned, setting a bottle down and helping Carter take a few careful sips through a straw. Kevin watched everything like he was trying to memorize how to keep Carter alive by observation alone.

The three of them stayed in that quiet for a while. There was no TV. No ambient noise. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the faint rumble of Vegas outside the windows.

Eventually, Miles said gently, “Kev, you should get some sleep too.”

Kevin shook his head instantly. “I’m not leaving him.”

Carter managed a small, exhausted smile. “You’re safe here. I’m safe here. Miles has me.”

Kevin’s breath stuttered. “But what if they comes back?”

Miles came around and crouched in front of him, leveling their eyes. “He’s not getting near any of us. Security is watching the floor. Cameras are everywhere. And tomorrow I’m installing additional locks. Cameras inside too. Whatever it takes.”

He squeezed Kevin’s shoulder.

“You’re safe. I promise you.”

Kevin hesitated then whispered something almost too soft to hear:

“I thought... after everything that happened with my mom... and then this... that maybe I shouldn’t be here. That maybe it was my fault because...”

Carter didn’t let him finish.

“Kevin,” he rasped, cutting through the thought like a blade. “Stop. Right now.”

Miles echoed it, firmer, “None of this is your fault.”

Kevin blinked rapidly. “But if they hurt Carter because...”

“No,” Miles said, sharper now. “You being here has nothing to do with some sick bastard targeting us. You’re ours. You’re family and that means you stay. End of discussion.”

The word family always hit Kevin like sunlight. Even now, even tonight, it steadied him.

Finally, finally, Kevin nodded. “Okay.”

Carter held out his hand, and Kevin took it, squeezing lightly, as if grounding both of them.

Miles draped a blanket over Carter’s lap and another over Kevin’s shoulders and then settled beside his husband so Carter could lean into him again. Kevin stayed on the ottoman, eyes half-focused, guarding them with the fierce protectiveness he’d only ever shown for the people who saved him.

The room stayed gently dim. It was quiet, heavy for now and safe, at least for the moment.

Just before Carter’s eyes finally drifted shut from exhaustion and medication, he whispered, “Kevin?”

Kevin looked up instantly. “Yeah?”

Carter mustered a tired, hoarse little smile. “You’re staying. You hear me?”

Kevin swallowed hard and nodded.

Miles rested a hand over both of theirs. And for the first time since the attack, the house felt whole again, even if the world outside didn’t.

------------

“THE WOLF WHO OUTGREW THE PACK”

The camera turns on with a soft click — not dramatic, not stylized, just Miles, standing in front of a wall in his condo, hoodie on, hair tied back, Internet Championship hanging over his shoulder like an unavoidable truth.

He drags a hand down his face before he speaks.

Then a laugh. It’s dry, humorless. And you can already tell that he is already pissed off.

“Alex... Jones.”

He shakes his head.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything yet. I was gonna hold all this in until next week, let you enjoy your little breakfast-special pity party. But then you opened your mouth... and you kept opening it... and you just kept talking until every ounce of stupid that lives inside your skull came crawling out.”

Another bitter laugh.

“A Grand Slam? Legacy? Wrestling purity? Bruv, I’m just going on record by saying that Waffle House is better anyway.”

He lifts the title off his shoulder and holds it between both hands like he’s presenting a weapon.

“Let’s get straight to the bone: you don’t want this belt because you respect it. You want it because it’s the last spot in your little sticker book. You’re not chasing greatness, Alex, you’re chasing a checklist. A bullet point. A Wikipedia edit.”

Miles steps closer.

“I absolutely loved how you called the Internet Championship meaningless... while needing it to validate your ‘legend’ status. Bruv, if a belt you think is irrelevant is all that stands between you and immortality? Then why the absolute fuck are you so fucking thirsty for it? That says more about you than it does about me.”

He sets the title back on his shoulder, patting it softly.

“I didn’t realize legends we had around here were this fucking fragile.”

Miles begins pacing, it’s not angry pacing, measured pacing. Like he’s keeping himself from burning a hole straight through the camera. It’s been a hell of a week as is.

“You said I’m a pampered child who had everything handed to me.” He stops and looks directly into the lens. “Motherfucker... what exactly do you think I was handed?”

He ticks off with his fingers, “Was it the losses? The nights I went home questioning why the hell I even kept doing this? The matches where I got used as a stepping stone? The months I tore myself apart to climb into the place you kept telling me I didn’t belong?”

He points to himself.

“This? This championship? This reign?” A scoff fell from his lips, “Nothing about my life has been handed to me. Sure as fuck was not this title. It wasn’t this spot. And not the respect I earned by showing up every damn week while you were too busy playing Life Coach from the sidelines telling everyone how to be better wrestlers.”

He leans in.

“You didn’t build me. You BARELY mentored me. But in the end you didn’t shape me. You sure as hell didn’t save me. I was offered a place to go to better myself and I used that chance,” He tilts his head, voice lowering, “The work that went into me, that came from guys like Finn and Austin. You were just close enough to pretend you mattered. I never gave up on anything, but I let life take me where I felt like I needed it more than anything. It brought me to Vegas.”

Miles folds his arms.

“Let’s talk about Carter, since you apparently can’t help yourself.”

His jaw tightens, but it’s controlled and directed.

“You said that loving my husband came at the expense of my career, my credibility, my manhood.”

A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face.

“You’re right. Loving Carter did cost me something.”

He steps closer again, eyes darkening.

“It cost me the illusion that men like you were ever worth following. And my manhood? If you think a belt defines it, you’ve never had any. Because fuck forbid I let my husband handle the spotlight that he was able to keep from you with a proud look on my face. I know...I KNOW...that whole mentor ‘Wanting better for the student’ is thinking that I should be at the top of the game but mate, in the bedroom, I’m the top...I have no problem cheering for him as the World Champion and I enjoy it even more just to SPITE your fucking ass.”

He exhales sharply, shaking his head.

“You know what the funniest part of your whole little diner-side monologue was? The way you said you want me to beat you. Like you’re some noble veteran passing the torch.”

He scrunches his face mockingly and raises his voice into a faux heroic tone, “‘I want you to prove me wrong, Miles. I want you to rise above! I want to see you become the star I KNOW you could be!’”

Miles drops the act, deadpan.

“Alex... let’s be absolutely for-fucking-real, you don’t want me to win.”

He gestures at the camera.

“You want credit for wanting me to win. You want to look gracious. You want to look like the wise old man. You want to look like the washed-up vet who ‘believes in the next generation.’”

He lifts the Internet Championship again.

“But you need this way more than I ever did.”

Miles stops pacing altogether now. There is that stillness and intensity. A quiet that hums with threat with the man that Alex still looks at like a boy that has never stood taller as a man.

“You talk about my plateau, like this is my ceiling. And stepping beyond it is my fear.”

He lifts his chin slightly.

“I don’t chase the World Championship because I’m not tearing down my marriage for a belt. Because I have priorities and I’m the fucking Internet Champ. I won’t do it because I have loyalty, because I have integrity. And somewhere deep down in that swirling vortex of ego still making your decisions... you know that scares the shit out of you. And I know somewhere out there, I just heard Finn scream “BULLSHIT” but that was a different time in my life and a lesson that I had to learn the hard way.”

“You can’t understand choosing love over legacy because legacy is the only thing you’ve got left. You threw your love away for a cheap thrill.” He lifts a finger. “You want to know what really makes me better than you?”

A pause and it was subtle and confident.

“I don’t need to stand next to someone smaller than me to feel tall. That's the thing that you do.”

Miles leans in, final blow loading.

“Alex... you’re not the wolf anymore. You’re not the gatekeeper. You’re not the legend. You’re a man begging the world to remember you for something other than four walls, old accolades, and a diner breakfast.”

He taps the championship again.

“This isn’t just the Internet Title. This is the future. The next generation. The division you dismissed because it’s easier to talk down to people than admit you couldn’t keep up with them.”

His voice drops to a razor’s whisper.

“And at Inception? You don’t get a rising star. You don’t get an underdog. You don’t get the rookie you once welcomed in.”

Miles steps closer until only his eyes fill the frame.

“You get the man who outgrew your shadow.”

He smirks.

“And mate... I’m gonna make sure the whole damn world sees the difference.”

Blackout.....for a moment....

“Ya know what...hold up...one more thing.”

The screen is already black when Miles’ voice cuts back in, low, almost conversational, like a man remembering one last thing before walking out the door.

Then the video snaps on again.

Miles is closer than before. Much closer. Just his face, his blue intense eyes.

“Alex? You still listening, bruv?”

He tilts his head slightly, expression unreadable.

“You keep calling yourself a legend...”

A faint, humorless grin curls up.

“But legends don’t have to beg for relevance. Legends don’t have to guilt-trip the next generation into making them feel important.”

Another beat.

“Legends don’t need my belt to matter.”

He leans in, almost whispering.

“You’re not chasing a Grand Slam. You’re chasing a reason people should still give a damn about you.”

He lets that sink in — no smile, no smirk, just the quiet brutality of someone stating a fact.

“And at Inception?” A slow exhale through his nose. “You’re gonna find out the hard way that I’m not your revival arc...”

He straightens slightly.

“I’m your ending.”

A click.

The camera shuts off for real.

That Feeling Doesn’t Subside
Colorado Springs, CO
Last Sunday Night

The fluorescent lights in the waiting room of UCHealth Memorial buzzed with a low, constant hum, white noise Miles barely registered. He sat on the edge of a plastic chair that was far too small for him, fingers laced so tightly together his knuckles were bone white. His right leg bounced restlessly, heel tapping the floor in an uneven rhythm that betrayed everything he was trying and failing to hide.

Carter sat to his left, elbows on his knees, clutching his phone but not looking at it. His eyes stayed fixed on the double doors leading to the trauma wing. He hadn’t said a word in several minutes, but his silence wasn’t cold, it was controlled and contained. The last thing his husband and Ally needed was him completely losing his own shit about the situation. The only outward sign of stress was the way he kept cracking the knuckles of his thumbs.

On the other side of Miles, Ally paced like her shoes were on fire. Her phone was pressed to her ear, one hand digging into her hair, “No, Ash, baby, listen to me,” Ally said, trying to keep her voice steady, "He’s fine for the most partthey’re just running tests and scans. They need to make sure his ribs are okay and his shoulder. And.no, sweetheart, no one knows anything yet.”

Miles flinched at the tremor in her voice. Ally was tough, tougher than most gave her credit for, but seeing LJ getting wheeled backstage, seeing Barnhart’s boot come down again and again in a match that never got underway because he was a fat fucking cowardthat had shaken all three of them in different ways.

“Tell her he’s stubborn as hell,” Miles said quietly, "And too damn hard-headed to stay down.”

Ally nodded, wiping her nose, "Ash, did you hear that? Yeah. Miles said he’s too stubborn to let Barnhart keep him down.”

A muffled, frantic voice came through the phone, the 16 year old Ashlynn’s panic, barely contained. She had come to really adore LJ and you could tell even through the muffles.

Right beside Carter, in a chair that seemed to swallow him whole, Kevin sat huddled up, his arms wrapped around his knees. His hands twisted nervously between his fingers, the way they always did when he was trying to pretend he was calm. He wasn’t calm, in fact he looked pale and stressed. You could tell he was attempting to stay calm with his earbuds in his ears, playing music, but in his eyes you could tell that it was like he was reliving every second of the attack in his head.

Miles reached over and nudged Kevin’s knee lightly, "Hey. You holdin’ up?”

Kevin swallowed hard, pulling one of the earbuds out, “I justI’ve neverseeing someone get jumped like that seeing LJ not move” He shook his head, voice small, "It freaked me out.”

Miles softened. Protective instinct didn’t stop with LJ; it spread to the teenagers in their care too, "He’s tougher than he looks. Trust me.”

Carter nodded, though his jaw was tight, "Stubborn too. Drives both of us insane.”

Ally’s voice breaks through for a moment, “Yes, sweetheart, I promise we’ll call the second a doctor talks to us. Yes. I swear. Okay. I love you too.”

She hung up and exhaled shakily, leaning her head against the wall for a moment before sliding down into the chair next to Miles. He immediately put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her in. She didn’t resist. After a few moments, she glanced over at Kevin, knowing that the poor kid had spent a lot of time in the hospital before coming home with Miles and Carter, “Hey, you’re okay,” she murmured, she reached out her hand and he took it, brushing her thumb over Kevin’s hand, “We’re all okay. He’she’s going to be okay.”

Miles wanted to believe that. He needed to believe that but every minute the doctor took made his stomach coil tighter.

The clock ticked, the hum of lights droned on. A nurse rolled a cart past them. Someone down the hall coughed. Everything felt too loud and too quiet at the same time.

Miles stared at the floor, jaw clenched so tightly Carter half-expected to hear a tooth crack. He had to calm his husband down someway so he just reached out and took his hand and breathed out, “At least Evelyn said you’re getting Barnhart next week,” Carter murmured, finally breaking the silence.

“I know.” Miles didn’t look up, "Doesn’t really help me right now.”

“Didn’t say it was supposed to.”

Miles flexed his fingers, rubbing the heel of his palm against his forehead, "I should’ve been there sooner. I should’ve.”

“No,” Ally cut in sharply, eyes red but fierce, "Don’t start with that, Miles. You have your own thing going and doing what was asked at the time, you came the second you heard. This is on Barnhart, not you.”

Carter nodded, "All of us were in the building. Barnhart planned all of this and you know it. He knew exactly when to strike.”

Miles swallowed hard. He wanted to believe them, but guilt had a way of worming its way in regardless. His little brother was somewhere behind those doors, hooked up to monitors, getting scanned for fractures and internal damage and he had been powerless to stop it.

The waiting room door slid open, drawing all three heads up at once. Miles’ heart hammered so violently he felt it in his throat but it was only another nurse passing through. He slumped back, exhaling through clenched teeth, fingers digging into the armrests, "If they make us wait much longer I’m gonna”

“Mr. Kasey?”

The three of them snapped to attention, as though pulled by the same wire.

A doctor stood in the doorway, chart in hand, expression calm but not grim or heavy. Not the kind that made the stomach drop.

Miles was on his feet instantly, "That’s me. How is he doing? Is he?”

The doctor raised his hand gently, "LJ is doing just fine. He’s a bit sore. Actually he’s very sore but the scans show no internal bleeding, no organ damage, and the rib we were concerned about is bruised, not broken. The shoulder is strained, but not torn. He’s extremely lucky. We gave him some medication to help with the pain.”

Ally covered her mouth with both hands. Carter sagged back into his chair in silent, shaky relief.

Miles felt like someone had loosened a steel band around his chest, "Can we see him?”

“Yes,” the doctor said, "But only one or two at a time for now. He’s in Observation B.”

Miles didn’t wait for more. He turned, grabbed Ally’s hand with one of his and Carter’s sleeve with the other.

“You two first,” he said firmly, "Go.”

Ally hesitated, "Miles”

“Go.” His voice softened, but his eyes stayed resolute, "He needs you. And I gottapull myself together before I go in there. Or he’s gonna think he’s dying from the look on my face.”

Carter gave a small, tired smirk, "At least you’re self-aware.”

Ally squeezed Miles’ hand hard, "We’ll only be a minute.”

Miles nodded, "Tell him tell him I’m right out here.”

As they slipped through the doors, Miles sat back down heavily, scrubbing a hand over his face. Kevin remained beside him, quiet. After a moment, the boy spoke softly, "You know you didn’t fail him.”

Miles didn’t answer immediately. Not because he didn’t hear Kevin but because the truth lodged somewhere deep in his throat. Finally, he let out a shaky breath, "Feels like I did.”

Kevin shook his head, "You weren’t supposed to predict that. I don’t think that anybody could. Barnhart’s just a piece of shit.”

Miles blinked, surprised at the bluntness, but then let out a small huff of a laugh, "Yeah. Yeah, he is.”

There was a beat of silence that fell between them. Then Kevin added, more firmly, “And LJ’s gonna be fine. He’s strong and he’s got you and Allyand Carter. I should know that more than anybody that having you guys and what it can do for someone”

Miles swallowed hard at that. When he finally spoke, the fire in his voice was unmistakable, "Next week? Barnhart’s gonna learn exactly what happens when you go after my family.”

Kevin nodded slowly, "Good.”

Miles leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring toward the trauma doors where his brother lay recovering. Next week in Boulder wasn’t just a match. It was a different level of personal. A line had been crossed. Miles was going to make sure Bill Barnhart regretted ever touching his brother.

--------

No Good Deed
Las Vegas, NV
Few Days Later

The grocery store was quiet in that mid-morning lull where only retirees, busy parents, and the humans trying to hold their households together seemed to wander. Miles Kasey pushed his cart with his hip, his phone tucked between shoulder and ear as he maneuvered around a pallet of restocked soda.

“You’re talking too fast, kid. Slow down,” Miles said as he tossed a bundle of cilantro in the cart, "You’re making me dizzy.”

On the other end, LJ huffed, exasperated, "I’m fine, Miles. Really. Ally keeps making me sit down, Ash keeps telling me I need to ‘sit and heal,’ and you keep asking me if I’m dizzy every twenty minutes.”

“That’s because you were dizzy every twenty minutes yesterday,” Miles countered, grabbing a box of protein bars, "And I’d rather annoy you than let you walk into a wall.”

He heard LJ’s laugh, small but genuine. Those were rare after the attack, “Honestly,” LJ sighed, “I’m just grateful finals were over before all this shit with Bill happened. If I had to take that Constitutional Law essay with a concussion? God, I’d have spelled ‘due process’ wrong.”

“Oh you’d have done that anyway,” Miles teased, "But at least you would’ve had the concussion as an excuse instead of just being you.”

“Miles”

“Kidding,” he said, though his grin softened, "Mostly.”

Miles turned into the wine aisle, scanning the shelves even though this wasn’t the section he’d come for. Force of habit. Years with Carter meant he automatically checked for certain bottles, certain years, certain labels, "How’s Ally holding up with all of this?” Miles asked, picking up a familiar cabernet.

“Worried. She’s been clinging to me like I’m gonna fall over every five seconds.”

“Well,” Miles drawled, “You did fall over yesterday.”

“BECAUSE BILL HIT ME WITH...”

“Everything but the kitchen sink?” Miles finished, smirking.

LJ groaned loudly, "Though it feels like it, trust me.”

“Though Bill is built like an overstuffed goddy as fuck old school steel fridgeI’m not shocked. He may look like a pillow but somehow there is muscle under that lard.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I know.” Miles looked down at the bottle in his hand. It was one of Carter’s favorites, Cabernet Sauvignon. The one that usually meant a relaxing night with his husband, the two of them curled up on the couch, complaining about the world or watching terrible reality shows. But he couldn’t remember if Carter had any at the moment so he thought twice and sat the bottle back on the shelf.

“Anyway,” Miles said, pushing the cart forward, “You just keep resting. You’re gonna heal faster if you actually listen.”

“You sound like Moms,” LJ muttered.

“Someone has to. She’s not here, and I’m the best option by default.”

He turned into the deli and bakery area as LJ’s tone softened.

“Seriously though Thanks, Miles ya knowFor checking in. For everything lately. I know you’re juggling everything being a big bad Internet Champion and stuff and Carter and my shit and now Alex and.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Miles cut in, grabbing a container of macaroni salad, "First off, your ‘shit’ is not shit. You got jumped by a big fucking bitch. You’re recovering and I’m allowed to care, believe it or not.”

There was a pause, and Miles could practically hear LJ working through emotions on the other end, "Yeah I know.”

“And second,” Miles continued, “I love you, bro. That doesn’t shut off just because life gets busy.”

He heard LJ swallow on the other end. Not crying but he was close, "Yeah. I love you too, Miles.”

“Good. Now get something to eat and by that I mean something real that isn’t protein powder or energy bars.”

“You are currently buying me protein bars.”

“No, those are for me. You get actual food.”

“I swear to you.”

Miles turned, ready to make another jab, another joke.and froze. Because the wine bottle was sitting neatly in the front basket of the cart. The same bottle he had put back. He blinked a couple of times as he looked around to see if he could see if maybe it could have been someone that accidentally just placed it in his cart but there wasn’t a soul around him.

“Miles?” LJ called, "Are you still there?”

Miles didn’t move and his eyes stayed locked on the bottle, "Yeah,” he finally said, voice lower, slower, "Yeah, I’m here.”

“Everything alright over there?”

Miles swallowed hard, "Thought I was. But uh remind me not to grocery shop alone anymore.”

“Why? What happened?”

Miles slowly reached into the cart and lifted the bottle just enough to feel the weight, "I put something back on a shelf,” he said carefully, scanning the aisles around him, "And somehow it ended up in my cart anyway.”

LJ went quiet. But after a moment he said cautiously, “Like someone put it there?”

Miles’s skin prickled, "I didn’t hear anyone and didn’t see anyone and nobody was close enough. Not going to lie, since that whole thing with the shirt that showed up in the closet that Carter swears he didn’t buy, you’d think I would be a bit more aware.”

Then LJ said, with that familiar uneasy sarcasm, “I would just put that back and walk away, just stay aware man. Are ya gonna tell Carter?"

“I mean it would be wrong for me not to tell him,” Miles muttered, lowering the bottle back into the cart, "I need to finish up, I’ll be there soon.”

As he hung up, he looked over his shoulder again but there was still no one there. He couldn’t help himself, as the uneasy feeling crept up his spine told him he wasn’t as alone as he thought.

--------

Attack for the Next Generation
Las Vegas, NV

The camera came on without ceremony, there was no music, no SCW logo and absolutely no attempt to soften what’s coming.

Miles Kasey sat on the edge of the bed in his room, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped. The lighting is low, a single lamp off to the side casting hard shadows across his face. He’s already wearing one of his infamous ring jackets designed and created by Mattie Comier, it was mostly blue with white and red sewn in throughout with a Union Jack cape hanging off to the left of it, it was worn in, the kind of jacket that’s earned its place. When he shifts, the camera catches the words stitched across the back:

ATTACK FOR THE NEXT GENERATION.

Miles doesn’t look angry at first, he was looking more focused than he had in a while. He could easily snap at any given moment but he had to stay focused. His head lifts and his blue eyes shine directly into the camera.

“Bill Barnhart.” His voice is calm, it’s that deadly calm that should immediate make their opponent shit themselves, but we know that Billy boy is just too fucking stupid for that, “You know... I went back to last week’s Climax Control and watched it, over and over. Not because I wanted to but because I needed to understand how a grown man, a so-called veteran, looks at a kid quite literally half his size and decides that THAT is how he makes his point.”

Miles exhales sharply through his nose, jaw tightening.

“You didn’t attack LJ because you’re tough, you didn’t do it because you’re dangerous. You did it because you’re afraid. Yeah, you heard me right, Barnhart, you are a bloody FUCKING coward and you have been for quite sometime. You have been since the day I walked into SCW, quick to take that low-hanging fruit, attempt to exploit it until it eventually blows up in your face. And it ALWAYS DOES!!!!”

He leans forward now, forearms pressing into his thighs.

“You’re afraid of the locker room passing you by. Afraid of a generation that doesn’t need your approval, doesn’t ask your permission, and sure as hell doesn’t fear your name the way you wish they still did.”

A humorless laugh slips out of his lips as he shifts slightly and just keeps going.

“You run your mouth about ‘soft talent.’ About kids who haven’t paid their dues or about how you were built differently.” Miles’ eyes harden, "The funny thing is? The only thing I saw last week was a coward that couldn’t wait until the bell was ringing to do his damage.”

His voice starts to rise now. He’s not yelling yet, but there is still a sharp edge to his tone.

“You wanna talk about paying dues? For over a year I have watched as LJ earned his shots the right way. He was walking to that ring to wrestle. You attacked him looking for a shortcut because you know damn well you can’t hang bell to bell anymore with at least 95% of this roster. I’ve been able to prove that POINT on more than ONE OCCASION, especially when I even felt bad for you and handed you a chance to prove me wrong. And you still got your head stomped into the canvas on that night.”

He reaches back, grips the collar of the jacket, tugging it forward just enough for the camera to see it clearly.

“This right here, I’m wearing it Sunday. ATTACK for the Next Generation isn’t just a slogan to me, Bill. This is a promise. This promise right here is what keeps me standing up to the likes of the veterans in this fucking business who refuse to let go of what was instead of looking at what COULD BE!”

“I wear this because I believe in the next generation. I believe in kids like LJ who show up, put their bodies on the line, and still shake hands after the fight. I believe in talent that grows, learns, and gets better. And you? You’re standing in their way like a bitter old gatekeeper screaming at the tide to stop coming in.”

He sits back and just shakes his head slowly.

“You wanna know the truth you’re avoiding?”

He leans closer to the camera.

“You’re avoiding the truth of how your time has already passed.”

The words land like a hammer.

“This company moved on, the fans moved on, the locker room moved on and instead of accepting that, instead of mentoring, instead of contributing, you chose to take a cheap shot at my little brother to remind yourself you still exist.”

Miles’ voice drops, it’s down right dangerous now.

“If I had my way? After Climax Control, you would never be cleared to wrestle again. I would put you on a shelf so high you’d need binoculars to see the ring ever again. But I made a promise...”

He exhales, controlled but shaking with fury.

“I promised LJ I’d leave you with some dignity. That I wouldn’t end you. That I wouldn’t become the thing you already are, which is a fucking bully.”

Miles’ jaw clenches hard.

“So this Sunday, in Boulder at Climax Control? My title isn’t on the line but I don’t give a shit! I’m going to hurt you the right way, I’m going to make you bleed...and I’m going to hurt you, bruv. I’m gonna hurt you real bad.”

He points directly at the camera.

“I’m going to beat you in the middle of the ring. I’m going to outwork you, outlast you AND MOST IMPORTANTLY outclass you. And if you’re lucky... real lucky... you’ll walk away with just a fraction of the pain you put my brother through. And then I’m going to sit back at Inception and then I’m going to watch as my little brother puts you down like the DOG YOU ARE FOR GOOD!”

His voice finally snaps, red hot and raw.

“You don’t get to preach about this business anymore, Bill. Not after what you did. Not when your legacy is nothing but bitterness and bad decisions.”

Miles stands tall now, looming in frame.

“This isn’t completely about revenge. Think of it as more about accountability and the consequences of your actions and YOUR ACTIONS ALONE!”

He turns slightly, giving one last clear look at the words on his jacket.

“Attack for the Next Generation.”

Miles looks back at the camera, eyes blazing.

“And Bill? You may wanna start praying that I keep my promise.”

The camera cuts.

~*~Sometimes You Just Gotta~*~
New York City – Rooftop After the Fashion Show

The city glowed below them like a living constellation, heat rising in soft waves from the streets even though the night had settled. The rooftop bar was warm with laughter and clinking glassware, a curated kind of chaos where artists and models mingled in little orbits of their own self-importance. The kind of place where the drinks cost too much, but no one asked the price.

Bella blended into it effortlessly, though “blended” was the wrong word. She belonged here. Black sheer two-piece, the fabric whisper-thin in the right places, opaque where it needed to be. The soft golden lighting played along the curves of her shoulders and caught on the edges of her tattoos, turning her into something half sculpture, half wildfire.

Mattie Comier stood beside her, triumphant after another show that everyone in that room would pretend to understand more than they did. Her blazer was architectural, sharp in all the places fashion students sketched in their notebooks and never quite executed. She held a champagne flute like she’d been born with it in her hand.

Alanah Russow leaned against the railing nearby, wearing something flowing, tailored, and unmistakably Mattie, elegance with teeth. Her laughter floated effortlessly, her presence grounding in a way that felt like home.

Malachi was the contrast, black shirt, sleeves rolled, collar open, his one tattoo dark against his skin on the inside of his wrist, whiskey glass in hand. He watched Bella with that quiet, steady awareness he always had. He didn’t need to take up space to be seen. He was the space she gravitated toward without thinking.

Mattie tipped her glass toward him, smirking, "God, I miss making gear for you, Mal. You were my favorite mannequin.”

Mal didn’t miss a beat, "Yeah, well, one of us got smart enough to stop getting thrown into steel steps every week.”

Bella snorted into her drink.

Mattie flicked her hand dramatically, "You say that like I’m not still traumatized by Miles’ gear requests. The man dresses like a glitter bomb with abandonment issues.”

Alanah wheezed.

Mal lifted a brow, "Man looks like a peacock hit by the Aurora Borealis."

Bella laughed so hard she had to set her drink down, "He wakes up and chooses sequins.”

The group dissolved into that easy, familiar laughter that comes only from years of shared history, scars, inside jokes, late nights, and the kind of heartbreak you only survive together.

For a moment, just a moment, Bella felt weightless.

Then she heard it.

A High-pitched...piercing screech. The kind of voice that expected the world to rearrange itself around it. At the bar, a girl, early twenties, maybe, in designer everything, was nearly in tears. Not from sadness but from outrage.

“I said I requested the VIP Skyview lounge. This...” she waved a manicured hand at her perfectly fine surroundings, “....is not what I was told. Do you have any idea who my father is?”

The bartender looked like he had survived wars. Like real ones, especially evident by the tattoo on his bicep that Bella recognized as her grandfather has one.

A lot of people were staring, even some rolling their eyes. Some even pretended not to listen. Everyone silently agreeing to just let entitlement run its course.

Bella didn’t move at first but something inside her... shifted. A subtle tightening beneath the ribs and a spark catching on old fuel.

Alanah saw it happen, "Bella,” she warned, soft, almost pleading.

But it was already too late. Bella had already begun to step forward.

She didn’t storm. She didn’t rush. She just walked, the way a storm front rolls in.

The girl noticed her when the room’s attention tilted toward Bella, as if gravitational pull had changed.

The girl blinked at her, defensive by instinct, "Um...can I help you?”

Bella’s voice was calm. Calm in the way a blade lying flat is calm, "Yeah. You need to stop.”

The girl recoiled slightly, confusion flickering, "Excuse me—?”

Bella didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t have to, "Right now, you are losing your mind over a table. A piece of furniture. A seating arrangement in a bar on a Thursday night.”

The girl opened her mouth, indignant, but Bella didn’t let her speak, "There are people in the world right now deciding whether they can afford groceries. People rationing medication to make it through the month. People working three jobs and sleeping four hours because they don’t get to complain about where they sit.”

The girl’s face began to crack, not in anger, but confusion, as though no one had spoken to her like this in her entire life.

Bella stepped closer, not threatening, just unavoidable, "And you’re here... throwing a tantrum over not being perceived with the exact level of importance you think the world owes you.”

The silence that followed was full and sharp. Bella breathed out once, slowly, "Your privilege isn’t the problem. What you choose to do with it is.”

The girl looked down, embarrassment blooming where indignation had been. She nodded quietly, shrinking even smaller and stepped away.

No scene. No argument. Just understanding. And deep inside Bella had really wished for a moment that there would have been a scene, then maybe she could let out 2 weeks worth of pent up aggression.

But for now it was a lesson learned, sharp, but honest. Bella turned back.

Mattie had her brows raised to her hairline. Alanah’s eyes were soft, proud, but worried. Mal didn’t say anything, but his hand found Bella’s, fingers slipping into hers like he was anchoring her back into her own body.

She exhaled, long, tired, but steadier.

Mal’s thumb brushed her knuckles, "You needed to say it.”

Bella didn’t answer with words, just leaned her shoulder into his. The city glowed, the music picked up and most importantly their laughter returned.

Bella didn’t explode.

She simply reminded the world that she is fire with direction.

After the party, it was time for the long drive home. The city had settled into that hour where everything felt slower, softer, a little unreal. Streetlights washed the pavement in amber, and occasional headlights cut through the dark like passing ghosts. The laughter and neon and rooftop glow were behind them now, replaced by the hush of the night highway.

Mal drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting palm-up on the center console. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to. Bella’s hand found his automatically, fingers slipping into familiar spaces, fitting like the universe had designed them that way.

The radio hummed quietly, something low and bluesy, the kind of music that knew how to sit with silence without swallowing it.

Bella leaned her head against the window, watching the city blur past. She wasn’t tense. Not exactly. Just... full. Like she hadn’t realized how close to boiling she’d been until the lid finally clattered loose a little.

Mal glanced at her, voice low, "You alright?”

Bella huffed a short, humorless breath, "Define alright.”

Mal didn’t push. He just waited as Bella let the silence stretch before she actually answered.

“She was just... so clueless,” Bella murmured, "Like the world had never told her no and I don’t know why but it just....it pissed me off. Like something in me snapped.”

Mal nodded once, "Yeah. I saw.”

Bella turned to look at him, "You think I overreacted.”

He shook his head, "No. I think you reacted because you care too much.”

Bella blinked, unprepared for that answer.

Mal continued, eyes still on the road, “You carry everything on your back, Bells. You see someone drowning, even if it’s in a puddle they made themselves, you want to pull them out.”

Bella scoffed, "She didn’t look like she was drowning. She looked like she needed someone to knock her ego down three flights of stairs.”

Mal cracked the smallest smile, "Christ I love you but.... Yeah maybe. But you didn’t do it to humiliate her. You did it because you want people to wake up. You always have.”

Bella didn’t respond at first. Her throat was tight. Too tight for how calm she looked on the outside.

Mal squeezed her hand, grounding, "You feel everything at full volume, mo gra. You always have from the day I met you and beyond. That’s your strength. It’s also why you get burned.”

Bella exhaled slowly, voice quieter, "Feels like I’m always burning lately.”

“I know.” His answer was soft and certain.

Bella stared out the window again. The city lights gave way to quieter streets.

“I should be focused on Bea and Cassie at High Stakes. The match. Everything. That’s what’s next. That’s what I need to care about.” Her jaw tightened, "But instead I’m yelling at some rich brat in a designer dress like that’s the war I needed to fight tonight.”

Mal shook his head, "No. That was just the moment that tipped the glass. The match? The pressure? Cassie yapping online? Victoria before that. The whole damn tournament. It all piles up.” He paused, long enough that Bella looked back at him, "You break before you bend. Always have.”

Bella felt the words like a hand pressed against her ribs. Not harsh. Not judgment. Just truth. And love.

Mal continued, voice low, “But you didn’t break tonight. You let some of that fire out instead of letting it eat you from the inside.”

Bella swallowed. Hard. Her voice cracked just a little, “Feels like I’m still burning.”

Mal brought her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles without breaking eye contact with the road, "Then burn.” The word was quiet but fierce, "Just don’t burn alone.”

Bella’s breath hitched. The highway exit passed under them and home was close now.

She leaned across the console and rested her forehead against his shoulder. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just let her be there.

No fixing or explaining. Just his presence that was her anchor from completely flying off the handle and torching everything.

The kind of love that didn’t demand anything.

The kind that held steady through fire.


~*~Rules of Engagement: FAFO~*~

The camera found Bella where she liked it best, close enough to see the small crescent scar at the base of her thumb, far enough away that the rest remained private. The lights in the room were low, a single lamp throwing a hard strip of amber across her jaw. She sat on a battered leather chair, one booted foot braced against the rung, knuckles still rimmed with yesterday’s tape. There was no music, no fanfare. Just the quiet before the storm.

She didn’t smile. She let the words come out slow, deliberate, like a blade sliding from its sheath.

“Bea,” she started, voice flat and dangerous, "You get to the microphone and you ask if we’ve calmed down yet. You ask if my pain sensors have been triggered. You come at us like you’re the volume knob on the whole damn room.”

She laughed once, soft, contemptuous, "Here’s what I don’t need from you. Snark. Sarcasm. That little tinny laugh you think is an edge. You can’t intimidate me with condescension, and you definitely can’t scare me with a smug sentence wrapped in a question mark. Because here’s the real truth: I don’t care what you think I am. I care about what I do.”

Bella leaned forward until her elbows were on her knees, eyes hard enough to cut.

“You say we’re whining. You say we’re moaning. Cute. Real cute. You want to gaslight two hungry women who are coming for a match that actually matters. You want to call us fragile because you can’t see how ferocious we’re being. You want to reduce our fire to a flicker with a snotty tweet and a sip of something cold. That’s you at your best, small, cheap, theatrical.”

She spat the next words like they burned her tongue, "But you? You’re the one who’s got a problem. You’re convinced you’re a measuring stick, a yardline, the bar everyone else needs to clear. Newsflash, you’re more like a rusted fence. You look pretty until someone leans on you. And at High Stakes on November 2, I’m going to lean.”

Her voice dropped lower. The room felt smaller.

“Cassie,” she said, and the name came out like a strike, "You had the audacity to bring my family into this like you were quoting a footnote. You said Christian took my backbone, nah sweetness, my backbone is about to make your whiny bitch ass your worst fucking nightmare. BUT before we talk about that....You dragged my mother's name through your half-baked grievance like it’s a prop in your pity play. Let me be perfectly fucking clear.”

Bella’s hand cracked against her thigh, a hard punctuation.

“Leave Laura Phoenix out of your fucking mouths.”

She didn’t whisper it. She nailed it like a verdict, "My mother is not a weapon your lazy, entitled words get to pick up when you don’t like the outcome. You want to fight me? Fine. Drag my name through the mud if that’s the cheap costume you want to throw on. But drag the family through the gutter and I’ll burn the whole thing to the ground.”

She paused only long enough to let the warning settle, then smiled without warmth.

“Cassie, you want to posture about busted asses and missed anniversaries? You want to claim you earned a spot because the world is cruel to you? Sweetheart, hunger doesn’t look like you. Hunger looks like me. Hunger looks like the woman who’s been punched into the dirt more times than you’ve had outfits. I don’t need sympathy. I don’t need leverage. I don’t need a fucking pity parade and go bitching to the entire world the shortcomings. I need a target and you volunteered when you decided to be an absolute raging CUNT to anyone who would actually give you the time of fucking day.”

Bella’s voice shifted into a clinical whisper, razor-thin: “You made this about your ego. I made this about your education.”

She stood then, like a coiled thing, and the angle of the light changed and the room filled with a kind of predatory motion. She slid her hands into her hoodie pockets and studied the lens like it was a person she could measure.

“Bea, you talk about triggering pain sensors. Here’s one you didn’t foresee: I like it when it hurts, sweetness. I like the way pain sharpens me. I like the way it forces the rest of the world to pay attention. And Barnhart, you’ve had your time. You’ve had some sort of sniff at the throne. You’ve rubbed your damn fingers raw polishing it with every insincere smile. That throne? It’s filthy. It’s heavy and I’m not politely asking for a turn. I’m taking it.”

Her mouth went hard, "You two think we’re playing a game of lost-and-found. I don’t plan to look for anything. I plan to take what’s mine.”

Bella moved closer to the camera as if she could step through it into the faces that had been smirking at her online. Her voice dropped into a low, intimate growl.

“On Sunday, November 9th, at High Stakes, and in that Triple Threat where no fucking rules apply? That’s where the scoreboard gets honest. That’s where your histories stop being cute anecdotes and start being maps of how I’m going to beat the BOTH of you. Cassie, Bea, bring your bravado, your angles, your best little lines and the 2 brain cells combined that are in the running for third place. Bring your ‘I deserve this’ memes, your entourage of keyboards and clapping seals. Bring whatever you’ve got. Bring your husband if you want Bea. And whatever the fuck you have Cassie. Bring your legacies. Bring your ‘yes’ men. Hell, bring the whole circus.”

She let the sentence hang, then finished it clean.

“Because when the bell rings, there’s only one thing that counts. I’m not here to make a point. I’m not here to lecture you two about humility. I’m here to make you hurt and I’m here to leave you with nothing but the memory of my hands on your throat and the knowledge that you lost to the better woman. I’m here to make everyone who thought I was done swallow that pride right back down and shit themselves because now...I’m done being the stepping stone.”

Bella’s eyes narrowed, "And one final thing, you will keep my family out of your mouths. You will keep your petty accusations, your desperate tweets, and your stage-managed victimhood between you and your mirrors. You will look me in the eye, and you will earn every single line on your damn resume. Or you will be erased.”

She let out a breath that sounded almost like laughter. Not light. Not joking.

“You want to know how this ends? You’ll both learn it the hard way. You’ll both learn because I won’t stop until I’m standing where I’ve always been meant to be. I’ll see you twats in the ring. Bring everything. I’ll bring the wreckage.”

She stepped back. The camera trembled for a beat, then cut to black.

Turnberry Towers – Annual Halloween Party
Las Vegas, Nevada

The lobby of Turnberry Towers had been transformed, again, into something that walked the line between whimsical and ridiculous. An enormous chandelier glittered above carved pumpkins and tables draped in shimmering black cloth. The DJ was spinning a mix of nostalgic Halloween hits and modern remixes; fog curled lazily at ankle-height from cleverly hidden machines. The party always went hard here. It was one of the perks of living in a building full of retirees with money and opinions.

Miles stood near the dessert table, hips angled like he was posing for a magazine cover, because honestly, when you are dressed head-to-toe as David Bowie, you commit. The glittered lightning bolt stretched sharp and red across his eye. The white boots were borderline illegal. The silver jumpsuit glinted each time he moved.

Next to him, Carter, metallic silver suit, the jacket covered with rhinestones and sequins with those oversized white-framed glasses with lenses tinted rose-pink, was the picture of Elton John, if Elton were celebrating Halloween in Vegas rather than playing piano to sold-out arenas. He had leaned full tilt into glam. Sequins. Gloves. The whole nine yards. Every light in the place found him and refused to let go.

And then there was Kevin, sixteen and determined to be Billy Maximoff down to the boots. Scarlet cape. Blue-green tunic, fingerless gloves and he looked proud of it too, head high for once, confident. He’d vanished into the crowd for snacks and soda the moment they got back inside from the poolside area from his entrance along with one of the tower's favorite residents.

Right now, Miles and Carter were chatting with Anne, the HOA president, one of the sweetest ladies to ever rule a building with the power of an army. Anne had dressed as Agatha Harkness, complete with gray-purple robes and a brooch so shiny it could’ve been real silver. Her wig had streaks of white like lightning, and she even carried a fake spell book under her arm.

“It’s just, absolutely delightful, the three of you,” Anne was saying with a bright smile. She adored them, "You always come in theme. Last year was… what was that one again?”

“Abba,” Carter reminded her, touching a hand over his heart, "A truly spiritual moment. I have never seen Miles commit to a pair of bell bottoms like that.”

Miles smirked, "I was beautiful.”

“You always are,” Carter shot back, affectionate, without a second of hesitation.

Anne chuckled and touched Miles’ arm, "You boys bring life to this place. You know that?” She meant it. She always meant what she said.

Miles’ gaze drifted, then stopped. There stood Kevin, he was laughing. ...with his head slightly ducked. With a boy.

The kid was standing near the drink dispenser at the refreshment table, broad-shouldered, nearly six feet tall, strawberry-blonde hair shining under the soft gold overhead lighting. He wore a Captain America costume that actually fit him, looking like someone had convinced him he could be a hero and he’d believed it. Not the cheap jumpsuit kind either, this was some carefully assembled fandom-level stuff. And Kevin was smiling. Nervous, unsure, but smiling.

It was the first time in a long time he looked like a kid who wasn’t bracing for something.

Miles caught Carter looking at the same thing.

“Well, looks like Kev used the ‘plus one’ on the invite.” Carter murmured, low enough not to be overheard, "I told you about him last week, remember? Saw him at the carpool pickup last Wednesday. They came out of school just talking up a storm, he actually had him laughing at one point and then they said their farewells before he got on one of the buses and Kev got to the car. Kevin shut down when I asked.”

Miles nodded once, reading the body language between the two boys, “He likes him.”

“Oh for sure...” Carter said quietly, eyes softening just slightly. The two watched as the young man was motioning and touching the fabric of Kevin's costume, “And that is… definitely mutual.”

Miles inhaled with pride, worry, protectiveness, hope and something a complicated knot of all of it, but his expression when he exhaled was warm.

“Anne, would you excuse us for a moment?” he asked politely.

“Of course, dear. Go be parents.” She winked knowingly.

Miles and Carter crossed the room together, never looming, never pushing. Just there.

Kevin noticed them too late. His smile flickered, nerves snapping up like a shield, but Miles didn’t let the panic bloom.

He simply smiled.

“Evening lads,” Miles said, friendly, casual, every bit the rockstar glittering under lights, "I don’t think we’ve met.”

The boy straightened instantly. Eyes widened. Recognition happened in real time.

“Oh—uh—I— Hi—” The kid swallowed, flushed deep pink, "I’m... My name is Connor. Connor Wayley. I—uh— I know who you are. Both of you. I mean— sorry—Hi.”

Carter laughed softly, not unkindly, "It’s okay. Happens a lot, especially around Miles.”

Kevin’s ears were red. He wouldn’t look at either of them.

Miles extended a hand, "Well, Connor, it’s nice to officially meet you.”

Evan shook it, firm handshake, though his palm was a little sweaty. And the nervousness showed all over him but at least he was sincere.

Carter offered his hand next, "Well I know you said you already knew who we were but, I’m Carter, this is Miles. And based on the costume, I’m guessing Avengers fan?”

Connor brightened, shoulders relaxing, "Yeah! I, um...Captain America’s kind of my favorite. Has been for... since I was little.”

Miles grinned, "Strong choice and the costume looks great. That custom work?”

The young man nodded, "Pieces. Some from online, some... uh... 3D-printed. The school has a makerspace.”

Kevin finally found his voice. Quiet, but steady, "He made the shield himself.”

Connor flushed again, ducking his head, "It’s not... I mean.... it’s just foam and paint—”

Miles’ smile softened. To him, this wasn’t small. Not at all.

“Well,” Miles said, voice warm enough to melt chocolate fountains, “Looks to me like you put your heart into it. And that’s what makes it impressive.”

Connor blinked. The compliment landed. Hard, "Thanks, sir.”

Kevin looked at Miles, grateful in ways only spoken through silence, "Hey, why don’t I go introduce you to Anne, she looks EXACTLY like Agatha and it’s amazing.”

Carter glanced at the two kids who were now walking away, Kevin’s shoulder brushing Connor’s...not constantly, but enough. Natural, Easy and the most important of it...Comfortable. He leaned slightly into Miles and whispered, “They’re adorable. And I think we might be in trouble.”

Miles whispered back, “Oh, we’re doomed. Completely doomed.”

But his smile never faded.

-------

The elevator ride back up to the condo was quiet, the faint hum of the floor numbers blinking past filling in the silence where conversation hadn’t landed yet. The Halloween party downstairs was still going strong; laughter and thumping bass vibrated faintly up the walls. Kevin had stayed behind with Anne...and with the kid in the Captain America costume, under the watchful eye of half the HOA, which somehow made Miles feel both more and less relaxed at the same time.

Carter leaned back against the wall of the elevator, Elton John sequins glittering under the low lighting, the silver frames of his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. Miles still looked like David Bowie had stepped out of a vinyl sleeve, hair sprayed into artful chaos, jumpsuit half unzipped at the chest, glitter along his cheekbones. They were a ridiculous, fabulous pair. And yet the silence between them was low, thoughtful. Not tense. Just full.

The doors slid open with a soft ding.

After a small jaunt down the hall, they stepped into their home. The sound-proofed quiet enveloped them.

Miles exhaled first, rolling his shoulders, "Feet are killing me,” he murmured.

Carter didn’t answer at first but made a small joke after kicking off his platforms about “His feet?” but Carter was watching him.

Miles paused.

“…Hey.” That single word had weight. Carter crossed the space between them and rested both hands on Miles’ waist, thumbs smoothing over the fabric, "You did good tonight,” he said quietly, "You always do.”

“Kevin looked happy,” Carter said softly.

“Yeah,” Miles replied, offering a small, warm smile, "He did.”

There was a hint of something else there, something neither of them pushed yet. Not tonight.

Miles’ expression softened, but only briefly. He moved to the kitchen counter, resting his hands on the granite, shoulders bowing forward, "We’re gonna have to have a conversation with him,” he said, meaning Kevin, meaning the boy, meaning the look in Kevin’s eyes that was new and unmissable.

Carter nodded, leaning beside him, "We will. But not tonight.”

“…No,” Miles agreed, "Not tonight.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Carter’s eyes drifted, not to Miles, but to the championship belt resting on the display shelf near the TV. The SCW Internet Championship caught the soft light, gold reflecting like something living and it had rested right by Carter’s World Championship that had been disinfected thoroughly since it was finally retrieved from Alexander Raven.

“So.” Carter folded his arms lightly, "Ryan Keys.”

Miles didn’t shy away. In fact, he lit up, even through his exhaustion at the moment, “Yeah.”

And it wasn’t bravado. It wasn't a forced confidence. It was anticipation.

“It’s just nice to have a bit of fresh air coming my way,” Miles continued, "Keys is something different, for me at least. Since he showed back up...I don’t know. We know he’s been hungry, you can tell just watching him and I want that. I want someone who’s coming in like they’ve got something to prove.”

Carter watched the way Miles spoke, hands moving, eyes bright, adrenaline under the skin. Like this wasn’t a defense, it was an invitation.

“So you’re not nervous,” Carter said not accusing, just confirming.

Miles shook his head, easy, solid and sure, “Nah. I mean....” He shrugged, "Of course there’s pressure. I’ve got something to lose now. That’s real and it’s not like I’m not used to that because it’s sure as hell not my first time around the block. But this? This is the kind of match I like. Fresh opponent. Fresh challenge. No history weighing it down. Just me and him seeing who’s better when it rings.”

Carter’s lips curled, not into a smirk, but something proud, "Good,” he murmured.

Miles stepped closer, shoulder brushing his, their reflections faint in the glass of the balcony door, "You thought I was worried.”

Carter didn’t deny it, "I’ve seen what pressure can do to people who finally get everything they were reaching for.”

Miles reached up, lightly taking Carter’s chin between his fingers, soft, grounding. Not dramatic. Just real.

“Hey.” His voice was warm, "I didn’t luck into this. I didn’t stumble into it. I worked my ass off. I earned it. And now I get to defend it, not because I have to, but because I want to. I’m not out to hand pick opponents like others that just ran away. That is the part that matters.”

Carter breathed in slowly, tension easing, shoulders loosening, "Okay,” he said, "Then I’m with you.”

“You were always with me,” Miles answered, voice low and certain.

Carter smiled, the small, private one meant only for him, "Yeah. I was.”

Carter walked behind him and rested his chin between Miles’ shoulder blades, "And I know that’s who you are. It’s one of the things I love most about you.” His arms wrapped around Miles’ torso, slow and grounding, "But just because you won’t say it… doesn’t mean I can’t worry.”

Miles’ fingers closed around Carter’s wrists, holding them there.

“Do you think it was too impulsive?" he asked, gently, but direct.

Carter didn’t answer right away. He stepped around, moving to face him fully. Their eyes met, no walls, no character work, no ring bravado. Just the truth, "I think you finally got everything you worked for,” Carter said, voice steady, "You know that means people are going to come for you harder than they ever have and I’m scared of what that could do to you. Not your career. You. We saw what happened when you lost it and then you proceeded to drive Vaughn through the windshield of a helicopter.”

Miles blinked. And it hit him, the fear wasn’t about the title. It was about the man wearing it. He reached up and cupped Carter’s jaw, "Yeah, I kinda did try to brutally maim him and failed to get the title back but ....I’m not going anywhere, love. I could say the about you Mr. World Champ.”

“Hey, ok...fair.” Carter leaned into the touch, breathing out, "You better not. I’m too old to break in another husband.”

Miles barked a soft laugh, the tension cracked just enough to breathe. Then Carter’s expression shifted, softer, almost teasing, but the emotion behind it was clear.

“Let me ask you something though,” Carter murmured, "When you walk out there at High Stakes, are you doing it as the Internet Champion?” His thumb brushed along Miles’ lips, "Or are you doing it as Miles Freaking Kasey, the man who clawed his way into being undeniable?”

Miles didn’t smile. He just stepped forward, pressed his forehead to Carter’s. And answered in a whisper,
“Both.”

The lights outside flickered from the ongoing Halloween festivities, casting their shadows long across the apartment wall, two figures standing together.

And neither moved.

...Until.., "Shower?”

-------

The camera came up clean and steady. White backdrop. No theatrics. No smoke. No chair thrown across the room. Just Miles Kasey-McKinney standing center frame, SCW Internet Championship slung over his shoulder like it belonged there.

Because it did.

He hooked one thumb under the strap, casual, comfortable.

“The biggest show of the year is neigh. High Stakes is around the corner,” Miles began, tone level but sure, "And yeah, I decided to open the door. Even with the tournament going on to determine who was going to face Carter at High Stakes, I didn’t wait for a challenger to be assigned. I didn’t wait for my name to be pulled out of a hat. And I sure as hell wasn’t gonna sit in the back and not defend this title like it's a treasure I need to hide.”

He tapped the faceplate lightly, not reverent, just acknowledging.

“This championship isn’t something I covet. I don’t clutch it like Gollum and whisper ‘my precious.’” Miles gave a small smile. Dry. Honest. He also knew the minute that Carter heard that, he would have to do it again.

“This right here means I get to be the one out there every week, setting pace, raising standard, giving this division something to rally behind. I’m not guarding the championship. I’m carrying it. Like a flag.”

His posture stayed relaxed, but his voice sharpened, focus, not aggression.

“And that’s why the open challenge made sense. Because this division is full of people hungry to prove something and if I’m gonna represent it, then I have to be willing to face whoever steps up, no conditions, no warnings, no safety net. Sounds exactly like my entire career, but I digress.”

He let the belt shift, hand steady on the leather.

“So, Ryan Keys.” The smile turned thoughtful, measured and respectful.

“You didn’t waste time. You didn’t cut some long speech. You didn’t try to sell yourself. You just stepped forward and said, ‘I’m here.’ And honestly? I respect that more than anything else you could’ve said.”

He nodded once, genuine.

“You’ve been away. You came back. And the first thing you aimed for was this. That tells me where your head is at. That tells me you’re not just filling space, you want the moment.”

Miles’ tone deepened, confident, not condescending.

“And now you’ve got it. You walk into High Stakes with the opportunity to do something massive for your return. You got the shot. You earned the match simply by moving first.”

He leaned in slightly, more presence, not more volume.

“But here’s where we’re honest with each other.”

“You’re not walking into the same Internet Championship scene you left. I’m not here to hold this belt. I’m here to push this division forward, with every match, every defense, every challenger who has the guts to step up.”

The belt shifted once more, but he never once posed with it.

“And if you’re the one standing across from me at High Stakes? Good.”

He nodded, once, decisive.

“Because I want the guys who want the moment. I want the ones who aren’t afraid to take their shot first.”

Miles’ eyes locked directly on the camera, calm, grounded, sure.

“Ryan Keys, you were the first man to step up, and that means something. You wanted the shot, so now you’ve got it.”

A small, confident exhale.

“So bring that momentum. Bring that hunger. Bring the version of yourself that walked back into this company and said I’m not done.”

He nodded once.

“Because I’m walking into Tucson as the SCW Internet Champion, and I am walking out the same way.”

Miles didn’t smirk. Didn’t wink. Didn’t posture.

He just meant it.

“I’ll see you in Tucson, Ryan.”

And he stepped off camera, ending it clean.

Bring Him Home
Las Vegas, NV

The air inside the Clark County Family Court building felt different than anywhere else in Las Vegas. The casinos carried noise, neon, and life. The Strip never slept. But here, everything was subdued, muffled, the carpet was thick enough to swallow footsteps, and the wood paneling along the walls seemed designed to keep voices from rising too high.

Miles sat at the long oak table, Carter at his side. Both wore suits, Carter’s sharp navy one made him look polished and calm, while Miles tugged at his tie like it had been knotted too tight. Between them sat Alastair O’Malley, sleeves neat, posture perfect, eyes already locked on the judge’s bench with the same kind of steady patience he’d once used to protect Carter years ago.

Across the aisle sat a representative from Child Protective Services, a woman with a file thick enough to be a brick, full of Kevin’s entire history, schools, hospital records, the string of issues from his family’s issues to what happened recently. Miles tried not to look at it. Tried not to think about how every page was another reminder that Kevin had been shuffled around like cargo by his own family, rather than allow him to just be a kid.

At the far end of the bench, Detective LaSalle stood near the rail, in uniform but off-duty, hands folded behind his back. His presence wasn’t procedural, he was there because he wanted to be. Because he’d seen Miles and Carter step up when no one else had.

The bailiff called the room to order. Everyone rose as Judge Ramirez entered, a woman with sharp eyes that missed nothing. She sat, looked over the docket, and then gestured for everyone else to sit as well.

“Alright,” Judge Ramirez began, her tone brisk but not unkind, "We are here today to discuss the matter of minor Kevin Chapman, soon to be released from University Medical Center. The court must decide appropriate placement and long-term guardianship.”

Miles swallowed hard. His hands pressed flat against the polished wood of the table. He felt Carter’s fingers brush against his under the surface, grounding him.

Alastair stood, buttoning his jacket, his voice carrying smooth and clear, "Your Honor, I represent Miles Kasey-McKinney and Carter McKinney-Kasey. My clients are here today not out of obligation or convenience, but out of genuine concern for the welfare of Kevin Chapman. They are seeking full guardianship of Kevin, with the intent of providing a permanent, stable home for him.”

The CPS representative shifted, readying her notes. But before she could speak, Judge Ramirez lifted a hand, "And you have documentation of financial stability, living arrangements, and background checks?”

“Filed in advance with the court,” Alastair replied, sliding a packet across to the clerk, "Additionally, there is testimony from Detective LaSalle, who has firsthand knowledge of my clients’ history with Kevin and their demonstrated commitment to his well-being.”

Miles’ throat felt dry, but he kept his gaze steady. He wasn’t here to prove he could win a wrestling match. He was here to prove he could keep a promise, to a kid who’d never had anyone keep one before.

Judge Ramirez turned her eyes toward LaSalle, "Detective?”

LaSalle stepped forward, voice carrying the weight of a man who’d spent too many years testifying, "Your Honor, I’ve seen these two gentlemen in difficult circumstances. I’ve watched them advocate for this boy when others might’ve walked away, especially his own father. They didn’t have to get involved, but they did. Mr. Kasey-McKinney especially went to extra lengths to make sure of Kevin’s wellbeing. And from everything I’ve seen, they’re the only ones looking at Kevin as more than a case number. They see him as family.”

For the first time since the hearing began, the corners of Judge Ramirez’s mouth softened. She glanced toward Miles and Carter, then back down at her papers. Miles leaned back in his chair, letting out a slow breath. Carter’s hand stayed on his, and for a brief second, despite the weight of the courtroom, the stiff suits, the looming uncertainty, it felt like maybe, just maybe, they were on the right path.

The CPS representative rose, smoothing the lapel of her blazer as she addressed the bench, "Your Honor, while I do not question the sincerity of Mr. and Mr. Kasey-McKinney, I must raise concerns. Kevin Chapman has endured repeated instability, from his mother landing herself in prison to his own father seemingly kicking him out of his house. Kevin has spent a lot of time back and forth and unsure where to go. And while these gentlemen have a relationship with him, they are not blood relatives, nor have they any prior legal responsibility. The Department recommends placement in a certified foster home while his situation is reassessed in a more formal capacity.”

Alastair stood almost immediately, his tone calm but sharp, "With respect, Your Honor, Kevin has been through more than enough cold transitions. Another foster placement only continues the cycle. What my clients offer is not just a roof or a paycheck, it’s consistency. Kevin knows them. He trusts them. He already has a bond within their household, and removing him from that would do more harm than good.”

Judge Ramirez tapped her pen against her notes, eyes flicking between the parties, "And what of their occupations? From what I see, both Mr. Kasey-McKinney and Mr. McKinney-Kasey have demanding careers that require travel.”

That was the question Miles had been bracing for. His pulse kicked up, but before Alastair could answer, he cleared his throat and stood. Carter’s hand brushed his sleeve in a silent ‘you sure?’ but Miles nodded.

“Your Honor,” Miles began, voice steady, though he could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, "It’s true, I wrestle. I travel. So does Carter, and together we’ve built our life around handling it. We’re not blind to what that means, and we’re not taking this lightly. But the difference is, Kevin wouldn’t just be another stop on our way. He’d be part of us. An actual part of our family.”

He took a breath, locking eyes with the judge, "Kevin’s had people promise him stability before, and then rip it away. I won’t do that to him. WE won’t do that to him. Not now, not ever. We haven’t gone into the idea of any of this lightly. This isn’t about checking a box or looking good on paper. It’s about giving a kid who’s had every reason not to trust adults a reason to finally believe one of them. If that means rearranging our life? I’ll do it. No hesitation.”

The room went still. Alastair didn’t add anything. He didn’t need to. Even the CPS rep shifted uncomfortably, as if she knew there wasn’t much to argue against the raw conviction in Miles’ voice.

Judge Ramirez studied him for a long moment, the silence heavy but not hostile. Finally, she leaned back in her chair, folding her hands, "I appreciate your candor, Mr. Kasey-McKinney. This court will take everything under advisement before making a ruling. For now, the matter is recessed until this afternoon.”

The gavel struck once, and just like that, the tension loosened enough for Miles to breathe again. Carter squeezed his hand under the table, whispering, “You killed it, babe.”

The wait between sessions was torture. Miles and Carter walked the courthouse halls with Alastair, sipping burnt coffee from paper cups that did nothing to settle the nerves. Even Ms. Thang at home crossed Miles’ mind, how easy it was to worry about a cat, when the fate of a kid was hanging in the balance.

By the time the bailiff’s voice called them back into the courtroom, Miles’ tie felt like a noose again. Carter smoothed it down for him before they reentered, his small smile steady enough to lend courage.

When Judge Ramirez took her seat again, the silence fell heavy. Papers shuffled. A long pause. Then she spoke.

“This court has reviewed all submitted documents, as well as testimony from both counsel and Detective LaSalle, as well as a stellar letter of reference by a Dr. Gail Delacore. The decision before me is not one I take lightly. Kevin Chapman has experienced significant instability. His mother did attempt a contestment of this act but she has lost her parental rights after her criminal history. His father has, after contact, gave a differing opinion and has agreed that Kevin deserves a better life. The Department’s concerns regarding his placement are valid. However...”

Miles’ stomach flipped at the word.

“...It is also clear that Kevin has found stability, consistency, and genuine care with Mr. and Mr. Kasey-McKinney. Foster care may provide shelter, but it cannot replicate established trust and existing bonds. Removing him would likely do more harm than good and considering the disturbing circumstances that led to this very moment, I feel like right now the child in question deserves more than just a roof over their head.”

The CPS representative shifted, lips pressing together, but she didn’t interrupt.

Judge Ramirez continued, her eyes settling on Miles, then Carter, "Therefore, it is the ruling of this court that guardianship of Kevin Chapman be granted to Miles Kasey-McKinney and Carter McKinney-Kasey, effective immediately. Conditions will include regular welfare check-ins for the first six months, and continued demonstration of stability in employment and home life. Furthermore, seeing as your careers take you above and beyond this state, I am also granting you both permission to travel with him, but he must be enrolled in school and live a normal lifestyle. But as of today, Kevin Chapman is officially under your guardianship. Gentlemen, I wish you the best.”

The gavel struck.

For a moment, Miles couldn’t breathe. His lungs forgot how to work, his ears rang with the echo of the gavel. It was Carter’s hand again, warm, squeezing and grounding, that made the weight of the moment crash over him. It was a relief and triumph. The sudden realization that everything they’d been fighting for had just changed their lives.

Alastair allowed himself the smallest smile as he gathered his papers. LaSalle clapped a firm hand on Miles’ shoulder as they stood, his voice low but certain, "You did right by him.”

Miles swallowed hard, nodding. He glanced at Carter, who was already grinning through eyes that shimmered with unshed tears, "We did,” Carter said softly.

----

A Few Days Later
Turnberry Towers

The elevator ride up felt longer than it should have. Kevin’s backpack was slung over one shoulder, the strap digging into his collarbone, though he barely noticed. He stared at the mirrored wall of the cab, watching his own reflection the way someone might eye a stranger.

Miles stood at his side, keys in hand, Carter just behind them carrying one of the duffel bags stuffed with Kevin’s things from the hospital. They hadn’t said much on the way up. It wasn’t the kind of silence that pressed, it was the kind that waited.

When the doors slid open, Kevin followed them down the hall, sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. He didn’t know what he expected when Miles unlocked the condo door and pushed it open. He remembered being here once before, except in his memory the edges blurred, the colors were wrong, and everything smelled like panic and hunger. Miles’ arm had been around him then, holding him upright, half-carrying him out of the motel and into this place that barely registered before he was ushered off to the hospital.

Now, walking into the condo, it was different.

“Welcome home,” Carter said. His voice was easy, but Kevin caught the way he watched him closely, like he was waiting to see if the words landed.

The condo smelled faintly of coffee and something citrus, Carter’s doing, no doubt, given the dish towel slung over the back of a chair, that was the first thing he noticed. The second was the quiet hum of normal life, music faint from a speaker. Kevin stepped inside carefully, like the floor might vanish beneath him if he wasn’t cautious enough.

“This is...wow,” he said, eyes sweeping across the open living room. The wide windows poured early-afternoon light across the space, catching on the framed photos lining the shelves, Miles and Carter with friends, snapshots from shows, even a couple of goofy selfies in front of landmarks Kevin only half-recognized. It felt alive in a way most places he’d stayed never had, including the home that he had shared with his parents, one floor up.

Miles nudged the door shut behind them with his heel and slung the keys onto the counter, "Alright,” he said, clapping his hands together once, “Ten-cent tour. The living room here, TV’s way too big, that’s mostly my fault according to Carter.”

“Yes, but I’ve learned to live with it because it’s amazing for movies,” Carter interjected smoothly, dropping Kevin’s duffel bag by the couch.

“Kitchen’s through there, laundry’s tucked away behind those doors, bedrooms down the hall. The bathroom’s yours but is also a guest bathroom. Try not to let Carter convince you that kale smoothies are food, and you’ll survive just fine.”

Kevin’s mouth quirked at the corner, though he ducked his head quickly to hide it. The ease between them was something he wasn’t used to yet. Especially when he heard Carter shoot back something about Krispy Kreme Donuts being one of Miles’ basic 4 food groups.

They rounded into the kitchen, and before Kevin could take in the stainless appliances or the ridiculous lineup of coffee mugs hanging by hooks, a sharp, imperious ‘mrrrow!’ cut through the air. Perched on the kitchen peninsula, tail curled neatly around her paws, was a black-and-white tuxedo cat. Her whiskers twitched, her bright eyes narrowed as though appraising the newcomer.

“And this,” Carter announced, “Is Ms. Thang. Official ruler of the condo.”

“She lets us stay here out of pity, we just pay the mortgage and give her treats.” Miles added, leaning casually against the counter.

Kevin froze for half a second under the cat’s piercing stare, then watched in surprise as Ms. Thang leapt gracefully down to the stool, then to the floor. She approached him with slow, deliberate steps, sniffed his sneakers, and finally brushed herself against his shin like she’d known him forever. Kevin crouched instinctively, reaching a tentative hand down. Ms. Thang leaned into the touch immediately, purring so loudly it vibrated against his palm.

Kevin blinked, the corner of his mouth tugging upward again, "Guess I pass inspection.”

Miles grinned, "That’s the toughest one in the house, right there. If she’s cool with you, the rest is a done deal. But let’s not tell LJ about this, or I will never hear the end of it.”

Carter leaned an elbow on the counter, watching the two with a softer expression, "Oh I am so telling your brother.”

Kevin didn’t say anything, just kept stroking the cat, his shoulders easing for the first time since they’d left the hospital.

----

Come Crashing Down
Miami, FL

Miles leaned forward on the steel chair, elbows resting on his knees, the faint glint of the ladder looming behind him. The air smelled faintly of dust and canvas, the quiet of the empty arena pressing in around him. For once, he didn’t fidget, he didn’t pace. He just spoke with the same focus he’d wrestled his own doubts into submission with.

“Four men. One championship. One night in Miami.

And me? I’ve been waiting for this. Waiting to stand in the center of chaos...tables, ladders, chairs....and prove I don’t just belong here, I own it.”

His gaze flicked upward to the rafters, where in a few days the Internet Championship would hang.

“Let’s start our little Ted Talk where we will begin discussing the one and only ‘Bulldog’ Bill Barnhart.

The man I already beat to earn my way into this match. The man I left behind when I punched my ticket to Violent Conduct. And yet, here you are, Billy. You’re in this match, not because you earned it, not because you fought your way in, but because I made it happen.”

Miles let the words linger, a sharp smirk cutting across his face.

“Yeah, everyone was shocked when I went to SCW General Manager Evelyn Hall. Everyone thought, ‘Why in the world would Miles do that? Why give Bill another chance?’ And the truth is simple, because I’m not afraid of you. Because I wanted you in this match. Because Violent Conduct seems incomplete without you in it, Billy Boy.

You see, Alex Jones and Eddie Lyons were just handed their spots, and rightfully so because they fucking deserved it...well maybe Eddie more than Alex but we’ll cross and burn that particular bridge when we get to it. Me? I had to fight. And you, Bill, you were supposed to be finished. Out of the picture. But I couldn’t stomach the idea of people whispering that Miles only got through because he had it easy. So I made it fair. I made sure you got in, too.”

He leaned forward, resting his hands on the barricade, eyes narrowing.

“But here’s the thing, Bill. You should be thanking me. You should be on your knees, grateful that I even spoke up for you to give you this shot. Because deep down, you know the truth, without me, you’d be at home, holding Bea’s purse while shopping, watching this on TV with your dog.

And come Violent Conduct? That’s exactly where you’ll end up again. Because the same way I put you down once, I’ll do it again, only this time, there won’t be any appeals. There won’t be any second chances. Just tables breaking under your weight and me climbing the ladder while you wonder why you thought you could still hang with the future of this division.”

Miles pushed back from the barricade, that sharp grin returning.

“I gave you this spot, Bill. But I’ll be damned if I’m giving you the championship.”

Miles smirked faintly, his jaw setting.

Miles exhaled slowly, slowly making his way to the six sided ring, resting his forearms on the canvas, his gaze somewhere far off, as though he could already see the chaos of ladders and tables waiting in Miami. When he spoke, his tone was steady, not mocking, not cruel, but deliberate.

“Eddie Lyons. Now here’s the part where I have to tell some hard truths to a man I actually respect.

You’re a fighter, Eddie. You’re the kind of guy who doesn’t break no matter how many times the world tries to bend you. And believe me, I see that. I respect it. You’ve been waiting for that moment — that crack in the glass ceiling where you finally get to smash through and say, ‘I made it. This is my time.’

And trust me, man, I get it. I know what it’s like to be thirsty for that shot, to want it so bad that it keeps you awake at night. That feeling of being on the cusp, always right there, and the universe pulling it back out of reach. Hell, you’re a new dad now, and I know that adds fire to everything you do. You want to hold that championship up high, not just for you, but for your family. You want to be able to tell your kid that you fought, you bled, and you won.”

Miles shook his head slowly, almost regretfully, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“But here’s the thing, Eddie, I’ve been waiting too, I’ve been waiting since I lost the fucking thing. And the truth is, the world doesn’t care how long you’ve waited. The Internet Championship isn’t a charity. It isn’t a prize you get for enduring the most disappointment. It’s a fight, and when the dust settles, only one of us is walking away with that belt.

And as much as I admire your fight, as much as I respect that you don’t crack under pressure, in fact you are probably the most level headed guy in the entire SCW lockerroom and that is amazing in of itself considering that most of us belong locked up in a rubber room with nothing but the jackets that help you hug yourself, hand puppets and pingpong tables. BUT...I’m here to tell you it won’t be you. Not in Miami. Not at Violent Conduct. You’ve been waiting, Eddie. You have been waiting for so long, but so have I. And I’m done waiting.

So when you look up from that mat, with the wreckage of ladders and tables all around you, and you see me standing at the top with the Internet Championship in my hands, don’t take it as disrespect. Take it as the reality. Because I know you’ll keep fighting. You always do. But this time, it’s my ceiling that’s shattering. Not yours.”

Miles tapped the rope with his palm and let a small, sympathetic smirk cross his face.

“Somebody’s gotta be the bearer of bad news. Guess it’s me.”

The name that came next pulled a different weight into his voice.

Miles’ jaw tightened as he straightened, no longer leaning against the canvas, his voice carrying more bite now.

“Alex Jones. Now this one’s different.

See, Bill’s a relic, Eddie’s a fighter I can respect...but you, Alex? You were supposed to be a mentor. One of the guys who was there when I came into Wolfslair. You ARE Wolfslair....you were Wolfslair. One of the ones who told me to dig deeper, push harder, keep going when I felt like I had nothing left. I listened. I did the work. I bled for this business, and I carried those lessons with me everywhere I went.

And now here we are, years later, and I get to look across the ring at you...and realize how far you’ve fallen.

Because let’s be real, Alex, you’ve been coasting on reputation for a long time. Especially since Carter defeated you and kicked your ass back down the ladder. You still strut around like you’re untouchable, like the name alone carries weight. Picking the pettiest of fucking fights because you know damn well there isn’t a damn soul that fears the figure you have become. But here’s the truth: Wolfslair built monsters, killers, champions, and you? You became the guy clinging to past glories while everyone else kept moving forward. You taught us to never settle and yet here you are, settled. And you blew up your entire family for absolutely no fucking reason.

You want to look at me like I’m still that kid, green and wide-eyed, hoping one day to earn your nod of approval? You want to pretend you’re still that towering figure above me? Nah, not anymore. That dynamic died the moment I realized I didn’t need your approval to stand on my own two feet. That I didn’t need you, period.

So here’s the reality check: in Miami, when that bell rings, I’m not your student. I’m not your underling. I’m the guy who’s about to run straight through you.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s the real lesson. That no matter how many kids you try to preach to, no matter how much you want to puff your chest out like you’re still the big bad wolf of this place, sooner or later one of those students grows up, sharpens his teeth, and comes back to take a bite out of you.

That’s what’s waiting for you in Miami, Alex. Not respect. Not gratitude. Just reality. And the reality is, you’re not standing at the top of the mountain anymore. You’re standing in my way. And I don’t plan on asking permission to move you.”

Miles smirked, though there was no warmth behind it, it was just steel.

“You taught me well enough, Alex, hell I would say maybe too well. Now you get to see what happens when the student finally surpasses the teacher.

The measuring stick. The name people whisper when they talk about what this company once was, what it still can be. A man who’s seen it all, done it all, and can still back it up. Do NOT misunderstand me...I don’t take that lightly, Alex. I don’t dismiss it. Hell, part of me has been waiting for this fight, because if I want to prove I’m ready to carry this championship, standing across from you is the test.

But here’s the truth: legends fade, their shine dulls and their aura cracks when the new blood refuses to bow. And you should know as well as anyone, I’m not one to knee to anyonel. I’m not here to shake your hand and say, ‘thank you for paving the way.’ I’m here to show you the way forward doesn’t belong to you anymore, it belongs to me.”

Miles stood then, dragging the chair back with a scrape against the floor. His eyes went back up, locking on the invisible belt waiting in the air.

“TLC matches aren’t about luck and they’re sure as fuck not about nostalgia. They’re about who’s willing to put their body through hell, climb that ladder, and grab their destiny.

Barnhart, Eddie, Alex, you’re all obstacles that stand in my way to get back to what I should have never lost. You are the tough ones, the dangerous ones. But at Violent Conduct X, I’m not walking into Miami haunted, or hesitant, or second-guessing myself anymore. I promised I was done living in fear.

And when that championship comes down into my hands, you’ll all know it wasn't a chance, it wasn’t luck.

It was inevitable.”

He stepped back from the canvas and let the silence hang for a heartbeat, letting everything he'd said settle in the stale arena air. The ladder behind him glittered like a promise; the empty seats felt like the lungs of a city waiting to exhale. He fixed his gaze on that imaginary belt dangling over the ring in Miami and then looked up, not at the ceiling, but at the future.

“Listen,” he said, calm and certain now, “This isn’t personal theater. It’s not about settling scores with old ghosts or collecting trophies for the highlight reel. It’s about one simple thing: who’s willing to hurt the most to hold what’s theirs.”

He paced slowly, each step measured, "Barnhart, thanks for the convenience of your stubbornness. Eddie, respect, always, but respect doesn’t hand you a belt. And Alex...you were a teacher once. You helped make me. Funny how the lesson comes full circle.” A short laugh escaped him, "All three of you taught me something. You taught me how to beat you.”

Miles stopped in the center of the ring, palms flat against the cool canvas. The words that followed were quieter, but they landed like iron.

“I promised myself, on my birthday, that I was done letting the past tell me who I could be. No more ghosts and no more excuses. I’m not climbing because I want the belt for the picture or the retweets. I’m climbing because I earned the right to be the one who gets to decide what comes next for me. For my life. For the people I love.”

He drew in a breath, let it out like a bell toll, "Tables break, ladders bend, chairs shatter. Bodies will be bruised and clever plans will fail. But when the scrap metal sings and the dust hangs in the Miami air, one hand will close around that championship. One name will be shouted into a thousand phones and a thousand timelines. One man will walk out of Violent Conduct X different from the way he walked in.”

Miles looked at them all with the flat, certain smile of someone who’d already rehearsed victory a thousand times in his head, "That man is me. It’s inevitable.”

“Wild Cards”
Centennial Medical Center
Las Vegas

The dull beige walls of the recovery center hadn’t changed, but Kevin had.

The kid had color in his cheeks again. His shoulders weren’t as slumped. The hoodie he wore didn’t swallow him up the way it used to. Miles noticed all of it as he walked into the room with a paper bag in hand, the logo of some hole-in-the-wall burger place already leaving a greasy stain on the side.

Kevin looked up from where he was sitting cross-legged on the bed, earbuds half in. His face lit up like a pinball machine, "Took you long enough, old man.”

Miles raised an eyebrow, "Excuse you, this ‘old man’ just brought you a cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake. Show some damn respect.”

“Respect is earned,” Kevin said with a grin, already stretching his hands out for the bag, "Hospital food was this close to killing me. This is a life-saving measure.”

Miles dropped the bag in his lap with a dramatic sigh, then pulled out a second fry container for himself, "You will take this to your grave.”

“What?”

He pointed a fry at him.

“Carter. The man has the nose of a bloodhound when it comes to junk food.”

Kevin laughed through a mouthful of burger, "Dude, he’s like...healthy judgment personified.”

“Exactly. If he finds out I broke my post-cruise detox with the best fries ever and not getting him some? ...I’ll be doing morning pilates until 2090 and I already get my ass kicked enough by Fenris on a daily basis.”

Kevin tossed him a pack of Uno cards, "Then we play. And if I win, I get to rat you out.”

Miles snorted, "You just got healthy. You wanna end up in traction again?”

They dealt the cards, the ease between them returning instantly. No cameras. No spotlight. Just greasy fingers, bad trash talk, and the shuffle of cards between rounds.

A few hands in, Kevin looked up, face more serious, "Just to let you know, they gave me a release date.”

Miles glanced over the top of his cards, "Yeah?”

“Mid-September. That’s practically next month.”

The words lingered. Neither of them played a card.

“That’s good news, Kev. It means you’re healing.”

“Yeah. But then what?”

Miles lowered his cards, resting his arms on his thighs looking at the kid that he had saved, who was thin, pale and knocking on death’s doorstep just a few weeks ago, turning back into a strong willed kid with meat on his bones again, "What do you mean, mate?”

Kevin picked at a corner of the table, "My dad...he’s still him. Same mess. Same bullshit excuses. The guy couldn’t show up for a Zoom visit without being drunk out of his mind. And my mom’s...you know, in prison.”

“I know.” Miles sat back, he had yet to even tell Kevin how well that meeting went with his dad but it was like the kid already had a clue and more than likely it was his drunk old man that had even said something.

Kevin didn’t look up when he said it, "They’re not gonna just let me out without a place to go, but they’re talking about group homes or temporary foster placements or whatever. It’s not exactly ‘happily ever after.’”

Miles took a breath. Deep. Thoughtful. Then he laid his cards down face-up, "Draw four.”

“Dude!”

“Also,” Miles said calmly, grabbing a fry, “You’re not going back out into the wild alone. I don’t care what the state says.”

Kevin looked up at him, brows tight, "Are you serious?”

Miles nodded, "Dead serious, mate. Carter and I have already been talking about it in a way. Whether that means staying with us for a while, or us getting the legal guardianship train moving again, we’re not leaving you behind.”

Kevin was silent for a moment, his hands frozen around his cards, "You’d do that?”

Miles nodded again, “Look mate, after the talk I had with your old man....I knew damn well I needed to do something and we’re already working on it.”

“Even after everything?”

“You got sick, Kevin. You didn’t get bad. Don’t confuse the two.”

Kevin’s throat bobbed, "You really think I could do something after this? Like actually get somewhere?”

Miles looked him straight in the eye, "Yeah. I do. You’re tough, and you’re smart. And more than that? You give a damn. That already puts you ahead of half the people I’ve met in this business.”

Kevin smiled, small but real, "So… what, you think I could be a wrestler someday?”

Miles leaned back, crossed his arms, and smirked, "Well, you already eat like one. Might as well learn how to throw a punch like one too.”

Kevin laughed, "Okay, but if I ever pin you in a match, I’m making a T-shirt that says ‘I beat Miles Kasey and all I got was this stupid shirt.’”

“Rude,” Miles said, flicking a fry at him, "But marketable.”

They went back to playing, but the air was different now, lighter, with a thread of hope sewn into it. The future wasn’t so murky anymore. It wasn’t just a calendar counting down days until an uncertain release.

It was real and they were going to face it together.

Even if Carter was definitely going to find out about the fries.


“The Nose Knows”
Turnberry Towers, Las Vegas
Evening

The sound of the door unlocking echoed into the sleek, open-layout condo just as golden sunset bled in through the windows. Turnberry Towers gave them that perfect view of the Strip, all lights and promises, but inside, it was peaceful.

Miles stepped in quietly, keys jangling in one hand and a mostly-empty paper bag clutched in the other. He was in his usual post-hospital-visit mode: hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair a little messy, a warm glow on his face that only came from time spent with Kevin. He closed the door with his foot and turned around just in time to see Carter appear from the kitchen.

Silk pajama pants. Oversized tee that was definitely Miles’ at one point. Barefoot. Domestic as hell.

“Hey,” Carter said, walking over with that small, sleepy smile that made Miles feel like he’d actually come home instead of just entering a condo, "How’s our favorite teenager?”

“He’s looking good. A lot better achtually,” Miles replied, leaning in for a quick kiss, "He’s got color again. Got jokes again. He’s eating well…”

He trailed off.

Carter’s eyes narrowed. He hadn’t let go yet — his hands still loosely looped behind Miles’ neck.

“...Well?”

Miles cleared his throat and smiled, but it was too innocent. Way too innocent.

“We might have split some fries.”

The moment he said it, Carter’s expression went full shift: from soft domestic glow to dramatic betrayal, "You smell like grease and sodium.”

Miles took a step back, already laughing and pointing at his husband, "Don’t you dare start sniffing me like some kind of bloodhound.”

“You think I wouldn’t? You think I don’t know the scent of betrayal?”

“C’mon love, he’s been stuck eating plastic-wrapped pudding cups and mystery meat. I was being a good influence for him.”

Carter crossed his arms, "So naturally, you got yourself a personal order too.”

“Gotta build trust,” Miles said, lips twitching, "Can’t let him think I’m above the fry line.”

Carter blinked, "The fry line?”

Miles wiggled his brows, "It’s a delicate balance. You gotta stay relatable and well, I can’t not enjoy a nice fry now and again.”

Carter sighed dramatically, turning away toward the kitchen, "You are so lucky I made dinner.”

Miles perked up, "Wait, you cooked and the fire department didn’t show?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I was hungry.” Carter glanced back with a smirk, "But since you had the gall to cheat on me with fast food, I’m keeping the good leftovers for myself.”

“My darling love, as much as I love spaghetti as the next man, I wouldn’t exactly call your cooking healthy.”

“I also made garlic bread.”

Miles followed him, wrapping his arms around Carter’s waist from behind and resting his chin on his shoulder, "You are the best part of coming home, you know that?”

Carter leaned his head back against him with a soft noise, Miles loved to lay that accent on thick when he was up to no good and knew exactly the effect it had on him, "Uh-huh. Don’t think you’re getting out of salad duty tomorrow.”

Miles kissed the side of his neck, "Fine. But I’m sneaking croutons when you’re not looking.”

Carter just hummed, "One crouton. Per hour. That’s the deal.”

“Fine, this diet is gonna kill me, you know that?”

“Hey, it’s either this or I let K the vegetarian have at you...and we’ve seen that man’s diet.”

They stood there for a beat, swaying slightly in the glow of the Strip lights blinking through the windows. Peaceful. Warm. The kind of evening they never used to get, the kind they now tried to hold onto whenever they could.

Miles was first to break the silence, “Six or so weeks by the way, he was told mid-September.”

Finally, Carter asked, more gently, “You think he’s ready?”

Miles nodded against his shoulder, "I think he’s scared. But I also think he’s got a fight in him that is down right recognizable in myself. Maybe it’s why this is getting to me. I just...I don’t want him going back into that system, y’know?”

Carter turned in his arms, facing him fully, "We will figured something out for him, I swear. Even if it’s here.”

Miles smiled, "I mean we do have that room that has been empty for what...2.5 years now. And, I may have already put a call in to a lawyer to ask a few questions, legality speaking of course. I’ll be damned if he goes back to that family after what I saw.”

Carter gave him a look that said everything, pride, love, and a little of course you did.

He kissed him again, "You’re a good man, Miles Kasey, no matter what anyone thinks.”

Miles grinned, "I know. Even with fry breath.”

Carter groaned, "Okay, go brush your teeth before we even think about cuddling on that couch.”

Miles backed away with a wink, "Yes, Chef.”

“Also?” Carter added, loud enough as Miles disappeared into the bathroom.

“Yeah?” Miles said, poking his head out as Carter crossed his arms.

“That was a full order of fries, wasn’t it?”

The sheepist of smiles slides on Miles face, “...I will neither confirm nor deny.”

“You’re going to be IMPOSSIBLE on this tour, aren’t you? Miles? Miles!”


“You’re The Example I’ve Been Waiting For”
Ibiza, Spain

The view from the balcony was downright picturesque from almost a postcard, the sunlight bouncing off the sea, thumping music from a nearby beach club echoing off the cobbled streets of Ibiza because the party apparently never stopped. But none of that mattered to Miles Kasey right now. Maybe later but for now....

He stood barefoot, leaning on the railing in gym shorts and a tank top, the scene was perfectly capturing the fire behind those usually playful blue eyes. There was no cheeky smirk today. No flirty wink. Just a clenched jaw and the kind of intensity that didn’t simmer, it scorched.

He ran a hand through his ocean-blown hair, letting the silence speak for a moment before turning to the camera.

"You ever get the feeling that you're floating between moments? Like... something just ended, but whatever's next hasn’t quite started yet?"

He chuckles dryly, running his hand through his windswept hair.

"Yeah. That’s where I’m at right now. Last one tossed in the Overboard Battle Royal... Summer Xxxtreme in the rearview… and now we’re here in Ibiza. New tour. New city. New match. And it should feel like a reset, right?"

A long pause. His jaw tightens.

"But instead, it feels like a reckoning."

“Logan. Bloody. Hunter. You’ve been clawing at attention like a starving mutt, and for what? You think dragging Carter's name through the mud is your shortcut to relevance? You think rehashing your GO Gym days gives you legacy? You act like Carter owes you something, like you were left behind while the world moved on without you. And maybe it did. But that’s not his fault. That’s yours."

He steps toward the camera, a hint of fire igniting behind his ocean-blue eyes.

"You see, I’ve watched you do this. To others. To my brother. Now to my husband. You can’t build anything of your own so you tear down people who’ve made it. But you made one critical mistake, mate… you made it personal with me. You talked about Carter like he’s just a stepping stone, like his success somehow diminishes yours. And that’s where you crossed the line."

Miles pauses, lips pressed tight. You can see the battle behind his eyes—righteous fury held at bay by sheer willpower.

"You thought you were punching up, Logan. But you’re about to learn the difference between ‘punching up’... and being put down."

His voice lowers, dead serious.

"I didn’t come to Ibiza to wrestle you. I came to hurt you. To make you feel every word you’ve said. To show you what happens when you mouth off about people who’ve fought, bled, and earned what you never could. This isn’t about who went to what school or who trained with who. This is about respect. And you’ve shown none."

He leans into the camera slightly, his tone shifting. Still angry—but now, there’s something else. Something quieter.

"And maybe I’m fighting this hard because I don’t know what’s next. Maybe part of me is scared that if I don’t make this count—if I don’t shut your mouth now—I’ll keep floating like I have been since I got back. One second I’m managing LJ. The next I’m in title talks. Then I’m fighting for family. Then I’m… here. On a balcony. Wondering if any of it’s really going somewhere, or if I’m just holding on to something that already passed me by."

Miles looks away for a moment. The wind picks up, tugging at his shirt. When he looks back, there’s no more uncertainty in his face. Just resolution.

"But whatever’s coming—whatever I’m headed toward—I know one thing with absolute clarity: you don’t belong in that future. You’re a relic, Logan. You’re stuck in the past, clinging to Carter because he made it out and you didn’t. You’re bitter. You’re loud. But you’re not built to last."

He lifts the half-empty box of fries, grabs one, and takes a bite. Chews. Swallows. Then grins, just a flash of the old Miles, but this one’s got bite.

"Also, Carter’s definitely gonna smell this and give me hell. But I figure I’ll be in more trouble for what I do to you in that ring."”

Miles tosses the rest of the box into the trash behind him and leans into the camera for the final words.

“You’ve run your mouth from the second your entire career kicked off. First was your bullshit with my lil bro and now you’ve gone and started digging up your days at the GO Gym, dragging Carter’s name into every promo, every cheap shot, every whisper of your damn shadow. Like that makes you somebody. Like that makes you relevant. What’s amazing about it is you aren’t even on Carter’s level, let alone mine.”

Miles paced, energy rising with every step.

“But here’s the part where your fantasy ends and reality comes crashing through like a goddamn freight train, because you forgot one very important detail, Logan. Carter isn’t alone. He’s got someone in his corner. Me. I have sat aside as promised and had to dig my heels in every time I’ve had to hear someone attempt to one up my husband, but it JUST so happens that we both have the time.”

He jabbed a finger at his chest, that anger boiling just beneath the surface.

“You don’t get to talk about him and you don’t get to pretend he didn’t surpass you in every way. You sure as hell don’t get to twist history to make yourself look like the victim when everything that has happened to you has been of your own doing.”

Miles’ voice trembled, not with fear, but with rage barely contained.

“You just cannot stand watching Carter become something you know you  never could. And now? After you got a taste of championship gold, the Roulette Championship that you got embarrassed out of...You’re trying to claw your way into the spotlight by attaching yourself to the man you could never beat, in the ring or in life.”

A pause. A deep breath.

“Well, congratulations. You finally got the attention you’ve been begging for. But it’s not Carter who’s stepping through those ropes. It’s me. You know one of the many joys I had during Summer Xxxtreme was being apart of tossing you and Grandma Brooke overboard. I enjoyed as I heard you scream for your mommy and splash to that cold water below. And yeah I had a taste of that too and part of me is still bitter about it but now that I’m presented with a chance such as this, I’m feeling...I’m feeling spicy. And I come baring you tidings and horrible fortune because Logan....I’m not coming to wrestle. I’m coming to make sure that every single insult, every little jab, every disrespectful comment you’ve made comes back to haunt you.”

“You thought you were going to bully Carter from the sidelines? Nah, mate. Now you’ve got me to deal with.”

Miles leaned forward into the lens, voice cold and steady.

“This isn’t just about school pride. This isn’t about the GO Gym. GO has been kind in its invites to me since I moved to Las Vegas. Logan, this is about respect. Simple, plain respect. And it’s about what happens when you cross a line you can’t uncross.”

“I don’t care if you trained with Carter. I don’t care what history you think you had. I care about what you said. About how you said it. And about making damn sure you never say it again.”

He stood back, arms crossed over his chest, and the cold breeze of the coast tugged at the edge of his shirt.

“You’re not just facing the high-flying heartthrob this week, Logan. You’re facing a husband. A man fueled by something a hell of a lot stronger than ego, love. And that? That’s gonna hurt a lot more than whatever legacy you think you supposedly had left.”

Miles took one last breath, jaw tightening.

"You’ve had your say, Logan. Now it’s my turn. I’m gonna beat your ass in Ibiza and after that? Maybe I will figure out what comes next. But first, I bury you and your delusions. And I promise you, once I’m done, even you won’t be able to rewrite history anymore."

“Get ready, Logan. You’re not walking out of Ibiza the same way you walked in. I’m gonna drag your sorry arse all over that ring and when I toss your broken pride out to sea just like we did at Summer Xxxtreme, just remember one thing…”

“You brought this on yourself.”

He turned and walked back into the room, the door shutting behind him with a hard click as the screen faded to black.

Las Vegas – Centennial Medical Center

The smell of antiseptic hit Miles Kasey the moment he stepped off the elevator. That sterile, metallic tang that clung to the walls and the floors and the inside of his throat. He adjusted the straps of the baseball cap pulled low over his brow and gave a polite nod to the nurse at the station, who waved him toward Room 312.

It’s been two weeks. Two weeks since he pulled Kevin out of hell and into this place of humming fluorescent lights and soft-voiced nurses. Two weeks of tests, clean-up and therapy and a massive amount of cautious recovery.

And one week since Kevin had refused to see him.

Miles hesitated outside the door, hand hovering over the handle. He exhaled sharply, steeling himself, then pushed inside. Kevin sat on the edge of the bed, a tray table in front of him with a half-eaten bowl of soup and some crackers. His hair was freshly washed, falling in lank brown strands around his face. The shadows under his eyes were still there, but he looked… lighter, somehow.

Kevin glanced up—and for a moment, he looked like he might tense up again. But then his expression shifted, and he let out a breath, “Hey, Miles.”

“Hey, kid.” Miles kept his voice gentle, eyes scanning Kevin’s face for any sign of distress. He approached the bed, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, "You’re looking a bit better. Is the soup any good?”

Kevin shrugged, poking at the crackers, "A lot better than the stuff they tried to give me the first week. Some weird ass shakes because they weren’t sure if I was being fully truthful about the last time I really ate. That shit tasted like wet cardboard in can form. Actually threw one of them at someone.”

Miles cracked a small grin, "I’ll have to sneak you in something better next time. Maybe some In-N-Out, make sure you tell me your favs before I leave.”

A flicker of a smile crossed Kevin’s face, but then his eyes dropped. He picked at a loose thread on his blanket, “Look about last week...” Kevin’s voice was low, almost swallowed up by the steady beep of the machines, "I’m sorry I told you and your brother...what was his name again? LJ! That’s it. I’m sorry I told LJ to fuck off. I was having a really bad day, not even sure what or who I was that day.”

Miles leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, "Kev, you don’t gotta apologize for that, not to me. And not to LJ. We both know that you’ve been through enough to earn a few bad days.”

“Still Miles, just do me a fav,” Kevin swallowed, his voice tight, "Tell him I’m sorry, yeah? LJ, I mean.”

“I will.” Miles nodded firmly, "He gets it. We both do, trust me.”

Kevin fell silent for a while, tracing patterns on the sheet with his fingertip. Miles waited, patient, not pushing. Finally, Kevin let out a shaky sigh, “So, now that I seem to be under a bit of control, let me guess why you are here. You wanna know why I couldn’t stay with my dad..when I went back to LA.” It wasn’t a question.

Miles didn’t move, "Only if you’re ready, mate.”

Kevin stared down at the blanket, words tumbling out soft and uneven, "He...he didn’t hit me or anything. He didn’t have to. I think....I think I’d almost prefer it if he did. Then at least I’d know what to expect. But he’d look at me like...like I was a stain. Like I’d fucked everything up just by existing. Like he wanted me gone but didn’t have the balls to say it. I got back from my first time leaving, and he’d come home and...I don’t know, he’d just pretend that I wasn’t there. Or he’d scream at me for leaving, that’d usually come after he came home from drinking. He would call me a liar, a thief, a disappointment. It got really bad when my little brother said it was my fault mom is in prison. He wouldn’t say it but dad never denied it when he said it, he looked at me like it was my fault he lost everything. After a while, I started to believe him.”

His voice cracked on that last sentence, eyes blinking furiously to keep tears at bay. Miles felt something splinter in his chest.

“Kevin, none of what happened to your mom, that’s not on you.” Miles’s voice was rough, "Not one fuckin’ bit of it. You hear me?”

Kevin gave a tiny nod but didn’t look up, "Well, it didn’t help any that what really set the whole thing off was my little brother was really on me one day. Screaming at me, just because he needed someone to scream at. Then he started going off about how he heard things about what I did when I took off the first time. He used the same word that mom used when she was screeching about you and Carter. Next thing I know, I punched him, right in the nose. Blood gushed everywhere, dad had to drive him to the hospital, CPS got called because dad still smelled like alcohol and when they pointed the finger at me...well they saw me as a threat to both of my brother and sister. After that, I went back home, grabbed what I could and just took off.”

He glanced over to Miles who sat there, soaking every piece of it in, “I fell right into it. They wanted to get rid of me because I was close with you and they just wanted someone to blame...and I let them. I’m just apparently meant to ruin everyone’s life.”

Miles reached across the tray and gently nudged Kevin’s hand.

“Listen to me, kid. I don’t give a shit what your da said. You didn’t ruin anyone’s life and you deserve better than all of this. And I know you think I can’t do anything, but I’m gonna try anyway. I’m stubborn like that.”

Kevin finally lifted his gaze, eyes bloodshot but fierce, "Even if there’s nothing left to fix?”

Miles stared at him dead-on, unwavering, "Then I’ll find you something new. A new start. A new home. A new chance. Whatever it takes.”

Kevin huffed a shaky breath that might’ve been a laugh, "You sound like a bloody superhero.”

Miles smirked, "Nah, superheroes wear tights. I’ve just got a big mouth and a hard head.”

Kevin wiped at his eyes, looking away toward the window, "I dunno, man. Part of me thinks it’d be easier to just disappear and not have to deal with any of it.”

Miles sat back, folding his arms, "Yeah, well. I’m not gonna let you disappear again, because you deserve a life, Kev. And I’m gonna help you find it, whether you like it or not. I did want to let you know though, that on Sunday we’re going to be gone for about a week or so on the Summer Xxxtreme cruise, but I will make sure that the nurses and doctors have mine and Carter’s numbers, if at anytime you just wanna call and bullshit, as long as we’re not working, we’ll be there. A’ight?”

Kevin went quiet again, the weight of everything still pressing down but somehow a little lighter, “A’ight...mate”

Miles laughed and then glanced at the soup, "Eat some more, yeah? You’re still lookin’ like a stiff breeze could knock you over.”

Kevin rolled his eyes but picked up his spoon, "Alright, alright. Just no more cardboard protein drinks.”

Miles let out a soft laugh, the sound echoing in the sterile room, and sat there while Kevin ate, determined to keep being the stubborn bastard who refused to let him go.

“By the way Miles?” Kevin said between sips.

“Yeah, mate?”

“Don’t you wear tights when you wrestle?”


Los Angeles – Late Afternoon

Hank Chapman’s house sat on a narrow street in East LA, just another sunbaked single-story with peeling paint and a lawn littered with plastic toys. Miles Kasey stood on the cracked walkway, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides as he stared at the door.

He’d driven all night from Vegas, replaying every word Kevin had told him. The way the kid’s voice had gone small and tight. The way he kept saying it’s my fault. Miles wasn’t the kind of man who let things lie. And he sure as hell wasn’t letting this one go.

He rapped his knuckles against the door—hard. A moment later it cracked open, revealing Hank Chapman. Hank looked older than his forty-some years, sun-worn and hollow-eyed, wearing a grease-stained mechanic’s shirt unbuttoned over a white tee. His expression flickered from confusion to annoyance the second he saw Miles.“…Can I help you?”

Miles offered him a grin that didn’t reach his eyes, "Yeah, Hank. Remember me? Miles Kasey. The husband of the man your now ex-wife tried to have killed? OH and the newest thing, I’m the one who pulled your 16-year-old son outta the gutter in Vegas.”

Hank’s face tightened, "I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

Miles barked out a dry laugh, "Oh, don’t fuckin’ play dumb with me, mate. Kevin. Your son. Sixteen years old. Brown hair, brown eyes, weighs about as much as a wet towel because he’s been starved and trafficked for half a year.”

Hank swallowed, "I said I don’t know...”

“Cut the shit, Hank!” Miles snapped, voice sharp enough to slice skin, "Your kid nearly died. He’s been in the hospital for two fuckin’ weeks and will probably be there for another four, trying to remember what it’s like not to sleep with one eye open. And where the fuck were you, huh? Watching TV? Getting laid? Working on your piece-of-shit car? Because let me tell you something, I was the one holding a bucket while your boy threw up half his organs. I was the one sitting with him at three in the morning because he couldn’t close his eyes without screaming. So don’t stand there and act like you don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about.”

A woman’s voice floated in from the hallway behind Hank, "Baby, who is it?”

Miles leaned sideways, peering past Hank. A tall, slender woman with bleached blonde hair and a smirk plastered across her lips came into view. She wore cut-off shorts and a tank top that left absolutely nothing to the imagination and a swirling tattoo exposed on her shoulder.

“Oh,” she said, looking Miles up and down, "So you’re the guy sticking his nose where it doesn't belong. Got sick and tired of blowing up his phone huh?”

Miles tilted his head, eyes narrowing, "And you must be the new Missus. Or is it just a hobby for you, wreckin’ families for sport?”

“Fuck you, asshole,” she snapped.

Miles ignored her entirely and pinned Hank with a glare, "Kevin’s sixteen, Hank. He’s still a kid. A kid who ran away twice because he’d rather sleep under neon lights in Fremont than spend five minutes in this house.”

Hank opened his mouth, shut it again. His shoulders hunched a little, "You don’t know how hard it’s been.”

“Save it,” Miles growled, stepping forward until they were chest to chest, "I know exactly how hard it’s been. And you know what? I don’t give a shit how hard it was for you. Your boy came back here. He tried to stay and what’d you do? You shoved him right back out the door. And why? Because Blondie over there couldn’t handle him bein’ around?”

Blondie scoffed, "He broke his little brother’s nose after the kid called him a...”

“I know EXACTLY what name he was called, you do not need to repeat it.” Miles snarled in her direction.

That caused yet another scoff “That kid’s a fuckin’ mess. Bringing all kinds of trouble. He’s better off...”

“He’s better off without you.” Miles rounded on her, eyes blazing, "He’s better off without a house where he gets treated like fuckin’ cancer. And don’t you ever talk about him like that again.”

Blondie bristled, but Hank held up a hand, "Look...man, Karen, Kevin’s mom, she fucked everything up for what she did to your husband. She went to prison, destroyed our family, left me with three kids and no money. I’ve been working double shifts, tryin’ to keep food on the table. Kevin, he wasn’t the same when he came back. Always angry. Always quiet. And...and he looked at me like I was the enemy.”

Miles’ voice dropped dangerously soft, "Because you are, Hank. You left him out there to die.”

Hank’s jaw tightened, "I can’t help him.”

Miles stared at him, a muscle ticking in his cheek, "No. You won’t. So let me make this simple for you, yeah? You don’t have to worry about Kevin anymore. I’m gonna make sure that boy’s got a roof over his head, food in his belly, and people around him who don’t treat him like garbage. He’s my responsibility now. And one day, you’re gonna have to look him in the eye and explain why you couldn’t be bothered to give a fuck.”

Blondie rolled her eyes, "You think you’re some big hero...”

Miles pointed a finger at her, pure steel in his voice, "Shut. The fuck. Up. I’m fairly certain I can go down the block into the corner mart and run into at least 10 guys you’ve fucked.”

He looked back at Hank, all pretense of calm gone, "Enjoy your shiny new life, mate. Kevin’s not your problem anymore. Considering you went from living in a condo to living the slums, I say that I’m probably doing you a big favour anyways. Get yourself straighten up, get your shit together, do whatever you want. But let me tell you one last thing, if you ever try to come sniffin’ around him, for a handout or some fake reconciliation so you can look good? You will find out exactly why I let the police handle that bitch of an ex-wife of yours, because I will bury you so deep the world’ll still be diggin’ you up in ten years.”

He shoved past Hank, storming down the cracked walkway to his Jeep.

Behind him, Hank just stood there on the porch, silent and small, while the new girlfriend sputtered curses into the dusty LA breeze.

Miles didn’t look back because Miles didn’t give a fuck.


Las Vegas – Turnberry Towers – Late Night

The city glowed outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, streaks of the neon electric blue and pink washing across the living room walls. Inside, the condo was quiet except for the distant hum of the refrigerator and the occasional honk from traffic far below.

Miles stood at the kitchen island, gripping the edge so hard his knuckles were white. A half-empty glass of water sat ignored beside him. His hair was damp from a shower, the dark curls that Carter loves so much, hanging in his eyes. He stared down at the countertop, chest rising and falling in short, frustrated breaths.

Carter entered the room in sweatpants and a loose tank, fresh from the bedroom. He paused in the doorway, reading the tension in every line of Miles’ body.

“Alright, Milo talk to me,” Carter said softly, "You’ve been pacing the floors like a tiger all night.”

Miles swallowed hard, jaw working. For a few seconds, he didn’t say anything. Then, he sucked in a sharp breath and let it all pour out, "You haven’t called me that in, I don’t know how long. I’m sorry love, I- I feel like my brain’s runnin’ at fuckin’ Mach Jesus,” he burst out, "Everything’s just spinning.”

He lifted his hands, fingers splayed, like he might tear his hair out.

“I keep thinkin’ about Kevin, about the look on his face when he said he couldn’t go back to his dad’s. I keep hearin’ how small his voice sounded when he apologized to me. He’s sixteen, Carter. Sixteen. And he’s already talkin’ like the world’s too heavy for him.”

Carter stepped closer but stayed silent, letting him vent.

Miles dropped his gaze to the countertop. His voice wavered, “And it’s messin’ with me, babe. Because I keep thinkin’...fuck...” Miles' breath actually stuttered as he processed it all, “That was me, wasn’t it? Me and Bri and Mum when my old man just up and left. We were just kids and suddenly there was this giant hole in the world and we had to pretend we were fine, except we really weren’t. Kevin’s sittin’ there, starin’ at me with those eyes, and all I see is my own past starin’ back.”

Carter reached out, fingers brushing Miles’ forearm. Miles leaned into it, like a man drowning.

“And now...now I’ve got the fuckin’ Overboard Battle Royal comin’ up,” Miles said, voice growing sharper, “And all I keep thinkin’ is what if I win? What if this actually leads me to a shot at the World Heavyweight Championship? Because that’s the dream, right? That’s what we kill ourselves for.”

He let out a bitter laugh, "But what if it puts me right in your way?”

Carter’s brow furrowed, "Miles...”

“I know it’s wrestling. I know it’s business. But we both know how real that ring gets,” Miles said, his voice trembling, "And the idea of steppin’ into that ring and lookin’ across at you like that again. Fuck, love, it makes me sick. Because I’d want that title with every bit of me, but I’d never want to hurt you to get it. I’d never want to be the reason you lost somethin’ you fought so hard for. I did that once with Finn and I have lived to regret that every day since, ”

Carter sighed and pulled him closer, pressing his forehead to Miles’.

Miles kept going, voice raw, "And on top of it all, I’ve got this wild feeling that somethin’s about to go wrong. I can’t fuckin’ place it. But it’s like...there’s this storm comin’, and I can’t figure out where it’s gonna hit. And I’m just...so goddamn tired of feelin’ like I’m not enough to stop it.”

He blinked hard, fighting the sting behind his eyes, "I’m tired of feelin’ like I’m always fixin’ broken things, but never fixin’ myself.”

Carter held him tighter, "Miles...you’re not broken and you’re certainly not alone. You hear me? We’ll figure this out. Whatever comes, we’ll figure it out.”

Miles gave a shaky nod, burying his face briefly against Carter’s shoulder before straightening again, eyes red but fierce.

“Yeah,” he said, voice steadier, "We will. I just gotta get there first, don’t I?”

Carter cracked a grin through the worry, brushing Miles’ cheek with his thumb, "And I’d expect nothin’ less from my stubborn ass of a husband.”

Miles exhaled a rough laugh. He sagged a little against the counter, feeling like the weight on his shoulders had eased, just a fraction. And when Carter wrapped himself around him, he was able to release and wrap himself around Carter and just let time be.

-------

Las Vegas, NV — Miles Kasey’s Condo — Late Night

The condo was silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioner and the occasional Vegas sirens wailing somewhere far below. Miles stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, arms folded, staring out at the neon-soaked city like it might hand him answers. His reflection in the glass looked older somehow, shadows under his eyes, his jaw working as if chewing over a thousand thoughts at once.

On the coffee table behind him, the SCW Summer Xxxtreme promotional poster sat half-rolled, six names scrawled in black Sharpie around his own. He turned away from the window, jaw setting, and crossed the room.

He dropped down onto the sofa, elbows on his knees, and glanced at the list one more time. Then he spoke into the silence, voice low and tight:

“You know,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder as if every man in this match was standing there with him, “I’ve been in this business long enough to know that opportunity doesn’t always knock politely. Sometimes it kicks your door in and dares you to do something about it.”

He straightened, rolling his shoulders, his gaze flinty.

“And that’s what this is, this right here, this match at Summer XXXTreme. It’s opportunity in its most brutal form. The kind that doesn’t give a toss about what you’ve been carrying or what you’ve survived to get here. It’s simple: you show up, or you get run over.”

He braced his forearms on the rail, voice low but certain.

“Eddie Lyons.”

A humorless smile flickered across his face. “Unbreakable Eddie Lyons.

I’m gonna start with you, mate, because I know the fire you’ve got inside. You and me, we’ve circled each other long enough. I’ve seen you in that ring give everything until your body’s screaming to quit—but sometimes, that’s not enough. Because fire alone doesn’t get it done. Precision gets it done. Experience. And I’ve got that in spades, Eddie. I respect you, but I’m not letting you walk out with that win. Not when I’m this close to getting back everything I’ve lost.”

He shifted forward, rolling his shoulders like loosening a pair of wings, eyes dropping to the next name.

“Mate, you were one of the first people to welcome me into SCW. You’ve been chasing validation ever since you dropped the Roulette title, and you’ve been so close—so many times—to proving you’re more than potential. You’re hungry, and I respect that, but you and I both know respect doesn’t get you shit when that bell rings. It’s about who has the will to dig deeper when everyone else is gassed out. And I promise you, Eddie, nobody is ready to dig deeper than I am right now.”

He tipped his head back, exhaling a slow, tired laugh.

“Aiden Reynolds.”

Miles’ expression darkened, the respect there—but tempered by something sharper. “Aiden Reynolds.

My own bloody teammate. My brother in Wolfslair.

And I know you’re probably sitting somewhere in your room right now thinking about how we’re going to tear each other apart on that boat. It’s what we do, yeah? We fight, we claw, we push each other to be better. And that’s what I expect from you at Summer Xxxtreme, mate. I expect the absolute best Aiden Reynolds there is. Because I’m bringing the absolute best Miles Kasey there’s ever been.

And I’m not sorry for what’s gonna happen. Because when that bell rings? It’s every man for himself. And I want that number one contendership more than I want the next breath in my chest.”

“Brother, you and I have fought side by side. We’ve trained together, bled together. But when it comes to that ring, there’s no sanctuary. You’re Wolfslair through and through, but I need you to understand something: I can’t afford to play nice. I’ve spent too long holding back to spare people’s feelings. This isn’t personal, Aiden—it’s survival. And if it comes down to you and me? I will do whatever I have to do.”

He paused, running his tongue over his teeth like tasting something bitter, before shifting his focus to the next name.

“Liam Davis.

I’ll admit, I don’t know you as well as some of the others in this match. But I’ve watched the tapes. I’ve seen you coming out swinging, trying to carve your name into the walls of SCW. I respect that hustle, mate. But you need to understand something: there’s a big difference between wanting it and knowing how to take it. And I’m not in the mood to let someone still finding their footing stand in my way. Not now. Not when everything I’m fighting for is on the line.”

Miles sighed, rubbing a palm over his mouth. He looked tired. But when he dropped his hand, the ice was back in his eyes.

“Justin Smith.

You’ve been talking a big game lately. I hear it. The bravado, the swagger, the chip on your shoulder. But here’s the thing, mate… talk only takes you so far. You can run your mouth all day long about being overlooked, about being the future—until you’re face to face with someone who’s been the present for a hell of a lot longer than you’ve even been in this business. You’re going to find out firsthand that there’s levels to this game. And I’m on a level you’re nowhere near ready for.”

Miles exhaled hard, like blowing out steam from a valve. He planted a finger on the poster right next to another name.

“I’ve had a hell of a year. Carter and I finally getting married, getting close to that 1st anniversary. Finding LJ. Watching him struggle and fight for his place. Seeing the absolute worst of humanity in some cheap motel in Vegas, and realizing that no matter how much you try to save everyone, sometimes all you can do is fight for what you can control.”

“This match is something I can control. This is a chance to remind the world—remind myself—why I’m still here. Why I’m still relevant. Because for too long, people have looked at me like I’m the guy who’s just there. The safe bet. The friendly face. The one who shakes your hand win or lose.”

Miles’ stare went flat.

“Not anymore.”

“This match is the pedestal I’ve been clawing my way back to. Because you can talk about titles, about accolades, about legacies all you want—but it starts here. It starts with proving, once and for all, that no matter how many times I get knocked off course, I will always find my way back to the fight.”

“I’m tired of feeling like I’m standing on the outside looking in. Like the moments I’ve built for myself are slipping through my fingers.

Winning this match at Summer Xxxtreme? It doesn’t just put me in line for a title shot. It puts me right where I belong—on top of this division. In the conversation. And yeah… maybe staring across the ring at my own husband if it comes to that.

I’ve worked too hard, bled too much, and given too many years of my life to be left behind.

So to every single name on this list…

I hope you’re ready.

Because I’m coming for all of you.

And I’m not leaving that cruise without my name etched as the number one contender.”

He reached out and rolled the poster closed, tying it with an elastic band. Then he sat there in the hush of the condo, the neon glow spilling across his face, the weight of it all pressing on his shoulders—and the fire in his chest burning hotter than ever.

The corridor outside the SCW booking office was unusually silent for how electric the night had been. The only sound was the low hum of the massive digital match board mounted on the wall—names flickering across it like a neon prophecy.

Miles Kasey stood beneath it, arms crossed over his chest, a chill in his spine that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. The light from the board cast harsh, flickering reflections across his face, outlining the sharp tension in his jaw as his eyes scanned the match listings.

SCW Heavyweight Championship
Helluva Bottom Carter vs. Artie.

3-Round Boxing Match
Miles Kasey vs. LJ Kasey.

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared.

Next to him, Carter let out a breath somewhere between a groan and a laugh. The newly crowned Internet Champion tilted his head as he read his own name and scoffed under his breath.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Carter said. “Artie?”

His tone was incredulous, but Miles wasn’t listening. His eyes remained locked on his own name—specifically, what was sitting across from it.

LJ.

Of all the possible outcomes... this was the one thing Miles hoped wouldn’t happen. And of course, it had.

Footsteps sounded behind them—fast, uneven. LJ came into view, still in his gear from earlier, a towel slung around his neck and bruises forming beneath his skin. He looked exhausted, physically and emotionally drained. At his side, Alexandra Callaway walked silently, her hand ghosting across LJ’s lower back as if trying to anchor him.

LJ followed the others’ gaze to the screen. And then he saw it.

His name.

Miles’.

“Are you fucking serious?” LJ growled, stepping closer to the board as if reading it again would make it disappear. “This is what Guy pulled with King for a Day?”

Miles didn’t respond. He glanced to the side, past his brother, and looked directly at Ally. His expression was unreadable, but the frustration was thick enough to cut through concrete.

“This,” Miles said slowly, “is exactly what I was talking about.”

Then he turned and started to walk away.

“Nope,” LJ snapped, reaching out and grabbing his older brother by the arm. “No. You don’t get to drop some cryptic bullshit and walk away from me. What the hell did that mean?”

Miles turned back, shaking off the grip but not violently—just enough to create distance.

“It means this whole damn thing is working,” Miles said. His voice was calm, but underneath it ran something dangerous and sharp. “Guy got exactly what he wanted. You think this match is random? It’s a setup. Chaos by design. Divide and conquer.”

LJ squared his shoulders. “Then why’d you look at Ally like it was her fault?”

Ally’s eyes widened slightly, and she tensed next to LJ. Before she could speak, Miles raised a hand.

“I wasn’t blaming her,” Miles said firmly, looking between them. “I was pointing out the pattern. This EXACT same pattern that she just pulled tonight. They’re putting targets on our backs, forcing us into corners. You think it’s a coincidence Carter’s defending his title against his friend, and I’m suddenly meant to beat the hell out of my brother in a damn boxing match?”

Carter shook his head. “I said it once and I’ll say it again—this is some straight-up soap opera bullshit.”

Ally stepped forward, voice gentle but firm. “This is what he wants—Guy. He’s stirring the pot. Trying to make the story him by tearing down what you’ve built. If you let it get between you…”

“Ally, I’m not mad at you. But this is what I was talking about earlier tonight,” Miles said, looking straight at LJ now. “But you need to be pissed, LJ. You need to understand what’s happening here. You, me, Carter—we’re getting fucking played.”

LJ stepped forward, chest rising with the kind of fire he hadn’t felt since before his injury.

“Well, then what? You want me to back out? Sit on the sidelines while they turn me into a joke?”

Miles tilted his head. “No. I want you to walk into that match like a professional. Like my brother. Not like someone with something to prove.”

The silence stretched long and thin.

“I’m not scared of you,” LJ said at last.

“I didn’t say you should be,” Miles replied. “But you should be angry. Just not at me.”

LJ clenched his jaw, staring at his brother hard. “Fine. We do this. Three rounds. No bullshit.”

Miles gave a small nod, the tension easing from his shoulders but not disappearing. “Right. No bullshit.”

They stood there, brothers caught between pride and principle, the looming match pressing down on both of them like a weight. There was no love lost between them—just the burden of respect, of legacy, of everything they’d fought to build now twisted into a spectacle.

And somewhere, Guy—King for a Day—was probably laughing.

Carter huffed, dragging his palm down his face. “And I thought I had a bad night.”

As the board flickered again and the hallway dimmed slightly, none of them moved.

Because this time... the fight wasn’t about gold.

It was about blood.

----

"The Present Problem"

The door creaked open with a quiet groan, the kind that only old hinges and desert heat could conjure. The air inside the house was somehow thicker than the sun-blasted sidewalk outside. Miles stepped in, a sheen of sweat clinging to the back of his neck, his gym bag slung lazily over one shoulder. He wiped his brow with the bottom hem of his shirt, squinting into the dim hallway.

"Why does it feel like Satan’s armpit in here?"

No answer.

He kicked the door shut with his foot and dropped his bag at the base of the stairs. The only sound was the distant hum of a fan whirring somewhere in the living room. That and—wait.

Thud.

Scrape.

A muffled curse.

Miles’s brows drew together. He turned the corner and froze halfway into the kitchen.

Carter was on all fours, halfway under the couch, ass in the air and glittered sneakers kicked off beside him. The couch cushions were scattered across the room like confetti at a rave. A trail of what looked like gift wrap remnants, scotch tape, and a pair of scissors led from the coffee table to the hallway closet—which now stood wide open and very empty.

Miles leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “Should I even ask?”

Carter jerked his head up and smacked it against the underside of the couch.

"Ow!—shit, damn it—"

Miles raised a brow. “Was that the couch fighting back or your conscience?”

Carter wiggled backward out from under the couch, cheeks slightly flushed from both effort and embarrassment. He brushed dust bunnies off his t-shirt—the one that said ‘This Body Ain’t Built for Manual Labor’ in glitter letters.

He grinned sheepishly. “Hey, babe.”

Miles didn’t return the smile. He was too busy trying not to laugh.

“You wanna tell me why it looks like a raccoon had a meltdown in here?”

Carter sat cross-legged on the floor like a kid caught raiding the cookie jar.

“I’m looking for something.”

Miles feigned surprise. “Noooo, really?”

Carter pouted. “It’s hot, I’m bored, and someone has been being very sneaky lately.”

Miles walked over, nudging a couch cushion aside with his foot before collapsing onto the armrest. He eyed Carter with an amused smirk.

“Let me guess... you're looking for your birthday present.”

Carter lit up like he'd just been told he won Miss Congeniality. “Yes! Thank you! See, you admit it exists! You’ve been hiding something! I knew it!”

Miles groaned, tilting his head back. “It’s not even the 13th yet, you absolute goblin.”

Carter dramatically clutched his chest. “I’m a Gemini, Miles. I literally don’t have the patience to wait. My other half is already plotting to stage a heist.”

Miles raised an eyebrow. “Your other half better chill before both halves get grounded.”

Carter smirked. “You’re just mad that I’m clever and pretty.”

Miles snorted. “Nah, I’m mad because you turned the living room into a crime scene. You thrive on chaos, more like.”

“Tomato, chaos.”

Miles dropped his head back down to look at him again. Carter’s curls were a little damp from sweat, his cheeks pink from crawling around like a lunatic in 105-degree heat.

“You know,” Miles said slowly, “if you’d just wait, you’d find out.”

Carter narrowed his eyes. “Where’s the fun in waiting?”

Miles chuckled. “That’s what you said on our wedding night.”

Carter gave him a look, then leaned forward on his knees.

“Come on, just give me one hint.”

“No.”

“Half a hint.”

“No.”

“A riddle? A poem? A vague haiku?”

Miles shook his head, amused and exasperated. “It’s hidden somewhere you definitely won’t find it. So stop tearing the house apart like a spoiled golden retriever.”

Carter huffed, flopping dramatically onto the floor like he’d just lost a title match.

“I’m dying of anticipation,” he moaned.

“You’re dying of being dramatic.”

“Same thing!”

Miles slid off the armrest and crouched beside him, brushing a strand of hair from Carter’s forehead.

“Look, I promise, it’s worth the wait,” he said softly. “And no, it’s not in the couch, the freezer, the coat closet, buried in the bottom of my underwear drawer because I KNOW that is the first place you’d look OR taped to the bottom of the coffee table.”

Carter narrowed his eyes. “So it is taped somewhere.”

Miles blinked. “I said no such thing.”

“You said it in your tone! That was a clue!”

“I swear on all things holy, if you dismantle this house trying to find it, I’ll wrap you in bubble wrap and lock you in the basement of the building where NO ONE would find you but me.”

“You love me too much for that.”

Miles paused. “...Okay, fair.”

Carter leaned up, brushing a kiss against his cheek. “Just remember. You’re dating someone who’s made of glitter and spite. I will find it.”

Miles rose to his feet with a sigh. “You better not, Carter. I actually like this house intact.”

He started walking off toward the bedroom, mumbling to himself.

Carter flopped back onto the floor, arms sprawled out.

“You’re lucky you’re hot and emotionally available,” he called after him.

“And you’re lucky I hide things better than you box,” Miles shot back.

Carter gasped. “Rude!”

The tone from the phone gave him a clue that the gift was ready.

Miles smirked.

-----

"Hands Like Lead, Heart Like Stone"

The gym was quiet after hours.

All the lights were off, save for a single overhead bulb swaying gently above the ring. It flickered now and then, casting shadows across the ropes like ghosts pacing back and forth. Miles Kasey stood just inside the ropes, taping his hands in silence, the sound of the adhesive stretching the only noise in the room.

Boxing gloves lay on the canvas beside him, mocking him.

He hated this.

Not the fight—never the fight.

But this fight.

A boxing match against his own damn brother. Set up by a lunatic with a god complex and a shiny briefcase. It wasn’t wrestling. It wasn’t competition.

It was manipulation.

It was a game. One he didn’t want to play.

Miles sat on the edge of the ring apron, looking down at his hands. The knuckles were already starting to redden, sore from hitting bags and pads all afternoon. He flexed his fingers, wincing as memories bled through the cracks.


Thirteen Years Ago — Manchester, England
Shamrock Boxing Club, 10:47 PM

It stank of sweat and stale cigarettes. The walls were old brick, chipped and cracked like the kids who trained inside them. You didn’t come here if you had other options. You came here if the world had tried to forget you.

And Miles Kasey? He was well on his way to being forgotten.

Fifteen, cocky, and fueled by anger he didn’t know how to name. He was tall and damn near as thin as a rail. 182, MAYBE soakin’ wet and a chip on his shoulder. He had scrapes on his knuckles and attitude in his voice. He’d just come from some back alley yarding match with a busted lip and a few extra quid in his sock.

“Oi!”

The voice cracked through the air like a whip.

Miles turned, eyes sharp and defensive. Across the gym, an older man—built like a truck, arms covered in ink—stood beside the heavy bag, wiping his hands with a towel.

Frankie O’Connell.

Owner of the gym. Ex-pro. Scariest bastard on the block.

“You got some brass ones walkin’ in here like that, kid,” Frankie said, nodding to the blood still fresh on Miles’ shirt. “What were you doin’, brawlin’ in car parks again?”

Miles shrugged and sniffed. “Made more than I would moppin’ floors.”

Frankie approached slowly, the thud of his boots echoing through the empty space. He stopped in front of Miles, who stood his ground—barely.

“You keep that shite up, you’ll end up dead or in the back of a van, and no one’ll remember your name. And your dear ol mum and beautiful sister will wonder what the hell happened to ye.”

Miles rolled his eyes.

Frankie grabbed his chin—not hard, but firm enough to demand attention—and forced him to look up.

“You listen to me, Kasey. You’re quick. You’re angry. And you’re a bloody idiot.”

Miles jerked away, jaw tight. “I’m doin’ fine.”

“You’re doin’ nothin’. You’re wastin’ whatever talent you’ve got scrappin’ with gutter rats for pocket change. Yer no better than yer old man.”

“What the hell ever, bruv. If this is all you called me ‘ere for..I’m just gonna go home.” Miles turned to leave.

“OI! MILO!” Then Frankie threw the gloves.

They hit Miles in the chest with a dull thump. He caught them on instinct.

“You show up here tomorrow, 6 AM. We box. I’m gonna show you that there are far better ideas than you tossin yerself around a broke down ring like a fuckin’ moron. Or you can keep pissin’ your life away out there. Your choice.”

Miles looked down at the gloves in his hands. They were old. Stiff. Smelled like hell.

He hated boxing.

But something about the weight of them... felt real.


Present Day — Las Vegas

Miles jolted slightly as his mind returned to the present. His jaw clenched as he wrapped the final piece of tape around his wrist and tore it off with his teeth. He tossed the roll aside, stood up, and stared at the gloves waiting for him.

He still hated boxing.

Not because it wasn’t wrestling. Not because it was hard.

But because it forced him to slow down.

Boxing wasn’t chaos. It wasn’t wild swings and tables and jumping off ropes.

Boxing was precision. Timing. Discipline.

And discipline was something he had to earn—not something that came naturally.

He walked to the center of the ring, bent down, and slid his hands into the gloves one at a time. He tightened the straps with practiced ease, stood tall, and faced the heavy bag that hung just beyond the ropes.

Three rounds with LJ.

It wasn’t fair.

But then again… nothing in this business ever was.

He threw a jab. Clean. Snapped back.

Another.

Left hook.

Right cross.

And then he heard Frankie’s voice again—clear as day, echoing through years of sweat and bruises.

“Boxing’s not about killin’ someone, lad. It’s about outlastin’ the worst of ‘em. It’s not who hits hardest. It’s who keeps their feet when the rest fall.”

Miles exhaled hard through his nose.

No, he didn’t want to fight LJ. Not now. Not like this.

But if Guy thought he could pit brother against brother, force a fracture in something built through years of pain and persistence—then he didn’t understand what kind of men the Kaseys were.

Frankie had taught him to survive.

The ring had taught him to fight smart.

And now?

Now he had to be smarter than ever.

The silence in the locker room was deafening, broken only by the soft thwip-thwip of tape wrapping around his wrist. Miles sat on the bench, shoulders hunched, the summer heat thick in the air around him. No music. No distractions. Just him, the walls… and the growing knot in his chest.

“What the hell is this even supposed to be?”

He pulled the tape tighter, let it bite into his skin.

“I spent most of my life not knowing he existed. No birthday cards. No family photos. No late-night chats. Just silence. And then suddenly—bam—little brother. Right there, walking into my life like he belonged… and maybe he does. Maybe he always did.”

His hands paused, fingers flexing, the tape dangling from his wrist.

“We didn’t grow up tossing the ball around. We didn’t fight over the TV or sneak out to matches together. We met as strangers. We bonded in chaos. And now someone’s decided that the next great chapter in our so-called brotherhood should be me punching him in the face in a goddamn boxing ring.”

He stood up abruptly, tossing the roll of tape to the bench, pacing in front of the lockers like a lion trapped in a cage.

“This is bullshit.

It’s not like last year with Carter. That match was tangled in emotion — love, pride, pain — but Carter and I? We'd built something. We were forced with no choice and you better believe that we had fun throwing that shit directly back in Victoria’s face. But LJ?

I don’t even know everything about him yet.”

Miles rubbed his jaw, eyes drifting toward the door. The hallway beyond held the sound of distant voices—preparations, people hyped for the spectacle. For the circus.

“And we’re the main event freak show, huh? Two Kasey brothers. Punch for punch. Blood for blood. Like it’s entertainment.”

He scoffed, shaking his head.

“I’m not going to hurt him. I don’t care how mad he is, or how much fire he’s walking in with. I’m not out here to break my brother’s spirit just because someone with a crown and a contract thinks this is ratings gold.”

He sighed, leaned back against the lockers, and stared at the ceiling like it might have answers he didn’t.

“But I’m also not throwing this.

Because here’s the part no one talks about—I'm not in the prime of my career anymore. I’ve had the titles. I’ve had the moments. And now? I don’t know what comes next. Every match could be the one where I start to fade. Every opportunity could be the last.

So yeah. I hate this. But I’m not going to lie down and let it pass me by just because fate’s got a fucked up sense of humour.”

He looked at his fists. Scarred. Taped. Ready.

“If we’re doing this… then I’ll do it my way. I’ll step into that ring and I’ll give him every ounce of respect he’s earned. Not as a stranger. Not just as some wide-eyed rookie. But as a brother — a Kasey — standing across from me, ready to prove something.

I won’t go easy on him. But I’ll never stop protecting him, either. Even if protecting him… means knocking him down and making sure he knows how to stand the hell back up.”

He drew a deep breath, centered himself, and gave one final thought as the camera might fade:

“I didn’t grow up with a brother. But I’ll be damned if I don’t teach him how one fights when it really counts.”

The camera caught up with him backstage, dim hallways echoing the distant sound of a crowd still roaring from the earlier show. The buzz of Amsterdam hung in the background like static, but in this moment, all that existed was the low hum of fluorescent lights above and the fire in Miles Kasey’s eyes.

He stood with his back to the camera, hoodie tugged over his head, hands clenching the railing that overlooked the loading dock. Slowly, he turned, hood falling back, revealing a jaw locked tight and blue eyes glowing with heat just beneath the surface.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Miles started, voice low and cold. “Was gonna keep it professional. Be the bigger man. But that’s not who you are, is it, Kevin? And of course, I feed you the opportunity to go face to face with me...only for you to not be bothered to actually show your face. You were just out there for the main event but can’t be fucked to give a shit about Into the Void. Now usually, I would take that as an insult.”

He laughed bitterly, rubbing a hand across his face.

“But I get it, bruv. You don’t do ‘respect.’ You don’t do ‘professional.’ What you do is run your bloody hotdog sucker like it’s your greatest weapon, when really, it’s just a reflection of how deeply insecure you are. You think hiding behind ego and a spotlight somehow makes you untouchable. That throwing dirt on people like Carter makes you look strong.”

He leaned in closer to the camera, eyes narrowing.

“Newsflash, asshole: it just makes you a bleeding coward.”

The venom in his voice was real now, uncoiling like a serpent set loose.

“I remember it. I remember as you stood over a man I love, you saying the things that you said and you doing the things that you did, and you acted like it made you some kind of a fucking king. You think that’s what a champion looks like? Nah. That’s what a scared little boy looks like, someone who knows deep down they don't have what it takes to hold onto something real without resorting to cheap shots and bullshit tactics. Because that is ALL you fucking are, Kev....you are a bullshit artist.”

He paced now, barely able to contain himself, fists clenched at his sides.

“And don’t think I forgot. You remember the last time we stood across from each other, Kevin? Because I do. Clear as fucking day. Just before you went to face Carter. You weren’t the champion then. Though you were hungry for that spotlight. Focused and practically salivating. And still— I beat you. Clean. No excuses. No distractions. I pinned you to the mat and took the win you thought was guaranteed.”

He stopped pacing, head tilting as a slow, dangerous smile crept onto his face.

“And ever since then? You’ve done everything in your power to pretend that loss didn’t happen. Like if you don’t acknowledge it, it never existed. Like it was some fresh corpse in your closet. But it did. And that moment… that was a sign of things to come. Honestly, if I was the kind of dick that most of Wolfslair claims I am, I could have easily skipped over the Clusterf*ck match and demanded a shot but I did it to prove a point.”

A pause. He looked dead into the lens now — calm, cold, resolute.

“You’ve had your moment in the sun, Kev. You’ve talked the talk, stomped your enemies, and walked around with that title like it made you some untouchable shitbag. But in Paris, at Into the Void… I’m taking the mic away. I’m taking the spotlight. And I’m taking BACK the SCW Internet Championship.”

His voice dropped to a growl.

“And when I do? When I tear it out of your hands and hold it over my head for the world to see? You’ll remember exactly who the fuck I am. And you’ll remember what it’s like to lose… again.”

Miles bends down and when he stands up with a paintbrush in his hand. “So from one bullshit artist to another, here, you can have this.”

He throws it at the camera.

“I don’t want it anymore.”

He stepped back into the shadows, letting silence fall over the scene like a closing curtain.

------

South London streets, late afternoon, inside a rented car

The rental smelled like cheap leather and overcompensated air freshener. Heathrow had been a mess — loud, overcrowded, the kind of place that seemed designed specifically to suck the joy out of international travel. Miles gripped the wheel with one hand and rubbed his temple with the other as they turned onto a narrower street.

“Every bloody time, love,” he muttered. “No matter how many times I come through, that airport makes me wanna set my own passport on fire.”

Carter chuckled beside him, arms crossed as he stared out the window. “They treat carry-ons like you’re smuggling gold bricks.”

“Right? And that customs guy looked at me like I personally insulted the Queen.”

“Well, you do say ‘God Save the Spice Girls’ on your entrance jackets.”

Miles smirked. “Oi, and don’t act like that wouldn’t be a banger of a remix.”

They fell into a lull as the car rolled past the stacked brick flats and newsagents, the dull buzz of London life filtering through the windows. It wasn’t home anymore — not really — but it tugged at something familiar. Something deep.

“You good?” Miles asked after a minute, his voice quieter.

Carter shrugged. “As good as someone can be when, as they are recovering from a concussion, they’re wrestling their husband’s former mentor and the universe keeps throwing gut punches.”

Miles didn’t press. He just nodded, drumming his fingers lightly on the wheel. The road narrowed again.

“You?”

Miles snorted. “I’m about two seconds from throwing a brick through Kevin Carter’s windshield.”

“Promotional or actual brick?”

“Both.”

That pulled a laugh from Carter, a low rumble that felt a little earned after the day they’d had.

“I dunno,” Miles said after a pause. “Feels different this time. Like I’ve been clawing my way through the last year, trying to get back to something I can actually stand tall in, and now it’s here. Title match. Paris. Spotlight.”

He let out a slow breath. “And I gotta share it with him.”

Carter was quiet again. Listening.

“You remember how he talked about you?” Miles said, glancing sideways. “Like you were a mistake. Like you didn’t earn what you built. And now I’ve got him across from me and all I keep thinking is — this prick still doesn’t get it. Still thinks the Internet title is some prop for his ego.”

“He’s gonna try to push your buttons.”

Miles grumbles, “He already has....and he’s barely said two fucking words towards or about me since I won that Clusterf*ck match.”

More silence. The road opened up again, traffic thinning as they turned onto a residential stretch. Miles rolled his shoulders, letting the tension fall off in layers.

“You do know that I’m not going into Paris to play the hero, right? I’m not walking into Paris with a chip on my shoulder,” Miles said, eyes still on the road, jaw tight. “I’m walking in with a bloody purpose.”

Carter glanced over, sensing the shift in tone.

“Kevin likes to pretend that the Internet division revolves around him. That every match is just another chance for him to remind the world how great he thinks he is. But this ain’t about stroking egos.”

Miles gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.

“I’m going in there to remind Kevin Carter that I’ve been forged by fire since the last time we faced off — and I beat him then. I’ve bled for every step forward since. I’m not the up-and-comer he brushed past on his way to the top. I’m the storm that’s coming straight for him.”

He paused, then added, softer, “I don’t wanna say that I’m not you. Because you are about to become the world champion. But I will be damned if I won’t whoop his ass worse than his daddy ever did. I won’t let him walk out with that title again.”

Carter didn’t answer at first. Then he glanced over, voice low.

“Good. Because I don’t want you to fight him for me, babe.”

Miles looked confused. “Then for what?”

Carter’s lips lifted in that half-smirk he always had when he meant something.

“For you.”

------

The living room was bathed in soft golden light, the last stretch of sun drifting in through the large front window. Riley sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor, a superhero cape tied too loosely around his neck, one sock half off and clinging to his toes. He held a plastic T-Rex in one hand and a crayon-gripped drawing in the other — something that vaguely resembled a wrestling ring and a very heroic-looking version of Uncle Miles with rocket boots.

Miles lay sprawled on the carpet beside him, one arm folded under his head, the other stretched out as he dramatically allowed the T-Rex to defeat him for the fifth time in a row.

Riley jumped to his feet with a triumphant squeal. “Uncle Miles, you DIED again!”

“Tragic, innit?” Miles groaned, face down. “Taken out by a dino and a four-year-old tag team. Guess I better retire now.”

Riley giggled and sat on his back like it was a throne. “I’m the new champion!”

“Ruthless. Just like your mum.”

“RAWR!” Riley roared, raising the T-Rex high in victory.

Miles let out a chuckle and turned just enough to look up at him. “You know, I could use you in my corner next week. You’d scare off half the locker room just by stomping in.”

Riley beamed, proud and unbothered by the weight of the world adults carried around.

Then, the phone buzzed against the floor nearby.

Miles sat up slowly, brushing off a few crayon shavings from his arm. He glanced at the screen.

Ben Jordan.

He hesitated for a beat.

“Gimme a mo, little champ,” he said softly, ruffling Riley’s curls as he stood. He crossed to the far end of the room near the kitchen and answered the call.

“Ben?”

“Miles, mate, I’m so glad I got ahold of you. I’ve got something. It’s not much, but... he was seen.”

Miles’ heart stopped, then stumbled forward like it had forgotten how to beat right.

“Where?”

“East LA. Three days ago. Same description you gave me — same hoodie. Jaime caught a glimpse of him near a food truck across from a clinic. Said he looked thin. Scared.”

Miles swallowed hard. The warmth from earlier was already draining from his chest.

“Did she talk to him?”

“No. By the time she turned around again, he was gone.”

Silence fell between them, thick and cold.

“I’m sorry, mate,” Ben added gently. “We’re closer, but I know that ain’t what you wanted to hear.”

Miles leaned against the wall, eyes shut, jaw locked tight.

“No... it’s... I appreciate you calling.”

“You alright?”

Miles looked over at Riley, now laying on his back, cape spread like wings, humming to himself.

“I will be. It’s nice to know he’s alive at least. I need to get the tour over with. Thanks for the ring, Ben. If you hear anything...”

“I’ll be in touch, mate.”

He ended the call quietly and set the phone down.

The ache crept back in. Not loud. Not sharp. Just there — like a stone in his chest that refused to move.

He sat back down beside Riley, who climbed into his lap without a word, settling in like he somehow knew.

Miles held him close, letting the silence do what it could. Just for a moment.

------

The lights were dim, the curtains drawn. The hum of the city outside couldn’t reach him here.

Miles paced the room like a caged animal, barefoot on the carpet, fists clenched tight at his sides. The bed behind him was untouched, the clock on the nightstand reading a time he didn’t bother to acknowledge.

He stopped in front of the mirror and stared at his own reflection — jaw set, eyes dark. His voice came low, bitter, sharp.

“You ever notice how Kevin Carter never shuts the fuck up about himself?” he said to no one. “Like he walks into a room and it’s a goddamn event. Like the sun only rises ‘cause he decided to get out of bed that day.”

He laughed bitterly, shaking his head.

“Guy’s been riding that same fake gold reputation for how long now? What is even more insane about this? There are people that keep buyin’ into it too, like he’s some unbeatable legend. No. He’s not a legend. He’s a leech.”

He turned from the mirror and paced again, running a hand through his hair.

“Every locker room he steps in, he poisons. With that smug little smirk. With that overhyped, over-polished, hollow-as-fuck swagger. He ain’t special. He’s a parasite with a God complex.”

He stopped and looked toward the door like he could see Kevin on the other side.

“You ain’t a champion, Kev. You’re a coward wrapped in designer clothes and Twitter soundbites. You hide behind that bullshit smile and your carefully crafted image like the scared little fraud you’ve always been. ‘Cause deep down, you know. You know if it was just you — no smoke, no mirrors, no backup, no mind games — you wouldn’t last five minutes in the ring with someone like me.”

His tone dropped lower, colder.

“You look at me like I’m some nice guy you can talk down to, like I’m just another stepping stone in your cute little path back to relevance. Nah. I’m the last motherfucker you should’ve poked, Carter.”

He leaned forward on the dresser, both hands gripping the edge.

“You think I forgot the disrespect? Every time you looked at me like I wasn’t worth your time. Every little backstage jab. Every subtle reminder that I was just ‘Miles Kasey — the little brother, the afterthought.’ You think I forgot all the bullshit?”

He stared at his reflection again.

“I’ve been quiet too long. I’ve let people like you talk their way to the top while guys like me bleed for this business. That ends now. You’re not better than me. You’re not smarter. You’re not stronger. You’re not more deserving.”

His voice cracked slightly — not from weakness, but from the raw fire behind the words.

“You’re just louder.”

He stood up straight, breathing steady but shallow now. The kind of breathing that comes right before impact.

“And I’m gonna shut you the fuck up.”