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Climax Control Roleplays / No seconds
« Last post by RyanKeys on January 19, 2026, 08:26:44 PM »No seconds
The gym always smells the same.
Doesn’t matter what city you’re in, doesn’t matter how fancy the equipment is, doesn’t matter if it’s some beautiful, state-of-the-art performance center or a half-abandoned warehouse with three working lights and one bathroom you don’t trust. Gyms all have that same mix of rubber, metal, old sweat, and broken promises. It’s like the air itself remembers every bad decision anyone ever made in pursuit of being better.
Ryan Keys is pretty sure this one remembers him specifically.
He’s sitting on the edge of the mat with his forearms resting on his knees, breathing slow, staring at the floor like it personally owes him money. His wrists are taped. His shoulders are taped. There’s a faint purple bloom of a bruise creeping out from under the edge of his sleeve near his ribs, and his neck feels like it’s been politely but firmly informed that it will not be cooperating today.
That’s new.
Well. New-ish.
A few weeks ago, he would’ve been bouncing right now. Music in his ears, leg shaking, energy spilling everywhere like he had too much caffeine and not enough supervision. A few weeks ago, he would’ve been thinking about timing, about angles, about how good something was going to look when he hit it just right.
Now he’s mostly thinking about breathing.
Which is… humbling.
He rolls his shoulders once, slowly, like he’s testing a door that might still be locked. They complain. He nods to himself.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “That tracks.”
Somewhere behind him, someone is resetting pads. Or maybe it’s just the echo of his own imagination. Hard to tell. Lately, every time he hears something heavy shift, some deeply stupid part of his brain goes, oh no, not again, like it’s bracing for impact from a weather event that has learned how to suplex.
He takes a long drink from his water bottle, stares at the label, and squints.
You know what’s funny?
Everyone always thinks training is loud.
Like… montage loud. Music blaring, people yelling, someone doing something inspirational in slow motion while sweat flies dramatically through the air and the camera cuts at just the right moment so nobody has to actually show the part where they’re lying on the floor reconsidering their life choices.
Most of it isn’t like that.
Most of it is quiet.
Most of it is just… breathing. And counting. And not counting anymore because counting starts to feel like a lie.
Most of it is discovering that your body has very strong opinions about what you are asking it to do, and it is prepared to file formal complaints.
Ryan tilts his head back and stares up at the ceiling.
He’s not going to name the man who owns this place like he’s about to walk out and start narrating the scene. He’s not going to pretend this is a movie. But he will say this:
When Miles and Carter told him who he should go see, the way they said it was… respectful. In that very specific way people get when they’re talking about someone who is extremely good at something and also extremely capable of making your day much, much worse.
Kristjan Baltasarsson.
“The White Wolf.”
Even the nickname feels like it comes with a warning label.
Ryan had Googled him, of course. Because he’s not an idiot. And also because he has a deeply unhealthy relationship with doing research at three in the morning when he’s supposed to be sleeping.
The pictures were… not comforting.
The stories were less comforting.
The general vibe was, this is not a man who believes in comfort.
Which, in hindsight, probably should’ve been the first clue.
He shifts on the mat, winces, and laughs under his breath.
“I used to love the word ‘again,’” he says quietly to nobody. “Really positive word. Very encouraging. Very… hopeful.”
He shakes his head.
“Turns out it’s a threat.”
The first week, he thought he was in great shape.
He has since been informed — indirectly, spiritually, and through violence — that he was in great shape for a man who enjoys oxygen.
There are different kinds of tired.
There’s I just wrestled a match tired.
There’s I stayed up too late tired.
There’s I danced for three hours and now my legs are decorative tired.
And then there’s this.
This is the kind of tired that lives in your bones. The kind that makes stairs feel like a personal attack. The kind that makes you drop something and just stare at it on the floor like, we’re both going to have to accept that this is where you live now.
He pushes himself up to his feet, walks a slow circle, shakes out his hands.
He doesn’t bounce anymore.
Not like he used to.
He still has energy. He still has that spark, that buzz under his skin that shows up the second he hears a crowd and knows it’s time to go. That part of him isn’t gone.
But it’s… quieter now.
More focused.
He’s learned what it feels like when there is no space.
He’s learned what it feels like when you don’t get to reset.
He’s learned what it feels like when someone’s entire philosophy seems to be, no, you can do this tired too.
He’s learned that there is a very specific kind of panic that shows up right around the time you realize you’re not being hurt… you’re being worked.
And that part is somehow worse.
Ryan reaches up and rubs the back of his neck, fingers finding a knot that absolutely did not exist a month ago.
“Sometimes I hear footsteps behind me now and I automatically check for underhooks,” he says, deadpan. “That feels… healthy.”
He takes another drink, then sits back down, this time stretching his legs out in front of him, hands braced behind him.
You know what else is funny?
People think change is loud too.
Like you wake up one morning and you’re a new person. Like there’s a speech. Or a big dramatic decision. Or you stare at yourself in a mirror and say something meaningful.
Most of the time, it’s not like that either.
Most of the time, it’s just… you’re sore in new places.
And you realize you don’t move the same way anymore.
And you realize you don’t want to move the same way anymore.
Ryan closes his eyes for a second.
He can still see it.
The lights.
The ring.
Colorado Springs.
Alex Jones standing there, looking like a man who already knows how the story ends.
He remembers the rhythm of that match. The way it felt like a chess game played at a sprint. The way every little mistake cost interest. The way Alex never rushed, never panicked, never gave him a single free second to breathe.
He remembers the Koji Clutch.
He remembers fighting for the rope like it was a lifeline and not a piece of cable.
He remembers the leg. The way Alex changed targets without announcing it. The way his knee started to feel like it belonged to someone else.
He remembers Neon Lights connecting.
He remembers thinking, this is it.
He remembers thinking, I’ve got him.
He remembers the kickout.
He remembers climbing.
He remembers the lights.
He remembers twisting.
He remembers the feeling of air.
He remembers missing.
And then…
He remembers the knee.
He remembers the sound. That ugly, hollow sound when bone meets face.
He remembers trying to stand.
He remembers not being able to.
He remembers the stomp.
Dragons Breath.
He remembers the mat rushing up.
He remembers nothing.
Ryan opens his eyes and exhales slowly.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That part still sucks.”
He’s not bitter about it.
That might be the weirdest part.
He doesn’t feel robbed. He doesn’t feel cheated. He doesn’t feel like the universe owes him anything.
Alex beat him.
Clean, in the way that really matters.
He waited.
He pressured.
He punished mistakes.
And Ryan made one.
Just one.
And at that level, that’s enough.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees again.
“I used to think being exciting meant always moving,” he says. “Always flying. Always… making it look good.”
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“Turns out sometimes being exciting just means being there when the other guy really, really wants you to not be there.”
He’s learned that recently.
Learned it the hard way.
Learned it the way you learn things you don’t forget.
He glances around the gym.
It’s quiet again.
He kind of hates that.
Because quiet is when your body starts reminding you of everything.
He stands up, rolls his neck carefully, then starts pacing.
“You know, I used to think I was pretty hard to kill,” he says. “I still do, actually. I’ve just discovered there are… gradations.”
He chuckles.
“There are trainers who motivate you. There are trainers who scare you. And then there are trainers whose gym feels like it exists outside of time.”
He stops, plants his feet, and mimics checking an imaginary watch.
“I’m pretty sure clocks don’t work right in there.”
He shakes his head.
“I don’t get yelled at,” he continues. “Which is somehow worse. I just get… expectations.”
He pauses.
“Very high expectations.”
He’s not going to pretend he hasn’t thought about quitting.
Not wrestling.
Not this.
But specific days.
Specific sessions.
Specific moments where he’s lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, and thinking, okay, but what if I just… lived here now.
But then he gets up.
He always gets up.
Because the thing Alex taught him — even if Alex didn’t mean to — is that talent doesn’t save you.
Moments don’t save you.
Crowds don’t save you.
Only position does.
Only pressure does.
Only being able to exist where the other guy wants space.
Ryan walks over to the ropes, rests his arms on the top strand, and looks out at nothing.
“Since Inception, I’ve been busy,” he says lightly. “And by busy I mean… I’ve discovered new and exciting muscles.”
He grins.
“I didn’t know my jaw could be sore.”
He straightens, nods to himself.
“And here’s the thing. I still love flying. I still love the noise. I still love the way a crowd feels when it’s with you.”
He taps his chest.
“But now? Now I also love the quiet part. The part where it’s just you and someone else and there’s nowhere to go.”
He looks down at his taped hands.
“Alex lives in that space.”
A beat.
“So do I, now.”
Ryan doesn’t leave right away.
He probably should. His body is already doing that low, quiet thing where it starts filing complaints in advance. But he stays, leaning on the ropes, staring at the empty space like it might start making sense if he looks at it long enough.
“You ever notice,” he says, mostly to himself, “how everybody thinks the fight is the match?”
He lets that sit there for a second.
“It’s not. It’s everything around it. It’s the weeks before. It’s the stuff you don’t post. It’s the days you wake up already tired and do it anyway. The match is just the part people clap for.”
He steps away from the ropes and starts walking again, slow, thoughtful.
“Alex understands that.”
There’s no anger in his voice when he says the name. No heat. Just… respect. The kind that comes from having felt it up close.
“Alex doesn’t need to be loud. He doesn’t need to rush. He doesn’t need to look like he’s trying very hard. He just… waits.”
Ryan snaps his fingers.
“And eventually, you give him something.”
He tilts his head.
“A step too far. A jump you shouldn’t take. A second you think you have.”
He shrugs.
“And then you don’t.”
That’s the thing about Alex Jones.
He doesn’t beat you by overwhelming you.
He beats you by letting you beat yourself.
Ryan learned that the hard way.
And if he’s being honest?
So did Miles.
He shifts his weight, winces a little, and then keeps going.
He watched that match.
Of course he did.
Alex Jones versus Miles Kasey for the Internet Championship. The whole world watching. Miles with everything to prove. Alex with that same calm, patient look in his eyes like he already knew where the story was going.
Ryan remembers sitting there, ice pack on his neck, feeling like he was watching a magic trick in slow motion.
Because it wasn’t flashy.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It was… clever.
It was pressure.
It was timing.
It was being in the right place, just long enough.
And then the ropes.
Ryan lets out a small breath through his nose and smiles.
“See, that’s the part people argue about,” he says. “Was it illegal? Was it not illegal? Was it smart? Was it dirty?”
He lifts one shoulder.
“Here’s the truth. It was Alex.”
Alex didn’t cheat.
He didn’t break a rule.
He just… used the room better than everyone else.
That’s what he does.
That’s what makes him dangerous.
Ryan runs a hand through his hair.
“You can call it controversial. You can call it clever. You can call it whatever you want. The only thing that really matters is that it worked.”
He looks down at the mat again.
“And that’s the part I had to make peace with.”
Because the old version of him?
The old version of him would’ve said, okay, so I just have to be faster.
Jump higher.
Move quicker.
Hit harder.
Do something bigger.
But the thing about Alex is… he doesn’t care how big your thing is.
He cares how tired you are when you try it.
Ryan snorts.
“I used to think if I just had one more gear, I’d be fine.”
He spreads his hands.
“Turns out, sometimes the other guy just makes you play in first.”
He stops pacing and sits down on the edge of the apron, legs hanging off.
“When I lost to Alex, I didn’t walk out of there thinking I was bad.” “I walked out of there thinking I was… incomplete.”
He frowns slightly, like he’s trying to find the right word.
“Not broken. Not wrong. Just… missing a layer.”
He taps his chest.
“I had all the fun parts. I had all the movement. I had all the noise.”
He taps his temple.
“I didn’t have enough of the part that stays when everything else is gone.”
He looks up at the lights.
“That’s what I’ve been working on.”
Since Inception, it hasn’t been glamorous.
There are no cool pictures of it.
No highlight reels.
No slow-motion clips with dramatic music.
It’s been… ugly.
It’s been sweaty.
It’s been a lot of very close, very uncomfortable moments where the only goal is to not get moved.
He grimaces.
“I have a very healthy respect for anyone whose nickname comes with a warning label,” he adds, dryly.
He doesn’t have to explain that part.
Anyone who knows, knows.
“And the thing is… it’s not that I stopped being me.”
He smiles, that familiar, bright Ryan Keys smile.
“I still talk too much. I still get excited. I still think crowds are magic and wrestling is the coolest job in the world.”
He gestures at himself.
“I just… don’t need space anymore.”
That’s the difference.
He’s learned what it feels like to be tired and still hold on.
He’s learned what it feels like to have someone lean on you and not get lighter.
He’s learned what it feels like to have nowhere to go and not panic.
He’s learned how to breathe in places where breathing feels optional.
Ryan leans back on his hands.
“Alex lives off people needing a second,” he says quietly. “I’ve been training in a place that doesn’t believe in seconds.”
He lets that sit.
“And here’s the thing. I don’t blame Alex for the way he fights.”
He shrugs.
“Why would I? It works.”
He doesn’t blame him for the way he beat Miles.
He doesn’t blame him for the way he beat him.
That’s the job.
The job is to win.
The job is to find the angle, the moment, the opening.
The job is to make the other guy pay for wanting something too much.
Ryan nods.
“I get that now.”
He looks down at his hands again, flexes them.
“But I also get something else.”
He looks back up.
“There’s a difference between waiting for a mistake… and not giving one.”
That’s what this is about.
Not revenge.
Not anger.
Not proving something to the world.
Just… closing a door.
Ryan stands up again, stretching his back carefully.
“Reno’s a funny place,” he says. “Big lights. Big energy. Everyone’s a little louder there. Everyone’s a little more themselves.”
He smiles.
“I like that.”
He starts walking again.
“And yeah, it’s non-title. And yeah, Alex is the champion. And yeah, on paper, this is supposed to be a celebration for him.”
He tilts his head.
“But here’s what I know.”
He stops.
“I know what it feels like to miss.”
He taps his chest.
“I know what it feels like to get caught.”
He taps his temple.
“And now I know what it feels like to not move when someone wants me to.”
A beat.
“Alex taught me what a mistake costs.”
Another beat.
“The White Wolf taught me how to stop giving people mistakes.”
Ryan exhales slowly.
“And I’m still me.”
He grins.
“Just… heavier.”
Ryan sits back down, this time with his back against the apron, knees pulled up, forearms resting across them.
“You know what I was afraid of?” he says, suddenly. “Not losing.”
He considers that for a second.
“I’ve lost before. I’ll lose again. That’s not new. That’s not special.”
He tilts his head, thinking.
“I was afraid that if I changed… I wouldn’t be me anymore.”
That’s the part nobody really talks about.
It’s easy to say “evolve.” It’s easy to say “adapt.” It’s easy to say “add layers.”
It’s a lot harder to look at the thing that made people care about you in the first place and wonder if you’re about to sand it down.
Ryan has always been… loud.
Not in an annoying way. Not in a “look at me” way.
In a joy way.
In a can you believe we get to do this way.
In a this is ridiculous and amazing and I love it way.
He likes crowds.
He likes entrances.
He likes the way a building feels when it’s awake.
He likes the way noise becomes a physical thing you can almost lean on.
He likes the way wrestling feels when it’s fun.
And he was scared that if he leaned too far into this new version of himself… that part would go quiet.
He glances down at his hands again, flexes them.
“It didn’t,” he says, softly. “It just… got steadier.”
He smiles.
“I still get excited. I still get butterflies. I still feel like a kid sometimes when the lights hit and the music starts.”
He looks up at the ceiling.
“I just don’t need to run anymore.”
That’s the difference.
Old Ryan moved because he could.
New Ryan moves because he has to.
Old Ryan looked for space.
New Ryan knows how to live without it.
He pushes himself up to his feet and starts walking again, slower now, more deliberate.
“Here’s the part people don’t see,” he says. “I didn’t change because I was told to.”
He snorts.
“If that worked, I’d be a very different person.”
He changed because he felt it.
He felt that moment in Colorado Springs where everything was lined up, everything was perfect, everything was right…
…and one small mistake erased all of it.
He felt the mat.
He felt the lights.
He felt the sound disappear.
He felt the quiet.
And in that quiet, he realized something.
He wasn’t missing confidence.
He wasn’t missing heart.
He wasn’t missing skill.
He was missing weight.
Not on the scale.
In the fight.
Ryan stops and leans against the ropes again, this time facing the ring.
“I used to think pressure was something you applied,” he says. “Now I know it’s something you become.”
That’s what this training did.
It didn’t make him faster.
It didn’t make him prettier.
It didn’t give him a new trick.
It made him… harder to move.
Harder to rush.
Harder to surprise.
Harder to wait out.
He chuckles.
“I still do stupid things sometimes. Don’t get me wrong. I am absolutely capable of making questionable choices at high speed.”
He spreads his hands.
“But now… I don’t need to.”
That’s the quiet part.
That’s the dangerous part.
Because Alex Jones doesn’t beat people who are reckless.
He beats people who get impatient.
He beats people who think the moment is now or never.
He beats people who need space.
Ryan nods to himself.
“I don’t.”
He thinks about Miles again.
About watching that match.
About seeing the way Alex never looked worried.
About seeing the way he always seemed… comfortable.
Even when he was in trouble.
Especially when he was in trouble.
That’s not arrogance.
That’s preparation.
That’s knowing exactly how much it takes to break something.
Ryan sighs.
“I used to think being ready meant having a plan,” he says. “Now I think it means being okay when the plan dies.”
He steps into the ring, finally, just pacing inside it like he’s getting used to the feel of it again.
“I’m not here to outthink Alex.”
He shakes his head.
“You don’t outthink a man who lives in margins.”
He stops in the center of the ring.
“I’m here to outlast him.”
That’s the difference.
That’s the shift.
That’s the thing he didn’t have before.
He didn’t have the version of himself that could stand in a bad place and not try to escape it.
He didn’t have the version of himself that could say, no, this is fine, we can stay here.
He has that now.
He looks around the empty building, then smiles faintly.
“And the funny part? I’m still having fun.”
He laughs quietly.
“I know, that sounds insane. Trust me, parts of my body agree with you.”
He stretches his neck again.
“But I still love this. I still love the noise. I still love the chaos. I just… don’t need it to survive anymore.”
He looks straight ahead, like he’s looking at Alex, even though Alex isn’t there.
“Alex, you live in the space between seconds,” he says. “I’ve been learning how to live without them.”
He takes a breath.
“That doesn’t mean I’m angry.”
Another breath.
“It doesn’t mean I’m out for revenge.”
Another.
“It just means… I’m done giving you what you need.”
He steps back, leans on the ropes.
“And here’s the thing I think you understand better than anyone.”
He smiles.
“The most dangerous man in the room is the one who isn’t in a hurry.”
Ryan doesn’t pose in the ring.
He doesn’t climb the ropes.
He just stands there for a moment, hands on his hips, breathing, feeling the place.
“You know what I love about crowds?” he says, eventually. “They’re honest.”
He smiles.
“They don’t care what you meant to do. They don’t care what you almost did. They care about what happened.”
He nods slowly.
“Reno’s going to be loud.”
That part is a given.
Reno is always loud. Reno is always bright. Reno is always a little bit unhinged in the best possible way. People show up there already halfway into the night, already ready for something to happen.
Ryan likes that.
He likes walking into buildings that already feel awake.
“But it’s funny,” he continues. “Because inside all that noise… there’s always a quiet moment.”
He looks down at the mat beneath his boots.
“The moment right before the bell.”
That moment is the same everywhere.
Doesn’t matter how big the crowd is. Doesn’t matter how important the match is. Doesn’t matter how much history is sitting between you and the other guy.
For a second, it’s just two people.
Two people and a lot of choices.
Ryan exhales slowly.
“I’ve stood in that moment before with Alex.”
He doesn’t need to dress it up.
He doesn’t need to dramatize it.
“We both know how it ended.”
He shrugs.
“And that’s okay.”
That’s not bitterness.
That’s honesty.
“I don’t need to pretend that match didn’t happen. I don’t need to pretend I wasn’t one step away and then one mistake too far.”
He taps his chest.
“I remember exactly how it felt.”
He lifts his head.
“And I remember exactly what it taught me.”
He starts pacing again, slow, thoughtful.
“Alex, you’re the Internet Champion now. You earned that. You took advantage of a moment. You used the room better than everyone else in it. That’s what you do.”
He stops.
“And you’re very, very good at it.”
He smiles faintly.
“But here’s the part you might not be thinking about.”
He points to himself.
“I’m not the same room anymore.”
That’s the truth of it.
He’s not coming in faster.
He’s not coming in louder.
He’s not coming in trying to steal something in one perfect second.
He’s coming in prepared to stay.
“I’m not here to surprise you,” he says. “I’m not here to out-trick you.”
He shakes his head.
“I’m here to be the part of the match you can’t get rid of.”
That’s what the training did.
It didn’t give him a new move.
It gave him time.
Or maybe it took it away.
Hard to tell.
He chuckles.
“All those years, I thought pressure was something you applied. Now I know it’s something you survive.”
He walks to the ropes, rests his arms on the top strand, looking out at an empty arena that will soon be very full.
“Reno’s going to see the same smile,” he says. “The same energy. The same guy who loves this.”
He taps his chest again.
“They’re just also going to see someone who doesn’t leave.”
He straightens.
“Alex, you taught me what a mistake costs.”
He lets that breathe.
“And the man who trained me taught me what it means to stop giving people mistakes.”
He looks straight ahead now.
“So when that bell rings…”
He pauses.
“…I’m not going to rush.”
Another pause.
“I’m not going to jump.”
Another.
“I’m not going to give you what you want.”
He smiles.
“I’m going to give you what you can’t get away from.”
He steps back to the center of the ring.
“And if you beat me again?”
He shrugs.
“Then you beat a better version of me.”
He nods.
“But if you don’t…”
His smile widens, just a little.
“Then you’re going to find out what it feels like when the fun guy learns how to stay.”
Ryan looks around the empty building one last time.
“I’ll see you in Reno.”