PROVE YOUR WORTH
UNLV, WILLIAM S. BOYD SCHOOL OF LAW

The campus was waking up under a pale Nevada sun, the city humming softly in the background. LJ Kasey’s boots clicked across the polished concrete hallway of the Boyd Law building, backpack slung over one shoulder, the weight of textbooks pressing down like a reminder that this was real now. No ring. No crowd. No adrenaline-soaked chaos. Just him and the law.

It had been two weeks since classes started, and already LJ could feel the shift in himself. Wrestling had taught him patience, strategy, timing—but this? This demanded precision in a different way. Words mattered more than strikes, logic over brute force, every syllable an opportunity to cut clean through the noise.

He stepped into Roth Lecture Hall, familiar by now, the hum of overhead lights mixing with the soft shuffle of students setting up laptops and folding notes. The smell of coffee, paper, and ambition was tangible. He nodded to a few classmates who recognized him from orientation, but LJ kept to the back corner, as he always did, watching before diving in.

Professor Roth was already speaking, pacing near the front like a conductor orchestrating a symphony of ideas.

“Case law doesn’t exist to tell us what to do,” Roth was saying, "It exists to make us ask the right questions. Every ruling, every precedent, is a conversation. You either contribute or you fade into silence.”

LJ leaned forward, pen in hand, absorbing every word. He had written a thousand words in his wrestling journals about strategy, opponents, and mistakes. Now he translated that focus into arguments, analogies, and counterpoints.

When Roth paused and asked, “Mr. Kasey, your take on the limits of statutory interpretation in United States v. Lopez?” LJ didn’t hesitate.

“Professor, the Court’s reasoning illustrates the tension between federal authority and individual liberty. The decision wasn’t just about a high school gun case, it was about how far Congress can reach into areas traditionally managed by the states. If we don’t interrogate the boundaries of that authority, we risk allowing legality to masquerade as morality. The law becomes a blunt instrument, not a measured one.”

A quiet stir moved through the room. Roth’s eyes narrowed, studying LJ like a scout reading a play.

“Excellent,” he said, voice low but deliberate, "Concise. Thoughtful. You didn’t just recite precedent; you connected principle to practice. That’s rare in a first-year student.”

LJ sat back, heart pounding just slightly, not from nerves, but from the rush of recognition. This wasn’t applause from a crowd. It wasn’t validation from a promoter. This was acknowledgment from someone who saw potential and sharpened it with focus.

Two weeks in, and LJ Kasey could feel the rhythm of law school settling in like a second heartbeat. Every case read, every argument formed, was another step in building something beyond wrestling. Something permanent. Something that didn’t require him to prove himself against another man in a ring to earn respect.

And for the first time in months, maybe even years, LJ allowed himself a small, private smile. He was exactly where he was supposed to be.

The classroom buzzed faintly as students argued quietly in clusters, notebooks open, laptops glowing. LJ Kasey sat in his usual back-row corner, posture relaxed but alert, absorbing the chatter. Two weeks in, he had observed patterns: who spoke to dominate, who spoke to impress, and who spoke without knowing what they were saying.

Professor Roth clapped his hands once.

“Alright, let’s debate statutory limits under the Commerce Clause. Mr. Hayes, why don’t you start?”

A tall, cocky student from the front row stood, voice dripping with assumed superiority, "Well, clearly, some of these foreign students are still learning our system. So maybe if they try to follow, we can explain it slowly.”

A few classmates chuckled nervously. LJ’s jaw tightened. LJ just let out a calm breath before muttering, “Oh, this should be fun.”

Professor Roth glances towards LJ, “Mr. Kasey, your response?”

LJ leaned forward, voice smooth and controlled, each word measured, "Professor, respectfully, the assumption that nationality or accent dictates understanding of law is not just inaccurate, it’s intellectually lazy. To interpret the Commerce Clause, one doesn’t require birthplace, but the ability to analyze precedent and the Constitution’s intent. Let’s take Gonzales v. Raich, for example. Hayes’ point implies a limitation on federal reach only because he presumes foreign students cannot synthesize these arguments independently. That’s...incorrect.”

Hayes’ smirk faltered, "Well, sure, but...”

LJ cutting him off, voice sharpening continues, “But nothing. The Court consistently balances federal authority with personal liberties, weighing economic impact against states’ rights. The idea that one’s nationality could impair their capacity to parse this is not just a straw man -- it’s a straw man dressed in arrogance and dressing arrogance in condescension does not make it argumentation. It makes it rhetoric. Ineffective rhetoric.”

A few heads turned, eyebrows raised. Even the professor leaned slightly forward, impressed by the precision.

“Moreover,” LJ continued, warming to his point, “If we accept Mr. Hayes’ flawed premise, we are creating a hierarchy of comprehension based on irrelevant criteria. The law is not democratic in that way, it’s analytical, critical, and accessible to anyone willing to engage with it seriously. This is what differentiates argument from noise.”

Hayes’ face went pale. He opened his mouth again, but Roth held up a hand, "Mr. Kasey, I think that covers it perfectly. Thank you for demonstrating that comprehension isn’t determined by background, but by rigor. Mr. Hayes, I suggest you take notes.”

LJ leaned back in his chair, a small, self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips. The room had shifted slightly. His classmates now looked at him differently, not as the British outsider, but as someone sharp, fearless, and dangerously articulate.

For the first time, LJ realized law school wasn’t just going to be about learning the law. It was about staking his claim in it, just like he had in the ring.

The bell had rung, but LJ Kasey lingered in his seat a moment longer, letting the classroom’s tension settle like dust after a storm. His pen rested lightly on the notebook, smudges of ink from his quick scribbles, but his mind was elsewhere. Hayes’ sneer, the faint laughter that followed, the subtle shift in the room’s energy, all of it replayed quietly in his head.

When he finally stood, the chair scraped softly against the floor. LJ slung his backpack over one shoulder, adjusted his hoodie, and started down the hallway, his boots echoing on polished concrete.

He could feel the stares now, some curious, some tentative, all measured. Students who had whispered under their breath about “that British guy” were now watching him differently. Not foreign. Not naive. Not a novelty. Dangerous, in a way that made them lean in, just slightly, to see what came next.

Two classmates, a pair of third-years who often debated loudly in the front row, fell into step beside him.

“Hey...uh, LJ? About earlier...”

“Yeah. That was...really solid. I mean, Hayes, I don’t even know. You kind of ripped him apart.”

LJ raised an eyebrow but didn’t slow his pace. He could sense the hesitation behind their words, the mix of relief and awe, as if he’d crossed some invisible threshold, "I didn’t rip him apart. I just pointed out what he ignored. There’s a difference.”

The pair exchanged glances, and LJ could practically see the internal calculations running behind their eyes. He allowed himself a small smirk, "Still you’re quick and clear. Most people would’ve stumbled over that, especially Hayes.”

LJ nodded for a moment, “Most people are too busy trying to sound smart to actually be smart.”

He paused at the doorway, the sunlight from the courtyard spilling over him, warming his shoulders.

“So do you, uh, want to grab coffee or something later? Maybe talk through some of the cases?”

LJ considered it for a moment, then nodded once, sharply.

“Sure. I have a little time before I have to pick my girlfriend up at the airport.”

As they walked on together toward the campus café, LJ’s mind flickered briefly to wrestling, the adrenaline, the strategy, the theater of performance. But here, in law school, the stakes were quieter, deeper, and somehow just as thrilling.

-----

A LONG AWAITED QUESTION ANSWERED
MCCARRAN INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, LAS VEGAS – LATE AFTERNOON

LJ Kasey sat with his car, one hand on the steering wheel, the other tapping a steady rhythm against the leather. He had arrived early, of course, perfectionism wasn’t optional, especially when picking up someone as important as Alexandra.

The airport parking lot buzzed with travelers, rolling luggage and last-minute farewells. LJ scanned the arrivals board, spotting her gate. Alexandra Callaway emerged, a duffle bag slung over her shoulder, her raven hair catching the golden sunlight. She paused, scanning the line of cars, then caught his eye.

LJ opened the door before she even reached the curb, stepping out, "Ello angel.”

Her face broke into a smile, the kind that made the heat, the noise, and the bustle fade, "LJ! Finally.”

He closed the space between them in two strides, wrapping her up in a hug, pulling her off her feet for a moment, before gently taking her bag from her shoulder, "Well, you know me. Early and annoyingly punctual.”

Ally laughs, as she takes his arm and they take a short stroll to his car, “Annoyingly punctual, huh? I thought that was your British charm.”

He rolled his eyes playfully, tossing her bag into the trunk, "The charm is optional. Being organized? Mandatory.”

They climbed into the car, the engine humming to life. LJ stole a glance at her from the corner of his eye, the faintest smile tugging at his lips, "Vegas traffic, airport chaos...nothing compared to missing you.”

Alexandra reached across, brushing her hand over his.“I missed you too. The city’s brighter when I know you’re around.”

LJ’s eyes flicked briefly to the rearview mirror, then back to the road, but the warmth stayed, "You’re going to like the apartment. I’ve upped my game. Books in order, papers stacked, chaos contained. I’m almost respectable now.”

Alexandra raised an eyebrow “Almost?”

“Hey, give me time. Law school just started a couple of weeks ago. I need to look like I know what I’m doing before they see me sweat.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head, "You always find a way to impress, without even trying, it seems.”

“Well, I try. You just see the polished version.”

The ride to his apartment was quiet in that comfortable way only moments like this could be. No rushing, no deadlines, just two people reconnecting. LJ kept stealing glances at her, and she returned them with gentle teasing smiles and subtle laughter.

When they arrived, he jumped out to open the trunk again, pulling her bags inside and gesturing toward the apartment.

“Welcome back to my little corner of organized chaos.”

Alexandra stepped inside, looking around at the neat stacks of books, the freshly arranged furniture, and the small touches LJ had added to make the space feel lived-in, "Wow… you really did get it together.”

“Told you. Almost respectable.”

She dropped her bag with a soft thud, then crossed the room, throwing her arms around him. LJ hugged her back, careful, grounding himself in the moment.

“It’s good to be back, LJ. I’ve missed this...missed you.”

“Missed you too, love. More than I realized.”

For the first time in weeks, LJ felt fully present, not in the ring, not in class, not on a tour. Just here, just this, the start of a week together before Cyprus, before the next challenge. And for once, he let himself breathe.

LJ Kasey took a seat on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced together. Alexandra Callaway stood nearby, arms folded, watching him with that patient, knowing smile that could pierce right through his careful control.

The apartment smelled faintly of coffee and old leather, the shelves lined with neatly stacked law books and wrestling journals. Everything had a place, just like LJ wanted it. And now, after the chaos of Vegas, wrestling tours, and law school prep, this apartment felt more like home than it ever had before.

“Okay...I’m going to say it. Straight up. No dancing around this.”

Ally tilted her head, eyebrow raised, sensing the seriousness in his tone, "Oh? This is serious, huh? Go on, then. Hit me.”

LJ took a slow breath, letting it out like a quiet release of tension he hadn’t realized he was holding, "You know how much I love having you here. And I mean, more than just visiting. You being around is always something that I immensely look forward to. But I need to know, have you given it any real thought to what we talked about a couple of weeks ago? Not joking, not teasing...I’m asking if you would move in with me. Permanently.”

Ally’s lips curved into that mischievous, slow-building smile that made his chest tighten, "Real thought, huh? You think I haven’t? LJ, you’ve been waiting for this question for months.”

LJ groaned, leaning back slightly, "Yeah, well, I wasn’t expecting to be tortured about it first and then I finally got around to asking you but I never asked directly. I know you had a lot to consider, especially with Ashlynn”

Ally had to laugh because he was so like his brother with the rambling when he got frustrated, it was a cute Kasey trait. But she stood there with her arms folded,  “Life doesn’t give out answers that easily. I wanted to make sure you could handle the wait.”

LJ’s jaw tightened. He leaned forward, eyes locked on her, heart thumping, "Well part of me feels like I’ve waited long enough. So...tell me? And if you say no, I’ve got a pint of rocky road waiting to cry into...”

Ally paused, savoring the moment, teasing him just long enough to make him squirm, before her voice softened, "…Yes. I’ve thought about it, LJ. And I’m ready. I’ll move in with you.”

LJ’s lips parted, a grin breaking across his face, the tension in his shoulders finally releasing, "For real? Both you and Ashlynn?” And Ally nodded, and LJ let go of a breath that he wasn’t aware that he was holding, “Finally. Took you long enough.”

Ally playfully smiled, “I wanted to make sure you’d appreciate it properly.”

LJ stood, crossing the small space between them, and took her hands in his. The apartment, with its neat stacks of books and quiet order, no longer felt like just a space. It felt like theirs—a home they were choosing to build together. He leaned closer, forehead resting gently against hers, letting the steady rhythm of her breathing sync with his.

“You have no idea how much this...you...means to me.”

Ally tilted her head, a small smile brushing her lips, "I think I might.”

For a moment, they simply held each other, the hum of the city outside forgotten. Then LJ brushed a fingertip across her cheek, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and leaned in slowly.

Their lips met, tentative at first, a careful press that spoke of patience and trust. Then, as if all the waiting and uncertainty of the last year had built to this, the kiss deepened, soft, steady, grounding. LJ’s hand slid to the small of her back, drawing her closer, and Ally responded in kind, letting herself sink into him.

When they finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, LJ rested his forehead against hers again, whispering, “Home...feels like this now.”

Ally smiled, eyes shimmering in the last of the sunlight, "Yeah it does.”

-----

MAIN EVENT MINDSET
EMPTY TRAINING ROOM, CYPRUS

The echo of bouncing balls and clang of weights had long faded. The training room was quiet now, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. LJ Kasey paced slowly across the polished floor, fists clenched and unclenched, his mind running the match over and over again.

Vincent Lyons Jr. wasn’t just any opponent. He was clever, dangerous, and unpredictable—the kind of man who thrived on exploiting a single mistake. But LJ didn’t flinch. He thrived on challenges. He thrived on proving he belonged.

“Vincent thinks this is just another warm-up,” LJ muttered to himself, voice low but hard, "Non-title match. The crowd's not expecting anything. He thinks he’s untouchable come Sunday.” He shook his head, a wry grin tugging at his lips, "He doesn’t know what’s coming. He doesn’t know I’ve been waiting for a moment like this my entire life.”

He stopped at the center of the room, letting the silence fill the space, "This isn’t about belts. It’s about respect. Momentum. Showing him and everyone else that LJ Kasey doesn’t just show up. I dominate. I take what I’ve earned. And tonight...that starts with Vincent.”

He dropped lightly into a shadow-boxing stance, imagining Lyons across from him, "We all know that he’s not above the cheats, he will play mind games, and he will lean on the roulette chaos. Fucking let him. I’ve got strategy, instinct, and focus. And I’m not waiting for a mistake. I’m making the first one count.”

LJ’s voice dropped to a low growl, "Vincent’s smart. He’ll try to get in my head, play the mind games, spin the crowd, make me react before I think. But I’ve been studying him. Every tactic, every hesitation, every flashy taunt he’s ever pulled on a rookie or a peer, I’ve seen it. I know it.”

He clenched his fists, flexing his fingers as though feeling the imagined resistance of Vincent in front of him, "He underestimates me because I’m not fighting for a belt. He thinks I’m just another warm-up, another face to look impressive against. He doesn’t see what I’ve been building, what I’ve earned. This isn’t just about a win in Cyprus. This is about proving I belong in this ring with anyone, anywhere. That I’m more than a shadow, more than a name. I’m a force.”

A quiet breath, measured. He tapped the floor once, twice, thinking through the spin of the Roulette wheel, the potential twists, the spots Vincent would exploit. LJ smiled grimly, "This is more than just a match. It’s a statement, a reminder. It’s a reminder that I am here and that I belong. And Vincent? Tonight, you’re just the first example.”

LJ took a deep breath, steadying his heartbeat, “Non-title or not, the stakes couldn’t be higher. Momentum, respect, positioning, all of it. A win here, a clean, calculated, dominating win, it tells the world I’m ready. Ready for the gold, ready for the main stage, ready for the chaos that even the roulette division can bring.”

He straightened, shoulders squared, letting his mind shift from rehearsal to resolve, "Non-title...No matter. The stakes are higher than ever, because it’s my momentum, my credibility, my career on the line just like every time I step into that ring. And when it’s done...everyone will know exactly who LJ Kasey is.”

Quiet, controlled, ready. Not in front of the crowd. Not for anyone else. Just him. Just the fight.

The desert sun was still high enough to pour gold through the kitchen blinds, painting sharp slants across the counter. The air conditioning hummed, doing its best against the August Vegas extreme heat, while Miles stood at the island counter with a can of tuna, a jar of mayo, and a stubborn loaf of bread.

And Ms. Thang being a relentless pain in the proverbial ass.

“C’mon, girl, I’ve fed you already.” Miles nudged his hip against the counter as the sleek lone female in the house, wound around his legs, tail flicking in sharp punctuation. She meowed, sharp and insistent, then batted at his calf with one paw.

“I swear, you’re worse than Brianna when he was twelve and thought ramen noodles were a food group.”

On the laptop propped open on the counter, Alastair O’Malley’s image flickered. The connection wasn’t perfect, a little lag because the heat was messing with the connection today, the occasional stutter, but his voice came through clear. Measured, steady, with that blend of Irish warmth and lawyerly precision that always put Carter at ease.

“Miles, you might want to focus before she climbs your leg.”

As if on cue, Ms. Thang gave a frustrated chirp and stretched up toward the counter. Miles groaned, swiping her up with one arm before she could sink her claws into his jeans. He balanced the cat against his chest, holding the butter knife in his other hand like some bizarre multitasking act.

“She’s dramatic, Al. Wonder where she gets it.” He shot the camera with a knowing look.

From the living room came Carter’s voice, muffled but amused, "I heard that!”

Alastair chuckled, "Good to see you two haven’t changed much. But, Miles, you said this was about Kevin?”

The shift in his tone, lighter notes slipping into something more careful, made Miles set the knife down. He scratched under Ms. Thang’s chin, grounding himself with the rhythmic purr.

“Yeah,” Miles said finally, "It’s about Kevin. He’s...look, I know I’m not his dad. Hell, I’m not even his stepdad. I’m just some random bloke that he met before his whole world turned upside down with his mum turning into a psycho and his da into a blithering drunk. But he’s in a place right now in his life where I know that no one else is really looking out for him except for some nurses and the doctors.”

Alastair leaned forward on the screen, "And you and Carter want to explore guardianship.”

“Guardianship, custody, adoption, I don’t even know the damn terminology,” Miles admitted, "I just know that kid’s been through too much already and he needs something stable in his life. His own mother decided to attack Carter, Kevin got caught in the middle of that mess more than he should have. And his father is in no condition to assume custody, even if he wants to. I went and saw the man myself before the cruise, from a man that lived in the condo in one of the best areas of Vegas to the slums of LA? He showed absolutely no desire to make sure that his son was even ok after everything. If there’s a way we can make sure Kevin’s got stability, make it official that he’s got someone in his corner, I need to know what it takes.”

Ms. Thang kneaded at his chest, purring obliviously while Miles stared into the laptop camera, jaw set.

Alastair didn’t rush his answer. He never did, "It won’t be easy,” he said carefully, "Kevin’s still a minor, yes? You’d need Carter on board, of course. Which from the sounds of it, he is. And if his biological parents, or anyone else with standing, contested it, you’d have to be prepared for a fight.”

Miles’ fingers drummed on the counter, restless, "I don’t care about a fight. I care about Kevin not slipping through the cracks. That kid deserves better than being a footnote in someone else’s story. He deserves a family that actually gives a shit.”

For a beat, only the AC hummed, Ms. Thang’s purring filling the silence. Then Alastair’s expression softened.

“I’ll draw up what you’d need to start with,” he said, "Paperwork, requirements, possible obstacles. We’ll go step by step. Just make sure this is something Carter wants too. Guardianship isn’t just legal. It’s personal. It changes the family dynamic.”

As Ms. Thang slipped from his arms onto the counter, Miles glanced toward the living room where Carter was still humming along to whatever song was playing low on the stereo. His chest tightened, not in doubt, but in recognition of the weight of it all. But this was Carter’s idea to reach out to O’Malley and begin the process.

“I know,” he murmured, "But I believe that the kid is worth it as does Carter.”

The sound of Miles’ butter knife clattering against the counter was followed by a sharp “Ow!”

From the stool, Ms. Thang leapt up with all the grace of a ballerina and landed square on the cutting board. The cat swiped a paw at the open tuna can like she’d been plotting it for days.

“For the love of....no. Absolutely not.” Miles scooped her up under one arm, holding her like a furry football as he turned back toward the laptop, "Alastair, you didn’t hear that.”

“I heard everything,” Alastair’s smooth baritone replied through the screen. His smirk betrayed how much he enjoyed watching Miles wrestle with his supposed domesticated life, "And I assume the cat is negotiating for joint custody as well?”

“Joint custody of tuna maybe,” Miles muttered, depositing Ms. Thang onto the floor where she immediately coiled around his legs like a snake with claws.

Carter strolled in, stretching like he’d just woken up from a nap he hadn’t earned, "What’s all the yelling about? Did Ms. Thang find out she’s not in your will again?”

“She knows damn well she’s first in line,” Miles shot back, fishing out a slice of bread with unnecessary aggression, "Unlike you, she doesn’t talk back.”

Carter grinned, leaned across the counter, and stage-whispered toward the laptop, "Alastair, if you ever file paperwork for guardianship of Miles here, I’ll co-sign.”

Alastair chuckled, "Believe me, Mr. Kasey, no court would grant me that burden.”

“Oi!” Miles barked, pointing the butter knife like a weapon, "Less comedy, more lawyering. We’re talking about Kevin. It’s not about me trying to fix everything,” he said, "I just...I can’t stand the idea of Kevin feeling like he’s disposable. Like he doesn’t belong anywhere. I know that feeling, Al. And I’ll be damned if I let him grow up thinking that’s all he deserves.”

He glanced over his shoulder, meeting Carter’s eyes. No growl, no edge, just the kind of quiet conviction that left no room for argument, "I want him here. With us.”

That sobered the air slightly, though Carter’s expression still held a trace of mischief. He padded over, grabbed the bread heel Miles had discarded, and bit into it without asking.

“You’re serious, then,” Carter said through a mouthful, "This isn’t you just having a Florence Nightingale moment.”

Miles turned back toward the screen, ignoring Carter’s blatant theft, "Yes, I’m serious. He’s had a rough enough go as it is, Al. Someone’s got to give the kid some stability.”

“Mm.” Alastair steepled his fingers, "Guardianship is possible, but it isn’t simple. You’ll both be under scrutiny, your careers, your income, your marriage, all of it. They’ll want to know Kevin isn’t just being rescued because he was conveniently nearby.”

Carter raised a brow, swallowed his bite, and leaned in, "So basically they’re going to ask if we’re adopting him for the tax write-off.”

Miles pinched the bridge of his nose, stifling a laugh, "Can you not?”

“What?” Carter grinned, "I’m just saying, if we’re filling out forms, I want to know if I get to claim him as a dependent. The kid is eating like a linebacker from what we’ve heard.”

Even Alastair cracked a laugh at that.

Miles laughed under his breath as Ms. Thang batted at the bread crust he’d just tossed aside, "You’re relentless, you know that?” he muttered, but then set the knife down with a little clatter. He leaned forward on the counter, palms flat, eyes flicking back to the screen.

“It’s not some grand plan, Al,” he said, softer now, but still with that crooked grin tugging at his mouth, "I just… I can’t keep watching Kevin get passed around like a lost suitcase. The kid deserves more than that.”

He glanced toward Carter, a teasing glimmer still there, but his voice steady, "I want him here. With us. Simple as that.”

For once, Carter didn’t undercut him with a quip. He just nodded slowly, his grin fading into something softer, "Then we’ll make it work. Even if the cat objects.”

Ms. Thang meowed loudly in protest, leaping back onto the counter like she’d been waiting for her cue.

“See?” Carter gestured at her with the bread heel, "Told you.”

-----

The hospital didn’t smell as sharp as it used to. Kevin had been here long enough that the antiseptic tang just sort of folded into the background of his days. Still, when the door swung open and Miles stepped in, Carter right behind him balancing a bag of contraband snacks, Kevin perked up like someone had just turned on the lights.

“Hey, Kevin,” Carter said first, because Carter always said it first. He set the bag down on the nightstand and started unpacking it like it was treasure, chips, a couple of sodas, a pack of gummy worms, "Don’t tell your doctor.”

Kevin smirked and pulled himself up against the pillows, "I’m not a snitch.”

Miles grinned at that, dragging the chair closer to the bed before sitting down. Ms. Thang’s fur was still clinging to his shirt; he hadn’t noticed, but Carter did, brushing it off with a laugh.

The three of them chatted at first, Carter filling Kevin in on the cat’s latest attempt to chew through a cardboard Amazon box, Kevin rolling his eyes at one of Miles’ sarcastic remarks about Carter’s cooking. Carter retaliated by tossing a gummy worm at Miles, which bounced off his chest and landed in Kevin’s lap.

“Free snack,” Kevin said with mock solemnity, popping it into his mouth before either of them could protest.

“Gross,” Carter groaned, though the grin spreading across his face gave him away.

“Kid’s tougher than you give him credit for,” Miles teased, leaning back in the chair.

Kevin shook his head, hiding his smirk under the blanket pulled up to his chin. For a few minutes, it almost didn’t feel like a hospital room. Just three people hanging out, laughing at dumb jokes, making fun of each other the way families did.

But when the laughter ebbed, Miles leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His voice was steady, but quieter now, "Kev, we wanted to talk to you about something real. Something important.”

Kevin blinked, wary, "I’m not getting discharged early, am I?”

Carter shook his head quickly, "No, no. It’s nothing like that. This is about after. When you do get out.”

Miles rubbed the back of his neck before continuing, "We’ve been talking and we don’t think it’s fair, you were on the run for so long, bouncing from one place to another, never knowing how long you’ll stay. And after everything, you’ve been here and a hospital is no place to stay and we’re being told your recovery is going amazing. We feel that you deserve better than that. Stability. A real home.” He glanced at Carter, then back at Kevin, "We were thinking...if you wanted to, you could come live with us. Permanently. We’d take guardianship, maybe even custody if it goes that far. I know I sort of mentioned it in passing before but this is a legit question.”

The room went quiet except for the faint hum of machines down the hall. Kevin’s mouth opened like he had a response ready, but no words came out. His hands fidgeted with the blanket.

“You don’t have to answer right now,” Carter said gently, sliding onto the edge of the bed, "This is your life. Your choice. We just...want you to know that we want you. No strings. No pity.”

Kevin’s eyes flicked between them, wide and uncertain, "You...you’re serious?”

Miles gave him a small, crooked smile, "Dead serious. I can’t promise we’re perfect. Carter burns pancakes and I forget to buy paper towels, but I can promise you’d never have to wonder if you belong. You would. With us.”

Kevin swallowed hard, and for the first time in a long time, some of the practiced armor in his voice cracked, "Nobody’s ever...asked me what I wanted before.”

Carter reached for his hand, giving it a squeeze, "Well, we are. And we’ll keep asking, until you’re ready to tell us.”

Kevin nodded slowly, fighting a smile he didn’t quite believe he was allowed to have yet, "Maybe I’d like that.”

And for the first time that afternoon, it wasn’t the hospital lights that made the room feel bright.

----

The Castle Club was alive even before the crowd arrived. Neon streaked across the glass walls, strobing in pulses that made the shadows bend and stretch. The bass from the sound system rolled through the floors like a low tide, vibrating up through Miles’ boots as he walked the balcony, alone. Stagehands moved with purpose below, unaware they were in the presence of a man on the edge of something bigger than himself.

Miles stopped at the railing, leaning over to peer down at the empty arena. He let the reflection in the glass meet his eyes—a reminder of how far he’d come.

“Bill Bloody Barnhart,” he said softly, almost to himself, letting the name roll over his tongue like sandpaper, "You’ve been a thorn in my side for years. Not because you outsmarted me, not because you ever beat me...but because you made me question myself. Made me wonder if I even belonged here. You barked, you shoved, you tried to convince me that the kid who showed up scared, green, and unsure would never have a place at this table. You’ve been my shadow for too long. Not because you outshined me, not because you beat me, but because every time I turned around, you were there, barking. Clinging. Pretending like you’re still dangerous.”

He smiled faintly, that crooked edge that had saved him more times than he could count.

“Well, guess what, Bill? That kid isn’t here anymore. That scared little boy is gone. He got buried in Vegas, in scars, and in sweat—and what’s left is someone who doesn’t blink at ghosts. Someone who promised himself, on his birthday weekend, that he’d do it his way. No more fear. No more shadows. No more letting the past dictate the present.”

“You’re not dangerous, Bill. You’re desperate. You’re a tired old warhorse whose legs can’t carry him to the finish line anymore. And I see it. Everyone sees it. You lean on Bea screaming at ringside because your voice can’t carry the weight anymore. You lean on Felix sneaking cheap shots because your fists don’t hit like they used to. You lean on history, on all the years you’ve been here but history doesn’t win fights. Hunger does. Fire does.”

He traced the railing with one hand, letting the neon light carve patterns across his face, "You’ve had your moments. You’ve been the grinder, the veteran, the man who wore everyone down. And yeah, you’ve had your wins but that was then. This is now. This is me. Faster, sharper, hungrier than I have EVER been in my life. And I’m ready to show you what it looks like when someone who’s finally free of their own doubts steps into the ring.”

“Let’s not get it twisted, Bill...you’ve had your moments. You’ve been the roadblock, the gatekeeper, the man who drags others down to your pace just to prove they can’t escape you. You made a career out of turning the ring into a grindhouse. But you’ve also run your course. And I? I’m not the kid who once let ghosts scare him into submission. I’m not the boy questioning if he belongs. That version of Miles Kasey is dead and buried. What’s left is sharper, faster, meaner and ready to take everything you still cling to.”

Miles let out a low laugh, shaking his head, "You can bring Bea. You can bring Felix. You can bring every distraction, every trick, every cheap shot in your playbook. None of it matters. Because this isn’t just about beating you. This is about proving to myself that I can own my story. That I can take what I’ve earned and run with it. That the kid who once feared losing everything… isn’t afraid anymore.”

He leaned closer to the glass, voice dropping to a hard edge, "This is Cyprus. This is a furnace. And you? You’re just kindling. When I’m done, all that’s left of you will be smoke and echoes. And me? I’ll be walking to Violent Conduct X, ticket punched, name etched into that Internet Championship, exactly like I promised myself I would.”

Miles pushed off the railing, pacing the balcony like a predator on the hunt, "You’re the grit, Bill. I’m the fire and fire always wins.”

He took a deep breath, letting the pulsating bass fill his lungs, the neon reflection flashing across his jaw. A faint grin touched his lips, quiet, confident, unshakable, "No more ghosts. No more doubts. Just me. My way. And tonight, Bulldog, you’re going to learn exactly what that means.”

With that, he turned, boots echoing against the steel steps as he descended toward the ring prep area. Behind him, the Castle Club throbbed like a heartbeat, alive and ready for the storm Miles was about to bring.