~*~The Request~*~

The fluorescent lights in the backstage hallway buzzed faintly, casting a cold, sterile glow along the concrete. It smelled like sweat and disinfectant and the metal tang of adrenaline, and Bella moved through it as if she were cutting through fog. Her jaw was tight. Her fingers flexed and unflexed at her sides, her pulse an uneven rhythm pounding at her throat.

She hadn’t bothered to shower. She hadn’t peeled off the tape wrapped around her wrists, now loose and fraying like the ends of her patience. Her hair clung to her face, damp with effort and heat. And every step she took felt sharp. Deliberate. Controlled only by the thinnest threads of will.

People saw her coming and parted. No one spoke. No one asked. They understood. Even those who didn’t know her well recognized what a person looked like when they were holding themselves together by force.

She reached Evelyn Hall’s office and didn’t stop walking.

The door slammed against the wall as she pushed through it.

Evelyn looked up from her desk. There was someone else in the office—production staff, headset around his neck—but the moment he saw Bella, he excused himself without waiting to be asked. The door clicked closed behind him, leaving the room thick and too quiet.

Bella stood there, chest rising and falling, fists curled so tight she could feel the sting of her own nails.

“I want a match at High Stakes,” she said.

Her voice wasn’t loud, but it hit the room like a thrown knife.

Evelyn regarded her with steady, assessing eyes. “Bella...”

“No.” The word was sharp. Not shouted, just final. “Don’t try to talk me down. Don’t try to handle me. I know what happened out there. I know I lost. I am not asking you to pretend it didn’t happen.”

She stepped further into the room, the floor thudding quietly beneath her boots.

“But I am not spending High Stakes watching from backstage,” she continued. “I am not sitting quietly. I am not fading into the background because tonight didn’t go my way.”

Her voice trembled, not with fear, but with emotion trying to claw its way out.

“I have worked too damn hard to get here. I have bled, and broken, and rebuilt myself more times than most people even think is possible. I will not be an afterthought.”

Her hands had begun to shake. She forced them to still.

“I don’t care who you give me. I don’t care what match you put me in. All I know is I need to fight. I need to hit something. I need to feel that moment again—where everything makes sense the second fists connect and the world is only what is directly in front of me.”

Silence swelled between them, full and heavy.

Evelyn didn’t challenge her. Didn’t flinch. She understood violence-driven clarity better than most.

“You’ll be on the High Stakes card,” Evelyn said finally, calm and certain. “Not because you’re demanding it. But because you’ve earned it. You have been undeniable. You still are.”

Bella breathed out, but it wasn’t relief. It was something sharper. Something that hurt.

“Then tell me who,” she said.

“You’ll know before the night ends.” Evelyn’s voice softened, not pity, never pity, just something human. “But for now... go breathe. Before you burn yourself alive trying to prove you’re still on fire.”

Bella didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The knot in her chest was too tight, the pressure behind her ribs too thick.

She turned and walked out.

The door to Evelyn Hall’s office shut behind Bella with a hard finality, not a slam, but close enough that the sound echoed down the corridor. Her breath was ragged, her pulse still buzzing from the match and the adrenaline and the anger that hadn’t found anywhere to go yet.

The hallway felt too bright. Too empty.

She walked fast, fists still clenched. The bones in her hands ached from how tightly she’d wrapped them around the ropes earlier. She could still taste the copper of her own blood where she’d bitten the inside of her cheek not to scream.

Crystal’s voice replayed in her mind. The smile. The smugness. The hand raised.

Bella’s stomach twisted.

She turned a corner and stopped.

Mal stood there, leaning against a production crate. Jeans, dark t-shirt, jacket still unzipped like he hadn’t even bothered to take it off when he got here. His hair was a little messy, like he’d run his hands through it a few too many times. He wasn’t dressed to wrestle, he wasn’t part of the roster right now, but he was here. Just like he always was.

Luka lay at his feet, head on her paws, ears perked the second Bella came into view. Bella froze. Mal’s eyes lifted to hers, steady, clear, and entirely there. No surprise. No confusion.

Just: I was waiting for you.

Bella swallowed hard. The words that came out were raw, scraped from the inside of her throat, “Where’s Máire?”

“With your mother,” Mal answered gently. “She’s already asleep.”

Bella nodded, quick, sharp, relief hitting first, then guilt right behind it.

“Good,” she whispered, voice thinner than she wanted it to be. “She shouldn’t... she shouldn’t see me like this.”

Mal didn’t move closer. Not yet. He watched her, the way her shoulders were locked, the way her jaw wouldn’t unclench, the way she was holding herself upright by sheer force of will.

When she finally let out a breath that sounded like it hurt, then he pushed off the crate and approached her.

He didn’t ask anything else.

He just said, soft and certain, “Talk to me.”

Bella laughed, but it was hollow, humorless, brittle. The kind of laugh you let out when the other option is screaming.

“I asked Evelyn for a match at High Stakes,” she said. Her words tripped over themselves, too fast, too sharp. “I don’t care who it is, I just need, I need to fix this. I need to remind every single person who the hell I am. Because I should’ve had that match. I should’ve won. And I’m not—I’m not letting this be the step I fall on. I’m not....”

Her voice cracked.

Mal stepped into her space now, slow enough that she could pull back if she chose to. She didn’t. His hand came up, fingers sliding into her hair at the back of her head, thumb brushing the tense muscle along her neck.

“It was one match,” he murmured. “One. Match.”

“It was supposed to be my match,” she shot back, and this time the tears didn’t wait for permission, they hit fast, hot, angry. “I did everything right. I did everything I was supposed to do, and she still...and I still....”

Mal’s forehead touched hers, grounding her breath to his.

“Mo chroí,” he said, voice low. “Look at me.” Her eyes lifted. “You are not done. You are not less than you were yesterday. You are not broken. You lost one match, that does not erase the war you’ve been winning for months.”

Her lip trembled. “It feels like it does.”

“That’s the part of your brain that only speaks when you’re hurt,” he whispered. “You don’t listen to it. Not tonight.”

Bella’s fists clenched in the front of his shirt, needing something, anything, to anchor her.

“Tell me I’m not slipping,” she whispered. “Please.”

Mal didn’t hesitate.

“You are climbing.” His voice didn’t waver. “You’re just climbing hard. And yeah, it hurts. And yeah, it doesn’t always go clean. But you don’t break, Bella. You don’t stay down. I’ve never seen you stay down.”

Her breath came out shakier than she liked, but calmer. Luka stepped forward and nudged her leg, quiet, grounding, loyal. Bella closed her eyes for a moment, forehead still resting against Mal’s.

“What if the match they give me isn’t enough?” she asked quietly. “What if it isn’t the fight I need?”

Mal’s thumb brushed her cheek, catching a tear before it fell.

“Then you make it enough,” he said simply. “You always do.”

For the first time since the bell rang, Bella exhaled without it breaking inside her. She nodded. Not because everything was okay. But because she could stand again.

“Come on,” Mal said, voice soft. “Let’s go home.”

Bella wiped her face, took a breath, and took his hand. And the storm didn’t feel so heavy anymore.


~*~Glass Houses and Loud Mouths~*~
[size=118]
[/size]The flight home had been quiet. Calm, even. The kind of quiet where the world stops vibrating for a minute and just lets you breathe. Bella had slept against the window, forehead pressed to the cool glass, Luka curled at her feet under the seat, Mal’s hand steady and warm over hers the whole way.

But morning had no such mercy.

The O’Connell home just outside of New York City was wrapped in the kind of autumn sunlight that made everything look softer, golden leaves scattered across the back deck, a chill in the air but not enough to bite. Luka had already bolted outside to chase something that probably wasn’t there. Máire sat cross-legged on the living room rug, Bluey pajama pants and all, making her stuffed animals have an aggressively enthusiastic tea party.

Bella was on the couch, still half in her hoodie, socks mismatched, hair up in a messy bun she hadn’t bothered to fix. Phone in hand. Eyes narrowing.

Mal leaned in the doorway with his coffee mug, watching her expression go from tired to flat deadpan are you fucking kidding me in under two seconds.

“...What now?” he asked.

Bella didn’t answer at first, she just held up her phone so he could see the screen.

Twitter. X ....whatever the fuck it was called just because Elon couldn’t just let shit alone.

Cassie Wolfe, complaining very publicly about being left off High Stakes. Words like respect and overlooked and robbed thrown around with the subtlety of a brick through a window.

Mal let out a very slow exhale. “Ah,” he said. “So we’re doing this today.”[/color]
Bella’s jaw flexed. “I tried,” she said. “I tried to have a normal morning. I was going to make waffles. I was going to let my muscles stop feeling like they were made of railroad spikes. But no. No. She had to get online and act like someone personally peed in her cereal.”

Máire, overhearing nothing but somehow choosing violence, slammed her stuffed kangaroo into the plastic tea set.

“KICK!” she announced to no one in particular.

Mal winced. “She gets that from you.”

Bella didn’t even attempt to argue the point.

Her thumbs moved fast. First hit that retweet button and then...

Bella Madison: "Waaaah I wanna be relevant, waaaaahhhh I wanna be noticed too," my 2 year old throws better fits than this Cass.

It took Cassie all of thirty seconds to respond.

More whining. More dramatics. More I deserve and I’ve worked too hard and nobody respects me. Bella didn’t even blink.

Bella: Here is a BRILLIANT idea Cassie, instead of coming up on this platform to whine & bitch about not being book, call, message...hell even carrier pigeon Christian or even Ms. Hall and say "Hey, just wondering why I was left off the card." & who knows...maybe they'll find you a spot

Mal walked over and set his coffee down on the table beside her and simply said, “Breathe.”

“Oh, I am very calm,” she said, with the tone of someone who was absolutely not calm. “In fact, I’m calm enough to be petty.”

And then the message pinged.

Evelyn Hall.

Bella opened it.

If you’re open to it, I can add Cassie to your match with Bea. That way she has a chance to prove whatever it is she thinks she’s owed. Let me know.

Bella’s lips curled. She didn’t just smile. She grinned. “Of course,” she murmured.

Mal raised a brow. “You’re sure?”

Bella turned the phone so he could see her reply being typed:

Bella: Absolutely. Add her.

Send. She locked the screen and finally turned toward him.

“Cassie wants to act like she’s been wronged?” Bella said, voice low, even, dangerously level. “Then she can step into the ring and find out real fast that the only thing wrong is how far up her own ass her head is.”

Mal watched her for a long, quiet beat, that mixture of supportive husband and oh boy she’s choosing violence again very, very present.

Finally, he kissed her forehead.

“Just remember,” he murmured, “you’re teaching a lesson, not committing a felony.”

“I make no promises,” she said.

From the rug, Máire lifted her kangaroo again, face serious as a judge.

“BOOM!” she declared, and body-slammed it into the carpet.

Bella pointed at her like she’d just won a legal argument.

“See?” she said. “The child understands.”

Mal sighed. “The child eats crayons if we don’t watch her.”

“EXACTLY,” Bella said, throwing her hands up. “And she still understands the consequences.”

Luka barked outside. Somewhere inside Bella, the frustration finally uncoiled, not gone, but directed. Sharpened and focused.

This match was no longer about recovering from a loss. This match was now personal.

Cassie made it so. Bella would make sure she regretted it.


~*~Rules of Engagement: Show Me What You Got ~*~

The video opens on Bella’s living room, transformed into a glitter-coated pastel disaster zone. Pink fuzzy pillows. Sparkle lamp. A plastic princess tiara sits crooked on Bella’s head. She’s chewing a gum bubble obnoxiously loud.

Bella is cross-legged on the couch, wearing a baby-pink sweater with glitter letters that read: “Daddy’s Little Main Character”

She raises her phone and starts recording herself selfie-style, voice switching into a grating, overly dramatic Valley Girl tone.

“Oh. My. GOD. So like, can we TALK about the absolute INJUSTICE that is happening right now??”

Hair flip. Another hair flip. Another. She's committing.

“So I didn’t get booked for High Stakes, which is like, SO disrespectful because I’m, like, literally destined for greatness?? Like, hello?? Have you met my father?? I should automatically be like...at LEAST mid-card.”

She pouts. Lollipop appears from nowhere.

“And then there’s Bea... like... trying SO hard to prove she belongs, which is so cute, honestly. Like...awww. She’s like the class hamster of SCW. She tries so hard, you guys!!”

Bella gasps, clutching invisible pearls.

“But then!!! I had to go on Twitter and cry about it because THAT is what REAL wrestlers do, we don’t earn opportunities, we don’t even ASK NICELY!!!! We have public meltdowns about them!”

She stomps on the couch cushion like a spoiled toddler throwing a tantrum.

“I DESERVE this match!! I am IMPORTANT!! PAY ATTENTION TO MEEEEEE!!!!!”

And just like that, Bella drops the act.

She straightens up, removes the tiara and tosses it aside. The real Bella is here. Her eyes are sharp, controlled, precise.

“Let’s start with you, Cassie. You didn’t fight your way into this match. You complained your way into it. You think this is your grand breakthrough moment? No. This is the moment reality gets introduced to your face, violently. You’re not the underdog. You’re not the future. You’re not the one people are sleeping on.”

“You’re just loud.”

“And at High Stakes? I’m going to turn the volume off.”

Now she shifts to Bea, tone changes completely. No mockery. No performance. Just cold, unflinching truth.

“Bea. You and I have been in the same trenches. Same rebuild. Same grind. You and I both know what it’s like to have to prove ourselves every time we step into that ring. You should be the one I’m focused on.”

“You should be the threat. But the problem is...”

She tilts her head, studying the camera like she’s dissecting the match already.

“You’ve spent so long trying to convince people you belong that you’ve forgotten how to take it. You fight not to lose. I fight to win and that’s the difference right there.”

She stands. The tone turns razor clean.

“So let me make this about as perfectly fucking clear. At High Stakes, I don’t need to beat both of you. I need to outlast your excuses.”

“Cassie? You’re getting humbled. Bea? You’re getting reminded. Me? I’m getting what I came for. Not because I screamed the loudest. Not because I begged for the spotlight. But because I earned it. Every match, every step, every scar.

Bella looks into the camera, steady. Certain. Not angry and fully in control.

“I’m not walking into High Stakes to prove I belong. I’m walking in to take my place. And the two of you? Are just what I have to step through to get there.”

Just then Mal comes down and sees Bella in her full on getup, “And just like that...I have a new kink.”

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.

KNOTT'S SCARY FARM -  BUENA PARK, CALIFORNIA

[Somewhere at Knott's Scary Farm. The camera pans in on Mercedes Vargas and Crystal Caldwell. Crystal is still catching her breath, visibly proud after her tournament final victory over Bella Madison. Mercedes stands beside her with the Bombshell Internet Championship resting on her shoulder.]

Crystal:
Mercedes, I can’t believe it! We did it. I’m going to High Stakes to face Frankie Holliday for the World Bombshell Championship!

Mercedes:
And they said you couldn’t do it without me. You proved them wrong. I told everyone you would. Bella Madison gave you a fight, but tonight, you proved that you’re ready for the spotlight.

[Crystal smiles, shaking her head as the moment sinks in.]

Crystal:
And speaking of spotlight, your title defense against Harper Mason is coming up too. You feeling ready for her?

[Mercedes pushes off the railing, that half-grin never fading.]

Mercedes:
Ready? Crystal, I was born ready. Harper’s tough, sure—but this title isn’t going anywhere. I’ve got that defense locked down.

[Before Mercedes can continue, Rocky Mountains rushes into frame, clearly out of breath and holding a microphone.]

Rocky:
Mercedes, sorry to break up the celebration, but we’ve just received major news. Victoria Lyons attacked Harper Mason backstage. Harper’s hurt, but the office made the call… you’re not facing Harper alone anymore. High Stakes just became a triple threat. Harper Mason. Victoria Lyons. And you.

[The silence that follows is heavy. Crystal looks over, waiting for Mercedes’ reaction. Mercedes doesn’t flinch at first; her jaw tightens, her grip on the title stiffens.]

Crystal:
Wait, Victoria Lyons? She’s been added to your title match? What the fuck?

Mercedes:
You know what? That’s fine. Victoria and I have crossed paths before and both times, it ended without me getting the win. I’ve had two chances to beat her for the Bombshell Roulette Championship, and she’s slipped away both times. But at High Stakes? Third time changes everything, and I've got something she want this time. Harper and Victoria both want this title so badly they’re willing to tear each other apart before even getting to me. Works in my favor.

[Mercedes takes a step toward the camera, her gaze firm.]

Mercedes:
Triple threat or not, I’ve beaten Harper before, and I’ll do it again. Victoria can play mind games all she wants. At High Stakes, when the lights are brightest, I’ll finally get her in the ring with everything on the line—and this time, I walk out still champion.

[Crystal nods, her expression shifting from surprise to encouragement.]

Crystal:
That’s the energy we need going into High Stakes. You get your redemption. I get my world title shot. Two champions. Two matches. One unforgettable night.

Mercedes:
You handle your business. I’ll handle mine. Frankie Holliday, Harper Mason, Victoria Lyons—doesn’t matter. High Stakes belongs to us.

[Mercedes’ smirk returns—sharper this time. She extends her fist. Crystal bumps it without a word.

The camera lingers on the two of them standing amid flickering carnival lights—the hum of fog machines, the sound of faint screams in the distance—and then the image cuts to black.]


Almighty Fire
Semana del 26 de octubre al 2 de noviembre de 2025

Your girl's a little spicy today, so let's get into it.

There’s a lot of noise in the wrestling world, stories told from every angle, some with more truth than others, but you know what sets a real champion apart? Perspective. And I’m here to give you mine, unfiltered and unapologetic, before High Stakes puts everything on the line.

Let’s start by clearing the air about the Bombshell Internet Championship. I didn’t just snatch that title out of nowhere; I earned it at Climax Control 436 back in August, defeating Lilith Locke in a hard-fought battle that showed why I belong at the top. Since then, I’ve defended it fiercely, overcoming threats, distractions, and yes, even the pressure of proving I’m more than a flash in the pan. They said I was done. They said I had nothing left to prove. But here I am—still standing tall while others have come and gone.

Now, the talk is all about “underdogs,” “curses,” and “destined upsets.” Let me get something straight: I’m no fairy tale, but I am no victim either. I’ve built this reign with grit, cunning, and hard work, not just luck or alliances. Crystal Caldwell has been a steadfast ally in this journey, but make no mistake, this title has been earned and maintained with sweat and skill — not handed out.

And speaking of challengers — Harper Mason. The underdog with a chip on her shoulder who’s been counting her curses instead of her victories. She loves to talk about bad luck, missed chances, and supposed “curse” around High Stakes. But here’s the reality: Harper’s struggled more with consistency than with any hex. She’s unpredictable, hungry, that’s true. But hunger alone doesn’t win championships. It takes grit. It takes focus. It takes results — something I’ve delivered over and over.

And then there’s Victoria Lyons. Halloween was yesterday, I know, but this woman has haunted me longer than I’m willing to admit. Make no mistake: Victoria is a threat. She’s cunning and chaotic, a wild card who never backs down. But don’t let the rumors fool you — Victoria hasn’t exactly been lighting this division on fire since losing the Bombshell Roulette Championship. Some might say she lost the spark she once had after she and Harper lost to Song and Lilith Locke in a tag match back in May. Her attack on Harper at Climax Control 440 was desperation, pure and simple, an attempt to claw her way back into relevance at the biggest show of the year.

I’ve faced Victoria twice before, and though she may have the bragging rights on paper, I know exactly what it will take to finally put her away for good. My reign isn’t about grudges or unfinished business. It’s about proving who truly rules this division.

This triple threat match isn’t some convenient storyline. It’s a reckoning. Harper brings fire, Victoria brings chaos, and I bring the unshakable confidence of a champion who refuses to lose what she’s fought so damn hard to keep. They should consider themselves lucky — they get to be part of history when I become the all-time leader in career wins and PPV victories in SCW history.

Some call me the thorn in their sides, the glass ceiling, the lucky champ. Good. That means their ambition is real. Their hunger is sharp. Without worthy challengers, where’s the glory?

At High Stakes, I’m not just defending a title. I’m defending a legacy. A legacy built on blood, sweat, and victories that none of my opponents could ever dream of achieving. Mercedes Vargas doesn’t bow, doesn’t break, never backs down. Whether it’s Harper’s fire or Victoria’s fury, I will stand tall when the final bell rings.

And with everything I’ve accomplished this year, I’m in the running for top honors at the SCW Year-End Awards, including Woman of the Year. It’s not just about the hardware in my hands; it’s about the respect, the dominance, and the mark I’m leaving on this company.

Bring your curses, doubts, and desperation. I live the reality that counts — a champion still rising, reigning, and ready to prove why this championship is mine.

The question isn’t who’s going to let me; it’s who’s dumb enough to try and stop me. Watch closely, because High Stakes is where history will be made. And I’m ready to make mine.


KNOTT'S SCARY FARM – LATE NIGHT

[The carnival noise is gone now. All is quiet except for the steady hum of the overhead lights. Backstage corridor away from the active scare zones. Mercedes Vargas sits on a weathered bench, half in shadow, cleaning her Bombshell Internet Championship with a towel. Her reflection in the metal plate is weary but focused. Crystal Caldwell enters, her hair still damp from a post-match shower, a hoodie thrown over her gear.]

[Crystal finds a spot near her.]

Crystal:
You didn’t have to wait around this long.

[Mercedes smirks faintly.]

Mercedes:
Couldn’t sleep. Still hearing the crowd. Still seeing Victoria’s name flashing on the monitor.

[Crystal exhales, sitting across from her, elbows on her knees.]

Crystal:
You’ll handle her. You always do.

Mercedes:
No. That’s the problem. I haven’t.

[The weight in her voice lands heavy. Mercedes sets the belt down between them with care, fingertips tracing the worn center plate as if searching for answers.]

Mercedes:
She gets in my head. Always has. Every time we cross paths, it’s like she’s already halfway there before the bell even rings. And Harper—she’s another story. She’s got fire. She’s hungry. That makes her unpredictable. This time, I can’t afford to be just good. I have to be unbreakable.

[Crystal looks at her, studying her expression. The energy between them has shifted—more somber than celebratory now.]

Crystal:
You talk about being unbreakable like you haven’t already proved it a hundred times. You’ve carried this company when half the roster was just trying to stay visible. You earned everything you’ve got.

[Mercedes smiles a little.]

Mercedes:
You sound like a motivational poster.

Crystal:
Maybe. But I mean it.

[She leans forward.]

Crystal:
You think I don’t have my own doubts? Frankie Holliday’s been the face of this division for how long now? Half the fans already see me as another name on her list. But that’s what fuels me. That’s why I fight.

Mercedes:
That’s what makes you dangerous, Crystal. You don’t need validation. You just want the fight.

[They share a quiet laugh, broken by the dull clang of a locker slamming somewhere down the hall. Both women glance toward the sound, then back at each other.]

Mercedes:
You ever stop and think how strange this all is? We give so much of ourselves to moments—titles, storylines, chances at glory. And at the end of it, we’re just hoping someone in the seats remembers the feeling.

Crystal:
Maybe that’s all it ever is. Moments. Good ones. Bad ones. But if we can make people feel something, even for a heartbeat, then maybe it’s all worth it.

[Mercedes studies her for a long moment, then finally nods. She stands, slinging the Bombshell Internet Championship over her shoulder. The dim light catches the gold plate for just a second before it disappears into shadow again.]

Mercedes:
High Stakes. You go make Frankie remember your name. I’ll make Victoria wish she never showed up.

Crystal:
And after that?

Mercedes:
After that… we go find what’s next.

[Crystal nods in agreement. Mercedes walks toward the exit, the sound of her boots echoing down the hall. Crystal lingers for a moment, staring at the empty locker opposite her. Her voice falls into a whisper.]

Crystal:
One night at High Stakes. Everything changes.

[END]
 

Present Day ♦ L O S A N G E L E S • C A L I F O R N I A

[REC•]

[Sunset. A Los Angeles rooftop. The Bombshell Roulette Championship glimmers on a table nearby. Mercedes Vargas sits, silk robe sliding from her shoulder, golden light painting her silhouette. The city hums below, and she doesn’t look at it—she lets it look at her.]

"You can tell a lot about a city by which side the sun sets on. Los Angeles—everyone here desperate for a little starlight, like fame is perfume they can rub on their wrists and call it ‘legacy.’ I don’t chase spotlights. I built my own. And while most of these tourists mistake traffic for movement, I already own every lane."

[She glides closer to the camera, drapes the Bombshell Roulette Championship over her shoulder. The metal catches a bleed of copper sunlight.]

"Harper Mason, you finally get a taste of altitude sickness. See, High Stakes isn’t about you climbing a mountain. It’s about you realizing how thin the air gets when you finally reach the summit—only to find someone already sitting in first class, and the view’s reserved."

[Her fingers trace the gold plate, a smile hovering just between mockery and meaning.]

"You remind me of every right-now girl in this city—so busy turning validation into performance that you forget legacy isn’t rehearsed. Willing to do anything for a headline—so desperate for a crown you end up wearing plastic. You call yourself the future? Every future needs a past to study. Too bad the only history they’ll remember is the night you learned why legends aren’t made—they’re born stubborn. Like me."

[Mercedes rises, the cityscape spreading behind her in quiet reverence.]

"Inexperienced girls always think surprise is strategy. But after a decade of mastering this game, surprise just looks like a beginner’s mistake from here. You want to “break through”? The only thing breaking is your carefully curated confidence. They say every match is a story. Let’s just call this one an overdue correction."

[She steps toward the edge, voice dropping lower, precise.]

"You’ll have your moments, Harper. The near falls. The crowd convinced they’re moments away from something historic. But come next Sunday, inevitability’s wearing red, gold, and that trademark Vargas grin. You grew up chasing rebellion. I became its definition. There’s a difference."

[She glances down at the belt, then back at the lens—measured, indifferent.]

"Let’s be clear, Harper. High Stakes is more than a main event, it’s a reminder that “potential” is just an excuse people use when they haven’t delivered. I don’t trade in excuses. Only receipts."

[She adjusts the title’s strap across her shoulder.]

"And you? You’ll be one more ‘almost’ who thought destiny owed her something. Sorry, mamita. Destiny and I have an exclusive arrangement."

[Mercedes walks closer until only her expression fills the shot: fierce, still, almost kind.]

"Here’s your gift, Harper. Next Sunday, you’ll know the true weight of a crown. Maybe you’ll thank me one day—when you’re wiser, humbler, and no longer under the illusion that a lucky night rewrites the book I authored. Because while everyone else is busy dreaming in Los Angeles, I never had to wake up.

"This reign? It’s real. It’s earned. It’s untouchable."

[Pause, then softer.]

"So when the sun sets and the only thing left on your side is disappointment, remember—This view from the top is breathtaking. Just not for you."

[Mercedes continues, now turning attention to her other opponent.]

"Funny thing about climbing, Victoria—it’s only impressive if you stop falling."

[Pause. A faint smirk.]

“I admire the effort. You’ve finally realized that dragging excuses behind you doesn’t look flattering under bright lights. So congratulations — you’ve discovered accountability. Late, but better late than never, right?"

[She tilts her head, amused.]

“But that wasn’t what caught my attention. No, what made me stop… what made me laugh, honestly… was hearing you talk about your brother being deadweight. Sweetheart, come on. That’s not shadow work, that’s projection. You spent most of 2025 blaming circumstance for every stumble, every oversight, every match you couldn’t close. You wore setback like it was a personality trait and now you want applause for shedding the skin you outgrew six months too late?

How about the fact that Vincent is holding a championship right now while you're not?”

[The smirk widens slightly — restrained, yet cutting.]

“I’ve seen talent like yours before, Victoria. Ambitious. Emotional. Fragile. Always eager to talk about rising, but allergic to staying consistent once the spotlight tilts elsewhere. You’re not reinventing yourself, Victoria. You’re recycling your same story under new packaging.”

[Mercedes’ tone stays even, conversational, like she’s explaining simple math to someone who insists two plus two equals five out of pride.]

“If you truly were a different woman now, you wouldn’t need to announce it. Real change is quiet. It’s done in the dark when no one’s watching, not shouted across timelines begging for validation.”

[There’s a certain rhythm to Mercedes’ words, the cadence of someone who doesn’t shout because she doesn’t have to. Every sentence lands with precise weight, deliberate, unhurried, scalpel-sharp. She continues.]

“You called me out as if your newfound self-awareness gives you license to stand at my level. That’s cute. Truly. Reminds me of when rookies still believed confidence alone could bridge experience. You want to talk about rising out of a pit? I’ve lived long enough in this business to know when someone’s simply decorating the walls of theirs.”

[A subtle jab, delivered with such poise that the insult glides by like perfume in the air — sweet but unmistakably pointed.]

“You think your transformation makes you dangerous. But what it really makes you is predictable. Every woman who reinvented herself in the last decade has tried the same storyline. Mass-marketed enlightenment looks good for press, but it never survives pressure.”

[She leans forward, elbows on knees, voice low but firm.]

“You see, the thing about someone like me isn’t that I’ve stayed the same. I’ve simply remained true. I don’t need to burn things down to know my worth. I build on foundations I laid years ago. You? You keep starting over every time your story doesn’t test well.”

[For a brief moment, Mercedes looks away, almost contemplative. Then her voice softens further — not out of empathy, but precision.]

"I could’ve stayed quiet, let you talk yourself into irrelevance. But then again, it’s not in my nature to watch someone make a fool of themselves publicly when I can make it educational instead.”

[Another pause, then a sigh that sounds too faintly pleased to be genuine.]

“I said 2024 Victoria Lyons isn’t the same as 2025 Victoria Lyons, and I still believe it. The difference is that last year, at least, you still knew where you stood — behind the line of relevance, waiting for your moment. This year? You still haven’t caught up. You’ve just convinced yourself that louder footsteps mean faster progress.”

[She leans back again, expression calm, unbothered.]

“And yet, here you are — mentioning me by name. That tells me everything I need to know. Every time a woman like you feels the need to prove she’s changed, it’s because deep down, she knows she hasn’t. She just changed the reflection — not the reality.”

[Camera pans closer. Mercedes tilts her head, gaze unwavering.]

“You brought up family. You pointed fingers. You said your brother dragged you down. And yet, the common denominator between every misstep, every failure, every burnt bridge — is you. You’re the gravity you try to outrun.”

[Then, with just enough venom to sting.]

“So tell me, Victoria, what happens when you run out of people to blame? When there’s nowhere left to climb because you tore down every rung yourself?”

[This is where Mercedes' influence shines through most clearly — that quiet cruelty wrapped in elegance, the ability to disarm through calmness rather than chaos. Mercedes doesn’t yell. She never needs to. Every word feels measured, rehearsed, intentional. The aesthetic of authority.]

“Rising out of the pit, you say. Funny. From up here, it still looks like you’re digging.”

[Mercedes shifts her tone now — smooth, professional, detached — the kind of demeanor someone adopts when discussing a legacy too established to question.]

“You should study me, Victoria. Seriously. Not because I’m your opponent — but because I’m your future if you ever get your story straight.”

[She holds up a single finger.]

“One. You’ll need one reinvention. Just one. Because the moment you find the identity that was meant for you, you won’t have to keep rewriting the prologue. The fact that you’re still workshopping your persona halfway through the year tells me you’re not living your rise — you’re rehearsing it.”

[Two fingers now.]

“Two. You’ll learn that control isn’t loud. I don’t flaunt victories. I let history archive them. When you’ve spent as much time dominating this industry as I have, you don’t crave eyes — eyes crave you.”

[And finally, a third.]

“Three. You’ll stop pretending you’re misunderstood when the truth is simple: you’re just not respected yet. There’s a difference.”

[Another slight smile — poised, knowing, confident.]

“You’ll figure that out… eventually. Maybe you thought this would be a story about redemption. Maybe you envisioned me as the wall you crash through to declare your rebirth. But I’m not your obstacle, Victoria. I’m the reminder.”

[She stands now, voice still calm but colder.]

“I remind the naïve of their limits. I remind the ambitious that confidence without calculation is chaos. And I remind women like you that the spotlight is not a wish — it’s a responsibility.”

[Mercedes smooths the sleeve of her jacket with deliberate care, then glances back at the camera.]

“I don’t need to shout I’m better. Time does that on its own.”

[A heartbeat. The faintest smirk.]

“So keep rising, Victoria. Burn as bright as you like. Just remember — the higher your flame, the easier it is to see the smoke."