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31
Climax Control Archives / Tabled
« Last post by Seleana Zdunich on February 06, 2026, 10:25:19 PM »
Off-Camera

Encounter Cage
Zdunich Zoological Gardens
Los Angeles, California
Monday, February, 6, 2026
8:01 AM PST





Sarabi.

That was where Seleana Zdunich went when she wanted to get away from everything. The lioness loved to play like an overgrown housecat and Seleana always saw her as that, having raised her from a cub ten years previous in Christchurch, New Zealand at Orana Wildlife Park.

Seleana Zdunich: We here, ja?

Sarabi paws at her adoptive mother lovingly, playfully.

Seleana Zdunich: You love your mamma, ja?

As the big cat paws at the Swedish woman, Seleana grabs onto her and embraces her.

Seleana Zdunich: I love you, my good girl.

Sarabi places both paws on Seleana's shoulders and clutches Seleana like the lioness' life depends on it.

Seleana Zdunich: Du är så vacker, min underbara flicka.

Sarabi licks Seleana's head all over.

Seleana Zdunich: My big baby…

The lioness keeps licking Seleana like the Swede's hair is the single greatest tasting flavor ever.

Seleana Zdunich: Mummy has to go to Fresno soon. She will have a fight that will go poorly no matter what happens.

She hugs the lioness ever more tightly.

Seleana Zdunich: I do not like what I will have to do but it is not a fight I sought. I do not know what her real agenda is but she has been pursuing this for a long time. She made sure she picked a fight with me and then saw an opportunity with my marriage.

The blonde Swedish woman continues to nuzzle the lioness causing Sarabi to make the grunts of contentment that the lion version of purring. 

Seleana Zdunich: You love your, Mamma, ja?

Seleana nods as Sarabi rubs on her lovingly.

Seleana Zdunich: Your mamma is proud of you…

She rubs the big cat's head lovingly.

Seleana Zdunich: I will be back soon after Fresno. I will try not to get too much blood.

She kisses Sarabi's head, hugging her tightly again.

Seleana Zdunich: Jag älskar dig, älskling.





On-Camera

Parking Lot
Zdunich Zoological Gardens
Los Angeles, California
Monday, February, 6, 2026
11:04 AM PST





Seleana Zdunich: I am coming for you, Mercedes.

The camera opens on Seleana Zdunich standing next to the side door of the zoo in black jeans, a red zoo t-shirt with a picture of Sarabi the lioness on it and new Jordans.

Seleana Zdunich: You try to use me to get at my wife.

She shrugs.

Seleana Zdunich: She choose me instead of you and does it matter why?

Glaring into the camera, Seleana just bores through her target.

Seleana Zdunich: You never give damn about her. You come at me because it was convenient and enjoyable to you to cause chaos.

She shakes her head disgustedly.

Seleana Zdunich: Jag hatar dig, fitta!

The blonde Swedish woman points accusingly.

Seleana Zdunich: You have never done anything to make it seem like there was anything redeeming about you.

She nods grimly.

Seleana Zdunich: You never respected, never treated me as if I was anything even when I beat you. Now, you try to end my marriage for nothing. Like it was a joke you were just searching for the proper punchline for.

She cocks her head to the right, still glaring.

Seleana Zdunich: We waited eight months to get to fight, now, we wait no more. We have tables match in Fresno and punish each other for existing. You don't care about me and I hate you. We punish each other now.

Seleana's glare intensifies.

Seleana Zdunich: Knäck dig, fitta! See you in Fresno.

 



 


32
Climax Control Archives / Twisted Sister - BUSINESS WOMAN!
« Last post by Metal Maniacs on February 06, 2026, 08:23:40 PM »
Would we ever grow used to the visuals of the broken down and abandoned warehouse that served as where the Metal maniacs called home? The grimy and broken windows. The exterior pipes were worn with rust. Bricks that were chipped or missing altogether. The thought that someone not only purchased this abandoned wreck, but also called it home was completely foreign from logic. But where the Metal Maniacs were concerned, logic was not … well, logical.

The interior was not much better for the eyes to behold. Cobwebs and dust dominated corners and flat surfaces. The wide space was lit by strings of mismatched bulbs that Anthrax had hung up in careful arches. An old TV set that seemingly was under threat of being repossessed by the 1980s. A second hand and threadbare couch with a blanket draped over it. A kettle on a hot plate. A pile of neatly folded clothes on a folding table. And beyond that was Twisted Sister’s workbench.

Her workbench wasn’t just messy. It was a disaster of epic proportions.

Multiple tubes of industrial strength super glue were laid out, along with spools of red thread stacked beside fishing hooks and a glass jar of buttons of every size and color. A staple gun sat hazardly at the edge of the table. A small, handheld blowtorch rested on a scorched baking tray. There were scissors in three sizes, pliers and a tray of LEGO pieces sorted with great devotion.

Twisted Sister sat in the middle of it all, perched on a stool like a crow. A doll laid on the bench in front of her, its blond hair matted and singed at the ends, one arm missing entirely.

Twisted Sister: Oh, you poor thing. They left you unfinished!

She had reached for the super glue first, uncapping it with her teeth. She didn’t repair the doll the way a normal person would. She didn’t restore it to what it had been. She recreated it. Where the arm should’ve been, she had set a LEGO hinge joint, bright and wrong and perfect, then reinforced it with glue. She had held it steady, humming under her breath, a tune that had no melody.

When the joint held, she smiled, sudden and proud, and reached for the staple gun. She stapled a strip of black lace along the doll’s torso like a corset. She stapled a ribbon across the back of its head as if pinning on a veil. She had pinned and pressed until the doll looked less like a toy and more like a victim of the SAW franchise.

Across the room, Anthrax sat at a long “table” crafted from two pallets and a door ripped from somewhere else. A laptop sat open with Etsy already logged in. He moved with the unhurried patience of someone who never needed to rush because everything always ended up where he wanted it.

He had glanced over at Twisted Sister’s bench as the staple gun snapped again.

Anthrax: Is that the one with the missing eye?

Twisted’s head had tipped, hair falling over her face but she didn’t bother to fix it as she worked.

Twisted Sister: No. This is the one that pretends it can see.

She had plucked a plastic eye from a little dish, wrong-sized, then pressed it into the doll’s face not where the eye belonged, but slightly too high. She glued it there, held it until it set, then leaned back and admired her work.

Twisted Sister: Better!

Anthrax had watched for a moment, expression unreadable. Then he turned back to his table, picking up a finished doll from a foam cradle.

This one had a cracked porcelain face that had been repaired with gold seams that didn’t follow the original fracture lines. Twisted had made extra cracks, branching like lightning. Its mouth had been altered into a stitched grin. One hand was a clawed hand from some monster action figure.

Anthrax held it up and took a photo of the doll sitting upright, head tilted.

Twisted Sister, meanwhile, moved on to the blowtorch.

A thin flame kissed the edge of synthetic hair, shrinking it into charred curls. She warmed a section of plastic just enough to warp it, creating a subtle melt along the doll’s shoulder, like a scar that had healed wrong.

Anthrax didn’t comment. He simply opened a listing and began to type…

Title: Salvaged Adoption Doll
Category: Art Dollies / Horror Cute

Twisted Sister heard the keyboard and spoke without looking up.

Twisted Sister: No ‘horror!’

Anthrax paused, fingers hovering and then he hit delete-delete-delete….

Anthrax: No ‘horror.’

Twisted Sister: They’re not monsters. They’re survivors.

Anthrax’s mouth twitched into a smile and he giggled audibly. He then typed…

Tags: reclaimed, stitched, surreal, mixed media, adoption, collector art

Twisted Sister set the torch down and reached for a doll head on a stand. This one had no body yet, just a face. She stared at it for a long time, like she was waiting for it to confess something.

Then she had squeezed super glue around the rim and pressed on a crown of LEGO pieces, tiny bricks arranged in a jagged halo. She then pulled out a pack of tiny metal rings, hardware-store junk meant for keychains, and threaded them through the doll’s ears, through the scalp, through the plastic, puncturing and decorating in the same motion. When she tugged the ring closed, the head jerked slightly on its stand, as if it had tried to pull away and failed.

At the photo table, Anthrax finished the listing copy…

Description:
This doll has been IMPROVED, not restored. Visible seams are intentional.
She is delicate, brave, and one-of-one.
Adoption is only for good, loving homes.
If you’re unkind, she will know.

He had added their usual adoption clause, Twisted Sister insisting on it.

By purchasing, you agree:
Display respectfully.
Do not fix her further.
Do not separate her parts.
Give her a name if she asks.

Anthrax hit Save and set the doll gently aside, ready to ship when adopted.

Twisted had finished the one she had been working on and held it up for Anthrax to see.

Twisted Sister: Look! This one is safe now.

Anthrax crossed the space between them, quiet as a shadow. looked at the doll and smiled in appreciation.

Anthrax: It’s beautiful.

Twisted Sister: Only good homes. They have to be loved.

Anthrax had reached up and adjusted a loose thread on the doll’s collar and he nodded.

Anthrax: Only good homes.

He had taken the doll from her hands without rushing, carrying it to his table display and lifted the camera. Twisted Sister watched from her bench, fingers stained with glue, eyes bright with feverish devotion. Behind her, dozens of dolls sat on shelves and crates, all of them transformed into something that shouldn’t exist in a normal house.

And Twisted Sister whispered to the next broken dolly on her bench.

Twisted Sister: Don’t worry. We’ll make you right.

And she quietly went back to work.


The camera found Twisted Sister at her workbench, still busying herself in the devoted action of dolly adoption. She held up what was actually an old-fashioned “Betsy Wetsy” doll from decades ago, but had no idea what it actually was. To Twisted Sister, it was simply another broken little thing that needed her own brand of tender, loving care.

Twisted Sister: Shhh. It’s okay. You’re safe now. I found you. I can fix you. I can make you pretty.

Her fingers began their work in that unholy rhythm. She peeled off what didn’t suit her, she snipped a seam, she pulled fishing wire through plastic like she was sewing up a wound that never closed. She dabbed super glue and pressed in a button where something was missing, then held it there.

Twisted Sister: Amelia Reynolds. Sweet Amelia. You walk around with that pretty face and those neat little manners, and you think the world is going to treat you gently if you just keep smiling the right way. You think if you keep your hair tidy and your posture perfect, nobody will ever grab you by the wrist and find out what you’re made of inside.

Twisted Sister leaned closer to the doll again, speaking to it and to the camera at the same time.

Twisted Sister: You remind me of this. Something people pick up when they’re bored. Something people put down when they’re done. Something that looks so sweet on the shelf that nobody thinks about what happens when the lights go off and the house gets quiet. Amelia is like a living doll to play with, and I know all about dolls. I know them better than anyone, because dolls don’t lie. They just stare and stare until you finally admit what you are.

She flipped the doll over, still working while she talked. Her hands reached for the blowtorch, and she clicked it on with a little spark and the flame danced near a strand of synthetic hair, just enough to curl it into something deliberately wrong. She nodded approvingly as if she had corrected a mistake the universe made.

Twisted Sister: I’m going to do the same for you. I’m going to make you pretty. I’m going to fix the little parts that don’t sit right, the little pieces of yourself that you try to hide. I help my dollies. I take the ones everyone else throws away and I make them special. I make them unforgettable. I make them iconic.

Her eyes widened and she set the blowtorch down and picked up the staple gun. The metal clicked once, twice, her finger testing the trigger.

Twisted Sister: You step into my playground and you become mine to improve. You become mine to hold still. You become mine to play with until I decide you’re done.

She lifted the doll at last, presenting it proudly to the camera like a finished masterpiece. It had been altered in all the ways that made your skin crawl if you looked too long, one button eye mismatched, hair scorched into a curled fringe, stitches where stitches did not belong. Twisted Sister beamed, thrilled with herself, and squeezed the doll’s belly again.

The doll responded by peeing.

A stream ran down Twisted Sister’s hand, down her wrist, and it didn’t stop fast enough to be funny. For one frozen beat, she just stared at it like her brain had turned off, like the universe had slapped her. Her mouth fell open, her eyes went huge, and the sound she made next was not laughter and not words.

Twisted Sister: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

It was a blood curdling scream that ripped out of her like something tearing free, and she flung the doll away as if it had betrayed her, jerking back from her own arm like it was on fire while the camera cut on the sound of her screaming into the dark.
33
Climax Control Archives / What choice do I have?
« Last post by HBCarter on February 06, 2026, 07:05:51 PM »
The hallway light was on, but it had the wrong color.

It wasn’t brighter, nor was it dimmer. It was just wrong. Miles had always preferred a brighter, albeit soft lighting. He would say it brought a sense of comfort to a home. This? This was more like that weak yellow that more resembled a cheap motel than somebody's pride and joy. It was as if someone had rebuilt their home from memory and missed details only Carter could feel in his bones. The picture frames were straight, then not straight when he looked again.

And then there was the scent. Ordinarily, Carter could smell the scent of sandalwood whenever he set foot inside. It was the only scent of cologne that Miles wore and it drove Carter's libido crazy. And while he could still smell the sandalwood, it was faint. Overpowered by another smell that was pungent but familiar.

There was also no sound. Not from the city outside nor from inside. No sound from the refrigerator humming, no ticking from the wall-mounted clock, no elevator hum, nothing. It was a dead kind of quiet that made your breath feel too loud.

Carter stood in the living room, staring at the bookshelf, knowing immediately that someone had touched it. Titles he arranged by author were now arranged by color. A memoir he hated had been placed front and center. A game case sat on the coffee table, open to a menu screen that pulsed without sound, though he had not turned on the console. It felt less like a break-in and more like a message written in his own handwriting.

“Miles?”

Nothing. No response.

He tried again, louder, then called for Kevin too, expecting at least a muffled “yeah?” from down the hall, but still there was no response. They were both supposed to be home. He moved toward the kitchen and stopped cold, because there on the counter sat a bottle of red wine that had not been there when he left. The same bottle Miles had contemplated buying but passed, not knowing whether Carter already had one.

From the hallway came the soft click of nails on wood. Ms. Thang appeared and froze in the doorway, ears pinned back and fur bristled. She looked past him and then hissed toward the far corner of the kitchen, right at the closed pantry door. The hiss stretched into a guttural snarl Carter had never heard from her, before she turned and darted away somewhere further into the condo.

He backed into the hall and the condo seemed to rearrange itself around him as he moved. The hallway lengthened by a foot, then two. The photos on the wall were wrong. Miles’s smile had been replaced by a blank expression Carter had never seen. In another, Kevin’s face was turned away as if he had heard someone call from outside the frame. Carter walked faster, saying their names with more fervor, checking the open door to Kevin’s bedroom but found it empty. Literally empty. No Kevin - no furniture. Just a single desk chair that was slowly spinning, though no one sat in it.

His breath caught as he kept seeing movement at the edge of his vision. A vertical shape in the reflection of the TV. A silhouette in the reflection of the sliding glass door that led to the patio. A breath on the back of his neck but nobody there when he jumped and spun around. Every time he turned, he found every day things changed. Kevin’s PS5 controller moved from the couch arm to the coffee table. His book now open to a chapter he had not reached. A zip tie resting on the bathroom sink as casually as a hair tie. His pulse quickened as panic threatened to close in when  his phone buzzed, scaring the hell out of him.

Hoping it was a text from Miles, telling him he was almost home, but no. It was just a photo. A photo from his own closet, shot from the inside. Timestamped twelve minutes ago.

Carter stumbled backward and hit the wall. Ms. Thang bolted past him, then stopped halfway down the hall and hissed again, this time at something he couldn’t see. The overhead light above her flickered and then steadied. In that flicker he caught the shape again, a person-shaped shadow. It seemed to move a fraction closer, one step nearer.

He ran for the bedroom and found the door wide open. Beside the closet was the dresser and above the dresser, the large mirror. In the mirror’s reflection, he watched as the bedroom doorway filled with a thin, vertical shadow. When he spun around the doorway was empty. The closet door then started to slide open, causing Carter to stumble back until the back of his legs hit the bed and he fell back …

Against his lime green Beetle in the parking garage.

Carter didn’t remember leaving the bedroom, didn’t remember the elevator ride down to the base level of the towers where every tenant parked their vehicles. But he turned around and there was his ‘baby’ with the driver’s door wide open. By renewed instinct, he leaned over at the waist but could see no one inside. Then just as easily, he was seated inside of the car, keys in the ignition and that tiny figure of Stitch staring directly behind him. Yed wide, mouth even wider, the ceramic hand pointing behind him.

A shape leaned forward from the dark directly behind his headrest, close enough that he could hear cloth whisper against leather. Carter gazed up into the rearview mirror and saw those eyes…

Then the garage dissolved and he was in bed.

He jolted awake, gasping for air and the cold sweat beaded on the bare skin of his arms, chest and legs. The bedroom was dark, the only light being that of the city lights from the nearby Strip shining in through the floor to ceiling windows. He closed his eyes and turned his head, opening them to see Miles asleep in bed beside him, causing a wave of relief to floor through him. It was just a dream. No, it was more than that. It was a nightmare, one of many that he had been suffering through. He then slowly rolled over to his back and looked up…

A man stood over him on his side of the bed, close enough that Carter could see the shine in his eyes. Carter made a sound that barely escaped his throat before the hand came down, a cloth crushed over his mouth and nose with a sweetness so violent it felt like a scream! He bucked upward, grabbed at the wrist, kicked, twisted, all with the same futility. The headboard struck the wall violently! The bed shook in the struggle! He reached for Miles with his free hand, fingers clawing at his husband’s shoulder, shaking, striking, begging without words!

Miles did not wake.

He lay on his side, breathing slow and deep, face slack with impossible sleep while Carter thrashed inches away, while the mattress dipped under another man’s weight, while the room filled with the smell of chloroform and blind terror! Carter tried to shout his name and got nothing but wet choking sounds against the rag! The attacker leaned closer, pressing his weight heavily against him! His limbs turned heavy. Pins and needles raced up his arms. The ceiling above him seemed to bow lower, pressing down, and Ms. Thang screamed from the hallway…!

Carter woke for real with a violent jolt that arched him off the mattress!

The room was truly dark this time, truly still. No figure above him. No cloth pressed against his face. Just his own ragged breathing and the slick chill of sweat soaking his bare skin. He sat halfway up, heart pounding and hands shaking, and the tremor ran through his whole frame. Beside him, Miles stirred instantly, awake and alert at his husband’s blind terror.

“Hey, hey!” Miles said, voice rough with concern as he pushed up on an elbow. “You’re okay, love. You’re okay! Another nightmare?”

Carter couldn’t answer right away. At least, not verbally. He nodded once, hard, trying to keep it together, eyes staring ahead with a blank terror. Miles followed his gaze and found them locked on the closet door that was closed, on the murky shadows against the wall. Miles’s face tightened with that helpless, furious worry that had lived on inside of every part of him ever since the attack, since police lights danced on the cement walls of the parking garage and his husband was found on the garage floor, succumbing to an illegal agent. He reached out, broad hand warm on Carter’s abdomen, then his arm slid around Carter’s waist and drew him back down against his chest. Carter folded into him, little spoon by instinct, back pressed to Miles’s sternum, Miles’s breath steady at the nape of his neck.

“I’ve got you.” Miles whispered, holding him like he was promising nothing would get to him so long as he was around. “I’ve got you.”

Carter let the words settle, let the strong arm around him become a boundary the nightmare could not cross, and stayed there in the dark, shaking slowly easing under the weight of being held.


Morning came faster than Carter would have liked. Despite all reassurances from Miles, Carter never got back to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw those recurring ones in his dream. The ones that always remained in the outskirts of his memory.

Carter stood at the counter in a faded T-shirt and sweatpants, moving with the careful focus of someone who had been awake too long and was trying not to show it. He worked through breakfast like it was the only thing he could trust himself to do, preparing his man and pseudo-son for their day ahead. Two slices of wheat toast with peanut butter and banana slices. Next came a small bowl of Greek yogurt with granola and a handful of raspberries. He set one plate in front of Miles and called for Kevin.

Carter had never pretended to be some gifted home chef. He burnt waffles, forgot the cheese the first time he tried making lasagne, and at least once a month he forgot something on the stove and had to wave a dish towel at the smoke detector while Kevin laughed himself breathless. But he still tried every day, because this was one of the ways he loved people, through effort, and it was appreciated. Miles and Kevin always ate what he made with the kind of gratitude that mattered. That didn’t change this morning, even if Carter’s hands moved a little slower and the shadows under his eyes looked like bruises.

Miles sat at the kitchen island, his plate in front of him and his phone in hand. He scrolled, took a bite, scrolled again, but every few seconds his gaze slid up and tracked Carter’s movements by a protective instinct. His husband looked rested enough on the surface, but there was a tightness around his mouth each time Carter paused too long at the counter or stared blankly at the sink like he’d forgotten what step came next.

“That’s really good.” Miles said after a bite of the peanut butter banana toast, closing his eyes with a soft appreciation. “Like, shockingly good. I might report you for false advertising after years of pretending you can’t cook.”

Carter snorted, but the smile was small and tired. “I can assemble food. That is not the same as cooking.”

“Aren’t you eating?” Miles asked, already knowing the answer. And he was right, as Carter shook his head in dismissal. “I’m not really hungry.” Was the answer and Miles set his spoon down, and was about to say something when they heard the bedroom door down the hallway open and close with an almost surgical gentleness. One thing they came to realize about Kevin since the teen moved in, he did not slam doors.

Kevin came into the kitchen with a backpack slung over one shoulder and wearing jeans and a hoodie that wasn’t his own, and looked about two sizes too big.  He stopped when he saw Carter, his expression shifting with concern.

“Are you okay?” He asked, noticing the circles under Carter’s eyes. “You look wiped.”

Carter gave him a tired smile and reached for Kevin’s plate before the kid could say anything else. “Just had trouble sleeping, that’s all.”

Kevin’s gaze flicked to Miles, searching for the adult version of the truth. Miles met his eyes, said nothing, and that silence said enough. Kevin nodded, then crossed to the island and slid onto the stool beside Miles. Carter set the breakfast in front of him, peanut butter banana toast and the yogurt bowl crowned with granola raspberries. Kevin looked down with a grin.

“This looks good.” Kevin said, already picking up the spoon for the yogurt.

“Don’t get used to this level of culinary excellence,” Carter said, trying for light.

Kevin laughed and took a bite. “Honestly, this is perfect.”

They drifted into the easy rhythm of morning talk. Kevin mentioned a Chemistry test in third period that he felt “okay” about. Miles asked whether Connor was still doing pickup, and Kevin nodded through a mouthful of toast before swallowing and adding, “I get out late today, by the way. LGBTQ club meeting after school.”

Miles set his phone down and responded. “Fair enough. Text when you’re done, we’ll come pick you up.”

Kevin nodded. A few minutes later Kevin’s phone buzzed on the counter. He checked the screen, stood, and swung his backpack on properly. “Connor’s downstairs.”

Goodbyes came in a familiar routine they had built without trying. Kevin leaned in to hug Carter first, then bumped Miles’s shoulder and got pulled into a one-armed squeeze anyway before hurrying out the door to meet his “just friend”.

The condo quieted after the door clicked shut, the kind of quiet that felt larger now that Kevin’s energy was gone. Carter turned back to the sink and started the process of cleaning up. Ordinarily Miles was always at his side, helping with the process as was only fair. But this time Miles didn’t get in his way. Carter obviously needed the space to process, which was evident by how he was physically washing the dishes rather than using the dishwasher. Miles watched from the island for a long beat before he finally stood up and walked around the island until he was behind Carter, close enough where he didn’t have to raise his voice.

“Love, you can’t keep this up.”

Carter’s hands stilled under the running water. He did not turn around. He just stared at the slowly filling sink and whispered…

“What choice do I have?”


“This weekend is Double Jeopardy, and I could stand here and play polite, could talk about competition’ and ‘respect’ and all that tidy little nonsense people like to wrap around a fight. But let’s not lie to each other. This is a war with paperwork and stipulations. This is all about leverage and control. Because the team that wins this weekend gets to choose the stipulations for our respective matches at Blaze of Glory XV, and that means this weekend is not just a match, it is the hand on the steering wheel while on a race to the finish line.”

“And I know exactly who I’m riding with.”

“I’m teaming with my husband, Miles Kasey. The one man in this business I trust without hesitation, without doubt, without that little voice in the back of my head wondering when the knife is coming to stab me in the back. I know how he moves. He knows how I breathe. I know when he’s baiting you, when he’s hurting, when he’s one second from ending your night in the worst way possible. He knows the same about me. You can’t manufacture that type of chemistry. And you two can’t say the same when the world remembers the time Alex Jones was collateral damage to Alexander Raven when he first targeted me and the World Championship! You two might want to win, but the thought of you two getting along cohesively while knowing both of you are willing to stab the other in the back? You two aren’t a team, Miles and I very much are.”

“Now, Alex Jones, let’s start with you because right now you’re the only other man in this match besides me that is wearing gold around his waist. You love dressing your record up like it came from clean work and superior precision when in reality it was deception and cheap tactics. You took Miles’s Internet Championship, yes, that part is in the history books. No one is trying to rewrite them. But everyone with functioning eyes saw how you did it. You did not outfight him and you sure as hell didn’t outwrestle him! You had to cheat to walk out with that championship! You can smirk at that, you can pretend it’s just people whining because their guy lost, but somewhere under all that smug noise you know exactly what I’m saying is true. You wear it knowing there is a difference between winning and earning, and deep down you know you did one without the other. That is why you puff your chest out so hard now, because guilty and insecure champions always play bullshit louder than a confident one does! I know, remember? Because you and I went through the same damn song and dance when we had our little tussles over the World title! You can keep telling yourself the end justifies the means, and in a technical sense maybe it does. But that does not erase the fact that when the heat got real, you chose shortcuts over supremacy!”

“And here’s the funny part, Alex. You and I have been on this same path before, and I already know what happens when we get to the biggest stakes. Small world, right, how our paths keep crossing like this. You are standing there with the Internet Championship and I am standing here with the World Championship, and somewhere in there sits a memory you cannot scrub out no matter how many highlights you post. I beat you for this World title! I beat you in the rematch! In the ring, with the whole company watching, I beat you! So when you step into the ring this weekend and stand across from me again, do not confuse familiarity with comfort. You know me, sure, and I know you too. I know when you start crying and whining because you’re buying seconds to recover! I know when you start cutting corners because your first plan failed! I know exactly who you are when things are going your way, and more importantly, who you are when things are not! That’s a little something called leverage!”

“Now let’s get to Alexander Raven, because this whole weekend is about what’s coming at Blaze of Glory XV and your name is attached to it yet again. I am still trying to process how, after I already beat you and knocked you to the back of the line, you are back at the front for another crack at the World Championship! I’ve said it before and I will keep saying it until somebody gets honest about it! I do not believe you deserve this rematch! You got it by bitching until management decided it would be easier to hand you what you want than listen to another week of your tantrums! That is what this looks like from where I stand. Not merit. Not undeniable claim. Volume!”

“And before you start your usual ‘Carter fears me’ bullshit, save it! If I feared you, I would not be standing here welcoming every chance to hit you harder than last time! If I feared you, I would be campaigning for safer opponents when I know damn well what you’re capable of! Instead, I’m walking into a weekend where one result can hand me the exact kind of match environment I want, and I am doing it with a smile because I know what happens when you’re cornered and can’t find a way to escape! Your whole aura depends on the myth that you are inevitable. I shattered that myth once already. You can talk about whatever dramatic excuse is currently trending in your head, but the truth stays the same. When the World Championship was on the line and the pressure was on, you failed.”.

“Double Jeopardy. The winning team chooses the stipulations for both championship matches at Blaze of Glory XV. Let that sink in for everyone who thinks this is just some tune up match. If Miles and I win, we get to pick the rules for Miles versus Alex and me versus Raven. We get to force both of you into match types that strip away your favorite tricks and expose whatever you have been hiding behind your backs! And I know both of you are thinking the same thing right now, that this can cut both ways. That if your team wins then you get to design nightmares for us. This is true. But here is the difference between us.”

“Miles and I are built for that kind of risk because we fight together. You two are an alliance of convenience held together by self-interest and matching enemies. The second things go wrong, the second communication cracks, one of you is going to end up turning on the other. One missed tag and the blame starts! One accidental collision and the finger-pointing begins!”

“This weekend, I am not coming in to entertain or feed your fragile little egos. I am coming in with Miles to win, take stipulation power, and weaponize it at Blaze of Glory XV! I am coming in to remind Alex that cheating can steal a belt but it cannot manufacture superiority! I am coming in to remind Raven that rematches are privileges, not birthrights! And if he keeps treating them like just another footnote in his personal fairy tale, I am going to keep writing the same ending and make this stage of his career resemble a REAL Grimm fairy tale!”

“Miles and I are not walking into this as two singles competitors sharing a corner. We’re walking in as a team, who quite frankly are tired of hearing two old men on borrowed time talk like they own this era!”

“When the smoke clears and both of you are left staring at the rafters and wondering what the hell went wrong in your grand scheme, you can decide whether you want to evolve or keep whining about what should have been yours. That part is up to you, and nobody else can make that decision. One would think men at this point in your lives and careers would make the mature choice but after watching the both of you over the past several months, trust me when I say I am not getting my hopes up!”

“So bring your confidence. Bring your shortcuts and speeches about destiny and injustice and all the little stories you tell yourself to better help yourselves to sleep at night. Bring every ounce of that smug certainty you wear like armor but cracks like eggshells! Then stand in front of me and Miles when the bell rings, and let reality do what reality always does. Separate what sounds good from what actually endures! We are taking this weekend, we are taking Double Jeopardy, and we are taking it straight into Blaze of Glory! Alex, Raven, enjoy the last few days of pretending you control this situation, because once we get our hands on it, your options get very small, very fast, and very painful!”
34
Climax Control Archives / Right or wrong
« Last post by Alex Jones on February 06, 2026, 07:08:27 AM »
Right or wrong

The gym was quieter now.

Not silent. Wolfslair never truly went silent. There was always the low hum of life moving through the building, weights clanking, ropes creaking, the occasional smack of gloves against leather. But it was quieter in the way it got after something unpleasant had passed through. Like the air had been disturbed, and now it was settling back into place.

Alex sat on the edge of the bench near the free weights, elbows resting on his thighs. Sweat cooled on the back of his neck, and his breathing was steady again. His body felt good in that familiar, battered way it always did after training. Warm. Used. Honest. But his mind hadn’t recovered. Shelly’s voice still lingered in the back of his skull. That sharp tone, the controlled anger, the constant need to turn every conversation into a courtroom. She hadn’t changed. She looked the same too, still fit, still polished, still wearing that expression like the world was either beneath her or dangerous enough that she needed to keep her claws out at all times. Alex stared at the floor, jaw tight, hands clasped.

There was a time when Shelly could ruin his day just by existing near him. There was a time when she could dig her nails into his insecurities and pull him apart without even raising her voice. She had been good at that. Too good. Like she’d studied his weaknesses the way wrestlers studied film. But today, she’d walked into his gym and tried to push, and Alex hadn’t moved. He hadn’t exploded. He hadn’t crumbled. He hadn’t even flinched. Maybe that was growth. Maybe it was exhaustion. Or maybe it was just the simple truth that Alex had gotten older than the version of himself she still fought with. Because the man she remembered, the man she could manipulate, didn’t exist anymore. Alex leaned back against the bench, letting his shoulders settle. He rolled his neck slowly, feeling the tightness there. Years of bumps and bruises. Years of landing wrong. Years of waking up sore and pretending it was normal. It was normal. For him.

Wrestling had been his life for so long that he didn’t remember what he was before it. He didn’t remember what it felt like to wake up without pain. He didn’t remember what it felt like to have a weekend that didn’t revolve around travel or recovery. He didn’t remember what it felt like to have a body that wasn’t constantly reminding him of the cost. The ring had been his home. His identity. His addiction. And now… Now the idea of it ending didn’t terrify him the way it used to. It didn’t feel like death. It felt like a door opening. A door he’d been too stubborn to acknowledge for years.

Retirement.

The word sat heavy, but not because he feared it. It sat heavy because it was real. Because Alex could feel the clock ticking in his joints. In his lower back. In the way his shoulder popped when he rolled it. In the way recovery took longer than it used to. He could still go. He could still fight. But he wasn’t twenty-five anymore. He wasn’t even forty anymore. And the truth was, he didn’t want to be one of those men who refused to let go until the business tore them apart. He’d seen too many of them. Men who stayed too long. Men who needed the spotlight the way addicts needed their fix. Men who thought being forgotten was worse than being broken. Alex didn’t want that. He wanted to leave standing.

On his terms. Alex glanced toward the ring at the far end of the gym. The ropes were worn. The canvas scuffed. The turnbuckles taped over and over again. It looked like it had been through war. It had. So had he. Alex exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing. And then, inevitably, his thoughts shifted where they always shifted lately. Dylan. The relationship with his son hadn’t been easy. It had been fractured for years. Alex hadn’t been the father Dylan needed when he was younger, and Alex wasn’t arrogant enough to pretend that didn’t matter.

He’d missed birthdays. Missed school events. Missed the small moments that weren’t important to wrestling fans but were everything to a kid growing up. Alex had told himself he was providing. That he was building a future. That he was doing what he had to do. But the business didn’t care about intentions. It only cared about what it took from you. And it had taken time. Years. Pieces of fatherhood that Alex could never get back. Then one day Dylan wasn’t a kid anymore. He was a man. And he looked at Alex not like a father, but like a stranger who shared his blood. That had been the hardest part. Not the guilt. Not the regret. The realization that time didn’t stop for excuses. But lately…Lately something had changed.

Not magically. Not overnight. But steadily, like rebuilding something brick by brick. Conversations. Training sessions. Moments where neither of them knew what to say, but neither of them walked away either. Alex had learned something. Dylan didn’t want perfection. He wanted honesty. Alex could give him that. The ropes creaked softly. Alex looked up. Dylan stood near the edge of the mat, a towel around his neck, sweat in his hair. His breathing was slightly heavy like he’d just finished a drill. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes were sharp. He looked like a wrestler. Not like someone playing at it. Like someone who belonged. Dylan stepped closer, slowing when he saw Alex’s expression. He didn’t speak right away. Just studied him for a moment. Then he asked quietly, “You alright?”

Alex blinked and nodded once. “Yeah.” It wasn’t convincing. Dylan knew it too. Dylan sat down beside him, elbows on his knees, mirroring Alex without even realizing it. Like father, like son.

“You’ve got that look,” Dylan said.

Alex gave a faint smirk. “What look?”

“The one where you’re pretending you’re fine but you’re about five seconds away from punching something.”

Alex exhaled through his nose. Almost a laugh, but not quite. “Good observation.”

Dylan’s eyes stayed on him. “Something happen?”

Alex hesitated. He wasn’t used to sharing. Not like this. Alex had spent his whole life carrying things alone, because that was what men like him did. That was what the business taught you. Pain was private. Fear was weakness. Problems were yours to deal with. But Dylan wasn’t a child anymore. He deserved truth. Alex leaned forward slightly, hands clasped. “Your mother came by earlier.”

Dylan’s head snapped toward him. “What?”

Alex nodded. “She showed up.”

Dylan stood up immediately, pacing two steps away before turning back. His jaw clenched, anger flashing across his face like a reflex. “She came here?” Dylan snapped. “She didn’t even tell me.”

Alex didn’t move. “That’s why I’m telling you now.”

Dylan ran a hand through his hair, frustration boiling. “She went behind my back. She came here to talk to you about me.”

Alex nodded once. “That’s exactly what she did.”

Dylan laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “Unbelievable. She acts like I’m twelve.”

Alex’s voice stayed calm. “She’s scared.”

Dylan scoffed. “No. She’s controlling.”

Alex looked at him. “It can be both.”

That stopped Dylan for a second. He stared at Alex like he wanted to argue, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he sat back down, breathing heavier now, not from training, but from emotion. “What did she say?”

Alex’s eyes narrowed, remembering the conversation. “She thinks wrestling is going to ruin you. She thinks I’m encouraging it. She thinks you’re chasing… my brother.”

Dylan’s expression darkened. “Of course she brought him up,” Dylan muttered. “That’s her favorite weapon.”

Alex nodded. “She thinks you’re doing this because of the name. Because of legacy.”

Dylan leaned back, staring at the ceiling for a moment like he was trying to calm himself down. “She doesn’t understand. She never has. She thinks wrestling is just blood and broken bones and tragedy.”

Alex’s mouth tightened. “She’s not wrong. But she’s not right either.”

Dylan looked at him. “What did you tell her?”

Alex didn’t hesitate. “I told her you’re an adult. I told her you made your choice. And I told her I’m not stopping you.”

Dylan’s eyes narrowed. “And she didn’t like that.”

Alex gave a faint smirk. “No. She didn’t.”

Dylan’s hands clenched into fists on his thighs. “She didn’t even talk to me,” Dylan said again, voice quieter but sharper. “She just went straight to you like I’m not capable of making my own decisions.”

Alex watched him carefully. “She came to me because she knows you won’t bend. “But she still thinks I might.”

Dylan snorted. “Good luck with that.”

Alex’s expression softened slightly, but then grew serious again. “Listen. I need you to hear me.” Dylan nodded, still tense. Alex leaned forward, voice steady but heavier now. “You don’t have to do this.”

Dylan blinked. “Dad—”

“No. I mean it. You don’t have to wrestle because you think you owe it to me. You don’t have to do it because of your name. You don’t have to do it because of my career.” Dylan’s mouth opened, then closed. Alex continued, eyes locked on him. “You don’t have to live up to some uncle you never met. You don’t owe a ghost anything.” That hit Dylan harder than the argument with Shelly ever could. For a second, Dylan looked like he didn’t know what to do with the emotion. Alex didn’t look away. “I’ve spent my whole life chasing things I thought I owed people. And I’m telling you right now… if you’re doing this for the wrong reason, you’ll end up hating it. And if you hate it, it’ll chew you up.” Dylan stared at him. Then his voice came out steady, grounded.

“This is what I want.” Dylan leaned forward now, matching him. “I’m not doing this because of you. And I’m not doing it because of him.” He gestured vaguely, like pointing at an invisible shadow. “I’m doing it because I love it. Because when I’m in that ring, my head shuts up. Everything makes sense. It’s the only time I feel… clear.” Alex’s eyes softened. That was a familiar feeling. Dylan kept going, words spilling out like he’d been holding them in. “I’m good at it. And I know I’m good at it. I can feel myself getting better every week. I like the grind. I like waking up sore because it means I earned something.” Alex let out a small breath, almost amused, almost proud. He’d said those same words once. Dylan’s expression hardened again. “And she thinks she’s protecting me. But she’s suffocating me. She wants me to live some safe life where nothing ever hurts. That’s not living.”

Alex nodded slowly. “That’s the part she’ll never understand. Pain is part of it. Not just wrestling. Life.”

Dylan stared at the floor, fists still clenched. “I don’t want her to hate me,” Dylan admitted quietly.

Alex looked at him. That honesty was rare. Valuable. “She’s your mother. She’s always going to love you.”

Dylan scoffed. “She has a weird way of showing it.”

Alex almost smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “She loves you the only way she knows how. With control. With fear. With rules.”

Dylan leaned back, shaking his head. “I’m just sick of being treated like a kid,” Dylan muttered.

Alex’s voice lowered. “You’re not a kid.” Dylan looked at him. Alex held his gaze. “And you don’t belong to her. You don’t belong to me either. You belong to you.”

Dylan swallowed, nodding slightly. Alex exhaled slowly, feeling something in his chest ease. Not disappear, but loosen. Like a knot that had been tied too long. “What did she say when she left?”

Alex’s eyes narrowed, remembering Shelly’s parting shot. “She said when this blows up, she’s not cleaning up the mess.”

Dylan laughed bitterly. “Typical.”

Alex shrugged. “Maybe.”

Dylan sat in silence for a moment, anger cooling into something more complicated. Conflicted. Hurt. Alex watched him and realized something else. Dylan wasn’t just angry at Shelly. He was disappointed. Because deep down, he still wanted her to see him. To understand him. To be proud. And she was too scared to let herself. Alex stood up slowly, joints popping quietly. He stretched his arms out, rolling his shoulders. Dylan looked up at him. “What?”

Alex glanced toward the ring. “You got time for one more drill?”

Dylan blinked. “Right now?”

Alex smirked faintly. “Yeah. Right now.”

Dylan’s expression shifted. The anger drained away and was replaced with something familiar. Excitement. Focus. Purpose. A grin crept onto his face. “You’re not tired?” Dylan asked.

Alex snorted. “I’m always tired.”

Dylan laughed. “Fair.”

They walked toward the ring side by side. Alex’s pace was steady, deliberate. Dylan matched it naturally. When they reached the ropes, Alex paused, one hand resting on the top rope. He stared at the worn canvas, the scuffed turnbuckles, the place that had given him everything and taken just as much. He looked at Dylan. “Just remember something,” Dylan’s grin faded as he listened. “This business will take everything you let it take. Your time. Your body. Your relationships. It’ll take pieces of you that you didn’t even know you could lose.” Dylan nodded slowly. Alex’s voice dropped lower. “But if you do it right… if you keep your head… if you stay true to why you’re doing it…” He looked toward the center of the ring. “It’ll give you something back too.”

Dylan’s eyes stayed locked on him. “I know,” Alex stared at him for a long moment, like he was measuring the truth of those words. Then Alex stepped through the ropes. And Dylan followed. Alex didn’t know how many matches he had left. He didn’t know how close retirement really was. He didn’t know if he was ready for life without the ring. But standing there, inside those ropes, with his son across from him…He didn’t feel like he was winding down.

He felt like something was finally beginning. Not a career. Not a legacy. Something better. A bond built through sweat and struggle, through honesty and pain, through trust that couldn’t be forced. Only earned. Alex raised his hands, ready to lock up. Dylan mirrored him, posture sharp, eyes focused. And Alex realized something that hit him harder than Shelly’s words ever could. Shelly could slam doors. She could throw threats. She could fight the tide until she drowned in it. But Dylan? Dylan was already swimming. And he wasn’t looking back. Not because he was running from his mother. Not because he was chasing a ghost. But because he knew where he was going. And Alex, for the first time in his life…Was ready to let him go there. Even if it scared him. Even if it hurt. Because Dylan wasn’t walking into the fire blind. He was walking into it prepared. Alex stepped forward. They locked up. And Wolfslair, once again, echoed with the sound of inheritance becoming something new.

Restrainment

”What did I say?”

Alex pauses closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He shakes his head and fold his arms over his chest before opening his eyes with a small chuckle.

”I told you every single one of you that Ryan Keys was not good enough to beat me. It’s becoming comical at this point. I get put in these situations against people who don’t have the means or capacity to step up to me. At least not in any meaningful way. The professional wrestling business is weird. You can’t always win every match that you should and anyone can beat anyone else on any given night if the circumstances are in their favour. But for someone like Ryan Keys to beat me do you know how many things need to be in his favour? Do you understand the kind of stars that need to align so that he could become a world beater?”

“The amount of luck that is needed? See, if you take the kind of skills that Ryan has and you mix it with a certain amount of luck and Me having an off night and he might end up with a chance. But it’s a slim chance. He’s the kind of guy who likes to talk a big game and thinks he can still live in the past while not contributing anything to his future.”

“Evolution is something that is nonnegotiable in this business. You either evolve or you fade away into obscurity. And that is something that Ryan needs to find out.”

“But maybe I’m being too hard on him. After all Ryan has come back from a very long layoff and losing twice to me is not exactly something to be ashamed of considering I’m a former world champion and the current Internet champion. It isn’t like I’m a nobody or someone who is lower on the totem pole. I’m a legend in this business, I’m a legend in this company. So losing to Me isn’t exactly the end of your career. But after I beat Ryan I was cruelly attacked by the man I beat for the Internet championship”

He pauses again for a moment, taking a deep breath before nodding slowly

”Miles Kasey.”

He grits his teeth.

”Do you realise how much I have to dislike you to want to team with a man like Alexander Raven? I’ll be completely honest Alexander Raven and I do not see eye to eye on many things. In fact we don’t like each other. But even he and I can agree that Carter and Miles are a stain on this business and this company. The main issue I have had with Alexander Raven over the years is that he has always believed himself to be 1 million times better than he really is while constantly running his mouth about nothing while thinking he’s talking about everything. He is a self-important arrogant douche bag.”

“But, he’s authentic”

“Raven is who he is. What you see is what you get. There is no hiding who he is and there is no pretense that he hides behind either. When you look at a man like Alexander Raven, you completely understand that he is that arrogant self-righteous douche bag. And it’s perfectly alright for him to do and say these things. He’s not hiding anything. He’s not pretending to be a good human being while showing that his actions are saying something different. Sorry for all of Alexander Raven’s faults the fact that he is real and authentic automatically earns him a certain amount of respect from me.”

“Not a lot… but enough that I am alright with teaming with him, especially against Carter and Miles”

He stops again and clear his throat

”Tell me Carter, does it piss you off to know that I’m right about everything? Has it sunk in yet? I told you Carter that you were detrimental to miles career. I told you that you took all of that spotlight for yourself and eventually he was going to snap. As talented as you believe yourself to be Carter, we all know that Miles deserved better. It’s something that I’ve tried to get through to him over and over again but his thick pigheaded skull seems to not retain it. He wants to ignore it. He wants to just sit back and allow you to take that spotlight and to take his spot. So I decided to show Miles what he was missing. To show him that he deserved better, but he still didn’t want to listen.”

“You should not be world champion. Myself, Raven, anyone else who has stepped up to you over the last couple of months are all superior professional wrestlers. But you have constantly escaped. You have been able to wiggle your way out of everything and walk away with the world championship and this experiment needs to end. These moments of insanity need to disappear. But, that isn’t up to me. I have my own battles to fight. I have my own war to win and none of them after the world championship right now. Because you have taken that away from me, you have taken that away from SCW.”

“You are why no one gives a shit about that championship any more”

“You are the reason why this company is in the state of that 10 and why this company keeps failing. Because you are a joke as the world champion. Every day that you hold that championship peoples interest in this company fails and faults. And a large part of that is because of what I talked about earlier. I said that Alexander Raven is authentic and that’s true despite the fact that we don’t like each other and I don’t like his attitude at least he is who he is. You try to project this vision of a happy go lucky fun human being. As a good human being. But we all know that that’s bullshit Carter the deep dark secret that you hold inside is a simple one.”

“Deep down… you’re a piece of shit”

Alex growls but then laughs a little under his breath. He then refocus straight ahead on the final target and his main target.

”Just like you are Miles. And I suppose in a way you two belong together. It’s funny isn’t it? You finally show some backbone but you still don’t understand. Over a year ago you made the mistake of turning your back on Wolfslair. You went after Finn, a man who was supposed to be your friend who was supposed to be family. You turned your back on him for the sake of the world championship opportunity. You were willing to throw away a friendship and throw away a relationship with someone who helped you for a shot at the world championship that Carter currently holds.”

“You were told where you went wrong, you were told where you screwed up. And you still just thought it was no big deal. So now here you are coming after the Internet championship after I beat you for it and you’re trying to show that you have a backbone. Trying to show that you are a new miles. But in reality all you’ve done is showing what kind of person you really are. All you’ve done is piss me off. You dare attack me? You jumped me after I beat Ryan? I know it must be very strange for you seeing someone actually win consistently since consistency is something that you’ve never been able to deal with, but that doesn’t mean you get to come after Me. It doesn’t mean you get to attack me from behind like a coward.”

“So, now you get to team up with your beloved to face myself and Alexander Raven. And there are so many people who probably think that you and Carter are a dream team.”

“In reality this is just another sad sorry attempt at you living in your husband‘s shadow. Look at yourself Miles. Really look at yourself. You are a former Internet champion, you are someone who should have been world champion by now but you haven’t been able to breakthrough that glass ceiling. Carter took your spotlight. He took your moment and he’s taken all of your friends and family away from you as well as getting you basically expelled from one of the premier training grounds in this business. And you have taken it at every single turn. And now you finally get that little bit of respect, you finally get looked at as a danger. You show that you have some balls coming after me. And now here you are having to team with Carter…”

“You look like a punk…”

“What will this tag team match prove? If you end up winning this Carter will just take all of the glory. And if you lose? You’ll take the blame miles. Because that’s how this works. I guess you haven’t figured that out yet have you? You will soon. but will it be too late? Will it be too late for you to realise that I was right and that you are watching your career circle the drain for the sake of someone else? By the time you do realise it will be too late for you Miles.”
35
Climax Control Archives / Chapter 80
« Last post by Dreamkiller on February 05, 2026, 04:19:10 AM »
Chapter 80: White Noise

Snow fell the way silence falls.

Not violently. Not dramatically. Just steadily, patiently, like the sky had all the time in the world and nothing better to do than cover Denver in a thin layer of softness. It didn’t erase anything. It didn’t clean anything. It just muted the edges. Everything looked calmer than it actually was. That was the lie of winter. The lie of snow. You could stand in the middle of it and feel like the world had slowed down enough to let you breathe. Like everything was quiet enough for healing to happen. But underneath, the ground was still hard. Frozen. Unforgiving. It just wore a prettier mask. I watched the snowflakes hit the windshield and melt into nothing. Proof of life. Proof of disappearance. The way something could exist and then vanish without leaving a trace. It felt familiar.

Finn’s car was warm, heat blowing softly through the vents, the kind of warmth that made you forget how cold you were until you stepped back outside. The windows fogged at the edges, blurring the world like a half-finished thought. The café was across the road, its lights glowing faintly through the snowfall, a little rectangle of yellow comfort in the gray. I didn’t move. Finn didn’t rush me. He sat in the driver’s seat with one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting loosely on his thigh. No tension. No impatience. He didn’t look like a man waiting for something to happen. He looked like a man who understood that sometimes you didn’t need someone to solve you. You just needed someone to stay present while you tried to solve yourself. The radio was off. He knew better than to fill the air with noise. “Do you want me to come in?” his voice low, careful. Not hesitant. Just respectful.

“No.”

“Okay.”

No disappointment. No wounded ego. No sulking. That was Finn. He didn’t demand to be included to prove he mattered. He already knew he mattered. He didn’t need to stake a claim on my life like territory. I exhaled slowly, watching my breath fog the air for a moment before the heater swallowed it. “It’s weird,” I said, the words tasting strange even before they left my mouth. “That I’m doing this.”

Finn glanced at me briefly. “Meeting your dad?”

“Yes.” I paused. “Talking to him like… like he’s a person.”

Finn’s jaw tightened slightly, not in anger, but in that familiar protective instinct he tried so hard not to weaponize. “Your dad is a person. That doesn’t mean he deserves access to you.”

I looked at him then. “That’s what scares me. That I’m going to start confusing those things.”

Finn’s expression didn’t change much, but his eyes softened. “You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

He shrugged slightly. “No. I don’t. But I know you.”

That was the difference. He didn’t speak in absolutes about the world. He spoke in certainty about me. It made my chest tighten in a way that wasn’t painful, just… heavy. Like love had weight and I wasn’t used to carrying it without flinching. I leaned my head back against the seat, letting my eyes close for a moment. “This is the fourth week,”

Finn hummed. “Mm.”

“And it’s still not easier.”

Finn’s voice was blunt, but not unkind. “Why would it be?”

I opened my eyes again, narrowing them slightly. “You always answer questions like that. Like the obvious thing is obvious.”

He smirked faintly. “Because it usually is.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re infuriating.”

“I know.” That made me laugh, just barely. A short breath of amusement that felt like it didn’t belong in the same space as my father. But Finn had always been good at that, reminding me that my life wasn’t only built out of trauma. That I didn’t have to live in the past just because it still lived in me. I looked out the windshield again. The café was closer than it looked, but still far enough to feel like a decision. Finn followed my gaze. “Do you feel guilty?”

The question landed sharper than it should have. Like he’d reached into the fog and pulled out something I didn’t want to name. I didn’t answer right away. Finn didn’t push. That was his version of patience. He would ask the hard thing once, then leave it on the table like a knife you could choose to pick up or not. “I don’t know, Sometimes. I think I feel guilty for not wanting him. Like… like that makes me cruel.”

Finn’s face tightened again. “It doesn’t.”

“I know.” My voice came out smaller than I wanted. “But knowing doesn’t stop it.”

Finn nodded slowly. “No. It doesn’t.”

I swallowed, fingers curling around the strap of my bag. My nails pressed into the leather, grounding me. “He looks different,” I admitted. “Not like before. He looks… tired.” Finn’s eyes stayed forward, but I could feel him listening. “And part of me hates that. Because it makes me want to soften. It makes me want to pretend that the past wasn’t as bad as it was.”

Finn’s tone was calm. “That’s empathy. It’s not weakness.”

I turned toward him. “Empathy got me hurt a lot.”

Finn met my eyes. “Empathy got you through a lot, too. You survived because you could read people. You could sense danger before it happened. You could adapt.” I didn’t respond. He wasn’t wrong. And that was irritating. Finn’s voice dropped slightly, more serious. “You’re allowed to be compassionate and still have boundaries. You’re allowed to care about someone and still not let them close enough to damage you.”

I stared at him. “How do you make it sound so simple?”

Finn’s mouth twitched. “Because it is simple.”

I groaned softly. “There it is again.”

He shrugged. “It’s not easy. But it’s simple.”

That distinction mattered more than he probably realized. I watched the snow again. It fell in lazy spirals, drifting sideways in the wind, clinging to the edges of parked cars like a quiet invasion. “I’m scared,” I admitted.

Finn’s voice was immediate. “Of what?”

I hesitated. The answer wasn’t pretty. “That I’m going to let him in. And then one day he’s going to do what he always did. Leave. Disappear. Or say something that reminds me who he really is. And I’m going to feel like an idiot for believing in him.”

Finn didn’t flinch. “That’s possible.”

I blinked, looking at him sharply.“That’s not comforting.”

Finn’s tone stayed steady. “I’m not going to lie to you to make you feel better.” That was Finn too. No false reassurance. No sugarcoating. No cheap comfort. “If he hurts you again, it won’t make you an idiot. It’ll make him a coward. And you’ll still be the same woman who survived him the first time.” The words hit me harder than I expected. Because Finn wasn’t telling me my father wouldn’t hurt me. He was telling me I would survive if he did. And for some reason, that felt safer than hope. My throat tightened. Finn reached over then, not grabbing my hand, just placing his fingers lightly against my knee. A small gesture. Grounding. Present. “I don’t want to tell you what to do. But I’ll say this. If meeting him is something you’re doing because you need it, then keep doing it. If meeting him is something you’re doing because you think you owe him something, then stop.”

My eyes stung, and I hated that. “I don’t know which one it is.”

Finn nodded slowly. “Then that’s what you’re figuring out.”

Silence filled the car again. Not awkward. Not empty. Just… real. Outside, the snow kept falling. The café waited like a witness. I took a deep breath, forcing air into my lungs like it was a choice. “I hate that he gets to exist again. After all these years. Like he just… shows up. Like he’s entitled to a second chance.”

Finn’s voice was low. “He’s not entitled to anything. But you’re entitled to closure. You’re entitled to answers. You’re entitled to see if he’s changed. Not for him. For you.” I swallowed hard. Finn’s hand squeezed my knee gently, then withdrew. “I love you,”

“I love you too,”

Finn’s mouth curved faintly. “Go kick his ass emotionally.” That startled a laugh out of me, real this time. Short, sharp, almost disbelieving. Finn grinned. “What? You do it well.”

I shook my head, wiping at my eye with the back of my hand before I could stop myself. “Asshole,” I muttered.

“Your asshole,” he corrected.

I paused, then smirked. “Unfortunately.”

Finn leaned back in his seat, satisfied. “You’ll be fine.” I stared at the café again. The door was a dark rectangle under a small awning dusted with snow. Warmth inside. Conversation. Uncertainty. Finn didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to. I opened the car door. The cold hit me instantly, biting at my cheeks, slipping down my collar like a punishment. The snow crunched under my boots as I stepped out, the air sharp enough to make my lungs protest. Finn stayed in the car, engine running, watching me through the windshield. I shut the door and stood for a moment, letting the winter settle into my bones. Then I crossed the road.

Cars passed slowly, tires hissing against slush. The world smelled like wet pavement and exhaust and cold metal. The snowflakes landed in my hair and melted against my scalp. I pushed open the café door. Warmth wrapped around me immediately, thick with the smell of coffee and baked sugar. The air was loud with soft chatter, cups clinking, the espresso machine steaming like an impatient animal. He was already there. Of course he was. Same table near the window, same posture, hands folded, shoulders slightly hunched as if he didn’t want to take up too much space. He looked up the second I walked in, like he’d been watching the door the whole time. He stood quickly. “Kayla.”

I nodded once. “Hi.” I didn’t hug him. I still wasn’t there.

I shrugged off my coat and sat down, placing my bag at my feet again. Same ritual. Same anchor. Same unspoken reminder: I can leave whenever I want. He sat down across from me, careful, quiet. The waitress came by, smiling politely. I ordered coffee. Black. Again. My father ordered the same as last time. No sugar. No cream. It struck me then that he wasn’t trying to make this easier with familiarity. He wasn’t ordering something indulgent or distracting. He was treating it like a meeting. Like a court date. When the waitress left, silence settled between us. He didn’t rush to fill it. That was new. “How are you?” he asked eventually. The question was so normal it almost felt insulting. But I knew he didn’t mean it casually. He meant it like a man who had missed years of my life and didn’t know where to begin.

“I’m fine,”

He nodded, as if expecting that answer. “How’s work?”

“Fine.”

Another nod. I watched his face carefully. He didn’t look frustrated. He didn’t look offended. He looked like he understood that I was giving him exactly what I was willing to give. And that scared me more than anger would have. Because anger was predictable. This was not. Outside the window, the snow had thickened. People walked past bundled in coats, heads down, moving like shadows through white noise. He glanced out the window briefly. “Still snowing,”

“Yeah,”

Silence again. Then he cleared his throat, hesitant. “I saw you weren’t alone.”

My fingers tightened around the coffee cup as it arrived, heat seeping into my skin. I didn’t look up immediately. I already knew what he meant. I already knew who he meant. Finn was still in the car across the street, parked where the café window gave a clear view. Not hovering. Not spying. Just… there. Like a safety net. I met my father’s eyes. “You saw Finn.”

He nodded. “I did.” I waited, bracing for the judgment. For the comment. For the implication. Instead, he just said quietly, “He looks like he cares about you.”

That caught me off guard. My instincts twitched, searching for the trap. The manipulation. The angle. But his expression stayed steady. “I’m engaged to him,”  my voice was colder than necessary.

He didn’t flinch. “I know.”

Of course he knew. Amber probably told him. Tasmin too. Maybe Jax. Maybe everyone in my life had been slowly feeding him pieces of me like crumbs, testing whether he’d choke. My jaw tightened. “Then why ask?”

He hesitated, then looked down at his hands. “Because I don’t know him. And I don’t know what kind of man you’ve chosen. I don’t know what your life looks like now.”

I studied him. The honesty was… uncomfortable. Most men didn’t admit they didn’t know. They pretended they did. They filled the gaps with assumptions and entitlement. He wasn’t doing that. He was sitting there with the emptiness of his absence laid out between us like an open wound. “I don’t want you interrogating me,”

He nodded quickly. “I’m not trying to. I’m sorry.”

The apology didn’t sound rehearsed. It sounded tired. I took a slow sip of coffee, letting the bitterness steady me. “He’s not like you,”

The words came out harsher than I intended. My father’s face tightened, just slightly, like the truth had found a nerve. “I’m glad,”

That should have made me feel victorious. Instead it made me feel… sad. Because he agreed. Because he didn’t defend himself. Because part of me wanted him to argue so I could justify hating him again. I swallowed. Finn wasn’t like him. Finn didn’t drink to disappear. Finn didn’t raise his voice to feel powerful. Finn didn’t punish me for having needs. Finn didn’t treat love like a weapon. Finn was steady in ways I used to think were boring. But boring was what safety looked like. Boring was what peace looked like. “He’s Irish,” I said after a pause, as if that was a safe detail. A harmless detail.

My father blinked, then nodded. “Irish.”

“Yeah.”

“And he’s… good to you?” I stared at him for a long moment.

I didn’t want to answer. Not because the answer was complicated, but because the answer was precious. And I didn’t want to hand something precious to the man who had once shattered everything I touched. But Finn’s voice echoed in my mind. You’re allowed to be compassionate and still have boundaries. I exhaled. “He is, He’s good to me.”

My father’s shoulders sagged slightly, like he’d been holding his breath for that. “I’m glad. Truly.” I didn’t trust the warmth rising in my chest. I didn’t want it. It felt like betrayal. The waitress passed by again, refilling water. The café noise continued around us, strangers laughing, couples talking, people living their normal lives while mine sat dissected on a table between me and the man who made it complicated. My father glanced out the window again. “He waited for you?”

“Yes, “He always does if i need him”

He nodded slowly, like he was absorbing the meaning beneath the words. “He doesn’t try to control you?”

I almost laughed. Almost. “No, He doesn’t have to.”

My father’s eyes lifted to mine. “You trust him.”

It wasn’t a question. I swallowed again, my throat suddenly tight. “Yes, I do.”

My father looked away quickly, blinking as if something in his eyes had stung. “Good,” I watched him carefully. For a second, he looked like a man grieving something he didn’t deserve to grieve. Then he looked back at me, expression composed again. “I’m sorry.”

I stiffened. “For what?”

“For not being that,” The words hit harder than I expected I stared at him, coffee cup frozen in my hands. “I’m sorry I wasn’t the kind of man you could trust, I’m sorry you had to learn what love wasn’t before you could learn what it was.” The air felt thick. The café noise blurred. My heartbeat became too loud. I wanted to lash out. I wanted to tell him it was too late. That apologies didn’t rebuild childhoods. But the truth was uglier than that. The truth was that hearing him say it out loud made something inside me loosen. Not forgiveness.

Just… acknowledgement. And acknowledgement was dangerous, because it made the pain feel real in a way anger had always kept distant. I set the coffee cup down carefully, afraid my hands might shake. “You don’t get to be proud of him,” I said suddenly, voice sharp.“You don’t get to look at Finn and feel relieved like you didn’t almost ruin me.” My father’s face tightened, but he didn’t argue.

“You’re right,” That response stole the fight out of me. I stared at him, jaw clenched, feeling the frustration twist into something unfamiliar. I didn’t want him to agree. I wanted him to be wrong. I wanted him to give me a reason to hate him cleanly again. Instead, he sat there like a man who knew he had no defense. “I’m not asking to be proud, I’m not asking to be part of it. I just… I want to know you’re safe.” The words felt like they should have been said fifteen years ago. They felt like a letter delivered to the wrong address long after the house had burned down. I looked out the window. Finn was still there. Still waiting. Still steady. My father followed my gaze, then looked back at me. “He looks like a good man,”

I didn’t respond right away. Then, reluctantly,  “He is.”

Silence again. My father shifted slightly in his seat, hands folding and unfolding like he didn’t know what to do with them. “Do you love him?” he asked.

My stomach tightened. That question felt too intimate. Too personal. Too close to something he hadn’t earned. But then I thought about Finn, sitting in the car, letting me walk into this alone. Letting me face my past without making it about him. I thought about the way he listened. The way he didn’t fix me, but still made me feel held. I looked at my father. “Yes, I do.”

My father’s eyes softened, and he nodded slowly. “I’m glad,” he whispered.

The waitress returned with the bill. My father reached for it immediately. “No,” He froze. “I’m paying for mine,”  His hand hesitated, then he nodded, withdrawing.

“Of course.” That small moment mattered. He didn’t argue. He didn’t insist. He didn’t try to reclaim authority through generosity. We paid separately. Outside, the snow was heavier now, thick enough that the world looked blurred at the edges. Like reality was being rewritten. I stood, pulling my coat on. My father stood too. For a moment, we just looked at each other. There was no hug. There was no closure. But there was something else. Something smaller. Something quieter. Something like effort. “I’ll see you next week?”

I hesitated. Finn’s words echoed again. If it’s for you, keep doing it. I nodded once. “Yeah.”

My father exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath the whole hour. “Thank you,” I hated that word. But I didn’t correct him. I just turned and walked toward the door.

Heavy is the crown.

”All good things come to an end….or so they say…”

Kayla Richards, two-time former World Bombshells Champion and current number one contender, steps forward. Her long black hair is tied back away from her face. Her make-up is impeccable, and a small arrogant smirk sits on her upturned lips.

”I still don’t believe my title reign should have come to an end. And it’s funny, because every time it has, the woman who has ‘replaced’ me has failed. The first one was Andrea Hernandez. She tried so hard, and got so far. But in the end, it didn’t even matter. And now her career is as dead as the man who wrote that song.”

“And now Andrea is gone, and I was left to pick up the pieces. Proving that I was the best. Proving without a shadow of a doubt that I was the best. Because as I have pointed out, I could have waited for a one-on-one opportunity. I could have picked my time and my shot, but instead I inserted myself into the Elimination Chamber. But do I get any credit for that? Do any of you acknowledge my accomplishments? No, of course not.”

“But I saved the Bombshells Title once, and now I have to save it again because my ‘heir apparent’, the great young rookie who is so far up Amber Ryan’s snatch she might as well be a redhead and probably knows what Matt Knox tastes like, Frankie Holliday also failed.”

“She lost. She lost to Crystal. And let me be clear here: I was ready to walk away. To allow someone else to have the spotlight. I was ready to settle personal scores, maybe go after the Roulette Title to complete my set. Or hell, I could have taken some time off, enjoyed it with Finn, or spent time with my nieces. I could have done all of that, but instead I’m being called on to save this division and the championship again….because now it is at its worst point….a low point that we haven’t seen since…well…..ever…”

Kayla shrugs and steps forward, her green eyes piercing with annoyance, anger, and frustration.

”And yes, Crystal. That is all because of you. And for this entire promo I am going to be calling you by your first name, since none of us know or care what your last name is anymore. And trust me, I have tried so fucking hard to keep track of your marriages and relationships over the last decade that I have known you. But at some point, even I had to tap out since my cork board started looking like the evidence board for the Zodiac Killer or some shit.”

“But, I was fine with that. I really was. While you were making a complete fool of yourself, we all stood back and laughed. Hell, I even allowed you to call me your ‘bestie’ and truth be told, it was out of respect for the wars you had in IWF with my older sister. Back when you were a force to be reckoned with. Not the simpering, pussy-chasing clout monster you have become.”

“But I never really let you in, Crystal…”

“And why would I?”

“You’re a mess….your entire life is a mess. Your personal and professional relationships. The turnstile love life. All of it. And you have been playing out this bullshit in front of us for years, and it has become old hat. But when it was just in your own little corner of wrestling, no one cared. It was a distraction, a small blip on SCW’s radar….we were all happy with that. Until the Crystal-verse infected the Bombshells World Championship…”

Kayla can’t help but roll her eyes before looking around and taking a deep breath, obviously trying to calm herself so she doesn’t go too overboard.

”That championship is supposed to be a beacon of hope. It is supposed to be this goal that every single woman in this company and other companies wants to attain. An accolade that they can put on their résumé to say for a brief shining moment, they were the best. And that is what the SCW Bombshells Championship is. When I’ve been able to hold it twice, and while I had it in my hands or around my waist or over my shoulder, I could tell anyone and everyone who had their eyes on me that I was the best, and nobody, and I mean nobody, could say any different. That’s what that championship means, and you should be able to do that…but you really can’t.”

“See, at Inception, I was in a hardcore match against Bella Madison. And I’ve been very vocal about Bella and her abilities, in the fact that she is good enough to become a champion but can’t quite take that extra step, and can’t quite hold herself to the same regard as many of the main event players in this company. She isn’t good enough to be like myself, she isn’t good enough to be like Frankie Holliday, she isn’t good enough to be like so many of the other great names that have walked into this business in this company. She could be, but she fails. But she still tried to take me to the limit in a match that was brutal and hard-fought. Meanwhile, what was going on with that championship that you hold?”

“Was it being contested in some kind of epic match? Was it a rematch between yourself and Frankie? Were you defending it in a one-on-one match against someone on the roster who earned it? No. Of course not. A championship meant to be held by one person was being defended in a tag match. A tag team match where you were teaming with a woman who was going to turn on you. A turn that we all saw a mile off. And you were defending it against your wife and your sister-in-law. In this overdramatic, unbelievably convoluted bullshit match that nobody cared about.”

“Wow… amazing.”

“You took a championship that means so much to so many people and reduced it down to a prop in your stupid little drama-filled life. You took the top prize in women’s wrestling and made it all about your stupid little relationship. Nobody cares about your marriage, nobody cares about Seleana or Zenna Zdunich, and the only good thing to come out of that match was watching Mercedes Vargas beat the shit out of you afterwards.”

She takes a deep breath, folding her arms over her chest again. Her shoulders square up and her posture straightens.

”The SCW World Bombshells Championship deserves better. It deserves a champion who’s not going to be like you. While you were defending that championship in that tag match that nobody cared about, I was taking one of the most mid talents in this company and making her look like a star. Bella Madison could beat you for that championship, Crystal. She could beat your wife, she could beat your sister-in-law, and she could beat Mercedes. And I beat her. She and I have more talent than any of the four women that were involved in that match. Yet she and I were pushed into the middle of the show in a hardcore match while you were fighting for that championship. The championship that became secondary because you made it that way.”

“And now where does that leave us? Because I know what the plan is. The plan is that Mercedes wants to face you and take that championship from you. I know that’s what Mercedes wants to happen, and I’m sure in your mind what you want to happen is that you want to get your hands on Mercedes after what she did to you. And that’s fine. You and Vargas can have your silly little legends war where you beat the hell out of each other to prove some stupid point that no one’s going to care about in a month’s time. Go right ahead. I’ll even throw you a little party.”

“But, it won’t be for that championship.”

“No matter how much you both wish it to be. And you can keep your stupid little speech about wanting to be a fighting champion to yourself. Even though I know that that’s exactly where you’re going to go with it. You want to face Mercedes, and you want to let her jump the line. That isn’t going to happen. You will defend that championship against me. Whether it is physically in your hands or not. And after I have beaten you, after I have become the champion again, then Mercedes is either going to hand that championship to me and continue her little crusade against you…or I’m going to snap her neck like a fucking twig, take that championship by force, and then send her to you in a nice, neat little box to do with whatever you will.”

Kayla can’t help but chuckle, shaking her head before continuing.

”But the fact remains that this match is for the World Bombshells Championship. It is for all the marbles, Crystal. You can do and say whatever the hell you want to. You can go back to your wife and her idiot sister, and you can go on with your war with Mercedes all you want. But that championship deserves better, and I’m going to be the one to rescue it from you. I’m going to be the one to make it relevant again. I’m going to be the one who will do everything that you said you wanted to do. To be a real fighting champion. But not just take that championship and defend it against anyone and everyone, I will defend it against the best that this company has to offer. The best that this company can throw at me. And then you will be looked at as just a footnote. A blip on the radar. While my dominance continues.”
36
Climax Control Archives / ENDEAVOR LXXVI
« Last post by Mercedes Vargas on February 03, 2026, 05:12:01 PM »
Almighty Fire
semana del 1 al 8 de febrero de 2026


You know, people have a funny way of rewriting history. Every time Seleana Zdunich walks into a room lately, she acts like she’s stepping out of some tragedy written entirely by someone else. Her fans turn her into this folk hero fighting uphill battles, as if her story is pure and innocent and I’m just the villain twirling my mustache. If only it were that simple. But wrestling has never been simple. It’s not a fairytale, and I’m not some cartoon line in someone else’s redemption arc. I’m Mercedes Vargas — the standard, the constant, the one who has lasted through every “next big thing” this company has thrown at me. When the lights go down and the ring empties, I’m the one people keep talking about. Even my enemies can’t stop saying my name. Seleana wants revenge? She’s not the first, and she won’t be the last. Her obsession with me proves I still live rent free in her mind.

Let’s not pretend she’s the victim of some grand injustice. Her wife getting hurt wasn’t part of a soap opera, it was the consequence of taking this sport lightly. I didn’t send Crystal to the hospital because I’m cruel. I did it because I’m ruthless, because I understand what it takes to stay on top. Seleana can call it betrayal, she can paint me as the monster who broke her world apart — but deep down, she knows exactly what happened. She got complacent. She underestimated me. And now she’s angry because I reminded her what this business demands.

People keep telling me this Tables Match is her chance at payback, her opportunity to even the score. They talk about how personal it is for her. But for me? It’s not personal. It’s inevitable. The minute she started preaching about respect, loyalty, and how “family” should always come first, I knew she was still living in a fairy tale. The moment you start letting emotion cloud your judgment, you’re finished. A Tables Match doesn’t reward emotion — it rewards precision, patience, and timing. You can swing a chair out of rage, you can throw punches out of hate, but to put somebody through a table? You need control. And there’s no one in this company who controls a ring like I do.

Maybe that’s what scares her most — not that she’s stepping into something violent, but that she’s stepping into something she can’t control. Because make no mistake, once that bell rings, I won’t be her villain anymore. I’ll be the reminder of everything she fears becoming. Losing your temper, losing your heart, losing your focus — that’s how you lose everything. Seleana’s about to learn that lesson, one splinter at a time.

Now, I’ve heard the rumors, the whispers after her sister got attacked. How she’s “not herself,” how she’s distracted and emotional. People want to feel sorry for her. They want this match to be her catharsis. But this isn’t therapy. She doesn’t get to project her grief onto me and call it redemption. Tragedy doesn’t make you stronger automatically; that’s something people tell themselves so they can sleep at night. What makes you stronger is surviving people like me. Getting thrown through that table might hurt, sure — but it’ll wake her up. It’ll remind her that living in the shadow of everyone else’s choices is what kept her soft. I’m giving her a gift. Pain is clarity. And after I beat her, she’ll finally see herself for who she is — not the crusader, not the loyal wife, not the avenger — just another woman who couldn’t keep up.

You don’t spend as long as I have in this business without making enemies. I’ve seen people come and go, whole divisions built around flavors of the month. Meanwhile, I’ve built my career on consistency. On legacy. And that’s what Seleana will never understand. Legacy isn’t about winning one big match or getting your revenge once. Legacy is about showing up, year after year, proving that you can reinvent yourself without losing your edge. Everyone else fades; I evolve. That’s why I don’t need to chase approval, because my resume already speaks louder than her promises ever could.

Some people say I took things too far when I “betrayed” her family. But betrayal is just honesty without the sugarcoating. I stopped pretending. I stopped playing the ally in her little fairy tale. I grew tired of hearing how the Zdunich family was going to “change” the company. No one changes this place — it changes you. And I refused to be rewritten into her story. If she took that personally, that’s her problem.

Since she picked the Tables stipulation, I hope she fully understands what that means. This isn’t a match you win by chance. There’s no quick rollup, no surprise pin. You have to break someone. You have to wear them down long enough to put them precisely where you want them. I’ve been in wars that ended in blood, glass, fire, and I walked away smiling. She thinks she’s picked a stipulation that plays into her anger, but she’s really picked the match that exposes her flaws. Because while she’s swinging out of vengeance, I’ll be calculating, waiting, watching for the perfect moment when her emotions make her stumble. That’s when I strike. That’s when I remind her how dangerous I am.

People like Seleana always assume their pain gives them moral authority. They want the crowd to chant their name, to believe the story is already written in their favor. But that’s exactly why they lose — because they get lost in the narrative.

I’ve never needed a sympathy chant. I’ve never needed the crowd’s validation. I win because I don’t care what they think. I win because I’ve turned indifference into armor. You can’t manipulate someone who doesn’t care how they’re perceived. She can break a thousand tables in her imagination — it won’t matter. When reality hits, when the pain gets real, that’s when she’ll fold.

I’ve thought about what I’ll feel after this match, if there’ll be any satisfaction in it. And honestly, maybe a small part of me will enjoy the silence that follows. The silence that always comes after the loud ones fall. Maybe I’ll smile when the people who called me heartless realize that heart is exactly what keeps you weak. Or maybe I’ll just walk backstage, wipe the dust off my boots, and move on to the next one. Because that’s what professionals do. I don’t dwell. I don’t relive moments. I collect them like trophies and leave them behind. Seleana doesn’t get that because she’s still fighting ghosts.

Let’s be clear — I don’t hate her. You can’t hate someone you’ve already beaten in your mind. What I feel is deeper than hate, colder than anger. It’s apathy wrapped in precision. It’s knowing that when she looks at me, she doesn’t see Mercedes Vargas the opponent. She sees the embodiment of everything she tries to pretend she isn’t. Arrogant, ruthless, self-assured, unapologetic. I’ve heard all the names before. And every single time they’ve been said about me, I’ve smiled — because it means I’m doing something right.

She likes to talk about accountability. She says I’ve “ducked” responsibility for my actions, that I don’t show remorse. Funny thing about that — remorse doesn’t win titles. Accountability doesn’t make you a legend. If I started crying about every competitor I ever hurt, I’d never have accomplished half of what I have. Seleana can wear her guilt like a halo if she wants to. I’ll keep wearing my success like a crown.

I can already hear the commentary team on Sunday night. They’ll talk about how “determined” she looks, how she’s channeling her emotions into her offense. They’ll forget — until it’s too late — that every emotion has a breaking point. Every angry swing gets slower. Every desperate move gets sloppier. And when she hesitates, when that flicker of doubt crosses her face because she realizes she can’t finish me, that’s when I’ll strike. One setup. One crash. One splintered ending. They’ll call it poetic justice, but it won’t be. It’ll be inevitability.

And when it’s done, when the table’s broken and the crowd gasps, I’ll stand over her and remind everyone why I’ve lasted this long. Because this industry doesn’t reward goodness. It rewards control. It rewards awareness. And that’s why I’ll always be a step ahead of people like her — they chase approval, I chase results.

They say Seleana’s been walking around with fire in her eyes these past few weeks. To me, it just looks like smoke. All burn and no heat. She can scream, she can cry, she can summon every ounce of anger she’s got left — but tables don’t care about emotions. Wood doesn’t bend just because you want it to. Gravity doesn’t pause out of sympathy. You either win or you fall, and I intend to make sure she does both.

What makes me laugh most is how everyone acts like this is new for me. Like I’m just now discovering how to make something personal. My whole career has been personal. Every ring I’ve stepped into has been a battlefield. Every handshake has been a potential knife in the back. I learned early on that trust is a prop — something fans hold onto because they want to believe in heroes. I stopped believing in heroes a long time ago. All I’ve ever believed in is winning. That’s why I’m still here, still standing, still relevant while others fade into nostalgia clips and social media flashbacks. Seleana thinks she’s writing the next great chapter in her story. I’m writing the ending.

You want to know what satisfaction looks like to me? It’s not the sound of the table breaking. It’s the moment after — the quiet realization in her eyes when she realizes she gave me exactly what I wanted. She wanted war. I wanted control. And she handed me both. Because she doesn’t know how to stop fighting battles that no longer matter. She doesn’t know how to walk away. Her pride won’t let her. And pride is a fragile thing when it meets the floor.

Maybe this all sounds cruel. Maybe it is. But cruelty is honesty in motion. I don’t sugarcoat this life. Wrestling is violence wrapped in pageantry — the sooner you accept that, the sooner you stop getting blindsided by it. Seleana still clings to the illusion that somewhere under all this brutality, there’s fairness. There’s not. There’s just survival. And when I drive her through that table, it won’t be because I hate her. It’ll be because I refuse to let someone else’s weakness define me.

The beauty of a Tables Match is that it strips away the surface. No pinfalls, no submissions, no room for debate. Just impact, gravity, and the truth. You can’t fake your way out. You either go through that table or you don’t. And while Seleana’s been building her resolve around revenge, I’ve been doing what I always do — preparing. Studying. Waiting. That’s what separates the veterans from the hopefuls. I don’t train for emotion; I train for inevitability.

When people look back on this match, I don’t want them to remember it as Mercedes Vargas versus Seleana Zdunich. I want them to remember it as another reminder that greatness doesn’t flinch. That legacy doesn’t blink. That tables, no matter how many you break, don’t define you — control does. She can bring fury, heartbreak, grief, whatever she’s carrying from her sister’s situation. I’ll bring precision. And when fury meets precision, fury always loses.

So let her make her grand entrance. Let the crowd get on their feet. Let them believe, for one brief moment, that their hero is about to finally claim justice. Then I’ll remind them that justice doesn’t exist here — only result. Seleana’s chasing closure. I’m chasing dominance. And only one of us is leaving satisfied.

When the final bell rings and the splinters settle, you’ll see me standing there, unflinching, unapologetic, and unbroken. And Seleana? She'll be lying among the debris, realizing that everything she's been fighting for was just a story — and I'm the one who wrote the ending, and erased hers.

~~~

INT. THE FLOATING PENALTY BOX– MORNING

[The restaurant rocks gently with the morning tide. Seagulls squawk overhead. A neon “Galley Gourmet” sign flickers—half the letters dead, the rest buzzing like a hangover.

Ricardo polishes a wine glass with the intensity of an artist restoring a masterpiece. The bar is cluttered with half‑empty bottles, old receipts, and a laminated “Staff Pick of the Month” photo—his own.

The espresso machine hisses in protest. At the counter, Hugo, wearing a headset and a jersey, barks orders like a coach running brunch drills, commanding an invisible team..]

HUGO
Okay, people—game plan! Mimosas on defense, huevos rancheros on offense. Let’s keep the scoreboard classy!

[Mercedes limps down the narrow stairs from the upper deck, her movements sharp and defiant. She carries yesterday’s newspaper like a trophy no one wants. She stops, surveys the chaos.]

MERCEDES
Every morning, I expect to find this place sunk. Yet somehow, it’s still afloat.
Miracles or denial—you pick.

[Ricardo sets the glass down, annoyed that her sarcasm splashes his ritual.]

RICARDO
For your information, today this ship becomes a vessel of culture.

[He grandly gestures toward the bottles.]

RICARDO
I’m launching Wine Wednesdays. Elegance. Sophistication. Notes of redemption.

[Irma bursts from the kitchen, streak of paint on her apron, balancing a tray of croissants like a hopeful waiter in a dream.]

IRMA
Redemption pairs best with carbs.

[She sets the tray down; a croissant slides off and plops directly into the drain. Everyone watches it sink slowly like a metaphor.]

TOMÁS
And there goes our tip jar for the day.

[Ricardo ignores the jab, presenting a bottle as if auditioning for a commercial.]

RICARDO
We’re more than a restaurant now. We are an experience. A place for the palate and the soul.

[Mercedes raises an eyebrow. Hugo yanks off his headset in disbelief.]

HUGO
Does this “experience” come with a liquor license, artist boy?

[Ricardo freezes. The word license hangs heavy, like the anchor outside. A low creak from the hull punctuates the silence. The boat lists slightly, reacting to their dread.]

RICARDO
…We do have one.

[He forces a half-smile.]

RICARDO
Probably.

[Everyone stares. The espresso machine hisses again, like it knows what’s coming.]

INT. THE FLOATING PENALTY BOX– LATE MORNING

[Paperwork now covers the bar — licensing forms, sticky notes, and a half‑empty bottle of Pinot stretch across the counter like a crime scene. Ricardo squints at a glitchy state website on an old laptop while the Wi‑Fi signal flickers between one and zero bars.]

RICARDO
(reading)
“Serving alcohol on navigable waters may require dual jurisdiction clearance.” Dual jurisdiction? What is this, maritime law or nonsense?

[Hugo storms in from the deck, headset around his neck, waving a bright red “Brunch Bowl Sundays!” banner.]

HUGO
We don’t need clearance. We need momentum. Promotions, people! See this? Vision. Branding. Fan engagement!

[Mercedes crosses her arms.]

MERCEDES
Your “vision” gets us arrested, coach. Ricardo’s “branding” gets us fined. And I’m not spending my prime fighting the Coast Guard instead of wrestlers.

HUGO
Pivoting beats prison.

[Hugo puffs his chest and spins toward Tomás, who lounges on a stool eating fries like a man allergic to urgency.]

HUGO
You’re logistics. Make sure nobody official sets foot on this boat until happy hour.

[Tomás nods lazily, wiping salt from his fingers.]

TOMÁS
Cool. I’ll stand by the door and, what, vibe them away?

[Irma pokes her head through the kitchen pass‑through, waving a paintbrush like a wand..]

IRMA
Or we can turn “Wine Wednesday” into art therapy night. Paint, sip, express your existential dread responsibly!

[Mercedes half‑smiles despite herself.]

MERCEDES
It’s chaotic, but it’s legal-ish.

[She crosses to Ricardo.]

MERCEDES
You handle the art crowd. I’ll handle the inspectors.

[The boat sways again. Something metallic slides and clangs below deck. Everyone freezes. Irma looks up.]

IRMA
That didn’t sound artistic.

CUT TO: EXT. DOCKSIDE – CONTINUOUS

[A clipboard‑carrying marine inspector steps from shore onto the gangplank. He’s all khaki authority and reflective sunglasses. He cranes his neck to study the flickering “Wine Wednesday” banner overhead.]

INSPECTOR
(reading)
Wine night on a boat. Perfect storm of bad ideas.

[He takes one more step toward the entrance—where Tomás stands guard, holding two menus like warning flags.]

TOMÁS
Welcome… to our non‑alcoholic tasting event. All juice. Deeply complex. Fermented nowhere.

[The inspector studies him, unmoving. Behind Tomás, Ricardo’s nervous smile falters. Mercedes approaches fast, inserting herself with a professional grin that doesn’t reach her eyes.]

MERCEDES
Officer! Welcome aboard. You’re just in time for our pilot dry run. Totally sober. Spiritually, though—very spirited.

CUT TO: INT. THE FLOATING PENALTY BOX – MOMENTS LATER

[The inspector sits at a table, flipping through forms while everyone performs improvisational damage control. Ricardo pours grape juice like a sommelier under duress. Irma paints “Live, Laugh, Licensing” on a canvas, humming nervously. Hugo circles the tables, pretending to take customer stats on a clipboard that’s actually a lunch order. Mercedes paces in the background, whispering to Tomás.]

MERCEDES
If he finds one bottle, we’re done. Hide everything with a cork and act like hydration is a religion.

[Tomás gives a lazy salute and shoves bottles under napkins, cushions, and even a potted fern. The inspector looks up—suspicious.]

INSPECTOR
Interesting décor choice. Is that a… wine fern?

[Ricardo clears his throat too loudly .]

RICARDO
Symbolism, sir. We root our passion… in the soil of restraint.

[A long pause. The inspector sips the “juice,” unimpressed. The restaurant rocks slightly again, as if holding its breath.]

INT. THE FLOATING PENALTY BOX– LATE MORNING

[The inspector scans the laminated menu. A droplet of grape juice lands on his paperwork. He glances up. Ricardo freezes mid‑pour; the others freeze with him, an unintentional tableau of guilt.

INSPECTOR
So… “Wine Wednesday” is juice night now?

RICARDO
Yes. The French call it jus de raisin. Very avant‑grape.

[A cough escapes Mercedes as Hugo wipes sweat from his forehead. The inspector sets down his cup.]

INSPECTOR
Strange. I didn’t get any notice of your alcohol license renewal. Usually those cross my desk.

[Everyone’s eyes dart to Ricardo.]

RICARDO
Ah, the mail, yes. The tides have been… unpredictable. Letters, like dreams, sometimes drift.

[Tomás barely hides a smirk behind a napkin. Mercedes steps closer, voice steady.]

MERCEDES
Listen, officer—this business stays afloat on good food and hard work. The paperwork just hasn’t caught up to the hustle.

[The inspector nods slowly, flipping another page. Irma paints faster, her “abstract” canvas now a storm of caffeine and fear. The inspector looks around again, sniffing the air.]

INSPECTOR
Odd. For a dry event, smells suspiciously like Cabernet.

[Ricardo’s trembling hand hovers over a corked bottle under the bar. Before he can panic, Hugo lunges toward the source of the scent, waving a dish rag like a flag.]

HUGO
Air freshener malfunction! “Eau de Merlot.” Limited edition.

[The inspector squints, unconvinced. The air thickens with tension—then the espresso machine erupts, steam bursting like a geyser. Everyone jumps.]

HUGO
Timeout!

[The room fills with fog. The inspector rises from his seat, voice cutting through the chaos.]

INSPECTOR
That machine up to code?

[Mercedes doesn’t even blink.]

MERCEDES
Define “code.”

[Ricardo fumbles, knocking a bottle. Purple liquid spills across the counter, oozing toward a crate marked VINTAGE MERLOT, 2018. A dreadful silence.]

INSPECTOR
That... doesn’t look like juice.

[Only Tomás moves, casually slips between them, holding up a wrinkled inspection waiver.]

TOMÁS
Actually, sir, it’s a sample shipment. Non‑consumable. Decorative only.

[The inspector narrows his eyes. Tomás shrugs, easily unbothered. Mercedes strides forward, her stance commanding the moment.]

MERCEDES
If we’ve made a mistake, we’ll fix it. But today’s not about forms or fines. It’s about rebuilding something that’s already halfway sunk.

[She gestures around at the cracked lights, tilted tables, and dripping pipes. The restaurant feels raw and human in her words.]

MERCEDES
You see a hazard. We see a home that keeps us fighting.

[The inspector studies her, pen tapping his clipboard. Then, a faint nod.]

INSPECTOR
You’ve got... passion. I’ll give you that.

[He closes his folder and exhales.]

INSPECTOR
You’ve got seventy‑two hours to get this license cleared. After that—

[He glances at dripping espresso machine]

INSPECTOR
—this floating restaurant goes under.

[He turns and leaves. The sound of gulls and sloshing water fills the silence he leaves behind. As his silhouette fades down the gangplank, the group remains frozen, absorbing what just happened.]

HUGO
We survived inspection day! That’s a win, team!

[No one celebrates. Mercedes collapses into a chair, exhausted but faintly amused.]

MERCEDES
Winning feels suspiciously like losing.

Ricardo exhales a tired laugh.

RICARDO
Art imitates life.

[The boat creaks. Irma holds up her painting—now a chaotic hurricane of swirling colors.]

IRMA
Happy little accident?

[Everyone groans, then smiles. For now, they’re still afloat.]

CUT TO: EXT. THE FLOATING PENALTY BOX– SUNSET

[The boat bobs quietly, warm light spilling from its windows. Laughter echoes faintly over the water. From the deck, Ricardo wipes down the bar, this time slower, quieter. A humbled artist in recovery. Mercedes stands beside him, nursing cold coffee.]

MERCEDES
You could’ve sunk us today.

RICARDO
I know.

[She studies him, then smiles faintly.]

MERCEDES
But that toast you poured—for your ego? Almost vintage.

[She raises her coffee; he lifts his glass of water. They clink. Small redemption in the fading light.]

FADE OUT.

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

[REC•]

Scene Location: Industrial Warehouse, Los
Angeles Arts District

[Inside an abandoned warehouse, a single industrial lamp hums overhead, flickering in the dark. Its cone of light falls on a weathered table. The World Bombshell Championship rests across it like an idol. Dust floats through the beam like ash. Mercedes Vargas sits inside that glow — black leather jacket, ring gear catching the light, posture regal, still as a verdict. The camera glides in slow, handheld, each creak of floor echoing through the empty space. Silence holds, heavy and deliberate, until she finally speaks.]

"They tell me Seleana Zdunich finally gets her chance at payback. Like this was ever about chance."

[Her gaze drops to the World Bombshell Championship resting in front of her. The lamp flickers as she stares down at the title. She runs two fingers across the plate, slow drag, tracing her reflection.]

"A Tables Match. She chose it because it feels final. Because it promises impact. One crash. One splinter. One scream. And justice supposedly gets served."

[Her mouth twists upward — not laughter, but certainty.]

"That’s adorable."

[The scraping of her chair cuts through the quiet as she rises. The camera pans up with her, stretched shadow dancing against rusted walls.]

"Seleana thinks destruction evens the scale. Amateurs mistake emotion for strategy. I am precision. Every strike, every choice — controlled."

[She walks past the table, fingertips gliding across its edge. Metal rings softly under her touch. The steady rhythm of her heels echoes over the cracked concrete floor.]

"She wants to put me through this? She won’t even get the chance."

[Mercedes stops center frame, half her face caught in light, half in shadow. She fixes her stare straight into the lens — surgical calm in every word.]

"Emotion makes you slow. Hate clouds the math. But precision — precision writes history. That’s what keeps me standing when others break."

[Silence stretches. A dripping pipe somewhere fills the air with a steady pulse. She lets it breathe before speaking again, quieter, sharper.]

"Seleana wants vengeance for her wife, for her family, for whatever ghosts are still walking behind her. For everything she couldn’t protect. I understand that. But don’t mistake understanding for sympathy."

[She leans against the table — relaxed, unbothered. The light gleams across the belt as she speaks.]

"I put Crystal in a hospital not because I hated her. But because weakness invites consequence. And now Seleana’s here to collect a debt that was never hers."

[She uncrosses her arms — open palms, like she’s teaching a lesson. She taps twice on the tabletop — hard, deliberate. The sound echoes up into the rafters. Her eyes lift.]

"Two things always break easy: pretty things, and people who believe they can save them. That’s what people like Seleana never learn."

[She stands tall again, body squared to the lens.]

"Everyone watching thinks this is her story. That she’ll find closure by sending me through wood and splinters. But I’m not the villain in her redemption tale. I’m the ending she didn’t want written."

[Mercedes steps closer to the front, the camera drawing tight — eyes filling the frame. Her voice softens almost to a whisper.]

"Tables don’t scare me. Neither does Seleana's sob story. Rivalries don’t distract me. I’ve survived cages, glass, ladders, fire. Every woman who thought she could break me cracked long before I did. I walked away every time with the same thing — awareness. Awareness builds consistency, and consistency builds legacy."

[She grins, a small flash of teeth — deadly charm. She then slides the table a few inches forward; metal legs scrape against cement — slow, deliberate, loud enough to punctuate her words.]

"That’s why I’m still here — relevant, untouchable, inevitable. Because I never fight out of anger — I fight out of inevitability."

[With a slow breath, she grips the table with both hands. Breath steady; eyes locked. One quick motion — the table flips, crashing face‑down. The boom rattles the air. Dust settles over the light like smoke.]

"Seleana can talk about fighting for love or revenge all she wants. It won’t matter. She picked the match because she thought she understood pain. What she doesn’t understand is patience."

[Steps over the fallen table.]

"Winning isn’t rage; it’s timing. You wait for the exact second they lose focus. I’ve perfected when to pull the trigger."

[A flicker of light cuts across her face; the half‑smile disappears. She steps into the empty spotlight now lingering where the table used to be.]

"Let Seleana come in burning hot, screaming, broken over her sister, her wife, her story. Let her carry her grief into the ring. I’m walking in calm, focused, already a step ahead. Because rage is loud — but precision? Precision is lethal."

[She reaches down, retrieves the championship belt from the overturned table, and drapes it over her shoulder with ceremony — not pride, possession.]

"Seleana doesn’t need to worry about sending me through a table. She needs to worry about what’s left of her
when it’s over."

[Takes one quiet step toward the lens. Breath visible. Voice now razor calm.]

"So when that table breaks — and trust me, it will — she’s gonna hear my voice in the silence after. Not screaming. Not gloating. No fue personal, mija... fue necesario."

[Mercedes stares down the lens. Nothing moves for five full seconds. Her tone drops lower; her words drag slightly.]

"I don’t chase vengeance. I create aftermaths. Sunday night isn’t redemption.
It’s realization. Seleana Zdunich meets consequence."

[She pauses. Smiles once, small and dangerous.]

"And Mercedes Vargas writes another ending."

[Camera tilts upward as she walks out of frame. One last line, tossed over her shoulder like smoke.]

"Welcome to your collapse, Seleana. Prepare for the worst. Hope for the best. And may the odds be ever in your favor."

[Blackout. The heavy echo of the fallen table fades under the dark.]
37
Climax Control Archives / Second Semester
« Last post by LJKasey on January 30, 2026, 11:57:21 PM »
Second Semester
Boyd School of Law
Las Vegas, Nevada

The lecture hall felt different in January.

Same seats. Same long tables scarred by years of nervous tapping and spilled coffee. Same whiteboard waiting to be filled with statutes and hypotheticals that would make everyone second-guess their intelligence. But the air had shifted with that new semester energy, new expectations and of course new rumors.

LJ Kasey felt them before he saw them. The looks from his fellow classmates. They weren’t hostile, not exactly. Just...aware. Heads turning a beat longer than they had last semester. Whispers that stopped when he passed. A few smiles that came with raised eyebrows, the kind that meant we know.

He slid into his usual seat three rows up, backpack at his feet, notebook already open. His ribs still ached if he breathed too deep, but the pain had dulled into something manageable, background noise rather than a warning siren. Healing didn’t mean forgetting. It meant adapting.

“Dude.”

LJ glanced up as Marcus, one of his study group partners, leaned across the aisle.

“Congrats,” Marcus said quietly, and offering a fist bump which LJ gladly accepted, “Engaged and still alive after a dog collar match? That’s efficiency, my friend.”

LJ smirked, "It was barely on both counts. Bill attempted to whoop my arse and then getting jumped after? At least Ally said yes, which has made the healing from it a lot more tolerable."

“Bruh, if I had a fiancee as hot as Alexandra Callaway, I would definitely call that more than tolerable.”

A couple of students nearby chuckled. Someone further back mouthed congrats. Another gave him a subtle thumbs-up. It was strange, being congratulated for something that felt deeply personal by people who only knew fragments of his life through headlines and social media clips.

And then there was Karin. The petit little blonde that had attempted to make a pass at him the first week of classes last semester and has been a pissy little bitch...the Brit side of him wanted to call her the more colorful version of the word. She sat two rows behind him, legs crossed, posture perfect, lips already curled like she’d been waiting for her moment. Karin treated law school the way some people treated senior year of high school, as a hierarchy to be climbed, a social game to be won. She was smart, sure, but she was loud about it. Loud about everything.

“Wow,” Karin said, not bothering to lower her voice, "Guess it’s official then.”

LJ didn’t turn around.

“Official what?” someone asked.

“The engagement,” Karin replied sweetly, "You didn’t see it? It’s everywhere on social media that LJ got himself engaged over the Christmas break.”

LJ closed his notebook slowly and turned in his seat, meeting her eyes without heat, without tension. Just attention that she apparently was craving constantly.

“Yes,” he said evenly, "It’s official, I proposed, she said yes. We’re happy and now on top of everything else, we’re planning a wedding.”

Karin tilted her head, studying him like she was doing him a favor, "I just think it’s... bold.”

“Bold?” LJ echoed.

“I mean,” she continued, “You’re twenty-two, almost twenty-three. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. Career, fame, money. And you’re settling down with someone who’s... what, forty-two?”

The room went quiet in that subtle way it does when people pretend they aren’t listening while absolutely listening.

LJ held her gaze, “You’re right about one thing,” he said, "I do have my whole life ahead of me.”

Karin smiled, thinking she’d won.

“And I’m choosing to spend it with someone who actually knows who she is,” he continued calmly, "Who moved across states with her kid to be with me. Who stands in my corner when I’m broken, bleeding, and questioning every decision I’ve ever made.”

Her smile quickly began to falter.

“She doesn’t need me to rescue her,” LJ added, "And I don’t need her to make me feel important. We choose each other, each and every day.”

There was a brief pause as LJ glanced around for a moment.

“And just so we’re clear,” he said, voice still even, “My fiancée doesn’t need your approval and neither do I.”

The professor walked in right then, saving Karin from having to respond. She looked away, jaw tight, suddenly very interested in her laptop.

Marcus leaned over again, grinning, "Bro....You didn’t even raise your voice.”

“It’s called growth,” LJ murmured, "Innit fuckin’ pathetic that in a room full of legal adults that the prom queen has to act like that?”

As the lecture began, LJ settled back into his seat and the whispers faded. The attention drifted elsewhere as statutes replaced gossip and case law replaced assumptions. Somewhere between notes on jurisdiction and the professor’s dry humor, LJ felt it, that quiet certainty again. He wasn’t behind and he wasn’t lost.

He wasn’t defined by the vets who tried to break him, the crowd that speculated about his absence, or the people who thought they understood his life because of an age gap and a headline.

He was exactly where he was supposed to be.

Second semester.
Still standing.
Still choosing the life he wanted.

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

LJ & Ally’s Home
Las Vegas, Nevada

The apartment had settled into its evening rhythm. It wasn’t loud or tense. Just lived-in like their little family belonged together.

LJ sat at the dining table, hoodie pushed up to his elbows, laptop open and flanked by a small army of casebooks. He had Civil Procedure on the left and contracts on the right. A legal pad already half-filled with tight, slanted handwriting that grew messier the longer he stared at the screen.

The second semester did not waste time.

His eyes tracked across a paragraph on personal jurisdiction for the third time before his brain finally accepted it. He underlined a sentence, scribbled a note in the margin, then leaned back and rubbed his face with both hands.

Across the apartment, Ally sat on the couch beside Ashlynn, homework spread between them. It was Pre-Calculus tonight and Ally was doing that thing where she talked through the steps out loud, not because Ash didn’t understand, but because it helped her feel like she did.

“Okay,” Ally said gently, tapping the page, "So you don’t divide yet. You isolate the variable first. See?”

Ashlynn frowned, then nodded slowly, "Oh... oh. Okay. Yeah. That makes sense.”

LJ smiled faintly despite himself. This, this quiet, was the part no one ever saw.

He turned back to his laptop, fingers hovering over the keyboard...and then his eyes flicked, just slightly, to the lower corner of the screen muted, paused and still there.

The video from Inception of Brandon Hendrix making his grand return, jumping him and attempting to make a statement. Someone had clipped it clean, too clean. Complete with slow motion and commentary layered over it with some rando “wrestling journalist” talking about it.

LJ’s jaw tightened. He didn’t click it. He didn’t need to. He’d already watched it once....ok maybe twice.

.....Enough times to memorize the angle his head snapped back, the moment his body stopped fighting.

He eventually said ‘fuck it’ and hit play again and the commentator’s voice played softly anyway, leaking through his headphones where he hadn’t muted everything.

“Man, you gotta feel for LJ Kasey,” the voice said, half-sympathetic, half-smug, “This poor guy just cannot catch a break. First Barnhart, now Hendrix. At this point, it’s like the vet locker room’s got him on speed dial.”

LJ exhaled through his nose.

Then the tone shifted.

“But I will say this,” the commentator continued, "This kid has got a fantastic sense of humor about it. He fired off a tweet that honestly made me spit my drink.”

The screen flashed briefly to the tweet, enlarged for effect.

Knock down ONE asshole and another asshole pops up.
What is this, Whack-a-Vet?

The commentator laughed.

“Alright, LJ. You got some mad respect from me on that one. That’s funny and sharp. Honestly? I kinda wish he’d lean into that edge more. BRUV, you gotta stop being polite and stop trying to play nice. Because at some point, you gotta meet fire with something hotter.”

LJ closed his eyes for a second.

Not because it hurt, but because it landed. He minimized the video, the sound cutting off abruptly, and stared back down at his notes like they hadn’t just betrayed him.

From the couch, Ally glanced over, "You okay?” she asked softly.

He looked up, expression already neutral again, "Yeah. Just....Civ Pro is trying to ruin my life.”

She smiled, unconvinced but letting it go, "Join the club, Ash’s math is currently bullying me.”

Ashlynn snorted, "Hey!”
   
LJ chuckled, then bent back over his work, pen moving again. More jurisdiction and minimum contacts. Reasonableness but beneath the words, beneath the structure and order of the law, something darker simmered.

He wasn’t wrong. Knock one down, another pops up.

Whack-a-vet.

LJ Kasey had done everything the “right” way. Took his hits, got back up. Smiled through the pain that he endured. He tried to be respectful and tried to be patient.

And still, they kept coming like he had a target on his back and a neon sign hanging over his head saying ‘Easy Target’.

He underlined another sentence, harder this time.

Stop being polite, the commentator had said. LJ didn’t smile at that, but he didn’t dismiss it either.

From the couch, Ally laughed at something Ashlynn said, the sound warm and real and grounding. LJ glanced up again, just long enough to anchor himself there, in this moment, this life.

Then he went back to his case studies because being responsible didn’t mean being weak.

And being patient didn’t mean staying quiet forever.

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

RECKONING, NOT A FAIRY TALE

The camera doesn’t find LJ Kasey in a ring. It finds him seated.

A plain wooden chair on a concrete floor. No entrance music. No smoke. Just harsh gym lights overhead, buzzing faintly. His wrists are taped, not because he’s about to wrestle, but because he always tapes them now. It has turned into a habit, routine and control.

He doesn’t look injured, but he doesn’t look relaxed either.

He stares straight into the lens.

“Funny thing about the word return,” LJ says quietly, "People say it like I’ve been gone.”

He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees.

“I didn’t disappear. I didn’t vanish. I didn’t go hide.” There was a brief moment, a beat, "I got jumped by a big bitch and I got hurt but I took out Barnhart like I promised at Inception. BY THE WAY BILL I’M STILL WAITING FOR AN APOLOGY I KNOW WILL NEVER COME! But I stayed standing long enough for everybody to see who was waiting to take the next swing. Thank you to Hendrix for that one.”

His jaw tightens, not anger but in resolution.

“They keep calling this a reckoning. They keep calling it unpredictable. They keep calling it a test to see if I’m really back.” A slow exhale through his nose, "So let me clear something up.”

He lifts his head, eyes steady, "I didn’t spend these last few weeks rehabbing my body, burying myself in law books, and coming home every night to a life I fought like hell to protect....just to see if I’m ready.”

There is a pause for a moment and a smirk.

“I already know what I can handle.”

The camera inches closer.

“And then there’s Anthrax.”

The name lands flat, there is no mockery or fear. Just a fact like a lawyer would.

“The Clown Prince of Chaos. The grin. The paint. The walking hazard sign.”

LJ tilts his head slightly.

“The guy who doesn’t just want to beat you, he wants to scramble you. He wants to turn a return into a spectacle and wants to turn a fight into a nightmarish fairy tale.”

A faint scoff escapes his lips.

“That’s cute.”

He straightens in the chair.

“You want chaos? Do you want unpredictability?” He taps his chest once, "You’re looking at a man who got jumped after winning a war....then got jumped again for daring to stand back up.”

His voice drops, colder now.

“I’ve already lived through the part where everything goes sideways. So don’t misunderstand me when I tell you flat out, I don’t fear clowns. I don’t get rattled by noise and I don’t lose focus because someone smiles while they swing.”

He leans closer, intensity sharpening like a blade.

“Because I’m not walking into this match angry. I’m walking as clear headed as ever.”

Silence hangs for a moment again. He’s just doing this to make a point by now in case you missed it.

“This isn’t a pathetic redemption story. This isn’t a comeback tour and this sure as hell isn’t a fairy tale where I need the crowd to believe hard enough for me to win.”

He shakes his head slowly.

“This is me reminding the locker room that I don’t need momentum. I create it.”

LJ rises from the chair now, filling the frame.

“So Anthrax, I want you do your thing. Laugh like an idiot. Grin like a fool and try to turn this into a circus.”

A faint, dangerous smirk creeps across his face.

“But understand this before the bell rings.”

He takes one step forward.

“You’re not testing whether I’m back.”

Another step.

“You’re finding out what happens when you step in front of someone who’s already survived worse than you and learned exactly how to keep moving forward.”

He turns and walks out of frame. No rush. No drama. Just certainty. No fairy tale. Just consequences.

The camera doesn’t move when LJ Kasey stands.

It lets him rise into the frame like a storm front rolling in, slow, inevitable, impossible to ignore.

He doesn’t pace. He doesn’t gesture wildly. His hands stay loose at his sides, taped wrists flexing once like he’s checking the tension in a rope.

“You know what the funny part is?” LJ continues, voice calm but sharpened, "They keep calling Anthrax dangerous because he’s unpredictable.”

A slight shake of his head.

“That’s not dangerous. That’s just noise.”

He steps closer, the concrete floor echoing under his boots.

“Danger is knowing exactly what you’re walking into and doing it anyway. Danger is a man who’s already been laid out, already been jumped, already been laughed at by people who thought he was finished
and didn’t blink.”

His eyes narrow, not angry. It was extremely Focused.

“Anthrax wants to scramble focus. I know damn well he wants to make this about chaos and how he does that is the attempt to make it all turn my return into a three-ring circus.”

A breath through his teeth.

“That’d be funny....if my entire career wasn’t already being treated like one.”

He tilts his head.

“Brandon Hendrix jumps me from behind. Vets line up like it’s open season on the younger Kasey and people online crack jokes about how I can’t catch a break.”

His gaze hardens.

“And you think I’m worried about a clown?”

“No.”

He plants his feet.

“What you don’t understand, Anthrax, what none of you seem to understand....and this should be blatantly fucking obvious by now is that chaos doesn’t scare me.”

His voice lowers.

“Chaos is a familiar beast to me and has quickly become a friend. I balance law school, a career that tries to break my body every week, and a life I’m building with someone I love, while people actively root for me to fail. You think a painted smile and a few mind games are going to knock me off center?”

He lets out a short, humorless laugh.

“I have had to live off-center my entire life.” The camera tightens now, close enough to catch the tension in his jaw, "You don’t derail me by being weird. You don’t bait me into mistakes by acting unhinged. And you sure as hell don’t turn me into a fairy tale character just because you don’t know how to take things seriously.”

A brief silence.

“This match?” LJ continues, "This isn’t about whether I’m back.”

He taps his chest once.

“This is about whether you’re ready for someone who doesn’t need adrenaline...doesn’t need anger....doesn’t need hype.”

His eyes burn.

“Someone who’s already accepted the worst outcome and kept moving.”

He straightens fully now.

“So laugh. Grin. Make faces. Try to turn the ring into a joke. Just remember something.”

His voice drops to a near whisper.

“Clowns only work when the audience is afraid of them.”

He steps forward until the frame barely holds him.

“And I’m not afraid.”

A long pause.

“I’m focused.”

The silence stretches, uncomfortable, deliberate.

“This isn’t a redemption arc. This isn’t a comeback tour. This isn’t a storybook ending where the hero needs magic or belief.”

He shakes his head once.

“This is a man walking back into the ring because it’s his job... and because someone decided to stand in his way.”

One last step.

“So Anthrax, welcome to the return. You don’t get to turn this into a circus.”

The camera lingers as LJ turns away.

“This is a reckoning.”

Fade out.
38
Climax Control Archives / Brayden's Climb
« Last post by Todd Williams on January 30, 2026, 11:39:59 PM »
Las Vegas, Nevada
Las Vegas University Hospital

It was the night of Inception. The show had been done and over with and the family of Crystal Zdunich had gone to the local hospital because of the attack that happened on Crystal by Mercedes Vargas. Brayden sat in the waiting room next to his girlfriend Carleigh Rae Annis. They weren’t alone as his sister Brittany Williams was also there along with her wife Haylie Jo Annis. Both sets of siblings just waited patiently as Brayden just shook his head in disgust and glanced over at his sister.

Brayden: I can’t believe that Mercedes would do that to mom. I thought the two of them were super close. I thought that Fire & Fury had a lot of potential and we were destined to do some big things together.

Brittany just sighs in return as she paces around the waiting room. She slowly turns her attention to her brother as she looks at the time on her phone before slowly responding back to him.

Brittany: All of this waiting is going to kill me. I swear on everything that I am going to hurt a Bitch. Mercedes had no reason to do what she did. Don’t tell me this was all about the belt.

Brayden: Well what else could it have been about, you heard what Mercedes said, and the fact that she took the title to add more insult to injury. I don’t think she really cared for mom like we all thought she did. It was always about using her to get to where she wanted to go. What’s sad is that I really thought that it would be mom betraying her and not the other way around. It’s crazy to see our mother as the good one in this situation.

Brayden is the one to now look at the time before he slowly gazes back at his sister.

Brayden: Damn, I wonder what’s going on in there. I feel like Seleana has been in there forever. She needs to come out and give us an update.

Halo: Can all of you just relax. When she hears something I am sure she will come out and just tell us. Don’t rush her.

Brayden: That is easy for you to say but let’s be honest for a majority of last year she and my mother were very distant with one another. Once mom told Seleana that she didn’t want anything to do with her they really hadn’t been communicating with one another. I am shocked that Seleana would even be here right now…

Carleigh: Babe,  you need to understand that they are married…

Brayden raised his eyes as he looked back at his girlfriend.

Brayden: Yeah but what about all of the bad things that my mom had put Seleana through. It doesn’t make any sense that she would stay by her bedside like she is right now. My mom acted awful to her. She couldn’t even admit if she wasn’t secretly trying to get with Mercedes or not. She caused their relationship to rip in two.

Carleigh: But despite how you look at things the truth remains that tonight Crystal made a selfless decision when she decided to put her own body on the line to protect her wife. They may have had their share of problems but your mother showed her true colors and who was really on her heart. As important as being a champion might have been to her, she showed that her wife was her biggest priority and I think that Seleana finally realizes that. There isn’t a competition of trying to win her over and how Seleana realizes that Crystal picked her. The reality is if Crystal didn’t do what she did Seleana would be the one in that bed right now and that’s something that I think Seleana understands.

Brayden looks around just sighing as he looks at everybody.

Brayden: So does this mean that the two of them might be getting back together?!

Nobody in the room is able to say anything. There is silence in that room but the main reason is because Seleana could be seen walking into the waiting room. She crosses her arms just glancing at everybody before she begins to speak.

Seleana: Sorry to keep everybody waiting. Crystal is going to be alright. She suffered a concussion. Doctor expects her to recover but she needs her rest for a couple of weeks, and not allowed to wrestle. She is on medical suspension… I guess I will take care of her when she comes out of hospital to make sure she is good…

Brayden: So does this mean you two are officially a thing again?!

Seleana just shrugs her shoulders as she looks back at her son in-law.

Seleana: I don’t know yet. We still have much to discuss and that’s a conversation that needs to happen when she is fully aware of what’s going on. As of right now, I will just watch her and we will worry about the future later. Now who wants to go see her first?!

Is all she can say as she nods her head in agreement, she takes a long deep breath glancing at everybody in the room as we go to elsewhere.





Long behold Inception didn’t really go the way I imagined it and to be honest I don’t really think my SCW has been going in the way that I had hoped for it to go. I thought when I signed up to be back in SCW that things were going to be exactly how I wanted them to go. I was going to rip through all of the competition and I would be standing at the very top and looking down at everybody else.

After all wrestling is in my blood and I am destined for greatness. I am a third generation star and that in itself means that I am so much better than everybody else. However for some reason things just haven’t panned out and I know that there are some people out there who are going to assume that I would just quit and call it a day.

They thought that would be the end of my journey and I would be content with just being there and taking up space. The truth is I will never be happy and it’s very embarrassing that I am the son of a legendary Hall of Famer in this company, a woman who is standing tall as the World Champion and I can’t even go about and win a simple match.

How pathetic can yours truly really be?! No, I am better than that. What I do know is that even though things haven’t gone my way and I haven’t really been dealt the best deck, I can personally rectify all of this by going out to that ring on Climax Control and making an example out of Ryan Keys. To be honest I don’t give a damn at what he is about but what does make me care is the fact that if I can somehow get past them I can forge my own destiny and I could be right smack dab in the middle of the Roulette division.

In order for me to have the perfect turnaround I need to showcase to the world that I do have what it takes to win. Winning is something that has eluded me since I have returned to this company, but it’s something that won’t be that far away from me for that long. It’s time to personally change the narrative and show the entire world that Brayden Williams is a man that goes about meaning business.

Ryan Keys, this match is simply about momentum when it comes to you. You really don’t have nothing to gain but on the contrary I have so much to gain and I definitely have even more to lose. I feel like I am backed against a wall and the only way that I can go from this point is up.  I will find a way to make the climb back up.

I will find a way to win.

My first win, and once I get over that hump it will be time to position myself to become the Roulette Champion.

I don’t care what might be on the horizon but Ryan Keys know this for a fact. At Climax Control I start changing the narrative and start forging my own legacy. See you out there and you better bring it.


39
Climax Control Archives / A Chance
« Last post by Seleana Zdunich on January 30, 2026, 11:25:46 PM »
Off-Camera


Office of Seleana Zdunich
Zdunich Zoological Gardens
Los Angeles, California
Friday, January 30, 2026
8:41 AM PST





Sitting at her desk in her office, Seleana Zdunich stretches her arms, her Zdunich Zoological Gardens t-shirt, black with a picture of Sarabi the lioness sunning herself in her habitat, moves with her. The design had come from her daughter, Aurora. As she looks over a few documents, comparing numbers to the ones on her computer screen, several employees, Sam "Razorback" Matthews, Diego "Junior" Muñoz, Carlton "Cerberus" Martin and Julián "Cachorro" Carrillo, all members of the San Clemente Charter of the Chrome Dragons Motorcycle Club. It was the brother club of the Shieldmaidens club that her daughter-in-law, Haylie Jo "Halo" Annis, was the Vice President of. Razorback worked primarily with the wild pigs. Cerberus Junior worked in security while Cachorro worked in the office. Cerberus was an officer with the MC, Razorback a full patch, while Junior and Cachorro were both prospects who had not been patched in fully yet. The four men in full biker vests and regalia look to Seleana, not looking happy at all.

Carlton "Cerberus" Martin: We might have a situation.

Seleana sits back, frowning in confusion. The Dragons were not in the habit of sounding alarms in this fashion.

Seleana Zdunich: Ja?

Razorback nods solemnly, clearly worried about something.

Sam "Razorback" Matthews: Y'all remember them douchefuck used to try and hold you up for money because of supposed debts run up by your family?

Seleana nods slowly, almost awkwardly, waiting for the shoe to drop.

Seleana Zdunich: Ja?

Cerberus grinds his teeth for a second, hating that they have to show patience.

Carlton "Cerberus" Martin: We've heard rumblings that a new faction is looking to move in on the territory here, meaning we might see action against the established powers. They think there's a vacuum that needs filling. 

Sam "Razorback" Matthews: We might get caught in a crossfire here if this starts a war.

Cerberus nods in anticipation.

Carlton "Cerberus" Martin: These guys think they can move in on everybody and just push out the other gangs, MCs, Japanese, Mexicans…

Seleana stares at him for a second before frowning hard.

Seleana Zdunich: Where does this come at us?

Razorback sighs, allowing it to be colored by both annoyance and sadness with a little bit of worry sprinkled on top.

Sam "Razorback" Matthews: They think there are customers to be scooped up and stolen.

Seleana shakes her head quickly, indicating emphatically the negative answer coming.

Seleana Zdunich: But there are none. No one uses anymore and if they wish to discuss dealers, they are talking to the wrong side of the family.

Cerberus nods stiffly, coolly.

Carlton "Cerberus" Martin: Yeah, but they might come after Halo and CRAVE over The Church and will no doubt go after TWill, possibly Sofia.

Sam "Razorback" Matthews: And the kids…

Sudden realization hits the blonde Swede like a bomb going off.

Seleana Zdunich: They would do such things?

All four nod in unison.

Carlton "Cerberus" Martin: It all comes back to TWill.

Sam "Razorback" Matthews: Cuervo has been in contact with her cousin, Salazar. He's not happy at this bullshit gettin' everybody greasy.

Seleana frowns somewhere between Mama Bear and straight up Serial Killer.

Seleana Zdunich: We need more security for the animals and visitors, especially children?

Razorback nods.

Sam "Razorback" Matthews: Already on it. Junior and Cachorro been expandin' systems. Gonna put a command center in the next room.

Cerberus nods grimly.

Carlton "Cerberus" Martin: Gonna bring the Japanese up to speed soon. They already know about Gino and Joey so showing them the new stuff might just be fun.

Seleana nods her approval.

Seleana Zdunich: Ja, good deal. Money will be no problem.

Razorback grins.

Sam "Razorback" Matthews: Just thought y'all needed to know before Fresno.

Seleana nods equally grimly.

Seleana Zdunich: Alexandra Calaway call for vigilance. Rori and E will be safe this weekend.

Cerberus nods, calm yet rigid.

Carlton "Cerberus" Martin: We will be running patrols. Halo's setting it up.

Seleana Zdunich: It will be good then, ja?

Sam "Razorback" Matthews: Everything's ready, y'all ain't gotta worry about nothin'.

Seleana nods gratefully.

Seleana Zdunich: Tack. 






On-Camera


Parking Lot
Zdunich Zoological Gardens
Los Angeles, California
Friday, January 30, 2026
12:01 PM PST





Seleana Zdunich stands by the side door of the main zoo building, seemingly ready to get ready to go.

Seleana Zdunich: Alexandra…

She nods grimly.

Seleana Zdunich: We have met before and it went…

Seleana nods, more to herself than anything else.

Seleana Zdunich: You have established yourself here in SCW, ja?

She nods pointedly.

Seleana Zdunich: There is no denying this, Chickie. Now we come together to see who gets an opportunity at the Internet Championship.

Cocking her head, Seleana glares forward.

Seleana Zdunich: We compete to get a chance at a championship neither of us have won so far.

She nods while pointing to herself.

Seleana Zdunich: I won the Roulette Championship and the World Championship.

She pauses to point into the camera.

Seleana Zdunich: You won the Roulette Championship twice.

The point falls out of the shot but her gaze holds steady.

Seleana Zdunich: Now we see if one of us can walk into a third reign. If I do, it'll be my third separate championship and drive everyone crazy again as they search for another way to dismiss me. If you do it'll be your third reign and the first time it's not the Roulette Championship.

Seleana smirks.

Seleana Zdunich: Either way, it helps send a message to the roster that the person doing it should not be underestimated again. but…

The smile spreads through her eyes.

Seleana Zdunich: We have to get there first, ja?

Motioning to follow, Seleans starts off towards her vehicle.

Seleana Zdunich: I am ready for this and will enjoy this fight. See you there, Chickie.

40
Climax Control Archives / You will not break me
« Last post by Alexandra Calaway on January 30, 2026, 11:25:05 PM »
Silence is deafening
Kasey Apartment
Las Vegas, Nevada

The apartment settled into silence slowly, like it was deciding whether or not to trust it. Alexandra stood in the kitchen after the door closed behind her daughter, listening to the echo of footsteps fade down the hall. Fifteen was old enough to leave without fanfare, no frantic reminders, no clinging at the door. Just a nimble hug, a distracted “Text you later,” and the sound of independence moving away. She exhaled and let the calm arrive.

LJ had already left earlier that morning, law books stacked in his bag, gear stowed away like he was attempting not to let those two worlds bleed into each other too much. Law school demanded structure. Wrestling demanded sacrifice. He somehow gave both what they asked for, even when it cost him sleep. Now the apartment belonged to her. Not empty.

Just still. Quiet. The silence gave her way too much time to think.

Alexandra poured herself coffee she didn’t really want and leaned against the counter, the mug warming her palms. Morning light stretched across the living room floor, catching dust motes and the faint scuff marks from boots kicked off in a hurry. A pre-calculus textbook half haphazardly abandoned on the dining table, a hastily written note slapped onto the page in her daughter’s messy handwriting. Evidence of a life in motion. She turned her left hand slowly.

The engagement ring glinted in the sunlight, unapologetic. It looked different on her hand than it had in the box the night she opened it from the puzzle box, less new now, further integrated. Like it belonged there. Like it had always been waiting for the rest of her life to catch up. Alexandra rubbed her thumb over the band, grounding herself. Engaged. A mother. A fighter. None of those things canceled the others out, no matter how badly some people wanted them to. Her thoughts slid, inevitably, toward Seleana and the upcoming Bombshell Internet Qualifier.

The match sat hard in her chest, not with fear but with awareness. Seleana wasn’t just perilous because of her skill, though she was identical, identical in a good way. She was perilous because she represented a version of the path Alexandra might have taken under different circumstances. No child waiting at home. No partner splitting time between law briefs and ring tape. Just extraordinary focus, sharpened into a blade. People would compare them. They already were. Alexandra knew the whispers. Knew the implication threaded through every analysis and preview.

Has Alexandra lost her edge? Is it possible that the end was coming for her?

She scoffed softly and took a sip of coffee, grimacing when she realized it had gone cold. If anything, she felt sharper now. No loss of focus. Less reckless. Hunger didn’t always look like desperation. Sometimes it looked like control. She crossed the living room and knelt beside her gear bag, unzipping it slowly. The smell immediately hit leather, sweat, and wrist tape. Comforting. Familiar. She ran her hands over the contents like a ritual, feeling her pulse steady. She imagined Seleana across the ring. The tension. Their stare down. The moment where instinct took over and everything else fell away. Seleana wasn’t new to Alexandra, nor was she to Seleana, they had fought several times before, would this one be any different? Despite everything to the contrary, Alexandra knew not to underestimate her.

Underestimating your opponent could be your downfall. And she couldn’t do that again, she had doubted others before and look where that landed her.

And she imagined LJ nearby. Not hovering. Never hovering. Just ever present, as he had been.  Backstage if time allowed it. Ringside if he could swing it. It was always touching that she could find him in the chaos, always more than enough that she knew without looking that someone who understood the cost was watching. A sound at the door pulled her out of her thoughts. The jingle of keys in the lock. A familiar rhythm. Boots hitting the floor. He was home, right when the world seemed to get too quiet.

Alexandra straightened just as LJ’s voice carried down the hall. “Angel?”

“In here” He appeared moments later, jacket slung over one shoulder, law books peeking out of his bag. There was tape still wrapped around his wrists, the edges somewhat frayed, and a faint bruise darkening on his forearm. Training, she guessed. Or sparring that had gone a little harder than planned.

“Thought you had class all afternoon,” she said. “And then training.”

“Professor let us out early,” he replied. “Cold-called half the room and then after a bit of training I decided that was enough suffering for one day.”

She smiled despite herself. His eyes went immediately to her hand. They always did. Not because he needed reassurance, but because he still seemed quietly amazed. “There it is,” he said softly, reaching for her. She let him take her hand, their fingers fitting together with ease. His thumb brushed the ring, callused and gentle. “You okay?” he asked.

Alexandra hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Just, the quiet got too loud.”

LJ hummed in understanding and stepped closer, resting his forehead against hers. He smelled like soap and sweat and something distinctly him. “Thinking about Seleana,” he said.

“Is it that obvious?” She took a deep breath trying to steel herself.

“Only if you know what it looks like when you’re already in fight mode.” He nodded.

She snorted. “You mean brooding?”

“I mean focused, Angel.”

She leaned into him, arms circling his waist. His hands settled at her back without hesitation, grounding, steady.

“They’re going to tear this match apart, tear me apart.” She said quietly. “I just want to actually do something worth it this time. I feel like my life is turning into a storyline.”

“Our lives aren’t a storyline,” LJ replied. “Even if you think it is starting to be.”

Alexandra tilted her head back to look at him. “Does it ever bother you? That people think I’ll hesitate now? That I'm being labeled a choke artist.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, right over the ring. “They don’t know you,” he said simply. “And they don’t understand that having something real to fight for doesn’t make you weaker.”

Her throat tightened unexpectedly. “I just feel like I’m starting to fail you, failing my daughter and myself.”

“You aren’t failing anyone, love. Not me, not Ash,” he added. “I’ll be there, I always am. If I’m not backstage, I’ll be ringside. You know I will..”

She smiled, that quiet, fierce smile that only came out around him. “You always are.”

“Occupational hazard,” he said lightly with a smirk that made her blush. “Law school teaches patience. Wrestling teaches loyalty.”

She laughed softly and pulled him into a kiss, unhurried, familiar, full of shared history. When they broke apart, Alexandra rested her forehead against his chest.

“Can we just stay like this for a little bit?” She asked. “Before we both have to go back to being responsible adults.”

“Absolutely,” LJ said.

“Thank you.” She smiled softly.

“For what love?”

“Always being the voice of reassurance.”

They settled onto the couch together, Alexandra tucked into his side, his arm solid and reassuring around her shoulders. Outside, the city continued to move. Inside, the moment held. Her fingers found the ring again, not because she needed reassurance, but because it reminded her of exactly who she was.

And why she wasn’t afraid. Why she never gave up. She had her family, which was growing with the addition of the Kasey's.


Moments of Light
Forestiere Underground Gardens
Fresno, California

LJ and Alexandra took in some of the sights of the Forestiere Underground Gardens, she found a spot, knowing she needed to say something about her match against Seleana. Despite having said so much about her opponent before in previous matches they had. There really wasn’t much else she could say. Perhaps it shouldn’t be about Seleana, after all, Alexandra had been taking her own round of losses lately. Taking a few moments after the camera came on, she gave a few moments to pause, before a soft laugh leaves her lips. She wasn’t going to wait any longer. 

“Seleana, damn. Here we are again, what is this, the fifth time? Goodness, after a while you’d think you’d get tired of losing to me. This time however, I seem to be on a downward spiral, so you might get lucky, right? After all, every time it’s a big one, I never manage to get the job done. We had the two failures at getting my hands on the World Bombshell Championship, my countless failed attempts at regaining the Bombshell Roulette Championship. The failed attempts at the Mix Tag Titles when they existed.”

She pauses and moves around a bit.

“Now here we are, another title shot in the balance. Which leaves everyone, including myself asking can I do it? I know I can. But the question here is darling, do you? Do you believe enough in yourself to get past me?”

Alexandra lets the question hang in the cool underground air, the calm broken only by rich footsteps and the soft echo of water somewhere rich within the Gardens. She exhales slowly, eyes tracing the carved stone walls about her as if they might offer answers. When she speaks again, her voice is steadier, further grounded, like she has settled into the truth she is about to say.

“You know, people love to keep score. They love numbers. Four times before this, five times now. Wins, losses, streaks, slumps. They look at the past like it is a prophecy. Like because something happened before, it has to happen again. And I get it. History matters. Ours especially. Because every time you and I cross paths, something shifts. Careers bend a little. Confidence gets tested. Egos get bruised.”

She turns slightly, brushing her fingers on the stone, eyes focused now, intent.

“But here is the part nobody ever talks about. None of those matches were easy. Not for me. Not for you. Every single time, I had to dig deeper than I wanted to. I had to take shots that would have put people down for good. And every time, you kept coming back for more. So no, I do not think you are some pushover who just walks into the ring and hands me another win. You never were. You never will be.”

Alexandra pauses again, nodding slowly, acknowledging something important.

“And maybe that is why this one feels different. Not because of the title shot on the line, though let us not pretend that is nothing. The Bombshell Internet Championship is not some consolation prize. It is visibility. It is relevance. It is proof that you belong in every conversation that matters. This feels different because I am not walking in with momentum. I am not walking in with the full world behind me, convinced that Alexandra Calaway cannot lose. I also know who's waiting for me at the end of this, should I make it. Victoria Lyons.”

She gives a small smile, but there is no humor in it.

“I have been knocked down. Publicly. Repeatedly. I have heard it all. That I choke when it counts. That I cannot finish the story. That I shine bright until the lights get too hot. And maybe some of that is fair. Maybe I have not always lived up to my own expectations. That stings further than anything anyone else could always say.”

Her gaze lifts, eyes perceptive now, fire returning.

“But here is what people forget. I am still here. I did not disappear. I did not hide. I did not ask for time off to lick my wounds and hope everyone forgot. I kept showing up. I kept fighting. I kept putting myself in positions where failure was possible, because I refused to play it safe. I refuse to sit back and wait till the inevitable end. I refuse to give up, even when others think I should.”

She takes a step forward, as if closing distance between her and the camera.

“So Seleana, when you ask yourself if you believe enough in yourself to get past me, you better understand what stands in front of you. Not a woman clinging to past glory. Not a name living off old wins. You are facing someone who has been stripped down to the rawest version of herself multiple times and yet, still comes back. Someone who knows exactly what it feels like to fall short and still chooses to walk back into the fire.”

Alexandra folds her arms loosely, shoulders squared.

“This fifth time is not about revenge. This isn't like when I faced Victoria, that was revenge. It is not about proving that I own you or that history repeats itself. It is about proving that I am not done writing mine. I am not asking for sympathy. I am not asking for excuses. I’m not even asking for permission. I’m taking everything. I am telling you that when that bell rings, you are getting my full attention, my full effort, and every hard lesson I have learned from losing.”

Her voice softens just a touch, but the intensity never leaves.

“And you, Seleana, you are dangerous right now. You have momentum. You have people whispering that maybe this is your time. Maybe this time Alexandra finally slips. I know you feel that. I know you can taste it. That belief can make someone unstoppable, or it can make them reckless. The difference is how you handle the moment when things do not go your way.”

She tilts her head slightly, studying an imagined reaction.

“Because at some point in that match, something will not go according to plan. It always happens. A move does not land clean. A second too slow. A breath knocked out of you. And in that moment, instinct takes over. That is where this match will be decided.”

Alexandra places a hand over her chest.

“I have been in that moment more times than I can count. I have failed in it. I have survived it. I have learned from it. So when I say I know I can do this, it is not arrogance. It is experience. It is the understanding that belief is not loud. It is not flashy. It is quiet, stubborn, and unyielding.”

She straightens up, her resolve clear.

“This championship is not a promise. It is an opportunity. And opportunities do not care about your past. They care about what you do when they are in front of you. On that night, under those lights, it is just you and me again. No shortcuts. No excuses. No what ifs. Just the knowledge that I am one step closer to my goal.”

A faint smile returns, this time edged with confidence.

“So bring everything you have. Bring the hunger. Bring the hope that this is finally your moment. Please, I’m begging you. Don’t bring some watered down version of yourself. I don’t want the woman who I faced before. Because I am bringing the version of myself that refuses to be defined by failure. And if you are going to beat me, you are going to have to do something nobody else has managed to do yet.”

She holds the camera’s gaze, unwavering.

“You are going to have to break me. And I do not break easily.”
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