Turnberry Towers – Annual Halloween Party
Las Vegas, Nevada

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Miles smirked, "I was beautiful.”

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

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

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

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

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

Miles caught Carter looking at the same thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He simply smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But his smile never faded.

-------

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

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

The doors slid open with a soft ding.

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

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

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

Miles paused.

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

“Kevin looked happy,” Carter said softly.

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

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

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

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

“…No,” Miles agreed, "Not tonight.”

There was a beat of silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And neither moved.

...Until.., "Shower?”

-------

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

Because it did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded once, genuine.

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

Miles’ tone deepened, confident, not condescending.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded, once, decisive.

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

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

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

A small, confident exhale.

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

He nodded once.

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

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

He just meant it.

“I’ll see you in Tucson, Ryan.”

And he stepped off camera, ending it clean.

KNOTT'S SCARY FARM -  BUENA PARK, CALIFORNIA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


KNOTT'S SCARY FARM – LATE NIGHT

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

[Crystal finds a spot near her.]

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

[Mercedes smirks faintly.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Mercedes smiles a little.]

Mercedes:
You sound like a motivational poster.

Crystal:
Maybe. But I mean it.

[She leans forward.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crystal:
And after that?

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

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

Crystal:
One night at High Stakes. Everything changes.

[END]
 

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

[REC•]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Pause, then softer.]

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

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

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

[Pause. A faint smirk.]

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

[She tilts her head, amused.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Then, with just enough venom to sting.]

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

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

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

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

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

[She holds up a single finger.]

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

[Two fingers now.]

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

[And finally, a third.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[A heartbeat. The faintest smirk.]

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

Night hangs over the makeshift graveyard set at Knott’s Scary Farm in Buena Park. Fog rolls low across fake headstones and dirt mounds, still disturbed from the match earlier. A single open grave sits near the center — the same one Ryan Keys got knocked into. The loose pile of dirt beside it looks freshly turned, like it hasn’t decided whether it’s done with him or not.
Ryan sits on the edge of the grave, one boot hanging inside, the other settled on solid ground. His forearms rest on his knees. Dirt clings to his fingers and across his jeans. A deep bruise wraps his throat where Logan Hunter locked in that final choke.
“Was almost mine,” he says quietly.
He grabs a handful of loose dirt and lets it fall. The grains hit the bottom without a sound.
“Logan worked damn hard to keep me down there.”
Ryan shifts, rubbing the side of his neck. The skin is tender. Purple. Reminds him he didn’t imagine that ending — and reminds him there’s High Stakes XV on the horizon watching how he answers it.
Earlier, Logan blindsided him with a shovel — cracked him across the back before he even saw it coming. Ryan hadn’t even found him yet; Hunter was hiding behind a headstone, waiting. As soon as Ryan turned, WHACK — metal to spine. He dropped. Hard.
That hit gave Logan time to drag him toward this grave — ready to toss him in and finish the job. Ryan didn’t make it easy; swung his leg up and caught Logan flush between the legs just to buy a second to breathe.
Didn’t buy much.
A few minutes later, Logan caught him again. Another shovel shot. This time Ryan went all the way down — straight into the open grave.
Ryan lowers his head, remembering the moment he hit bottom and looked up at the sky framed by dirt walls. Cold. Tight. No ropes. No ring. Just him in a hole.
“Never thought I’d have to fight uphill just to breathe,”
Logan got hold of a shovel and went to work, tossing dirt down into the grave. Not enough to bury him, but enough to make things get real uncomfortable real fast. Ryan could hear the dirt hitting his chest and legs, could hear Logan grabbing more. Could feel the clock ticking.
He dug his boots into the side and started climbing. No plan. No space. Just instinct. Dirt gave way under him, but he kept scrambling, pulling himself toward the edge. Logan turned his back for a second — maybe to grab more — and Ryan dragged himself out before the grave could swallow him.
“Got out before he could finish,” he says.
 “Barely.”
Ryan stands and moves a few steps down the row of headstones. Lantern light follows him like it’s scared to be left alone.
Losing never scared him.
 Getting buried alive?
 Yeah, that’ll make you think twice — especially with High Stakes XV coming up and every eye waiting to see if he flinches.
“Some people act like that grave stuff is just a gimmick,” he says.
 He shakes his head.
 “Ain’t funny when you’re in it.”
The wind cuts across the set, moving the loose tarps and grass around his boots. Ryan stares at the ground, thinking about the rest of the match — the part after he escaped.
He came out swinging.
 Hard shots.
 Both men trading punches, kicks, whatever they could grab. There were weapons everywhere, but at some point, it all went bare-bones — just two guys trying to break each other down.
Logan landed more.
 Simple as that.
Caught Ryan, cinched his arm around Ryan’s throat, and tightened. No shovels. No graves. Just a choke that cut everything off. Ryan tried to fight it — pull, twist, anything — but there wasn’t air. No way to answer. The world just went quiet and slid out from under him.
He reaches up and brushes his fingers over the bruise again.
“He beat me,” Ryan says, steady.
 “No excuses.”
He looks back at the grave.
“Could’ve been worse.”
A small breath leaves him — part disbelief, part acceptance.
“He tried to put me under dirt… but he didn’t. Everyone talks big until they’re staring up from six feet down.”
He smirks lightly.
“You learn a lot when you’re the one trying to climb out.”
He scoops another little handful of dirt and sprinkles it onto the ground beside him.
“I got tossed in. Almost buried. Then choked out.”
 He shrugs.
 “And I’m still here.”
He stands and steps away from the grave again, taking a slow walk between the rows. The fake tombstones look real in the dark, which somehow makes it worse.
Ryan stops. Looks into the camera.
“Streak’s done. That’s fine.”
A beat.
“Streaks don’t make you. What you do after does.”
He taps his chest with two fingers.
“I didn’t stay down there.”
He keeps walking, quiet footsteps through fake grass and real dirt.
“Almost buried ain’t buried.”
He glances over his shoulder at the grave one more time.
 Just once.
“I ain’t finished.”
The lantern behind him flickers… then fades out completely.
Only the moon keeps watch as Ryan walks deeper into the dark — headed toward High Stakes XV, not hiding from it.
Later that night, Ryan ends up outside the arena lot, walking along a quiet back road that cuts through the edge of Buena Park. The graveyard set is long behind him now — replaced by streetlights and the faint hum of traffic rolling somewhere out of sight.
He’s got his gear bag slung over his shoulder. Hoodie on. Head down. The bruise along his throat catches faint orange light each time he passes under a lamp.
He spots a small park — nothing fancy. A couple benches, a broken water fountain, a few palm trees swaying. He steps off the sidewalk and heads toward the empty swings. The chains squeak when the wind hits them.
He sits on one of the swings, setting his bag down by his feet. The chains creak under his weight.
For a while, he just listens.
 The wind.
 The chains.
 Distant cars.
He presses ice from a convenience-store bottle against his neck. A small flinch. Still sore.
“You ever take a loss that sticks to you?” he asks the empty park — like someone might answer.
He shifts the bottle in his hand.
“Not because of the score… but because of what almost happened.”
His voice stays low. Like he’s trying not to wake anyone.
A light breeze kicks dirt across the concrete. Ryan watches it scatter, thinking about how fast things change — how one minute you’re breathing air and the next, you’re wondering if you’ll get another breath at all. And how the next time out — High Stakes XV — everyone will want to see if he remembers how to breathe with a belt on the line.
He leans forward, elbows on his thighs.
“When Logan got that choke on… everything felt like it just shut down. Not painful. Just… gone.”
He pauses, like expecting the feeling to return just from remembering.
“That’s the part that gets me. One second you’re fighting… the next you’re on the ground, and someone else decides when it’s over.”
A long breath leaves him, slow and steady.
He’s been choked out before. Everyone who’s wrestled long enough has. But this time felt different — maybe because it came after a shovel shot, after nearly getting buried, after the panic of scraping at dirt walls trying to climb out.
It wasn’t just a loss.
 It was a moment.
And moments follow you — especially into High Stakes.
Ryan leans back, letting the swing move a little under him. His boots drag slow across the concrete.
“Feels stupid,”
 “I didn’t get buried. I walked out. Should be grateful.”
A beat.
 He exhales through his nose — a tired laugh.
“Still feels heavy though.”
He rubs his hands together, dirt still caught under his nails no matter how many times he’s washed them. He rolls a bit of grit between his fingers, staring at it like he expects it to mean something.
Maybe it does.
He thinks about the shovel shots — the way they rattled his spine, stole his breath, blurred his vision. He thinks about the cold dirt hitting his chest, his arms, his legs. That low scrape of metal on stone as Logan went for more. And then the moment he reached up and caught the edge — when he felt his body move before his mind did.
That climb felt like instinct.
 All fight.
 No thought.
“Worth something… I think,”
He sits back slowly, letting the swing rock.
Ryan never cared about looking tough. He cared about showing up — about giving everything he had, every time. Some guys chase gold. Some chase legacy.
Ryan chases truth.
Where he stands.
 Who he is.
 What he can take.
Losing didn’t answer those questions.
 It just raised better ones — the kind that get answered under the lights at High Stakes XV.
He glances toward his bag on the ground. A piece of broken stone — pulled from the graveyard set — sticks out of the side pocket. He must’ve grabbed it without thinking.
He picks it up, turning it in his hand. It’s chipped, dirt still clinging to one edge. Nothing special. But it feels heavier than it should.
“Funny. I brought a piece of the grave with me.”
He flips it over once, then just holds onto it.
“Most people would’ve covered that hole and called it done. Me? …I keep coming back to it.”
He pushes gently off the ground, swinging a little.
His phone buzzes in his pocket — a notification. He doesn’t check it. Just pulls it out long enough to silence the screen before slipping it away again.
“Everyone’ll have something to say,” he mutters.
 “They always do.”
He’s not wrong.
 Social media loves a fall.
 But it also loves a comeback.
Ryan, though?
 He doesn’t care about either.
 He just cares about being better than yesterday — and ready when High Stakes XV calls his number.
He stands up from the swing, tossing the broken bit of stone gently from one hand to the other. Then he pockets it.
He grabs his gear bag and slings it over his shoulder. Looks out at the empty road.
“Close don’t count…” he says, more to himself than anyone.
 “…and almost buried ain’t buried.”
He nods, like that settles something inside him.
He starts walking down the sidewalk again — slow, steady steps. No rush. He’s tired, but not defeated.
Off in the distance, the theme park lights blink soft through the trees. The night smells like dust and asphalt.
Ryan adjusts the strap on his bag and keeps moving — not away from the loss, but with it.
“I’ll figure it out.”
He says it quietly, but sure.
A few days pass.
The grave dirt is gone from Ryan’s clothes, but not from his thoughts. The bruise on his throat has begun to fade, yellowing around the edges. His body’s healing faster than his pride — that part always takes longer.
Tonight he’s in a small gym a few miles outside Vegas — the kind of place only locals know about. No neon signs. No fancy rings. Just a square of canvas, a few battered mats, and a weight rack that’s seen better decades. The air smells like chalk and old sweat — a real gym.
Ryan’s here late, long after most people have gone home. He’s alone under flickering lights, hand-wrapping slow and methodical like he doesn’t trust his own pace yet.
The graveyard night taught him patience.
 High Stakes XV will ask if he learned it.
He finishes wrapping and climbs through the ropes. The canvas creaks under his boots. He paces, shaking out his arms, rolling his shoulders.
Haunted nights make honest workouts.
 Big nights test them.
He starts throwing slow strikes — just feeling his body respond. Jab. Cross. Step. Hook. His rhythm returns piece by piece, quiet and sharp. Every couple minutes he stops to stretch out his neck, feeling the ghost of Logan’s choke in the muscle.
He exhales short through his nose.
“Still here,” he mutters.
It’s half a reminder, half a promise — the kind you cash in at High Stakes.
Ryan moves around the ring again, shadowboxing. His strikes are clean but thoughtful — not wild, just controlled. The kind of movement from someone who’s replayed a match a hundred times in their head and wants to fix every inch of it.
Between combinations, he stops — hands on his hips.
There’s another thought sitting in the corner of the ring with him. One that’s been lingering ever since he left the set at Knott’s Scary Farm.
Miles Kasey.
 The Internet Champion.
The man who threw out an open challenge.
Most people heard it as a celebration.
 Ryan heard it as an invitation — and a signpost pointing straight at High Stakes XV.
He drags a stool into the center of the ring and sits, elbows resting loosely on his knees.
“Open challenge,” he says quietly.
 “That’s how you find trouble.”
A faint, dry smile crosses his face — just enough to show he appreciates the irony.
Ryan adjusts the tape at his wrist.
“Miles Kasey…”
He says the name steady.
 Not mocking. Not reverent.
 Just aware.
“Champion. Workhorse. The kinda guy who doesn’t mind fighting anyone in any building at any time.”
He nods once, respectful.
“Gotta respect that.”
He shifts the stool back and puts his feet firmly on the mat.
“But open doors mean anyone can walk through.”
He sits in that truth for a beat.
“And right now? That’s me.”
He rises and starts to jog in place lightly — warming back up.
Miles is a different fight.
 Different stakes.
 No dirt mounds.
 No graves.
 No weird gimmicks waiting to swallow him whole.
Just wrestling.
 Straight up.
 Champion vs challenger.
 High Stakes XV waiting to put the exclamation point on whichever one speaks louder.
Ryan knows some people see him as the wildcard — the guy who shows up smiling, carefree, maybe not serious. The life-of-the-party type who laughs first and hits second.
They don’t know that the mask comes off when the bell rings.
 They don’t know the switch flips.
 They don’t know how fast the playfulness goes quiet.
The ring gets the real Ryan — not the grin.
He steps forward, grips the top rope, and leans into it. The tension rolls through his arms and shoulders.
“People think I’m unpredictable,” he says.
 “Good.”
He pushes off the ropes.
“Makes it harder to study me.”
He starts pacing side to side in the ring, his boots soft on the canvas.
“Miles prides himself on being a workhorse. Someone who shows up every time.”
He nods again, acknowledging that truth.
“That’s not a weakness.”
He shrugs.
“But it does mean he’ll try to muscle through things instead of dancing around them.”
Ryan rolls his shoulders again, thinking.
“Workhorses forget one thing…”
He looks into the camera.
“…there’s always someone hungrier.”
He hops out of the ring and walks across the worn gym floor toward the heavy bags. One hangs crooked, chain rattling every time the wind sneaks through the door.
He steadies it with one hand, then throws a clean right hook — not hard, just deliberate. The bag swings wide.
Ryan watches it move.
“I’m not coming for Miles because I hate him.”
Another hook.
 The bag shudders.
“I’m coming because he said ‘anyone.’”
A sharp jab.
 The bag snaps back.
“Because I’ve got nothing to lose…”
A short exhale.
 Left hook.
“…and he’s got everything to give up.”
He grabs the chain to stop the bag, holding it still.
“A champion should know—”
He pauses.
“—that momentum doesn’t care about belts.”
He lets the bag go.
“You can be on top one night and clawing your way out of a hole the next.”
He wipes his forearm across his forehead, pushing sweat back into his hair.
“Ask me how I know.”
Not bitter.
 Just honest.
He walks toward a low bench and sits, leaning back against the cool wall behind him.
“People are lookin’ at me right now thinking I’m coming in wounded. Shaken. Unsure.”
He points a thumb to his chest.
“Nah.”
He shakes his head slowly.
“Losing doesn’t make me afraid.”
His foot taps the floor, steady and rhythmic.
“It makes me dangerous.”
His eyes sharpen.
“Because I already know how it feels to hit bottom.”
A slow breath.
“And I know I can get back up.”
He stands again, this time calmer.
There’s something different in his posture — same casual looseness, but with a current underneath. Confidence. Readiness. The kind of current a man brings to High Stakes XV when he means it.
“Miles is a good champ.”
 “He works hard. Shows up. Defends his gold.”
Ryan nods.
 Respect given.
“But I’m the wrong guy to be standing across from when you’re feeling generous.”
He pulls his hoodie from the ring post, slinging it over his shoulder.
“An open challenge is bait.”
 “And I’m the fool crazy enough to bite and smart enough to swallow.”
He chuckles low, shaking his head.
“You’re the champion, Miles.”
 “You should know better.”
His face settles into something quieter.
 Not smug.
 Not angry.
 Just sure.
“I don’t need momentum.”
 “I don’t need a streak.”
He taps his chest.
“I just need one night.”
Ryan reaches down, grabbing his bag, and heads toward the exit. The metal door squeals as he pushes through. Outside, neon glow from a liquor store sign paints the sidewalk pink and red.
He stops under the light, hands at his sides.
“I’m walking in with nothing to lose…”
He lifts his chin, bruise visible again, but he doesn’t hide it.
“…and walking out with the Internet Championship.”
A faint breeze drags through the quiet Vegas street.
 Ryan doesn’t move.
“You offered the fight, Kasey.”
 “Now you’re getting it.”
He turns and walks away — slow steps disappearing into the night.
Blackout.
Press week.
Vegas glows from every direction — neon signs, casino fronts, headlights stacked in glittering lines. The city feels loud even when it’s quiet. Like everyone’s awake, thinking about their next big play.
Ryan Keys steps out of a hotel loading dock, hoodie pulled up against the breeze. His gear bag hangs from his shoulder. He carries a to-go cup of coffee he definitely doesn’t like — but he needs something warm in his hands.
He crosses the street toward the venue hosting the press walk-through. The PPV banners are already hung outside — huge vinyl sheets stretching across the entrance. One shows the Internet Championship. Another shows Miles Kasey, grinning, holding the belt over his shoulder.
Ryan stops in front of it.
The guy looks proud.
 Earned.
 Solid.
Ryan respects that.
He adjusts his hood and keeps walking until he’s inside, where a media setup is staged: lights, backdrops, promotion posters, a table with water bottles and cheap chairs lined up for interviews.
A few local reporters hang around, chatting, waiting.
Ryan steps into frame, hands in his pockets, posture easy. No bravado. No hype. Just here.
A staffer gestures to the camera crew.
“This’ll be quick,” she says. “B-roll, short statements.”
Ryan nods — fine by him.
He positions himself in front of a backdrop showing the Internet Championship belt and HIGH STAKES XV stamped loud across the corner.
He huffs quietly.
“Guess we’ll see,” he says under his breath.
The camera light clicks on.
Ryan stands steady — relaxed shoulders, clear eyes. The bruise on his neck has faded but still shows under the collar.
He looks straight at the lens.
“Miles Kasey.”
Clean. Direct.
“You threw out an open challenge… and I stepped forward.”
He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t need to.
“That wasn’t courage.”
 A short nod.
 “That was instinct.”
He shifts his weight, thumb hooked in his pocket.
“You’re a workhorse. Everybody knows it. You show up, you grind, you defend, you smile through it. I respect the hell out of that.”
He taps his chest once.
“But I’m not here to praise you.”
He lets that sit.
“I’m here to take your belt.”
Nothing fancy. Just fact.
He walks a few slow steps to the side, pacing into his words.
“Some matches are about bad blood.”
 “Some are about revenge.”
He stops, glancing back toward the poster.
“This one’s about opportunity… and High Stakes XV is where I turn it into history.”
His fingers drum his thigh lightly — not nerves, just energy.
“I’m not walking into this with arrogance.”
 “I know who you are. I know what you’ve done.”
 “But I also know what I can take.”
He raises his chin slightly.
“The thing about open challenges?”
 A faint smile.
 “You don’t get to pick who answers.”
He shrugs.
“And sometimes the wrong guy steps forward.”
He walks toward the entrance tunnel — the one that leads to the arena floor. The event isn’t happening yet, but the space looks ready: barricades set, ring poles waiting to be raised, cables coiled on the ground.
Ryan steps onto the bare concrete floor, imagining the crowd in place. The noise. The pressure.
He closes his eyes for a moment, letting the feeling take shape.
When he opens them, he’s steady.
“When that bell rings… I’m not showing up as a guest.”
He looks directly at the camera.
“I’m showing up like it’s already mine.”
He drops down to sit on the edge of the ramp. Legs dangling. Hands hanging loose between his knees.
The lighting here is softer, splashing gold over his shoulders.
“People want to talk about momentum. About records. About favorites.”
A quiet scoff.
“Don’t care.”
He shakes his head once.
“That stuff only matters if you’re afraid of losing.”
He lifts his wrist, studying the hand tape he hasn’t bothered to take off since the gym.
“I’m not afraid.”
His jaw shifts slightly — not nerves, just grounding.
“When the ring’s all you’ve got, every night feels like a title fight.”
He stands, brushing dust from his palms.
“But this one actually is.”
 “Internet Championship. You shine that thing up, make it look real pretty for pictures…”
His eyes narrow a touch — focus, not malice.
“…but belts only look right when they’re earned in the middle of the storm.”
He steps down from the ramp, walking the aisle where fans will soon roar.
“You’ve earned your moments, Miles.”
 “Now I’m here for mine — at High Stakes XV.”
He stops mid-aisle, turning back toward the camera.
“I don’t dance around the point…”
 “…I’m walking into the PPV to take your title.”
A beat.
“I don’t care how many defenses you’ve got.”
 “I don’t care how many people believe in you.”
He points to his chest.
“I believe in me.”
He lets that rest.
“Open challenges…”
 He chuckles.
 “…they only feel good until someone actually answers back.”
He starts heading toward the exit again, pace slow but confident.
“You gave me an inch, champ.”
 “Now I’m taking the whole mile.”
He pushes through the hallway, past crates and rolled-up banners. At the end of the corridor is a framed poster of the PPV card — Miles front and center with the belt; Ryan listed across from him.
Ryan stops.
 Studies it.
The Internet Championship gleams under the printed lights.
 Right now it’s just a picture.
“Won’t be soon.”
He reaches back and kills the hallway light.
 The poster goes dark.
Fade.
Ryan doesn’t wander Vegas. He narrows it. From the media floor he heads straight to the venue’s service entrance, flashing his laminate and slipping through a quiet corridor where forklifts sleep and cables coil like black snakes. A night-shift crew is taping lines on concrete. Someone’s testing a spotlight. The arena isn’t dressed yet, but it’s breathing — a beast rolling over, almost awake.
He takes the long route on purpose. Hallway turns, utility doors, the smell of paint and dust. He wants to see it raw. Wants to feel where PPV night will happen before anyone stacks it high with noise. The ring isn’t up yet, just four posts lying on the floor beside bundled ropes, the canvas folded like a flag.
He sets his bag down and kneels by the stacked turnbuckles. The leather smells like salt and old adrenaline. He palms one of the pads, presses his thumb into it, then sets it back exactly how he found it. Small rituals matter. They’re not superstitions; they’re anchors. Things you can touch when everything else turns to air.
He stands in the center of the concrete where the canvas will live and draws a square in the air with his hands — four sides, four corners. He steps through his invisible ropes and bounces once, twice, just enough to tell his legs: remember. His shoulders loosen. His face tips up into the dark.
“You called for anyone,” he says, voice steady.
 “You got me.”
He paces the short way, turns, paces back. Measured. Deliberate. He isn’t rehearsing lines. He’s setting rhythm. The same rhythm he’ll bring when the bell rings.
“I heard your reputation before I ever heard your voice. Workhorse. Grinder. No days off.”
 A small nod. Respect given, not surrendered.
 “That’s a strong way to live. Stronger way to defend.”
He points to the floor.
“But on event night, this isn’t your pace. It’s ours.”
He angles his head, listening to quiet air like it’s an opponent trying to circle behind him. He answers it with footwork. Slide. Plant. Turn. His body speaks: I’m here to cut your lane, not follow your route.
“People think I’m chaos,” he says, almost amused.
 “They see the grin and figure I’m a coin flip.”
 His jaw sets.
 “I’m a metronome with a fuse on it.”
He stops where the center will be and spreads his fingers like he can feel the mat underneath. He can. He’s felt it everywhere he’s been — warehouse shows, county fairs, rec centers with bad lights and better crowds. Places where thirty people can sound like three thousand if you let them.
“I don’t need the perfect stage,” he says.
 “I build one when I wrestle.”
Down the tunnel, a cart rattles past. Someone calls to someone else and then the building goes quiet again. Ryan breathes in and finds that small vertical fire inside his ribs — the one that doesn’t always burn hot but never goes out. Not anger. Not ego. Purpose.
“You’re the champion because you kept showing up,” he says.
 “When the bell rings, I show you what that looks like standing across from you.”
He walks the imaginary ropes and leans into an invisible corner, hands on nothing, head bowed like he’s listening for a count. He hears his pulse. Hears the shape of his breath. Hears the echo of a crowd that isn’t here yet and the crack of the first lock-up that hasn’t happened. In the quiet, he smiles.
“I don’t need momentum,” he says — softer, then sharper.
 “I need a moment.”
He straightens and points to the floor again, to the exact patch of concrete where the referee will kneel, where shoulders are checked and calls are made and cameras find answers.
“Right here.”
He steps out of his drawn ring and grabs his bag. The nylon rasp sounds loud in the empty space. On his way to the tunnel, he passes the rolled canvas and stops. He brushes the top layer with the back of his knuckles like you’d touch the hood of a car you’re about to drive too fast.
“You and me on PPV night,” he tells the cloth.
 Half joke. Half oath.
In the corridor, he finds a taped “X” on the ground where cameras mark promos. He stands on it for a heartbeat, then steps off. He doesn’t need the spot to find his frame. He carries it with him.
At the service door, cool night crawls in around his ankles. Vegas murmurs outside — a living thing. He looks back at the dark interior, at the skeleton of the ring, at the space that will turn into a thunderhead.
“Miles,” he says, like he’s already addressing the man standing ten feet away, belt on his shoulder.
 “You know how to endure. I know how to ignite.”
He lifts the bag and sets it on his shoulder. His stance squares up without thinking, hips and feet aligned like the bell just rang.
“You wanted anyone.”
 A breath.
 “You got the wrong one.”
He steps into the night, pace picking up, not jogging but hunting speed. The fired-up edge you see in a competitor who’s done negotiating with doubt. You don’t hear fury when he speaks next; you hear certainty sharpening into impact.
“I’m walking in hot,” he says, eyes forward.
 “And I’m walking out with yours.”
The door swings shut behind him, the arena swallowing its quiet. Out on the loading dock, the desert wind lifts and turns, pushing heat into his face like a dare. He doesn’t blink. He keeps moving. The wait is a small word. The fight is a big one.
He answers both with the same promise.
“Bell to bell, champ.”
 “Feel me.”