It was a different kind of feel, being backstage in an environment like this Halloween edition of Climax Control. The crowd flooded the theme park, filling in holes to see the sights and the wrestler in this weird set. Even in all of that, she was able to slip through unseen and unmitigated. Amelia’s eyes washed over the crowds as she tugged her hoodie closer to her body. It wasn’t that California was particularly cold, but it most certainly was that she was anxious.

As she approached the makeshift office in the park for the General Manager, an assistant sat at a table, typing furiously onto a macbook. She glanced up as Amelia’s boots clicked against the pavement inside the little conference room that had been provided to Sin City for internal, out of public operations for the night. Concept posters for High Stakes XV were lined on the table next to her, some matches already completed and created. Others were waiting on the result of tonights’ festivities. Bold typeface announced other people’s destinies while hers waited, quiet, in the marrow of her bones.

In her pocket, a seam of wrist tape slid beneath her fingers, as if it might bite her. She had kept a piece of it, from the last time, like a penance.

Last time.

She let herself slip. It wasn’t melodrama so much as it was the simple arithmetic of it. Add increased preparation, subtract presence, multiply pressure, and divide the heart – all of the math was wrong and she’d ended up watching a woman who didn’t even bother to speak her name – or anyone else’s – somehow win a match that she didn’t even care about. For the first time in years, she hadn’t known how to stand back up. Amelia had vanished then, not because she didn’t love this sport, but because loving it and losing to indifference felt like swallowing little, bitty shards of glass. She couldn’t.

The monitor next to the assistant crackled to life with her brother’s match completely under way with Alexander Raven. She knew the look he was giving, the all he was providing to the match. His shoulders were square, the rhythm of his footwork was something she’d known since childhood. But there was also something in his eyes. A throttle held too tight or a wire pulled one thread too far. She couldn’t name it, and that unsettled her more than she let on. She pinched the bridge of her nose, steadied her breath, and turned her head away from it.

“You here to talk to Ms. Hall?” The assistant, Hayley, questioned as she took a sip from her milkshake. Hayley was dressed up for the night in something that was akin to attire a stripper might wear on Halloween, a bad production of a nurse’s costume.

“I don’t know if she’s expecting me, but yeah,” Amelia nodded, her Queensland accent a stark contrast to the dumb blonde that fell out of the assistant’s mouth.

Evelyn Hall peered out of her small office through the half-open door, and then took a few poised steps forward. She placed a well manicured hand on the doorframe and leaned forward. “Miss Reynolds,” she addressed her, her tone cool but not unkind. Firm lines, tidy posture, a gaze that measured without lingering. “Come in.”

Amelia followed Evelyn into the office and shut the door. Evelyn sat at the desk and folded her hands, gesturing just so in a way that invited Amelia to sit. Amelia stood rather than sink into the chair, as if sitting before she’d earned her place back would be presumptuous. “Thank you for seeing me. I’ll…be direct, so we don’t waste your time.”

Evelyn’s brow tipped with an invitation. A small smirk.

“I want to be here for the long run,” Amelia began, her voice steadier than she thought it would be. “I don’t want to be a marquee hit for you or Christian, someone you can spot in as a cutesy name to garner interest. I left poorly, and that’s on me. I don’t expect grace just because I say the right words. I expect to do the work, consistently, whether a camera is pointed at me or not. The job hasn’t changed, the desire hasn’t changed. I just want to be respected by the people I work with enough to be addressed.”

Unsurprisingly, Evelyn’s eyebrow did not tip any lower. She tilted her head.

“If you need it in writing, I’ll sign the contract. Dates. Deliverables. Media. Whatever the standard is, hold me to it. I just don’t want to be treated as if I don’t matter because I do matter. You and I both know it. I had that match won and in less than a millisecond, it was stolen even though I’d done the exact same thing that was expected. I know I can be good. But I want to be valued for that success too.”

Evelyn let the silence sit for a moment, orderly and deliberate, to see if Amelia would flinch. Amelia did not. Instead, the Australian folded her hands in front of her and waited for a response. If there was anything that Amelia was not going to do, it was to be taken as a foolish human being with a penchant for making the wrong decision.

“The company’s expectations are not a mystery, Miss Reynolds,” Evelyn said at least, her voice more steady than Amelia’s ever could be. “Attendnace, promo compliance. Professional conduct. You meet those, and your work speaks on its own. You miss them, and there are consequences that are not personal, only procedural.” Her gaze trimmed down to a finer edge. “Your last departure created instability. You understand that we will need proof over time, not promises tonight.”

“I do. Bench me if I wobble, fine me if I miss. Don’t shield me from the mirror.”

A small concession curved the corner of Evelyn’s mouth. She slid a folder across the desk. “Appearance schedule. Standard addendum for ringside personnel. A conduct pact…you initial every line you agree to. If a clause gives you pause, raise it now.”

Amelia didn’t sit. She balanced the folder against her forearm and read. Every line. Every sub-bullet. Then, she uncapped the pen and began to initial. Her signature didn’t flourish as much as it resolved. When she reached the conduct pact, she slowed on one sentence.

In adversity and victory, I will show the ring the regard it has earned from me.

The words caught in her throat and then went clean through.

She signed.

Evelyn waited until the pen was still and the last page lay flat beneath Amelia’s palm. “I believe there is one more matter, as your email requested? A manager. Although we have several personalities backstage, I would have to find one that would be suitable to complete your return and make it presentable. Perhaps you–”

“With all due respect, I’d prefer to bring in someone that I know. I’d like permission to credential Dimitri Watson as a contracted manager at High Stakes and beyond. He would, of course, observe every boundary that the company rules are crucial to remember. If he breaches, then eject him. I won’t contest it.”

Evelyn’s fingers came up to her lips as she surveyed Amelia. “Dickie Watson?” She obviously knew the name. “Another one of Wolfslair to make themselves comfortable on my show?” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “State your why.”

“Because I let my compass spin last time,” Amelia admitted clearly. “I don’t need interference, and he wouldn’t do that anyway. I need calibration. He steadies me and keeps me in the match I trained for instead of the one in my head. I’m asking for guidance so I don’t lose my head again.” Amelia reached into her pocket and handed her the paper that she was sure Evelyn didn’t need, but that she looked at anyway.

Dickie’s credentials, training, everything that was remotely important in hiring someone who would be on the payroll, but not necessarily Sin City sound lay on that paper. His current companies, the fact that he was active. Evelyn glanced over them, raising an eyebrow. “He seems…busy.”

“He is. But he won’t fail in showing. Won’t cause a ruckus. Might help interact with fans, but that’s about it. He’s not interested in being a competitor here, even though the rest of his family basically is here. He’s busy where he’s busy, but he’s here for me.”

Evelyn considered, and then nodded. Once. The decision in her expression settled like a stamp, an official seal of okay, I hear you. “Very well, then. Mr. Watson is approved to serve as your manager at High Stakes and on subsequent dates. The rules are simple, of course: he doesn’t get involved in matches. He is not a competitor here, so he will be fined if he involves himself in anything other than the standard managerial fare. He listens to the referee–” Amelia’s brain smirked at that, considering the fact that he didn’t like listening to referees to begin with, “...and defers to them at all times. If there is even a hint of him encroaching on the ring, he will be removed. Understood?”

Her brain logged every single time Dickie or Aiden interfered in the other’s match.

That wasn’t going to last very long.

“I understand,” she nodded, regardless. “He’ll maintain himself during my matches.”

Evelyn caught the loophole in her words, and her eyes narrowed slightly. “And should I expect him at your brother’s side as well?”

Amelia’s mouth tipped a small, hesitant smile, and she let one shoulder lift in an honest concession. “It’s not out of the realm of possibility, since they’re best mates. The Commonwealth runs what it runs together and…I mean, if they happen to be sharing a brain cell at one point or another…”

“I sincerely hope it’s not just one brain cell.”

“It more than likely is.” She confirmed, gravely.

With a small smile hinging at the edges of her lips, Evelyn tapped her pen on the folder for a couple of seconds before stilling her fingers.

“Whatever Mr. Watson and Mr. Reynolds choose to do is between them, and yet still subject to all of the same fines as they would have been before. He’s contracted as your manager, not a competitor. On your dates, he maintains himself. No encroachment,” she repeated, “no physical involvement. Clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Good.” Evelyn thumbed through her stacks of papers, finding the paperwork of an unfinished show. In the background, the monitor highlighted the moment in which Aiden Stubby Kick’d Alexander Raven into the remaining thumbtacks. Amelia’s head whipped over, the crowd going absolutely nuts and entirely grossed out at the same time. She didn’t realized she’d stepped closer until her knee touched the edge of the desk. On the screen, Aiden’s shoulders stacked, Raven folded, and the ref’s hand slapping the canvas like a drumbeat she’d grow up marching to.

…one…

…two…

Her heart leaped up into her throat…

…three!

Air rushed out of her before she could catch it, a soundless laugh that trembled at the edges. Pride flared, sharp and clean; beneath it, the unsettled seam still tugged at her brain. Whatever was off in his eyes hadn’t left with the bell. But for this heartbeat, all of the math checked out and made a neat solution. He’d done it.

“Congratulations to your family,” Evelyn said, tone level but not unwind as she slid the unfinished show packet into a manila sleeve. She didn’t look at the monitor. Instead, she looked at Amelia, weighing her steadiness and not the spectacle. “Proof over promises, Miss Reynolds.”

“Proof over promises,” she echoed, softer.

Evelyn capped her pen with a neat click. “I am in the process of finalizing the show, but you’ll face Candy at High Stakes. I think that would be a good place to begin – a beloved icon of our company versus the girl who walked away. Candy. I’m sure you’re familiar with the name. Security will have your laminates in Tucson upon your arrival.”

Amelia gathered the folder that Evelyn set upon the desk. The crowd’s roar from the monitor bled through the walls. Post-match aftershock, all brass and thunder. She let herself look once more: Aiden on the ropes, sweat-struck and staring past the hard cam into a private horizon. Pride lifted in her chest, clean as a bell, though the hairline worry still ran beneath it like a fault. She didn’t reach for her phone yet. Boundaries were part of the repair.

“Welcome back, Miss Reynolds.” Evelyn’s tone was tidy, final. “Make it durable.”

“Of course,” Amelia said, meaning it fully. She turned on her heel then, and when she stepped into the hallway again, it tasted like fog fluid and kettle corn. Hayley flicked eyes up from her MacBook, waved, and ushered Amelia on her way. Amelia’s hoodie stayed up as she walked, and she shoved a free hand into a pocket. The wrist tape in her pocket felt less like penance, but more so now a reminder of what it cost to forget herself for a second.

Amelia felt an instinct to sprint towards gorilla, to throw her arms around her brother and stitch herself into his moment, reflexive so that she could burn herself into it. She let it crest and fall, and as if reading the air around her, her phone buzzed in her pocket.

Park entrance. Two minutes?

Four words, accompanied with a picture of a smoothie that was likely that godawful banana flavor he knew she liked. A smile circled her lips – it didn’t matter if he was throwing up walls whenever it came to his business dealings that had nothing to do with wrestling – he still was there, gremlin catch and all. And when she arrived at the park entrance, he was there. Dimitri, or so she called him. The only person who could without him raising the hackles of his lips. Curly hair pulled into a bun at the top of his head, smoothie with the paper still wrapped on the straw, lackadaisical in his lean against the topiary barrier.

His eyes floated over the wayside. “Three?” He inquired, and she knew what he was asking. Did his best friend succeed?

“Three,” she confirmed. Pride warmed her voice, but she stuffed it down. She hooked her pinky into his free hand and pulled his arm back and forth a little. “You’re approved, too. Manager lane though, only. When you’re with me…you’re Switzerland.”

“Neutral with opinions?”

“Neutral with discipline.” She corrected. They began walking back towards the parking lot, where she knew his rented Toyota Land Cruiser was waiting like a giant blue box. She leaned into him, pressing her cheek to his shoulder and smiling.

He kissed her on the forehead as they walked. “And Aiden?”

“That’s between you and Evelyn and Aiden…” she looked up at him. “You two share a brain cell…you’ll have to spare it for the paperwork.”

Dickie closed one eye and grimaced. “Bold of you to assume we have paperwork.” His response was dry enough to make the corner of her mouth lift anyway.

He tipped the cup toward her hand without looking, the paper-wrapped straw crinkling as she peeled it down. The first pull tasted like childhood and chalk. The banana was too sweet, the protein too present; still, it settled the static in her chest.

“Evelyn will like you,” she said after a beat. “You follow rules when they’re written on the floor.”

“When they’re written in tape,” he corrected, mouth quirking. “Paint is for people who want to argue.”

They passed beneath a string of orange bulbs sagging between poles, the theme-park soundtrack thinning into the night hum of generators and distant traffic. The parking lot opened ahead: rows of metal beasts catching the carnival glow, the rented Land Cruiser hulking like a patient ship. She kept his pinky, swung it twice more, then let go.

“Call time on the ninth?” he asked.

“Early,” she said. “Security wants us at zone brief before doors. I’ll send you the map.”

“Manager lane. Switzerland. I’ll remember.” He cut her a sidelong glance. “Any other rails?”

She considered. “Yeah. Don’t fix my face with your face.”

“That’s…specific.”

“It means let me ride the nerves,” she said. “Don’t sand them off. Or try to make me feel better. Just make sure they point forward.”

“Copy,” he said softly. “Forward, not down.”

They reached the car. He opened the passenger door like he always did, lifting a hand in case she needed balance to get in. She slid in, tugging the hoodie free and breathing in the interior’s faint dealership-cleaner scent. He rounded to the driver’s side, the keys chirped, and the dash woke in pale blues.

She didn’t look at him when she asked, “Your week?”

A pause, clean as a cut. “Booked.”

“I figured.” She kept her tone neutral; there wasn’t any point in reminding him about the overextension of himself. “You’ll tell me what I need to know for my dates.”

“I will.” The engine settled into a low purr. “And I’ll be there.”

She accepted that as the answer it was…the wall where the wall lived, the promise where it belonged. No leverage, no prying tonight. She wasn’t here to pick a lock; she was here to set her feet.

He pulled out, the park shrinking in the rearview. She thumbed open her phone, checked the confirmation from production, the message from security, the calendar block she’d made before she walked into Evelyn’s office. Proof over promises. She typed it in her notes anyway.

“Candy’s fun,” he said, as if observing the weather. “Crowd likes their sugar.”

“They should.” She replied. “I don’t have to hate a person to beat them. I just have to be better at the bell.” A breath. “She’ll get respect. From me and from the room.”

“And from you when you say her name,” he added.

They hit the main road. Night smoothed out into lanes and speed-limit signs; palm shadows raked the windshield and fell away. She let the smoothie sit in the cup holder, fingers finding the seam of wrist tape in her pocket again. It didn’t bite this time. It just reminded.

“You going to check on him?” she asked, eyes still forward.

“Aiden?” He rolled his shoulder like a thought. “I’ll find him. Later. Not to crowd the frame.”

“You don’t need to,” she said, but knew he’d do it anyway. “He did it.”

“He did. Still. Brain cell courtesy requires a touch base.”

She laughed once, quiet. “Fine. Share custody. Alternate weekends.”

They pulled into the hotel lot. The engine ticked down, the world exhaled. He didn’t reach for her; he didn’t need to. She felt the compass notch again anyway. She opened the door, the night air threading cool across her collarbones. Before she stepped out, she leaned back in. “One more rail.”

He arched a brow.

“Don’t sell me to the building,” she said. “Let me sell myself.”

He nodded, solemn for once. “Wouldn’t dare.”

She closed the door. The click sounded like a period. Upstairs, a window glowed; somewhere a vending machine hummed. She walked toward the stairwell with the folder tucked to her ribs and the banana aftertaste ghosting the back of her tongue, feeling the balance land where she’d aimed it.

Say the names. Respect the bell. Outwrestle the moment.

Proof over promises.

The park’s lights were a distant constellation now. She didn’t need them to find the way.




Headlights stitched a pale ribbon down the Ten, the desert night yawning wide and salt-blue around the car. Gas stations blinked like lonely buoys and saguaros stood with their arms up like they were saying hi the entire ride down. The dash cam sat propped against a coffee cup and a packet of sour worms, catching Amelia from the shoulders up, pony swinging, hoodie half-zipped, freckles bright when the white lines flickered through.

She cleared her throat, a little laugh escaping before she could help it. “Right. G’day—well, g’night, I suppose.” Her smile had bounce to it even now. “Summer XXXTreme… that one knocked the wind outta me, hey.”

She tapped two fingers against the steering wheel, counting a rhythm only she felt. “Six of us in there, two refs, and I flew like I meant it. I had my three in my head and then–” she snapped once, soft, “--one count beat the other by less than a heartbeat. Not a stitch-up. Just timing.”

She went quiet for a breath, eyes on the road, tongue worrying the ring in her lip.

“Still gutted me.”

Another chew. “Like I swallowed a box of thumbtacks and smiled for the cameras anyway. I got pinned once by her, once by Kate, and I still put people down. So I know I belong. Didn’t feel like it that night, though. Felt… hollow. I went home and let it all fall out, ugly and proper, till my chest stopped aching. Then I shut it down. Trial contract, trial run—trial heart. I figured if I couldn’t show up as me, I wouldn’t show up at all.”

The highway hummed under the tyres; a warm wind nosed through the cracked window and lifted a strand of silver hair. Her grin wandered back like a stray cat. “But I’m not built to sulk forever. I’m Australian; we trip over, we say ‘whoops,’ we get back up with a cheeky wave. I looked at the tape, ate my humble pie, and I figured the fix wasn’t bigger moves—it was judgment. No more chasing the first cover ‘cause it feels pretty. No more falling with style. Fly when it’s smart. Land when it counts.”

She nudged the camera straighter with one knuckle. “So…re-entry. Tucson lights up ahead, new dates inked, and my feet under me again. I’m still peppy, still a menace to any packet of lollies within reach, still ‘The Skyborn’—just with a better altimeter. July hurt. It also told me exactly what to fix.” She glanced sideways at the lens, a spark in her eyes. “And I fixed it.”

The smile didn’t stick the way it used to. It settled deeper, steadier, as if it had learned its own weight. She told the lens that she hadn’t come back with a bigger arsenal so much as a cleaner compass. The flash was still there, sure, but it wasn’t steering anymore.

“New changes,” she said, and the words came out like a small shrug and a promise. “I stopped treating the pop from the crowd like a scoreboard. I started treating my breath like a metronome. In… out… choose. If it isn’t on purpose, I don’t do it. If it doesn’t win me inches, it’s pretty for nothing, hey?”

She talked about mornings where she didn’t perform for anyone—road runs before sunrise, ring time when the building was still yawning awake, food that wasn’t just coffee and stubbornness. Confidence, she decided, wasn’t swagger or noise. It was doing the same smart thing on a good day and a bad one. It was telling herself she belonged before the bell did.

“And I’m not so alone this time,” she added, lighter. No grand reveal, no parade. Just truth. “I’ve got a second pair of eyes that knows when my head wants to race my feet. Someone to point at the mat when I’m already looking at the top rope. Not to play hero. To keep me honest.” She grinned, a quick, cheeky thing. The pep crept back in, threaded with a firmer spine. She wasn’t begging for faith; she carried it herself. She wasn’t auditioning for a spotlight; she was clocking in for work.

“So yeah,” she finished, tapping the wheel as if it were a bell. “New attitude. New self-esteem. Same girl. Just a little more grown-up about how she flies. Tucson’s up ahead. High Stakes XV. First on the ledger’s Candy. Bright, fast, loved. I respect that.” A beat; the spark flared. “I’ll meet her in the air if I have to. I’d rather meet her on purpose.”

The road unspooled ahead, steady and dark, and she let the camera hold her while she shifted the subject where it needed to go.

“Candy,” she said, and her tone warmed as if she were already across the ring. “You just came back not even a dozen shows ago. I watched. You didn’t wander. You landed. People were happy to see you, and I get why. You wrestle like you mean it and you smile like you mean that, too.”

She leaned closer, elbows light on the wheel, voice bright but measured. “So I’ll talk to you like ya know ya matter. You’re fast. You’re cheeky. You’ve got that pop that makes the roof feel lighter. When you sting, you stack it. If I blink, I’m eating it. If I give you air, you double it. That’s not fluffy. That’s craft.”

Her mouth quirked at one corner. “And I know your tricks because I bothered to learn them. I did the review. I know that you have an arsenal of moves up your sleeve that can cause damage if I’m not careful. It’s all good wrestling, and I respect good wrestling. I know you’re good, Candy. I know you can be, and the fact that you’ve lost your last three shouldn’t mean anythin’. I can’t second guess, because I’ve done that already once. Not to you, but to myself.”

She let the respect hang a second, then set her line. Her pep sharpened into purpose. “I’m not here to embarrass you. I’m here to beat you right, and I think you want that, too. Because you don’t need a shortcut to be loved. You’re loved anyway. I don’t need a shortcut to be seen. I’m done shouting for it, I’m done bein’ a woman that gets burned by the bigwigs because they wanted to put a diamond next to a lackluster pearl. I want a challenge, friend. I want this to matter. You bring your bounce. Bring Fluffy if you like; I’ll say hi before the bell. Bring the sparkle and the speed and the best you’ve got.”

She sat back, a steady little nod sealing it. “And I’ll bring a cleaner compass. Breath before bounce. Judgment before jumping. If you catch me flush, fair play – make sure you finish it. If I catch you first, I won’t pose or preen. I’ll tuck you down, hold tight, and count the sky to three.”

She let the words hang, then breathed out through her nose, shoulders easing. The wheel clicked under her palm; the indicator ticked like a lazy drummer as she slid past a long, empty exit.

“Here’s the other bit,” she said, and there was a grin in it you could hear. “I’m not walking in scared of your pop. I’m walking in hungry for the work. I’m not going to point at the sign or do the big, dramatic stare-down with the hard cam. I’m gonna check the posts, touch the ropes, and start on the bell. If you want to sprint, I’ll steer. If you want to fly, I’ll make sure there’s someone under you when you land: me.”

She tipped her head, the ponytail swaying, a touch of mischief brightening the words. “And – this is super important – I like ya. The world needs wrestlers who make kids smile and want to bounce around the lounge. But I also need the win. I need it like water after Summer XXXTreme. So I’m not going to get lost in the yay of it. I’m going to be present. Hands up. Eyes on. Feet under. If we make magic, we make it by earning it.”

The odometer ticked. Tucson glow began to lift the far horizon, a smudge of city rising out of the dark. She rolled her shoulders as if she were already warming up in the hallway outside gorilla.

“You’ll hear me before you see me,” she went on, teasing herself more than the match. “Bit of a chatterbox when I’m settled. ‘Nah, not today.’ ‘Nope, we’re not doing that.’ ‘Oi, back in the ring with me.’ You’ll get the cheek. You’ll get the speed. But you’ll also get the bit that learned how not to chase the pretty cover. It’s three counts or it’s nothing.”

She paused, and the pep softened into something careful and sincere. “And I’m not alone. Got someone to keep me honest if my head starts doing laps. He’s not there to swing. He’s there to point at the floor and remind me where my feet are. If the ref so much as looks sideways, he’ll park it. Promise. This one’s between you and me.”

For a heartbeat she said nothing, letting the tyres sing and the desert breathe. Then her smile came back, small and bright, exactly hers.

“Right then. Candy, I’ll see you at High Stakes XV. Bring the sparkle. I’ll bring the steady. We’ll make ‘em loud and then we’ll make ‘em count.”

She reached forward and tapped the screen, the camera stuttering as the focus chased her hand. The freeway widened; signs for Speedway and 22nd flicked by like cue cards. She glanced at the lens one last time, freckles ghosting gold in the spill of a passing semi.

“Three seconds,” she said, cheerful as a dare. “And I know exactly how to count ‘em.”

The dash cam bobbed as she hit the indicator, and the night folded toward the lights. The feed went black with a little thumbprint smudge and a laugh she didn’t quite swallow.
[/font][/font]

The casino hums — low lights, deep carpets that swallow footsteps, scattered bodies drifting between the tables and machines. The camera finds Ryan alone, pacing slow along the rows of glittering slot machines, the glow flickering over his eyes.

“You ever notice how a casino looks like it’s breathing?”

He lets his fingers drag across the back of a machine absent-mindedly, like he’s petting a beast.

“All these lights coming alive, flashing, pulsing, tempting. Whispering in your ear that this time — this spin — this pull — this bet — is gonna change everything. And you know it’s bullshit. You know the house always wins. You know the numbers don’t care about your birthday, your gut feeling, your lucky socks, or the way your grandma once told you the universe is on your side.”

Ryan stops between two slot machines and smirks.

“But here’s the thing — some people still win.”

He tilts his head, self-satisfied.

“Because somebody’s gotta. And when you walk through doors like these, you either come in scared… or you come in knowing that the house?”
“The house isn’t always the smartest one in the room.”

He steps forward, weaving between players — but no one speaks; the world is silent except him.

“High Stakes. Week two.”
“Everyone’s rolling dice like life depends on it — and I guess it does for some of them. That’s the beauty of this place. Every last person in here thinks they’re dancing with fate.”

He shrugs lightly.

“But me? I’m not dancing with fate. I’m dancing with Miles.”

Soft grin.

“Mister Kasey Miles — the guy Twitter keeps telling me is hungry, determined, climbing. The guy who wants to make a statement. The guy who wants to drag my head across the canvas like he’s trying to sign his name on my neck.”

Ryan laughs low and warm, like he just remembered a good joke.

“Cute.”

He plucks a chip off an abandoned table and spins it between his fingers.

“You wanna gamble with me, Miles? Good. Because that’s exactly what this is. You’re stepping into the ring thinking you can walk away with more than you walked in with. And that’s the kind of thinking I respect — reckless, hopeful, a little stupid… but in the fun way.”

Ryan turns the chip over once more and pockets it like it’s his.

“See — some people sit down at the table hoping the cards love them. Me? I walk in knowing I’m stacking the deck myself.”


---

He moves to the bar — red neon haloing him from behind. He sits, elbows on the counter, eyes forward, speaking like every word is meant directly for Miles.

“Last week was noise. You remember that? I walked into High Stakes with a bruise on my throat, dirt under my nails, and a smile on my face because Logan tried to bury me, and I dug my way out like it was a damn Tuesday jog.”

He taps the polished bartop.

“But this week is clean — no shovel, no grave dirt, no quiet excuses. Just me, you, and a ring.”

The bartender passes him a drink soundlessly — but we never hear the man speak. Ryan raises the glass to no one in particular.

“You know what High Stakes means to me, Miles?”

He sips.

“It means I’m not just rolling dice — I’m the guy holding the cup.”

He gestures with his free hand, tracing invisible stories.

“Everybody else at the table is nervous — betting light, playing safe, hoping the dealer slips them a miracle. Me? I walk in with everything on black before the cards even touch felt.”

Ryan leans forward.

“See, I came back to Sin City Wrestling because I wanted a little danger. A little adrenaline. A little something to shake the bones and wake the wolves.”

He motions to the felted room around him.

“And I think you might be fun, Miles. I really do.”

The glass clinks down.

“But let’s be honest — you walked into this like you were the only one with ambition.”
“Like I’m just a stepping stone — a speed bump — a warm-up lap.”

Ryan laughs again, but this time there’s teeth in it.

“Buddy — I’m the whole damn strip. You want the spotlight? Cool. But don’t forget who’s holding the switch. Don’t forget whose music gets the crowd dancing. Don’t forget who survived Logan Hunter’s dirt-nap attempt and still showed up looking prettier than anyone had a right to.”

He runs a hand through his hair.

“Don’t forget who looks at the Roulette Title and thinks — yeah… that’s practically begging for a Keys to unlock it.”

He lifts two fingers, tapping the bar.

“Click. Click.”

Small grin.

“You think you’re the guy standing between me and the Roulette Championship. I love that. That’s adorable. It tells me you dream big, and I respect that.”

He leans back.

“But I want you to hear something — and hear it clearly —”

He emphasizes each word slowly.

“You are not a wall. You are not a gatekeeper. You are not the final boss.”

Ryan smirks.

“At best… you’re the dealer.”

He holds his hands out.

“And I’m counting cards.”


---

He stands again, drifting deeper into the casino. Tables blur behind him; sound is muted. All that exists is his voice.

“People love to talk about destiny. Oh — this is my moment, my time, my chapter, my rise.”

He chuckles.

“I don’t need destiny. I’m not a chosen one. I’m a guy who works, who laughs, who bleeds, who parties too hard and drinks too heavy and still wakes up with purpose in his bones.”

He touches a blackjack table — palms against the felt.

“You wanna know a secret? The fun part isn’t winning. It’s making someone else realize they never even had a shot.”


---

He starts a mock conversation with the empty chair across from him.

“Miles sits down at the table. He’s got that hopeful smile — that look like he’s got something to prove.”

Ryan raises his brows, mimicking Kasey’s imagined earnestness.

‘Dealer, hit me. I’ve got a dream.’

He laughs.

“And I lean back, sip my whiskey, and whisper: ‘Kid… you’re already broke.’”


---

He strolls to roulette, resting his hands on the glossy edge.

“Roulette’s simple. You make a choice, and you spin. Red or black. High or low. Even or odd. A thousand possibilities — but only one result.”

He rotates the wheel lazily with one hand.

“I chose this life. I chose this fight. I chose this climb. I chose to stare you in the eyes and tell you —”

“I’m going all in.”


---

The roulette wheel slows… the little silver ball whispering around its channel until it bumps, hops, and falls. Ryan watches it only long enough to prove he doesn’t care.

“Funny thing?”
“I don’t care where it lands.”

He shrugs, hands slipping into his pockets.

“Because I already know how this game ends. I already know the dealer packs up. I already know the table resets. And I already know I’m walking away with your chips in my pocket while you’re still standing there wondering what the hell happened.”

He steps away from the wheel like he just finished a conversation that bored him.

“I’ve seen your name floating around. Kasey Miles — the future, the spark plug, the guy who’s here to shake things up. The kid who’s just waiting for his breakout moment, for everyone to finally say, ‘Yeah… that’s the one.’”

Ryan nods thoughtfully.

“I’m not here to take that from you.”

A small pause, then a grin.

“I’m just here to remind you that it ain’t happening at my expense. Because you and me? We’re playing two different games entirely.”

“You came here to gamble. I came here to collect.”


---
He takes a seat at the head of the table.

“Here’s the thing, Miles — I can talk a lot. People know me. I like the sound of my voice, I like the spark in my own ideas, I like poking bears just to see if they’ll stand tall or run screaming.”

He taps the table rhythmically.

“But underneath all that?”

He leans forward, eyes narrowing just a touch.

“I’m honest.”

Beat.

“And the honest truth is…”

He gestures broadly to the casino around him.

“You’re in over your head.”


---

“Because for all your talk, your fire, your hype — you’re one thing I’ve seen a thousand times.”

He picks up a deck of cards.

“You’re a guy who wants it… real bad.”

He deals himself two cards face-down.

“But desire doesn’t win hands. And it sure as hell doesn’t guarantee victories.”

He deals two cards to an empty chair across from him — as if Kasey sits there, invisible.

“Look me in the eyes, Miles. You think you’ve got the winning hand?”

He flips his own cards — two aces.

“I promise you…”
“You don’t.”


---

Ryan sweeps the cards in, beginning to shuffle with practiced ease.

“Because you’re not playing against the house. You’re not playing against fate. You’re not even playing against the matchmaker who drew your name next to mine on a sheet of paper.”

His finger taps his chest.

“You’re playing against me.”

He fans the cards, slow, smooth.

“And I’m cheating.”


---

He stops shuffling and drops the deck.

“Not illegally. Not dishonestly. I’m cheating because I’ve got experience you don’t. I’ve got composure you haven’t earned yet. I’ve got scars you haven’t taken, bruises you haven’t collected, rings you haven’t survived.”

He laughs low.

“I’ve got stories that would make your skin crawl and your knees lock.”

He sweeps his hair back again.

“And I’m not saying that to intimidate you.”
“I’m saying it so you know exactly what you’re walking into.”


---
“When that bell rings, I’m not there to test you. I’m not there to see what you’re capable of. I’m not there to measure your potential.”

He shakes his head.

“I’m there to beat you.”

A long, playful breath.

“Emphatically.”


---

He stands suddenly, pushing away from the table.

“Kasey — you think this is your moment? That beating Ryan Keys on week two of High Stakes is the thing the industry has been waiting for?”

He smiles like he’s genuinely amused.

“I’m flattered.”

He taps the table once, like knocking for a friend.

“But your moment doesn’t come at my price. I’m not a shortcut. I’m not a résumé booster. I’m not the box you check off so the higher-ups finally give you a pat on the back and a title match.”

He leans in, hands pressed to the felt.

“I’m the guy this company gives other people so they learn what ‘not ready yet’ feels like.”


---

“Funny part is…”
“I like you.”

He pauses, shrugging.

“I like that you’re hungry. I like that you want more. I like that you’re stepping up instead of sitting back waiting for someone to hand you an opportunity.”

He sucks his teeth once, lightly.

“That means you’ve got something in you worth fighting. Worth hitting. Worth testing.”

A beat.

“But I don’t lose this one.”


---

He crosses toward the craps tables. The boxman stands silently; dice sit waiting. Ryan picks them up, rolling them between his fingers.

“People treat wrestling like math.”
“Like if you train enough, study enough, take enough bumps, hit enough reps… the equation balances and the victory is yours.”

He tosses the dice in his hand; they rattle, then stop. He grins.

“But wrestling is chaos.”

He throws the dice — they bounce, ricochet, land crooked.

“Wrestling is luck. Wrestling is timing. Wrestling is impulse. Wrestling is leaning too far forward — or just far enough.”

He points at the dice.

“Wrestling is the moment you realize you had no control… and you swing anyway.”


---

He strolls past the table, pacing toward machines that pulse and glitter.

“That’s what separates us, Miles. You think I’m someone you can prep for, someone you can study, someone you can predict — but I’m not.”

He smirks.

“I’m the wild card.”

He gestures broadly, taking in the whole casino.

“And this environment? This game? This whole theme of High Stakes?”

He points to himself.

“It fits me better than it fits you.”


---

He approaches a row of machines — each glowing a different color.

“Look at these poor souls… pulling levers like something is owed to them.”
“You know what’s owed at a casino, Miles?”

He taps the machine.

“Nothing.”

A playful grin.

“And that’s why I love this place.”


---

He turns, pacing again.

“Nobody owes me a victory at High Stakes.”
“Nobody owes me momentum.”
“Nobody owes me a championship shot.”

His smile widens, almost proud.

“I’m gonna take it.”

He winks.

“Because that’s what makes it fun.”

---

Ryan moves away from the slots, navigating deeper into the casino — into a quieter wing lit by deep gold, burgundy, and midnight blue. Private tables.

“See, taking things is in my nature. I’m a collector. Some people gather stamps, little mementos, things to prove they lived.”

He taps his chest.

“Me? I collect nights like this. Moments like the one I’m about to have with you. The look on someone’s face when they realize the game they thought they were playing?”

He exhales slowly through a grin.

“Was never the real game.”



“You want this win, Miles. You need it. Not for clout. Not for fame. But so you can look in the mirror and say, ‘yeah… I belong here.’”

He lightly taps the cards laid on the table.

“And that’s where we split.”

A slight tilt of his head.

“I already know I belong here.”

He places a hand over his heart.

“I’ve known since the second I walked back into SCW.”

He smiles.

“I didn’t need validation. I didn’t need applause. I didn’t need anyone’s blessing.”

He leans forward, eyes bright.

“I came knowing exactly who I was — a man who can step into any arena, any match, any fight, and make the world pay attention.”


---

He gestures with one finger.

“You’re at the stage where you’re trying to build your name.”
“I’m at the stage where my name builds the match.”

He flicks an invisible speck from his sleeve.

“Whether I win, lose, get thrown into another grave, or set on fire… people talk.”

He grins, shrugging.

“Because Ryan Keys is worth the attention.”


---

He shifts, lounging back in the chair like it’s a throne.

“Let me guess — you’re training hard, right? Tapes, reps, drills, cardio, weights — obsessed with game plans, counters, counters to counters, thinking maybe if you prepare enough you’ll be ready for me.”

He waves lazily.

“Cute.”

He touches the cards again, flipping one between his fingers.

“Wanna know a secret?”

Beat.

“There is no preparing for me.”


---

“I change depending on the moment. I shift depending on the pulse. I evolve on contact.”

He cracks his neck lightly.

“I fight like a casino breathes — unpredictable, deceptive, overwhelming, beautiful, and dangerous.”


---
“You ever watch someone gamble with money they can’t afford to lose?”
“Their hands shake. Their eyes dart. They breathe too fast.”

He raises a brow.

“That’s what you’re bringing to this fight, Miles.”

He breathes out through his nose, amused.

“You’ve talked yourself into believing that beating me will change everything — that this is some kind of pivot point in your career, where you stop being the guy with potential… and become the guy with proof.”

He nods to himself.

“Makes sense. I’d want that too.”

A playful grin.

“But you’re betting with fear.”


---

He leans forward, elbows on knees.

“Me?”

He taps his chest again.

“I play with house money.”

He spreads his arms.

“Because I already won the moment I walked in here.”

He stands, pacing again.

“You’re trying to prove yourself. I’m just having fun.”


---

He slips into a side hallway lined with framed photos of past winners — not wrestling champions, but gamblers: men and women holding oversized checks, smiling like they own the universe.

Ryan stops beneath one of the frames.

“Winning changes people.”
“Losing changes them more.”

He turns to the camera, expression sharpening just a fraction.

“After High Stakes… you will change.”


He pushes open a glass door and steps into a rooftop lounge — pool shimmering, strip lights glowing in the distance. Quiet, exclusive, cool desert air brushing his jaw.

He walks to the edge, looking out over Las Vegas.

“Facing me isn’t punishment.”
“It’s privilege.”

He smiles lightly. Ryan sits on the ledge, folding his arms over his knees.

“I love wrestling. I love the chaos, the music, the roaring crowd, the sweat, the sound of a ring shaking under boots.”

His smile returns, wider.

“But what I love most…”

He taps a finger against his thigh.

“Is the way someone looks at me when they realize they’re not walking out with what they came in for.”


---

“And you…”
“You’re walking in with hope.”

He shakes his head slowly.

“Bad bet.”


---
Ryan rises from the poolside ledge and begins walking along the edge, shoes soft against pristine stone. Cool desert wind rustles his hair as casino noise hums faintly below.

“You know what I love about gambling, Miles? It exposes heart. You can tell when someone’s scared by how they hold their chips. You can tell when they’re bluffing by how fast they breathe. And you can tell when they know they’re beaten…”

He snaps his fingers once.

“Before the cards are even revealed.”


---

He wanders to a table near the railing — a small, private blackjack setup left untouched. Ryan runs his hand across the felt, then drums a playful rhythm with his fingertips.

“We haven’t even locked up yet… and I can already feel it. That little tremor in your voice when you mention this match. That hum in your bones that feels like excitement, but is actually nerves taking your heartbeat for a joyride.”

He laughs softly.

“I’ve seen it a thousand times.”


---

“Here’s what’s funny: you think I’m underestimating you.”

He raises both brows, mock-confused.

“Like I’m gonna walk in blind, laugh, toss you around, and call it a night. Like I don’t know you’re hungry. Like I don’t see you as a threat.”

He smirks and taps his temple.

“Oh, I see you.”

His grin spreads.

“And I love threats.”


---

He leans over the railing, staring down at the Strip.

“But what you don’t seem to understand…”

He lifts two fingers.

“Is that I’m a bigger one.”


---

A soft chuckle leaves him — bright, casual, unconcerned.

“Maybe you come in swinging. Maybe you light me up. Maybe you catch me with something that makes me see stars, something that makes the crowd gasp, pumping adrenaline into your veins like a slot machine hitting triple sevens.”

He nods, as if genuinely considering it.

“That could happen.”

Then his smile tilts wry.

“And it won’t matter.”


---

“Because I don’t break.”

He taps his chest.

“I prove.”


---

He steps away from the ledge, returning to the blackjack table. A fresh deck sits waiting. He picks it up, breaks the seal, and begins shuffling.

“I look at this match the same way I look at this deck. Full of possibilities. Every card could make or break you. Every draw could change fate.”

He shuffles effortlessly — bridge, waterfall, perfect.

“But somewhere in there, I’ve already stacked the odds. Because I’ve lived in this world longer, fought in it longer, failed in it harder, and got back up anyway.”

He fans the cards in a neat line.

“That’s the part you don’t have yet.”


---

“When I got buried by Logan, that wasn’t a setback.”
“It was a reminder.”

He taps the blackjack table with one finger.

“That I still know how to climb.”


---

“So now here you come — bright-eyed, buzzing, itching to make noise — thinking this is your moment to strike. To be the guy who takes out the guy. To be the name that headlines the next story.”

He shrugs.

“Good. I want you to think that. I want you to believe that with your whole heart.”

His smirk returns, sharper.

“I want you to bet big.”


---

He lifts a card from the spread.

“Because the bigger the bet…”

He flicks the card away — it spirals into the pool water.

“The bigger the loss.”


---

He deals two cards face-down in front of him and two to the empty dealer’s side.

“Picture this — you sit down. You’re feeling good. You’ve been on a streak. You tell your friends at the table, ‘This is the one. I can feel it.’ And they’re nodding along like this is fate unfolding in real time.”

He squeezes his cards, peeking beneath.

“And then you look up…”

He places his cards flat, turning them to reveal a king and a queen.

“And realize you’re playing against me.”


---

He flips the dealer’s cards: two aces.

“And I’ve already got you beat.”


---

He pushes away from the table, strolling back toward the entry where warm light glows against stone archways.

“That’s how this goes, Miles.”
“Not because you’re bad.”
“But because I’m better.”


---

He slips back inside — the music louder again, machines chiming with manufactured excitement. He passes lounge chairs, glinting glassware, people with empty eyes chasing full pockets.

“High Stakes wasn’t built for everyone. Some people don’t understand how to breathe in environments like this. They hyperventilate. They panic. They fold early.”

He nods to himself.

“You won’t fold. I know that.”

He pauses before a Baccarat table again.

“But you’ll still lose.”


---

Ryan brushes a hand along the chair backs as he walks, like he’s greeting old friends.

“You know the type of gambler who gets dangerous?”
“The one who’s already lost everything.”

He grins.

“That’s me.”


---

“Not because I’m broke. Not because I’m desperate. But because I fight like there’s nothing left to protect.”

He crosses his arms loosely over his chest.

“You can’t scare a man who’s been drowned, buried, humiliated, beaten, and still walked back into the light.”

His brows raise.

“You can only fear him.”


---

He meanders toward a long red carpet leading to a secluded roulette room where chandeliers glitter like frozen fireworks.

“I’m not afraid of losing to you. Because I don’t think I will. But more importantly…”

He laughs once, under his breath.

“Losing doesn’t define me.”


---

“Winning just reminds people why I talk the way I talk.”


---

In the roulette room, he stands behind the wheel, running his hand along the polished wood. The ball sits still in its cradle.

“Everything about this match screams chance. Two men, one table, one spin.”

He exhales slowly.

“But chance is for amateurs.”


---

“I know who I am. Do you?”

He tilts his head.

“Are you the guy who shocks the world? Or the guy the world forgets?”

He shrugs casually.

“And before you answer — you don’t get to decide.”

He taps his chest again.

“I do.”


---

He spins the wheel lightly, the ball clicking as it starts its dance.

“High Stakes will decide for both of us.”
“But here’s what I know — after that bell rings…”

He smiles, wide, honest.

“You’ll remember me.”

---


The roulette wheel keeps spinning — soft, rhythmic, hypnotic. Ryan watches it for a moment, then turns his back on it, letting it spin without his eyes.

“You know what I love most about this?”

He gestures casually over his shoulder at the wheel — still dancing, still deciding.

“I don’t care where it stops.”

He shrugs, hands sliding back into his pockets as he strolls to the center of the room.

“There’s a freedom in not giving a damn about luck. About fate. About the universe supposedly aligning to give you your moment.”

He smirks.

“Screw alignment. I make my moments.”


---

He walks toward a small bar tucked in the corner. No attendants, no noise — just crystal bottles glinting under gold lighting. He picks up a glass and pours something amber-dark, swirling it once before lifting it in a mock toast.

“To High Stakes… to bad decisions… and to you, Miles.”

He takes a slow sip.

“Here’s a truth you won’t hear from anyone else — you’re good.”

He nods, confirming it to himself.

“Really good. There’s snap in your strikes, precision in your footwork, smart pacing in your choices. You’ve got flexibility, grit, and just enough arrogance to make it interesting.”

He sets the glass down gently.

“But that’s not enough.”


---

“Good doesn’t beat dangerous.”
“Good doesn’t beat sharp.”
“Good doesn’t beat confident.”

He taps his own chest with a knuckle.

“Good doesn’t beat me.”


---

He moves again, walking past chandeliers into a narrow hallway lined with vintage photos of boxers, gamblers, and streak-broken hopefuls. Each face is captured mid-moment — sweat on brows, eyes wide, fists clenched, chips stacked.

Ryan looks at them fondly, almost respectfully.

“Everyone thinks they’ll be the exception. The miracle. The anomaly, the glitch, the one who breaks the odds and rewrites the house rules.”

He laughs — gently, almost warmly.

“But the house… always… wins.”

He gestures at the photos.

“And these people? They fought believing that wasn’t true.”

He runs a finger beneath one frame like he’s reading the nameplate.

“Belief doesn’t change reality.”


---

He walks out the far end of the hallway and into a penthouse elevator. The doors close — he doesn’t press any buttons. It simply begins to rise.

The lighting is soft, gold. The reflections stretch and bend around him.

“Let’s imagine something.”
“Let’s say… by some miracle… you beat me.”

He lifts both hands, inviting the fantasy.

“Let’s say you catch me with something slick — some twist of fate — some wild moment where the entire casino stands still and whispers, ‘Did you see that?’”

He nods in admiration at the imaginary moment.

“People would lose their minds.”

Silence hangs.

“And guess what?”

He shrugs.

“It still wouldn’t make you me.”


---

The elevator opens to a private balcony — glass floor, overlooking the main casino far below. Every spin, every shuffle, every jackpot feels miniature beneath their vantage point.

Ryan steps out, hands spread as if presenting a kingdom.

“This is what I see when I look at SCW.”
“It’s a world buzzing under my feet — bright, loud, beating like a neon heart.”

He folds his hands behind his back.

“And here’s the truth — I respect anyone who steps into that world and tries to climb.”

He glances over his shoulder, playful.

“I just climb faster.”


---

He strolls across the glass, completely unbothered by the height.

“The Roulette Championship…”
“That’s where I’m headed.”

He nods, matter-of-fact, not bragging — just stating.

“I’m not shy about it. I’m not pretending I don’t have goals. I’m not acting like this is some casual jog.”

He smiles.

“I want that title.”


---

“And you, Miles?”

He looks down over the balcony — at the tables, at the felt, at the luck below.

“You’re my first spin.”


---

He leans against the railing, elbows set, expression sharpening.

“Some people think I’m just a pretty face. Life of the party. The guy who smiles too much to take seriously.”

He tilts his head.

“Those people get hurt.”


---

“Because what they don’t understand…”
“Is that confidence isn’t a mask.”
“It’s a weapon.”

He taps his own temple.

“And I’ve sharpened mine to a razor.”


---

He pushes away from the railing and moves to the center of the balcony — glass creaking faintly underfoot, though he remains poised.

“When you step into the ring with me, you don’t just face my talent.”
“You face my comfort.”

He laughs lightly.

“You face my joy.”


---

“Because I love this.”
“I live for this.”
“I crave it like some people crave oxygen.”

He inhales deeply — like breathing the moment in.

“And that’s what makes me dangerous.”


---

He points forward, speaking directly to Miles — directly to the viewer.

“You fight like you want to win.”
“I fight like I already did.”


---

He smiles again — warm, golden, unbothered.

“When we lock up at High Stakes… you’ll feel it.”
“The difference.”

He raises his palms.

“You’ll feel the pressure. The pace. The power. The precision. The confidence.”

One shoulder lifts in a lazy shrug.

“And you’ll realize…”

He steps closer — voice lowering, still playful, still sharp.

“This was never a gamble for me.”


---

He spreads his hands again, welcoming the whole casino beneath them.

“Because I don’t bet.”
“I take.”


---

He steps back, gives the balcony — the casino — one final sweeping look.

“When the dust settles, when the chips stop clattering, when the wheel stops spinning…”

He snaps his fingers.

“It’s gonna land on me.”


---

He picks up his drink again, lifting it just high enough to catch the lights.

“So I’ll say this once, Miles — with all the kindness and all the wicked honesty I’ve got:”

He raises the glass in toast.

“I hope you show up with everything you’ve got.”

He winks.

“Because I’m coming with more.”


---

He drains the glass — sets it down — and smirks at the roulette wheel spinning below, now slowing, clicking gently toward fate.

“High Stakes…”
“Week Two.”

He looks right into the camera.

“I’m all in.”

Beat.

“Try to keep up.”

[/i]