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.”