Las Vegas traffic hums outside as Ryan Keys’ car rolls down familiar streets, neon reflections flickering across the windshield as the city slips from tourist spectacle into the version locals actually live in. The Strip still burns in the distance, but Ryan isn’t headed toward casinos tonight. He’s cutting through older blocks where pavement cracks, streetlights buzz, and businesses keep their lights on because rent doesn’t care what time it is.
Jessy Maddox sits in the passenger seat with one arm out the window and a gas station coffee in the other like it’s the last warm thing on Earth. Worn flannel, jeans, scuffed boots, hat pulled low. He looks like a man who was born in daylight and still hasn’t forgiven the world for inventing “late.”
Ryan glances over and taps the heel of Jessy’s boot where it’s propped on the dash.
“Get your foot off my car.”
Jessy doesn’t move it. “Your car’s fine.”
“My car is being disrespected.”
Jessy finally lowers his boot with a sigh like he’s doing charity work. “You always this dramatic?”
Ryan smirks, eyes back on the road. “Only when I’m with you.”
Jessy watches storefronts slide by. “So where we goin’? You been dodgin’ that question.”
“You’ll see.”
“That’s what villains say.”
Ryan laughs quietly, turning down a side street that feels less like Las Vegas and more like its backstage. The Strip is the show. This is where the crew lives. A laundromat glows on the corner, a taco truck parks under a flickering sign, and a few kids skate past like the night belongs to them.
Jessy leans forward to read a sign as they pass. “If you take me to a psychic, I’m leavin’.”
Ryan points at him without looking. “You are not leaving. You’re trapped. I know your social security number.”
Jessy’s mouth twitches. “You do not.”
“I know enough of it to ruin your day.”
Jessy shakes his head, amused. “This feels like you’re about to ask for advice.”
Ryan shrugs. “Maybe I am.”
“About what? Life? Love? The meaning of—”
Ryan reaches down, grabs his gear bag off the passenger floor, and lifts it just enough for Jessy to see.
Jessy’s expression changes immediately. “Oh.”
Ryan sets it back down. “Yeah. Oh.”
Jessy nods toward the back seat where the zipper’s half open. “Them shiny tights finally give up?”
“They didn’t give up,” Ryan says, trying not to smile. “They’re injured. There’s a difference.”
Jessy looks offended on behalf of the fabric. “Man, if fabric can be injured, you got a whole emergency room in that bag.”
Ryan flicks his blinker on and merges into a quieter lane. “It’s not funny.”
Jessy’s grin grows. “It’s a little funny.”
Ryan’s current ring gear has been with him through a lot. Metallic silver tights with black side panels, clean lines, enough flash to catch light and enough stretch to survive movement. Under arena lights they still look sharp. Up close, though, threads loosen, seams thin, and the grind of impact shows.
And right where the gear works hardest, the crotch seam has started to surrender.
Earlier today, Ryan packed his bag and his thumb slipped straight through a weakened line of stitching. Not a dramatic rip. Worse. The quiet warning that tells you the next one won’t be quiet at all.
One wrong kick in the ring and the match becomes rated M for reasons nobody planned.
Jessy tilts his head. “How bad?”
“Bad enough I’m not risking it.”
Jessy whistles. “So you’re tellin’ me you almost showed the whole roster the after party.”
Ryan laughs despite himself. “That’s not what we’re calling it.”
Jessy waves a hand. “Feels on brand.”
Ryan shakes his head, still smiling, and turns into a strip mall parking lot tucked away from the brighter businesses. Most storefronts are dark. One is very much alive.
Pink and purple neon glows above the door.
SASHA SEAMS.
Below it, a smaller sign reads: Costume Design, Stagewear, Custom Alterations.
In the window, mannequins stand like they’re mid-performance. Feathered jackets. Sequined coats. High-collared capes. A bodysuit that looks like it would offend a conservative senator on sight. The place hums with creative energy even from the sidewalk.
Jessy steps out and looks at the sign again. “You brought me to a costume shop.”
Ryan locks the car and swings his bag over his shoulder. “Costume designer. Friend of mine.”
Jessy follows, still squinting like the sign might change into something more normal if he stares long enough. “Since when?”
Ryan glances back with a grin. “Since before you knew me.”
Jessy’s eyebrows rise. “Oh, so this is ancient history.”
“Not ancient.”
“Feels ancient.”
Ryan pushes the door open. A bell jingles overhead.
Inside, the air smells like fabric dye, perfume, hairspray, and hot glue. Sewing machines line one wall. Spools of thread are stacked by color, almost aggressively organized. A cutting table dominates the center, covered in chalk lines, sketches, and glitter that will never leave.
From behind a curtain comes a voice with enough confidence to power the lights.
“Well if it isn’t my favorite bad influence!”
Sasha Seams appears like she’s stepping onto a stage that exists only in her mind.
Heels that shouldn’t be legal. A dramatic robe over a fitted outfit that sparkles when she moves. Wig flawless. Makeup sharp. Nails long. Measuring tape draped around her neck like she’s a doctor and fashion is the illness she treats.
Her eyes lock on Ryan and she gasps like he’s a surprise guest on her show.
“Ryan Keys! Darling! Look at you!”
Ryan laughs and steps into the hug, easy with it. Familiar. Comfortable. Sasha squeezes him like she’s checking if he’s still real, then pulls back and scans him head to toe.
“You look tired. Hydrating? Sleeping? Eating something other than protein bars and spite?”
Ryan grins. “I’m fine.”
Sasha makes a skeptical sound. “Men always say they’re fine right before they collapse dramatically.”
Jessy clears his throat, like he’s trying to remind the room that he exists.
Sasha’s head snaps to him and her eyes brighten instantly. “And who is this handsome man you brought to my door?”
Jessy blinks. “Jessy.”
Sasha steps closer like she’s appraising a statue. “Jessy. Love it. Simple. Strong. Rustic.”
Jessy glances at Ryan for help. Ryan just smiles like he’s watching a nature documentary.
Sasha claps once. “Welcome, Jessy. You may stay.”
Jessy mutters, “Appreciate it,” because polite Southern instinct kicks in even when the situation is weird.
Ryan sets his bag on the cutting table, unzips it, and pulls out his ring tights. He folds them once and hands them over.
Sasha’s expression shifts into pure professional focus. The theatrics remain, but the eyes sharpen. She runs her fingers along seams, flips the fabric, checks stretch points, pinches material between her nails.
“Mm-hmm,” she hums. “Mm. Yup.”
Ryan watches her face. “Tell me the damage without making it sound like you’re about to call an ambulance.”
Sasha flips the tights and taps the exact spot like she’s pointing to a problem on a map.
“Crotch seam.”
Jessy coughs, then laughs like he couldn’t stop if he tried.
Ryan rubs his forehead. “Of course.”
Sasha smirks without looking up. “I know what I’m dealing with.”
Jessy wheezes. “She just said it like it’s a weather forecast.”
Ryan shoots him a look. “Please don’t encourage her.”
Sasha continues, calm as a surgeon. “These were built for movement, but not this. Not the kind of movement you do. Impact, friction, sudden angles. Fabric can only survive so long.”
Ryan nods. “So I’m not imagining it.”
“Oh no,” Sasha says, still inspecting. “This is real. This is the universe warning you to stop tempting fate.”
Jessy folds his arms. “How close was he to a disaster?”
Sasha looks up slowly, eyes glittering. “One bad kick away from making his match rated M.”
Ryan points at Sasha like, yes, that, exactly. “Thank you.”
Jessy grins. “That’s hilarious.”
Ryan groans. “It would be hilarious for everyone else.”
Sasha tosses the tights lightly onto the table, careful but final. “We are not risking this. Not on television. Not in front of those cameras. Not with your… brand.”
Jessy’s eyebrows lift. “His brand?”
Sasha tilts her head at Jessy like she’s about to lecture. “Ryan’s brand is confidence. If the gear fails, the confidence becomes a different kind of show.”
Jessy nods like he understands exactly what she means. “Fair.”
Ryan shifts his weight, a little sheepish. “So… you can help me?”
Sasha scoffs like the question itself is insulting. “Of course I can. Do you think I’ve been sewing in these heels for fun?”
Jessy murmurs, “Kinda seems like you might.”
Sasha turns her head. “Jessy, darling, I do everything for fun.”
Ryan laughs and holds up both hands. “Okay. I’m in your hands.”
Sasha snaps her fingers. “Platform.”
Ryan points at the fitting area in the corner. “Do I have to?”
“Ryan,” Sasha says, voice sweet but dangerous, “I have seen you naked. Stop acting shy.”
Jessy’s head whips toward Ryan. “She has what?”
Ryan sighs like he’s tired of explaining his life. “Costume fittings. Back in the day. Sasha had to make things sit right.”
Jessy looks between them. “And you just casually bring me into this like it’s normal conversation.”
Ryan steps onto the platform. “It is normal conversation.”
Sasha circles him with measuring tape like a shark with couture ambitions. Shoulders, chest, waist, hips, thighs. Quick, practiced, precise. She tugs at his hoodie, checks where seams would sit, then steps back to squint like she’s reading him in a different language.
Jessy leans against a rack of jackets that look like they belong in a music video. “So you used to come here for stage stuff.”
Ryan nods. “Yeah.”
“And now you’re here for pants that won’t betray you.”
Ryan points at him. “Exactly.”
Sasha’s hands drift lower to check positioning around the waistband. Ryan clears his throat.
“Sasha.”
She doesn’t even look up. “Yes, darling?”
Ryan gestures downward. “Danger zone.”
Sasha straightens, completely unfazed, and delivers it like a line she’s said a thousand times.
“I know what I’m dealing with.”
Jessy bends over laughing.
Ryan shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “You are impossible.”
Sasha claps once and steps back toward her sketch board. “Now. Tell me what we’re creating.”
Ryan steps down from the platform and leans against the table. The question is simple, but it isn’t. Gear is more than fabric. It’s the version of you that walks out and announces who you are before you ever throw a punch.
He glances at the old tights on the table. They’re still him. They still match the way he moves, the way he plays to a crowd. But they also hold onto a version of Ryan that’s been doing a lot of the talking for him.
Ryan nods once. “Black.”
Sasha’s eyes brighten. “Yes.”
“Trunks,” Ryan adds. “Cleaner. Less extra.”
Jessy lifts an eyebrow. “Less extra. That’s allowed?”
Ryan smirks. “Don’t worry. I’m still me.”
Sasha taps her pencil. “Clean lines. Strong seams. Reinforced stretch points. Something that says you’re here to fight, not pose.”
Ryan nods. “Exactly.”
Jessy studies him. “That’s a shift.”
“Not a shift,” Ryan says. “Just sharper.”
Sasha’s grin turns proud. “Evolution.”
Ryan nods once. “Yeah.”
Sasha pulls fabric from a shelf and lays swatches across the table. Matte black. A slight sheen. Black with a subtle pattern that only shows under light.
“Do you want a little edge?” Sasha asks. “A hint of shine when you move?”
Ryan considers. “Not too much.”
Sasha nods. “Understood.”
Jessy leans in, suddenly invested. “Put him in somethin’ that makes him look like he’s about to punch somebody… but still Ryan.”
Sasha points at Jessy like she’s pleased. “You get it.”
Ryan laughs. “See? Jessy’s helpful.”
Jessy scoffs. “I’m always helpful. I’m just usually helpful in ways that don’t involve glitter.”
Sasha flicks a scrap of fabric at him. “Glitter is a lifestyle.”
They lock in details. Fit, waistband, reinforcement, just enough personality to keep Ryan’s presence loud without turning the gear into a disco ball. Sasha sketches quickly, talking with her hands like she’s conducting an orchestra. Ryan listens, nodding, offering input when it matters. He’s relaxed in a way he rarely is when everything’s on his shoulders.
At one point, Sasha pauses and looks up at him.
“You’ve been carrying everything yourself for a long time.”
Ryan lifts a brow. “Have I?”
Sasha shrugs. “I can tell. It’s in your eyes.”
Jessy clears his throat, quick to cut the sincerity before it sticks. “He’s got big eyes. Always has.”
Ryan laughs. “Thank you, Jessy.”
Sasha waves a hand. “Anyway. I’ll build you something that survives. And I’ll build you something that feels like you.”
Ryan nods, gratitude without turning it into a speech. “I appreciate it.”
Sasha’s smile softens. “Of course you do. You always did.”
They wrap up the fitting. Sasha sets a date for a try-on. She scribbles notes in a little book that looks like it’s held secrets for years. She threatens Jessy with glitter one more time purely out of joy.
Then she shooes them toward the door with both hands.
“Out,” she says. “My genius does not sew itself.”
Outside, Jessy points at Ryan as they step into the warm night. “So you just casually have a costume wizard.”
Ryan smiles. “Yeah.”
Jessy shakes his head. “Your life is weird.”
Ryan shrugs. “It’s Vegas.”
They walk back to the car, the neon sign buzzing behind them. Ryan tosses his bag into the back seat and slides behind the wheel. Jessy climbs in and immediately tries to put his boot back on the dash. Ryan slaps it away.
“Don’t start.”
Jessy laughs. “You’re in a good mood.”
Ryan pulls out of the lot and merges into the street. “Feels good to fix something before it becomes a problem.”
Jessy nods slowly. “That’s growth.”
Ryan smirks. “Don’t get carried away.”
Jessy looks out at the city. “So what now?”
Ryan’s eyes stay forward. “Now I go do my job.”
Jessy glances at him. “And your job is?”
Ryan smiles, relaxed but certain. “Winning.”
The city rolls by in streaks of light, Vegas doing what it always does, alive and unapologetic.
Ryan drives like he belongs to it.
Because he does.
__________________________________________________________________________________
The next night, a different city’s glow leaks in through hotel curtains. The room is the same shape as every other stop on the loop: beige walls, generic art, a cheap desk, a heavy chair, a suitcase open on the bed like a mouth that never gets full.
Ryan’s phone is propped against the lamp base, angled toward the bed. No ring lights. No mic. Just a traveler making the best of what he’s got.
Ryan sits on the edge of the mattress in gym shorts and a sleeveless hoodie, hair still damp from a shower. Boots lined up by the wall like soldiers. Tape stacked neat. Gear laid out to breathe after being packed and unpacked too many times.
He looks at the camera for a beat like he’s deciding if he wants to talk.
Then he does.
“So,” he says, calm and casual, “this week I get Alexander Raven.”
No theatrics. Just fact.
“If you don’t know Raven, you can learn a lot just by watching how he walks. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t bounce. Doesn’t try to win anybody over with energy. He comes in like the match is already his and everyone else is just catching up.”
Ryan’s fingers pick at the edge of his tape, not nervous exactly. More like focused.
“Some guys set a pace by going fast. Raven sets a pace by going slow. He drags you into his timing. His comfort.”
He nods once. “That’s the trap.”
“Catch-as-catch-can. Suplexes. Holds. Stuff that doesn’t look flashy until you realize you can’t breathe right. You can’t stand right. You can’t get your legs under you because he keeps taking them out from under you.”
He gestures toward the floor like he’s drawing a path. “He’ll grind you down, then punish impatience.”
Ryan shrugs. “And he’s good at it.”
A beat. He looks straight into the lens. “Raven’s not the kind of opponent you underestimate. You don’t end up with his resume by accident.”
His tone stays even. No insults. No grand declarations. Just honest scouting.
“He’s got that double hammerlock DDT. He’s got Raven’s Spine. And he’s got The Conspiracy, that bulldog choke. The kind of choke that doesn’t care how tough you are. It just cares if you can breathe.”
He exhales slowly. “And that’s before you even talk about ringside.”
Ryan’s eyes narrow a fraction. “Luna.”
“She’s always there. And people say that matters. That she keeps him steady. Focused. Calm.”
Ryan shrugs. “I’m not relying on rumors. I’m relying on what’s in front of me.”
He reaches for the water bottle, takes a drink, sets it down.
“Here’s the thing. Raven wants control. He wants you thinking about him more than you’re thinking about yourself. He wants you adjusting to him.”
Ryan tilts his head. “I’m not doing that.”
He doesn’t say it loud. He says it like a decision already made.
“I’m not going to wrestle scared. I’m not going to wrestle patient just because he wants me patient. If he wants to grind, fine. I can grind. If he wants hold-for-hold, fine. I can work through that.”
A small grin tugs at his mouth.
“But if he thinks he’s going to make me hesitate, he’s gonna have a rough night.”
He shifts on the bed, posture tightening like the thought wakes him up.
“Because I don’t panic.”
A beat, and his eyes flick to his gear, then back.
“I’ve been in enough weird situations to know panic is optional.”
Ryan runs a hand through his hair and exhales.
“Momentum matters. Everybody acts like you can reset after every match. You can’t. Every win builds something. Every loss costs something. Every night you walk out, people decide who you are.”
He taps his chest once. “And I’ve been rebuilding that.”
He leans forward again.
“So this match matters because it’s another chance to show what kind of Ryan Keys you’re getting right now. Not the version trying to find his footing. Not the version juggling everything. Not the version hoping it clicks.”
He nods once. “The version where it already clicked.”
Ryan’s voice stays casual, but the certainty underneath it is sharp.
“Raven’s marching toward bigger fights. That’s the story people wanna tell. World title picture. Main event energy.”
Ryan shrugs like he’s not impressed, just aware. “Cool.”
Then he looks right into the camera.
“But don’t confuse his direction with my position. I’m not a speed bump on someone else’s road. If he treats this like a tune-up, he’s gonna find out tune-ups can break things.”
Ryan sits back, letting the air conditioner hum fill the space. Somewhere down the hall a door closes. Somewhere outside, a horn blares. The world keeps moving.
Ryan glances at the clock and sighs. “I hate hotel clocks. They always feel like they’re judging you.”
He stands and starts packing while he talks, because that’s more honest than pretending this is a studio. Boots into the bag. Tape into the pocket. Knee pads folded, tucked.
“Raven’s going to bring a methodical fight. He’s going to try to slow it down. Make it ugly. Make it a chess match.”
He shrugs. “Fine.”
Ryan closes the bag and sets it by the door.
“But I’m not trying to win chess.”
He turns back toward the camera, leaning one shoulder against the wall.
“I’m trying to win a fight.”
He pauses, then smiles like he’s remembering something ridiculous.
“And for the record, I’m also trying to win a fight without my gear exploding and turning it into something the network has to apologize for.”
He shakes his head, amused, and the smile fades back into focus.
“Raven’s dangerous. I respect that. I’m not coming in careless.”
Ryan looks toward the camera one more time.
“But I’m not coming in scared either.”
He reaches down, grabs his keys off the desk, then realizes his phone is still recording. He doesn’t rush to shut it off. He doesn’t try to cap it with a line.
He just walks out of frame toward the bathroom. Water turns on a moment later, echoing in the quiet room while the phone keeps rolling on a perfectly ordinary hotel scene.
