“Cross Examination”
The morning light slanted through the high windows of the Boyd School of Law, warm against the polished floors and echoing hallways. The scent of old coffee and legal pads hung in the air, the unmistakable perfume of ambition.
LJ Kasey sat three rows from the front in a lecture room filled with murmuring voices and clicking pens. His notebook was open, pages neat but lived-in, margins lined with scrawled reminders and half-finished case notes. The brace on his hand was gone, though the faint bruise around his knuckles remained, a fading testament to the last few weeks.
The professor was already pacing at the front, gesturing toward the whiteboard where “EVIDENCE – EXCEPTIONS TO HEARSAY” was written in tidy block letters. LJ’s pen tapped absently against his paper, his gaze unfocused for a moment before settling on the lecture.
“Now, intent matters,” Professor Roth was saying, "It’s not what someone says, but why they said it. Context defines credibility.”
LJ’s mouth tugged slightly at that. Context defines credibility. He thought of every promo he’d cut in the past month, every ounce of rage he’d translated into clarity, every fan or peer who thought the law student couldn’t hang with the chaos. Context mattered.
He jotted down a note, the words landing almost subconsciously: Everything is evidence if you know how to read it.
His phone buzzed beside his notebook, one quick vibration. He glanced down. A text from Miles:
“You up for training after classes? You got Aiden this week and you better not be caught slacking.”
He stared at the message for a moment before locking the phone again and sliding it face-down. His heart was steady, though. No jolt, no panic, just a quiet acknowledgment. The war with Logan wasn’t done but for now it was settled. Maybe it never would be but he has has to stay looking ahead because Logan was now in the rear view and ahead was his brother’s friend...former friend? ...that will have to be something he needs to ask Miles later.
“Mr. Kasey,” Professor Roth’s voice snapped him back to reality, "You’re up. Walk us through the difference between direct evidence and circumstantial.”
LJ straightened, collecting himself, "Direct evidence is when the proof speaks for itself, like an eyewitness or a confession,” he said smoothly, "Circumstantial is when you infer what happened based on the situation, like blood on a shirt, or...,” he hesitated, a faint smirk pulling at his lips, “or a pattern of behavior that tells you someone’s about to snap.”
A few students laughed quietly. Roth didn’t. He only arched an eyebrow, "Colorful example, Mr. Kasey. I’ll assume that’s from your... extracurricular experience.”
LJ just smiled faintly and nodded, "Something like that.”
The rest of the lecture went by in focused silence. When it ended, LJ gathered his books into his bag with practiced efficiency. As he made his way through the hall, a few classmates passed him by, nods of acknowledgement, the quiet respect given to someone juggling two impossible lives.
Outside, the Las Vegas sun was already beating down on the pavement. He paused by the courtyard fountain, the hum of conversation and water blending together, and exhaled slowly.
Law school gave him order. The ring gave him chaos. Somewhere in between, he was learning to breathe.
Later Back at the Apartment
The sound of laughter met him before the door even opened.
Inside, Ally was sitting cross-legged on the couch, phone in hand, a takeout box beside her. Ashlynn sat across from her at the coffee table, books spread out, a mix of her advanced class notes and a laptop filled with playlists.
“You’re late,” Ally said without looking up, a teasing lilt in her voice, "I was about to send Ashlynn to go drag you out of a courtroom.”
“Evidence lecture,” LJ replied, dropping his bag by the door, "Professor Roth was on a warpath today. I think he enjoys watching first-years sweat.”
Ashlynn grinned, looking up, "You sure it’s not because you always sound like you’re cross-examining him every time you answer a question?”
He shot her a look, "Maybe. But at least I’m polite about it.”
“You’re a Kasey,” Ally chimed in, smirking, "Polite’s not exactly the family brand.”
He chuckled, moving to the kitchen counter, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, "Fair point.”
Ashlynn turned in her seat, studying him for a moment, "So, how’s the hand?”
He flexed it, faint bruises, but the swelling was gone, "Better. Still stiff, but nothing I can’t handle.”
There was a beat, the kind of moment that carried unspoken weight. They all knew what “handle” meant in his world.
Ally finally put down her phone, her tone softening, "You saw the card?”
“Yeah,” LJ said, "Miles texted me.”
“And?”
He leaned back against the counter, taking a sip of water before answering, "He wants to go training tonight but I messaged him that it can wait til the morning. I got Aiden in the Semi’s”
“Feels dangerous,” she countered quietly.
He didn’t argue. Instead, he met her eyes, calm but unflinching, "Everything worth doing usually is.”
Ashlynn gave a half-smile, "That’s one way to look at it. I saw what you said in your promo, though. ‘Done waiting.’ People online are eating that up.”
“Good,” he said, tone sharpening just slightly, "It’s the truth.”
He crossed to the couch, setting his water down beside Ally. The air between them softened as he sat, still carrying that quiet energy that never left him after a fight.
“Aiden is damn good,” LJ said, voice lower now, "He went toe to toe with Carter and came damn close to winning that title. But it’s time, it’s not about respect. It’s not about revenge. I wanna show a lot of people that I’m more than the lil Kasey brother and potentially World Championship material.”
Ally reached out, resting her hand over his, "Then do it. But promise me you’ll come back in one piece.”
He smiled, small, genuine, a flash of the kid she’d fallen for under all the scars, "I’ll do you one better,” he said, "I’ll come back better than I left.”
Ashlynn rolled her eyes playfully, "You two are disgustingly cute. I’m going to my room before this turns into a rom-com.”
“Then go study, ya brat” LJ called after her, laughing.
When the door clicked shut, Ally leaned in and pressed her forehead against his, "You’re doing great, you know that, right?”
He didn’t answer right away. He just closed his eyes for a moment, letting the calm settle.
“Trying,” he said finally, "One case at a time. One match at a time. One breath at a time.”
Later That Night
The apartment had gone quiet hours ago. The glow of the TV cast faint blue light across the room, the credits of some half-watched show rolling in the background. Ally had fallen asleep curled up at the far end of the couch, one hand resting where his knee had been. Her breathing was even, peaceful, the kind of calm LJ never quite found for himself.
He sat at the small desk across from her, law book open but unread. His pen hovered over a margin already filled with legal citations, and between them he’d scribbled something that had nothing to do with evidence or precedent:
Aiden Reynolds - momentum, experience, ring control. Counter with pressure. Stay patient. Don’t chase. Make him come to you.
His world was split in two columns: law and war. Order and chaos.
He leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face. Every match now carried more weight. Every step forward in the tournament felt like validation, not just for him, but for the people who’d bet on him, the ones who’d stood beside him when he was just “Miles’ little brother.”
“Potentially world championship material.” He’d said it half-joking earlier, but he meant it. He could feel it.
He glanced at Ally again, her hair spilling over the pillow, and something inside him steadied.
One case at a time. One match at a time. One breath at a time.
He reached over and turned off the lamp. The city lights filtered through the blinds in thin gold lines, striping across the walls like silent reminders that Las Vegas never slept, but tonight, he would try.
Because come the weekend, there’d be no rest.
Only the fight.
-----
“Brother’s Briefing”
The afternoon sun had dipped low enough to paint the Vegas skyline in burnt orange and gold, and the Wolfslair training facility was half-empty for once, the low thud of gloves on pads echoing faintly in the background. LJ Kasey leaned against the ring apron, towel draped around his shoulders, his water bottle already half-empty. Across from him, his brother Miles was unwrapping his own wrist tape, still sharp even in downtime.
LJ broke the silence first, "You ever notice how every time I’m in one of these big tournament things, they start talkin’ like I’m just here for the vibes?” he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, "‘Heart,’ ‘charisma,’ ‘potential’ like I’m a God damn commercial break between the real matches.”
Miles chuckled under his breath, "Yeah, that’s the kind of talk you get before you win something big. After that, they call it ‘tenacity’ and ‘championship mindset.’” He tossed the tape aside, "You just haven’t given them their headline yet.”
LJ nodded, but the expression in his eyes was more storm than confidence, "This one’s different, though. Aiden’s not some loudmouth or rookie who thinks Twitter’s a personality. He’s good, real good. He’s got that balance...skill, timing, instinct. I’ve seen what he did with Carter. Man pushed him to the brink. So yeah, I want the headline. But I’m not gonna fake that it’s not a mountain.”
Miles leaned against the ropes, crossing his arms, "Then start by remembering who taught the guy who taught you how to climb.”
LJ looked up, a brow raised, "You?”
“Damn right.” Miles grinned, "And you don’t beat Aiden Reynolds by trying to outdo him. You beat him by making him uncomfortable. Aiden’s all about rhythm, once he finds it, he flows. You have to disrupt that. You can’t let him think, can’t let him breathe. You throw him off tempo, he starts questioning his reads, and that’s when you take over.”
LJ frowned slightly, thoughtful, "Disrupt the rhythm. Okay. But easier said than done when he’s got that ring IQ. I’ve watched the tapes, he adjusts fast.”
“Yeah,” Miles replied, nodding, “But he adjusts reactively. You, on the other hand, you’ve got that unpredictability, that instinct to flip a switch mid-match. You just don’t trust it yet.” He tilted his head slightly, studying his brother, "You still play it too safe sometimes. Like you’re afraid if you go too far, you’ll lose control.”
LJ met his gaze, "You mean like last time, when losing control got my girlfriend put on a bounty list?”
Miles’ smirk faltered, "Yeah,” he said quietly, “that was bad. But I’m not talking about recklessness. I’m talking about deliberate chaos. You got this thing, LJ, that spark that can flip a match upside down when you let it. Aiden? He’s order and precision. You? You’re jazz. Unpredictable, raw, and loud when it counts.”
LJ laughed, "Jazz? Seriously?”
Miles shrugged, unbothered, "Hey, it’s Vegas. Fits the vibe.”
For a moment, both brothers just stood there in silence, the hum of the gym filling the space. Then LJ said quietly, “You think I can do it?”
Miles didn’t answer right away. He walked over, grabbed LJ’s towel off his shoulders, and tossed it back at him, "I know you can. But that’s not what matters.” His tone softened, that rare Miles Kasey brand of sincerity slipping through, "What matters is you knowing it. You can’t come in there thinking ‘maybe.’ You walk into that ring like it’s already your final, because the second you hesitate, he’ll sense it, and you’re done.”
LJ nodded slowly, letting the words settle, "So... disrupt the rhythm. Stay unpredictable. Believe I belong there.”
Miles cracked a grin, "Exactly. And if that fails, just punch him in the face harder than he expects.”
LJ snorted, shaking his head, "Classic Miles strategy.”
“Hey, never said I was subtle.” Miles smirked, "You’re the lawyer. I’m just the brawler with good looks and bad timing.”
LJ chuckled, then his tone shifted just slightly, quieter now, "You ever think about what’s next for you, though? Like... you’ve been where I’m trying to get. You ever miss it? The grind, the chase?”
Miles hesitated for a beat before answering, "At the moment? No, because I’m the SCW Internet Champion with a potential opponent on the horizon, whoever that may be that finds his balls and steps up. But I got my run at that shot, LJ. You’re on yours now. And I’m not gonna let you waste it worrying about me or Carter or what anyone else thinks you can’t do. You go out there and own that ring, little brother. Make them talk about you for the right reasons.”
LJ took a breath, nodded once, "Alright. No hesitation.”
Miles clapped him on the shoulder, "Good. Now go get some rest before you start quoting legal precedent at your opponent.”
LJ smirked, already turning for the exit, "Can’t make promises. Hearsay might actually make a good finisher name.”
Miles called after him, laughing, “You’re an idiot!”
LJ shot back without missing a beat, “Yeah, but I’m your idiot!”
The door swung shut behind him, the sound of Miles’ laughter echoing faintly through the gym.
For the first time in weeks, LJ didn’t feel like the underdog. He felt ready to win.
----
“Disrupt the Rhythm”
The only sound in the apartment was the low hum of the city outside... the heartbeat of Las Vegas bleeding through the open window. The glow from a desk lamp painted long shadows across stacks of law books, loose pages, and the silver reflection of the SCW logo glinting from a duffel bag tossed haphazardly on the floor.
LJ sat at his desk, elbows resting on the edge, hands clasped loosely. The faint bruising around his jaw was still visible under the warm light, but his expression was calm, measured. The kind of calm that usually came before a storm.
The red light on the camera blinked.
“You ever notice how people love to talk about momentum when it’s not theirs?”
His voice was low, smooth... not the performative energy of a promo stage, but the steady conviction of a man making his case.
“They’ll hype you up, call you the next big thing… right until someone like me walks into frame. Then suddenly, it’s not about momentum... it’s about contrast. Charisma versus focus. Heart versus precision. Chaos versus control.”
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes.
“And for weeks, I’ve heard them say it... that Aiden Reynolds is the storm that’s going to test me. But the truth is, I’ve been living in storms my whole damn life.”
He leaned back, shoulders relaxing, that calm certainty never slipping. Behind him, one of his textbooks lay open... a half-written note in the margin that read ‘context defines credibility.’ It felt fitting.
“They call me charismatic. Hungry. The kid with potential. But what they never call me is dangerous.”
The word dangerous rolled off his tongue like a verdict.
“See, you’ve got your accolades, Aiden. You went to war with Carter. You came close. You earned your flowers. But somewhere along the line, people started thinking that because I smile, because I talk, because I bring something different... I can’t bring pain. They think charisma can’t cut.”
He shook his head, almost laughing under his breath.
“Chaos isn’t the absence of control. It’s the ability to weaponize it.”
LJ shifted forward again, resting his forearms on the desk, his tone tightening with quiet fire.
“You’re order, Aiden. You’re clean. You’re measured. You’ve got that Wolfslair polish. That’s your edge... until it isn’t. Because order has rules and I don’t really play by them.”
The lamp flickered once, faintly, as if the words themselves carried a pulse.
“When that bell rings at Climax Control, I’m not walking in there to match your rhythm. I’m walking in there to break it. You adapt on a dime? Fine. You counter? Good. But I’ll keep coming until there’s nothing left for you to adapt to. Until you’re drowning in the same chaos you thought you could control.”
He let that hang in the air, the faint city hum filling the silence. His eyes flicked to the side for a moment... a brief glance at a photo on the wall: him and Miles, grinning after a match months ago. He inhaled through his nose, grounding himself.
“I’ve watched people skip the line, take opportunities I earned. I’ve been told to wait my turn more times than I can count. But patience? It’s not a weakness. It’s a weapon. And I’ve had enough waiting to make it deadly.”
He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling slowly before continuing.
“You’ve already had your shot, Aiden. You’ve danced with the champion. You’ve had your ‘almost.’ Me? I’m done with almost. I’m done watching from the sidelines while the safe picks get the spotlight. I’m not the brother trying to catch up. I’m not the rookie anymore. I’m the one rewriting the rules.”
The corner of his mouth quirked up again... that familiar grin, dangerous now.
“I’m a law student by day, sure. But in that ring? I'm the judge, jury, and the one rewriting the verdict.”
He pushed up from the chair, walking toward the camera until his face filled the frame... not angry, not loud, just absolute.
“So bring your precision, Aiden. Bring your composure. Bring every ounce of Wolfslair pride you’ve got. Because I’m bringing chaos, charisma, and conviction. And when it’s over... when you’re staring up at those lights wondering what the hell just happened... you’ll finally understand something.”
A pause. A breath.
“You don’t control chaos. You survive it.”
The grin returned, sharper this time, cutting through the intensity like a blade.
“And me? I don’t just survive. I win.”
He reached forward and switched off the camera.
The room fell into silence again... just the hum of Vegas and the soft scratch of pen against paper as LJ turned back to his notebook, writing a single line before the scene faded out:
“Every fight tells a story. This one’s mine.”
