Miles stepped through the heavy glass doors of the Las Vegas Police Department, the fluorescent lighting casting a harsh glow over the bustling precinct. Officers moved about, engaged in their daily work, but Miles had only one focus as he made his way toward a familiar face.
Before he could take another step, however, a voice called out to him from the holding area.
"Yo, man, you gotta tell ‘em I was just trying to impress my girl!"
Miles turned his head, finding a disheveled young guy gripping the bars of one of the holding cells. He was grinning like a fool despite his obvious predicament. "Come on, Kasey, you’re a big deal! Tell ‘em I wasn’t really stealing that car—I was just borrowing it for a quick spin!"
Miles smirked and shook his head. "Jake, you’re an idiot. If you’re trying to impress a girl, maybe don’t commit grand theft auto."
"But she loves bad boys!" Jake whined, causing a nearby officer to roll his eyes and walk off.
"Good luck with that," Miles chuckled before making his way toward Detective Wesley LaSalle’s desk.
Detective Wesley LaSalle was seated at his desk, sifting through paperwork, but he looked up as soon as he sensed someone approaching. Recognition flashed in his eyes, followed by a hint of surprise.
"Miles Kasey," LaSalle said, setting his pen down. "Wasn't expecting to see you here. Last time we talked, things were a hell of a lot different."
Miles pulled up a chair across from the detective’s desk, his expression serious. "Yeah, tell me about it. Look, Wes, I need a favor. It's about Kevin."
LaSalle’s brows furrowed. "Kevin? You mean Karen's kid?"
Miles nodded. "Yeah. Ran into him a few weeks ago. He looked... rough. I tried to talk to him, but he bolted. I need to find him."
LaSalle exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Miles, you know I’d help if I could, but that kid’s a ghost. After Karen was convicted for what she did to Carter, Kevin’s dad took him and his siblings to California. That was right after the trial. I checked the records—Kevin ran away about a month later. Since then? No real leads."
Miles leaned forward, determination etched into his face. "I get it, Wes, but that’s not good enough for me. The kid’s out there, somewhere, and I need to help him."
LaSalle studied him for a long moment before sighing. "Okay. If you’re serious about this, start with the local shelters. If he’s still in Vegas, he’s gotta be crashing somewhere."
Miles gave him a tired smirk. "Already did that. First thing, actually. Checked out some of the rougher spots in town too. Had to tell Carter I was at the gym just to keep him off my back."
LaSalle shook his head. "You always were stubborn. Look, Miles, I gotta ask—why does this mean so much to you? I mean, I know you care, but this seems personal."
Miles took a deep breath, glancing away for a moment before meeting the detective’s eyes again. "Because I know what it’s like to be that kid. When I was his age, I did some stupid—really stupid—things. If it weren’t for my sister and my mom, who knows how I would’ve turned out? But Kevin? He doesn’t have that. His mom’s in prison, and his dad’s stuck trying to keep it together for the other two kids. Kevin’s alone. And I can’t just let him slip through the cracks."
LaSalle nodded slowly, the weight of Miles' words settling in. "Alright. I’ll do some digging, see if I can turn up anything. No promises, but I’ll let you know if I find something."
Miles extended his hand, and LaSalle shook it firmly. "Thanks, Wes."
As Miles stood to leave, LaSalle called after him. "Hey, Kasey. Be careful, alright? You might find what you’re looking for, but it may not be what you expect."
As Miles turned to leave, another voice from the holding cells piped up. "Hey, Kasey! You got any pull around here? How ‘bout getting me out?"
Miles glanced back to see Jake still hanging onto the bars, looking hopeful.
"Not a chance," Miles said with a grin as he strolled out, leaving Jake groaning dramatically behind him. Whatever it took, he was going to find Kevin. Because no one deserved to be forgotten—not if he could help it.
---
The neon glow of Fremont Street flickered against Miles' face as he walked through the bustling crowds. The air was thick with the mingling scents of fried food, spilled beer, and cigarette smoke, a true representation of the city that never really slept. Tourists gawked at the street performers, gamblers shuffled between casinos, and the homeless nestled themselves into quiet corners, ignored by most.
Miles wasn’t here to be entertained. He kept his hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes scanning the sidewalks, peering into alleys, looking for any sign of Kevin. He knew it was a long shot, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that the kid was still around, still surviving on these streets.
He muttered to himself, shaking his head. "Where are you, kid?" He exhaled, watching the way his breath barely formed in the warm night air. His gut told him Kevin was still in Vegas—he just had to figure out where.
As he walked past a row of shuttered storefronts, he spotted a group of teenagers huddled together near a flickering streetlamp, their eyes darting around like they expected trouble. Miles considered approaching, but before he could, they scattered like startled birds. He sighed. "Damn it."
As Miles continued walking, his mind drifted again to Climax Control. He stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets and exhaled slowly. "Strange Bedfellows," he muttered, shaking his head. "Fitting name for a team that don’t know a damn thing about each other."
Teaming with Jayden Harris wasn’t a problem, at least not for Miles. The kid had talent, raw and hungry, but his last name put a target on his back before he even stepped foot in a ring. Miles understood that struggle better than most. "Pressure like that? It can either break you or make you sharper," he said to himself. "Kid’s got the tools, but does he know how to use ‘em when the lights are bright?"
That was the question. And there was only one way to find out.
"Then there’s Vinnie," Miles said with a slight chuckle, shaking his head. "I swear, you never know what version of that dude you’re gonna get. One match, he’s throwing hands like a world-beater, the next, he’s too busy having a full-on conversation with a damn cactus to focus." He smirked to himself. "But I’m not stupid enough to write him off. A guy like him? He’s dangerous when you least expect it. Can’t let my guard down. Not for a second."
His expression darkened slightly as his thoughts shifted to Eddie Lyons. That was a different beast altogether.
"Eddie’s a whole different level," he admitted, rolling his shoulders as he walked. "I respect the hell out of that man. No nonsense, no games—just a guy who comes to fight, and he does it better than most." Miles stopped for a moment, staring at the flashing neon lights of a casino sign. "I know what I’m up against with him. And I know he ain’t gonna take it easy just because we got mutual respect."
He continued moving, stepping past a couple arguing near the entrance of a liquor store. "Respect only gets you so far, though. When that bell rings, I gotta be better. Faster. Smarter. I gotta prove that I’m still the guy people don’t wanna see across the ring from them."
He glanced up at the sky, the stars barely visible against the bright Vegas lights. "Jayden and I? We ain’t the favorites here. We’re the ones people expect to crumble under the pressure. But that’s the thing about expectations." He smirked. "They’re meant to be broken."
Miles kicked a discarded soda can, watching it rattle into the gutter. "This ain’t just a tag match. This is about momentum. This is about sending a message. About showing the rest of the locker room that I’m not just in the Elimination Chamber to make up the numbers. I’m in it to win."
His jaw tightened. "Sunday night, I’m walking into that ring with one goal—win. I don’t care what I gotta do. I don’t care if Jayden and I gotta scratch and claw our way through it. We’re leaving that match with our hands raised."
He let the words settle in his own mind.
"Because second place in a match like this?" He shook his head. "That’s just another name for losing. And I don’t lose."
He kicked a loose bottle cap down the sidewalk, watching it skitter into the gutter. "Gotta stay sharp," he muttered. "Can’t let distractions get me. Not now."
But he couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling that this wasn’t just about wrestling anymore. It was about proving to himself that he still had a purpose beyond the ring. That he could still make a difference.
Because the world could be distracting, but distractions could get you hurt. Or worse.
