The song performed: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n0BTWiSb8Rw
This one is for Todd -Laura
The door clicked shut behind him with a hollow finality, leaving the hallway in silence. Miles Kasey stood still for a long moment outside the dressing room, staring at the cold, sterile corridor like it held answers he wasn’t going to get.
Inside, Carter was finally resting—barely coherent, a mess of sweat, blood, and dazed breaths. LJ had been taken off to the trainer’s area, conscious but barely upright after the absolute hell Alex Jones had put him through in that Last Man Standing match. Miles had done all he could, or at least that’s what he was trying to convince himself.
But it wasn’t enough.
Not even close.
Miles leaned forward and braced his hands against the wall, jaw tight, heart hammering in his chest like it was trying to punch its way out. His fingers curled into fists against the concrete, knuckles bone-white.
The images wouldn’t stop replaying.
Alex Jones standing tall.
LJ not getting back up.
Carter rushing in to protect him.
And then—
That fucking stomp.
Carter’s face was driven into a steel chair. The crack of the boot against the skull. The sickening way Carter’s body had gone limp.
Miles’ eyes slammed shut, breath catching in his throat. He felt like he was going to be sick.
“You weren’t fast enough.”
“You should’ve known.”
“You promised you’d protect them.”
The voices in his head started crawling up his spine like rot. He shoved back, hard, nearly throwing himself off the wall as a low, furious growl ripped out of his chest.
He turned and slammed his fist into the side of a steel equipment case—CLANG. The metal rattled violently, pain blooming instantly through his hand, but he didn’t stop.
Another punch. CLANG. Another. CLANG.
Until the case tipped over and the hallway echoed with the crash of gear spilling everywhere.
His chest was heaving now, and sweat had started to bead along his brow. He dragged both hands through his hair and paced, back and forth, like a caged animal on the edge of snapping.
“God—dammit!” he roared at the ceiling, voice hoarse. “This isn’t how this was supposed to go!”
His boots squeaked against the floor as he spun, gesturing wildly, fury spilling out in half-choked words.
“I did everything right! I stayed out of it! I let LJ fight his own battles! I kept my word to Carter—I said I wouldn’t lay a hand on that piece of shit until the time was right, IF at fucking all!”
He stopped, chest rising and falling like a jackhammer.
“And what the hell did that get me?! Huh?!”
He turned again, eyes glaring upward, his voice cracking as he shouted.
“What did that get them?!”
Silence answered him. No divine justification. No whisper of cosmic fairness. Just the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the cold bite of reality.
He pressed his palms against his face, dragging them down slowly.
Helpless. Useless. Raging at a world that had just made a mockery of his restraint.
Something’s gotta break…
The buzz of his phone in his pocket startled him, piercing through the fog.
Miles blinked, pulled it free, and looked at the screen.
The name staring back at him made his heart stop cold.
He hesitated for half a second—then answered.
“Yeah?”
There was a long pause as the voice on the other end spoke. Miles’ face began to shift—not confusion, not anger.
Something worse.
His entire expression went still.
“…You’re kidding.”
No. They weren’t.
Another pause. A beat longer. Then:
“When?”
He swallowed hard. His other hand slowly curled into a trembling fist at his side.
“Alright… yeah. I’ll be there.”
The line went dead.
Miles lowered the phone from his ear but didn’t put it away. He just stood there, the hallway suddenly feeling colder. Thinner. Like the walls were closing in.
Whatever that call had been, it had just added weight to shoulders already straining under the pressure.
His fingers tightened around the phone until the case cracked under the pressure.
Then, without another word, he turned down the hallway, disappearing into the shadows with heavy footsteps echoing behind him—
—leaving only the wreckage of the moment in his wake.
----
Manchester, England – Two Days Later
The rain hadn't let up.
It wasn’t dramatic or theatrical — just that cold, bone-deep drizzle that soaked into everything, clinging like grief that wouldn’t let go. Manchester always seemed a little gray, but today, it felt hollow. A city missing a heartbeat.
Miles stood at the edge of the chapel steps outside the old stone building, hands deep in the pockets of his black coat, hood pulled up against the chill. The same streets they used to run as teenagers stretched behind him — pubs where they played too loud, alleyways where they dreamed too big, rooftops where they’d screamed at stars they swore were listening.
Todd had been one of his first brothers.
Not blood. But real.
And now he was gone.
Carter was already inside, waiting, sitting near the back to give Miles space. He’d offered to say something for him. Miles had declined. Not because he didn’t appreciate it, but because it had to come from him. Even if he didn’t know what he was going to say.
Truthfully, he hadn’t said much at all since the phone call.
The service was small. Personal. No pomp, no spectacle. Just faces creased with sadness, the quiet ache of too much left unsaid, and the occasional hushed murmur between friends who hadn’t seen each other in years.
Photos of Todd flickered across a projector screen near the altar — laughing, singing, head thrown back like he was daring the world to quiet him down. In every photo, there was a guitar nearby. His old beaten-up acoustic was even sitting on a stand just beside the altar, untouched since the wake began.
Miles hadn’t taken his eyes off it.
When the minister called his name, he stood slowly.
The walk up the aisle was short, but it felt like miles — no pun intended. His fingers twitched in his coat pockets. He could feel every eye in the room settle on him: old friends, Todd’s parents, Carter in the back with his hands folded tight in his lap.
He stepped up behind the microphone.
Paused.
Opened his mouth — and nothing came out.
Just like in Stockholm, just like after the chair, just like every night since this nightmare began… he had nothing.
But then his eyes drifted sideways — to the guitar.
He moved without thinking.
Took it off the stand. Sat on the edge of the small wooden step near the altar. No words. No intro. No warning. Just Miles, hunched slightly forward, fingers curling around wood and string like they used to on late nights and cheap whiskey-fueled songwriting sessions.
He thumbed the strings once. Still in tune.
Then he started to play.
Soft. Gentle. Like he was waking the song up from where it had been sleeping.
“Don’t let this feeling fade…
Like seeing stars in the rain…
It turns out, there’s something beautiful in the pain…”
His voice cracked a little on the second line, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t look up. His fingers moved in rhythm, muscle memory guiding him through the chords that had once belonged to Todd — a song they wrote together but never performed, the kind of melody that was meant to be heard here. Now.
“You gave me light in the dark…
Showed me the shape of my heart…
But I never saw the end before the start…”
The whole room went silent.
The sound of rain tapping against stained glass windows faded into the background. Nothing existed but the voice and the strings.
And the ghost of Todd, who Miles swore was probably leaning somewhere in the back, smirking that lopsided grin like: about bloody time, mate.
“If I could hold you one more time,
I’d tell you you saved my life…
You were the song I didn’t know I was trying to write…”
Miles didn’t cry. Not here. Not while he was playing.
But something in his chest loosened — like the weight was still there, but it didn’t have to crush him anymore.
When the last note faded, he didn’t stand. Didn’t say a word.
He simply set the guitar back down on the stand.
Gave one last look toward the altar photo of Todd, and whispered under his breath, “That one was for you, mate.”
Then he walked back to his seat, where Carter reached out and silently took his hand.
----
The Crown & Anchor Pub
Manchester, England – That Evening
The pint glasses clinked together louder than they needed to. Maybe it was the grief, or maybe it was just Manchester tradition. Either way, the old wood-paneled walls of the Crown & Anchor rang with laughter, memories, and the distant thrum of a jukebox half-drowning in the sound of voices raised with the comfort of familiarity.
It was the kind of place that hadn’t changed in twenty years — same sticky floors, same crack in the mirror behind the bar, same old barkeep who still didn’t trust card payments.
Miles stood by the corner booth, pint in hand, leaning with one shoulder against the wall, laughing at some story Dean was retelling for the fifth time like it had happened yesterday. The boys were there — Tommy, Dean, Marcus, even lanky Liam, all a few years older but just as chaotic.
And next to him, a little more reserved, but still present — was Carter.
He’d kept his hands in his coat pockets most of the night, offering polite nods, quiet smiles, the occasional small laugh. He was letting Miles have this. Letting him breathe.
Eventually, Miles slid an arm around Carter’s waist and leaned in.
“Alright, lads — this here’s Carter. Some of you know him from the telly, some of you probably follow him ‘cause he’s better lookin’ than me. But more important than that... he’s my husband.”
The laughter quieted for a second — not uncomfortably, just in that way where the words landed.
Dean broke it first with a raised glass. “Bloody hell, Miles. You always did punch above your weight.”
Carter chuckled at that, tipping his own glass with a smirk. “He says that now. Wait ‘til he sees me after leg day.”
The table roared.
Even Miles cracked up, leaning his head against Carter’s for a beat before reaching for a chip off the plate between them.
That’s when he showed up.
Danny.
Late, as always, pint in hand, and already a little too loud for the room.
“Well, well, well — if it ain’t the prodigal son. Kasey fuckin’ returns.”
Miles turned, not immediately hostile, but guarded. “Danny.”
Danny smirked like he’d just scored a goal in the last minute. “Didn’t think you’d actually show your face round here again. Thought America had its claws too deep in ya.”
Miles gave a lazy shrug. “They’ve got good food and bad decisions. Felt right at home.”
That got a few more laughs, but Danny wasn’t finished.
He stepped in closer, looking Miles over like he was a museum exhibit.
“You know, mate… you could’ve had any girl back then. Any of ‘em. Half the bloody city fancied you. But nah… you went and came out instead. Pan, right? That what they call it now? Fancy anyone with a pulse?”
The booth went quiet.
Miles didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. Just took a sip of his pint.
Danny leaned in a bit more, eyes sliding to Carter with a sneer. “And this is what you ran off to the States for? Him? All that talent, all that fire, and you settled down with—”
“Don’t,” Miles said, voice quiet but cutting.
Danny blinked, confused.
“I mean it,” Miles added, setting his pint down slowly. “You can run your bloody mouth about me all you want. I’ve heard it all. Traitor. Sellout. Whatever name helps you sleep at night.”
He stepped forward, now eye to eye with Danny. Calm. Dead steady.
“But you don’t talk about my husband. Not unless you want to be picking your teeth out of the fuckin’ tile, bruv."
Danny tried to laugh it off, but it wavered at the edges. “Alright, alright. Just havin’ a bit of fun.”
“Yeah? Todd never thought you were funny either.”
That shut Danny up.
Miles didn’t even let the silence settle.
“You remember that? How he used to call you a walking beer stain with a victim complex? How he only ever invited you out ‘cause he felt bad that you peaked in Year Ten?”
Danny’s jaw clenched.
“Take a walk, Daniel,” Miles finished, voice low but final. “Long one. Preferably off a short pier.”
Danny stared for a beat longer, then scoffed, turned, and stomped off toward the bar like a sulking child.
The booth let out a collective breath.
Dean raised his pint again. “So, Carter — how do you put up with this dramatic bastard?”
Carter smiled, leaning in with ease. “You should see him before coffee.”
Everyone laughed again. The mood began to settle, warmth creeping back into the space.
Miles finally sat, brushing his fingers along Carter’s knee under the table — quiet, grounding.
He’d lost Todd.
But tonight, he’d protected what mattered most.
And that, at least, felt like something.
----
The night had turned damp — not quite raining, but the kind of misty drizzle that clung to your clothes and kissed your skin like fog with a grudge. The streets of Manchester were quieter now, the laughter from inside the pub fading into the background as the door swung shut behind them.
Miles exhaled slowly, shoulders finally dropping, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his long coat.
Carter walked beside him in silence, close but not pressing. They’d said their goodbyes. Shook the last hands. Took the last photos. Survived the last awkward glances. Now it was just them again.
“I wish we could stick around,” Miles said quietly, eyes flicking up to the familiar buildings around them. “Wish we had more time.”
Carter looked over. “You’ve been good about this. Better than most would be.”
Miles gave a dry chuckle. “You mean I didn’t bash Danny’s skull in with a pint glass?”
“That would’ve been justified, not necessarily wise.”
“Hmm.” Miles paused on the pavement, looking out across the street like he could see into the past. “Every corner of this city feels like it’s echoing with Todd’s voice. His laugh. His bloody awful fashion sense. And now it’s all just… quiet.”
Carter gently slid a hand into Miles’, fingers interlacing.
Miles squeezed back. “We’ve gotta head back soon. Copenhagen’s calling. You’ve got that big match, and I’m in that fatal fourway. Can’t exactly ghost the whole company just ‘cause my head’s spinning.”
“You could,” Carter said softly. “They’d understand.”
“Yeah, but I wouldn’t.”
He looked at Carter fully now, eyes darker under the dim streetlight. “If I don’t get back in the ring, if I don’t keep pushing forward… I’ll feel like I’m letting it all go. And I can’t let this be what breaks me. Not again.”
“You’re not broken,” Carter said firmly.
Miles didn’t answer right away. He just looked down at the slick cobblestones beneath their feet. Then back up at Carter. “You help me remember that.”
A beat passed.
Then Carter leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Miles’ cheek.
“You’re allowed to feel all of this. You just don’t have to carry it alone.”
Miles nodded, jaw tight, eyes wet — but not falling. Not tonight.
“Come on, then,” he murmured, tugging Carter gently by the hand. “Let’s get back. We’ve got planes to catch. Rings to conquer.”
“And hearts to break?”
Miles smirked through the ache in his chest. “Only if they’re in the way.”
They walked on into the night — not away from the grief, but forward with it. Together.
-----
The cold in the Royal Arena crept into Miles’ bones, but it wasn’t the sort that came from the weather. It had been there for days now, ever since Stockholm. Ever since he watched LJ crumple under Alex Jones’ boot. Ever since Carter’s body bent wrong around a steel chair. Ever since he stood in the middle of that ring, seething with fury, hands clenched at his sides, and didn’t throw a single punch.
The quiet wasn’t peaceful. It was heavy. A tension wound so tight through his chest it felt like it would snap and tear him apart.
He sat alone in the far corner of the locker room, away from the noise and clamor of the others, his hood pulled low over his brow. The dull hum of lights above cast long shadows, flickering faintly in blue and gold. His gear bag lay open beside him, half-unpacked. A bottle of water in his hand. Untouched.
He didn’t need to warm up. His blood was already boiling.
Miles leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, head tilted down as he stared at the floor beneath his boots. He could still hear Todd’s laugh echo in the back of his mind — the way it used to cut through the smoke of some back alley pub gig or over cheap curry at 2 a.m. They buried him just a few days ago. Miles played their old song with shaking fingers and a throat full of grief, and not one word had come when the vicar asked him to speak.
What could he even say anymore?
He lifted his head slowly, jaw tight, the ache in his chest a hollow thing clawing to get out.
"Sunday night...it’s not just another match."
His voice was rough, quiet at first, but it carried weight — the kind of weight that demanded the air around him to still.
"This… this is the reckoning that has been coming for a long time."
He thought of LJ’s face, bruised and battered. Of Carter, unconscious in his arms. Of every person he couldn’t protect. Every promise he made that had to be swallowed just to keep the peace.
He stood.
The stretch of his spine felt like it might split him open.
He let out a small breath — almost a laugh, but not quite.
"Artie, mate…"
A pause. Not for drama, but because some truths needed a little space to land.
"Do you ever just look at someone and feel like you’re staring into a mirror — not in how you look or sound, but how you hope? That maybe they’re still clinging to some kind of magic in a world that keeps telling us there ain’t any left?"
He shook his head softly, eyes glassy with something that wasn’t weakness — it was knowing. It was experience.
"You’ve got heart, man. Big one. Wear it right on your sleeve. You fight with it. Lead with it. Bleed with it. And people underestimate that, don’t they? Think it makes you soft."
His voice turned into a low growl, protective and real.
"But I know better. I know how dangerous someone is when they’ve still got something left to believe in. Something left to prove. You’re the guy that people bet against… until they’re looking up at the lights, wondering how the hell they lost."
He leaned forward slightly, as if telling Artie this to his face — not with scorn, but with a sort of reluctant admiration.
"And I’ll be honest, part of me hopes it’s you and me standing at the end. Because win or lose, I’d know the match mattered. And Bobbie, love, I’m sorry. That’s all I can say."
He paced now, his boots striking the concrete with measured precision.
"Now you...The Cat"
The smirk faded just as fast.
"I don’t know if it’s an act or if you’ve just lost the thread, mate. I don’t know if you’re here to wrestle, to entertain, or to watch the world laugh at the wreckage you leave behind. But whatever the case, you’ve made a name for yourself on chaos and cleverness and that cat-like grin like nothing in the world touches you."
Miles’ brow furrowed. His voice dropped.
"But what happens when someone does? What happens when the fun stops, when the jokes dry up, and you’re standing across from a man who doesn’t give a damn how many nicknames you’ve got or how many eyes are on you? What happens when the games don’t work?"
He took one slow step forward, imaginary distance closing.
"I’m not here to play with you, Felix. I’m not a punchline or a prop. I’m not here to be your next viral clip or quirky comeback. I’m here to fight. And in that ring, I don’t care how many lives you think you’ve got left… I’ll take every single one of them, one blow at a time."
He stopped in front of a long mirror bolted to the wall, stared at the reflection staring back. Pale eyes rimmed in sleeplessness. Stubble creeping down a sharp jaw. The look of someone who’d walked through the fire and hadn’t decided whether to stop burning.
“Connor Murphy,” he murmured. “Now you... you’re different.”
He started pacing again, slower now, each step deliberate. Thoughtful.
“You’re not just here for gold. Or spotlight. Or to say you made it through another match without cracking. You’re here because you need this. Because violence — pain — it’s a language you speak better than most. And for a while, I think I understand that. That rage that lives just under the surface, always scratching to get out. Like if you can just hit someone hard enough, loud enough, long enough… maybe it’ll quiet everything else inside.”
His voice dropped low, intimate, like he was confiding a truth to no one in particular.
“I see it in your eyes, mate. That chaos. That itch. You’re not in this match to win. You’re in it to break something. To test just how far you can go before something gives way — and maybe, deep down, you hope that something is you.”
Miles stopped, letting the silence sink in.
“But here’s the thing…”
He looked up, eyes steely and burning with a deeper fire.
“You’re not the only one who’s danced that line. I’ve sat in dark rooms with blood on my knuckles and nothing but ghosts in my ears. I’ve walked out on everything I thought I was and built myself again from the ashes. So if you think I’m gonna be the stepping stone for your spiral, Connor — if you think I’m the guy who’s gonna fold under that wild, rabid energy you thrive in…”
Miles stepped forward, into an imagined spotlight, that metaphorical ring already alive beneath his boots.
“…Then you’re about to find out just how far down I’m willing to go to make sure you don’t get up.”
His fists clenched, his shoulders rising with the slow tide of breath pushing against his ribs. No bravado. No shouting. Just truth — raw and sharp.
“You wanna be chaos? I am the storm, Murphy. Let’s see who’s still breathing when the sky clears.”
He exhaled slowly.
Then let the silence stretch.
Miles stepped back from the mirror, rolled his shoulders, and pulled the hood down. His blond hair clung to his brow, sweat already starting to bead from the heat building in his chest.
"This match... it’s not about revenge. It’s not about Carter. Or LJ. Or even Todd."
His voice cracked — just once — before he caught it.
"It’s about reminding myself I’m still here. That I’ve still got something left to give. That all of this pain… all of this fire… isn’t for nothing."
His gaze turned toward the hallway, where the muffled sound of the crowd echoed just beyond.
"Kevin Carter, I hope you’re watching, bruv. Because I’m coming to Paris. And I’m not bringing apologies. I’m bringing purpose. And don’t think for one iota of a second that I have forgotten what you did to get that Internet Championship."
He turned and grabbed his jacket from the bench — blue and gold, the hood stitched sharp like a wolf's snarl — and slung it over his shoulders like armor.
"This is Miles bloody Kasey. And I’m walking through this Clusterf**k and straight into destiny."
He took one final breath, deep and ragged, then stepped into the corridor as the light behind him dimmed.
And for the first time in weeks, the storm inside him finally had direction.
