The corridor outside the SCW booking office was unusually silent for how electric the night had been. The only sound was the low hum of the massive digital match board mounted on the wall—names flickering across it like a neon prophecy.
Miles Kasey stood beneath it, arms crossed over his chest, a chill in his spine that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. The light from the board cast harsh, flickering reflections across his face, outlining the sharp tension in his jaw as his eyes scanned the match listings.
SCW Heavyweight Championship
Helluva Bottom Carter vs. Artie.
3-Round Boxing Match
Miles Kasey vs. LJ Kasey.
He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared.
Next to him, Carter let out a breath somewhere between a groan and a laugh. The newly crowned Internet Champion tilted his head as he read his own name and scoffed under his breath.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Carter said. “Artie?”
His tone was incredulous, but Miles wasn’t listening. His eyes remained locked on his own name—specifically, what was sitting across from it.
LJ.
Of all the possible outcomes... this was the one thing Miles hoped wouldn’t happen. And of course, it had.
Footsteps sounded behind them—fast, uneven. LJ came into view, still in his gear from earlier, a towel slung around his neck and bruises forming beneath his skin. He looked exhausted, physically and emotionally drained. At his side, Alexandra Callaway walked silently, her hand ghosting across LJ’s lower back as if trying to anchor him.
LJ followed the others’ gaze to the screen. And then he saw it.
His name.
Miles’.
“Are you fucking serious?” LJ growled, stepping closer to the board as if reading it again would make it disappear. “This is what Guy pulled with King for a Day?”
Miles didn’t respond. He glanced to the side, past his brother, and looked directly at Ally. His expression was unreadable, but the frustration was thick enough to cut through concrete.
“This,” Miles said slowly, “is exactly what I was talking about.”
Then he turned and started to walk away.
“Nope,” LJ snapped, reaching out and grabbing his older brother by the arm. “No. You don’t get to drop some cryptic bullshit and walk away from me. What the hell did that mean?”
Miles turned back, shaking off the grip but not violently—just enough to create distance.
“It means this whole damn thing is working,” Miles said. His voice was calm, but underneath it ran something dangerous and sharp. “Guy got exactly what he wanted. You think this match is random? It’s a setup. Chaos by design. Divide and conquer.”
LJ squared his shoulders. “Then why’d you look at Ally like it was her fault?”
Ally’s eyes widened slightly, and she tensed next to LJ. Before she could speak, Miles raised a hand.
“I wasn’t blaming her,” Miles said firmly, looking between them. “I was pointing out the pattern. This EXACT same pattern that she just pulled tonight. They’re putting targets on our backs, forcing us into corners. You think it’s a coincidence Carter’s defending his title against his friend, and I’m suddenly meant to beat the hell out of my brother in a damn boxing match?”
Carter shook his head. “I said it once and I’ll say it again—this is some straight-up soap opera bullshit.”
Ally stepped forward, voice gentle but firm. “This is what he wants—Guy. He’s stirring the pot. Trying to make the story him by tearing down what you’ve built. If you let it get between you…”
“Ally, I’m not mad at you. But this is what I was talking about earlier tonight,” Miles said, looking straight at LJ now. “But you need to be pissed, LJ. You need to understand what’s happening here. You, me, Carter—we’re getting fucking played.”
LJ stepped forward, chest rising with the kind of fire he hadn’t felt since before his injury.
“Well, then what? You want me to back out? Sit on the sidelines while they turn me into a joke?”
Miles tilted his head. “No. I want you to walk into that match like a professional. Like my brother. Not like someone with something to prove.”
The silence stretched long and thin.
“I’m not scared of you,” LJ said at last.
“I didn’t say you should be,” Miles replied. “But you should be angry. Just not at me.”
LJ clenched his jaw, staring at his brother hard. “Fine. We do this. Three rounds. No bullshit.”
Miles gave a small nod, the tension easing from his shoulders but not disappearing. “Right. No bullshit.”
They stood there, brothers caught between pride and principle, the looming match pressing down on both of them like a weight. There was no love lost between them—just the burden of respect, of legacy, of everything they’d fought to build now twisted into a spectacle.
And somewhere, Guy—King for a Day—was probably laughing.
Carter huffed, dragging his palm down his face. “And I thought I had a bad night.”
As the board flickered again and the hallway dimmed slightly, none of them moved.
Because this time... the fight wasn’t about gold.
It was about blood.
----
"The Present Problem"
The door creaked open with a quiet groan, the kind that only old hinges and desert heat could conjure. The air inside the house was somehow thicker than the sun-blasted sidewalk outside. Miles stepped in, a sheen of sweat clinging to the back of his neck, his gym bag slung lazily over one shoulder. He wiped his brow with the bottom hem of his shirt, squinting into the dim hallway.
"Why does it feel like Satan’s armpit in here?"
No answer.
He kicked the door shut with his foot and dropped his bag at the base of the stairs. The only sound was the distant hum of a fan whirring somewhere in the living room. That and—wait.
Thud.
Scrape.
A muffled curse.
Miles’s brows drew together. He turned the corner and froze halfway into the kitchen.
Carter was on all fours, halfway under the couch, ass in the air and glittered sneakers kicked off beside him. The couch cushions were scattered across the room like confetti at a rave. A trail of what looked like gift wrap remnants, scotch tape, and a pair of scissors led from the coffee table to the hallway closet—which now stood wide open and very empty.
Miles leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “Should I even ask?”
Carter jerked his head up and smacked it against the underside of the couch.
"Ow!—shit, damn it—"
Miles raised a brow. “Was that the couch fighting back or your conscience?”
Carter wiggled backward out from under the couch, cheeks slightly flushed from both effort and embarrassment. He brushed dust bunnies off his t-shirt—the one that said ‘This Body Ain’t Built for Manual Labor’ in glitter letters.
He grinned sheepishly. “Hey, babe.”
Miles didn’t return the smile. He was too busy trying not to laugh.
“You wanna tell me why it looks like a raccoon had a meltdown in here?”
Carter sat cross-legged on the floor like a kid caught raiding the cookie jar.
“I’m looking for something.”
Miles feigned surprise. “Noooo, really?”
Carter pouted. “It’s hot, I’m bored, and someone has been being very sneaky lately.”
Miles walked over, nudging a couch cushion aside with his foot before collapsing onto the armrest. He eyed Carter with an amused smirk.
“Let me guess... you're looking for your birthday present.”
Carter lit up like he'd just been told he won Miss Congeniality. “Yes! Thank you! See, you admit it exists! You’ve been hiding something! I knew it!”
Miles groaned, tilting his head back. “It’s not even the 13th yet, you absolute goblin.”
Carter dramatically clutched his chest. “I’m a Gemini, Miles. I literally don’t have the patience to wait. My other half is already plotting to stage a heist.”
Miles raised an eyebrow. “Your other half better chill before both halves get grounded.”
Carter smirked. “You’re just mad that I’m clever and pretty.”
Miles snorted. “Nah, I’m mad because you turned the living room into a crime scene. You thrive on chaos, more like.”
“Tomato, chaos.”
Miles dropped his head back down to look at him again. Carter’s curls were a little damp from sweat, his cheeks pink from crawling around like a lunatic in 105-degree heat.
“You know,” Miles said slowly, “if you’d just wait, you’d find out.”
Carter narrowed his eyes. “Where’s the fun in waiting?”
Miles chuckled. “That’s what you said on our wedding night.”
Carter gave him a look, then leaned forward on his knees.
“Come on, just give me one hint.”
“No.”
“Half a hint.”
“No.”
“A riddle? A poem? A vague haiku?”
Miles shook his head, amused and exasperated. “It’s hidden somewhere you definitely won’t find it. So stop tearing the house apart like a spoiled golden retriever.”
Carter huffed, flopping dramatically onto the floor like he’d just lost a title match.
“I’m dying of anticipation,” he moaned.
“You’re dying of being dramatic.”
“Same thing!”
Miles slid off the armrest and crouched beside him, brushing a strand of hair from Carter’s forehead.
“Look, I promise, it’s worth the wait,” he said softly. “And no, it’s not in the couch, the freezer, the coat closet, buried in the bottom of my underwear drawer because I KNOW that is the first place you’d look OR taped to the bottom of the coffee table.”
Carter narrowed his eyes. “So it is taped somewhere.”
Miles blinked. “I said no such thing.”
“You said it in your tone! That was a clue!”
“I swear on all things holy, if you dismantle this house trying to find it, I’ll wrap you in bubble wrap and lock you in the basement of the building where NO ONE would find you but me.”
“You love me too much for that.”
Miles paused. “...Okay, fair.”
Carter leaned up, brushing a kiss against his cheek. “Just remember. You’re dating someone who’s made of glitter and spite. I will find it.”
Miles rose to his feet with a sigh. “You better not, Carter. I actually like this house intact.”
He started walking off toward the bedroom, mumbling to himself.
Carter flopped back onto the floor, arms sprawled out.
“You’re lucky you’re hot and emotionally available,” he called after him.
“And you’re lucky I hide things better than you box,” Miles shot back.
Carter gasped. “Rude!”
The tone from the phone gave him a clue that the gift was ready.
Miles smirked.
-----
"Hands Like Lead, Heart Like Stone"
The gym was quiet after hours.
All the lights were off, save for a single overhead bulb swaying gently above the ring. It flickered now and then, casting shadows across the ropes like ghosts pacing back and forth. Miles Kasey stood just inside the ropes, taping his hands in silence, the sound of the adhesive stretching the only noise in the room.
Boxing gloves lay on the canvas beside him, mocking him.
He hated this.
Not the fight—never the fight.
But this fight.
A boxing match against his own damn brother. Set up by a lunatic with a god complex and a shiny briefcase. It wasn’t wrestling. It wasn’t competition.
It was manipulation.
It was a game. One he didn’t want to play.
Miles sat on the edge of the ring apron, looking down at his hands. The knuckles were already starting to redden, sore from hitting bags and pads all afternoon. He flexed his fingers, wincing as memories bled through the cracks.
Thirteen Years Ago — Manchester, England
Shamrock Boxing Club, 10:47 PM
It stank of sweat and stale cigarettes. The walls were old brick, chipped and cracked like the kids who trained inside them. You didn’t come here if you had other options. You came here if the world had tried to forget you.
And Miles Kasey? He was well on his way to being forgotten.
Fifteen, cocky, and fueled by anger he didn’t know how to name. He was tall and damn near as thin as a rail. 182, MAYBE soakin’ wet and a chip on his shoulder. He had scrapes on his knuckles and attitude in his voice. He’d just come from some back alley yarding match with a busted lip and a few extra quid in his sock.
“Oi!”
The voice cracked through the air like a whip.
Miles turned, eyes sharp and defensive. Across the gym, an older man—built like a truck, arms covered in ink—stood beside the heavy bag, wiping his hands with a towel.
Frankie O’Connell.
Owner of the gym. Ex-pro. Scariest bastard on the block.
“You got some brass ones walkin’ in here like that, kid,” Frankie said, nodding to the blood still fresh on Miles’ shirt. “What were you doin’, brawlin’ in car parks again?”
Miles shrugged and sniffed. “Made more than I would moppin’ floors.”
Frankie approached slowly, the thud of his boots echoing through the empty space. He stopped in front of Miles, who stood his ground—barely.
“You keep that shite up, you’ll end up dead or in the back of a van, and no one’ll remember your name. And your dear ol mum and beautiful sister will wonder what the hell happened to ye.”
Miles rolled his eyes.
Frankie grabbed his chin—not hard, but firm enough to demand attention—and forced him to look up.
“You listen to me, Kasey. You’re quick. You’re angry. And you’re a bloody idiot.”
Miles jerked away, jaw tight. “I’m doin’ fine.”
“You’re doin’ nothin’. You’re wastin’ whatever talent you’ve got scrappin’ with gutter rats for pocket change. Yer no better than yer old man.”
“What the hell ever, bruv. If this is all you called me ‘ere for..I’m just gonna go home.” Miles turned to leave.
“OI! MILO!” Then Frankie threw the gloves.
They hit Miles in the chest with a dull thump. He caught them on instinct.
“You show up here tomorrow, 6 AM. We box. I’m gonna show you that there are far better ideas than you tossin yerself around a broke down ring like a fuckin’ moron. Or you can keep pissin’ your life away out there. Your choice.”
Miles looked down at the gloves in his hands. They were old. Stiff. Smelled like hell.
He hated boxing.
But something about the weight of them... felt real.
Present Day — Las Vegas
Miles jolted slightly as his mind returned to the present. His jaw clenched as he wrapped the final piece of tape around his wrist and tore it off with his teeth. He tossed the roll aside, stood up, and stared at the gloves waiting for him.
He still hated boxing.
Not because it wasn’t wrestling. Not because it was hard.
But because it forced him to slow down.
Boxing wasn’t chaos. It wasn’t wild swings and tables and jumping off ropes.
Boxing was precision. Timing. Discipline.
And discipline was something he had to earn—not something that came naturally.
He walked to the center of the ring, bent down, and slid his hands into the gloves one at a time. He tightened the straps with practiced ease, stood tall, and faced the heavy bag that hung just beyond the ropes.
Three rounds with LJ.
It wasn’t fair.
But then again… nothing in this business ever was.
He threw a jab. Clean. Snapped back.
Another.
Left hook.
Right cross.
And then he heard Frankie’s voice again—clear as day, echoing through years of sweat and bruises.
“Boxing’s not about killin’ someone, lad. It’s about outlastin’ the worst of ‘em. It’s not who hits hardest. It’s who keeps their feet when the rest fall.”
Miles exhaled hard through his nose.
No, he didn’t want to fight LJ. Not now. Not like this.
But if Guy thought he could pit brother against brother, force a fracture in something built through years of pain and persistence—then he didn’t understand what kind of men the Kaseys were.
Frankie had taught him to survive.
The ring had taught him to fight smart.
And now?
Now he had to be smarter than ever.
The silence in the locker room was deafening, broken only by the soft thwip-thwip of tape wrapping around his wrist. Miles sat on the bench, shoulders hunched, the summer heat thick in the air around him. No music. No distractions. Just him, the walls… and the growing knot in his chest.
“What the hell is this even supposed to be?”
He pulled the tape tighter, let it bite into his skin.
“I spent most of my life not knowing he existed. No birthday cards. No family photos. No late-night chats. Just silence. And then suddenly—bam—little brother. Right there, walking into my life like he belonged… and maybe he does. Maybe he always did.”
His hands paused, fingers flexing, the tape dangling from his wrist.
“We didn’t grow up tossing the ball around. We didn’t fight over the TV or sneak out to matches together. We met as strangers. We bonded in chaos. And now someone’s decided that the next great chapter in our so-called brotherhood should be me punching him in the face in a goddamn boxing ring.”
He stood up abruptly, tossing the roll of tape to the bench, pacing in front of the lockers like a lion trapped in a cage.
“This is bullshit.
It’s not like last year with Carter. That match was tangled in emotion — love, pride, pain — but Carter and I? We'd built something. We were forced with no choice and you better believe that we had fun throwing that shit directly back in Victoria’s face. But LJ?
I don’t even know everything about him yet.”
Miles rubbed his jaw, eyes drifting toward the door. The hallway beyond held the sound of distant voices—preparations, people hyped for the spectacle. For the circus.
“And we’re the main event freak show, huh? Two Kasey brothers. Punch for punch. Blood for blood. Like it’s entertainment.”
He scoffed, shaking his head.
“I’m not going to hurt him. I don’t care how mad he is, or how much fire he’s walking in with. I’m not out here to break my brother’s spirit just because someone with a crown and a contract thinks this is ratings gold.”
He sighed, leaned back against the lockers, and stared at the ceiling like it might have answers he didn’t.
“But I’m also not throwing this.
Because here’s the part no one talks about—I'm not in the prime of my career anymore. I’ve had the titles. I’ve had the moments. And now? I don’t know what comes next. Every match could be the one where I start to fade. Every opportunity could be the last.
So yeah. I hate this. But I’m not going to lie down and let it pass me by just because fate’s got a fucked up sense of humour.”
He looked at his fists. Scarred. Taped. Ready.
“If we’re doing this… then I’ll do it my way. I’ll step into that ring and I’ll give him every ounce of respect he’s earned. Not as a stranger. Not just as some wide-eyed rookie. But as a brother — a Kasey — standing across from me, ready to prove something.
I won’t go easy on him. But I’ll never stop protecting him, either. Even if protecting him… means knocking him down and making sure he knows how to stand the hell back up.”
He drew a deep breath, centered himself, and gave one final thought as the camera might fade:
“I didn’t grow up with a brother. But I’ll be damned if I don’t teach him how one fights when it really counts.”
