[SCW Staff]

Please post all roleplays here! Have fun and good luck!

[RyanKeys]

Ryan Keys — After the Grave

Night hangs over the makeshift graveyard set at Knott’s Scary Farm in Buena Park. Fog rolls low across fake headstones and dirt mounds, still disturbed from the match earlier. A single open grave sits near the center — the same one Ryan Keys got knocked into. The loose pile of dirt beside it looks freshly turned, like it hasn’t decided whether it’s done with him or not.
Ryan sits on the edge of the grave, one boot hanging inside, the other settled on solid ground. His forearms rest on his knees. Dirt clings to his fingers and across his jeans. A deep bruise wraps his throat where Logan Hunter locked in that final choke.
“Was almost mine,” he says quietly.
He grabs a handful of loose dirt and lets it fall. The grains hit the bottom without a sound.
“Logan worked damn hard to keep me down there.”
Ryan shifts, rubbing the side of his neck. The skin is tender. Purple. Reminds him he didn’t imagine that ending — and reminds him there’s High Stakes XV on the horizon watching how he answers it.
Earlier, Logan blindsided him with a shovel — cracked him across the back before he even saw it coming. Ryan hadn’t even found him yet; Hunter was hiding behind a headstone, waiting. As soon as Ryan turned, WHACK — metal to spine. He dropped. Hard.
That hit gave Logan time to drag him toward this grave — ready to toss him in and finish the job. Ryan didn’t make it easy; swung his leg up and caught Logan flush between the legs just to buy a second to breathe.
Didn’t buy much.
A few minutes later, Logan caught him again. Another shovel shot. This time Ryan went all the way down — straight into the open grave.
Ryan lowers his head, remembering the moment he hit bottom and looked up at the sky framed by dirt walls. Cold. Tight. No ropes. No ring. Just him in a hole.
“Never thought I’d have to fight uphill just to breathe,”
Logan got hold of a shovel and went to work, tossing dirt down into the grave. Not enough to bury him, but enough to make things get real uncomfortable real fast. Ryan could hear the dirt hitting his chest and legs, could hear Logan grabbing more. Could feel the clock ticking.
He dug his boots into the side and started climbing. No plan. No space. Just instinct. Dirt gave way under him, but he kept scrambling, pulling himself toward the edge. Logan turned his back for a second — maybe to grab more — and Ryan dragged himself out before the grave could swallow him.
“Got out before he could finish,” he says.
 “Barely.”
Ryan stands and moves a few steps down the row of headstones. Lantern light follows him like it’s scared to be left alone.
Losing never scared him.
 Getting buried alive?
 Yeah, that’ll make you think twice — especially with High Stakes XV coming up and every eye waiting to see if he flinches.
“Some people act like that grave stuff is just a gimmick,” he says.
 He shakes his head.
 “Ain’t funny when you’re in it.”
The wind cuts across the set, moving the loose tarps and grass around his boots. Ryan stares at the ground, thinking about the rest of the match — the part after he escaped.
He came out swinging.
 Hard shots.
 Both men trading punches, kicks, whatever they could grab. There were weapons everywhere, but at some point, it all went bare-bones — just two guys trying to break each other down.
Logan landed more.
 Simple as that.
Caught Ryan, cinched his arm around Ryan’s throat, and tightened. No shovels. No graves. Just a choke that cut everything off. Ryan tried to fight it — pull, twist, anything — but there wasn’t air. No way to answer. The world just went quiet and slid out from under him.
He reaches up and brushes his fingers over the bruise again.
“He beat me,” Ryan says, steady.
 “No excuses.”
He looks back at the grave.
“Could’ve been worse.”
A small breath leaves him — part disbelief, part acceptance.
“He tried to put me under dirt… but he didn’t. Everyone talks big until they’re staring up from six feet down.”
He smirks lightly.
“You learn a lot when you’re the one trying to climb out.”
He scoops another little handful of dirt and sprinkles it onto the ground beside him.
“I got tossed in. Almost buried. Then choked out.”
 He shrugs.
 “And I’m still here.”
He stands and steps away from the grave again, taking a slow walk between the rows. The fake tombstones look real in the dark, which somehow makes it worse.
Ryan stops. Looks into the camera.
“Streak’s done. That’s fine.”
A beat.
“Streaks don’t make you. What you do after does.”
He taps his chest with two fingers.
“I didn’t stay down there.”
He keeps walking, quiet footsteps through fake grass and real dirt.
“Almost buried ain’t buried.”
He glances over his shoulder at the grave one more time.
 Just once.
“I ain’t finished.”
The lantern behind him flickers… then fades out completely.
Only the moon keeps watch as Ryan walks deeper into the dark — headed toward High Stakes XV, not hiding from it.
Later that night, Ryan ends up outside the arena lot, walking along a quiet back road that cuts through the edge of Buena Park. The graveyard set is long behind him now — replaced by streetlights and the faint hum of traffic rolling somewhere out of sight.
He’s got his gear bag slung over his shoulder. Hoodie on. Head down. The bruise along his throat catches faint orange light each time he passes under a lamp.
He spots a small park — nothing fancy. A couple benches, a broken water fountain, a few palm trees swaying. He steps off the sidewalk and heads toward the empty swings. The chains squeak when the wind hits them.
He sits on one of the swings, setting his bag down by his feet. The chains creak under his weight.
For a while, he just listens.
 The wind.
 The chains.
 Distant cars.
He presses ice from a convenience-store bottle against his neck. A small flinch. Still sore.
“You ever take a loss that sticks to you?” he asks the empty park — like someone might answer.
He shifts the bottle in his hand.
“Not because of the score… but because of what almost happened.”
His voice stays low. Like he’s trying not to wake anyone.
A light breeze kicks dirt across the concrete. Ryan watches it scatter, thinking about how fast things change — how one minute you’re breathing air and the next, you’re wondering if you’ll get another breath at all. And how the next time out — High Stakes XV — everyone will want to see if he remembers how to breathe with a belt on the line.
He leans forward, elbows on his thighs.
“When Logan got that choke on… everything felt like it just shut down. Not painful. Just… gone.”
He pauses, like expecting the feeling to return just from remembering.
“That’s the part that gets me. One second you’re fighting… the next you’re on the ground, and someone else decides when it’s over.”
A long breath leaves him, slow and steady.
He’s been choked out before. Everyone who’s wrestled long enough has. But this time felt different — maybe because it came after a shovel shot, after nearly getting buried, after the panic of scraping at dirt walls trying to climb out.
It wasn’t just a loss.
 It was a moment.
And moments follow you — especially into High Stakes.
Ryan leans back, letting the swing move a little under him. His boots drag slow across the concrete.
“Feels stupid,”
 “I didn’t get buried. I walked out. Should be grateful.”
A beat.
 He exhales through his nose — a tired laugh.
“Still feels heavy though.”
He rubs his hands together, dirt still caught under his nails no matter how many times he’s washed them. He rolls a bit of grit between his fingers, staring at it like he expects it to mean something.
Maybe it does.
He thinks about the shovel shots — the way they rattled his spine, stole his breath, blurred his vision. He thinks about the cold dirt hitting his chest, his arms, his legs. That low scrape of metal on stone as Logan went for more. And then the moment he reached up and caught the edge — when he felt his body move before his mind did.
That climb felt like instinct.
 All fight.
 No thought.
“Worth something… I think,”
He sits back slowly, letting the swing rock.
Ryan never cared about looking tough. He cared about showing up — about giving everything he had, every time. Some guys chase gold. Some chase legacy.
Ryan chases truth.
Where he stands.
 Who he is.
 What he can take.
Losing didn’t answer those questions.
 It just raised better ones — the kind that get answered under the lights at High Stakes XV.
He glances toward his bag on the ground. A piece of broken stone — pulled from the graveyard set — sticks out of the side pocket. He must’ve grabbed it without thinking.
He picks it up, turning it in his hand. It’s chipped, dirt still clinging to one edge. Nothing special. But it feels heavier than it should.
“Funny. I brought a piece of the grave with me.”
He flips it over once, then just holds onto it.
“Most people would’ve covered that hole and called it done. Me? …I keep coming back to it.”
He pushes gently off the ground, swinging a little.
His phone buzzes in his pocket — a notification. He doesn’t check it. Just pulls it out long enough to silence the screen before slipping it away again.
“Everyone’ll have something to say,” he mutters.
 “They always do.”
He’s not wrong.
 Social media loves a fall.
 But it also loves a comeback.
Ryan, though?
 He doesn’t care about either.
 He just cares about being better than yesterday — and ready when High Stakes XV calls his number.
He stands up from the swing, tossing the broken bit of stone gently from one hand to the other. Then he pockets it.
He grabs his gear bag and slings it over his shoulder. Looks out at the empty road.
“Close don’t count…” he says, more to himself than anyone.
 “…and almost buried ain’t buried.”
He nods, like that settles something inside him.
He starts walking down the sidewalk again — slow, steady steps. No rush. He’s tired, but not defeated.
Off in the distance, the theme park lights blink soft through the trees. The night smells like dust and asphalt.
Ryan adjusts the strap on his bag and keeps moving — not away from the loss, but with it.
“I’ll figure it out.”
He says it quietly, but sure.
A few days pass.
The grave dirt is gone from Ryan’s clothes, but not from his thoughts. The bruise on his throat has begun to fade, yellowing around the edges. His body’s healing faster than his pride — that part always takes longer.
Tonight he’s in a small gym a few miles outside Vegas — the kind of place only locals know about. No neon signs. No fancy rings. Just a square of canvas, a few battered mats, and a weight rack that’s seen better decades. The air smells like chalk and old sweat — a real gym.
Ryan’s here late, long after most people have gone home. He’s alone under flickering lights, hand-wrapping slow and methodical like he doesn’t trust his own pace yet.
The graveyard night taught him patience.
 High Stakes XV will ask if he learned it.
He finishes wrapping and climbs through the ropes. The canvas creaks under his boots. He paces, shaking out his arms, rolling his shoulders.
Haunted nights make honest workouts.
 Big nights test them.
He starts throwing slow strikes — just feeling his body respond. Jab. Cross. Step. Hook. His rhythm returns piece by piece, quiet and sharp. Every couple minutes he stops to stretch out his neck, feeling the ghost of Logan’s choke in the muscle.
He exhales short through his nose.
“Still here,” he mutters.
It’s half a reminder, half a promise — the kind you cash in at High Stakes.
Ryan moves around the ring again, shadowboxing. His strikes are clean but thoughtful — not wild, just controlled. The kind of movement from someone who’s replayed a match a hundred times in their head and wants to fix every inch of it.
Between combinations, he stops — hands on his hips.
There’s another thought sitting in the corner of the ring with him. One that’s been lingering ever since he left the set at Knott’s Scary Farm.
Miles Kasey.
 The Internet Champion.
The man who threw out an open challenge.
Most people heard it as a celebration.
 Ryan heard it as an invitation — and a signpost pointing straight at High Stakes XV.
He drags a stool into the center of the ring and sits, elbows resting loosely on his knees.
“Open challenge,” he says quietly.
 “That’s how you find trouble.”
A faint, dry smile crosses his face — just enough to show he appreciates the irony.
Ryan adjusts the tape at his wrist.
“Miles Kasey…”
He says the name steady.
 Not mocking. Not reverent.
 Just aware.
“Champion. Workhorse. The kinda guy who doesn’t mind fighting anyone in any building at any time.”
He nods once, respectful.
“Gotta respect that.”
He shifts the stool back and puts his feet firmly on the mat.
“But open doors mean anyone can walk through.”
He sits in that truth for a beat.
“And right now? That’s me.”
He rises and starts to jog in place lightly — warming back up.
Miles is a different fight.
 Different stakes.
 No dirt mounds.
 No graves.
 No weird gimmicks waiting to swallow him whole.
Just wrestling.
 Straight up.
 Champion vs challenger.
 High Stakes XV waiting to put the exclamation point on whichever one speaks louder.
Ryan knows some people see him as the wildcard — the guy who shows up smiling, carefree, maybe not serious. The life-of-the-party type who laughs first and hits second.
They don’t know that the mask comes off when the bell rings.
 They don’t know the switch flips.
 They don’t know how fast the playfulness goes quiet.
The ring gets the real Ryan — not the grin.
He steps forward, grips the top rope, and leans into it. The tension rolls through his arms and shoulders.
“People think I’m unpredictable,” he says.
 “Good.”
He pushes off the ropes.
“Makes it harder to study me.”
He starts pacing side to side in the ring, his boots soft on the canvas.
“Miles prides himself on being a workhorse. Someone who shows up every time.”
He nods again, acknowledging that truth.
“That’s not a weakness.”
He shrugs.
“But it does mean he’ll try to muscle through things instead of dancing around them.”
Ryan rolls his shoulders again, thinking.
“Workhorses forget one thing…”
He looks into the camera.
“…there’s always someone hungrier.”
He hops out of the ring and walks across the worn gym floor toward the heavy bags. One hangs crooked, chain rattling every time the wind sneaks through the door.
He steadies it with one hand, then throws a clean right hook — not hard, just deliberate. The bag swings wide.
Ryan watches it move.
“I’m not coming for Miles because I hate him.”
Another hook.
 The bag shudders.
“I’m coming because he said ‘anyone.’”
A sharp jab.
 The bag snaps back.
“Because I’ve got nothing to lose…”
A short exhale.
 Left hook.
“…and he’s got everything to give up.”
He grabs the chain to stop the bag, holding it still.
“A champion should know—”
He pauses.
“—that momentum doesn’t care about belts.”
He lets the bag go.
“You can be on top one night and clawing your way out of a hole the next.”
He wipes his forearm across his forehead, pushing sweat back into his hair.
“Ask me how I know.”
Not bitter.
 Just honest.
He walks toward a low bench and sits, leaning back against the cool wall behind him.
“People are lookin’ at me right now thinking I’m coming in wounded. Shaken. Unsure.”
He points a thumb to his chest.
“Nah.”
He shakes his head slowly.
“Losing doesn’t make me afraid.”
His foot taps the floor, steady and rhythmic.
“It makes me dangerous.”
His eyes sharpen.
“Because I already know how it feels to hit bottom.”
A slow breath.
“And I know I can get back up.”
He stands again, this time calmer.
There’s something different in his posture — same casual looseness, but with a current underneath. Confidence. Readiness. The kind of current a man brings to High Stakes XV when he means it.
“Miles is a good champ.”
 “He works hard. Shows up. Defends his gold.”
Ryan nods.
 Respect given.
“But I’m the wrong guy to be standing across from when you’re feeling generous.”
He pulls his hoodie from the ring post, slinging it over his shoulder.
“An open challenge is bait.”
 “And I’m the fool crazy enough to bite and smart enough to swallow.”
He chuckles low, shaking his head.
“You’re the champion, Miles.”
 “You should know better.”
His face settles into something quieter.
 Not smug.
 Not angry.
 Just sure.
“I don’t need momentum.”
 “I don’t need a streak.”
He taps his chest.
“I just need one night.”
Ryan reaches down, grabbing his bag, and heads toward the exit. The metal door squeals as he pushes through. Outside, neon glow from a liquor store sign paints the sidewalk pink and red.
He stops under the light, hands at his sides.
“I’m walking in with nothing to lose…”
He lifts his chin, bruise visible again, but he doesn’t hide it.
“…and walking out with the Internet Championship.”
A faint breeze drags through the quiet Vegas street.
 Ryan doesn’t move.
“You offered the fight, Kasey.”
 “Now you’re getting it.”
He turns and walks away — slow steps disappearing into the night.
Blackout.
Press week.
Vegas glows from every direction — neon signs, casino fronts, headlights stacked in glittering lines. The city feels loud even when it’s quiet. Like everyone’s awake, thinking about their next big play.
Ryan Keys steps out of a hotel loading dock, hoodie pulled up against the breeze. His gear bag hangs from his shoulder. He carries a to-go cup of coffee he definitely doesn’t like — but he needs something warm in his hands.
He crosses the street toward the venue hosting the press walk-through. The PPV banners are already hung outside — huge vinyl sheets stretching across the entrance. One shows the Internet Championship. Another shows Miles Kasey, grinning, holding the belt over his shoulder.
Ryan stops in front of it.
The guy looks proud.
 Earned.
 Solid.
Ryan respects that.
He adjusts his hood and keeps walking until he’s inside, where a media setup is staged: lights, backdrops, promotion posters, a table with water bottles and cheap chairs lined up for interviews.
A few local reporters hang around, chatting, waiting.
Ryan steps into frame, hands in his pockets, posture easy. No bravado. No hype. Just here.
A staffer gestures to the camera crew.
“This’ll be quick,” she says. “B-roll, short statements.”
Ryan nods — fine by him.
He positions himself in front of a backdrop showing the Internet Championship belt and HIGH STAKES XV stamped loud across the corner.
He huffs quietly.
“Guess we’ll see,” he says under his breath.
The camera light clicks on.
Ryan stands steady — relaxed shoulders, clear eyes. The bruise on his neck has faded but still shows under the collar.
He looks straight at the lens.
“Miles Kasey.”
Clean. Direct.
“You threw out an open challenge… and I stepped forward.”
He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t need to.
“That wasn’t courage.”
 A short nod.
 “That was instinct.”
He shifts his weight, thumb hooked in his pocket.
“You’re a workhorse. Everybody knows it. You show up, you grind, you defend, you smile through it. I respect the hell out of that.”
He taps his chest once.
“But I’m not here to praise you.”
He lets that sit.
“I’m here to take your belt.”
Nothing fancy. Just fact.
He walks a few slow steps to the side, pacing into his words.
“Some matches are about bad blood.”
 “Some are about revenge.”
He stops, glancing back toward the poster.
“This one’s about opportunity… and High Stakes XV is where I turn it into history.”
His fingers drum his thigh lightly — not nerves, just energy.
“I’m not walking into this with arrogance.”
 “I know who you are. I know what you’ve done.”
 “But I also know what I can take.”
He raises his chin slightly.
“The thing about open challenges?”
 A faint smile.
 “You don’t get to pick who answers.”
He shrugs.
“And sometimes the wrong guy steps forward.”
He walks toward the entrance tunnel — the one that leads to the arena floor. The event isn’t happening yet, but the space looks ready: barricades set, ring poles waiting to be raised, cables coiled on the ground.
Ryan steps onto the bare concrete floor, imagining the crowd in place. The noise. The pressure.
He closes his eyes for a moment, letting the feeling take shape.
When he opens them, he’s steady.
“When that bell rings… I’m not showing up as a guest.”
He looks directly at the camera.
“I’m showing up like it’s already mine.”
He drops down to sit on the edge of the ramp. Legs dangling. Hands hanging loose between his knees.
The lighting here is softer, splashing gold over his shoulders.
“People want to talk about momentum. About records. About favorites.”
A quiet scoff.
“Don’t care.”
He shakes his head once.
“That stuff only matters if you’re afraid of losing.”
He lifts his wrist, studying the hand tape he hasn’t bothered to take off since the gym.
“I’m not afraid.”
His jaw shifts slightly — not nerves, just grounding.
“When the ring’s all you’ve got, every night feels like a title fight.”
He stands, brushing dust from his palms.
“But this one actually is.”
 “Internet Championship. You shine that thing up, make it look real pretty for pictures…”
His eyes narrow a touch — focus, not malice.
“…but belts only look right when they’re earned in the middle of the storm.”
He steps down from the ramp, walking the aisle where fans will soon roar.
“You’ve earned your moments, Miles.”
 “Now I’m here for mine — at High Stakes XV.”
He stops mid-aisle, turning back toward the camera.
“I don’t dance around the point…”
 “…I’m walking into the PPV to take your title.”
A beat.
“I don’t care how many defenses you’ve got.”
 “I don’t care how many people believe in you.”
He points to his chest.
“I believe in me.”
He lets that rest.
“Open challenges…”
 He chuckles.
 “…they only feel good until someone actually answers back.”
He starts heading toward the exit again, pace slow but confident.
“You gave me an inch, champ.”
 “Now I’m taking the whole mile.”
He pushes through the hallway, past crates and rolled-up banners. At the end of the corridor is a framed poster of the PPV card — Miles front and center with the belt; Ryan listed across from him.
Ryan stops.
 Studies it.
The Internet Championship gleams under the printed lights.
 Right now it’s just a picture.
“Won’t be soon.”
He reaches back and kills the hallway light.
 The poster goes dark.
Fade.
Ryan doesn’t wander Vegas. He narrows it. From the media floor he heads straight to the venue’s service entrance, flashing his laminate and slipping through a quiet corridor where forklifts sleep and cables coil like black snakes. A night-shift crew is taping lines on concrete. Someone’s testing a spotlight. The arena isn’t dressed yet, but it’s breathing — a beast rolling over, almost awake.
He takes the long route on purpose. Hallway turns, utility doors, the smell of paint and dust. He wants to see it raw. Wants to feel where PPV night will happen before anyone stacks it high with noise. The ring isn’t up yet, just four posts lying on the floor beside bundled ropes, the canvas folded like a flag.
He sets his bag down and kneels by the stacked turnbuckles. The leather smells like salt and old adrenaline. He palms one of the pads, presses his thumb into it, then sets it back exactly how he found it. Small rituals matter. They’re not superstitions; they’re anchors. Things you can touch when everything else turns to air.
He stands in the center of the concrete where the canvas will live and draws a square in the air with his hands — four sides, four corners. He steps through his invisible ropes and bounces once, twice, just enough to tell his legs: remember. His shoulders loosen. His face tips up into the dark.
“You called for anyone,” he says, voice steady.
 “You got me.”
He paces the short way, turns, paces back. Measured. Deliberate. He isn’t rehearsing lines. He’s setting rhythm. The same rhythm he’ll bring when the bell rings.
“I heard your reputation before I ever heard your voice. Workhorse. Grinder. No days off.”
 A small nod. Respect given, not surrendered.
 “That’s a strong way to live. Stronger way to defend.”
He points to the floor.
“But on event night, this isn’t your pace. It’s ours.”
He angles his head, listening to quiet air like it’s an opponent trying to circle behind him. He answers it with footwork. Slide. Plant. Turn. His body speaks: I’m here to cut your lane, not follow your route.
“People think I’m chaos,” he says, almost amused.
 “They see the grin and figure I’m a coin flip.”
 His jaw sets.
 “I’m a metronome with a fuse on it.”
He stops where the center will be and spreads his fingers like he can feel the mat underneath. He can. He’s felt it everywhere he’s been — warehouse shows, county fairs, rec centers with bad lights and better crowds. Places where thirty people can sound like three thousand if you let them.
“I don’t need the perfect stage,” he says.
 “I build one when I wrestle.”
Down the tunnel, a cart rattles past. Someone calls to someone else and then the building goes quiet again. Ryan breathes in and finds that small vertical fire inside his ribs — the one that doesn’t always burn hot but never goes out. Not anger. Not ego. Purpose.
“You’re the champion because you kept showing up,” he says.
 “When the bell rings, I show you what that looks like standing across from you.”
He walks the imaginary ropes and leans into an invisible corner, hands on nothing, head bowed like he’s listening for a count. He hears his pulse. Hears the shape of his breath. Hears the echo of a crowd that isn’t here yet and the crack of the first lock-up that hasn’t happened. In the quiet, he smiles.
“I don’t need momentum,” he says — softer, then sharper.
 “I need a moment.”
He straightens and points to the floor again, to the exact patch of concrete where the referee will kneel, where shoulders are checked and calls are made and cameras find answers.
“Right here.”
He steps out of his drawn ring and grabs his bag. The nylon rasp sounds loud in the empty space. On his way to the tunnel, he passes the rolled canvas and stops. He brushes the top layer with the back of his knuckles like you’d touch the hood of a car you’re about to drive too fast.
“You and me on PPV night,” he tells the cloth.
 Half joke. Half oath.
In the corridor, he finds a taped “X” on the ground where cameras mark promos. He stands on it for a heartbeat, then steps off. He doesn’t need the spot to find his frame. He carries it with him.
At the service door, cool night crawls in around his ankles. Vegas murmurs outside — a living thing. He looks back at the dark interior, at the skeleton of the ring, at the space that will turn into a thunderhead.
“Miles,” he says, like he’s already addressing the man standing ten feet away, belt on his shoulder.
 “You know how to endure. I know how to ignite.”
He lifts the bag and sets it on his shoulder. His stance squares up without thinking, hips and feet aligned like the bell just rang.
“You wanted anyone.”
 A breath.
 “You got the wrong one.”
He steps into the night, pace picking up, not jogging but hunting speed. The fired-up edge you see in a competitor who’s done negotiating with doubt. You don’t hear fury when he speaks next; you hear certainty sharpening into impact.
“I’m walking in hot,” he says, eyes forward.
 “And I’m walking out with yours.”
The door swings shut behind him, the arena swallowing its quiet. Out on the loading dock, the desert wind lifts and turns, pushing heat into his face like a dare. He doesn’t blink. He keeps moving. The wait is a small word. The fight is a big one.
He answers both with the same promise.
“Bell to bell, champ.”
 “Feel me.”

[MiloKasey]

Turnberry Towers – Annual Halloween Party
Las Vegas, Nevada

The lobby of Turnberry Towers had been transformed, again, into something that walked the line between whimsical and ridiculous. An enormous chandelier glittered above carved pumpkins and tables draped in shimmering black cloth. The DJ was spinning a mix of nostalgic Halloween hits and modern remixes; fog curled lazily at ankle-height from cleverly hidden machines. The party always went hard here. It was one of the perks of living in a building full of retirees with money and opinions.

Miles stood near the dessert table, hips angled like he was posing for a magazine cover, because honestly, when you are dressed head-to-toe as David Bowie, you commit. The glittered lightning bolt stretched sharp and red across his eye. The white boots were borderline illegal. The silver jumpsuit glinted each time he moved.

Next to him, Carter, metallic silver suit, the jacket covered with rhinestones and sequins with those oversized white-framed glasses with lenses tinted rose-pink, was the picture of Elton John, if Elton were celebrating Halloween in Vegas rather than playing piano to sold-out arenas. He had leaned full tilt into glam. Sequins. Gloves. The whole nine yards. Every light in the place found him and refused to let go.

And then there was Kevin, sixteen and determined to be Billy Maximoff down to the boots. Scarlet cape. Blue-green tunic, fingerless gloves and he looked proud of it too, head high for once, confident. He’d vanished into the crowd for snacks and soda the moment they got back inside from the poolside area from his entrance along with one of the tower's favorite residents.

Right now, Miles and Carter were chatting with Anne, the HOA president, one of the sweetest ladies to ever rule a building with the power of an army. Anne had dressed as Agatha Harkness, complete with gray-purple robes and a brooch so shiny it could’ve been real silver. Her wig had streaks of white like lightning, and she even carried a fake spell book under her arm.

“It’s just, absolutely delightful, the three of you,” Anne was saying with a bright smile. She adored them, "You always come in theme. Last year was… what was that one again?”

“Abba,” Carter reminded her, touching a hand over his heart, "A truly spiritual moment. I have never seen Miles commit to a pair of bell bottoms like that.”

Miles smirked, "I was beautiful.”

“You always are,” Carter shot back, affectionate, without a second of hesitation.

Anne chuckled and touched Miles’ arm, "You boys bring life to this place. You know that?” She meant it. She always meant what she said.

Miles’ gaze drifted, then stopped. There stood Kevin, he was laughing. ...with his head slightly ducked. With a boy.

The kid was standing near the drink dispenser at the refreshment table, broad-shouldered, nearly six feet tall, strawberry-blonde hair shining under the soft gold overhead lighting. He wore a Captain America costume that actually fit him, looking like someone had convinced him he could be a hero and he’d believed it. Not the cheap jumpsuit kind either, this was some carefully assembled fandom-level stuff. And Kevin was smiling. Nervous, unsure, but smiling.

It was the first time in a long time he looked like a kid who wasn’t bracing for something.

Miles caught Carter looking at the same thing.

“Well, looks like Kev used the ‘plus one’ on the invite.” Carter murmured, low enough not to be overheard, "I told you about him last week, remember? Saw him at the carpool pickup last Wednesday. They came out of school just talking up a storm, he actually had him laughing at one point and then they said their farewells before he got on one of the buses and Kev got to the car. Kevin shut down when I asked.”

Miles nodded once, reading the body language between the two boys, “He likes him.”

“Oh for sure...” Carter said quietly, eyes softening just slightly. The two watched as the young man was motioning and touching the fabric of Kevin's costume, “And that is… definitely mutual.”

Miles inhaled with pride, worry, protectiveness, hope and something a complicated knot of all of it, but his expression when he exhaled was warm.

“Anne, would you excuse us for a moment?” he asked politely.

“Of course, dear. Go be parents.” She winked knowingly.

Miles and Carter crossed the room together, never looming, never pushing. Just there.

Kevin noticed them too late. His smile flickered, nerves snapping up like a shield, but Miles didn’t let the panic bloom.

He simply smiled.

“Evening lads,” Miles said, friendly, casual, every bit the rockstar glittering under lights, "I don’t think we’ve met.”

The boy straightened instantly. Eyes widened. Recognition happened in real time.

“Oh—uh—I— Hi—” The kid swallowed, flushed deep pink, "I’m... My name is Connor. Connor Wayley. I—uh— I know who you are. Both of you. I mean— sorry—Hi.”

Carter laughed softly, not unkindly, "It’s okay. Happens a lot, especially around Miles.”

Kevin’s ears were red. He wouldn’t look at either of them.

Miles extended a hand, "Well, Connor, it’s nice to officially meet you.”

Evan shook it, firm handshake, though his palm was a little sweaty. And the nervousness showed all over him but at least he was sincere.

Carter offered his hand next, "Well I know you said you already knew who we were but, I’m Carter, this is Miles. And based on the costume, I’m guessing Avengers fan?”

Connor brightened, shoulders relaxing, "Yeah! I, um...Captain America’s kind of my favorite. Has been for... since I was little.”

Miles grinned, "Strong choice and the costume looks great. That custom work?”

The young man nodded, "Pieces. Some from online, some... uh... 3D-printed. The school has a makerspace.”

Kevin finally found his voice. Quiet, but steady, "He made the shield himself.”

Connor flushed again, ducking his head, "It’s not... I mean.... it’s just foam and paint—”

Miles’ smile softened. To him, this wasn’t small. Not at all.

“Well,” Miles said, voice warm enough to melt chocolate fountains, “Looks to me like you put your heart into it. And that’s what makes it impressive.”

Connor blinked. The compliment landed. Hard, "Thanks, sir.”

Kevin looked at Miles, grateful in ways only spoken through silence, "Hey, why don’t I go introduce you to Anne, she looks EXACTLY like Agatha and it’s amazing.”

Carter glanced at the two kids who were now walking away, Kevin’s shoulder brushing Connor’s...not constantly, but enough. Natural, Easy and the most important of it...Comfortable. He leaned slightly into Miles and whispered, “They’re adorable. And I think we might be in trouble.”

Miles whispered back, “Oh, we’re doomed. Completely doomed.”

But his smile never faded.

-------

The elevator ride back up to the condo was quiet, the faint hum of the floor numbers blinking past filling in the silence where conversation hadn’t landed yet. The Halloween party downstairs was still going strong; laughter and thumping bass vibrated faintly up the walls. Kevin had stayed behind with Anne...and with the kid in the Captain America costume, under the watchful eye of half the HOA, which somehow made Miles feel both more and less relaxed at the same time.

Carter leaned back against the wall of the elevator, Elton John sequins glittering under the low lighting, the silver frames of his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. Miles still looked like David Bowie had stepped out of a vinyl sleeve, hair sprayed into artful chaos, jumpsuit half unzipped at the chest, glitter along his cheekbones. They were a ridiculous, fabulous pair. And yet the silence between them was low, thoughtful. Not tense. Just full.

The doors slid open with a soft ding.

After a small jaunt down the hall, they stepped into their home. The sound-proofed quiet enveloped them.

Miles exhaled first, rolling his shoulders, "Feet are killing me,” he murmured.

Carter didn’t answer at first but made a small joke after kicking off his platforms about “His feet?” but Carter was watching him.

Miles paused.

“…Hey.” That single word had weight. Carter crossed the space between them and rested both hands on Miles’ waist, thumbs smoothing over the fabric, "You did good tonight,” he said quietly, "You always do.”

“Kevin looked happy,” Carter said softly.

“Yeah,” Miles replied, offering a small, warm smile, "He did.”

There was a hint of something else there, something neither of them pushed yet. Not tonight.

Miles’ expression softened, but only briefly. He moved to the kitchen counter, resting his hands on the granite, shoulders bowing forward, "We’re gonna have to have a conversation with him,” he said, meaning Kevin, meaning the boy, meaning the look in Kevin’s eyes that was new and unmissable.

Carter nodded, leaning beside him, "We will. But not tonight.”

“…No,” Miles agreed, "Not tonight.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Carter’s eyes drifted, not to Miles, but to the championship belt resting on the display shelf near the TV. The SCW Internet Championship caught the soft light, gold reflecting like something living and it had rested right by Carter’s World Championship that had been disinfected thoroughly since it was finally retrieved from Alexander Raven.

“So.” Carter folded his arms lightly, "Ryan Keys.”

Miles didn’t shy away. In fact, he lit up, even through his exhaustion at the moment, “Yeah.”

And it wasn’t bravado. It wasn't a forced confidence. It was anticipation.

“It’s just nice to have a bit of fresh air coming my way,” Miles continued, "Keys is something different, for me at least. Since he showed back up...I don’t know. We know he’s been hungry, you can tell just watching him and I want that. I want someone who’s coming in like they’ve got something to prove.”

Carter watched the way Miles spoke, hands moving, eyes bright, adrenaline under the skin. Like this wasn’t a defense, it was an invitation.

“So you’re not nervous,” Carter said not accusing, just confirming.

Miles shook his head, easy, solid and sure, “Nah. I mean....” He shrugged, "Of course there’s pressure. I’ve got something to lose now. That’s real and it’s not like I’m not used to that because it’s sure as hell not my first time around the block. But this? This is the kind of match I like. Fresh opponent. Fresh challenge. No history weighing it down. Just me and him seeing who’s better when it rings.”

Carter’s lips curled, not into a smirk, but something proud, "Good,” he murmured.

Miles stepped closer, shoulder brushing his, their reflections faint in the glass of the balcony door, "You thought I was worried.”

Carter didn’t deny it, "I’ve seen what pressure can do to people who finally get everything they were reaching for.”

Miles reached up, lightly taking Carter’s chin between his fingers, soft, grounding. Not dramatic. Just real.

“Hey.” His voice was warm, "I didn’t luck into this. I didn’t stumble into it. I worked my ass off. I earned it. And now I get to defend it, not because I have to, but because I want to. I’m not out to hand pick opponents like others that just ran away. That is the part that matters.”

Carter breathed in slowly, tension easing, shoulders loosening, "Okay,” he said, "Then I’m with you.”

“You were always with me,” Miles answered, voice low and certain.

Carter smiled, the small, private one meant only for him, "Yeah. I was.”

Carter walked behind him and rested his chin between Miles’ shoulder blades, "And I know that’s who you are. It’s one of the things I love most about you.” His arms wrapped around Miles’ torso, slow and grounding, "But just because you won’t say it… doesn’t mean I can’t worry.”

Miles’ fingers closed around Carter’s wrists, holding them there.

“Do you think it was too impulsive?" he asked, gently, but direct.

Carter didn’t answer right away. He stepped around, moving to face him fully. Their eyes met, no walls, no character work, no ring bravado. Just the truth, "I think you finally got everything you worked for,” Carter said, voice steady, "You know that means people are going to come for you harder than they ever have and I’m scared of what that could do to you. Not your career. You. We saw what happened when you lost it and then you proceeded to drive Vaughn through the windshield of a helicopter.”

Miles blinked. And it hit him, the fear wasn’t about the title. It was about the man wearing it. He reached up and cupped Carter’s jaw, "Yeah, I kinda did try to brutally maim him and failed to get the title back but ....I’m not going anywhere, love. I could say the about you Mr. World Champ.”

“Hey, ok...fair.” Carter leaned into the touch, breathing out, "You better not. I’m too old to break in another husband.”

Miles barked a soft laugh, the tension cracked just enough to breathe. Then Carter’s expression shifted, softer, almost teasing, but the emotion behind it was clear.

“Let me ask you something though,” Carter murmured, "When you walk out there at High Stakes, are you doing it as the Internet Champion?” His thumb brushed along Miles’ lips, "Or are you doing it as Miles Freaking Kasey, the man who clawed his way into being undeniable?”

Miles didn’t smile. He just stepped forward, pressed his forehead to Carter’s. And answered in a whisper,
“Both.”

The lights outside flickered from the ongoing Halloween festivities, casting their shadows long across the apartment wall, two figures standing together.

And neither moved.

...Until.., "Shower?”

-------

The camera came up clean and steady. White backdrop. No theatrics. No smoke. No chair thrown across the room. Just Miles Kasey-McKinney standing center frame, SCW Internet Championship slung over his shoulder like it belonged there.

Because it did.

He hooked one thumb under the strap, casual, comfortable.

“The biggest show of the year is neigh. High Stakes is around the corner,” Miles began, tone level but sure, "And yeah, I decided to open the door. Even with the tournament going on to determine who was going to face Carter at High Stakes, I didn’t wait for a challenger to be assigned. I didn’t wait for my name to be pulled out of a hat. And I sure as hell wasn’t gonna sit in the back and not defend this title like it's a treasure I need to hide.”

He tapped the faceplate lightly, not reverent, just acknowledging.

“This championship isn’t something I covet. I don’t clutch it like Gollum and whisper ‘my precious.’” Miles gave a small smile. Dry. Honest. He also knew the minute that Carter heard that, he would have to do it again.

“This right here means I get to be the one out there every week, setting pace, raising standard, giving this division something to rally behind. I’m not guarding the championship. I’m carrying it. Like a flag.”

His posture stayed relaxed, but his voice sharpened, focus, not aggression.

“And that’s why the open challenge made sense. Because this division is full of people hungry to prove something and if I’m gonna represent it, then I have to be willing to face whoever steps up, no conditions, no warnings, no safety net. Sounds exactly like my entire career, but I digress.”

He let the belt shift, hand steady on the leather.

“So, Ryan Keys.” The smile turned thoughtful, measured and respectful.

“You didn’t waste time. You didn’t cut some long speech. You didn’t try to sell yourself. You just stepped forward and said, ‘I’m here.’ And honestly? I respect that more than anything else you could’ve said.”

He nodded once, genuine.

“You’ve been away. You came back. And the first thing you aimed for was this. That tells me where your head is at. That tells me you’re not just filling space, you want the moment.”

Miles’ tone deepened, confident, not condescending.

“And now you’ve got it. You walk into High Stakes with the opportunity to do something massive for your return. You got the shot. You earned the match simply by moving first.”

He leaned in slightly, more presence, not more volume.

“But here’s where we’re honest with each other.”

“You’re not walking into the same Internet Championship scene you left. I’m not here to hold this belt. I’m here to push this division forward, with every match, every defense, every challenger who has the guts to step up.”

The belt shifted once more, but he never once posed with it.

“And if you’re the one standing across from me at High Stakes? Good.”

He nodded, once, decisive.

“Because I want the guys who want the moment. I want the ones who aren’t afraid to take their shot first.”

Miles’ eyes locked directly on the camera, calm, grounded, sure.

“Ryan Keys, you were the first man to step up, and that means something. You wanted the shot, so now you’ve got it.”

A small, confident exhale.

“So bring that momentum. Bring that hunger. Bring the version of yourself that walked back into this company and said I’m not done.”

He nodded once.

“Because I’m walking into Tucson as the SCW Internet Champion, and I am walking out the same way.”

Miles didn’t smirk. Didn’t wink. Didn’t posture.

He just meant it.

“I’ll see you in Tucson, Ryan.”

And he stepped off camera, ending it clean.

[RyanKeys]

The casino hums — low lights, deep carpets that swallow footsteps, scattered bodies drifting between the tables and machines. The camera finds Ryan alone, pacing slow along the rows of glittering slot machines, the glow flickering over his eyes.

“You ever notice how a casino looks like it’s breathing?”

He lets his fingers drag across the back of a machine absent-mindedly, like he’s petting a beast.

“All these lights coming alive, flashing, pulsing, tempting. Whispering in your ear that this time — this spin — this pull — this bet — is gonna change everything. And you know it’s bullshit. You know the house always wins. You know the numbers don’t care about your birthday, your gut feeling, your lucky socks, or the way your grandma once told you the universe is on your side.”

Ryan stops between two slot machines and smirks.

“But here’s the thing — some people still win.”

He tilts his head, self-satisfied.

“Because somebody’s gotta. And when you walk through doors like these, you either come in scared… or you come in knowing that the house?”
“The house isn’t always the smartest one in the room.”

He steps forward, weaving between players — but no one speaks; the world is silent except him.

“High Stakes. Week two.”
“Everyone’s rolling dice like life depends on it — and I guess it does for some of them. That’s the beauty of this place. Every last person in here thinks they’re dancing with fate.”

He shrugs lightly.

“But me? I’m not dancing with fate. I’m dancing with Miles.”

Soft grin.

“Mister Kasey Miles — the guy Twitter keeps telling me is hungry, determined, climbing. The guy who wants to make a statement. The guy who wants to drag my head across the canvas like he’s trying to sign his name on my neck.”

Ryan laughs low and warm, like he just remembered a good joke.

“Cute.”

He plucks a chip off an abandoned table and spins it between his fingers.

“You wanna gamble with me, Miles? Good. Because that’s exactly what this is. You’re stepping into the ring thinking you can walk away with more than you walked in with. And that’s the kind of thinking I respect — reckless, hopeful, a little stupid… but in the fun way.”

Ryan turns the chip over once more and pockets it like it’s his.

“See — some people sit down at the table hoping the cards love them. Me? I walk in knowing I’m stacking the deck myself.”


---

He moves to the bar — red neon haloing him from behind. He sits, elbows on the counter, eyes forward, speaking like every word is meant directly for Miles.

“Last week was noise. You remember that? I walked into High Stakes with a bruise on my throat, dirt under my nails, and a smile on my face because Logan tried to bury me, and I dug my way out like it was a damn Tuesday jog.”

He taps the polished bartop.

“But this week is clean — no shovel, no grave dirt, no quiet excuses. Just me, you, and a ring.”

The bartender passes him a drink soundlessly — but we never hear the man speak. Ryan raises the glass to no one in particular.

“You know what High Stakes means to me, Miles?”

He sips.

“It means I’m not just rolling dice — I’m the guy holding the cup.”

He gestures with his free hand, tracing invisible stories.

“Everybody else at the table is nervous — betting light, playing safe, hoping the dealer slips them a miracle. Me? I walk in with everything on black before the cards even touch felt.”

Ryan leans forward.

“See, I came back to Sin City Wrestling because I wanted a little danger. A little adrenaline. A little something to shake the bones and wake the wolves.”

He motions to the felted room around him.

“And I think you might be fun, Miles. I really do.”

The glass clinks down.

“But let’s be honest — you walked into this like you were the only one with ambition.”
“Like I’m just a stepping stone — a speed bump — a warm-up lap.”

Ryan laughs again, but this time there’s teeth in it.

“Buddy — I’m the whole damn strip. You want the spotlight? Cool. But don’t forget who’s holding the switch. Don’t forget whose music gets the crowd dancing. Don’t forget who survived Logan Hunter’s dirt-nap attempt and still showed up looking prettier than anyone had a right to.”

He runs a hand through his hair.

“Don’t forget who looks at the Roulette Title and thinks — yeah… that’s practically begging for a Keys to unlock it.”

He lifts two fingers, tapping the bar.

“Click. Click.”

Small grin.

“You think you’re the guy standing between me and the Roulette Championship. I love that. That’s adorable. It tells me you dream big, and I respect that.”

He leans back.

“But I want you to hear something — and hear it clearly —”

He emphasizes each word slowly.

“You are not a wall. You are not a gatekeeper. You are not the final boss.”

Ryan smirks.

“At best… you’re the dealer.”

He holds his hands out.

“And I’m counting cards.”


---

He stands again, drifting deeper into the casino. Tables blur behind him; sound is muted. All that exists is his voice.

“People love to talk about destiny. Oh — this is my moment, my time, my chapter, my rise.”

He chuckles.

“I don’t need destiny. I’m not a chosen one. I’m a guy who works, who laughs, who bleeds, who parties too hard and drinks too heavy and still wakes up with purpose in his bones.”

He touches a blackjack table — palms against the felt.

“You wanna know a secret? The fun part isn’t winning. It’s making someone else realize they never even had a shot.”


---

He starts a mock conversation with the empty chair across from him.

“Miles sits down at the table. He’s got that hopeful smile — that look like he’s got something to prove.”

Ryan raises his brows, mimicking Kasey’s imagined earnestness.

‘Dealer, hit me. I’ve got a dream.’

He laughs.

“And I lean back, sip my whiskey, and whisper: ‘Kid… you’re already broke.’”


---

He strolls to roulette, resting his hands on the glossy edge.

“Roulette’s simple. You make a choice, and you spin. Red or black. High or low. Even or odd. A thousand possibilities — but only one result.”

He rotates the wheel lazily with one hand.

“I chose this life. I chose this fight. I chose this climb. I chose to stare you in the eyes and tell you —”

“I’m going all in.”


---

The roulette wheel slows… the little silver ball whispering around its channel until it bumps, hops, and falls. Ryan watches it only long enough to prove he doesn’t care.

“Funny thing?”
“I don’t care where it lands.”

He shrugs, hands slipping into his pockets.

“Because I already know how this game ends. I already know the dealer packs up. I already know the table resets. And I already know I’m walking away with your chips in my pocket while you’re still standing there wondering what the hell happened.”

He steps away from the wheel like he just finished a conversation that bored him.

“I’ve seen your name floating around. Kasey Miles — the future, the spark plug, the guy who’s here to shake things up. The kid who’s just waiting for his breakout moment, for everyone to finally say, ‘Yeah… that’s the one.’”

Ryan nods thoughtfully.

“I’m not here to take that from you.”

A small pause, then a grin.

“I’m just here to remind you that it ain’t happening at my expense. Because you and me? We’re playing two different games entirely.”

“You came here to gamble. I came here to collect.”


---
He takes a seat at the head of the table.

“Here’s the thing, Miles — I can talk a lot. People know me. I like the sound of my voice, I like the spark in my own ideas, I like poking bears just to see if they’ll stand tall or run screaming.”

He taps the table rhythmically.

“But underneath all that?”

He leans forward, eyes narrowing just a touch.

“I’m honest.”

Beat.

“And the honest truth is…”

He gestures broadly to the casino around him.

“You’re in over your head.”


---

“Because for all your talk, your fire, your hype — you’re one thing I’ve seen a thousand times.”

He picks up a deck of cards.

“You’re a guy who wants it… real bad.”

He deals himself two cards face-down.

“But desire doesn’t win hands. And it sure as hell doesn’t guarantee victories.”

He deals two cards to an empty chair across from him — as if Kasey sits there, invisible.

“Look me in the eyes, Miles. You think you’ve got the winning hand?”

He flips his own cards — two aces.

“I promise you…”
“You don’t.”


---

Ryan sweeps the cards in, beginning to shuffle with practiced ease.

“Because you’re not playing against the house. You’re not playing against fate. You’re not even playing against the matchmaker who drew your name next to mine on a sheet of paper.”

His finger taps his chest.

“You’re playing against me.”

He fans the cards, slow, smooth.

“And I’m cheating.”


---

He stops shuffling and drops the deck.

“Not illegally. Not dishonestly. I’m cheating because I’ve got experience you don’t. I’ve got composure you haven’t earned yet. I’ve got scars you haven’t taken, bruises you haven’t collected, rings you haven’t survived.”

He laughs low.

“I’ve got stories that would make your skin crawl and your knees lock.”

He sweeps his hair back again.

“And I’m not saying that to intimidate you.”
“I’m saying it so you know exactly what you’re walking into.”


---
“When that bell rings, I’m not there to test you. I’m not there to see what you’re capable of. I’m not there to measure your potential.”

He shakes his head.

“I’m there to beat you.”

A long, playful breath.

“Emphatically.”


---

He stands suddenly, pushing away from the table.

“Kasey — you think this is your moment? That beating Ryan Keys on week two of High Stakes is the thing the industry has been waiting for?”

He smiles like he’s genuinely amused.

“I’m flattered.”

He taps the table once, like knocking for a friend.

“But your moment doesn’t come at my price. I’m not a shortcut. I’m not a résumé booster. I’m not the box you check off so the higher-ups finally give you a pat on the back and a title match.”

He leans in, hands pressed to the felt.

“I’m the guy this company gives other people so they learn what ‘not ready yet’ feels like.”


---

“Funny part is…”
“I like you.”

He pauses, shrugging.

“I like that you’re hungry. I like that you want more. I like that you’re stepping up instead of sitting back waiting for someone to hand you an opportunity.”

He sucks his teeth once, lightly.

“That means you’ve got something in you worth fighting. Worth hitting. Worth testing.”

A beat.

“But I don’t lose this one.”


---

He crosses toward the craps tables. The boxman stands silently; dice sit waiting. Ryan picks them up, rolling them between his fingers.

“People treat wrestling like math.”
“Like if you train enough, study enough, take enough bumps, hit enough reps… the equation balances and the victory is yours.”

He tosses the dice in his hand; they rattle, then stop. He grins.

“But wrestling is chaos.”

He throws the dice — they bounce, ricochet, land crooked.

“Wrestling is luck. Wrestling is timing. Wrestling is impulse. Wrestling is leaning too far forward — or just far enough.”

He points at the dice.

“Wrestling is the moment you realize you had no control… and you swing anyway.”


---

He strolls past the table, pacing toward machines that pulse and glitter.

“That’s what separates us, Miles. You think I’m someone you can prep for, someone you can study, someone you can predict — but I’m not.”

He smirks.

“I’m the wild card.”

He gestures broadly, taking in the whole casino.

“And this environment? This game? This whole theme of High Stakes?”

He points to himself.

“It fits me better than it fits you.”


---

He approaches a row of machines — each glowing a different color.

“Look at these poor souls… pulling levers like something is owed to them.”
“You know what’s owed at a casino, Miles?”

He taps the machine.

“Nothing.”

A playful grin.

“And that’s why I love this place.”


---

He turns, pacing again.

“Nobody owes me a victory at High Stakes.”
“Nobody owes me momentum.”
“Nobody owes me a championship shot.”

His smile widens, almost proud.

“I’m gonna take it.”

He winks.

“Because that’s what makes it fun.”

---

Ryan moves away from the slots, navigating deeper into the casino — into a quieter wing lit by deep gold, burgundy, and midnight blue. Private tables.

“See, taking things is in my nature. I’m a collector. Some people gather stamps, little mementos, things to prove they lived.”

He taps his chest.

“Me? I collect nights like this. Moments like the one I’m about to have with you. The look on someone’s face when they realize the game they thought they were playing?”

He exhales slowly through a grin.

“Was never the real game.”



“You want this win, Miles. You need it. Not for clout. Not for fame. But so you can look in the mirror and say, ‘yeah… I belong here.’”

He lightly taps the cards laid on the table.

“And that’s where we split.”

A slight tilt of his head.

“I already know I belong here.”

He places a hand over his heart.

“I’ve known since the second I walked back into SCW.”

He smiles.

“I didn’t need validation. I didn’t need applause. I didn’t need anyone’s blessing.”

He leans forward, eyes bright.

“I came knowing exactly who I was — a man who can step into any arena, any match, any fight, and make the world pay attention.”


---

He gestures with one finger.

“You’re at the stage where you’re trying to build your name.”
“I’m at the stage where my name builds the match.”

He flicks an invisible speck from his sleeve.

“Whether I win, lose, get thrown into another grave, or set on fire… people talk.”

He grins, shrugging.

“Because Ryan Keys is worth the attention.”


---

He shifts, lounging back in the chair like it’s a throne.

“Let me guess — you’re training hard, right? Tapes, reps, drills, cardio, weights — obsessed with game plans, counters, counters to counters, thinking maybe if you prepare enough you’ll be ready for me.”

He waves lazily.

“Cute.”

He touches the cards again, flipping one between his fingers.

“Wanna know a secret?”

Beat.

“There is no preparing for me.”


---

“I change depending on the moment. I shift depending on the pulse. I evolve on contact.”

He cracks his neck lightly.

“I fight like a casino breathes — unpredictable, deceptive, overwhelming, beautiful, and dangerous.”


---
“You ever watch someone gamble with money they can’t afford to lose?”
“Their hands shake. Their eyes dart. They breathe too fast.”

He raises a brow.

“That’s what you’re bringing to this fight, Miles.”

He breathes out through his nose, amused.

“You’ve talked yourself into believing that beating me will change everything — that this is some kind of pivot point in your career, where you stop being the guy with potential… and become the guy with proof.”

He nods to himself.

“Makes sense. I’d want that too.”

A playful grin.

“But you’re betting with fear.”


---

He leans forward, elbows on knees.

“Me?”

He taps his chest again.

“I play with house money.”

He spreads his arms.

“Because I already won the moment I walked in here.”

He stands, pacing again.

“You’re trying to prove yourself. I’m just having fun.”


---

He slips into a side hallway lined with framed photos of past winners — not wrestling champions, but gamblers: men and women holding oversized checks, smiling like they own the universe.

Ryan stops beneath one of the frames.

“Winning changes people.”
“Losing changes them more.”

He turns to the camera, expression sharpening just a fraction.

“After High Stakes… you will change.”


He pushes open a glass door and steps into a rooftop lounge — pool shimmering, strip lights glowing in the distance. Quiet, exclusive, cool desert air brushing his jaw.

He walks to the edge, looking out over Las Vegas.

“Facing me isn’t punishment.”
“It’s privilege.”

He smiles lightly. Ryan sits on the ledge, folding his arms over his knees.

“I love wrestling. I love the chaos, the music, the roaring crowd, the sweat, the sound of a ring shaking under boots.”

His smile returns, wider.

“But what I love most…”

He taps a finger against his thigh.

“Is the way someone looks at me when they realize they’re not walking out with what they came in for.”


---

“And you…”
“You’re walking in with hope.”

He shakes his head slowly.

“Bad bet.”


---
Ryan rises from the poolside ledge and begins walking along the edge, shoes soft against pristine stone. Cool desert wind rustles his hair as casino noise hums faintly below.

“You know what I love about gambling, Miles? It exposes heart. You can tell when someone’s scared by how they hold their chips. You can tell when they’re bluffing by how fast they breathe. And you can tell when they know they’re beaten…”

He snaps his fingers once.

“Before the cards are even revealed.”


---

He wanders to a table near the railing — a small, private blackjack setup left untouched. Ryan runs his hand across the felt, then drums a playful rhythm with his fingertips.

“We haven’t even locked up yet… and I can already feel it. That little tremor in your voice when you mention this match. That hum in your bones that feels like excitement, but is actually nerves taking your heartbeat for a joyride.”

He laughs softly.

“I’ve seen it a thousand times.”


---

“Here’s what’s funny: you think I’m underestimating you.”

He raises both brows, mock-confused.

“Like I’m gonna walk in blind, laugh, toss you around, and call it a night. Like I don’t know you’re hungry. Like I don’t see you as a threat.”

He smirks and taps his temple.

“Oh, I see you.”

His grin spreads.

“And I love threats.”


---

He leans over the railing, staring down at the Strip.

“But what you don’t seem to understand…”

He lifts two fingers.

“Is that I’m a bigger one.”


---

A soft chuckle leaves him — bright, casual, unconcerned.

“Maybe you come in swinging. Maybe you light me up. Maybe you catch me with something that makes me see stars, something that makes the crowd gasp, pumping adrenaline into your veins like a slot machine hitting triple sevens.”

He nods, as if genuinely considering it.

“That could happen.”

Then his smile tilts wry.

“And it won’t matter.”


---

“Because I don’t break.”

He taps his chest.

“I prove.”


---

He steps away from the ledge, returning to the blackjack table. A fresh deck sits waiting. He picks it up, breaks the seal, and begins shuffling.

“I look at this match the same way I look at this deck. Full of possibilities. Every card could make or break you. Every draw could change fate.”

He shuffles effortlessly — bridge, waterfall, perfect.

“But somewhere in there, I’ve already stacked the odds. Because I’ve lived in this world longer, fought in it longer, failed in it harder, and got back up anyway.”

He fans the cards in a neat line.

“That’s the part you don’t have yet.”


---

“When I got buried by Logan, that wasn’t a setback.”
“It was a reminder.”

He taps the blackjack table with one finger.

“That I still know how to climb.”


---

“So now here you come — bright-eyed, buzzing, itching to make noise — thinking this is your moment to strike. To be the guy who takes out the guy. To be the name that headlines the next story.”

He shrugs.

“Good. I want you to think that. I want you to believe that with your whole heart.”

His smirk returns, sharper.

“I want you to bet big.”


---

He lifts a card from the spread.

“Because the bigger the bet…”

He flicks the card away — it spirals into the pool water.

“The bigger the loss.”


---

He deals two cards face-down in front of him and two to the empty dealer’s side.

“Picture this — you sit down. You’re feeling good. You’ve been on a streak. You tell your friends at the table, ‘This is the one. I can feel it.’ And they’re nodding along like this is fate unfolding in real time.”

He squeezes his cards, peeking beneath.

“And then you look up…”

He places his cards flat, turning them to reveal a king and a queen.

“And realize you’re playing against me.”


---

He flips the dealer’s cards: two aces.

“And I’ve already got you beat.”


---

He pushes away from the table, strolling back toward the entry where warm light glows against stone archways.

“That’s how this goes, Miles.”
“Not because you’re bad.”
“But because I’m better.”


---

He slips back inside — the music louder again, machines chiming with manufactured excitement. He passes lounge chairs, glinting glassware, people with empty eyes chasing full pockets.

“High Stakes wasn’t built for everyone. Some people don’t understand how to breathe in environments like this. They hyperventilate. They panic. They fold early.”

He nods to himself.

“You won’t fold. I know that.”

He pauses before a Baccarat table again.

“But you’ll still lose.”


---

Ryan brushes a hand along the chair backs as he walks, like he’s greeting old friends.

“You know the type of gambler who gets dangerous?”
“The one who’s already lost everything.”

He grins.

“That’s me.”


---

“Not because I’m broke. Not because I’m desperate. But because I fight like there’s nothing left to protect.”

He crosses his arms loosely over his chest.

“You can’t scare a man who’s been drowned, buried, humiliated, beaten, and still walked back into the light.”

His brows raise.

“You can only fear him.”


---

He meanders toward a long red carpet leading to a secluded roulette room where chandeliers glitter like frozen fireworks.

“I’m not afraid of losing to you. Because I don’t think I will. But more importantly…”

He laughs once, under his breath.

“Losing doesn’t define me.”


---

“Winning just reminds people why I talk the way I talk.”


---

In the roulette room, he stands behind the wheel, running his hand along the polished wood. The ball sits still in its cradle.

“Everything about this match screams chance. Two men, one table, one spin.”

He exhales slowly.

“But chance is for amateurs.”


---

“I know who I am. Do you?”

He tilts his head.

“Are you the guy who shocks the world? Or the guy the world forgets?”

He shrugs casually.

“And before you answer — you don’t get to decide.”

He taps his chest again.

“I do.”


---

He spins the wheel lightly, the ball clicking as it starts its dance.

“High Stakes will decide for both of us.”
“But here’s what I know — after that bell rings…”

He smiles, wide, honest.

“You’ll remember me.”

---


The roulette wheel keeps spinning — soft, rhythmic, hypnotic. Ryan watches it for a moment, then turns his back on it, letting it spin without his eyes.

“You know what I love most about this?”

He gestures casually over his shoulder at the wheel — still dancing, still deciding.

“I don’t care where it stops.”

He shrugs, hands sliding back into his pockets as he strolls to the center of the room.

“There’s a freedom in not giving a damn about luck. About fate. About the universe supposedly aligning to give you your moment.”

He smirks.

“Screw alignment. I make my moments.”


---

He walks toward a small bar tucked in the corner. No attendants, no noise — just crystal bottles glinting under gold lighting. He picks up a glass and pours something amber-dark, swirling it once before lifting it in a mock toast.

“To High Stakes… to bad decisions… and to you, Miles.”

He takes a slow sip.

“Here’s a truth you won’t hear from anyone else — you’re good.”

He nods, confirming it to himself.

“Really good. There’s snap in your strikes, precision in your footwork, smart pacing in your choices. You’ve got flexibility, grit, and just enough arrogance to make it interesting.”

He sets the glass down gently.

“But that’s not enough.”


---

“Good doesn’t beat dangerous.”
“Good doesn’t beat sharp.”
“Good doesn’t beat confident.”

He taps his own chest with a knuckle.

“Good doesn’t beat me.”


---

He moves again, walking past chandeliers into a narrow hallway lined with vintage photos of boxers, gamblers, and streak-broken hopefuls. Each face is captured mid-moment — sweat on brows, eyes wide, fists clenched, chips stacked.

Ryan looks at them fondly, almost respectfully.

“Everyone thinks they’ll be the exception. The miracle. The anomaly, the glitch, the one who breaks the odds and rewrites the house rules.”

He laughs — gently, almost warmly.

“But the house… always… wins.”

He gestures at the photos.

“And these people? They fought believing that wasn’t true.”

He runs a finger beneath one frame like he’s reading the nameplate.

“Belief doesn’t change reality.”


---

He walks out the far end of the hallway and into a penthouse elevator. The doors close — he doesn’t press any buttons. It simply begins to rise.

The lighting is soft, gold. The reflections stretch and bend around him.

“Let’s imagine something.”
“Let’s say… by some miracle… you beat me.”

He lifts both hands, inviting the fantasy.

“Let’s say you catch me with something slick — some twist of fate — some wild moment where the entire casino stands still and whispers, ‘Did you see that?’”

He nods in admiration at the imaginary moment.

“People would lose their minds.”

Silence hangs.

“And guess what?”

He shrugs.

“It still wouldn’t make you me.”


---

The elevator opens to a private balcony — glass floor, overlooking the main casino far below. Every spin, every shuffle, every jackpot feels miniature beneath their vantage point.

Ryan steps out, hands spread as if presenting a kingdom.

“This is what I see when I look at SCW.”
“It’s a world buzzing under my feet — bright, loud, beating like a neon heart.”

He folds his hands behind his back.

“And here’s the truth — I respect anyone who steps into that world and tries to climb.”

He glances over his shoulder, playful.

“I just climb faster.”


---

He strolls across the glass, completely unbothered by the height.

“The Roulette Championship…”
“That’s where I’m headed.”

He nods, matter-of-fact, not bragging — just stating.

“I’m not shy about it. I’m not pretending I don’t have goals. I’m not acting like this is some casual jog.”

He smiles.

“I want that title.”


---

“And you, Miles?”

He looks down over the balcony — at the tables, at the felt, at the luck below.

“You’re my first spin.”


---

He leans against the railing, elbows set, expression sharpening.

“Some people think I’m just a pretty face. Life of the party. The guy who smiles too much to take seriously.”

He tilts his head.

“Those people get hurt.”


---

“Because what they don’t understand…”
“Is that confidence isn’t a mask.”
“It’s a weapon.”

He taps his own temple.

“And I’ve sharpened mine to a razor.”


---

He pushes away from the railing and moves to the center of the balcony — glass creaking faintly underfoot, though he remains poised.

“When you step into the ring with me, you don’t just face my talent.”
“You face my comfort.”

He laughs lightly.

“You face my joy.”


---

“Because I love this.”
“I live for this.”
“I crave it like some people crave oxygen.”

He inhales deeply — like breathing the moment in.

“And that’s what makes me dangerous.”


---

He points forward, speaking directly to Miles — directly to the viewer.

“You fight like you want to win.”
“I fight like I already did.”


---

He smiles again — warm, golden, unbothered.

“When we lock up at High Stakes… you’ll feel it.”
“The difference.”

He raises his palms.

“You’ll feel the pressure. The pace. The power. The precision. The confidence.”

One shoulder lifts in a lazy shrug.

“And you’ll realize…”

He steps closer — voice lowering, still playful, still sharp.

“This was never a gamble for me.”


---

He spreads his hands again, welcoming the whole casino beneath them.

“Because I don’t bet.”
“I take.”


---

He steps back, gives the balcony — the casino — one final sweeping look.

“When the dust settles, when the chips stop clattering, when the wheel stops spinning…”

He snaps his fingers.

“It’s gonna land on me.”


---

He picks up his drink again, lifting it just high enough to catch the lights.

“So I’ll say this once, Miles — with all the kindness and all the wicked honesty I’ve got:”

He raises the glass in toast.

“I hope you show up with everything you’ve got.”

He winks.

“Because I’m coming with more.”


---

He drains the glass — sets it down — and smirks at the roulette wheel spinning below, now slowing, clicking gently toward fate.

“High Stakes…”
“Week Two.”

He looks right into the camera.

“I’m all in.”

Beat.

“Try to keep up.”