The camera turns on crooked—like it got bumped in a hurry—and for a second it’s all cheekbone and eye, Ryan too close to the lens.
He pulls it back with a soft laugh like he caught himself.
“Alright. Okay. We’re live. We’re alive. We’re—” he looks past the camera, squinting at the chaos behind him, “—we’re definitely not pretending this is gonna be a quiet day.”
He pivots the phone and the concourse comes into view like a holiday rush got dropped inside an arena. Volunteers in bright shirts moving crates. Long folding tables stacked with toys still in plastic wrap. Bright boxes everywhere—action figures, dolls, little remote control cars, a few plush animals so big they look like they could have their own zip code. Kids with wristbands already on, holding them up like trophies. Parents moving carefully, like they don’t want to break the moment by stepping too loud.
“Toys for Tots day,” Ryan says, and he doesn’t say it like an announcement. It’s just what it is. “Which means… if you came here expecting a normal load-in? You came to the wrong show.”
He swings back to himself, grin easy, eyes bright.
“And before anybody asks—yes, I am wearing my Santa hat. Yes, it’s on purpose. No, I’m not taking it off. If you don’t like it, go tell Santa. I’m sure he’ll handle it.”
He takes two steps and somebody calls his name from off-camera.
“RYAN!”
He leans toward the sound automatically, like his body already knows how to meet people where they are.
“What’s up?”
A kid comes into frame with a toy clutched to their chest. Ryan drops into a crouch, camera tilted slightly down, the angle suddenly less “wrestling promo” and more “older cousin filming your day.”
“You got one already?” Ryan asks.
The kid nods hard.
“Okay, okay—hold it up like you just won a title,” Ryan says, coaching with a seriousness he absolutely doesn’t mean. “No, like this—yes. Yes! That’s the entrance pose. Perfect. That’s your entrance pose. You nailed it.”
A parent laughs somewhere behind the kid and Ryan’s grin widens.
“Alright, we’re starting strong. First minute of the day, we’ve already got champions.”
He stands, the camera catching the tables again, the piles of toys turning into a colorful wall.
“Look,” he says, walking slow down the line, “this is my favorite kind of day. Everybody’s got their guard down just enough to remember why they love this stuff. No pretending. No ‘too cool.’ Just… a bunch of kids having the best day they’ve had in a while.”
He stops at a table and picks up a boxed wrestling figure, holds it close to the camera.
“And yes, I see the irony. I know. ‘Wrestling toys at a wrestling show.’ Groundbreaking. But—” he points at the box like it’s evidence in a trial, “—this one? This one is going home with somebody who’s gonna put it through more chaos than anything we’ll do in the ring tonight.”
He sets it back down carefully like it matters.
A volunteer passes, carrying a box that looks heavier than it should be. Ryan steps out of the way without thinking, then turns the camera back on himself.
“Okay, we’re gonna do this vlog style today,” he says. “Because it’s a charity show, it’s Christmas edition, it’s the last Climax Control of the year, and the whole building is already vibrating like it drank three energy drinks and a peppermint mocha.”
He leans in like he’s sharing a secret.
“Also, I’m not gonna lie—somebody told me every match has a festive stipulation tonight. ‘Holiday mayhem.’ That’s the phrase they used. Holiday mayhem. Which sounds adorable until you remember this is SCW.”
He makes a face like he’s picturing someone getting launched into something with tinsel on it.
“So. That’s where we’re at.”
He flips the camera again and starts walking.
“Let’s go meet some people before I get dragged into something loud.”
The feed cuts.
—
The next clip comes on a little later, and the background noise is louder now—voices stacked on voices, laughter, the clatter of equipment being moved somewhere nearby. You can hear a faint test of music in the arena bowl, like someone’s checking levels and trying not to blow the speakers.
Ryan’s closer to a barricade now, Santa hat still on, hair a little messy from moving around.
“Alright,” he says, lowering his voice like he’s conspiratorial. “We are… not even an hour in. And I have already signed my name on three posters, two shoes, and—”
He looks off-camera.
“—yeah. That’s a lunchbox.”
He shrugs like it’s completely normal.
“Honestly? Respect. If you’re bold enough to hand a wrestler a lunchbox and ask for an autograph, you’re gonna be unstoppable in life. Like, that kid is gonna run a company someday.”
He shifts slightly and you catch glimpses behind him—ugly Christmas sweaters, a Santa beard that looks too real to be fake, someone in a referee shirt already arguing with a staff member about tape placement. The whole place hums with that pre-show electricity: nothing has started but everybody can feel it coming.
“This is the last Climax Control of the year,” Ryan says. Not as hype. Just fact. “You can feel it. Everybody’s a little louder. A little sharper. Like they don’t want to leave anything on the table before January hits.”
He glances toward the toy tables again.
“And yeah, I know,” he adds, softer. “It’s a charity show. It’s Christmas. Everybody’s in a good mood.”
A beat.
“That doesn’t mean it’s not serious.”
He doesn’t say it like a warning. He says it like a promise to himself.
The feed cuts again.
—
This time he’s leaning against a railing, the arena floor visible behind him. Seats are filling in. Kids already near the barricade, swinging their legs, clutching bags that definitely weren’t empty when they walked in. One of them spots Ryan and waves like they’re already friends.
Ryan waves back immediately—no hesitation, no performance. Just instinct.
“I like days like this,” he says, quieter now. “Before the lights go down. Before the music hits. When it’s just people showing up and doing the thing.”
He turns the camera slightly, letting the ring sit in the background over his shoulder. The apron is dressed for the night—Christmas colors woven into SCW branding, festive without being soft. Festive like a wrapped present that might explode.
He looks back to the lens.
“Alright,” Ryan says, nodding to himself. “Enough wandering. It’s gonna get loud soon.”
He lifts his free hand and adjusts his Santa hat like it’s armor.
“And when it does,” he adds, like it’s an afterthought, “we’ll get to work.”
The footage cuts.
—
When it comes back, it doesn’t cut so much as it settles.
The sound is different now—less scattered, more focused. The crowd’s found their seats. The wandering has turned into waiting.
Ryan’s standing off to the side of the arena floor, ring visible behind him. The camera’s steadier now. His posture is relaxed, but grounded in a way that reads like he could start moving fast the second he wants to.
“This is usually the part where people start getting in their heads,” he says, tone easy, conversational. “Last show of the year. Going Home. Everybody thinking about what comes next.”
He shrugs—small roll of the shoulders.
“I’ve never been great at living five steps ahead.”
A crew member walks past with cables. Ryan shifts without breaking his flow.
“There’s something about nights like this,” he continues. “They don’t ask you to explain yourself. They just ask if you’re ready.”
He looks at the ring like it’s an honest question.
“People think the end of the year is about wrapping things up,” Ryan says. “Closing books. Tying bows. But this?” He nods toward the ropes. “This is where you find out what actually sticks.”
The smile he’s had all day doesn’t disappear, but it tightens into focus.
“Because once the bell rings, nobody cares what kind of year you think you had,” he says. “They care about what you do when it matters.”
He turns back into the lens and holds eye contact longer this time.
“This is a Going Home show,” Ryan says. “Which means everybody’s carrying something in here tonight. Momentum. Pressure. Nerves—whether they admit it or not.”
A pause.
“I don’t carry much.”
He says it plain. Not a flex. Not a confession.
“I show up. I listen. I move.”
He lets the quiet sit, then he adds the thing that actually matters, the thing everybody’s here for.
“And tonight, I’m in the ring with the Roulette Champion.”
He doesn’t rush the name. He doesn’t over-sell it.
“Vincent Lyons Jr.”
There. Clean. Direct.
“Champion for a reason,” Ryan continues. “Momentum behind him. Confidence that comes from things going his way.”
He nods once, accepting reality.
“I respect that.”
Another pause.
“But respect doesn’t mean distance.”
He shifts his gaze back toward the ring again, eyes tracking the ropes like he’s already measuring space.
“This is a non-title match,” he says. “Mid-card. One of a lot of matches on a night built to be loud and unpredictable.”
He doesn’t sound defensive about “mid-card.” If anything, he sounds comfortable.
“Some people hear that and think it means less,” Ryan says. “I hear it and think it means freedom.”
He gestures with one hand, palm open.
“No safety net. No reason to hold back. No reason to protect anything except yourself.”
He exhales slowly.
“Sharing a ring with a champion doesn’t feel heavy to me,” he says. “It feels normal.”
He looks back at the camera just long enough to land the next line.
“This isn’t about chasing something. It’s about standing where I already am.”
And then the tone shifts—not darker, not serious in mood, but sharper in intent.
“People love talking about fate in this business,” Ryan says, almost casually. “Who was supposed to be where. Who was always meant for this spot.”
A corner of his mouth lifts.
“By that logic,” he continues, “I should still be back in Vegas. Neon lights. Late nights. Hitting the pole because it paid the bills and made sense on paper.”
He doesn’t sound ashamed. He doesn’t sound proud. It’s just a fact.
“That was a version of my life,” Ryan says. “Not a prophecy.”
He takes a small step closer to the ring, like the words pulled him forward.
“Fate didn’t put me here,” he says. “Showing up did.”
Another step.
“Trying something new did.”
Another.
“Staying when it got hard did.”
He stops at the edge of the floor, the ring towering above him like a challenge that never lies.
“So when people talk about inevitability,” Ryan adds quietly, “I don’t argue with it.”
He looks up at the ropes, eyes clear.
“I just keep proving it wrong.”
He turns the camera slightly like he’s about to end the clip—and then he stops himself, like he remembers something.
“Oh,” he says, and the playful edge comes back for a beat. “Also—before anybody asks—yes, I did try to buy those pre-tangled Christmas lights.”
He holds up a finger like he’s about to make a public service announcement.
“Because I saw the segment. I saw it. I thought, ‘That’s hilarious.’ I thought, ‘That’s a perfect bit.’ I thought, ‘I should get them. I should commit to the bit.’”
He leans in.
“So I’m on my phone, right? I’m scrolling. I’m like, ‘Pre-tangled Christmas lights, add to cart, add to cart, add to cart—’ and then my screen freezes.”
He blinks, deadpan.
“And then… I get a pop-up.”
He points at the camera like the camera is the pop-up.
“It says, ‘Congratulations! You are the one millionth visitor! Click here!’”
He pauses.
“I’m not an idiot.”
He pauses again.
“Okay, I’m not a total idiot.”
He smirks.
“I didn’t click it. But then my phone started acting like it had a demon in it. Like, suddenly my keyboard’s in a different language and Siri’s whispering threats.”
He shakes his head.
“So anyway. I’m not buying pre-tangled Christmas lights anymore. Because the last thing I need right now is a virus that steals my banking info and my dignity.”
He points to the Santa hat.
“I still have my dignity. I’m wearing this because I chose to.”
A beat.
“And before anyone decides to get cute tonight—”
He glances toward the curtain.
“—I’m also here keeping Ms. Rocky Mountains safe.”
He says it like it’s obvious.
“Anthrax scared her last show wearing a Santa hat,” Ryan says, voice flattening just enough to make the point land. “Which—first of all—respectfully? That’s embarrassing for him.”
He lifts his hands a little, like he’s weighing the logic.
“Like… if your whole thing is being intimidating, maybe don’t borrow Santa’s brand identity. Santa’s got better PR than you.”
He shakes his head, smile back.
“So yeah. If he shows up again trying to play Grinch-in-a-metal-band? I’m right there.”
He points behind him at the ring.
“And I’m also done standing on the outside.”
His grin fades into focus again.
“I’m ready to hit the ring.”
He turns the camera off.
—
Later, when the promo portion really hits, it doesn’t feel like a new segment. It feels like the same night, the same energy—just tighter now. Like the fun and the charity and the Christmas lights all exist, but the ring is still the ring.
Ryan steps up onto the apron, palms resting briefly on the edge of the canvas. No dramatic pause. No music cue. Just a moment to feel where he is.
“The ring’s funny like that,” he says. “You can talk about it all you want from the outside. You can build stories around it. But once you’re in here?”
He ducks between the ropes and straightens.
“None of that follows you.”
He rolls his shoulders loose, then paces once—testing the give of the canvas under his boots like it’s a language he speaks fluently.
“The ring doesn’t care what people decided about you,” Ryan continues. “It doesn’t care about streaks, or speeches, or the titles you carry, or what you were supposed to become. It just reacts to what you do next.”
He stops near center ring and looks straight ahead like Vincent is already standing there.
“I’m not the biggest guy in this building,” Ryan says. “I’m not the loudest. I don’t walk in here pretending I’m carved out of destiny.”
He points at the mat with the toe of his boot.
“What I am is comfortable.”
He says it like it’s the most important advantage he can have.
“Comfortable moving. Comfortable adjusting. Comfortable when things don’t go the way people expect them to.”
He exhales and looks toward the hard camera.
“That’s the part people miss,” Ryan says. “They think intensity wins fights. Sometimes it does. But intensity tightens you up. Makes you rush. Makes you protect what you think you’re owed.”
He shakes his head once.
“I don’t wrestle like that.”
He drifts toward a corner and leans against the ropes, stretching his arms over the top strand.
“When the bell rings, I don’t need to be angry,” Ryan says. “I don’t need to be afraid. I don’t need to convince myself this is the biggest moment of my life.”
A faint smile.
“I just need to move.”
He pushes off the ropes again.
“Vincent’s a champion,” Ryan says, and he doesn’t say it like he’s begging for the belt’s glow to rub off on him. He says it like a measured reality. “Champions don’t get there by accident. They learn how to protect momentum. How to keep things going their way.”
He nods once, acknowledging the truth.
“But protection creates habits,” he adds. “And habits get tested when there’s nothing on the line except the fight itself.”
He takes a step closer to the hard camera like he’s narrowing the distance between the audience and the point.
“Non-title matches are dangerous like that,” he says. “No reason to play it safe. No reason to conserve energy for later. No reason to worry about what tomorrow looks like.”
He breathes steady, voice calm.
“I expect Vincent to come in sharp,” Ryan continues. “Focused. Aggressive. I expect a champion who doesn’t want to be surprised.”
He smirks slightly, because there’s something about him that finds that idea fun.
“I’ve made a career out of being the part that doesn’t fit.”
He looks out toward the crowd—families, kids with toys, fans in holiday gear, people ready for chaos and charity and a last show of the year.
“This crowd?” Ryan says. “They’re going to feel everything tonight. The good stuff sticks. The bad stuff echoes.”
He looks back into the camera.
“I like that.”
He paces again, just one slow circle, like he’s thinking with his feet.
“Here’s what I know,” Ryan says. “Momentum is real. It’s also fragile. It isn’t a pet you walk on a leash. It’s a reaction.”
He stops.
“And reactions change when somebody finally asks a different question.”
His tone stays bright, but the point is sharp.
“Vincent’s been on a winning streak,” Ryan says. “I don’t need the exact number. I don’t need to count it out loud to make it matter. The point is: he’s gotten used to winning. He’s gotten used to the ring behaving for him.”
Ryan lifts a hand slightly.
“And I’m not saying that like it’s a flaw. If you’re the Roulette Champion, you should be used to the ring behaving for you. That’s the job.”
He drops his hand again.
“But there’s a difference between confidence you earned and confidence that’s been reinforced by repetition.”
He speaks like he’s explaining something simple, not dramatic.
“When things keep going your way, it starts to feel permanent,” Ryan says. “Like the night already knows how it’s supposed to end. That’s where people get comfortable.”
He smirks.
“I don’t get comfortable.”
He shifts his stance.
“I’ve never had the luxury of believing something was guaranteed,” Ryan says. “Not in wrestling and not before it. So certainty doesn’t scare me. It doesn’t hypnotize me. It doesn’t make me step backward like I’m supposed to make room for it.”
He points at himself, then at the ring.
“I’m here,” he says. “I chose this.”
He takes a breath.
“And that’s why I don’t talk about fate the way some people do.”
He glances up at the lights, like he’s acknowledging the word without letting it own him.
“Because fate didn’t get me out of bed early,” Ryan says. “Fate didn’t keep me in a gym when nobody was watching. Fate didn’t ask me to be uncomfortable and honest at the same time.”
He shrugs lightly, almost casual.
“If fate had its way, I would’ve stayed exactly where I was. Doing what made sense. Doing what people already understood.”
He smiles slightly.
“Vegas is good at making sense on paper.”
He lets that land with a grin that doesn’t need more explanation.
“Neon lights,” Ryan continues. “Late nights. A version of me that could’ve stayed very comfortable—very easy—very paid.”
He taps the mat once with his boot.
“But I asked different questions.”
He looks into the camera again.
“I left comfort,” Ryan says. “I left ‘makes sense.’ I left ‘guaranteed.’”
He spreads his hands a little.
“And I ended up here.”
He straightens.
“So when Vincent talks about fate—when he moves like fate is a thing he can weaponize, like inevitability is a tool he can hold in his hand—”
Ryan shakes his head.
“I don’t argue with it,” he says. “I don’t debate it. I don’t try to out-poetry it.”
He smiles.
“I just keep proving it wrong.”
He steps forward slightly.
“And tonight?” Ryan says. “Tonight is one of those nights where the ring gets to be honest.”
He gestures toward the entrance, like he’s including the whole card without naming it.
“It’s Christmas edition,” Ryan says. “Festive stipulations. Holiday chaos. Everybody acting like it’s cute until the first chair gets wrapped in tinsel and somebody realizes this isn’t a Hallmark movie.”
A beat.
“And the heart of it is charity,” he adds. “Kids in need getting VIP passes, getting toys, meeting the roster.”
He nods with real warmth.
“That part is bigger than any match,” Ryan says. “That part matters.”
He points toward the crowd again.
“And because it matters, I’m not walking into tonight half-ready,” he says. “I’m not walking into tonight playing safe because it’s a charity show.”
He smirks.
“If anything? That’s when you show up the most.”
He leans forward slightly, voice still calm.
“Vincent,” Ryan says, and now it’s direct—talking to him, not around him. “I’m not here to explain you to anyone.”
He pauses.
“I know what you are in that ring,” Ryan continues. “I know how you move when things are clean, when timing’s right, when the first shot lands and the second one comes easy.”
He nods once.
“You’re decisive,” he says. “You commit. You don’t hesitate.”
He points again, clean and simple.
“That’s why you’re a champion.”
He lets the crowd noise swell slightly and then continues without raising his voice, because he doesn’t have to.
“But here’s what nobody says out loud,” Ryan says.
He takes a step to the side, like he’s shifting the angle of the whole conversation.
“That confidence you carry? It works best when the match stays on script.”
He ticks the points off with his fingers.
“When the pace is fast,” he says. “When the pressure is obvious. When the other guy feels like he has to meet you head-on just to prove he belongs.”
He drops his hand.
“I don’t wrestle like that.”
He takes another step.
“I don’t come into matches looking to win the first thirty seconds,” Ryan says. “I come in looking to see what happens when the first plan stops working.”
He points down at the mat again.
“Because that’s where matches change.”
He lifts his gaze.
“You’re used to people reacting to you,” Ryan says. “I don’t react—”
He pauses like he’s choosing the cleanest word.
“I adjust.”
He lets that hang, then continues, voice steady and almost conversational.
“You step forward, I let you,” Ryan says. “You rush, I wait. You swing harder, I get quieter.”
He spreads his hands.
“Not because I’m trying to frustrate you,” he adds. “Because that’s where your choices start to matter.”
He glances toward the crowd.
“And I don’t say that like some spooky prophecy,” Ryan says. “I say that like a plan.”
He paces once.
“This isn’t about stealing momentum,” he says. “This isn’t about statements. This isn’t about your title.”
He stops.
“This is about what happens when a champion realizes the night isn’t behaving the way he expected it to.”
He nods once.
“Non-title matches don’t take pressure off,” Ryan says. “They move it.”
He lifts his hands slightly.
“There’s nothing to protect,” he says. “Nothing to conserve. No excuse to say you were holding something back.”
He points toward the entrance again.
“So when you step into that ring with me, understand this,” Ryan says.
He leans forward, eyes locked.
“I’m not trying to beat you at what you do best,” he says. “I’m trying to see how you move when you have to do something else.”
He pauses and then adds the part that makes the whole thing personal without making it heavy.
“When the crowd gets louder,” Ryan says. “When the rhythm changes. When the space opens instead of closing.”
He nods.
“Because that’s where the real fight is.”
He steps back, shoulders loose, breathing even.
“And if you’re everything people say you are,” Ryan says—faint smile returning, almost playful—“then you won’t need certainty.”
He taps his chest once.
“You’ll be comfortable without it.”
He lets that sit.
“And if you’re not?” Ryan adds, same tone, same calm. “Then tonight gets real uncomfortable.”
He turns slightly like he’s picturing Vincent standing across from him, belt gleaming, posture tight with that champion confidence.
“And I’m not saying that like a threat,” Ryan says. “I’m saying that like a fact. Like gravity.”
He smiles again, because he can’t help it.
“Look,” he says, “I know what tonight looks like on paper. ‘Non-title showdown with Supercard implications.’ ‘Momentum and message-sending.’”
He does air quotes with just enough sarcasm to make it funny.
“That stuff is cute,” Ryan says. “It’s also true.”
He points toward the camera.
“Because you’re walking into Inception VIII with gold,” Ryan says. “You’ve got a title defense coming. You want to walk into that night feeling untouchable.”
He nods.
“I get it,” he says. “I would want that too.”
He pauses, then his smile turns a little sharper—not mean, just honest.
“But I’m not here to help you feel untouchable.”
A beat.
“I’m here to touch you.”
He lets that land without raising his voice, without swaggering around it.
“I’m here to make you work,” Ryan continues. “I’m here to make you feel time. I’m here to make you breathe harder than you wanted to.”
He shrugs lightly.
“I’m here to make you realize the Going Home show doesn’t belong to the champion by default.”
He points at the ring again.
“Because here’s the truth,” Ryan says. “Non-title doesn’t mean low stakes.”
He shakes his head once.
“Non-title means you can’t hide behind the stakes.”
He takes a breath.
“And I’m not hiding behind anything either.”
He drifts toward the ropes again, one hand resting there as he looks out over the arena like he’s taking the whole night in—charity, Christmas, chaos, the smell of popcorn and cheap beer and anticipation.
“It’s the final Climax Control of the year,” Ryan says. “Christmas chaos. Charity night. A champion standing across from me.”
He glances down at his Santa hat like it’s part of the bit and part of the point.
“And me,” he adds, “looking like Santa’s most athletic nephew.”
He smirks.
“When that bell rings,” Ryan says, tone tightening into a clean finish, “there’s no fate left to talk about.”
He turns his head slightly, eyes sharp now.
“There’s just whoever’s still standing.”
He steps through the ropes, dropping to the floor as the arena noise swells again—closer now, louder—like the show is finally about to begin.
“And if anybody wants to test Ms. Rocky Mountains tonight—” Ryan adds as he backs toward the ramp, looking straight at the lens, “I’m right here.”
He taps the side of his Santa hat like it’s a signal.
“Holiday spirit,” he says. “Holiday violence. Holiday consequences.”
A grin.
“Pick one.”
The camera lingers on the ring for one beat longer—empty, waiting—before the feed cuts.
