[HBCarter]

“I’m in the driver’s seat. I know I am. I can feel the wheel in my hands but my car isn’t a car. It’s more like a box.”

“The door handle won’t move the way it should. I pull. I shove. I hit it as hard as I can but it won’t open. I try to roll the window down but I can’t. I try the other door but the seat belt won’t let me go. I swear to God I feel like I’m fighting my own car!”

“That’s when it hits me. The smell. Cologne. It’s familiar, but I can’t name it. All I know is I know it, and it’s wrong somehow. It’s everywhere and it makes my stomach turn. I remember I used to like it but now it just makes me want to throw up.”

I turn my head toward the windshield and I see Miles. His mouth is open but I can’t hear him. He’s closer and then he’s not. He’s trying to reach me but the distance between us isn’t closing. He looks terrified. His eyes are on the backseat but I can’t look over my shoulder because of the seat belt restraining me!  His eyes flick deeper into the garage and naturally mine follows.”

“Kevin is standing in the shadows and not moving. He’s too still, like a cardboard cutout. I can’t see his face. I can see the shape of him, but not him. If that makes sense. He’s farther away than he should be and my stomach drops because I know that feeling. The feeling of being the only one who sees the danger. The feeling that if I don’t move, if I don’t do something, somebody else is going to get hurt because of it.”

“The cologne is stronger, like it’s pouring from the vents. I twist in the seat, half looking at Miles, half at Kevin. My hands feel wrong, like they’re not mine. My legs start to feel heavy. The air gets thicker. I blink and the lights smear like paint streaking down a wall. The garage tilts. Miles’ face goes blurry. He’s still moving, still trying, his mouth forming words I can’t catch.”

“I take a breath and it doesn’t go all the way in. I can’t get a full breath. My head dips for a second and I snap it up like I’m trying to stay awake. My vision tunnels. The edges go dark. My eyes keep trying to close. The rearview mirror catches my attention like a hook. I don’t want to look because some part of me already knows. But I do. I lift my eyes and there they are.”

“Eyes staring back at me like they’ve been waiting for me to finally look.”

Las Vegas, Nevada

The office was quiet after that. The surroundings all too familiar.

A soft lamp in the corner. A painting on the wall that Dr. Delacore told him in their first session together was purchased by her husband on their honeymoon to Sicily. A box of tissues that looked untouched but was always within reach. And the doctor herself, Dr. Gail Delacore, who sat in her chair with her notepad resting lightly on her knee, pen idle. She wasn’t writing. She was watching Carter the way professionals watched. Open and attentive but not prying.

For a few seconds after he finished reading the latest entry in his dream journal, nobody spoke. Dr. Delacore let it sit long enough for Carter’s breath to settle. Then she said, gently, “Thank you for reading that out loud.”

Carter’s gaze stayed on the journal but he nodded. “Yeah.”

“I want to check in with you before we talk about any of it.” She said. “Right now, in this moment, how are you feeling?”

Carter’s mouth tightened as if he didn’t want to give the question the satisfaction of an answer. “Tight.”

“Where?”

“My chest.” He answered. “Like I swallowed a rock.”

Dr. Delacore nodded once. “If it helps, we can do a quick grounding check before we discuss the content.”

“I’m fine.” Carter said quickly, the words more blunt than intended.

Dr. Delacore didn’t challenge him. She simply offered. “If you notice the tightness climbing, we’ll slow down. You’re in control here.”

Carter’s eyes flicked up, and there was something behind them. Irritation? Gratitude? Fear? Even he wasn’t certain so how could she be? He gave a small nod.

Dr. Delacore leaned in just a fraction. “You’ve described dreams like this before.” She said. “But there are details in the journal that stood out to me. Especially the way you keep returning to one particular image.”

Carter didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

“The eyes.” She said.

He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, fingers clutching at the journal.

Dr. Delacore’s voice remained even. “In multiple nightmares, the eyes always appear. In the mirror. In the dark. Sometimes without a face attached. That repetition is consistent with how traumatic memories can be stored.”

Carter finally looked up and she went on to explain.

“The brain isn’t a camera. It doesn’t record trauma like a movie. Under extreme stress, the system that helps us organize memory doesn’t always work the way it usually does.”

Carter’s shoulders shifted, like he wanted to move out of his own skin. “So I’m broken.”

“No,” Dr. Delacore said immediately, firm but kind. “You’re responding normally to something abnormal. What you’re describing, fragmented memories. Inconsistent dreams about the same detail. That’s very common after an assault.”

Carter stared down again. Dr. Delacore didn’t rush to fill the quiet. When she spoke again, her tone shifted into careful clinical curiosity. “Can I ask you something specific?”

Carter’s eyes narrowed but he nodded.

She acknowledged that and asked, “When you see the eyes in the dream, do you feel like you’re seeing them for the first time, or do you feel like you recognize them?”

Carter answered quickly, “No.”

“No, you don’t recognize them?”

Carter’s lips pressed together. “No. I mean… I don’t know. That’s the problem. It feels like I should know them but my brain is keeping me from knowing them.”

Dr. Delacore nodded slowly. “That feeling of ‘I should know this’ is important.”

Carter looked up and asked, “What do you mean?”

“It means there may be more memory there than you can access right now.” She said. “And I want to be very careful with how I say this.”

Carter sat back slightly, guarded.

Dr. Delacore continued. “Based on what you’ve shared about that night, being exposed to chloroform, being in a state of panic, your brain likely prioritized survival over storing a coherent narrative. That can result in memories stored as fragments. Smells. Sounds. A specific visual detail.”

“The eyes.” Carter muttered.

“Yes.” She said. “The eyes could be a fragment that got embedded in your mind the most strongly. Sometimes that happens because it was the clearest detail you registered.”

“So are you saying that I saw him?”

“I’m saying it’s possible you did.” Dr. Delacore replied, emphasizing the word ‘possible’. “Not necessarily that you saw his whole face but enough. Maybe a glance, a split moment, that your brain captured something. And then the combination of chloroform, fear, and trauma responses muddled that memory.”

Carter’s fingers tapped the journal once, twice. The rhythm wasn’t impatience. It was an attempt to keep control. He hated not being in control of his own life - and he hasn’t been since this stalker first invaded their lives.

Dr. Delacore continued, “I need you to understand something. Memory is not perfect. Even when we access more detail, it doesn’t become a recording that would stand up in a courtroom setting. I’m not interested in creating certainty where none exists.”

Carter’s voice went flat. “But you’re interested in digging.”

“I’m interested in helping you suffer less.” She corrected. “And if there’s a way to safely approach the memory on your terms, it may also help you feel less haunted by the unknown.”

Carter’s eyes flicked to the door, then back. He looked at her, met her eyes, and waited.

Dr. Delacore took a breath. “There’s a technique called trauma-focused guided imagery and imagery rescripting. It’s a structured process where we use imagination in a controlled way. We establish grounding first. Coping strategies. Then, if and only if you consent, we revisit the memory scene in a controlled way. Small doses. We pay attention to what comes up, but we also change the script to reduce helplessness.”

“Change it.” Carter said. “Like rewrite what happened?”

Dr. Delacore said, “To give your nervous system a different experience than helplessness. For example, bringing in an ally. Creating an exit. Giving your past self more agency. Sometimes the mind holds onto trauma because it never completed the threat response. Rescripting can reduce the intensity of the flashbacks and nightmares.”

Carter stared at her like she’d suggested he walk back into a burning building to make peace with the fire.

“And you think that will help me remember?” He asked.

“Sometimes.” She replied honestly. “Sometimes people can access additional detail because they’re approaching the memory with more stability and support. Sometimes the goal is simply to reduce distress and shame. Remembering is not guaranteed. It’s not a promise.”

Carter leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I don’t want to relive it. I don’t want to be back in that car. I don’t want to smell that … whatever that was.”

Dr. Delacore nodded. “That makes complete sense.”

“No, it doesn’t!” Carter snapped. “Because you’re sitting there telling me it makes sense while you’re also telling me to do the thing I just said I don’t want to do!”

Dr. Delacore took the hit without flinching. It came with the job. “I'm not telling you to do it. I’m telling you there is a path, if you decide you want it, and we can approach it in a way that prioritizes your sense of control. Your resistance is not a problem to solve.”

Carter’s breathing was tight. He looked away, toward the window that didn’t show much except daylight and the edge of a building.

Dr. Delacore asked, “Would it be okay if we bring Miles in for the last part of the session? Not to decide for you. Just to be part of the conversation.”

He’s going to vote yes.”

“That’s possible.” Dr. Delacore said. “And if that happens, I will still support your choice.”

Carter stared at her briefly before he gave a single nod. Dr. Delacore turned in her chair and pressed a button on the intercom. She spoke to her secretary outside.

“Raeford? Can you send Miles in, please?”

The door opened within moments and Miles stepped inside. Miles’s eyes went straight to Carter first. Not the doctor. Carter. His husband, his love.

“You okay?” He asked.

Carter’s response came with a shrug that tried to be casual and failed. “Fine.”

Miles didn’t argue. He crossed the room and sat in the chair beside Carter’s. Close enough to be supportive, not close enough to crowd.

Dr. Delacore addressed him directly. “Thank you for coming in, Miles. Carter read an entry from his dream journal. We’re discussing a recurring nightmare related to the assault. The dream repeats certain fragments, especially a consistent image of the attacker’s eyes. Carter also describes a familiar cologne scent he can’t identify, and themes of being trapped and unable to reach safety.”

Miles’s gaze flicked to the journal in Carter’s hands. His expression softened for half a second before it was quickly replaced by that fierce protective nature his friends and family noted of him.

Dr. Delacore continued. “I shared a theory with Carter, and I want to present it to you as well. It’s possible Carter saw more of the attacker than he can currently access consciously. The combination of chloroform exposure, panic, and acute trauma can disrupt memory consolidation. It often leaves people with fragments rather than a cohesive narrative.”

Miles’s voice was tight. “So he might actually know who it is.”

Dr. Delacore stepped in immediately smoothing things over. “Let’s slow down. Miles, I want to be careful with that language. I’m not saying Carter ‘knows’ in a deliberate way. I’m saying there may be information stored that isn’t easily accessible. That is very different from conscious knowledge.”

Miles exhaled through his nose. “Okay. But if there’s any chance that his brain has something, and we can bring it out safely, we have to consider it.”

Carter’s laugh was sharp. “Safely. There’s that word again.”

Miles turned toward him fully now, voice lower. “Carter, the cops are stuck. They’re stuck because we don’t have enough. If you could remember anything that helps …”

“I remember plenty!” Carter cut in. “I remember being trapped! I remember thinking I was going to die and never see you or Kevin again! What I don’t remember is who those eyes belong to!”

Miles’s throat bobbed. His eyes shone with barely restrained emotion. Carter stared at him, and for a second the anger cracked, showing something raw underneath.

Dr. Delacore turned slightly toward Miles to explain without escalating. “The approach I suggested is trauma-focused guided imagery and imagery rescripting. It’s not about forcing Carter to relive the assault in full detail. It’s a gradual, consent-based method. We build grounding skills first. We establish what Carter can do if his body starts to react. Then, if he chooses, we approach the memory in small pieces, with the goal of reducing distress and, sometimes, allowing additional details to surface.”

Miles listened closely, hands clasped on his lap. “So he wouldn’t be thrown into it.”

“No.” Dr. Delacore answered. “And he can stop at any time. We can pause. We can end. He sets the pace.”

Carter’s voice was quiet now. “And if I do it and nothing comes up?” He asked.

“Then we’ve still worked on reducing the nightmares and your sense of helplessness.” Dr. Delacore replied. “That’s still meaningful. But again, I won’t promise accuracy or certainty.”

Carter looked down at the journal. “I don’t want to go back there.” Carter said, voice low. “You don’t understand what it feels like. I can still smell it in my head sometimes. I can still…” He stopped, breath catching.

“I don’t understand it the way you do.” Miles admitted. “But I’ve been there with you after. I’ve watched you wake up in a cold sweat, choking on air. You haven’t driven since it happened, and I get that. But I hate it. I hate that he took that from you!”

Dr. Delacore said, “Carter, can I ask you something? When you think about doing guided imagery work, what scares you most? Is it the feelings? The images? The possibility of recognizing him?”

Carter’s lips pressed together. “All of it.” He said. “Because if I remember, then it’s not just a nightmare. It’s someone out there who did it on purpose.”

Miles’s voice softened. “It already is.”

Carter nodded sharply. “Yeah. And if I see him in my head, I’m going to see him everywhere else too!”

“That’s a very real fear.” Dr. Delacore nodded slowly. “And it tells me we would need to spend time on stabilization first. You wouldn’t go straight into the memory. Not even close.”

Carter’s gaze flicked between them. “And if I say no?”

Dr. Delacore didn’t hesitate. “Then we respect that. And we work on what you are willing to work on. You don’t lose support because you don’t choose memory work.”

Miles exhaled, frustrated but trying to hide it. Carter noticed anyway.

Miles said, “I’m not trying to force you.”

“No.” Carter replied. “You’re just trying to convince me.”

“Yeah, I am.” Miles admitted. “Because I think it could help you. And because I think it could help the police. And because I don’t want this to be the rest of our lives!”

Carter looked at Miles. Miles met his gaze, stead and supportive. Carter’s expression softened just enough to show his husband that he felt it.

Then he nodded once. “I’ll think about it.” Carter said.

Miles’s shoulders dropped, relief and frustration mixed. “Okay.”

Dr. Delacore offered a small, professional smile. “That’s all I’m asking today.”

She glanced at the clock on the far wall. “Before we close, Carter, I want you to name three things you can see in the room. Just to bring you fully back here.”

Carter’s eyes flicked around as if he hated that it might help.

“The lamp.” He said. “Your painting. Miles’ shoes that I’ve been trying to get him to throw out since last year.”

Miles huffed a quiet laugh despite himself, and Carter’s mouth twitched like he wanted to as well, but didn’t because it somehow felt like a betrayal to what they were going through.

“Good.” Dr. Delacore said. “Two things you can feel.”

“The chair. My journal.”

“One thing you can hear.”

Carter paused, then  quietly answered, “Miles breathing.”

Dr. Delacore let the moment land before she continued. “Excellent. That’s grounding. That’s you reminding your brain you’re here, not there.”

Dr. Delacore then stood, signaling the session’s end with calm structure. “We’ll schedule for the same time next week. I’ll send you home with the resourcing exercise instructions. If nightmares spike, use the grounding routine first before writing. And if either of you feels unsafe, you call.”

Miles rose. Carter rose more slowly, like his body was still deciding whether standing was a good idea.

At the door, Miles placed a hand lightly at Carter’s back as both a gesture of love as well as reassuring support as they stepped into the hallway together.


“Logan Hunter.”

“It’s funny how this business can take two people who came up in the exact same place, taking the exact same lessons, and still turn one of them into a man who stands his ground and the other into a man who keeps moving the goalposts so he never has to face the truth. Because that’s what makes this Clash of the Champions different. This isn’t just Champion versus Champion. This is GO Gym versus GO Gym. Two graduates, two products of the same system, two men who were given the same foundation and told to build something that lasts. And now we’re about to find out which one of us built a fortress, and which one built a house of cards that is about to get blown over with a simple sneeze.”

“Let’s be clear about one thing before you start running your mouth, Logan. This has been a long time coming ever since you started running your mouth from the relative safety of social media. I don’t care about your highlight reels. I don’t care about how you rework your failures into injustices for the benefit of all four of your social media followers! All I care about is consistency. I care about stability. I care about whether you can deliver when the lights are bright and the pressure is higher than your ego! Because the truth about you is written right there in your track record like a lie you keep telling yourself!”

“You started strong. You came in with momentum. For a minute it looked like you had something real. And then, like a game of Jenga, you started pulling out the wrong pieces. One at a time. An ego move here. A shortcut there. A tantrum when things didn’t go your way. And now you’re still standing, sure, but the whole thing sways every time somebody puts real hands on you.”

“You’re a two-time Roulette Champion. Congratulations. I’m not taking that away from you. You beat Aiden Reynolds AND Vincent Lyons Junior for those two reigns of yours! And those two men are a staple of this business and what it represents. All I’m telling you is that those two reigns don't mean what you want it to mean. Because that belt of yours, that roulette wheel, it’s built on chaos, on surviving the spin of the wheel. And you’ve made a career out of avoiding accountability. It lets you avoid the simple, brutal truth of wrestling. Sooner or later, the bell rings and you either are who you say you are, or you get exposed for being a fraud. And your record isn’t consistent, Logan. Your whole career is a pattern of hot start versus cold reality. You’re not a machine. You’re a mood. You’re not a champion’s champion. You’re a guy who can look like a champion on his good nights and look like a cautionary tale on all the others. Big difference!”

“And I remember the beginning. Everybody remembers the beginning! You hit the scene with that streak and you had people paying attention. You had people talking. You had the kind of heat that wrestlers spend their entire careers begging for, and you got it by being a dick. By attacking Caleb Storms the way you did and putting him on the shelf, maybe permanently and you smiled while you did it! You got that heat by walking in and making sure everybody knew you weren’t here to earn respect! You were here to take it, to demand it, to rip it off somebody else and make it your own! That’s how you got the spotlight. And in this sport, sometimes the spotlight doesn’t care if you deserve it. It just cares whether or not you can maintain it.”

“But you couldn’t hold onto it, could you? Not without feeding the ugliest parts of yourself. Not without telling yourself that the GO Gym was too small for you, that the people who trained you were holding you back. No, you needed your own private gym, your own private world, where every mirror says ‘you’re the man!’ and ‘You’re the man!’ You ran off to your private setup like it was a flex, like it proved you’d graduated beyond everyone else, like it made you elite! But I don’t see an elite athlete when I look at that choice. I see a man who couldn’t handle being corrected. I saw a man who couldn’t handle being coached. I see a man who couldn’t handle being held to a standard that didn’t bend just because his mouth was loud!”

“Because that’s what the GO Gym does, Logan. It humbles you. It strips away the excuses. It forces you to face what you say you are and what you actually are. And if you can handle that, you grow. If you can’t, you leave. And you left, Logan. You didn’t move on. You didn’t evolve. You ran.”

“And we both know why the running started. Fenris.”

You can pretend it was about training or scheduling, or needing a new environment, but anybody who was watching could see the moment your mouth finally wrote a check your body couldn’t cash. You spent so much time trash talking Fenris, so much time trying to build yourself up by tearing someone else down, and then Fenris did what the GO Gym has always done to men like you. He humbled you. Not with speeches. Just that one time you ran your mouth one time too many and he beat the holy shit out of you for disrespecting him!”

“And instead of eating it, instead of taking that embarrassment and using it the way real champions use failure as fuel, you tucked your tail between your legs and ran for the nearest exit! You left the GO Gym behind because it reminded you of the day you weren’t the biggest voice in the room. You didn’t want accountability. You wanted comfort. So you built yourself a private gym where nobody could see the cracks forming.”

“But those cracks have been forming ever since.”

“Because your real modus operandi, your real pattern, isn’t dominance. It’s escape. You escape consequences. You escape hard truths. You escape the people who can actually push you. And when you can’t escape with your feet, you escape with your mouth. You start making excuses. You start blaming everyone else. You start acting like the world is conspiring against you when the truth is simpler. You’re inconsistent because you’ve built an inconsistent man. A man who needs everything just right to succeed. A man who needs the spin of the roulette wheel. A man who needs outside hands to keep him upright.”

“Which brings me to your built-in excuse, Brooke.”

“Logan, you can puff your chest out and act like the biggest badass walking from the stage to the ring. You can talk like you’re a killer. You can act like you’re some untouchable menace. But the entire world has watched you get saved more times than you’ve saved yourself! The entire world has watched Brooke interfere in your matches, again and again, to pull you out of trouble when your plan A collapses and your plan B is panicking! How many times has she stopped you from taking the beating you earned? How many times has she stopped you from losing the match you were about to choke on? How many times has she turned your ‘I did it’ into ‘we did it’ and then you still walk around like you’re the one in control?”

“Newsflash! You’re not!”

“You are, as the kids say, absolutely whipped! And it’s not even subtle. Brooke has your balls in her clutch purse and she only hands them back to you long enough for you to cut a promo and pretend you’re a lone wolf. Then the bell rings, reality hits, and suddenly she’s right back where she always is, between you and the consequences you can’t handle!”

“And that’s why this match is so interesting, isn’t it? Champion versus Champion. GO Gym grad versus GO Gym grad. The Roulette Champion standing across from the World Heavyweight Champion! That contrast is the whole story. Because I’m not a man built for the spin. I’m a man built for the fight because being who I am? I’ve had to learn to fight the hard way. Because life is a right bitch at the worst of times! I’m not a man who needs perfect conditions. I can adapt. I’m not a man who needs saving. I’m the man who keeps walking forward when there’s no one left to save me.”

“And I already hear the whispers. I already see the plan in Brooke’s eyes. She’s given every indication she’s not going to refrain from doing what she always does just because it’s me. Just because the three of us have a shared history at the GO Gym. She’s not going to suddenly find ethics. She’s not going to suddenly respect the sanctity of Champion versus Champion or man versus man. She’s going to do what she always does, because that’s what you two rely on. A built-in system of interference and excuses. And she thinks, and this is the best part, she thinks because Ariana Angelos isn’t around, I’m vulnerable.”

“Baby, you have NO idea!”