[SCW Staff]

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

[Andrew]

BILL BARNHART FIRST PROMO FOR INTO THE VOID XV

Bea Barnhart has finished her comments leading up to her Bombshell Roulette Championship Fatal Fourway match and she has turned the camera person over to Bill for him to give his comments on his KING FOR A DAY LADDER MATCH where he goes up against Ryan Keys and Ciaran Doyle. The camera person informs Bill that he has returned to live broadcasting and that Bill can start his comments on his match.

Bill:  I wish to thank all the fans who are tuned in to listen to my comments concerning my upcoming match at INTO THE VOID XV where I face off against Ryan Keys and Ciaran Doyle. Bea already gave a great presentation of what she plans of accomplishing in her match against Harper Mason, Selana Zdunich, and Brittany Williams, and I am fully going to enjoy Bea winning her match and finally being awarded the Bombshell Roulette Championship.

Bea:  Thanks Bill. I want to become the Sin City Wrestling Bombshell Roulette Championship at this event.

Bill:  Just keep moving ahead Bea. It will all work out in your favor. With your outstanding success in defeating challengers in Roulette Rules matches I am absolutely sure you will become the next Bombshell Roulette Champion. Also I am sure you will hold the Bombshell Roulette Championship longer than I did and I held the Roulette Championship twice and both were good runs.

Bea:  Thank you Bill.

Bill:  I want everyone to know that when Management scheduled me in a match against Ciaran Doyle with Ryan Keys as the Special Guest Referee of course my first thought was that Ryan, and possibly someone in Management, is trying to get me to get hurt and not be able to perform well at INTO THE VOID XV. I came out of that match fine. Ciaran came out of the match fine. As for Ryan Keys I feel his did a great job serving as Referee for our match. We here in Sin City Wrestling take wrestling seriously or we would not be here performing week and week. Ryan did a good job of officiating the match and Ciaran performed well and didn’t violate the rules as much as I expected him to.

Bea:  What is the bottom line in your match Bill?

Bill:  The goal for the three of us involved in this match is to be able to be the wrestler who can climb to the top of the ladder and grab the Contract. Since there are three of us trying to accomplish the same thing there is no way to know which one of us will be the fortunate one to obtain the Contract. With the Contract comes the authority to assign the other wrestlers to matches for an entire Climax Control event. Oh, man, that will be extremely fun for me to do! Since our match is not a Roulette Rules match, as it is a King For A Day Ladder match to decide which of us will become King For A day I wanted to ensure this match would not be one ruined by outside interference and other vile things. There has to be a bottom line in matches such as this.

Bea:  What is the bottom line you talk about in your match?

Bill:  Well, Bea, it is like this. I honestly don’t care what Ryan and Ciaran do in our match as I am going into our match knowing that the three of us will be rough, tough, and brutal, and that is how a KING FOR A DAY match should be. However I draw the line at my opponents hiring people to run-in on our match and attack me. There is no need to arrange for interference in our match because I am not a coward who feels their wrestling abilities are at such a low level that they have to cheat. I am sure that Ryan and Ciaran both know then fall way short of my wrestling abilities and they already know, before we step into the ring, that I will win our match so that makes the two of the desperate. Bea all I need it you and Iris to keep a watch from ringside so if my opponents arrange for people to run in on our match to attack me you let me know. From that point on I will shift into high gear and beat the hell out of both Ryan and Ciaran. And after I beat them down if they whine about the beat down I will remind them that by calling for interference in our match from their friends they hired to attack me and that whatever beat-down I lay on them. . .well. . .they deserved what they got.

Bea:  Heavy comments there Bill but I understand why you feel that way as you have suffered with so many matches where your coward opponents had to hire outside interference to cheat you out of your wins.

Bill:  Bea it is like this. I go into every match with my focus on winning the match and easily defeating my opponents. There are only a few wrestlers in Sin City Wrestling who can come up to my level of performance and one of them is Ryan Keys who is one of my opponents in the KING FOR A DAY LADDER MATCH. Ryan Keys is a lot like me in that he comes into his matches positive he has the abilities to win the match. In normal circumstances Ryan does not resort to violating the rules and asking others to run into his match to help him obtain a win. I admire that in my opponents. Ciaran, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to be able to put his wrestling attire on, lace up his boots, and be able to walk to the ring for his match without tripping over the laces on his boots. I will admit that Ciaran is able to violate the rules, hire interference in order to overcome and defeat opponents, and he talks a lot of smack. There are downfalls to that type of behavior. If a wrestler is not capable or properly lacing up their wrestling boots then they are an idiot to be in the sport of wrestling. If a wrestler is not able to be competitive in the wrestling ring and they have to hire interference from others to attack your opponent or opponents then they are an idiot to be in the sport of wrestling.

Bea:  Well-stated Bill.

Bill:  Bea your responsibility as my Manager being in my corner in my KING FOR A DAY LADDER MATCH is to ensure the Referee calls my match properly. Your responsibility as my Manager in this match is to ensure that Ryan Keys and Ciaran Doyle is to make sure nobody associated with Ryan or Ciaran are not paid to interfere in my match to cause me to lose the match. You need to keep the Referee informed when my opponent send interference to the ring to try to cheat me out of my win. Bea, as my Manager, and with our English Bulldog Iris with you at ringside, you need to hold the Referee of my match to the highest standards of being a Referee in the sport of wrestling.

Bea:  Thank you for the vote of confidence. I am looking forward to you winning the KING FOR A DAY honors. Also I will do all I can to earn the Bombshell Roulette Championship.

Bill:  Thank you Bea. I am done with my comments for today and I will have more comments coming soon.

Bea informs the camera person that she and Bill are done with their comments for their upcoming matches and that they can cut their camera feed now. The camera person calls into the Network to inform them that Bill and Bea are done with their comments and to have them let him shut down his camera. When they Network informs them to cut their camera feet they do so and our screen goes dark.

[RyanKeys]

The Bruised Version

Universal Studios Japan
Osaka, Japan

Ryan Keys was already having a good time as he walked through Universal Studios Japan with Aron Baltasarsson at his side, drink in one hand, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, and his attention moving from the rides to the shops to the food stands like he was trying to look at everything at once. Music played over the walkways. Kids ran ahead of their parents. People came out of gift shops with bags in both hands like they had gone in for one small thing and lost a fight near the register.

Ryan understood that feeling way too well.

The place reminded him of Vegas in some ways, only cleaner, brighter, and with fewer people yelling at slot machines. Aron walked beside him in a light jacket and dark sunglasses, calm as always. He looked like he might be enjoying himself, but with Aron that mostly meant he was not trying to leave.

Ryan pointed his drink toward a group walking by with cartoon hats. “Okay, I get it now. This place is dangerous.”

Aron glanced over. “Dangerous?”

“Wallet dangerous,” Ryan said. “You walk in here thinking you’re a grown man with grown-up money, and ten minutes later you’re holding a popcorn bucket shaped like a star, trying to convince yourself you needed it.”

Aron looked toward the souvenir stand Ryan had been pretending not to stare at and pointed out that Ryan had already looked at it four times. Ryan took a sip from his drink like that made him less obvious and called it scouting. When Aron asked if he meant scouting for merchandise, Ryan only said maybe. There was no point pretending anymore. He had already picked out a few things he wanted, and Aron could judge him quietly like a professional.

The only thing slowing him down was the ache in his neck and back. He could ignore it for a little while, but every few minutes it came back like it wanted attention. It had been there since Copenhagen, when he wore the referee shirt, did his job, sent Bea Barnhart out, and still ended the night taking a low blow and a piledriver.

Very normal work benefits.

Ryan shifted his weight without thinking, and his lower back answered right away. He stopped for half a second, then tried to play it off like that was exactly what he meant to do.

Aron looked at him.

Ryan pointed at him with the straw. “Don’t.”

“I said nothing.”

“Your eyebrows did.”

“My eyebrows are concerned.”

“They need to mind their business.”

Ryan took another careful sip and looked toward one of the rides as a loud round of screams came from somewhere above them. It made him grin again. People paid money, got thrown around by machines, came out dizzy, and somehow called it fun. He respected that more than he probably should.

“You know,” Ryan said, watching the ride disappear behind one of the buildings, “Harley would love this place.”

Aron’s face softened a little. “Yes, he would.”

“He’d be gone by now grabbing everything that wasn’t nailed down,” Ryan said, looking toward the shops again. “He’d say he was only looking, then come back with snacks, a hoodie, something spooky, and a hat he’d swear was for me. Then he’d wear it the whole day and act like I was the problem.”

“That sounds likely.”

“Very likely. Dangerously likely.”

Ryan almost reached for his phone, then stopped himself. He could already hear Harley’s reply if he sent a picture of one of the hats. Something dramatic. Something insulting. Probably ending with, “Buy it.” He smiled down at his drink instead, and when he looked back up, Aron was watching him with that quiet manager face that somehow said too much without saying anything.

Ryan squinted at him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That was not a nothing face.”

“It was a manager face.”

“Worse.”

Aron let it go, but only for a few seconds. Ryan shifted again, and the smile tightened around the edges. Aron told him he was still hurting, and Ryan looked over like the truth had personally annoyed him.

“I’m fine.”

“That is what wrestlers say when they are not fine.”

“No, that’s what wrestlers say when they are fine enough to walk around a theme park and make good choices about hats.”

Aron looked toward the stand again. “You are not buying the hat.”

“You don’t know my story.”

“I know your credit card statement.”

Ryan lowered the drink from his mouth. “That was unnecessary.”

“It was accurate.”

Ryan laughed, then regretted it right away. His ribs pinched, his back tightened, and he winced after a cough that did not fool either one of them. Aron did not say anything. He did not need to. Ryan waved him off and let out a breath.

“I know. I was hit hard.”

“You were hit cheap,” Aron said.

Ryan gave him a quick look, half annoyed and half amused. “Exactly. See, you get it.”

He shook his head as they started moving again. “Can I ask something?”

“You usually do.”

“Why does everybody go low?” Ryan asked. “Like, seriously. Buy a guy dinner first.”

Aron took a slow breath through his nose, trying to hide a chuckle, while Ryan waved vaguely with his drink.

“It’s like I’ve got a magnet down there.”

A family passed by, laughing over a tray of food, and a vendor called out from a cart. The park kept moving, loud and bright, and Ryan was glad for it. He did not want the whole day to feel like Copenhagen. He wanted to enjoy himself, even if his body kept reminding him that it had complaints.

He adjusted his stance and muttered, “I can still have fun. I’m just gonna complain while I do it.”

Aron heard him anyway and said that sounded more honest than saying he was fine. Ryan glanced over and gave a small shrug. “I am fine. Just the remix version. Limited edition bruised version. Very rare. Slightly damaged. Still overpriced.”

Aron looked him over for a moment. “That does sound like you.”

Ryan smiled. “See? Healing.”

They moved toward a railing where the crowd thinned a little. Ryan leaned against it carefully, then looked toward a gift shop window where a mannequin wore a bright themed jacket that probably cost too much and served no purpose except making people stop and stare.

That meant Ryan liked it right away.

“Okay,” Ryan said, nodding toward it. “I have an idea.”

Aron turned his head toward him. “You often do.”

“That sounded almost supportive.”

“It was not.”

“I’ll take it anyway.” Ryan nodded toward the stores and signs around them. “Every big show, I should do something with the gear. Not random. Not just ‘Ryan found shiny fabric and blacked out,’ even though I will defend shiny until my last breath. I mean something that fits the show. The city. The place. The whole mood of it. Something fun.”

Aron looked at the jacket in the window. “You are thinking of Sasha.”

“Of course I’m thinking of Sasha,” Ryan said. “Sasha Seams was born for this. That queen could look at a piece of fabric and know exactly how to make it louder. If I call her and say, ‘Theme park pay-per-view ladder match in Japan,’ I know she already has four ideas, two insults, and one warning about my measurements.”

Aron gave him a side look.

Ryan held up a hand. “Fashion is personal, Aron.”

“I have learned that.”

Ryan’s energy picked up as he talked. The soreness did not leave, but now he had something else to focus on. He looked around at the park, then back toward Aron.

“Think about it. We’re at Universal Studios Japan. This whole tour has been theme parks, roller coasters, bright lights, all of it. Into the Void should feel like the end of that tour. Not me walking in wearing regular gear like I got lost on the way to catering. I want something that says I got the memo.”

Aron nodded. “You want the gear to match the moment.”

“Exactly. See? That is why you’re management. You say things like that and suddenly I sound like I have a plan.”

“You do have a plan.”

“Let’s not get carried away.”

A kid walked by wearing a bright character hat, arms out as he spun in a circle. Ryan watched him and smiled again. Harley would buy the hat, say it was for Ryan, then wear it for two hours.

Ryan almost reached for his phone again. This time his thumb brushed the edge of it before he stopped himself. Later, he would send Harley something. Probably a picture of the hat with no context. Harley would understand, or he would make fun of him until he did.

“And gear is only part of it,” Ryan said, turning back to Aron. “I’ve been thinking bigger. Commercials. Merchandise. More than the usual stuff. If SCW is doing this whole theme park tour, why not use the people who fit that energy? Put me in a promo package, a commercial, a goofy park thing, whatever. And give me a shirt that doesn’t look like someone made it during a power outage.”

Aron watched him for a second. “You want me to speak with the higher-ups.”

“I’m asking if you already did.”

“I asked around,” Aron said. “Nothing promised. They want consistency first.”

Ryan’s grin settled a little.

“So win,” Ryan said. “Show up. Don’t get distracted. Keep building.”

Aron nodded once. “That is the short version.”

Ryan looked back toward the park and smiled. “Good. Short works.”

Ryan looked toward the ride structure cutting across the sky. For a second, his mind put the ladder there. Not exactly. Just the shape of it. The climb. The prize hanging where everyone could see it and everyone could stop him from getting it.

________

That was the real reason everything kept coming back around.

Into the Void.

King For A Day.

Bill Barnhart, Ciaran Doyle, and Ryan Keys in a ladder match with the crown waiting above them.

Ryan took another sip from his drink, made a face because it was still too sweet, and then let out a quiet laugh.

“You know, a theme park tour should have been perfect for me,” Ryan said. “Bright lights, big noise, weird hats, snacks I absolutely do not need. This should have been my dream tour. And somehow I still ended up limping through part of it because Bill Barnhart lost his temper in Copenhagen.”

Aron stayed beside him, quiet for once.

“I was the referee. That was the job. I wore the shirt, counted fair, caught Bea getting involved, sent her out, and called the match right down the middle. Ciaran beat Bill. That happened. Bill did not like it, and instead of taking that like a grown man, he hit me low and dropped me on my head.”

Ryan shifted his shoulders and gave a small, annoyed smile.

“So yeah, Bill, since we’re talking about Into the Void, let’s start with you. You’re dangerous. I already know that. I’m not going to stand here and act like you can’t hurt people, because my neck would call me a liar. You hit hard, you’re stubborn, and you’ve been around long enough to know how to make a match ugly fast.”

His grin came back a little.

“But that’s also the problem. You get mad, and you get sloppy. You got mad in Copenhagen and attacked the ref because the night didn’t go your way. That tells me something. If this ladder match starts going wrong for you, you’re going to want to hurt somebody more than you want to climb. And Bill, if you come into this match looking for payback, then thank you. Seriously. That makes my job easier.”

Ryan pointed loosely ahead with his drink.

“I’m not climbing that ladder to get even with you. I’m climbing it to win. If you want to chase me around the ring because you’re still mad about Copenhagen, go ahead. I’ll be the guy letting you waste your time while I keep my eyes on the crown.”

Aron looked over at him. “That is probably the smarter plan.”

Ryan gave him a look. “Do not sound so surprised.”

“I am not surprised.”

“You sounded a little surprised.”

“I sounded reasonable.”

“That’s worse.”

Ryan smiled, then looked back toward the park again.

“And then there’s Ciaran Doyle. Ciaran, you’re the one walking into this with momentum. You beat Bill. You earned that. I’m not taking it from you, and I’m not going to act like you got lucky just because that would make my life easier. You handled him. You got your hand raised. Now you get to walk into Into the Void knowing you already proved something.”

Ryan nodded once, like he meant it.

“But momentum can mess with your head too. You win one big match, and suddenly the next big moment feels like it’s already waiting for you. You start reaching. You start climbing too soon. You start thinking because the last chapter went your way, the next one owes you the same thing.”

Ryan turned his attention back to the path ahead, and his tone settled again.

“Ciaran, I don’t think you’re careless. I think you’re hungry. That’s different. Hunger can be good. Hunger gets you moving. Hunger makes you fight harder. But in a ladder match, too hungry can get you pulled off the rungs and introduced to the floor. I’ve seen it happen. I’ve probably done it to somebody. Very athletic. Very educational.”

Aron looked at him.

“What? I learned.”

Ryan smiled a little, then kept going.

“Bill has power. Ciaran has momentum. I’m not ignoring either one. But I have something too. I know how to move when everything gets loud. That’s what people keep missing about me. They see the jokes, the smile, the gear, the crowd stuff, and they think I’m just out there having fun.”

He grinned.

“I am having fun. Obviously. Look at me.”

Aron gave him a slow look.

Ryan lifted a hand. “Okay, maybe don’t look too hard right now. Limited edition bruised version. Still stylish.”

That got the smallest reaction out of Aron, and Ryan took it as a win.

“But fun doesn’t mean I’m lost. Fun doesn’t mean I’m not paying attention. Copenhagen proved that. I caught Bea. I called the match clean. I saw what needed to be seen. Then Bill hit me cheap after the bell, and yeah, he put me down. I’m not changing that part. But I got back up. I’m here now. I’m sore, I’m annoyed, I’m still making bad choices in a theme park, and I’m still thinking clearly.”

He looked up toward the ride structure again.

“King For A Day is not just some shiny thing to hold up for a picture. It means the winner gets to book part of a future show, choose matches, and actually put their ideas on the card. And yeah, if I win, it’s going to be fun. There will probably be color, noise, and at least one idea that makes management rub their temples.”

“At least one,” Aron said.

“At least one,” Ryan agreed. “But I wouldn’t waste it. If I get that kind of say for one night, I want to put matches together that people actually remember.”

Aron studied him for a moment. “That is why the merchandise matters to you.”

Ryan shrugged. “Partly. I mean, I would also enjoy seeing my face on things. I’m not going to lie about that.”

“No one believed you would.”

“Good. But it is bigger than that. Gear, merch, commercials, the way I walk into a pay-per-view, the way people remember the night after it’s over, all of that is part of building something. I don’t want to be the guy who just shows up, does a little dance, gets hit in the crotch, and goes home. I want to be the guy who takes the moment and does something with it.”

He paused, then smiled.

“Something fun. Something loud. Something very Ryan Keys.”

Aron nodded once. “That sounds accurate.”

Ryan took one last look around the park, then back toward Aron.

“So Bill can come in mad. Ciaran can come in hungry. I’m coming in ready. Bruised, sure. Slightly damaged. Still overpriced. But ready.”

He lifted the drink slightly.

“I know Bill can hurt me. He already did. I know Ciaran can beat Bill. He already did. I know this match can go bad fast because ladder matches are basically OSHA violations with better lighting.”

Aron looked at him. “That is one way to put it.”

“But I can win it,” Ryan said. “Because I’m not walking in blind. I know what Bill does when he gets frustrated. I know Ciaran is going to come in believing this is his next big step. I know both of them have reasons to climb.”

Ryan smiled, not bigger this time, just sure.

“So do I.”

For a second, Aron did not say anything.

Ryan nodded toward the souvenir stand.

“Still buying something before we leave.”

“For Harley?”

Ryan smiled. “That’s the responsible answer.”

Aron gave him a slow look, and Ryan held it for half a second before giving up.

“Fine. I also want the hat.”

“I know.”

“Supportive managers let a man lie to himself a little.”

They started walking again, back into the color and noise of the park. Ryan was still sore. Copenhagen was still there in his body. Into the Void was waiting in Osaka with Bill Barnhart, Ciaran Doyle, a ladder, and a crown that could give him the keys to part of a future show.

[Celtic Thunder]

McMullan’s Irish Pub -
Las Vegas

McMullan’s Irish Pub sat in the heart of Las Vegas like a stubborn little piece of home that had refused to be swallowed by the desert.

Inside, it was all warm wood, dark booths and the steady low noise of people trying to forget they were in a city built on money and bad decisions. The restaurant section was busy without being loud. Most of the noise belonged to the bar, while the tables carried the softer sounds of diners eating and casual conversation.

And at a booth near the back, Ciarán Doyle sat alone with his back to the wall. He had not wanted to come out. He had stood in his hotel room for nearly twenty minutes, arguing with himself over whether hunger was worth the effort of being seen by other people. Still, leaving had felt like a bigger thing than it should have. In the end, hunger won out. Or perhaps pride. Maybe some tiny, exhausted part of him had finally gotten sick of staring at the same room, pretending it wasn’t really hiding.

Now he sat in McMullan’s, staring down at a plate of shepherd’s pie with a half-finished pint of Guinness beside it, trying to convince himself this counted as normal. He had eaten half of it already without tasting much of anything. He lifted his fork, stopped, then sighed through his nose.

The pub should have helped. Places like this usually did. There was comfort in Irish accents, authentic or Americans doing their best after a couple pints. There was comfort in the decor and the familiar names on the menu. It wasn’t Killarney. It wasn’t Kerry. Not even close.

But it was nearer than the hotel room, and for tonight, that had to be enough.

Ciarán reached for his pint and took a measured drink. The Guinness settled bitter and familiar on his tongue. He closed his eyes for a second, letting the cold glass rest against his palm, and tried not to think about the things Ruairí had said before he left.

Ruairí had always been able to get under his skin, not because he was cruel, but because he loved Ciarán too well to let him get away with lying to himself. There had been no grand speech. Just Ruairí’s voice, steady and careful, telling him what could be done. Everything he needed to know if he wanted justice enough to humiliate himself.

And how none of it had been Ciarán’s fault.

That was the part that kept returning to the forefront of his mind. None of it had been his fault. Simple words, but cruel. Because if he believed them, then he would have to face what came next. He would have to admit how much of himself he had folded away so no one else would notice the damage. He would have to stop calling survival the same thing as healing.

A burst of laughter came from two tables over. Ciarán glanced that way out of instinct, then lowered his eyes again when he saw nothing but a family sharing chips from a basket. Normal. Harmless. The kind of thing that made him feel foolish for being wound so tight. He was about to take another bite of his dinner when a small voice spoke beside the booth.

“Excuse me?”

Ciarán looked up. A boy stood there, barely having entered his teens, holding a phone in both hands. He was a lad that was obviously working overtime to make himself seen and be comfortable whether people liked what they saw or not. He had dyed hair, a denim jacket covered in pins, and the anxious look of someone who had spent five full minutes talking himself into taking three steps across a restaurant.

Ciarán blinked once, then softened his face.

“All right there?”

The boy swallowed and found his voice, “You’re Ciarán Doyle, aren’t you?”

“I am, yeah.”

“I’m sorry. I know you’re eating. I just...” The boy glanced down at the phone, then back up. “Could I maybe get a picture? It’s okay if not.”

Before Ciarán could answer, a female adult hurried up behind him, face flushed with embarrassment.

“Oh my God, I am so sorry!” The parent put a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. “We talked about not interrupting you while you’re eating. I’m sorry, he just got excited!”

Ciarán set his fork down and shook his head.

“No harm done. Truly.” He gave the boy a small smile and beckoned the boy closer with a wave of his hand.

“Are you sure?” The Mom asked. “We can leave you alone.”

“`Course I’m sure.” Ciarán slid out of the booth and straightened his jacket. “Come on, then. We’ll make it a good one, yeah?”

The boy’s face lit up so brightly that, for a moment, Ciarán forgot the heaviness that had followed him all day. They stood beside the booth while the Mom took the phone. The boy hovered awkwardly, unsure how close to stand, so Ciarán angled himself beside him with respectful space and gave the camera a faint smirk that betrayed more confidence than he felt. The Mom counted down, took the picture, then checked it.

“That’s great.” She said. “Thank you so much.”

The boy took the phone back but did not immediately move away. His fingers tightened around it.

“I just wanted to say…” He began, then stopped, cheeks going red. “Sorry. This is stupid.”

Ciarán’s expression changed, just slightly.

“It’s not stupid if it matters to you.”

The boy looked up at him then, and there was something painfully sincere in his face.

“I just wanted to say … thank you. For, you know, being yourself. The way you talk and dress and carry yourself and don’t apologize for it.” He gave a nervous little shrug. “It helped me. A lot. Helped me be more myself, I guess.”

The words landed harder than any chair shot ever could.

For a second, Ciarán did not answer. He knew how to take a compliment about a match. He knew how to shrug off praise and how to make himself sound clever and untouchable. He knew how to stand in front of a camera and sell himself to make certain all eyes would be on him.

But this was different. This was not about wrestling, not really. This was a boy standing in a Las Vegas pub telling him that his existence had made his life a little easier to bear.

And all Ciarán could think was that he was a fraud. He cleared his throat and asked, “What’s yer name?”

After a moment’s hesitation, the teen answered, “Kirk.”

“That’s not a small thing, Kirk.” Ciarán said quietly. “Bein’ yourself. Don’t ever let anyone make you think it is.”

The boy nodded, eyes shiny now. He said, “I won’t.”

The parent’s face softened. They thanked him again, more quietly this time, then guided the boy away from the booth.

Ciarán remained standing for a moment.

He watched them return to their table. He watched the boy sit down and immediately show the picture to someone else at the table.

Then Ciarán slowly sat back down.

His shepherd’s pie had begun to cool. He picked up his fork, but his appetite had gone strange and distant. The pub noise returned around him, but it felt muffled now, like he was underwater. He stared at the plate, at the pint, at his own hands resting beside them.

Thank you for being you.

Ciarán let out a breath that almost became a laugh and almost became something worse. “If only you knew.” He whispered to himself.

But that was the thing, wasn’t it? The boy did not know. His fans did not know. His opponents did not know. The people watching him walk into Into the Void XV against Bulldog Bill Barnhart and Ryan Keys did not know. Maybe Ruairí knew pieces now. Maybe enough pieces to understand the shape of it. But his family? His mother?

Siobhan Doyle knew her son as sharp-tongued, stubborn, dramatic and loving when cornered into admitting it. She knew the boy who had torn through the house in Killarney with too much energy and too many opinions. She knew the young man who abandoned a lucrative career as a male danger without explanation to join the rough and tumble world of professional wrestling without a single word of reason.

She did not know. He had kept what happened to him from her.

At first, he had told himself it was kindness. She did not need the pain. She did not need the details. She did not need to picture her son hurt or violated. What mother deserved that? What good would it do to put that image in her head?

Then, over time, the excuse had changed shape. It became easier to say nothing because saying something meant tearing the old wound open. It meant watching her face change. It meant hearing the silence after the words left his mouth. It meant letting himself be someone’s son instead of someone’s fighter, someone’s mouthy bastard, someone else’s problem.

Ciarán swallowed hard and reached for his Guinness.

By the time he left McMullan’s, the sky over Las Vegas had gone dark. He took a rideshare back to the hotel and said almost nothing to the driver beyond a polite greeting and a thank you. He had dragged himself out of the room to eat. Somehow, he came back with more baggage than what he left with.

The hotel room was exactly as he had left it. Too neat in the way temporary spaces always were. Ciarán shut the door behind him and took off his jacket and threw it over the chair. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together.

For a while, he did nothing. He thought of the boy in the pub.

“Thank you for helping me be myself.”

He leaned back and rubbed both hands over his face. His body ached from the tension he carried so constantly that he barely noticed it. Into the Void XV waited ahead of him. “Bulldog” Bill Barnhart waited ahead of him. Ryan Keys waited ahead of him. The match, the chance to prove himself on a stage that could change the shape of things.

But none of that felt as terrifying as him picking up the phone.

Ciarán glanced at it where it lay on the nightstand. The screen was dark. He did not need to touch it to know what he would find. Messages he had answered too late. Calls he had dodged with excuses. His mother’s name, buried beneath travel alerts and work texts. But he picked it up anyway.

The screen lit against his face.

There was a message from his Mum from two days earlier.

“Saw the card for Into the Void. Your auntie says Bill Barnhart looks like he bites. Please don’t let him. Your sister thinks Ryan Keys is cute. Call when you can, love. Proud of you.”

Ciarán stared at the words until they blurred.

It was so like her that it hurt. Love and pride offered without condition. He could do it now. He could call and tell her everything through a phone line from a hotel room in Las Vegas, sitting on a bed that was not his, under lights too harsh for a confession that old. He could hear her voice crack from thousands of miles away and hate himself for not being there to take her hand.

No. Not like that.

Some truths deserved to be spoken face to face.

Ruairí had given him information. The fan had given him a mirror. His mother had given him a way back without even knowing it.

Ciarán lowered the phone slowly into his lap.

For a second, the old voice rose up in him. The one that said he was being selfish. The one that said his mother did not need this. The one that said he had lived this long with the silence, so what was another week, another month, another year?

Then he remembered the boy’s face.

He remembered telling him he was proud. He remembered Ruairí looking at him like he was worth saving, even when he did not know what to do with that. He remembered his mother’s message, waiting there with a joke and a warning and pride that had never asked him to earn it.

Ciarán tightened his grip around the phone and he started to dial.

Killarney, County Kerry, Ireland.

Rain pelted the edges of the street beneath a gray sky. Having been in Las Vegas for so long, Ciarán had to admit he missed the constant rains of Ireland, something fierce.

Siobhan Doyle’s house sat in a modest middle-class neighborhood on the quieter side of town, away from the worst of the tourist rush. The homes were well kept, a mix of semi-detached and detached houses with tidy front gardens, low stone walls, narrow drives, and bins tucked near side gates. A few had flower boxes beneath the windows despite the weather. A bicycle leaned against a house beneath a covered entry. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked once and then lost interest in whatever had captured its attention.

The house that Ciarán and his family grew up in.

Cream walls. Dark roof. A blue-gray front door with a brass letterbox polished brighter than necessary. Two pots of flowers sat on either side of the step, because his mother had always believed a front door should look like someone cared. The curtains in the sitting room window were half drawn, and warm light glowed behind them.

Ciarán stood at the edge of the small front path with his bag in one hand and for a moment, he could not move. The hardest distance was not the distance between Las Vegas and Ireland. It was the few steps between the pavement and that blue-gray door.

Through the window, he saw a shape move behind the curtain. His mother, perhaps. Somewhere inside that house was the smell of tea, laundry detergent, old photographs, and the particular warmth of a simple thing called home.

Then, he walked up the path. At the door, he set his bag beside him and lifted his hand to rap on the hard wood. He could have simply walked in. He had a key, it was his home. But a small part of him continued to hold back, feeling the part of an outsider.

Then footsteps approached from the other side. A latch turned, the door opened and Siobhan Doyle stood there.

His Mum.

Her red hair was lightly streaked with snow white strands and pulled back, a cardigan wrapped around her shoulders, and her face held the distracted look of someone expecting a neighbor, a parcel, or a question about a car parked too close to the curb.

Then she saw her son standing before her and her eyes widened.

The surprise came first. Then delight, sudden and bright, breaking over her face so openly that Ciarán felt every mile he had traveled lodge behind his ribs.

“Ciarán!”


"I’ll admit it. I’m excited."

"First time in Japan. First time standin’ under those lights in a country where wrestling is treated with the kind of reverence it deserves. There’s history there. There’s a standard there. And for a lad like me, walkin’ into Osaka for Into the Void XV with a chance to become King For A Day? That’s not a small thing. That’s one of those moments you know you’ll remember, win or lose."

"But let’s be honest, I’m not goin’ there to take in the sights, bow politely, and say thanks for havin’ me. I’m goin’ there to climb a ladder, take the crown, and change the course of my career!"

"Now, a Triple Threat match on its own is already a different beast, isn’t it? One-on-one, you know where the danger is comin’ from. You can read one man. You can feel the rhythm of one opponent. But when there’s three of you in there, the whole thing becomes timing and strategy. It becomes knowin’ when to strike, when to wait, when to let two other men beat lumps out of each other while you keep just enough in the tank to take advantage."

"But then SCW looked at that and said, ‘No, no, let’s make the poor bastards climb for it too!’"

"So now you throw ladders into the mix, and the whole match changes, doesn’t it? Strategy still matters, but suddenly speed matters more. Luck matters more. Placement matters more. Bein’ in the right place at the right second matters more than bein’ the toughest man in the ring."

"Because nobody has to pin anybody. Nobody has to tap anybody out. Nobody has to prove they can hold another man’s shoulders down for three seconds or twist a limb until he begs for mercy."

"No. This match is about one thing. Who can climb the ladder fastest and reach that crown above the ring."

"And that brings me to Ryan Keys."

"Ryan, I’m not goin’ to stand here and insult you like you’re some afterthought, because you’re not. You’re a former two-time Roulette Champion. Twice, you held a championship built on chaos, surprises, stipulations, and the kind of madness that makes lesser men panic before the bell even rings."

"That tells me plenty. It tells me you can adapt. It tells me you can take whatever gets thrown at you and find a way through it. It tells me you’re not afraid of a match where the rules can twist sideways and the floor can fall out beneath your feet. And in a ladder match, that matters. Maybe more than anything else."

"I respect that. I respect you. But respect doesn’t mean I’m steppin’ aside for you. Respect doesn’t mean I’ll hesitate if you’re halfway up that ladder and I’ve got the chance to pull you back down. Respect doesn’t mean I won’t use every second, every opening, every mistake you make to make sure you’re lookin’ up at me when I take that crown."

"You’ve been a Roulette Champion twice, Ryan. That’s an achievement. Truly. But at Into the Void, that experience only gets you so far. Because there’s no wheel to spin, no title to defend, no referee countin’ a fall. There’s only a ladder, a crown, and the question of whether you’re fast enough to reach it before I do."

"And then there’s Bulldog Bill Barnhart."

"Bill, do you know what annoys me most about you? It’s not the barkin’. It’s not the ego. It’s not even the way you carry yourself like every room should be grateful you bothered to walk into it. It’s that I respected you. I did. I respected what you’d done. I respected the career, the years, the toughness, the fact that you’ve been around long enough to earn the right to be called a veteran. I looked at you and thought, ‘There’s a man who’s seen it all and maybe there’s somethin’ to learn from him.’"

"Then you attacked me and Ryan from behind. And just like that, all that respect took a nasty little tumble down the stairs. Because that’s not veteran instinct, Bill. That’s not ring general brilliance. That’s not some grand psychological masterstroke from the old dog teachin’ the younger lads a lesson. That’s cowardice dressed up in experience."

"And I have to say, I’m startin’ to see how you and Bea are right made for one another. Because the two of you have this gift, don’t ye? This remarkable talent for actin’ like every nasty, underhanded, miserable thing you do is somehow everyone else’s fault. You swing first, then cry disrespect. You cheap-shot people, then talk about bein’ owed admiration. You behave like a bully, then expect the world to applaud your courage. Or ye just deny what everyone saw you do in the first place an’ tell bold faced lies!”

"No, Bill."

"You don’t get to attack people from behind and then demand to be treated like some noble old warrior. You don’t get to bark about respect after throwin’ yours in the bin. And you definitely don’t get to pretend I’m supposed to be intimidated because you’ve been around longer than me! Because all that experience won’t mean a damn thing if you’re too slow to stop me climbin’."

"And that’s what this match comes down to, doesn’t it? Not who hits hardest. Not who talks loudest. Not who has the most years behind him or the most titles on his résumé. Not who can grind out a submission or steal a pinfall when somebody else isn’t lookin’."

"No pins. No submissions. No escape clause. Just a crown hangin’ above the ring, three men beneath it, and one ladder that can turn a career in a matter of seconds."

"Ryan Keys wants to prove he’s still dangerous in chaos. Bulldog Bill Barnhart wants to prove the old dog still has teeth."

"An’ me?"

"I’m goin’ to prove that the future doesn’t ask permission from the past before it climbs over it."

"So Ryan, bring that Roulette Champion credibility. Bring the speed, bring the creativity, bring every bit of chaos you’ve mastered!"

"Bill, bring the size, bring the experience, bring Bea’s excuses with you if you need emotional support."

"But understand this, lads. I’m not goin’ to Osaka just to participate in some spectacle. I’m not goin’ all the way to Japan to be a footnote in someone else’s story. I’m not climbin’ that ladder for the sake of a nice photo and a polite little pat on the back. I’m climbin’ because that crown means control."

"It means opportunity. It means power. It means the chance to stand in front of SCW and say, ‘Now you listen to me.’”

“And maybe that’s what scares the two of you most. Because I’m not the biggest man in this match. I’m not the most decorated. I’m not the veteran. I’m not the former two-time Roulette Champion. But I am fast. I am hungry. I am clever enough to know that in a match like this, one second is all it takes."

"One slip. One bad landing. One hand reaching too slow. One look in the wrong direction. And while the two of you are busy provin’ who’s tougher, I’ll be the one above you, reaching for the crown."

"So at Into the Void XV, in Osaka, Japan, the three of us are goin’ to find out who can climb fastest, who can think sharpest, and who fate decides to smile on when steel ladders start crashin’ and bodies start fallin’."

"And if that sounds mad to you, well… I don’t get it either."

[Andrew]

BILL BARNHART SECOND PROMO FOR INTO THE VOID XV

Bea Barnhart has finished with her comments leading up to her Bombshell Roulette Championship match against Harper Mason, Seleana Zdunich, and Brittany Williams. She steps to the side to allow the camera person a clear shot of Bill who is about to launch into his second round of comments concerning his KING FOR A DAY LADDER MATCH against Ryan Keys and Ciaran Doyle.

Bill:  Bea after your great comments on your upcoming match against Harper Mason, Seleana Zdunich, and Brittany Williams, you are glowing with a positive attitude. Now it is my time to continue my comments for my KING FOR A DAY LADDER MATCH against Ryan Keys and Ciaran Doyle.

Bea:  Due to the fact that you admire the wrestling talent of Ryan Keys and you treat Ciaran Doyle as the fake wrestler in your match I see you having a great match and I predict you will win the KING FOR A DAY honors.

Bill:  I want that also Bea. However in my long wrestling career I have come to realize that thinking too far ahead causes more problems than they resolve. I am going into this match like I do in every match I am assigned to and my goal is to out maneuver, out wrestler, and out-think Ryan and Ciaran while I grab the Crown then I am officially the KING FOR A DAY.

Bea:  Is there anything different you want me to do while serving as your Manager for your match?

Bill:  Bea your job as my Manager is primarily to keep an eye on the Referee to ensure they call a fair match for all the wrestlers involved in the match. As a Manager you are also charged with continually checking the ringside area to ensure people siding with my opponents do not interfere in the match to attempt to cheat me out of a win. I have no clue how scared Ryan and Ciaran are coming into this match. However I can, with confidence, promise them that I am going to enter the ring with the goal of winning the KING FOR A DAY honors and leaving the two of them looking at me holding the KING FOR A DAY CROWN while the two of them question how I was easily able to defeat them and earn KING FOR A DAY honors.

Bea:  I am sure you will win this match and then have fun creating matches for the wrestlers to abide by your rules. You have a long history of defeating people, both regular people, sports persons, and wrestlers, so you will do fine and exit your KING FOR A DAY LADDER MATCH with the contract that allows you to create interesting, amusing, and dangerous, matches for the others in Sin City Wrestling.

Bill:  I have had my say for today. The next time people will see me in action is on Sunday, May 3, 2025, when INTO THE VOID XV is officially underway. With you expected to win your BOMBSHELL ROULETTE CHAMPIONSHIP, and with me expected to win the KING FOR A DAY LADDER MATCH, both of us will have a great celebration while those wrestlers we defeated go back to their dressing rooms and cry about their loss to us.

Bill informs the camera person that he is done with his comments for his match at INTO THE VOID XV and that the camera person can end his broadcasting with his camera. With that comment the camera person cuts their camera feed and the screen goes dark.


>

[Celtic Thunder]

Killarney, County Kerry, Ireland.

The Doyle house looked smaller to Ciarán now, though he knew it wasn’t.

The sitting room still had the same worn sofa pushed against the wall, the knitted throw folded over the back because Siobhan insisted it looked nicer that way. The bookshelf was still jammed with paperbacks, framed school photos, old DVDs, and the little ceramic cottages she kept buying from charity shops while claiming she had no interest in collecting anything. The mantelpiece carried the usual family pictures in mismatched frames: Róisín with a missing front tooth, Ciarán scowling in a school uniform, Ciarán at some cousin’s wedding with his arm around his sister.

The kitchen sat just beyond the sitting room through the open doorway. It smelled faintly of tea, toast, and furniture polish - the three staples of the Doyle household. The little table by the back window was marked from years of family life: plates set down too hard, homework spread across it, bills sorted into piles, elbows during arguments, and cups of tea offered afterward because the Doyles had never been good at sitting quietly for very long.

For most of his life, home had meant noise. His mother calling from one room to another. His father grumbling about the heating. The radio left playing in the kitchen. The kettle whistling. Doors opening and closing. Someone asking where the good scissors had gone, and no one admitting they were the last one to use them.

Tonight, the quiet was wrong.

Siobhan Doyle stood near the counter with both hands wrapped around a mug she had not touched. She had fussed over him the second he stepped inside. She had pulled him through the door, touched his damp hair, scolded him for not calling, asked whether he had eaten, whether he was freezing, whether he was hurt, and asked it all so quickly he had barely managed to answer one question before the next followed.

Patrick Doyle had come in from the sitting room after hearing Siobhan say their son’s name in a tone she did not use for anything ordinary. He had stopped when he saw Ciarán in the hall, rain on his jacket and a bag at his feet.

“Jaysus!” Patrick had said, surprise breaking across his face before he covered it with habit. “Look what the cat dragged in!”

That was Patrick all over. A rough edge first, warmth underneath. But then he had looked at Ciarán properly, and the smile had faded.

Now the three of them were in the kitchen. Siobhan had made tea because Siobhan always made tea, but no one had settled into it. Patrick sat at the table with his forearms resting on the wood, his mug untouched in front of him. Siobhan kept half-standing by the counter, as if sitting down would make the situation too real. Ciarán stood near the back door, one hand still gripping the strap of his bag even though he had already set it down.

“Will ye sit down, love?” His mum asked. “You’re makin’ me nervous standin’ there like you’re waitin’ for a bus.”

Ciarán looked at the chair across from his father. He nodded once, pulled it out, and sat.

Patrick watched him, not angry, not impatient, just worried. He had always been quieter than Siobhan when things were serious. Siobhan filled the room because she could not help herself. Patrick went still and waited until he knew what needed doing.

“All right.” Patrick said carefully. “What’s happened?”

Ciarán tried to answer. Nothing came.

Siobhan’s fingers tightened around her mug.

“Ciarán?”

He looked at her then, and that nearly finished him before he had even started. His mother was sitting at the same kitchen table where she had helped him with homework, fed him soup when he was ill, threatened to sell him to the Travellers if he dragged mud into the house one more time. Her hair was pulled back in a messy knot, her cardigan wrapped tight around her shoulders, and her face had gone pale with the understanding that this was not a surprise visit.

He swallowed.

“I need to talk to ye.”

Siobhan nodded too quickly. “Of course. Whatever it is, we’ll sort it.”

“No.” His voice came out sharper than he meant it to, and he winced at himself. “I don’t know if it can be sorted. Not like that.”

Patrick sat up a little. “Are you in trouble?”

Ciarán shook his head.

Patrick’s voice dipped lower. “Is Ruairí all right?”

That almost got him.

“Aye. Ruairí’s fine.” Ciarán rubbed both hands over his face, dragging himself through the moment by force. “He’s part of why I’m here, actually.”

Siobhan finally sat down.

“What is it luv?”

Ciarán stared at the table. There was a nick in the wood near his right hand, from years ago when he had dropped a knife trying to cut birthday cake before anyone had told him he could. He remembered his mother shouting his name, not because of the table, but because the blade had landed near his foot.

He wished this could be that simple again.

“It was last year.” He said. “Before SCW. When I was still workin’ parties an’ for Celtic Thunder.”

Siobhan’s expression changed, but not with judgment. Just confusion, then worry. “You mean dancin’?”

Ciarán gave a short nod. “Aye.”

Patrick’s mouth pressed into a hard line. He had never been thrilled about that job. Ciarán knew that. They both knew it. They had worried, especially Siobhan, because private parties with drunk strangers were exactly the sort of thing parents imagined going badly. Patrick had made a few gruff comments about hen nights and eejits with too much money, but he had never made Ciarán feel dirty for it.

He continued. “It was a hen night. They’d booked me for a private job. Nothin’ strange at first. Loud women, drink everywhere, grabby hands, jokes that stopped bein’ funny long before they stopped makin’ them. I’d handled rooms like that before.”

Siobhan’s face went very still.

“I thought I knew how to manage it.” Ciarán said, his voice shaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “That was the job, wasn’t it? Smile, flirt, keep control, get paid, get out.”

Patrick had not moved. Siobhan lifted one hand toward her mouth, then lowered it again.

“But they didn’t care about the line.” He shut his eyes. “I said no.”

The words came out almost too quietly, but both of them heard him.

“I said no more than once. I told them to stop. I tried to get out of it. And they laughed.” He opened his eyes, though he could not bring himself to look at either of them. “They raped me.”

Siobhan made a small sound, broken off almost as soon as it began. Patrick went pale.

“They dog piled me.” He said. “Like it was funny. Like I was a whore they’d booked for the night. I’d shove one off and there’d be another one there.”

Siobhan’s hand went fully to her mouth then. Her eyes filled at once.

“They handcuffed me to the bed.” His voice cracked, but he kept going because stopping would be worse. “And when I tried to yell, they stuffed something in my mouth.”

Patrick closed his eyes and stayed still. Not calm. Not even close. But still, the way a man stands at the edge of a cliff and knows one wrong movement will send him over.

“And they took pictures.” He hated how small he sounded then. How ashamed. “Videos too. While it was happenin’. Like I wasn’t even a person anymore. Like I was just some filthy joke they could keep on their phones and laugh about later.”

He swallowed hard.

“I’m sorry.” He said quickly. “I know this is a horrible thing to put on ye. I know ye didn’t ask to hear it. I know it’s not fair of me to come here and drop it in your laps like this, but I couldn’t ring ye! I couldn’t say it down a phone! I couldn’t sit in a hotel room in Las Vegas and tell me mam that her son was raped like I was givin’ her a weather update!”

“Stop.” Siobhan’s voice was quiet, but it caught him hard enough to make him look at her.

Her eyes were full of tears. Her hand shook where it rested against the table. But there was steel in her too, the kind that had raised children, buried relatives, argued with doctors, and frightened teachers who had thought her son was easy to dismiss.

“You do not apologize to us for this!” She said. “You listen to me! You do not apologize for tellin’ us you were hurt! You do not apologize for comin’ home! You do not apologize for needin’ your parents!”

Patrick pushed his chair back a little, then stopped himself. His hands had curled into fists on the table. Ciarán saw it and braced before he could stop himself, his body reacting faster than sense could catch up.

Patrick saw that too. He opened his hands slowly and laid them flat on the table.

“I’m not angry at you, son.” He said, his voice rough. “Not one damn bit!”

Ciarán looked at him.

Patrick’s eyes were wet, though he was fighting it with the usual Doyle stubbornness, as if swallowing it down might make him useful.

“I am angry.” Patrick said. “God help me, I’m angry enough to tear the world apart! But not at you. Never at you.”

Ciarán looked away, blinking hard.

“I thought ye’d hear what the job was and maybe, I don’t know.” A short, bitter laugh slipped out of him. “Maybe ye’d think I should’ve known better. That I put meself there. That I was askin’ for trouble because I made money takin’ me clothes off for drunk women who thought payin’ meant they owned me.”

Siobhan’s chair scraped back.

“Ciarán Doyle, look at me!”

He did. That tone had been law in their house since before he could remember. His mother leaned forward, both hands on the table now, her face wet and fierce.

“You were workin’!” She said. “That is all! You were doin’ a job. It does not matter what that job was. It does not matter what you were wearin’, what they paid! They had no right to you!”

His breathing shook.

“They had no right!” She repeated. “Not to your body. Not to your dignity. Not to one inch of my son!”

He looked down at himself, at the body that had carried him through matches and training and hotel rooms and airports and still felt, in that memory, like it had betrayed him.

“I froze, and they made proof of it. Pictures. Videos. Things I can’t stop existin’. I kept thinkin’ maybe if I’d done more, if I’d fought harder, if I’d been stronger, if I had been willing to hit a woman…”

He stopped there because the rest was too ugly.

Patrick stood and came around the side of the table. He did not crowd Ciarán. He lowered himself into the chair nearest him, close enough to be there, far enough not to box him in.

“No.” Patrick said. “You’re not puttin’ their crime on your shoulders because you weren't willing to hit a woman! Do you hear me?”

Ciarán could not answer.

“I don’t care if you fought like a wildcat or froze solid or went quiet or screamed the place down! None of that changes what they did!” Patrick stopped, cleared his throat, and tried again. “Survivin’ is not failure. It is not weakness. And it is not permission!”

“And those pictures…” His mum said, voice trembling. “Those videos. That shame is theirs, Ciarán. Do you hear me? Not yours.”

Ciarán shut his eyes. “It doesn’t feel that way.”

“I know,” Siobhan whispered. “God help me, love, I know it doesn’t. But we’ll keep tellin’ you until it does!”

Patrick glanced at Siobhan, then back to their son.

“And if those images exist, they may be evidence.” He caught the way Ciarán flinched at the word and softened at once. “Only if you choose to use them that way.”

Siobhan reached for a napkin and wiped at her cheeks, though it did no good.

“How long have you carried this?” She asked.

Ciarán looked down. “Since it happened last year.”

“Alone?”

He hesitated.

“Ruairí knows.” He added. “He’s the one who started gettin’ through to me about it. He found information. Told me there might still be a way to report it. I don’t know if anythin’ can come of it, but he said I had choices. That it wasn’t too late. That I deserved better.”

Patrick nodded once, grim but grateful. “Good lad, Ruairí.”

“Aye.” Siobhan said, wiping at her face again. “Remind me to thank him when I can speak without cryin’ all over him.”

For the first time since he had sat down, Ciarán almost smiled. It was small and gone quickly, but it had been there. Patrick reached toward the table and stopped halfway, leaving his hand there between them.

“I’m goin’ to put my hand here.” He said. “You take it if you want. If you don’t, that’s all right.”

Ciarán stared at his father’s hand.

Large. callused. Familiar. The hand that had steadied the back of his bicycle seat, fixed shelves, held school reports, ruffled his hair when he was small enough to tolerate it. Now it rested on the kitchen table, waiting.

Ciarán took it and Patrick closed his fingers around his son’s hand, gently.

“I see my son.” Patrick said. “That’s all. My son. Not dirty. Not weak. My son, who should never have had to carry this alone.”

Ciarán’s face almost crumpled, but he dragged it back into place. Siobhan stood, then stopped before coming closer.

“Can I hold you?” She asked.

All his life, his mother had hugged first and asked questions somewhere during or after. She had kissed cheeks, fixed collars, smoothed hair, swatted arms, grabbed his face between her hands to inspect him when he came home sick or drunk or heartbroken and pretending not to be. She had always touched him with the easy right of a mother whose love had built the first safe place he ever knew.

Now she was asking.

Ciarán tried to answer. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. His eyes burned. The room blurred at the edges. Then, he nodded once.

She came around the table slowly, giving him time to change his mind. He did not. Siobhan knelt in front of him first, not rushing him. She looked up at him with tears shining on her face.

“My beautiful boy.” She whispered. “My brave, stubborn, impossible boy.”

That did it. Ciarán broke.

Not neatly. Not pretty. His breath caught once, then again, and the strength he had been using to keep himself upright finally gave out. He bent forward, one hand over his face, and a sound came out of him that he would have buried anywhere else.

Siobhan rose and gathered him into her arms, careful at first, then tighter when he leaned into her. Ciarán gripped the back of her cardigan like he was a boy again, like he had come home from some terrible storm and only just realized how cold he had been. She held him with one hand cradling the back of his head and the other pressed between his shoulder blades.

“I’ve got you.” she said, her own voice breaking. “Mammy’s got you now.”

Patrick stayed beside them, his hand firm on Ciarán’s shoulder. He turned his face away for a moment, not leaving, not hiding, just trying to keep himself together enough to be useful. He did not ask for names. He did not shout. He did not make his son manage his anger.

Ciarán cried into his mother’s arms while the rain kept tapping against the kitchen window, and for the first time since that night, he was not the only one holding the truth.


“Japan!"

“I mean it, lads, I have been out here livin’ the dream. Properly livin’ it! First time in Japan, first time takin’ all of this in, and I’ve been walkin’ around like a tourist with no shame at all! Universal Studios Japan had me grinnin’ like an eejit! The food, the lights, the people, the sheer madness of standin’ there on the other side of the world thinkin’, ‘How in the name of Jaysus did a lad from Killarney end up here!?’"

“But every dream has a point where you have to wake up."

“And when I wake up from all the lights and the rides and the magic of bein’ in Japan, reality is standin’ right there in front of me. My reality at Into the Void XV comes in the form of Ryan Keys and Bulldog Bill Barnhart."

“Ryan, I’ll get to you in a minute, because you spoke to me like a pro, and I’ll answer you like one. But Bill? You and Bea stood there last week and reminded me of somethin’ I’ve been noticin’ for a while now."

“You’re a pair of liars! And ye’re hypocrites on top of it!"

“I listened to you, Bill. I listened to you say you don’t care what Ryan and I do. I listened to you talk about how this King For A Day match is goin’ to be rough and tough and brutal, like you’re some wise old veteran steppin’ into battle with a noble heart and sore knees. Then, before you could even finish congratulatin’ yourself, you were already cryin’ about outside interference."

“That’s not confidence. That’s an excuse you’re hopin’ to file after you lose!"

“You said you’re not a coward whose wrestling ability is so low that you need to cheat. And Bill, I’ll give you this much. That was funny. Not intentionally, maybe, but funny all the same. Because you and Bea have made an entire routine out of pointin’ at everyone else and shoutin’ ‘cheat’ while the two of ye are standin’ there with your hands still dirty."

“Every time one of ye is booked against anyone, it’s the same act. They’re cowards. They’re stabbin’ you in the back. They’re payin’ people to interfere. They’re part of some grand scheme against the Barnharts, as if everyone in SCW wakes up with one shared goal, and that goal is makin’ sure poor Bill and Bea don’t get their fair shake."

“Except that’s rubbish, isn’t it?"

“Bea interferes constantly. She distracts, she argues, she sticks her nose into places it does not belong, and then she stands there afterwards with that innocent little act, denyin’ everything like we all didn’t just see it happen! And you, Bill, you turn a blind eye every single time. You’ll lecture the locker room about honor with Bea practically still wipin’ the fingerprints off the evidence!"

“That’s the Barnhart way. If someone else bends a rule, they’re disgracin’ professional wrestlin’. If Bea does it, she’s bein’ a manager. If anyone else shows up at ringside, it’s a conspiracy. If Bea and Iris are out there for you, we’re supposed to pretend it’s a sweet family day out and not another chance for ye to tilt the table when nobody’s lookin’!"

“And Bea, since you had plenty to say too, let’s not pretend you’re only there to hold the leash and nod along. You’ve made yourself part of the problem. You pull shady little deals, deny what everyone can see, and then act like SCW management personally came to your door with flowers and an apology for ever doubting you."

“Which means you’re either delusional, or you’re a feckin’ liar! An’ at this point, I’m not convinced those are separate categories."

“Bill, you said only a few wrestlers in SCW can come up to your level of performance. Then you praised Ryan Keys, which shocked me so badly I nearly checked to see if I’d lost hearin’ in one ear. But when you got to me, out came the usual Barnhart nonsense. Ciarán can’t lace his boots. Ciarán trips over his laces. Ciarán violates rules. Ciarán hires interference. Ciarán talks smack. Ciarán’s an idiot to be in wrestlin’."

“I beat you. That’s the bit you keep tryin’ to talk around. I got in the ring with you, and I beat you. You can insult me until your face turns purple. You can say whatever helps you get comfortable at night beside your wife, your bulldog, and your imaginary list of injustices. But the record says I beat you."

“And what did you do after that? You attacked Ryan and me … from behind. Not like the rough, tough, brutal warrior you keep advertising yourself as. You hit us cheap because the truth got too close and you didn’t like the look of it. Now you’re already spinnin’ it, tryin’ to make Ryan and me sound like the dangerous ones. Like we’re the cheats. Like we’re the ones plannin’ a grand conspiracy to rob you of what you think you’re owed."

“Are we meant to believe we imagined it? Did Ryan Keys and Ciarán Doyle suffer the exact same hallucination at the exact same time? Did poor innocent Bulldog Bill Barnhart stand there mindin’ his own business while the two of us dreamed up bein’ jumped from behind?"

“You’re not worried about Ryan and me cheatin’ because you think we’re cheaters. You’re worried because you know how you and Bea operate when things stop goin’ your way. You accuse everyone else first, so if you get caught later, you can shrug and say, ‘See? They would’ve done it too.’"

“So, Ryan ... What you said about me last week? I heard it. And I respect it."

“You said I had momentum. You said I beat Bill, and you weren’t goin’ to take that away from me. You didn’t pretend I got lucky just because it would make your life easier. You said I handled him, and now I get to walk into Into the Void knowin’ I already proved somethin’."

“That mattered, because it was honest, so I’ll be honest back."

“You’re dangerous. Not because of the jokes. Not because of the smile or the gear or the way the crowd reacts to you. Not because you’ve got that whole thing about you where it looks like you’re havin’ more fun than anyone else in the room, even while everyone else is tryin’ to break their neck. You’re dangerous because underneath all of that, you’re still payin’ attention."

“You proved that when you caught Bea. You called the match clean. You saw what needed to be seen, and that matters in a company where too many people only notice the truth when it benefits them."

“You’re a former two-time Roulette Champion, and I’m not goin’ to act like that means nothin’. It means you know chaos. You know stipulations. You know what it feels like when the match changes shape under your feet and you have to adjust before it eats you alive. You can walk into madness with a smile and still know exactly where the danger is comin’ from."

“And you were right. I am hungry. I want this. I want that crown. I want King For A Day. I want the power that comes with it and the chance to stand in front of SCW with everyone forced to listen, whether they like my accent, my attitude, my face, or not!"

“But you warned me about that too. You said hunger can make a man climb too soon. Momentum can mess with your head. One big win can make you think the next chapter owes you the same ending."

“That’s fair, but I don’t think the next chapter owes me a damn thing. I think I have to take it."

“Bill Barnhart did not give me momentum. I earned it by beatin’ him. SCW did not hand me this match because they felt charitable. I earned my spot. And when I’m in Osaka with that crown above the ring, I won’t be climbin’ because I think destiny is waitin’ up there with a welcome mat. I’ll be climbin’ because I know both of you will drag me down if I give you half a second."

“That’s what this match is. There’s a crown above the ring. There’s a ladder beneath it, and there are three men desperate enough to climb while the other two are tryin’ to tear them down."

“I came here to prove Ciarán Doyle is not a pretty little flash of momentum. I’m not a footnote in Bulldog Bill’s comeback story. I’m not a stepping stone in Ryan Keys’ next chapter. I’m not the lad who got lucky once and wandered into deeper water than he could swim in."

“So dream time is over. It’s time to call it what it is."

"Ciarán Doyle, King For A Day!"

[RyanKeys]

Made to Climb

Osaka, Japan

Ryan’s hotel room had been taken over by Sasha Seams.

There were garment bags on hooks, fabric on the bed, and little bits of thread everywhere. The desk was a mess too, covered in tape, scissors, sewing clips, chalk, and Sasha’s coffee sitting there forgotten.

Sasha stood in the middle of all of it with her hair done, makeup sharp, and a measuring tape around her neck. Somehow she looked terrifying but fabulous.

Ryan stood near the mirror in the base gear she had already made him put on. Black trunks with the gold crown detail, dark green and orange trim, kneepads set aside near the bed, and tall boots waiting by the garment rack. The sleeveless gray hoodie was only there because he had thrown it back on while Sasha checked something on the vest.

Aron Baltasarsson sat near the window with his phone, calm as ever, like none of this had anything to do with him. He had been unbothered when Ryan changed, which Ryan figured was part manager, part Icelandic, and part Aron just being Aron.

Sasha tapped Ryan’s shoulder with two fingers. “Hoodie off.”

Ryan looked at her through the mirror. “Hello to you too.”

“Hello, darling. Hoodie off. I need to see how the vest sits on your shoulders, not how it sits over whatever you put on because you got bored.”

“You make this sound so glamorous.”

“Fittings are glamorous when I’m done. Before that, they are work.”

Aron didn’t look up. “That sounds right.”

Ryan turned toward him. “You’re supposed to help me.”

“I am helping you stay alive.”

Sasha smiled. “Smart man.”

Ryan pulled the hoodie off and tossed it onto the chair. He was moving better than he had earlier in the tour. The rest between shows had helped. Sasha still caught the small pause when he straightened because of course she did.

“You’re still a little stiff.”

Ryan made a face. “A little is better than last time.”

“Better is not fixed.”

“No, but it’s easier to dress.”

“That depends on the client.”

Ryan looked at her. “I feel like that was aimed at me.”

“It landed, then.”

Aron glanced up. “She doesn’t miss often.”

Ryan gave them both a look. “I feel very supported.”

Sasha grabbed the vest from the rack and settled it over his shoulders. She tugged one side into place, checked the strap near his ribs, then made a quick chalk mark near the seam.

“You took a rough one,” she said. “You look better, but I can still see it when you move.”

Ryan glanced at himself in the mirror and let out a small breath. He was not trying to make the whole room about Copenhagen again. Still, he had worn the referee shirt, called the match fair, and Bill still dropped him for it.

He rolled one shoulder, more out of habit than anything.

“That’s the price sometimes,” Ryan said. “You want to be in this business, you want to entertain people, you want the big moments, you’re gonna pay for it somewhere. Back, neck, knees, crotch, pride, whatever. Comes with the ticket.”

He looked at Aron through the mirror, then smiled a little.

“But Bill dropping me on my head while I was wearing stripes? Yeah. I’d like a little payback for that one.”

Aron studied him. “A little?”

Ryan’s smile grew. “I’m being mature.”

Sasha snorted. “That’s what we’re calling it?”

“For legal reasons, yes.”

She shook her head and lifted his arm so she could check how the vest sat when he moved. The room went quiet for a bit after that. Sasha adjusted the straps, checked the lines, made him turn, then told him to stop moving before he made her redo something on purpose. Aron watched a little closer now, not saying much.

Ryan looked at the vest again, then at the rest of the gear.

The idea had started with those reference pictures he sent Sasha the week before. A hat, some colors, cartoon spikes, and one message that probably started with “hear me out.” Sasha hadn’t known what the character was. She just called it some cartoon lizard king thing and turned it into actual gear.

Black, dark green, orange, and gold. Crown details. Flame accents. Spikes on the wrists and knees. A vest with that spiked shell look. Dramatic, but not impossible to move in.

It wasn’t too much. Not for Into the Void.

“Bill’s going to hate this.”

Aron looked up. “The gear?”

“Me. The gear too, probably. But mostly me.”

Sasha made another small chalk mark inside the vest. “That sounds like Bill’s problem.”

“That’s the thing with Bill,” Ryan said. “I can joke about his temper all I want, but he’s not just some angry guy swinging at air. He’s big. He’s stubborn. If he gets control of the match, he can turn the whole thing into a mess real quick. I don’t even want to think about what kind of matches he’s gonna have people do if he wins this thing.”

Sasha kept working, but she was listening. Aron set his phone down.

“Bill doesn’t have to be quick,” Ryan went on. “He doesn’t have to be pretty. He only has to get his hands on you once and make the ladder feel far away. He can slow everything down. He can make you carry his weight. He can make one bad landing turn into five bad minutes.”

Aron nodded a little. “Then don’t let him have that match.”

“Exactly.”

Sasha told Ryan to turn again. He turned, waited for her to fix the side strap, then kept going.

“I don’t beat Bill by standing there trying to prove I can be tougher than him in the most boring way possible. That’s his game. I’m not walking into Into the Void to out-bulldog the Bulldog. If he wants ugly, fine. I can deal with ugly. But I don’t have to stay there with him. I have to move, make him reach, make him spend time trying to catch me while the match keeps moving. If he falls off a few ladders, that’s just a bonus.”

Sasha lifted her eyes to the mirror. “That almost sounded like a plan.”

Ryan smiled. “I have those sometimes.”

“Rarely while being fitted.”

“I’m changing. It’s beautiful.”

Aron looked at Sasha. “Should we be concerned?”

“Deeply,” Sasha said.

Ryan shook his head, still smiling. “Hostile room.”

The fitting kept going. Sasha fastened the vest properly this time, checked the waist again, fixed one side, then had him step onto a small riser she had brought with her somehow. Ryan didn’t ask how. Sasha always had things. Fabric, eyelashes, emergency tape, insults, and whatever else the moment needed.

Once he was standing there, the mirror gave him the full shape of it. The gear was still Ryan. Still fun. Still made for attention. It had that cartoon final-boss look Ryan wanted, the kind of thing that fit the park without turning the gear into a costume. If this worked, maybe it could become a thing for pay-per-views.

“Ciaran is different,” Ryan said after a moment.

Sasha glanced up from where she was checking the vest. “Different how?”

“He’s not trying to drag me down like Bill. He’s trying to get up there before either one of us can stop him.”

Aron leaned back a little and listened.

Ryan kept his eyes on the mirror. “Ciaran has that thing right now. That spark. He beat Bill, got himself into this match, and now the whole thing probably feels closer than it ever did before. I don’t blame him. He should feel good. He earned that. He proved he belongs.”

Sasha stepped back, looked him over, then nodded for him to keep talking.

“But belonging there and winning there are not the same thing. Ciaran has momentum, and momentum is great until it starts making choices for you. You get one big win, and suddenly the next step feels like it should happen too. You start seeing the crown before you feel the ladder shake. You climb because it feels like your moment, not because the ring is clear.”

Aron’s eyes stayed on him.

“That is where he is dangerous,” Ryan said. “Not because he is careless. I don’t think he is. He is dangerous because he believes. And when a guy believes, he’ll jump before he thinks, reach before he checks, climb before his hands are ready. Sometimes that wins. Sometimes it gets you pulled down so hard the whole building hears it.”

Sasha crossed her arms for a second. “You respect him.”

“I do. He reminds me a little bit of me.”

Ryan said it without thinking about it first.

“I’m not going to act like Ciaran tripped into the biggest match of his life. He beat Bill. He earned his spot. But I’m not stepping aside because he has a good story. I have one too. Besides, after dealing with Brooke last time, having Marissa only in the back of my mind feels like a vacation.”

That came out quieter than the rest. Sasha caught it and smiled toward the mirror.

“And you have better gear.”

Ryan’s grin came back. “See? This is why I flew you here.”

“You flew me here because you needed help.”

“And emotional support.”

“I charge extra for that.”

“Put it on the invoice,” Aron said.

Ryan turned his head. “Do not encourage her.”

Sasha smiled wider. “Too late. I feel encouraged.”

The room felt a little warmer after that. Aron with his phone. Sasha with her measuring tape. Ryan standing there in the gear, looking at himself like he was still getting used to seeing it on him. Outside, Osaka kept moving, but inside the room, it was just the fitting, the match, and the people who knew him well enough to call him out when he needed it.

He looked ready enough. That was the point.

“You know what’s funny?” Ryan asked.

Aron gave him a look. “Usually when you ask that, it is not funny.”

“Rude.”

“He may be right,” Sasha said.

“Both of you are lucky I am mature now.”

Aron tilted his head. “When did that happen?”

“Recently. Do not test it.”

Ryan looked back at the gear.

“What’s funny is that this match is for King For A Day, and I’m standing here getting fitted like I’m already planning the after party. But that is not what this is. I’m not acting like it’s mine already. I’m making sure I walk in looking like I believe it can be.”

Sasha stopped moving for a second. Aron looked at him too.

Ryan shrugged a little.

“I spent too much time showing up and hoping the night liked me. Sometimes that works. Not always. Into the Void is not that kind of night. Bill is too heavy for that. Ciaran is too fast for that. Ladders are too rude for that.”

“Ladders are rude,” Sasha said.

“All that rattling. Terrible manners. Especially if they give us ladders that are too short.”

Aron leaned back in his chair. “Then what is the plan?”

Ryan looked at him through the mirror.

“Don’t let Bill turn the match into a parking lot fight. Don’t let Ciaran turn it into a race I’m not ready for. Don’t climb just because the ladder is there. Climb when it matters.”

Aron gave the smallest nod.

“Everybody talks about ladder matches like they are about who wants it most,” Ryan said. “They are not. Everybody wants it. That’s why they’re in the match. It’s about who can still make a good choice after getting thrown into metal. It’s about who can breathe, look around, and know when the opening is real.”

Ryan looked back at himself.

“I can do that.”

Sasha gave the vest one final tug, then stepped back with her hands on her hips.

“Now move.”

Ryan blinked. “Move how?”

“Like you are not decorative.”

“I am a little decorative.”

“Move.”

Ryan stepped off the riser and tested the gear the normal way first. He bent his knees, turned once, took a couple steps, then lifted one leg like he was stepping onto a ladder.

Sasha watched the vest, then the waistband, then the knee pads, her face doing that thing where she was already fixing problems in her head.

“Okay. That works.”

“Of course it works.”

“I was complimenting you.”

“Do it louder.”

Ryan laughed. “The queen has built another masterpiece.”

Sasha smiled and gave a small bow. “Accepted.”

Aron looked at the gear one more time. “It fits the match.”

Ryan nodded, still looking at himself in the mirror.

“Good.”

For once, he did not add a joke right away.

The room got quiet again, except for the steamer by the bathroom. Ryan could see the version of himself who would walk into Into the Void XV. Not the referee from Copenhagen. Not the guy joking through every little ache because standing still made it harder to ignore. This was the guy after that. The guy who took the shot, took the fall, laughed about it when he could, and still showed up to get ready.

“Bill can try to make me hurt,” Ryan said, more to himself at first. “Ciaran can try to beat me to the climb. That is the match. But neither one of them gets to decide what I am walking in there as.”

Sasha softened a little. “And what are you walking in there as?”

Ryan looked at her through the mirror, then at Aron, then back at himself.

His grin came back. Smaller than usual, but real.

“The guy dressed better than both of them.”

Sasha rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

Aron sighed, though the corner of his mouth moved. “There it is.”

Ryan let the joke sit for a second, then nodded once.

“And the guy who knows exactly why he’s climbing.”

Sasha picked up the measuring tape from the desk and pointed it at him.

“Good. Now take that off before you wrinkle it.”

Ryan looked wounded. “I’m having a moment.”

“Have it carefully.”

“That should be your career motto,” Aron said.

Ryan pointed at Aron. “That was actually good.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t get comfortable.”

Sasha clapped once. “Enough bonding. Out of the gear, superstar. I still have work to do, and you still have a ladder match to not ruin my stitching in.”

Ryan stepped back onto the riser, still smiling as Sasha moved in to help with the vest. Somewhere beyond the hotel and the streets, Into the Void waited. Bill Barnhart, Ciaran Doyle, a ladder, and a crown that could give Ryan the chance to book part of a future show.

Week one had been about enjoying the ride. This was different. This was about making sure he was ready for the fall, the climb, and everything between.

Bill would bring weight and anger. Ciaran would bring speed and belief. Ryan would bring himself, the good ideas, the bad jokes, the bright gear, the little reminder Copenhagen left behind, and the part of him that kept moving when staying down would have been easier.

He was not trying to become colder for this match. He was not trying to become meaner either. That was never going to fit him. Sasha could fix fabric, not turn him into someone else. He did not need to be someone else to win.

He just had to climb when it mattered.

Ryan looked at himself in the mirror one more time before Sasha started unfastening the vest.

“Hey, Sasha?”

“Yes, darling?”

“Make sure it can handle me winning.”

Sasha smiled like that was the easiest request in the world.

“Honey, that was the first thing I planned for.”