HEROES

The Charlotte skyline pricks the 2 AM darkness, God’s canvas drowned in black paint, stars flickering like reluctant afterthoughts. This hotel balcony suspends me like a promise I never asked for. I sit in an aggressively uncomfortable chair, cradling a wine glass—the only reprieve my mind allows.

Self-doubt washes through me after the loss to Rob Williams. No rhyme or reason, no grand explanation. The experts find no fault; it was just a 50/50 coin toss.

The momentum I’d been building? Vanished. My victories feel hollow now, the winning streak snuffed out. It was right there in my hands, and I let it slip.

I take a sip of wine, tasting as bitter as letting the match slip through my fingers. Worse than disappointment. You can brace for disappointment. You can't brace for the feeling that lodges in your chest unexpectedly, like a tumor siphoning every good thought in your head.

As a result, I don't hear Arina as she steps onto the balcony. I'm either that lost in my thoughts, or she's been spending more time training with Alexei than I realized. Either way, she materializes beside me in soft gray pajamas with drawings of little storm clouds and cartoon thunderbolts on them, hair down, perfect despite her being asleep next to me on the pillows we shared just hours ago. When happy thoughts danced through my mind.

She'd shown up to dinner with flowers, a bouquet of tulips with a solitary red rose, and we ate without talk of shop. No discussion about my match or Ivan's grievance with Sykes, or even what kind of American deodorant Alexei liked to apply in the cloak of darkness. Instead, we discussed life in Russia and San Diego, about conversations with Adeline, about places we could go together.

It felt different from the past year for the two of us. Different from the night I waited for her in her apartment to send a message back to Ivan and Alexei. Previous conversations focused on what I was expected to do or how to function, getting ready for the next match, or about something she'd seen on American television that confused her.

We were in new territory, learning about one another outside of the handler relationship we were forced into.

"You should be sleeping," I mutter, refusing to look at her. It's easier this way, because I know when I do, my chest will do something that breaks the laws of physics themselves.

"So should you," she speaks plainly while settling into the chair next to mine. Her hand wraps around my wine glass, and I let her have it. As she sips from it, from the same spot my lips were previously, I acknowledge mentally how she knows exactly how to take up space, how she feels like she's belonged in that spot next to me for months now.

She hands the glass back to me, and I'm struck by how intimate it all feels. Not in rumpled bedsheets and hickey marks on the neck kind of ways. Something deeper. More terrifying.

"You're thinking about the match." Her Russian nature, one to never mince words, shines through.

"Well, yeah. It's gnawing away at me. I failed. Again."

She turns her head just enough for the moonlight to catch her eyes. No words, only that half-smile that presses the self-doubt right out of me.

"I'd won twice. I thought I could finally pick up a signature win. To silence those who don't think I belong in the same building as Hanlon and Julien. Then, there I go, proving them right again. Eight months of losing followed by two quick victories, and I'm back stuck in the muck. Losing to Rob fucking Willimas of all people."

She looks at me, dissecting me, peering deeper than I've felt any person do in the last three years.

"I wonder if this is penance," I mutter.

She tucks her leg under herself before she looks out at the city that sprawls before us, not caring about my failures. My faults couldn't care less if I also managed to help Hessian and Gamble secure the tag team championships either. Still, the steel pipe felt good as it cracked against Julien's skull. Some part of me acknowledges that part was satisfying, like I was doing something right.

Except, at the same time, another voice yells about how that's not the legacy my father left. Not even close.

"You think you destroy good things by being bad?" Despite her broken English, Arina carefully measures her words, something I appreciate.

Talk about stepping into a minefield. "I've destroyed everything by not being good enough." The words are like broken glass from the bottles of promises displayed on my mental shelf. "My father had as many losses as wins, but people loved him. Still do. They respected him. He had this light that made people believe he was fighting for something worth fighting for. They didn't care if he won or loss, because he stood for something."

I sigh and sip the wine. "I'm not him. What do I stand for? I'm just fighting so not to drown."

Arina digests my words quietly, her eyes scanning the city skyline. The silence allows my mind to wander, to see how our relationship is in such a weird place. Old Arina would tell me exactly what's on her mind. This Arina has to figure out how not to push me completely away.

Her eyes land upon me, and my chest breaks the laws of physics. She's gorgeous in every light, at every moment of the day. She catches the slight pull of my upper lip and softly shakes her head. Not time for that, not right now.

"Everyone thinks they are good. In own mind. Rob probably does. That he fights for something of worth. Hayes as well. Even Mr. Jiles probably believes he marches in light of what is right."

I protest. "That's not the same."

Another quiet moment, but one where her eyes are upon me and I can feel her gaze as it grazes across my skin, sending goosebumps across me. "Your father, did he know his flaws? Do you think he accept them?" Delicate fingers take the wine glass and sips. Her eyes never leave mine.

It's strange to think it's only been a handful of days since that first kiss. We were all tangled hands and too much wanting. Now the same closeness feels quieter, like we've stumbled into something that asks to be understood instead of chased.

"I think he acknowledged his flaws and succeeded despite them. He pushed me away from wrestling, supported my path to law, and never thought I was running away from myself. He loved me completely and knew where he fell short as a father without making excuses for himself. He sacrificed himself for us, sacrificed our time together, sacrificed his body. He did it for us, though. Isn't that the sign of someone good? Someone heroic?"

I pause, thinking back to the feel of the steel pipe in my head, the crack against Joe and Julien's skulls. "And I'm out here hitting people with lead pipes. What does that say about me?"

She sets the glass of wine down and takes my hands in hers, threading her fingers through mine like we're solving a puzzle written on our skins. Her touch makes it difficult to breathe.

"Your father was hero to you because he was being best version of himself. Not perfect. He accept what he was and fought through it."

A smile dances across my lips. "Fight through it all, he would tell me. Each day, he stepped out and was determined to overcome any and all obstacles thrown in his way." It was a motto that'd been the foundation of my life for so long that it felt inked on my skin.

She squeezes my hand, pulling me back to the present. "Everyone simply tries to be the best version of themselves they know how to be. Ivan—"

"Well, Ivan," I cut her off. "I may crack the skulls of Joe and Julien, but what he did to Jasmine Jeong is a different story. I sometimes wonder if he is more monster than man."

I wish I'd kept my mouth shut, but I couldn't help it. The story of Ivan and I was complicated, to say the least, but without him, I wouldn't be with Arina.

She is quiet in a somber sort of way. I can feel her gentle heartbeat through her fingers. She's not one to wear much makeup, but in these intimate moments, I see Arina's plain skin and the scar she hides running along her left cheek. I understand, in her silence, that part of her burden is carrying The Russian Bear.

"Ivan was raised certain way," her eyes find mine, even in the dark. "Taught to believe certain strengths. People see monster because they not see whole story."

I want to argue, say that trauma isn't an excuse, but at the same time, I'm sitting here at 2 AM in my pajamas holding the hands of a Russian diplomat. Who was I to judge? There were things Arina was only privy to that formed her opinion, and I had to trust her in that. I'd stood by the man, helped him win the Universal Championship, and I'd done it for my own selfish reasons.

"That's generous of you," I manage to say.

Her eyes snap to mine with a slight, Russian flash. "Not generous. It is reality." She is quick to correct me. Then, her expression softens as she turns toward me and pulls my hand into her lap. She trails a finger along the skin and watches the gentle line it makes, fully engrossed in the act.

"You do not have to be hero, Rose. You only must be best version of yourself. Like your Papa." She twists her lips. "Like Ivan tries."

"What if the best version of me isn't good enough?" The question hangs there, raw. "What if I step foot in the ring with Hanlon, with Julien, and it still doesn't matter? I'm not him. I'm not a hero. I'm just me, broken, angry, attacking with a pipe one night and losing the next."

She leans in and kisses my forehead. When she pulls back, there's certainty in her eyes, the kind that sees things I can't.

"Your worth not measured in wins and losses, Rosa. Not to me. Not to beautiful Adeline. Not to Ivan. And not to your father." For a fleeting moment, there is a sadness, but she pushes it down. "He would be proud of you. Because you are trying. Still fighting. Not giving up."

The urge to pull her closer is overwhelming, the thought of disappearing into something physical with her. We'd decided to go slow, though. Maybe stupid, considering we'd just spent part of our evening lying in bed, sleeping next to one another. But we'd set some boundaries to ensure neither of us ended up shattered by the other.

More than likely her, and I cared too much to cross them.

Instead, I rest my head on her shoulder and she wraps an arm around me, holding me against the cold.

"I just feel like I'm always fucking everything up." I pause. "I don't want to fuck whatever this is up."

"Sky will always fall. We Russians expect that," she says with a faint smile. "It is how we stay ready. But I do not want to live waiting for fall. I would rather stand under sky with you, even if it breaks."

There is still uncertainty in her voice, like I feel the uncertainty in the pit of my stomach. I fuck everything up as of late, why should this be any different?

"But I believe you will try," she interrupts my thoughts. "And that you will continue to try. And I am willing to try with you." She lifts my chin. "That is enough."

I want to list every way I’ve fucked up. Every promise broken. But her lips find mine, soft, careful, like we’re both afraid to shatter.

The kiss is a beautiful mixture of wine and hope, and this terrifying thought: I don't have to be a hero, just be the best version of myself. Adeline makes me want to be that person. Arina makes me want to be that person.

When we break apart, Arina’s cheek is flushed. Her hand cups my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone.

“We should go inside,” I say, though not moving.

“We should,” she agrees, also still.

We sit like that a while longer, her arm around me, my head against hers. The wine glass forgotten.

“Come,” she murmurs at last, standing and pulling me up. But instead of heading inside, she pulls me against her, one hand on my back, the other locked with mine.

“You do not have to do it by yourself,” she says, pressing her forehead to mine.

She kisses me again. Slower. Deeper. Like she’s memorizing me. Her hands slip under my pajama top, tracing my spine. I feel the restraint in her touch.

“I thought you wanted slow.” I would shut the world out for two weeks if she asked me to.

“I did,” she agrees, but she’s already moving toward the door, tugging me with her. “But slow does not mean we cannot…” She bites her lip, and the gesture nearly breaks me.

“Cannot what?” I ask, already following.

“Cannot be close,” she finishes, shutting the door behind us. The cool air hits, but it doesn’t matter. She’s pulling me against her, her thin pajamas doing nothing to hide her warmth.

We make it to the couch before she pushes me down, settles into my lap with a slowness that feels like foreplay. Her hands cup my face, thumbs brushing my cheeks with a tenderness that tightens my throat.

She whispers something Russian in my ear, "Vy ne odinoki," then kisses me softly. "You are not alone. Whatever happens. Whatever you become. You are not alone in it."

I want to deflect. Make a joke. Instead, I pull her closer, bury my face in her neck, breathe her in.

We stay like that, hands exploring—slow, unhurried. Connection without demand.

“The sun will come up soon,” I murmur in her ear.

“Then we deal with it then,” she says before kissing my palm. “Right now, we’re just… this.”

I smile against her shoulder, a genuine one, and settle deeper into her arms.

Soon, the sun will remind me I’ve got another match to lose. Another way to fail. Another chance to prove I’m not my father, not Julien, not anyone worth fighting for.

But that’s daylight’s problem.

Right now, I’m holding something real. Something that isn’t running. Something that lets me believe broken doesn’t mean unfixable. That the best version of me might just be the one that keeps showing up. Keeps trying. Lets people in.

Even when it terrifies me.

Despite it.

You know what's funny, Crash?

My mind has been focused on morality lately. Good versus bad. Right versus wrong. About heroes. About what makes someone good. About whether the line between those two things even exists anymore, or if it was always just a convenient story we told ourselves to feel better about the messy reality of trying to do the right thing.

And I keep thinking about you.

Not because you're some paragon of virtue. You and I both know better than that. You've thrown punches you probably regret. You've crossed lines that were pretty fucking clearly drawn. You've walked away from people who needed you, and you've leaned on people way harder than you had any right to.

But here's the thing—I watch you, and I see someone who actually gives a shit about the consequences of those choices. With Kael. With Gold. With 'ol TAL. With Violent Purple. With Dawkins.

My father used to say that real strength wasn't about never falling. It was about getting back up and actually learning something from the impact. Most people don't do that. Most people just dust themselves off and pretend it didn't hurt. They build narratives where they're always right, always justified, always the hero of their own story.

You don't do that.

You sit there with your hotdogs and your "bro" and your self-deprecating humor, but underneath all of that? You're carrying something real. You're genuinely trying to be better than you were yesterday, and you're not pretending that you're perfect in the process.

That's rarer than you'd think in PRIME.

My father lived by a simple creed. "Fight Through It All." Not "fight until you win." Not "fight until you're morally spotless." Just fight through the entire thing. The victories and the failures. The good decisions and the ones you'll regret forever.

You're doing that too.

I see it with the Heroes. I see it in how you handle Violent Purple, even when she terrifies you and you have no idea what to do. I see it in how you're trying to be something bigger than just another guy collecting wins and losses.

That's heroic. Not because you're perfect.

Because you're trying.

Here's what I've learned about good and bad, Crash.

They're not opposites. They're not binary switches that flip one way or the other based on your actions. They're more like... frequencies. Layers. Something you're constantly adjusting based on the moment, the circumstance, the people involved.

My father was good. He was also complicated. He made choices that had consequences. He raised a daughter who ran from wrestling and then came back and nearly destroyed herself trying to be different from him. That's not on him. That's on me. But it's also proof that even the best people, even heroes, create ripples that sometimes turn into waves that crash into people they love.

That's not something you can solve with a clean conscience.

Ivan Stanislav? Everyone sees a monster. And he is. But he's also a guy who was raised a certain way, who was taught that certain things are strength, who does what he knows how to do. He's not good. But he's not the villain in his own story either.

And maybe that's the whole thing right there.

Nobody's a villain in their own story. Not really.

The question isn't whether you're good or bad, Crash. The question is whether you're willing to live with what you've done. Whether you can accept the cost of your choices and still keep moving forward anyway.

Because that's where real heroism lives. Not in the purity. In the acceptance.

I'm out here hitting people with pipes from inside dumpsters. I'm orchestrating violence in the shadows. I'm winning matches through means my father would've questioned, probably deeply.

And I'm doing it because I believe it's necessary. Because I think the alternative—staying clean, playing by their rules, waiting for the system to work—gets more people hurt in the long run.

But I also know that choice has a cost. I know I'm becoming someone he wouldn't recognize. I know that every time I cross another line, I'm moving further away from the daughter he knew.

And I'm doing it anyway.

Is that good? Is that bad?

I don't think those words apply anymore, bro.

I think you understand that better than most. I think that's why I respect what you're doing, even when it's messy. Even when it's unclear. Even when you're clearly not sure yourself if you're making the right call.

Because at least you're honest about the uncertainty.

At least you're not pretending it doesn't cost you anything.

So I'll leave you with this, Crash.

Keep doing what you're doing. Keep being the guy who shows up. Keep being the guy who cares about people even when it complicates everything. Keep being willing to cross lines when you think it's necessary, but also keep being the guy who admits it when you've gone too far.

That's not nothing.

That's actually everything.

Heroes aren't born. They're built through a thousand small decisions to keep going despite the cost. Despite the guilt. Despite knowing that you'll never be clean again.

You're building something real. I see it. Tom sees it. Sebastian sees it, even if he's sidelined right now.

Nobody's Heroes isn't a name slapped on a chyron. It's not a tag to make you feel better about winning matches.

It's a promise you keep making every single day that you're going to try to be better than you were, even if that sometimes means being worse to the right people.

My father understood that.

I think you do too. I'm going to do the same when we step in the ring at ReVival 78. Maybe we can share a hot dog afterwards.

So keep fighting through it all, bro.

That's all any of us can do.