The ceiling never changed.
Alex lay on his back and stared up at the same white tiles, broken only by a thin hairline crack that ran between the fluorescent light panels. The fixture buzzed softly, just loud enough to make it impossible to forget where he was.
Once upon a time, when he stared up like this, he saw arena rafters and rigging. Steel beams and catwalks, banners hanging over cheap seats, spotlights and pyro machines he'd memorized from DVDs. Now it was all plastic and paint and the faint shadow of a sprinkler head.
The monitor beside his bed gave a low, steady beep. Not urgent. Just there. Like the hum of a crowd before a show, except this crowd only cared about heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen numbers.
"Morning, Mr. Knight."
The voice came from his left. He blinked and tilted his head, slow, careful, like his neck was older than twenty-one.
A phlebotomist in thin blue scrubs stood by the bed, a cart of neatly labeled tubes at his side. He had a badge, a tired smile, and the kind of practiced calm that said this was just one more room on a long list.
"Time for the morning draw," he said. "You know the drill."
"Front row seat," Alex muttered. His voice came out rough but still had some humor in it. "VIP access."
The phlebotomist chuckled politely. He pulled on gloves, tightened a tourniquet around Alex's forearm, and patted the inside of his elbow. The skin there was pale and thin, crisscrossed with tiny dots of old punctures.
Alex looked away automatically. Not because he was afraid of needles—those days were long gone—but because watching meant thinking about counts and levels and percentages. Platelets. White cells. All the numbers that had slowly turned his dream into a chart in someone's file.
A small sting. A tube clicked into place and began to fill with dark red.
He focused on the ceiling instead.
In his head, he imagined those tiles receding, stretching upward until they were rafters. The fluorescent light became an LED board showing his name. Alex Knight in hard, sharp letters. The crack in the paint turned into a seam in the stage, the place where he'd step through smoke into a roar.
"Done," the phlebotomist said.
Alex blinked back down. The man taped a small cotton pad over the fresh mark and loosened the tourniquet. His arm felt heavier than it should have for such a small thing.
"Thanks," Alex said.
"Doctor will be by later with rounds," the man replied. "You need anything, hit that call button, okay?"
"Got it."
The cart rolled away. The door clicked shut, leaving Alex alone with the beep, the hum, and the weight settling into his bones like wet sand.
It was always like this. The actual needle didn't hurt much anymore. It was the drag afterward, the way his body seemed to sigh and say, We're done now, can we stop?
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
You don't get to stop yet.
He shifted his gaze from the ceiling to the television bolted near it. The screen was muted, showing a highlight package from a wrestling program—clips of suplexes, powerbombs, dives from the top rope. Even without sound, his brain supplied the noise. The thud of impact. The roar of the crowd.
He'd been in one of those rings. A real one, not a practice ring in a warehouse. He could still feel the way the FCW canvas had flexed under his boots the first time he ran the ropes as a contracted guy, not just some indie kid with a dream.
Now he was learning the rhythm of another ring entirely: hospital bed, hallway, bathroom, back. The ropes here were IV lines.
A soft knock preceded the door opening this time.
"Hey, Knight. You alive in here?"
Nurse Jason Park slipped in with a practiced ease, closing the door halfway with his foot while his hands were busy with a tablet. His badge swung as he moved: PARK, RN. Late twenties, dark hair, a grin that looked out of place among all the machines.
"Define alive," Alex said.
Jason snorted and set the tablet in the wall dock. "Talking back already. Vitals check time. Then we can debate philosophy."
He wrapped the blood pressure cuff around Alex's arm with quick, efficient movements. The Velcro sound was almost comforting now. The cuff inflated, squeezing until Alex's fingers tingled.
"Sleep okay?" Jason asked.
"Like a baby," Alex said. "Up every hour, complaining."
Jason laughed. "You and me both. Night shift was wild. Guy down the hall tried to cut his own hair with the hospital scissors. Looked like he wrestled a lawnmower and lost."
Alex smiled, just a little. "He get over?"
"Oh yeah," Jason said, adjusting the pulse ox on Alex's finger. "Five-star classic. Meltzer's writing about it already."
He said it so dryly that Alex couldn't help it; a small, real chuckle escaped him. It made his chest ache, but in a good way.
"Speaking of," Jason went on, nodding at the TV, "you catch the show last night?"
"They ran a tag match from the tour," Alex said. "Couple of the guys from developmental were on. Sounded like they got a decent reaction."
Jason tapped numbers into the tablet, nodding along. "You trained with them, right? Down in Florida?"
"Yeah." The word felt heavier than two letters should. "FCW. We were just starting to hear more about NXT going on TV. Whole new thing. Felt like standing on a launch pad."
Jason's hands didn't pause, but his eyes flicked up briefly.
"And now?"
"Now I'm cutting live promos in front of twelve and a heart monitor," Alex said lightly.
Jason gave him a look that said he'd heard both the joke and the truth underneath.
"You still sound like a wrestler," Jason said. "Even hooked up to half this stuff."
Alex shrugged, or tried to. "It's what I am."
For a moment, Jason's expression softened in a way that had nothing to do with nursing protocol.
"Good," he said. "Hold onto that. A lot of people in here forget who they were before the IV poles. Makes it harder."
He unplugged the cuff and set it aside.
"Vitals look stable," he said in a more professional tone. "Doctor Carter will be happy. You want anything? Water, ice chips, a different channel?"
"Think I'll stick with the reruns," Alex said, flicking his eyes toward the silent wrestlers on the screen. "Keeps me sharp."
"Just don't start trying to moonsault off the bed," Jason said, heading for the door. "Paperwork on that is a nightmare."
Alex snorted again.
As the nurse reached for the handle, he paused.
"Hey, Alex?"
"Yeah?"
Jason's smile was smaller now, more careful.
"I know you're tired of hearing it, but… you've already done something big. Not a lot of people get to say they wrestled where you did. Contract, developmental, the whole deal. That's real. No matter what these numbers say."
Alex's throat tightened unexpectedly.
"I know," he said. "Thanks."
Jason gave him a little salute with two fingers. "I'll be back around. Don't get into trouble."
The door clicked shut. The room felt quieter without Jason's presence, like some of the air had gone out with him.
Alex lay there for a moment, staring at the TV. A replayed entrance ran in slow motion: smoke, lights, a wrestler stepping through the curtain with arms outstretched.
That was supposed to be me someday.
His chest pinched. He looked away and reached carefully for his phone on the bedside table. The movement was simple, but his arm felt like it had a ten-pound weight tied to it.
He thumbed through the contacts and tapped "Mom."
The line rang twice.
"Alex?" Maggie Knight's voice came through, warm and a little breathless, like she'd rushed to grab the phone.
"Hey, Mom," he said. "Did I wake you up?"
"Baby, it's almost nine," she said. "I've been up since six. I was just about to call you."
He could picture her in their kitchen back in Cleveland: robe, coffee mug, the landline nearby even though she had a cell now.
"How are you feeling this morning?" she asked.
"Like a million bucks," he lied. "Maybe a slightly discounted million. Outlet-store million."
She huffed a small laugh that didn't quite hide the worry.
"Did they draw blood already?" she asked. "Are you eating? Your father said you sounded tired yesterday."
"They got the vampire stuff out of the way," Alex said. "Breakfast is on its way. The usual five-star gourmet—mystery eggs and toast that fights back."
"Alex," she said, a gentle warning in her tone.
"I'm okay, Mom," he said, softer. "Really."
There was a pause. He heard a chair scrape on her end, like she was sitting down.
"Are you… really okay?" she asked quietly. "Not just saying it for me?"
The question slipped between his ribs like a knife, not because it was sharp, but because it was so careful.
He stared at the ceiling.
His body felt heavy. His joints ached in ways that didn't match his age. Just holding the phone up for this long made his hand want to shake.
But her voice sounded like hospital corridors and late-night whispers and that last memory he didn't want to reach yet.
"I'm… tired," he admitted. "But I'm okay. Jason says my numbers are stable."
"Good," she said quickly. "Good. I'm glad Jason was on again. He's nice. You sound a little hoarse. Did you sleep?"
"A bit," he said. "Watched some wrestling. They reran that tag match I told you about. The crowd was hot."
"You and your wrestling," she murmured, but there was no judgment in it. Just familiarity. "They doing anything with that show you said? The… the new thing?"
"NXT?" he supplied. "Yeah. They're bringing more of the guys from FCW on. It's gonna be big. Feels… important."
"Will you be on it?" she asked, immediate and hopeful, like the question had been sitting on her tongue.
Not like this, he thought.
"Maybe," he said aloud. "If I get back in there. If I get cleared."
Another small silence. He imagined her gripping the phone a little tighter.
"You will," she said. "You worked too hard not to."
He swallowed.
"Hey," he said, forcing some brightness back into his tone. "Tell Em I said hi, okay? And Josh. Tell him I saw that clip he sent me. The edit was great."
"I will," Maggie said. "Emily's lesson planning. Josh is… probably on that computer again."
Alex smiled faintly. "Good. He's doing my PR for free."
She laughed, genuinely this time.
"I love you, Alex," she said.
"Love you too, Mom."
He ended the call before his voice could betray the thickness in his throat.
The TV glow washed over the room in shifting colors. A commentary team mouthed words he'd heard variations of his entire life: opportunity, destiny, main event.
Someone knocked lightly, then the door opened without waiting for an answer.
"Yo, Knight!"
Leo Ramirez rolled in on a wheelchair this time, IV pole tagging along like an awkward dance partner. He was fifteen, maybe sixteen at most, pale under a mess of dark hair, eyes bright behind big glasses.
"You start the party without me?" Leo asked, grinning.
"Late to your own show," Alex said. "Unprofessional."
A volunteer pushed Leo to the side of the bed, then parked the chair and left them with a practiced, "Call if you need anything."
Leo craned his neck to see the TV.
"What'd I miss?" he asked.
"Highlight package," Alex said. "Some old matches, some from the last tour. Nothing huge yet."
Leo dug into the pocket of his hospital gown and produced a crinkled notepad and pen like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat.
"Good," he said. "We got business to handle first."
Alex raised an eyebrow. "Business?"
"Entrance music," Leo said, as if it were obvious. "Yours. When you finally get cleared, you're going back, right? They're gonna put you on NXT with a banger. We gotta get the vibe right."
The words hit Alex in a strange place between his ribs and his spine. He forced his face to stay relaxed.
"Ah, right," he said. "The all-important theme song."
"Don't mock the process," Leo said, scribbling a big ALEX at the top of the page. "Okay, so… option one: heavy and fast. Like, first note hits and people's heads snap up."
He mimed a sudden jolt, eyes wide.
"Boom," he said. "They hear that and know someone serious is coming out."
"Subtle," Alex said dryly.
"Or," Leo continued, undeterred, "you do the slow build. Low, intense intro. Just a bass line or something. Then boom, it kicks in when you step through the curtain. Makes people lean forward."
Alex closed his eyes for a second, letting himself see it. The stage. The curtain. The moment the first note rolled out and the crowd's noise shifted, that electric recognition.
"What do you hear?" Leo pressed. "In your head, when you picture it."
He opened his eyes.
"I hear… weight," Alex said slowly. "Like something big rolling in. Not too fast. Not goofy. Just… inevitability. Like when you hear a storm coming a few seconds before the thunder."
Leo's pen scratched across the page.
"Storm vibes," Leo muttered. "Got it. No goofy. So we're not doing, like… clown horns."
"Please don't," Alex said.
"Pyro?" Leo asked, looking up, eyes shining. "You gotta have pyro. At least smoke. Maybe those sparkler things on the ramp."
"Budget, man," Alex said. "Developmental doesn't get fireworks every week."
"Then make 'em give it to you," Leo said with the stubborn certainty of someone who refused to accept limits. "They see you, they'll know. You're, like… main event guy. They'll find the money."
The confidence in his voice almost hurt more than the needles.
"You been talking to my uncle?" Alex asked. "He used to say stuff like that."
"Uncle Dave?" Leo asked, grinning. "The truck driver? Dude, he's a legend and I've never even met him."
"He's the reason I watched my first WrestleMania," Alex said. "Snuck me into his living room after my parents went to bed."
"See?" Leo said. "Destiny. So we honor destiny with sick music and big explosions."
He underlined something on his list dramatically.
Alex watched him, this kid whose body was fighting a war worse than his own. Leo's hands shook slightly when he wrote, but his grip never loosened.
"You know you're ridiculous, right?" Alex said.
"Obviously," Leo said. "But when you walk out there, I'm gonna be at home yelling, 'I picked that vibe! That's my guy!'"
He said it like the future was a solid thing, an already-written chapter. Alex wanted to believe it as badly as Leo did.
"Yeah," Alex said quietly. "You better yell loud."
They fell into an easy rhythm, flipping channels until they found a replay of a big pay-per-view. Entrance after entrance rolled by: some bombastic, some understated, all little movies about who that wrestler was supposed to be.
Leo critiqued each one like a tiny producer.
"Too slow."
"Too cheesy."
"Perfect. See that? First chord and the whole place loses it. That's what you need."
Alex listened, storing the comments away somewhere deep. Not because he expected to use them, but because filing them felt like defiance. Like keeping the door cracked open.
At some point, Leo's voice started to fade between sentences. The pen slipped in his fingers. His head lolled back against the chair.
"You good?" Alex asked softly.
"Mmm," Leo murmured. "Just… tired. Wake me up if your song comes on."
He gave a weak grin at his own joke and let his eyes close.
Alex watched him for a while, making sure his breathing stayed even. The TV painted shifting colors across Leo's face: blues, reds, golds from ring lights and video screens far away.
Eventually, a volunteer came to wheel Leo back to his room. Alex nodded and watched the door swing shut behind them.
Silence settled in again, broken only by the monitor beep and the faint murmur of the TV.
He was suddenly very aware of how thin the mattress felt under his back. How the sheet rubbed against his skin. How the fluorescent light seemed brighter now, buzzing just a touch louder.
A wave of dizziness rolled through him. For a second, the edges of his vision blurred, the room shrinking to a tunnel of white and gray and the flicker of the TV. He pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, focusing on the feeling to steady himself.
Not yet, he thought. Not today.
The moment passed, leaving behind a deeper kind of tired. Not just in his muscles, but in his bones.
He stared up at the ceiling tiles again.
One, two, three…
He started counting them, row by row, like he used to count lights over a ring while lying there after a hard bump, listening for the ref's count or the crowd's reaction.
In his mind, the tiles shifted. Each one became a light rig, a camera, a fan leaning over the barricade. The hum of the hospital blended with the distant echo of an imagined crowd.
If I ever get back there, he thought, that first step through the curtain… I am not wasting it. Not one second.
The ceiling didn't answer. It just glowed, blank and indifferent, as the monitor kept time in low, steady beeps.
Alex kept counting anyway.