The morning numbers were good.
Alex could tell before anyone said anything. He woke without that usual cement blanket pinning his chest down. His lungs expanded a little easier. His head felt clearer, the fog pushed back just enough that he could see the edges of his thoughts instead of wading through them.
He rolled onto one shoulder without needing to map every movement. The IV tugged, but not badly. When he pushed himself upright, bracing one hand against the mattress, his arms trembled only a little.
It felt like a miracle, just because it wasn't awful.
The monitor beside him beeped steadily. Outside the window, the sky was a dull hospital gray, but the light coming in didn't stab at his eyes the way it sometimes did.
When Nurse Jason came in, tablet tucked under his arm, he took one look and raised his eyebrows.
"Well, well," Jason said. "Look who decided to participate in the land of the living."
Alex smirked. "Didn't want to keep you bored."
Jason clipped the pulse ox to his finger and wrapped the cuff around his arm, watching the screen as it inflated.
"Vitals are actually… not terrible today," Jason said, surprised but pleased. "Heart rate's behaving. Oxygen looks better. You sit up on your own?"
Alex nodded.
"Yeah," he said. "Didn't even have motivate myself."
"Don't jinx it," Jason said. "But if we're grading on a curve, I'm calling this one of your better days."
One of your better days.
The phrase lodged in Alex's brain and echoed there with a different cadence.
In his head, he saw a ring.
Early in a match, the babyface shines. Clean armdrags, crisp dropkicks, smooth counters. The crowd gets behind him. They see what he can do. They believe. Then—later—the heel cuts him off, and the air goes out of the building.
This… right now… this was shine.
"Yeah," Alex said softly. "Feels like a hot start."
Jason glanced up. "What's that?"
"Nothing," Alex said, shaking his head. "Just.. good to breathe without it feeling like a false count."
Jason grinned, only half understanding, but that was okay. Alex wasn't really talking to him.
He was measuring this morning like a match.
Good opening. Strong first few minutes. Crowd's hopeful.
He just hoped the cutoff wouldn't come too fast.
By late morning, His regular doctor Dr. Carter had made her rounds, nodding approvingly at his charts, and a physical therapist had poked her head in. Between them and Jason, some kind of quiet committee decision got made.
"How would you feel about a little walk today?" Jason asked, later, leaning against the doorframe.
Alex blinked. "Like… more than bathroom and back?"
"Like an actual lap," Jason said. "You, Leo, couple of poles. Superintendent of this hallway. No sprinting, no flips off the nurses' station."
Alex's chest warmed.
"Yeah," he said. "I'd like that."
The IV pole rattled faintly as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. Jason helped him to his feet, one hand hovering near his elbow just in case. Alex's knees felt wobbly, but not useless. Standing upright, even for a second, sent a strange rush through him, like climbing to the top rope.
He held onto the pole and took a breath.
"Ready?" Jason asked.
"Ring the bell," Alex said.
They met Leo just outside the room. Leo was in his chair again today, but he'd insisted on pushing himself with small, stubborn shoves on the wheels. His own IV pole rattled alongside.
"Look at us," Leo said, grinning. "Tag team champions of Ward C."
"More like battle royal entrants," Alex said. "Everyone else better watch out."
They set off down the corridor at a glacial pace, the wheels squeaking, slippers shuffling. The hallway smelled like disinfectant and overcooked vegetables, the usual hospital perfume. Nurses and aides passed by, offering small smiles or nods.
For everyone else, it was just another loop. For Alex, it felt like walking down a miniature ramp.
"So," Leo said, breath a little uneven but eyes shining, "I been thinking about your comeback tour."
"Yeah?" Alex asked, focusing on each step, heel then toe, the way he'd learned to protect his joints in training.
"Obviously, first we get you back to NXT," Leo said. "Or FCW. Whatever they call it. You get back in the warehouse, show everyone you still got it. Then… TV. Full Sail. Then…" His hands fluttered excitedly. "Boss battles."
"Boss battles?" Alex repeated, amused.
"Like video games," Leo said. "You can't just fight the final boss first. You gotta beat the mid-level ones, level up, earn your shot. So… first boss: Cena."
Alex snorted, almost breaking his rhythm.
"You're starting me with Cena?" he asked. "What happened to working my way up?"
"He sells merch," Leo said, entirely serious. "And if you hang with him, everyone knows you're legit. Doesn't have to be a win. Could be, like, last-man-standing kind of deal. You take him to the limit."
"That's… actually not terrible booking," Alex admitted.
"Then Orton," Leo continued, undeterred. "He's like… mini-boss. You two staring each other down, doing those slow, coiled snake looks. RKO countered into your powerbomb thing."
"Crownbreaker," Alex said automatically.(Crownbreaker= Like a pop up Powerbomb but with his own flair)
"Yeah, that," Leo said. "Crownbreaker outta nowhere."
Alex smiled, picturing it—the timing, the way the crowd would react if he snagged Orton clean out of mid-air.
"And the final boss?" Alex asked. "Who's sitting at the top of this video game ladder of yours?"
Leo gave him a look that said the answer was obvious.
"Undertaker," he said reverently. "WrestleMania. Duh."
Alex's next step faltered almost imperceptibly. Jason's hand moved closer to his elbow, but Alex steadied himself.
"Big aspirations," Alex said, his voice a little thinner.
"Tell me that wouldn't be sick," Leo insisted. "All black gear, smoke, lightning, you standing there not backing down when the gong hits. That's the story. New guy who won't flinch."
Alex let the mental image build for a moment. The sound of the gong. The slow, deliberate walk. The feeling of standing across from someone who felt more myth than human.
He forced himself to think like a producer, not just a fan.
"You don't do Taker early," Alex said quietly. "Not if you can help it."
Leo frowned. "Why not? Isn't that the point? Big boss?"
"Exactly," Alex said. "One big boss. If everyone fights him, it stops being special. You save that for when it matters most—for someone who's climbed every other mountain first. Otherwise, it's just noise."
Leo absorbed that, nodding slowly.
"So… no sprinting to the top of the ladder," he said.
"You build," Alex said. "You stack stories. With someone like Cena, you don't beat him clean your first time. You survive him. You last. You give people a reason to think, 'If he gets another shot, maybe.'"
He paused for a breath. It came a little faster now, the walk tugging at his reserves.
"With a guy like Orton, you… you build a rival," he continued. "You let him take something from you. A big match, a title shot. Then you spend months chasing it back. People remember that more than a one-off."
Leo's wheelchair squeaked lightly as he rolled.
"That's psychology, right?" he said. "The thing you always talk about."
Alex smiled faintly.
"Something like that," he said. "You don't just throw moves at people. You make them feel like they're on the journey with you. Hope, then danger, then hope again."
"Like a roller coaster," Leo said.
"Exactly."
They reached the end of the corridor and stopped for a moment, both catching their breath. For most people, it was twenty steps of forgettable linoleum. For them, it felt like crossing a finish line.
Alex could feel his pulse in his temples, but there was a glow under the strain. He'd walked. Talked. Taught, even.
Jason, lingering a few steps behind, watched them with his arms folded, eyes soft.
"You two good to head back?" he asked.
"Yeah," Alex said. "Let's not blow all our high spots in the first segment."
Leo laughed, not quite getting the full metaphor, but liking the sound of it.
On the way back, Leo kept pressing.
"Okay, so maybe we slow-burn Taker," he said. "But you'd want him, right? Like… at the end. After you win titles and main-event stuff."
Alex thought of the hope that had carried him through countless training sessions, the idea that somewhere down the line he might stand across from one of his posters.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "If I get that far. That's the kind of match you… earn."
"And you will," Leo said simply, like gravity or sunrise. "You already started. FCW, NXT. You're just… on pause."
On pause.
Alex didn't correct him.
By late afternoon, the high had frayed.
Back in bed, Alex felt the walk in every corner of his body. Not like post-match soreness—he would have welcomed that. This was deeper, a kind of exhaustion that seemed to seep into his bones and settle there.
He lay half-reclined, the bed angled up so he could see the TV if he wanted. But his eyes kept drifting shut between commercial breaks.
His chest tightened gradually, breath by breath, until inhaling felt like pulling air through a straw. There wasn't the panicked choke of a crisis, just a slow, grinding resistance that made every breath work. Nurses moved in and out, adjusting meds, checking numbers, voices a little more serious now.
Pain threaded through his joints, small jabs that added up into one big ache. His skin felt too tight.
He recognized the pattern, not just as a patient, but as a wrestler.
Here it is, he thought. The cutoff.
Shine was done. Hope spot over. The heel had found its opening and driven an elbow ruthlessly into the back of his neck.
In every good match he'd ever studied, this was where things turned. A cheap shot, a missed dive, a post slammed into someone's spine. The crowd groaned, the energy drained, and the face suddenly looked small under the weight of the offense.
That was what this felt like.
He pictured a ring again, more out of habit than comfort. In his mind, he saw himself springboard once too often, caught in mid-air, driven down. The ref's hand slapping one, two—no three, not yet—but his body not cooperating when he tried to kick out clean.
His lungs hitched. He forced a longer exhale, counting it like a ref count.
One. Two. Breathe.
Jason checked in, brow faintly furrowed.
"Bad?" Jason asked quietly.
"Just… long day," Alex said.
Jason didn't look convinced, but he adjusted the oxygen, made sure the mask lines weren't digging into Alex's face, then squeezed his shoulder gently.
"Ride it out," he said. "You know the drill. We're watching you."
Alex nodded, even that small movement costing more than it should have.
By early evening, even holding the remote felt like lifting a dumbbell. His forearm ached from a simple push of his thumb. His brain slowed, thoughts dragging like they were wading through syrup.
The door creaked open again as the sky outside shifted from gray to a darker, bluish black.
"Hey, champ."
Leo's voice had that same bright spark, but even he sounded a little worn. The day had weighed on him too.
Alex turned his head with effort, schooling his features. The last thing he wanted was for Leo to see that the walk had cost him more than he'd let on.
"Hey," Alex said, forcing a grin.
Leo said, wheeling himself closer. "How do you feel?"
"Blown up," Alex said, leaning into the joke. "I'm out of ring shape. Should've done more wind sprints before I signed up."
Leo chuckled, shoulders relaxing.
"You did good," Leo said. "That hallway never knew what hit it."
He started talking before Alex had to find something to say. New booking ideas, variations on their "boss battles" from earlier. A triple threat at WrestleMania. A ladder match for a midcard title where Alex took a crazy bump "because your body can handle it," Leo insisted, half teasing, half believing.
Alex nodded along, offering small corrections and tweaks.
"Ladder's not the first big gimmick," he murmured. "You build to that. Make people want to see you climb."
"Fine," Leo said. "We'll do cage first."
His words washed over Alex like crowd noise. Alex held onto them, letting their rhythm carry him, but he could feel his own responses thinning. Each sentence came slower, like he was cutting a promo underwater.
He shifted slightly, pulling himself a fraction more upright despite the protest in his muscles.
"Hey," he said when Leo paused to catch his breath. "About earlier… hallway booking session. You got good instincts. You ever thought about doing this side of it? Agent, producer?"
Leo blinked, surprised.
"Me?" he said. "Dude, I'd rather be in the ring. But… I mean… if I can't…" He trailed off, looking briefly down at his hands. "I guess it'd still be pretty cool. Helping make the stories."
"You already are," Alex said. "Half my imaginary career is booked by you."
Leo's grin came back, shy but real.
"You better not mess it up, then," Leo said. "I got a reputation to protect."
"I'll try to hit my cues," Alex said, even as a wave of fatigue tried to drag his eyelids down.
He kept talking as long as Leo was there. Joke, nod, comment, tease. When Leo's nurse came to collect him, Alex still had that tired grin fixed in place. Only when the door clicked shut behind them did his face relax, muscles going slack with relief and sheer exhaustion. He let his head sink deeper into the pillow, every limb heavy.
Then the illness had hit him with a textbook cutoff, took all that momentum and slammed it back down. He didn't blame the day. Bodies had limits. Matches had structures. You couldn't stay on offense forever.
But it still stung.
The ward quieted as night fully settled outside. The TV glowed softly above, some late-night program looping through highlight reels he'd almost memorized. The monitor's beep was slower now, a metronome marking out the beats of a match no one had booked.
Alone in the half-dark, Alex stared up at the same ceiling.
He thought about all the matches he'd studied where the cutoff had been lazy. A half-hearted clothesline. A random trip. Nothing that dug deep. The crowd never truly bought the danger after that. They didn't feel desperate for the comeback, because they never really felt like the hero was in trouble.
In the good ones, though—the great ones—the cutoff hurt. You winced when you watched it. The air went out of the building because it felt like something had genuinely been taken away.
"This is what that feels like," he whispered, more to himself than anyone.
This illness wasn't a light transitional spot. It was the worst, stiffest shot he'd ever taken, one that didn't care about timing or selling or safe landings.
It had taken the dream he'd built from Uncle Dave's living room to the FCW ring and driven it into the mat.
And yet… even now, lying there, lungs working too hard for too little, he could feel something else under it. A stubborn spark that refused to go out just because the script said he was in the heat segment.
Hope spots meant more when the cutoff was real.
Combacks meant more when you'd believed, even for a second, that maybe there wouldn't be one.
If… if I ever get to lay out matches again, he thought, I'm not wasting a single hope spot. No cheap comebacks. No lazy cutoffs. People are gonna feel every twist.
He thought of Leo's bright eyes, of Uncle Dave's rough hand wrapped around his. Of his mother's voice asking if he was really okay.
They were all part of this match with no clear finish.
His eyelids finally sagged shut. The ceiling blurred, then vanished.
"Next time," he murmured, barely audible. "If there's a next time… every comeback matters."
The monitor kept beeping. The TV kept playing. Somewhere far off, in another arena, a crowd roared for a hero fighting back to his feet.
In his narrow hospital bed, Alex let sleep take him, carrying with it the quiet, determined promise that if he ever heard that roar for himself again, he'd know exactly how to earn it.